Hey, I’m tentatively revising my wholehearted recommendation for eye surgery. I’m thinking that there are downsides that are only just now becoming apparent.
It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.”
I was once legally blind and I miss it! I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos. Before, even with corrected lenses, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor isn't promising perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows. I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.
To me,
Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.
Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. There is a whole new world open to me in the bathroom now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed.
I lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.
Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky antibiotic and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.
Monday
Wednesday
…really, it’s me!
To me,
I know I’m a piece of work, but am I really a work of fiction? Books should relate to the reader, but I might be too weird. The truth of it is that my life is not fiction, at least not until after I finish writing about it. It turns out that most times my truth is stranger than fiction!
As research for the book, I took a quiz to see what kind of a person I am. Quizzes are informative. That’s why we buy the absurd magazines, right—for the quiz?
1. Locked out of the house? …batting 1.000 so far!
2. Locked the keys in the car? …weekly? …in with the child?
3. Left a family member at the store? …and noticed?
4. Put something unusual into the refrigerator? ha!
5. Used the wrong name for a family member? Always!
6. Left the iron on. …for weeks?
7. Dialed a number and forgot who you called? … again.
8. Turned white clothes pink in the wash? … today?
9. Put your heel through your hem—fixed it with tape?
10. Had a zipper break—and fixed it with staples?
11. Wore two different shoes—color and style?
12. Shopped for groceries without a purse—and money?
13. Left without the children in the car—and the groceries?
14. Forgot where you were going—and how to get there?
15. Discovered food in the oven left there from last night—and ate it for breakfast!
I have a perfect score! 100%, and that means I’m absolutely normal, the epitome of perfection! This quiz proves it, therefore everyone should be able to relate to me.[1] So the book should be a success!
I know I’m a piece of work, but am I really a work of fiction? Books should relate to the reader, but I might be too weird. The truth of it is that my life is not fiction, at least not until after I finish writing about it. It turns out that most times my truth is stranger than fiction!
THE QUIZ
As research for the book, I took a quiz to see what kind of a person I am. Quizzes are informative. That’s why we buy the absurd magazines, right—for the quiz?
1. Locked out of the house? …batting 1.000 so far!
2. Locked the keys in the car? …weekly? …in with the child?
3. Left a family member at the store? …and noticed?
4. Put something unusual into the refrigerator? ha!
5. Used the wrong name for a family member? Always!
6. Left the iron on. …for weeks?
7. Dialed a number and forgot who you called? … again.
8. Turned white clothes pink in the wash? … today?
9. Put your heel through your hem—fixed it with tape?
10. Had a zipper break—and fixed it with staples?
11. Wore two different shoes—color and style?
12. Shopped for groceries without a purse—and money?
13. Left without the children in the car—and the groceries?
14. Forgot where you were going—and how to get there?
15. Discovered food in the oven left there from last night—and ate it for breakfast!
I have a perfect score! 100%, and that means I’m absolutely normal, the epitome of perfection! This quiz proves it, therefore everyone should be able to relate to me.[1] So the book should be a success!
Can you tell me you’ve never been on hold so long, you forgot who you called? The clerk comes back on the line and asks politely for whom I am holding and the only word I can think of is hamburger.
“I misplaced my hamburger,” I respond. She perkily responds, “Okay,” and she puts me back on hold … almost. She comes back on, “Did you say hamburger?” Laughter wells in her voice.
Employees at stores are not allowed to show shock, surprise or emotion of any kind, but she must have reached her saturation level.
Reality Bite: I provide entertainment on some level anyway.
[1] Or at least consider me an expert.
...starving
To me
I’ve finished writing three times. At some point in my writing, I must admit the truth—that the font is not at fault. It’s not going to get any better when it’s printed in a different format—with the spelling and grammar checked—that no matter how much I try to improve it, there may not be much anyone can do. This is it! Let it go! Terina
January, I immerse myself in my new venture. I sink into the writing, surfacing for nothing and no one. I float it by a friend who loves it and a contest… that hates it.
February, I live on the theory that chocolate slows down the aging process … it may not be true, but who dares risk it?
