Saturday, April 30, 2016

Zen - Z


How I feel completing this challenge.

Well well, here we are. I bitched. I moaned. I complained. I whined. It was a regular month basically. But *drum roll* I did it.


And to those of you who also participated:

So how in the hell do I pick the final topic for A to Z? Zombie, Zephyr, Zonked, Zippy, Zoom, Zodiac, Zebra, Zenith. I don't know, for the ending of this I just felt the need to get happy with capital Z. I'm going to be predictable and go with Zen.

There is, for those of you not up on esoteric philosophy or trivia, a specific origin and philosophy/spiritual practice/movement behind the word.

But for my purposes (and not porpoises, who chafe at the idea of belonging to any human) I'm going with the culturally/generationally/lazily appropriated version of zen. The idea of attaining bliss, of getting in such a zone of creative perfection that magical solutions just present themselves, of being so purely in the moment that all is right with the world.

Doesn't that just sound divine? (Ha! Get it? Divine? 'Cause it's a... nevermind. I cracked myself up. That's enough for me.)

It's the first bite of a French macaron, before discovering your dog has shredded garbage across the house. It's that moment of inhaling fresh air on a deserted beach, before you swallow a bug. It's snuggling before going to sleep with your honey bunny, before he or she snores loud enough to keep you awake for two more hours. Huh. I'm in a little bit more of a Murphy's law frame of mind instead of straight up zen. Either way, I can still appreciate taking in those fantastic moments that really are all around. Hopefully, the more I notice, the more will appear.


And with that, I declare my 2016 A to Z blogging challenge over.



Friday, April 29, 2016

Yakko - Y


Yakko, Wakko & Dot.

If those names mean absolutely nothing to you, you are probably not a cartoon enthusiast of a certain age.

Back when I was probably starting to be past the prime cartoon watching age (at least according to other girls my age) a funny thing happened to children's television. Children's programming had to have a certain amount of educational value. Slapstick, fart jokes and violent character deaths (as well as coming back to life by way of being re-inflated through one's thumb) weren't enough.

This was met, by me, with annoyance. An honor roll student who stayed out of trouble, I didn't feel the need to have one more area of my life where adults were going to make things tedious. I didn't roll my eyes in class (that the teachers saw). I did my work. (Science fair projects thrown together at 2 in the morning is what we all did, thank you very much.) I was quiet. My teachers in elementary school adored me. And then that great American outlet for humor, (misogyny, racism, violence aside) is going to be tampered with? I was not amused.

PSA: If you use hashtags & I know you, I may slap you..
 And then a certain Mr. Steven Spielberg, or rather his production company, or rather a whole bunch of people who ended up being assisted by Amblin Entertainment & produced by Mr. Spielberg (It is a bigger process than I have time or patience to give proper due.) entered the fray. And they created glorious things like Tiny Toons, Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain.

I can't remember my phone number half the time, but catchphrases from this stuff has taken  up permanent residence in my gray matter.

Brain stem! Brain stem!

Saturday mornings and weekday afternoons, I knew exactly when my favorite shows were on. I have fond memories of getting up before everyone else in my house on a Saturday, fixing myself a bowl of cereal, and tuning in to the zany antics and pretty colors at my disposal. So it was kind of a big bummer to learn recently that Saturday morning cartoons as I knew them don't really exist. Now kids get home and go to one of a handful of cartoon channels for an endless stream of entertainment.

Not that anything compares, IMHO, to the genius of what came before. I'm a little bitter and showing my age. I'm okay with that. I'm sure I'll be shaking my fist in the sky and yelling for those darn kids to get off my lawn. Or something.

Don't get me wrong. One selling point of our television provider was one or two of the cartoon channels. The one that showed old cartoons. And then they redid them and stopped showing the originals. Not that I have time to watch, but I'm still bitter. Don't EVEN get me started on what 'they' did to Jem.

Thursday, April 28, 2016

XOXO - X


The first thing that came to mind for X were the series of quick scribbles at the end of every letter or card my grandma ever sent me. XOXO. Hugs & Kisses.

I miss my grandma terribly.

She had been ill in the hospital when an infection took the last of her strength. I remember the phone ringing just after dawn while I was in college. I couldn't get to it before the machine picked up. It rang again not long after. It was my dad, somber, calm. Grandma had died.

I had known less than a handful of people who had passed away in my short life. I knew this was coming. But I felt sideswiped. My chest. Someone had reached inside my chest, scraped part of it away and left a gaping hole. At her funeral, I remember taking my siblings' hands after it started. It's the only time in my adult life I've ever held their hands. It's also probably the only time I've ever seen them cry.

It surprised me how long her death hit me. A year on, while driving in the car, on my way home from work or some errand and I'd think of her and the tears would well up. How was it possible I'd never hug her again?

She made a habit of going to every grandchild's high school graduation. I was upset when she didn't come to mine, but I know now she only had another year left. I was disappointed that she'd never meet the man I would marry. For some reason, this seemed incredibly important to me. She would have loved him though.

