Like riding a bicycle. Then falling off again.

Over the course of this week, I have tried 5 times to come up with even a short blog post.

Aside from the unexpected death of my friend, the last few weeks have been full of family health issues. Thankfully everything emerging seems to be healed.

The icing on the last few hectic and stressful health-focused weeks has to be my spiking a 102.6 fever along with crippling pain. I tossed back over the counter fever reducers and stomach meds instead of doing the sensible thing of going to an urgent care center or ER. I lived off yogurt and watered down electrolyte-dense fluids. I couldn't do the parental unit who was hospitalized any good if I was in the hospital bed next to them, but clearly I'd do no one any good if I keeled over.

The fever slowly went down, but perhaps in part of my autoimmune disorder or perhaps because I should have been given prescription medication (you know, and received medical care), a low grade one lingered. This week it seemed to finally be gone.

Until I was about to leave the house for a little writing jaunt for the first time in a long time. My husband felt my face and immediately had me take my temperature. Hello 100+ degrees.

Bollocks.

So I'm benched at the moment, watching the Chocolate Factory 2.0 and downing water. I've put off taking care of myself a little too long. I made a long overdue doctor's appointment for myself the other day, dreading the coming laundry list of expensive tests. Procedures. But it's got to be done. Life is short and people depend on me. And I'd like to feel better and enjoy life.

Here's hoping the random fever is gone by morning.

Cheesecake Tribute

Yesterday, while my husband and I were driving home from an early evening appointment, a bird hit the windshield where I was sitting. From the size of the smear, despite the bird going up and over the roof of the car after hitting the windshield, I was pretty sure the bird was no longer among the land of the living. I can't recall that ever happening before and it was jarring. My first thought was, someone might consider that an omen.

Specifically, my friend of more than a decade Micki* would. (*as ever, I do not use real names in my posts). Micki is a deeply religious and spiritual person. She would see signs of spirit, of deceased loved ones, of evil, and so on depending on what was going on in her life. When we worked together, which is how we first met, I recall her driving us to a meeting and her taking note of the sudden appearance of crows near the vehicle. That was probably my first introduction to how seriously she took signs.

Early this afternoon her husband, also a friend, contacted me to let me know she had passed away.

I felt dumbstruck. Sideswiped. Bereft. Omen, coincidence or a goodbye message, it's up to you.

Micki was less than a decade older than me but she had battled serious illness all her life. She was given weeks (or less) to live at least a handful of times over the course of her life and each time beat odds that defied science. She was, quite simply, amazing. Bright and joyful, devout and someone who took no shit from anyone. I don't believe I ever swore in front of her, because that was just something you didn't do in her presence.

I loved her like the older sister I never had. She guided and taught me about so much, especially as I was only a few years into marriage. I was terribly afraid of disappointing her, of not living up to her exceptionally high moral standards - something of a private bit of contention I kept to myself. As amazing as she was, we did not agree on certain, shall we say human rights issues that tend to go hand in hand with being a woman raised in the deep South in a religious family. We had plenty in common though. Devotion to our family. Infertility struggles. A deep need to help others. My husband and I spent a fair share of evenings with Micki & her husband hanging out, playing games, watching sports, going out to eat.

Each of us moved and slowly communication became less regular. She was not a big technology person, so when she joined social media (long after her husband had and reconnected with my husband and I) it was nice to have that easy checking in process again.

I sat with her husband during one of her many surgeries ages ago at a specialty hospital she'd had to travel to. I learned from her that red wine is supposed to help settle the stomach, but as she didn't drink, her doctor told her grape juice can help too. When Leslie Jones screamed "The devil is a liar!" in Ghostbusters this summer, it was Micki's face I saw belting that out while playing cards with us when her husband won.

My first thought when I found out she died, outside of the shock and knee buckling, was how much safer I should feel now that she's looking after everyone now. My second thought was how dim the world felt without her in it. I cried.

Later, after I had compartmentalized the grief and was left numb to go run needed errands, I was struck by the idea of cheesecake covered in strawberries - our go-to treat to get us through a hellish week at work. So much so I printed a picture of a piece and pinned it over her desk. So one day very soon, I'm going to treat myself to a piece of cheesecake in her honor and appreciate how much better my world was for having known her.

Echoes of wedding bells

About a thousand and a half eons ago, I got married.
There were witnesses and officially signed paperwork. Vows and rings were exchanged. There was even a (surprise) bouquet of roses gifted to me by the groom.

Aside from a technical ceremony in a government office, there wasn't what most people consider a wedding. My dress was a sundress purchased at the last minute at a closeout store in bright spring colors. The groom wore his best button up long sleeve plaid shirt. Our rings were some kind of silver that my skin had a reaction to within days of wearing. There was no reception aside from 2 of my friends grabbing lunch with us at our favorite mom & pop tex-mex place. My husband's best friend at the time didn't even bother to take off work from the bowling alley to show up. And our wedding night dinner? Fast food drive thru on the way to a hotel we maxed out our credit cards to stay in for a few nights. We were so freaking young and naive. It blows my mind now.