March: The guilt sets in and I write less insanely, but still manage to accomplish the better part of nothing.
April: My parents read and then pan the book. They know me, and they’re right. Dad thinks it’s bombastic, boring, and bilious. “Learn from other humorists, or go back to writing instruction manuals.” Mom gently agrees that college may be an option.
To me,
This book is about uniqueness, being an oddball just like everybody else. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. Parents know best. How many times have I, myself, echoed that mantra? T
It’s May and I’m seeking the voice—the melodious tone that keeps the reader enrapt—the mellifluous essence of the soul. When I find mine, it’s a raucous din that makes no sense whatsoever. This too may never end, not in June, or even July. This jaunt may be a ten-year odyssey into the future.[1]
June passes, then July and while on vacation, I find a glut of fresh butchers to carve away the gristle! As they read the essays, they express an initial enthusiasm to go at it with a meat cleaver, but they are easily overwhelmed by the task at hand and they either nod off or drift away.
[1] The teenager’s homework assignment is Homer. Can you tell?
I’ve finished writing three times. At some point in my writing, I must admit the truth—that the font is not at fault. It’s not going to get any better when it’s printed in a different format—with the spelling and grammar checked—that no matter how much I try to improve it, there may not be much anyone can do. This is it! Let it go! Terina
January, I immerse myself in my new venture. I sink into the writing, surfacing for nothing and no one. I float it by a friend who loves it and a contest… that hates it.
February, I live on the theory that chocolate slows down the aging process … it may not be true, but who dares risk it?
March: The guilt sets in and I write less insanely, but still manage to accomplish the better part of nothing.
April: My parents read and then pan the book. They know me, and they’re right. Dad thinks it’s bombastic, boring, and bilious. “Learn from other humorists, or go back to writing instruction manuals.” Mom gently agrees that college may be an option.
To me,
This book is about uniqueness, being an oddball just like everybody else. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. Parents know best. How many times have I, myself, echoed that mantra? T
It’s May and I’m seeking the voice—the melodious tone that keeps the reader enrapt—the mellifluous essence of the soul. When I find mine, it’s a raucous din that makes no sense whatsoever. This too may never end, not in June, or even July. This jaunt may be a ten-year odyssey into the future.[1]
June passes, then July and while on vacation, I find a glut of fresh butchers to carve away the gristle! As they read the essays, they express an initial enthusiasm to go at it with a meat cleaver, but they are easily overwhelmed by the task at hand and they either nod off or drift away.
[1] The teenager’s homework assignment is Homer. Can you tell?
Tuesday
...fiction, friction
“Make it fiction,” I’m advised. “The average person can’t identify with your character because no one believes this person is real.” So in August the book becomes an unauthorized biography,[1] but writing in third person is like weird channeling, and I lapse back into the creativity of reading other people’s writing.
To me,
Abstaining from writing is not so bad, only a little depressing, which means I’m not dressing, cooking, cleaning or doing anything around the house…still. But everyone has done my job so well. T.
September canters by with a second rewrite, but the ideas come like a recalcitrant mule! I’m told agents hate books written in first person. It’s October and still the ideas balk. I’m not writing in November either. Well… unless an idea ambles past then I, with all bets, am off![2]
November, I can no longer truss up the family, so I quit cold turkey. I pluck myself away from the drudge and vow to spend more time waddling with toddlers, just for the pure joy of it.
It’s December and I can’t squeeze any more into the overflowing package of life, so I’m going to wrap it up in January, and resolve never to write again.
There go the resolutions, and I’m repeating the whole process again. Will it ever be finished? And does it matter? Truthfully, who cares, except the people who are covering for me, doing the chores and keeping house.
Reality Bite: It’s their turn. That’s Life.
[1] What could be more fictitious than that?
[2] This sentences rankles the grammar puss like no other.
To me,
Abstaining from writing is not so bad, only a little depressing, which means I’m not dressing, cooking, cleaning or doing anything around the house…still. But everyone has done my job so well. T.