I've learned more about my mom's childhood, about what happened to her since my grandma's death. I wonder now how much my beloved grandma knew. I was angry with her for a while, when I realized this sweet, spirited woman who adored my dad and went above and beyond to help her adult children and growing grandchildren, was the same woman who was the mother of at least one child who was being abused. I can't speak to the childhood of my mom's siblings, but I have my suspicions. The best defense I can offer in the spirit of being fair is that unlike most women at the time, she worked full time trying to keep her family afloat and was rarely home. But there too, I have my suspicions she knew something was wrong. She told my mom once that she would have left the home and taken the kids with her if she'd had the money to do so. It is not to her credit that I point out she had relatives who could have and would have helped her if her pride had not gotten in the way.

It's hard to look back on her with more experienced eyes. She was so good to us grandkids and so forgiving of her children's faults and troubles. Was there a heavy layer of guilt that I couldn't have noticed at the time? I have an overwhelming sense now that if she were around and I asked my questions, that it would hurt her deeply. I know her answers wouldn't help my mom. I'm not sure how well I'd sleep if she had any answers to give. Would my desire for information be worth the price of knowing? In this case, I'm not sure anymore.

I wonder now, what she would think of the person I've become. I wonder if she would be upset at what I've found out. I know she would be relieved that I'm taking care of my parents. I like to think she's watching over us all and putting in a little extra overtime to make sure our lives turn out for the best.


Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Wish - W


Somewhere between 4 and 6 years of age, I remember wishing on a shooting star for a baby brother. I had been peering out through our front window and after seeing that most coveted of stars, I hurled myself onto the couch and focused every ounce of my being on my plea.

I wished for all sorts of things throughout my youth. To have magic. To find true love. To go on adventures. To be a hero.

And I would argue that between reading and writing (obviously including my marriage for the true love bit..duh..), my wishes are capable of being granted on a regular basis. Except for the whole baby brother thing, which I had grown out of wanting eons ago anyway.

I still have some overriding things I wish for. I wish judgmental people didn't need to express themselves as loudly and frequently as they seem to. I wish more people appreciated and understood that silence can be a blessing. I wish people understood that predators don't need a law protecting a specific group of people to give them the idea to attempt things in restrooms - as the child of an abuse survivor and a friend to a few, all of whom were attacked by relatives/people they knew in their own home, I don't have patience for this bathroom bullshit. If you thought bathrooms were bastions of safety until right this minute, you're living in your own world.
I wish people weren't afraid of something just because it's different or it makes them have to look at the world differently. I wish common sense came in fruit flavors with coupons so more people would try it. But I digress.

On a different scale, I wish I had a chance to talk with my dad's father. Ask him questions I have, get his take on things. I wish I had a chance to talk with my mom's mom, ask her uncomfortable questions about things I learned after she was gone. I wish I knew whether or not my biggest remaining dreams will come true or not, if I should let them go or keep at it. I wish I had some kind of musical talent. I wish I was not so damn self-conscious. Some days I wish I could press pause and grab a couple extra hours.

Lately, I wish I would get more sleep and figure out a better way to balance my schedule. I wish there wasn't so much hate in the world. I wish love would win a little more often. I wish my damn lemon tree would finally grow some lemons.
Is that the problem? Did I buy a demon tree instead??
I wish my husband would stop showing me dogs for adoption because I feel like a horrible person that I can't save them all. I wish animals and children (and people in general) weren't abused or discarded. I wish I could save them all.


Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Vacation - V


If you could go anywhere, experience anything, do whatever your heart desired (even if it was nothing at all), if money, health and time were no object where would you go?

This?
Maybe this?
Here? That's a no for me, BTW.
Oh yeah, that's the stuff...
I could go on. The African savanna? A Buddhist monastery? Reef Diving? Reading Jane Austen in a cozy cottage? Base jumping? Scurrying around abandoned movie sets or ghost towns?

There's a meme (one of billions it seems) making its way around the interwebs about living a life you don't have to take a vacation from. That's a fantastic idea. In theory. But for those of us with one foot solidly in responsibility land and one foot desperate to hurdle us into our next adventure, I say there's nothing wrong departing the everyday. I appreciate routine, some days more than others, which makes me appreciate those special trips all the more.

Not that I wouldn't love the opportunity to hop from place to place. But that's not exactly the point I'm sort of going for.

Dream big. And travel to me is one of best ways to see the progression of dreams from inception to reality.

Somehow, I've managed to see some really cool places. I couldn't always tell you how I pulled it off, but it happened. Sometimes I want a grand adventure.


But, and perhaps this is the reader in me, sometimes I want to escape completely.
Yeah, kind of like that.
Ability to travel and take vacations comes and goes. Last year was a travel year. This year we're sticking pretty close to home. But the desire doesn't waver. W may be for wanderlust. And that's not to say that I want to run away from my life. (Though there are days...) But there is a world of amazing things to see and do. And then once I've seen some spectacular things, I want to come home and sleep in my bed and shower in my bathroom. 

Because vacation water pressure doesn't work for me, even if the views do. So tell me, where would you like to go?

Unforseen - U


There's usually no telling what's in store when you get out of bed. Gain consciousness. Alive, check. Getting out of bed (or getting assistance to do so). Systems functional, check. Curve ball in 3, 2, 1.