We didn't have two dimes to rub together. None of our families approved. And contrary to the catty rumor mill, I was not knocked up. Even if my folks had been pleased, they certainly couldn't afford to spring for the wedding of my dreams. Or even a barefoot backyard one. We (my hubby and I) were, in fact, a gnat's ass hair away from being homeless upon our return from the mini-honeymoon. By the grace of no less than 2 deceased grandparents and a slew of guardian angels pushed to their limits, we managed to pool enough resources to split an apartment with a friend and sleep on a mattress on the floor in the apt that night. The ink on our lease probably wasn't even dry. Eventually and begrudgingly, each side of parents contributed the odd bed frame, love seat and cooking implements. Years later when I happily purchased a matched set of silverware (without plastic handles), an in-law of mine pointed out that if I'd had a real wedding and registered at a store I could have had something that nice sooner.

With love and support like that, how surprised are we really that I eloped?

Here's where we get back to this horrific, first world problem. I dreamed of a poofy dress, the perfect cake, all of it, most of my life. Not because I needed a man. Not to fulfill some expectation of female excess. No, because I wanted the big party and the big dress with the right guy. I wanted a celebration - good food, good music, a good time. I didn't expect my parents to get a second and third mortgage - I'd been in and gone to weddings that were paid for that way. All divorced now, FYI.

After the thrill of being married!! settled into domestic life, I resolved that someday we'd renew our vows. In a pretty, fluffy dress. You know, for me. Hubby's got a nice suit or two that work just fine. Anniversaries 5 & 10, solid numbers for renewals in my mind, came and went. Life happened. There were no babies to pass on a beautiful wedding dress to. Our social circle narrowed. I eyed a little 20-seater chapel that was part of a larger church. Did I mention I've never gone cake tasting? No top tier ever sat in my freezer for the next anniversary.

My husband, as I honestly would expect, is ambivalent about the whole idea. He's not the guy who tears up with joy. If I were to make this happen, it's up to me.

I don't even think the majority of my siblings would attend. That alone cuts out almost half the guest list. And I was in all their weddings. I even helped prep, cook and clean up for one of them.

My parents aren't getting any younger. It is a very real possibility my mom wouldn't even be able to attend something like that given her current rate of decline.

But I realize it's still on my bucket list. I still want the dress. And the cake. And all 8 guests to hang out afterwards. I still want that one glorious party. To tip the hat to 2 young kids fresh out of college who didn't know what the hell they were getting into. And amazingly enough still have a lot of fun (and eye rolling) together.

Impostor Syndrome - Artist level

One of the wonders of the internet, if you're the kind of person who dodges comment section vitriol, 'guaranteed' home remedies, click bait and the like, is stumbling across pockets of information or like-minded squirrelly folks who enlighten you about things you'd otherwise dare not speak. Or, you know, just not have a name for.

For instance, a month or two ago I came across someone who introduced me to the term "ghosting". It's where people suddenly drop any and all contact with you, avoiding you even, with no warning or explanation. I'm familiar with this situation from a number of experiences, mostly though when I stop enabling users to suck all the goodie out of me so they drop me like a bad habit in search of their next lackey. In reality, when I'm not in a catty mood about it, it's when someone I thought I was close to suddenly can't handle a mature, mutually respectful relationship so they push me away. And then usually lament, on social media, of some mysterious loss in their life they don't understand. I've hit the point in my life I don't chase them down and help figure things out. If I don't have to help bathe, clothe or feed ya, I don't need to respond to your drama.

On a more personally applicable level, an ah-ha moment came for me when I read about impostor syndrome (or phenomenon). Essentially, a person believes that she or he is less capable, intelligent, successful than the rest of the world perceives them.

Holy shitballs, you mean other people feel that way, too?!

Curious to see where you score on a questionnaire designed by one of the psychologists who coined the phrase?  Impostor Phenomenon Questionnaire  I came across this while doing a bit of research for this post, so it didn't factor in how I viewed this IP (impostor phenomenon) relating to me. I'm only slightly amazed that I aced the hell out of this test! Like broke the curve on that bad boy.

Let's move forward a bit from the realization that there is in fact a name for this soul crushing paranoia. That it's a little more than just a lack of self esteem or insecurities. And let's move on to the double jeopardy round.

So one of the coolest things to come out of the last few years is leaving my comfort zone, going out into the world and making some new friends. Friends who actually share my interests and expand my horizons. Creative types.

What does that have to do with IP you may be wondering? Because they are crazy, amazing talented. Drop a house on me and knock my shoes off potential. In short, they are annoyingly fantastic in their chosen areas of the written word.

Their book suggestions? Leaps and bounds ahead of the pure entertainment tomes I reach for most often. My TBR pile has grown exponentially to impossible proportions since meeting them. And music? Pardon me while I hide my pop predilections, my reverie for hard rock, my... well, you get the picture. Don't even get me started on the quality, content and volume of movies between us.