September canters by with a second rewrite, but the ideas come like a recalcitrant mule! I’m told agents hate books written in first person. It’s October and still the ideas balk. I’m not writing in November either. Well… unless an idea ambles past then I, with all bets, am off![2]
November, I can no longer truss up the family, so I quit cold turkey. I pluck myself away from the drudge and vow to spend more time waddling with toddlers, just for the pure joy of it.
It’s December and I can’t squeeze any more into the overflowing package of life, so I’m going to wrap it up in January, and resolve never to write again.
There go the resolutions, and I’m repeating the whole process again. Will it ever be finished? And does it matter? Truthfully, who cares, except the people who are covering for me, doing the chores and keeping house.
Reality Bite: It’s their turn. That’s Life.
[1] What could be more fictitious than that?
[2] This sentences rankles the grammar puss like no other.
...compulsion
No base jumping photographs, so I'm stuck with my hot air ballooning... It felt just as risky. 
I’m hooked! Don’t tell me to stop writing. At this point I would just find something else to cram into the crevice. Living nearly out of control is equal to the thrill of BASE jumping.
I’m energized and each day is filled with extreme goals and ridiculous expectations that keep me perched and peeking right over the precipice.
I’d like to think that somehow, somewhere in the world of karma,[1] there are extra points awarded for level of difficulty. My risk ratio peaks at ten and the failure rate edges toward 100%, but somehow the back-up chute continues to inflate just in time to prevent the face plant.
Every close call is flushed with adrenaline and the rush is so exhilarating that it’s addictive. I really should be headed for rehab. I’ll schedule that in between, let’s see…
Reality Bite: Beware the strait jacket.
[1] Karma, I once knew a girl named Karma. How's that for messing with the universe?
Reality Bite: Beware the strait jacket.
[1] Karma, I once knew a girl named Karma. How's that for messing with the universe?
Monday
…maxed out
Today, when I push away from the writing desk, I look around and discover a new disorder I've self-diagnosed[1] as M.E.S.S.—Maximum Effort Stress Syndrome, caused by cramming more stuff into a life that is already full.
This malady oozes out when I pile more onto whatever I was buried under before and I watch like a doomed test monkey, as this particular strain merges and morphs with my previous disorder—the one that someone else creates from the order I’ve just made.
Dear Me,
I have become The Jerk[2] as I exit every room I’ve entered with armloads of nothing but this remote, this chair, this jacket, this telephone, this screwdriver, this blow dryer and this magazine. This is all I need, as I stuff my pockets and waistband with every misplaced item and then I deport each item back to its own land.
I’m tired of hearing, “Mom, where is my (fill in the blank)?” I reply with “Have you looked where it belongs?” It’s rhetorical because they don’t even know where it is supposed to be.
Reality Bite: 'Cause I’m the only one who’s ever put it there!
[1] After an exhaustive, unrelated internet search.
[2] The movie
This malady oozes out when I pile more onto whatever I was buried under before and I watch like a doomed test monkey, as this particular strain merges and morphs with my previous disorder—the one that someone else creates from the order I’ve just made.
Dear Me,
I have become The Jerk[2] as I exit every room I’ve entered with armloads of nothing but this remote, this chair, this jacket, this telephone, this screwdriver, this blow dryer and this magazine. This is all I need, as I stuff my pockets and waistband with every misplaced item and then I deport each item back to its own land.
I’m tired of hearing, “Mom, where is my (fill in the blank)?” I reply with “Have you looked where it belongs?” It’s rhetorical because they don’t even know where it is supposed to be.
Reality Bite: 'Cause I’m the only one who’s ever put it there!
[1] After an exhaustive, unrelated internet search.
[2] The movie
Sunday
…bilge
Over the years, I’ve attempted to clear the bilge from the decks with every inventive remedy. I’ve charged a bounty for kidnapped items. I’ve raked up, and counted the stash and named the highest offender my personal slave for a day. I’ve even swabbed it into one gigantic pile in the living room and made the scurvy rats walk the plank, but none of these feel as satisfying as my most recent solution.
I now bury the booty wherever it doesn’t belong. I know it’s not a new idea for me. In the past I’ve done it accidentally anyway, but now in the future, I will it purposely and continue on without apology.