There are swaths of years where my mom has a few touch and go weeks at most and scheduled visits with her psychiatrist are enough to keep her well. The last year or so, I've been battling the building dread that the stars are aligning for another breakdown.

For those new to the blog, my mom is a survivor of childhood abuse and has a mental illness. Since her initial psychotic break several decades ago, she averages a stay in a psychiatric hospital about once every ten years. Despite medicine, despite all forms of assistance, she spirals so far out we can't reach her. The first few days away, she wants nothing to do with us. Not because she's there, but because as the patient with the right to limit access to her on the ward, she relishes the control and is punishing us for what the delusions and hallucinations have made her believe. Usually by day 3 or 4, we finally hear from her and are allowed in the unit. Within a day or two after that she wants to know when she can come home. We are, I'm afraid, right on time for another stay.

Things always start off with our version of normal. A friend of mine pointed out on a matter completely unrelated that as a special needs teacher, he unconsciously applies adjustments in a difficult situation to make it easier. I realized a lifetime with someone as fragile as my mother, so do I. So we make accommodations. I talk her through the random hiccups she has in reality. Or we talk with her doctor and adjust medicine as needed. Etcetera and so forth. There are warning signs, an uptick in certain behaviors, a reduction of others. But we're so focused on getting through each day when she's having difficulties, it's not easy to see the pattern of a brief issue is actually part of a bigger, building problem until the explosion comes.

She's been mercurial of late, evoking an emotionally unstable with shades of manipulative teenager. Slightly manic. Coming out of the roller coaster of the last month and change, it's not necessarily cause for alarm. When she has a rough period, there's a bit of evening out that has to take place before she hits her version of balance.

So on an ordinary morning, my dad got her up and had her breakfast ready. She comes to the table with fire in her eyes.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself."

Dad freezes. The tone of voice, the look in her eye. She's ready for battle.

"Huh?"

"You know what you did." Words my dad must hear in his nightmares, along with "We need to talk." Nothing good ever comes after those statements from my mom. And I'm not talking about him making an inappropriate joke in public or her dressing him down for not liking dinner (She refuses to cook now anyway, but I'm short on examples.). I'm talking wild and growing flights of fantasy, starring him as the villain. A complete separation from reality. When she gets this far, she replaces her abuser with my dad. 50+ years ago is taking place right now. I figured that out the last time she had to go to the hospital. The first time I was at the front line with my dad.

I won't, for a few reasons, say here what Mom finally revealed she believed he had done to her. For one thing, there's no way you'd believe me. For another, I believe it ties into a new obsession for  her, a fixation that probably ties into the abuse she suffered as a child. What I will say is she accused my father of pranking her. Doing something I'm sure there's at least 100 videos of being passed around social media at this very moment to break up the monotony of the work day. Childish, but not evil. Short-sighted and immature, but not dangerous. In the vein of drawing a penis in permanent marker on a person's face or writing a naughty word on a person in sunscreen on the beach.

By the time I arrived on the scene today, things had been stewing for a bit. My father was completely frazzled. He'd be loath to admit it, but he was deeply hurt. Time has taken a toll on my mother's ability to regain a more even keel. But time has also taken a toll on my dad's ability to handle what she slings his way when she's not herself. She's accused him of far, far worse things at the height of her delusions. This supposed prank though, is one straw too many. My mother by this point had cloaked herself in self-righteousness, martyrdom and spite. Her hobby of late is to isolate my dad and pick him apart like a piece of carrion. Harsh, but accurate. And he is too bullheaded to stop trying to tackle each situation on his own.

Delusional Mom doesn't like my interference. As a referee, as a negotiator, as anything. I'm not helping calm things down. I'm thwarting her. The look on her face, her behavior, the way she refuses to talk. All these things point to the very thing I don't want to see. Dad said he recognized it, too. Her against us all. I have visions of hysterical sobbing all night. Of maniacal glee radiating from what should be my mom's face as she spits horrible, venomous things my way. Of ever wilder accusations, of things I couldn't even fathom being visited upon a human, let alone being accused of doing.

I've left a message with her psychiatrist. She's got a full load of patients and Mom's not a danger to herself right now, so I'll probably hear from her after 5. I want you to take a moment to imagine my trying to explain my concern about my mother's mental state to a receptionist over an imaginary prank.

"....Is....is she...afraid her husband's going to harm her?"

No, I explain. She's convinced he just wants to be rid of her, that he wants to leave. It's a precursor to a hospital stay. Trying to avoid that.

"Right. Got it. I'll give the doctor your message when she's between patients." I'm impressed there was only a slight falter on her end. Because it sounded ridiculous to explain.

As we wait for the doctor to call, Mom has taken some time to reflect. She still believes in the memory, but offered that perhaps she dreamed it. Dad asked how she dreamed it if she came up with it after she'd been awake. Mom is intelligent. Mom used to be a psychiatric nurse. Mom wants to change tactics to avoid going to the hospital. Mom doesn't like Dad's question. She offers to go stay with one of my siblings, her favorite child, out of state as a response.