I take a little crap, completely good natured, for the way I brush off even the mildest complement about my writing from them. Because I cannot believe pity or scorn is not wrapped firmly around the kindness. Don't they know?! Don't they know that I'm still a 13 year old nerd with buck teeth and glasses, hiding in the downstairs spare room writing fan fiction?! Before that was cool, before there were forums and sites and people who parlayed it into a million-dollar writing career. When are they going to finally rip off the veil and reveal my impostor-dom?

Whew.

Aside from shedding an uncomfortable light on this particular shade of personal anxiety, it's my intent and hope that this topic helps someone else. I'm really big about wanting people to know they aren't alone. When someone shares something, I try to converse with them in such a way that it shows they aren't alone in going through it. NOT to take away their feelings or invalidate their experience, but so that it doesn't foster that sense of isolation. "Hey, me too!" has a ridiculous amount of healing power.

And hopefully it deflects from them noticing I'm an impostor.

On another note, last month marked the 1 year anniversary of this blog. Quality of content and rambling aside, I'm impressed I've kept it going for a whole year.

Annual Rite of Passage

In the not too distant future, I will officially turn another year older.

And historically, this is how I feel about my birthday:

It's not about the uptick in my age, although that number's starting to make me twitch just a little.

While I secretly wouldn't mind some kind of fuss, I am deeply embarrassed by the attention and feel undeserving. When someone is kind to me, I vacillate between wanting to gush like a goober and averting my eyes and turning seven shades of please-let-the-floor-eat-me red. There's a few other issues when it comes to my birthday, like my mom people who have a compulsive need to make it about them.

And that boys and girls, aside from truly being a first world problem, is a personal thing I've got to get a handle on.

So much in the same way I'm trying to figure out who I am (and to borrow from and paraphrase my favorite cousin) how to get my head screwed back on again, I'm working on making this birthday thing comfortable for me. Whatever that means. No gifts? No cake? No candles? No special dinner everyone but me complains about?

I don't know.

And I'm not worried about it one bit. For a refreshing change. I'll figure it out as I go.

*party may mean read a book and eat a bagel w/cream cheese.

Writing Advice

There seems to be no end to the helpful tips for writers. "Cut these 6 words to be a better writer." "The secret to finishing 3 bestsellers a year." "Only assholes don't know these super editing tips." "Words only people who drool would dare type."

I mean, does this get on anyone else's nerves? Am I the only one whose eyes roll when they see what I consider writing clickbait at best and high horse bullshit on the whole?

I just want to get the damn story out. I just want to purge myself of the characters like I'm on a cleanse. I want borderline coherence, something I can work with hopefully once the basics are covered. That's really where I'm at as a general rule. Exasperated with this idea of trying to spit shine a drippy lump of clay. Let's pour extra anxiety alllll over expressing yourself by nitpicking from the word go.

Do any of these tips to get in touch with your inner Pulitzer winner do a damn thing other than generate web traffic or $$ if you buy what they're selling?

This mini-rant was brought to you by a 3 minute escapade on Pinterest. While waiting for tonight's vegetable du jour to finish cooking, I took a quick peek at everyone's favorite save-all-the-ideas site to see if anything interesting grabbed my attention and needed to be pinned. A recipe I'd never make or a craft that costs $45 and involves 15 toilet paper rolls and gold leaf. Or, what takes up most of my boards there, anything and everything to do with writing: character fashion, setting inspirations, blog prompts (clearly putting those to no use whatsoever), research, etc. I came across a cute writing meme and before you know it, the interweb algorithms whirred to life and below three recipes for cupcakes and chicken fajitas, were endless improve your writing tidbits.

I made the mistake of finding a few humorous and pinning them, then WHAM! the algorithms kicked in again and offered me every variation of how to write the novel of my dreams.

Ultimately (aside from mini-rants) I file this stuff away in the same way I file away a majority of self-help stuff like "How to lose 5 lbs" "What color to wear after Labor Day" and even "How to properly scrub the grout under your kitchen sink":

Do whatever the heck works for you. Stop stressing about how anybody else thinks you should do something.

Scream, cry or laugh

In the annuals of history, hell in my own personal history, this afternoon and evening doesn't even register as a spike.

But this is how I feel:

I am the peace keeper in my house. And I am the one who more often than not makes allowances for everyone else's quirks and listens to just how weird anything and everything I do, think, whatever is.

Today I hit tilt.

I've had a difficult time learning how to maintain healthy boundaries. I've had a hard time learning how to speak up for myself. I bite my tongue so often I'm surprised the whole thing isn't one giant calloused piece of scar tissue.

Because I don't want to be a jerk. I don't want to hurt people's feelings. I don't want to be an inconvenience. I don't want to be a nag.

How's that working for me?

Yeah, not well.

No one particular thing that contributed to setting me off will matter in six months, a year, 10 years. But my temper is not one easily put to rest once the tie downs snap and it roars to life. Not that I become violent (I'm afraid of hurting someone's feelings. I've never so much as slapped anybody.) and not that I scream obscenities until the huddled masses are quivering in cooling puddles of their own urine.

I seethe. I want to crawl out of my skin and shriek like a cacophony of harpies. I expect my brain to leak and steam to come out of my ears. I'm always surprised I haven't spontaneously combusted.