The daughter responds after an extended search where she finds her calculator in the cereal box in the pantry. She mutters, “Spare me the creative mother.” But, it’s back to the drawing board for the son who thinks the winter hat box on the top shelf of the front hall closet is now the perfect nesting place for all of his school books.
Dear Me,
Writing may accomplish what I’ve been striving for since the dawn of conception—the shifting of the heavy weight of responsibility onto the progeny’s precarious stack. It may upset that balance of things and cause it all to topple, but when desperate measures result in more desperate times, the bottom line is: Who will really notice?
Reality bite: Desperately seeking something.
I now bury the booty wherever it doesn’t belong. I know it’s not a new idea for me. In the past I’ve done it accidentally anyway, but now in the future, I will it purposely and continue on without apology.
The daughter responds after an extended search where she finds her calculator in the cereal box in the pantry. She mutters, “Spare me the creative mother.” But, it’s back to the drawing board for the son who thinks the winter hat box on the top shelf of the front hall closet is now the perfect nesting place for all of his school books.
Dear Me,
Writing may accomplish what I’ve been striving for since the dawn of conception—the shifting of the heavy weight of responsibility onto the progeny’s precarious stack. It may upset that balance of things and cause it all to topple, but when desperate measures result in more desperate times, the bottom line is: Who will really notice?
Reality bite: Desperately seeking something.
Wednesday
…quizzical enjoyment
Vacation preparation is part of the torture. If I'm going to visit the very edge of desolation I must have every modern convenience. When you think about gathering all the gear don't your brain cells feel the burn?
Finally, after a decade of feeling the pack-up dread, the only organizer bone in my body—the one deep inside my pinkie—made another rare appearance and dared me to walk on the wild side in the husbands type-A toe shoes. "I will join him in his meticulous planning!" I toddled.
And so I compiled a CCC, comprehensive computerized camping list.[1] From that list, I packed a permanent grub box so we could dash off—spur of the moment, whenever the feral urge struck.
To me,
I’m sitting here peacefully contemplating my dirty hands and four fingernails broken off below the quick. I’m watching the children race around near an open fire with sharp sticks, axes and knives and I don’t care. I’m neither medicated nor blind (although my depth perception is a little off due to a misdirected spurt of kerosene).
I’m filthy, and I reek of fire, but all of this reminds me that camping is another experience that fits the vacation criteria. Do I hear the echo of the theme from the movie, Deliverance?
However, the fact that we live in tornado country, is reason enough to require that the box serve a dual purpose as our family emergency preparedness survival box. I’ve dipped into it to save me during many emergencies throughout the year—seeking a can opener or flashlight during a power outage, or scavenging MREs (military for Meals Ready to Eat, a.k.a. Mystical Recycled Earwax), for an unexpected dinner party.
So now when we go camping, the family can spend the trip gazing longingly into the depleted box and speaking of it with fond memories.
Reality Bite: There is no greater anguish than a faultless recollection of past perfection.[2]
[1] Say that three times fast.
[2] Me, again, brilliant me. Unless I’ve forgotten that I heard it already somewhere else first …
Tuesday
…essentials
When the husband yodels the camping call, if the children are feeling energetic, they tie down the technology hog, and make it regurgitate the original “CCC” list. Then they dash through the house to retrieve the misplaced gear and refill the box.
Although, some trips—okay, most trips,--they don’t. Then we camp survivor-style. Survival camping requires only the basics: pointy sticks, sharp knives and fire.
The only other necessity for the perfect camping experience is the addition of water. Within the first five minutes of the trip, all the clothing has to be dragged out, doused and hung out on poison ivy clothes vines, just waiting to be rained upon.
Reality Bite: On the bright side, survival camping doesn’t require coordinating shoes
Although, some trips—okay, most trips,--they don’t. Then we camp survivor-style. Survival camping requires only the basics: pointy sticks, sharp knives and fire.
The only other necessity for the perfect camping experience is the addition of water. Within the first five minutes of the trip, all the clothing has to be dragged out, doused and hung out on poison ivy clothes vines, just waiting to be rained upon.