If you're scratching your head trying to understand what her having a delusion, of her not being a danger to herself has to do with our seeing a trip to the hospital, well we've got decades experience with her. I know how this act of the play pans out. Religious zealot a few weeks ago. Delusions of persecution and mockery. Her against us. She's got a progression and the dots are lining up. I'm sincerely hoping this time we can head things off. But that's never been done before. And if she needs round the clock care to help get back to herself, I want to get that established before she's in a deep dark hole and has to stay in for several weeks.


Saturday, April 23, 2016

Temper - T

The back half of this A to Z challenge we've had a little more time to consider topics. I kept a list for each letter on my phone and added to it as ideas came to me. I've had T dialed in pretty much from the get go, with a few spare ideas just in case.

As usual, my inspiration went a bit off the rails. At first that aggravated me as I sat down with every intention to bang my head against the desk until I trudged my way through my original desired topic (trust, if you're curious).

Today's topic ended up being temper. As in, I have a helluva.


Let me be perfectly clear. I've never hit or committed any kind of violence against another creature. But that's an accurate representation of my brain when my fuse is lit. Except everything is red.

I can simmer for a while, but once the train has left the station, I'm not calming down anytime soon. My dad, at the height of youth and frustration, was known to punch holes in walls once or twice. So I come by it honestly. For the record, I haven't assaulted any drywall either. Well... full disclosure, I fell out of bed once and knocked a knee-sized pothole into the wall. K should have been for klutz.


When I'm seething with rage, when I want to verbally flay the skin from someone's musculature, when I've had enough, I need to laugh, I need cute, fuzzy animals to snuggle, I need... most probably, quiet time and a nap. And only those things after I've made it past the point I'm ready to rip the hair from my head and scream until my throat bleeds.

This inner peace stuff is harder some days than others.

I don't like being angry (or going supernova). It took me a long time to allow myself to be okay with being self-righteous pissed off. Nice people don't show anger or kind people don't tell other people they're upset. Or some other equally limiting nonsense. So I feel it. I sit with it. I accept that in that particular moment, that's the way I feel. New agey stuff that actually makes my temper dissipate quicker. You know, as long as somebody's not chucking kerosene at the source.

Friday, April 22, 2016

Scrubbing - S


I am not what you would consider, by any stretch of the imagination, a clean freak (just a mild germophobe). In most some areas of my life, I am a complete organizational nightmare. And yet on the whole, I keep a 'tidier' house than I was raised in (if you don't check when the last time I swept my tile floors... or like... anything the day before I know company is coming over). Two major things drive that, the desire to improve and having dogs.

I learned early on that there is a certain height (and distance from the edge of a table or counter) things must be kept at if I didn't want the puppy to eat, shred or hump objects into submission. Any issue in this area is 100% human error. Dogs will be dogs, curious silly creatures with a penchant for mischief, also known as a desire to have fun. Having raised only 1 dog from puppyhood to senior citizen, I shudder to think about going back through the chew on everything stage which goes along with the nips at heels to herd you around the house stage. I've found the knock me down, take my wallet and bulk order bacon stage happens at any age, so I've learned to live with it.

What I'm getting at is occasional bouts of tummy troubles aside, my mini-pack of hound dogs actually help me to keep my house 'cleaner'. Or at least presentable on a surface level along with the odd spraying of Febreeze. (No white glove tests, please.)

Until now.

Our oldest dog, the first dog I had as an adult, has cancer and a heart condition (and arthritis, but hell, so do I). He's supposed to have died six months ago. The vet doesn't know what to make of it. I'm pretty sure he, the dog, is so damn stubborn he'll die only when he's good and ready. I was gutted upon seeing the x-ray. I was anxious watching him as the days ticked by. I am grateful to have the time with him. I am unsure as to whether or not I should keep letting him eat whatever he wants just in case it's his last meal. (Here, we've come to an understanding. At least for now. He is bullheaded fickle and this is perhaps a story for another day. Our other dog thinks rotten garbage is the height of gourmet dining, for the record.)

Now I am routinely scrubbing. In my experience, hound dogs puking is nothing new. Our oldest dog has always had a sensitive tummy. He's prone to spitting up bile if he's not fed on time. Our two girl dogs would put anything, literally ANYTHING, in their mouths at least twice. Four times for good measure. Eighteen at least if it tastes right. I have a favorite brand of pet mess cleaner. Enzymatic. Odor neutralizing. I caress it lovingly when I walk past the displays at the pet store.

Puke though, is not so much our elder statesman's issue at this point. Between his slow decline (and make no mistake, cancer or not he's 13+ yrs so there is a slowing down) and his keep-him-comfortable-and-his-heart-beating-properly meds, he finds it more difficult to make it outside in time. It's not an every day thing, but it is weekly to several times a week. The meds give him diarrhea and a frequent need to urinate. The title of the post is scrubbing - TMI should have been understood. What's a little dog poop between bloggers?

I keep the carpet cleaner we have in the hallway for ease of use. It's paid for itself so many times over this year alone. He only has accidents on the two carpeted areas outside of the bedrooms, my office and our front room. I guess he doesn't like the splash back potential from tile. Open plan houses don't make it easy to corral pets who have a problem and baby/dog gates can be a dangerous combo with the older parental folks who live with us. So I shepherd him outside as often as he'll go & I stay up until the wee hours to take him out a few times over night. And I scrub. I scrub when I wake up or I've been out part of the day and my parents didn't hear or see him need to go.