Reality Bite: On the bright side, survival camping doesn’t require coordinating shoes
Monday
…outfitted
Even fully outfitted, our camping vacations are no Camp-In-Style magazine cover. There is no R.V. with satellite T.V. or even a pop-up trailer. I have to form alliances to get a spot in the tent and even then I don’t get to sleep in a bed. I have to conspire and connive to win the coveted full-length mattress pad.
Our equipment is all the backpacking variety, which according to the advertisements is different than regular camping gear. Unfortunately, the cheap cherub in me can’t bear to purchase all things for each of the husband’s hobbies, so I suffer because backpacking equipment is virtually weightless, but essentially worthless.
Hikers don’t care what they sleep upon or what they eat. They are deprivation seekers,[1] whose ultimate goal is complete and absolute misery. They hike twenty miles of tight little lines on a geologic map in search of the elusive “greater challenge.”
To me,
On our last trip, his idea of a dainty stroll down to the river took a detour off the trail and we ended up fording the raging torrent with the four-year old perched on Daddy’s shoulders while we struggled without a machete through bramble and thicket, trying to retrace our path back to civilized camping. Vote me off, T.
After putting myself through that kind of survival ordeal, I see why the target audience for backpacking is the bold and the brave and I admit, I’m married to it.
Reality Bite: All in the guise of promoting a little marriage survival.
[1] Another nice word for masochists.
Our equipment is all the backpacking variety, which according to the advertisements is different than regular camping gear. Unfortunately, the cheap cherub in me can’t bear to purchase all things for each of the husband’s hobbies, so I suffer because backpacking equipment is virtually weightless, but essentially worthless.
Hikers don’t care what they sleep upon or what they eat. They are deprivation seekers,[1] whose ultimate goal is complete and absolute misery. They hike twenty miles of tight little lines on a geologic map in search of the elusive “greater challenge.”
To me,
On our last trip, his idea of a dainty stroll down to the river took a detour off the trail and we ended up fording the raging torrent with the four-year old perched on Daddy’s shoulders while we struggled without a machete through bramble and thicket, trying to retrace our path back to civilized camping. Vote me off, T.
After putting myself through that kind of survival ordeal, I see why the target audience for backpacking is the bold and the brave and I admit, I’m married to it.
Reality Bite: All in the guise of promoting a little marriage survival.
[1] Another nice word for masochists.
Sunday
…from dust to dust
I’d add dirt, bugs and ashes to every home cooked meal if they would eat it like they do camp food. Within minutes of our arrival, even the finicky one is wolfing down raw hotdogs and slurping marshmallow out of an inch-thick shell of ash. Maybe they worry that they’ll starve (with good reason).
We rarely see any animals, (thank goodness most of our forays are into areas where the natural wildlife has been decimated) so we spend most days at the water’s edge, practicing geo-biology (a biological study of geology), which involves finding rocks that look like animals and repatriating them into their natural habitat, the water.
I don’t worry about fishing for anything, because I wouldn’t want to hook any of the native species. Heaven knows what I’d do if we caught one. If anything can thrive in the outflow of today’s pollutants it would have to be trapped and muzzled before it was rendered edible.
Reality Bite: Survival Rule #1: If it doesn’t bite you first…
We rarely see any animals, (thank goodness most of our forays are into areas where the natural wildlife has been decimated) so we spend most days at the water’s edge, practicing geo-biology (a biological study of geology), which involves finding rocks that look like animals and repatriating them into their natural habitat, the water.
I don’t worry about fishing for anything, because I wouldn’t want to hook any of the native species. Heaven knows what I’d do if we caught one. If anything can thrive in the outflow of today’s pollutants it would have to be trapped and muzzled before it was rendered edible.
Reality Bite: Survival Rule #1: If it doesn’t bite you first…
Saturday
…divine nature
So I’m lounging here in the hammock, waking myself periodically to adjust the body’s slip and slant. (One end is tied lower than the other, but I’m too content to care). I’m reeking of campfire and while sucking the marshmallow off my elbow I’m musing… “Why is it that life is so complex?” And more importantly, “Why do I enjoy this so much?”