It's not lost on me that this has hallmarks of his first year and trying to potty train him. It's also not lost on me that he has some kind of understanding. He used to be deeply embarrassed to have an accident, even when sick. For more than a decade he hated us watching him poop outside, always going around a tree or bush. Now he wags at me when he sees me clean it up, a kind of 'Hey, thanks for understanding and being cool about it' kind of look in his eyes.

The last few months, he's begun running up to greet me at the door again. Like he did as a spry young 7 year old dog. He's not in pain at this point. His quality of life, accidents aside, is markedly better than it was 6 months ago. He still sleeps a lot, but he's more playful again. I'm not in denial. I know he's not going to suddenly be 10 years younger and in perfect health. I know. I know like humans, some animals have a sudden burst of good health and good days before the end. He could have also died 6 months ago or 10 years ago from a viral infection he had, or from any number of what if's.

But he's here. He seems comfortable and happy and engaged. So I'll keep scrubbing as long as he needs me to. Because that's the deal I made with him 13+ years ago. A ridiculous level of love, affection, companionship, laughter, in exchange for shelter, care, love, belly rubs, food (an ongoing debate over quality continues), and a solemn vow that I will be there with him until the very end. If I can handle a garbage can full of adult diapers, I can easily handle a weekly carpet scrubbing.

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Reflection and Reading - R

I've established a pattern in my A to Z Blogging & R should have been a flash fiction. But I'm not feeling it. Many of you probably aren't feeling much of anything either. 


Reflection

It's been another kick in the gut day for music lovers and creativity afficionados. I remember feeling the wrongness of the death of Freddie Mercury despite my lack of years at the time. I remember the feeling of senselessness at the deaths of River Phoenix, Kurt Cobain and Heath Ledger (to name but a few). I wept over the news of Princess Diana's death and could tell you all about the moment I saw the report. I'm still looking for a piece of myself missing after Patrick Swayze died. The wound from the loss of Robin Williams is tender to the touch and probably always will be. David Bowie's passing was like being sideswiped and tumbling down a cliff. Alan Rickman... I still can't bring myself to fully grasp that one. Today we are shocked to learn of the passing of the incomparable Prince. If I was young when Freddie Mercury died, rest assured, I was far too young to understand the music Prince was making. At the time. I aged a bit. I endured some things. And oh boy, did I get it then.

For a lack of sense, for a lack of understanding, it simply feels like something vital to the fabric of reality has been ripped away. Violently and without warning. Something you expected to always be is as impermanent as we all are. Even if you aren't necessarily a devoted fan of a music legend or a performer, it's palpable. 2016 certainly has had a tidal wave of shocking departures.  As 1959 forever holds the Day the Music Died. If you're morbidly curious, there are other years where multiple celebrities died.  All Loads of them. But these icons whose influence spans multiple generations, who gave permission and voices to people who felt like outsiders, the cull of them hits with a harder punch. At least to those of us who felt or still feel like outsiders.



Reading

I have this habit of getting a little too happy at the library and checking out more books than I have time to read. I set a limit for myself to only check out two books at a time at the beginning of the year that has been working great. Which of course means, it's time for me to blow it all to hell. I checked out four books last time, returned 1 partially read (but added to my 'gotta buy' list) and 2 more flipped through at most. I still have 1 checked out & have only read the preface of it. I finished a book I own but hadn't read yet and got the sequel from the library's digital holdings along with another book (one I own in paperback but haven't read yet - so it  makes perfect sense I'd get a time sensitive version... I have a problem. I know.). I go back to the library and pick up 3, yes three more books when I picked up books for other members of the household.

For a grand total of 6 books, 4 more than I can definitely probably manage.
Book shaming, self edition
In the grand scheme of things, it's not even a spec on the radar. It's a minor annoyance only in that I dislike not finishing books and it messes with my "Have I read this or not?" inner dialogue.
The horror!
In all fairness, today's impulse library borrowing was because a friend asked for some reading suggestions based on a topic of mutual interest.
Close approximation to what happens when I'm asked about books.
I scrolled through my TBR list for good measure to round out my suggestions. And then casually picked up 3 books from that list at the library. 'Cause what the hell else do I have to do?


Quest for Quiet time - Q


I've only been a day late twice (ahem, so far) for this April blogging challenge. That impresses me a little bit because during NaNoWriMo, I'm behind. A lot. I feel that way about life, too. That I'm behind. A lot.

But I'm not as stressed about it as I used to be. What I can get done, I'll get done. Sometimes with grace and good cheer, admittedly sometimes with nail-biting, edge of my seat, just making it to the wire.
The glorious moment when you snap from stress.
So for Q, despite a nice list of words I put together to choose from, I'm going with the Quest for Quiet time. Busy reared it's head this week. Appointments, car maintenance, Mom, the quest to keep a nibling from flunking out of school. (Nibling, by the way, is a great word, and one you'll see as it's a nice privacy setting I can use to talk about the wee ones in my life.) Why do I feel so compelled to explain my time? To prove I'm busy enough? Or to pad the word count? For my purposes, I've been a little stretched for time.

Anyway, this holy quest for what amounts to me time (also known as time to breathe and pee in private) is a piece of the larger working on me project. Making time, finding time, to get regular things done let alone time to do things (or nothing) to make myself feel more enriched has to be done.

So for this month, it's been this blogging thing (technical term). Deadlines are kind of my motivational crack for writing. Regardless of the quality and content of the writing in this blog, the experience, the practice, the schedule is making me chomp at the bit to get back to what I enjoy writing most. Having to write everyday (except Sundays) has become April's quiet time. Everything else has to have a pin in it and will save for an hour or two. Which is what I need to do outside of April without apologies.

You either make excuses or you find a way. It's true in life goals and it's true personally.

Incidentally, does anyone else's quiet time usually involve music?

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Positivity - P


Pasta, pie, platypus, patronizing, pathetic, party, pizza, plethora, peace, pancake, paranoia, pop, practice, private, passive aggressive. How do you choose a word for P?

the perfect killing machine

I guess I have to go with the name of this blog and ponder peace, inner, world, of pie, as it relates to becoming a more positive person.

He isn't in the mood to move it, move it. I can respect that.
Life can be stressful. And we're conditioned to wallow in bitterness and frustration. Some of us anyway according to 30+ years observation. Those of you in a near constant state of ignorance bliss and zen, skip ahead. A year or two ago, I'd have included a polite "bite me" as well. That's growth right there.

Yada, yada, stuff, stuff. If you haven't seen my older posts, I've been on a kind of personal quest for becoming a more positive, satisfied and happier person. At the end of 2014, I was tired of having the same crap, different day kind of existence. I felt myself sinking deeper into snark and bitterness. I had a 'close' friendship where I was a doormat. After the loss of a job, our family was in flux. A relative shared her own journey of working on being happier and more positive. My inner critic firmly rolled her eyes when I decided to take on some of the habits my cousin told me about.

The friendship ran it's course from my perspective a few months later. I cut my losses and quietly let it go. A new job with better benefits and a pay bump arrived. About six months after I began working on having a better outlook, I noticed a difference in my thinking. It's a process and I'm not looking to be Miss Sunshine 2016, but I feel better.

I'm less afraid to hope for the best, reconditioning myself to no longer brace for the other shoe to drop. Hey, shit happens, but perspective matters. And going back to that karma business from the other day, I'm hoping to put more positive out in the world. I'm certainly the better for having more positive internally.


Not that this whole thing has been smooth sailing. I am... stubborn. Accepting some of my faults, not mentally berating myself for every mistake, erecting healthy boundaries, those things take practice. Seemingly neverending practice. It's funny to me because secretly I've always liked myself. Then I start taking away points for the things other people may not like. Insecurity flourishes.

This is vital.
So I work at not letting other people impact my world view with their bitterness and misery. I work on things that make me feel like a better version of myself. I remind myself to stop and smell the roses or take a minute to enjoy the view of the wildflowers. Life is short and I really don't want to have spent more time wishing for what wasn't going to be instead of appreciating today. Got a dream, chase it. Got loved ones, spend time with them. Got a rash, put cream on it. Laugh out loud. Take the trip. Write the damn book so many people talk about having within themselves. Maybe it's middle age kicking in, but I want to have filled my life with as many wonderful experiences and conversations and just flat out joy as I can cram in.

I've seen for years people talk about the brevity of youth, how high school and college are the fun years. That no one knows what they're doing in their 20s. Your 30s are for figuring out who you are. And life, the real appreciation, begins at 40. Well, aside from hating high school (save for a few select memories), the rest rings more true every year. Except, why does the fun have to already be over? I refuse to accept that. So I'm choosing to have a midlife awakening instead of a midlife crisis. Life, as turbulent as it can be, can be wonderful. And I finally feel like I'm starting to come into my own. How's that for positivity?

Of course I'm ending with a stock inspirational quote. And you know what, it's awesome! 


Monday, April 18, 2016

Flash Fiction - Oracle - O


The Sock Drawer Oracle

Lissa slammed the bedroom door behind her and hurled her lavender backpack across the room. It slid to the edge of her bed, balancing precariously for a moment before the momentum of the textbooks sent it to the floor. She leaned back against the poster-covered door, teen boy bands and actors under twenty taped over the faded rainbow and unicorns her mom painted years earlier. Her hand fumbled with the lock as she tried to catch her breath, racing home from the bus and sprinting up the stairs causing her lungs to burn.

He knew her name. Patrick Masters knew her name.

Slow down. You've got to form the question before you touch it or it won't work. Slow down. 

Lissa's internal talk allowed enough time for her lungs to quit threatening to seize up. Her hands began sweating, so she rubbed them carefully against the pale blue of her jean shorts and paced from her door to the bed.

Okay, you've only loved him since second grade. How could you not be freaking out right now? He suddenly knows your name and you're going to be on the dance committee together. 

She replayed the end of the day over and over again. Her delight that Patrick showed up to the first committee meeting. Her shock when he said, exactly, "Later, Lisa" after the bell rang. Lisa was close enough to Lissa as long as you ignored her name being short for Melissa. If he called her Betty, she'd beg her parents to have her name legally changed. The name wasn't nearly as important as the fact that he knew she existed.

Lissa's pacing stalled out and she stepped up to her dresser. Her hands hovered over the top, palms just above the only cleared space on the otherwise cluttered area. The surface was littered with perfume bottles, spilled nail polish, half a million bobby pins, a broken yo-yo, four makeup kits, a fossilized licorice rope, a camp canoe trophy, old birthday cards, and two stuffed cartoon characters. But centered at the front was a completely cleared rectangle of white washed, shabby chic wood.

According to Amanda, who sat behind her in geography, shabby chic is so three years ago and only poor people and cat ladies would dare own it. It had been three years since the only time Amanda had been invited to Lissa's house for a sleepover. Amanda left before midnight and Lissa had overheard from Amanda's mom when she picked her up that Amanda had never managed to sleep away from home a single night yet. Lissa's bedroom set might be out of fashion, might, but she was able to sleep over at her friends' houses and go away to camp every summer. Suck it, Amanda.

Taking a steadying breath, Lissa focused on her question and pressed her palms lightly to the wood.

"Will Patrick Masters kiss me at the formal?"

The phone rang downstairs, the muffled noise fading into the background as Lissa's hands slipped down the front of the dresser. She pulled open the top drawer and carefully retrieved a black sphere roughly twice the size of a baseball. The girl lifted it over her head, both arms fully extended, and shook it three times. Lissa lowered the orb and turned it over in her hands.

OUTLOOK UNCLEAR

Lissa stared at the prefab message in dismay. This was the best it had to offer? She chucked the toy back into the drawer. It rolled between her zombie squirrel socks and the purple toe socks she absolutely had to have but never wore. She slammed the drawer shut. She'd been so sure the plastic ball would give her some confirmation, something more to obsess over when she called Karlie later to dissect every shred of the 15 second interaction that surely would lead to marriage and babies.

“I just want to know about my first kiss!”

Lissa slapped her hands on the dresser in frustration, sending Doc Doberman’s fuzzy form to the floor. She shrieked her outrage to the empty room. Why did life have to be so difficult?

She was so lost in her personal agony, Lissa didn't notice the soft purple glow around the edges of her sock drawer. Her first thought was the fortune telling toy had cracked, leaking out into the dresser. Her mom would kill her if she ruined any furniture. She paused as she reached out to open the drawer. Wait, if the goo inside was glowing, was it dangerous?

Lissa watched the drawer and sniffed twice. There was no smoke, no burning smell. She couldn't just leave it spilling, or worse, glowing. Mom would notice that. Resolved to prevent a parental meltdown, she opened the drawer.

Instantly the room was enveloped in a silver mist, the air cool and damp. The purple light radiated from the entirety of the opening, but nothing was visible. No zombie squirrels, no broken toy, no light source. Not even the wood of the bottom of the drawer. Lissa shivered, half from the sudden temperature drop, half from shock.

“In days of old, you would have had to present a worthy offering just to be allowed in my presence. Now I am reduced to in-dwelling visits at your whim.”

The disembodied voice, a woman, reminded Lissa of the actresses in the Shakespeare productions her mom dragged her to with annoying regularity. Dramatic and cultured. Kind of full of themselves.

“Yet for all the passage of time and changes in the world certain things do not change. The young man you desire is unworthy. You will regret the moment your paths entwine if you pursue him. Antiope’s history would be happier than your own.”

“Uh, what?”

A heavy sigh came from the voice.

“There is malice, aggression and a need to control in him. He would take that which you would not freely give, then so much more. He hides his true face from the world.”

Oh.  Lissa's dad would say he's like a gift wrapped pile of shit. Her heart sank.

“Thank you?” Lissa wasn't sure what to say to a voice coming from a bright light in the top of her dresser, especially one with an uncomfortable prediction about her crush of the last six years.

“Mm. Should you have a need in the future, I will be available. Within reason. I shall take my leave of you now with two parting thoughts.”

“Oh, okay.” Lissa wondered if she should take notes, but she didn't think she could move at the moment.

“First, the beginning of your love affairs will be better served if you wait until the full bloom of June's heat.”

Lissa nodded dumbly. What did that even mean?

“And second, this globe of false prophesy should be removed from your chambers with haste.”

“Is it evil,” Lissa wondered with growing interest.

“Of course not! It is ridiculous and makes a mockery of thousands of years of our history.”

“There are more of, well,” Lissa faltered, “of, um, you?”

“Perhaps. I will not return until the device is gone.”

The mist dissipated and the purple light winked out. Lissa’s eyes scanned the ordinary contents of the drawer. She rifled through dozens of pairs of socks, shaking the diary hidden in back, but nothing unexpected was revealed.

Lissa scooped up the false fortune telling ball and examined it closely. It looked exactly the same as it ever did. She glanced at the stuffed dog on her floor, then up to the clear space of white wood. There were a smattering of water drops, like when her mom setup the humidifier to full blast as soon as anyone in the house coughed.

Lissa was down the stairs in less time than it took to fumble with her bedroom door lock. The round toy sunk to the bottom of the garbage can in the garage. Lissa was extra careful when she closed the lid, as though needing to be sure the object was secured inside.

On her way back up to her room, Lissa wondered if maybe this wasn't something she should tell Karlie.

Sunday, April 17, 2016

No - N


Non, Nyet, Nein, Na, Nope, Nee, Nahin... etcetera, so on and so forth.

I know plenty of people who have a hard time with the word. I'm not alone in this.

While I try to be more open and not so quick to say no to something or someone unfamiliar, I tend to struggle more with saying no when I need to and not being manipulated into saying yes. 95% to the benefit solely of the person who won't take my no as the end of the matter.

I'm not talking about someone who legitimately has a crisis out of their control and needs the support. I'm talking about the folks who ALWAYS have a crisis, typically of their own creation because they're bored (aka crave drama), who need to be in charge of you with passive aggressive finesse.


Ahem. Working on a bit of baggage there.

Much like the quest for inner peace or personal happiness, or in fact, exactly in sync with them, being able to say no without apology, explanation or guilt is up to me.

Digging a little deeper beneath the surface of people pleasing, going beyond the layer of fear of rejection and replacement is the fear of missing out or being left out. I don't want to miss the party. I don't want to be left out of the fun. Even if whatever is happening isn't something I would have chosen to be a part of.

This is my own problem to work out, not someone else's. And I'm at the stage where I'm comfortable with my detachment from needing extraneous people's acceptance. I worried about it for a while, this current state of not giving a damn about being pulled hither and thither (Triple word score, because I said so.). And I sat with it. And I ruminated. And despite my inner nag telling me I'm being an asshole, I realized that I still have empathy and wish people well and all that jazz. My not-give-a-damn about same shit, different day is my mind's way of saying: N-O. And if people who need an audience for their histrionics (The coffee is strong today. Mmmm, behold the force!) are upset about that, THAT is their problem. Because it's no longer mine. Which is a beautiful and peaceful thing.

And I promise, I used the word and so much on purpose.

Friday, April 15, 2016

Muse - M


Some (or sinew if autocorrect is to be believed) days the idea faucet flows freely and others (aka most)  it's like pulling teeth to string 100 semi-cohesive words together for this blogging challenge.

And once I've cobbled an idea together, usually within 20 minutes of clicking the publish button, I'm flooded with other, more interesting topics I could have more thoroughly articulated. Hindsight is a manipulative bitch.

So ‘M’ is for muse, because manipulative bitch felt a tad aggressive. ‘M’ could be for one of my favorite swear words, made oh so eloquent by Samuel L. Jackson, but my coffee has kicked in so I'll manage not to write an ode to swearing. At least until ‘S’. At that point, I make no guarantees.

Writing has been my guilty little aspiration until recently. Who am I kidding, I still take a lot of crap from people who view it as a self-indulgent and delusional hobby. The handful of people who offered encouragement over the years, mostly teachers or my husband (who in all honestly encourages with the hopes that I someday write a string of bestsellers and make him a kept man), are silenced by those who view the whole idea with contempt, manuscript unseen.

It has taken some time to offer my ideas to other writers in brainstorming sessions. To my surprise though, I’m usually met with, well, surprise. Probably more from the volume of ideas I suggest rather than quality. (Naughty, naughty self-esteem. Pull yourself together.) Either way, it was one of the first times it had ever occurred to me that not everyone who puts words to screen/paper/coffee cups/pizza boxes has a never ending stream of ideas. Certainly they’re not all winners, but I can keep going until I spit out something that can be worked with.

Is this muse? Is this an overactive imagination? Is this something that requires prescription medication? For the sake of argument, I’ll go with some of column A and some of column B. (We aren’t going to entertain column C at the moment. I can keep myself quietly amused, so I’m harmless.)

I have notebooks, discs and flash drives full of the random ideas that come to mind. I have been known to completely zone out in a movie theater because five seconds of a screen time is enough to get my mind racing while I piece together an outline for the duration of the picture. I have woken up with entire scenes, an overall plot outline or fully formed characters. As long as my brain is left alone to puzzle over a topic long enough, I can figure out something to do with it. I’m a marathon writer. Stories on the fly, quick writing prompts, timed writing? Those are never going to be my strengths. But I take it from the open mouthed gapes of a few writing friends when I do share an idea that there may be something to my process after all.
Come to think of it, maybe they're afraid...

My muse(s) doesn’t necessarily appreciate the blogging situation. And I’m sure there are plenty of people who will tell me (and have done so) that I’m doing it wrong. But I’m using it as a personal challenge, a sort of thrown gauntlet to stretch my muse(s) and push myself in a direction I’m not decades-long comfortable with. The muses, like myself, bitch about discomfort but ultimately are enhanced by it. And who am I trying to kid? Unless my muse has a hyperactive disorder, there’s got to be a whole Greek chorus up in there.   

To the End

When I began this blog 5 years ago, it ended up being a catch-all for whatever slogged through my brain, mostly writing and the difficu...