Dear me,
Our extended family camping trip went relatively well. We did run into a few animals in the form of bike jockeys wearing tight little outfits, which were spitting and hissing about our campsite.
I would have thought that camping in the meadow would be their complaint, but our setting up seven tents in the middle of the parking lot was the bug that crept up their shorts.
Admittedly, it could have been the diapers and cribs that set them off too. There were juice boxes and food that we had flung to the feral children scattered about and when they were told that we don’t usually clean up until we’ve finished trashing a joint, they were rather peeved.
I told them to take their cute little selves off, or I would have to swat them off with the husband’s sierra card. T.
So, here I sway gently, contented, calm and peaceful, admiring nature and the quiet harmony of my surroundings… the girl scouts yodeling in the camp showers, the dogs baying across the tent spaces, the garbeling of a Spanish ham radio station, the gunshots in the distance. The only city sounds missing are the sirens. The children pinging windshields with pebbles flung from slingshots down at the creek should fix that.
Ah, this is the Life.
Dear me,
The sister’s cruise vacation sounds wonderful—every aspect, from the food to the entertainment. I look forward to hearing about a “real” vacation and seeing photos of the satiated couple—sometime next year.
I expect that is how long it will take her to dig out from beneath the glut of laundry, housecleaning and homework.
Tee hee hee, T.
Reality Bite: I am a confused study of contrasts in life, the universe and everything.
Dear me,
Our extended family camping trip went relatively well. We did run into a few animals in the form of bike jockeys wearing tight little outfits, which were spitting and hissing about our campsite.
I would have thought that camping in the meadow would be their complaint, but our setting up seven tents in the middle of the parking lot was the bug that crept up their shorts.
Admittedly, it could have been the diapers and cribs that set them off too. There were juice boxes and food that we had flung to the feral children scattered about and when they were told that we don’t usually clean up until we’ve finished trashing a joint, they were rather peeved.
I told them to take their cute little selves off, or I would have to swat them off with the husband’s sierra card. T.
So, here I sway gently, contented, calm and peaceful, admiring nature and the quiet harmony of my surroundings… the girl scouts yodeling in the camp showers, the dogs baying across the tent spaces, the garbeling of a Spanish ham radio station, the gunshots in the distance. The only city sounds missing are the sirens. The children pinging windshields with pebbles flung from slingshots down at the creek should fix that.
Ah, this is the Life.
Dear me,
The sister’s cruise vacation sounds wonderful—every aspect, from the food to the entertainment. I look forward to hearing about a “real” vacation and seeing photos of the satiated couple—sometime next year.
I expect that is how long it will take her to dig out from beneath the glut of laundry, housecleaning and homework.
Tee hee hee, T.
Reality Bite: I am a confused study of contrasts in life, the universe and everything.
…skiing off piste
Dear me,
Remember, if it’s a misery vacation that he is planning, it inevitably includes the cold: hiking, glacier glissading, or skiing! Brrr, T
Everything about skiing is work, even shopping for gear. At the sport store, I’m exhausted after just the fitting. The salesman tells me, “These boots should fit comfortably—a little like vice-grips!” So, it only makes sense that ski boots are a necessary aspect of misery vacations!
Remember, if it’s a misery vacation that he is planning, it inevitably includes the cold: hiking, glacier glissading, or skiing! Brrr, T
Everything about skiing is work, even shopping for gear. At the sport store, I’m exhausted after just the fitting. The salesman tells me, “These boots should fit comfortably—a little like vice-grips!” So, it only makes sense that ski boots are a necessary aspect of misery vacations!
The rapture of removing them at the end of the ski day is only equaled—in my memory, to the relief of child birth. Unfortunately, like labor, if I give it a few months, I forget the pain and there I go again.
Dear me,
Remember that our second date was skiing. I went because I was still trying to impress him, the guy that puts skiing above education (he skipped school), or the law, (he faked identification to work on the lifts at a resort) and he picked me!
Dear me,
Remember that our second date was skiing. I went because I was still trying to impress him, the guy that puts skiing above education (he skipped school), or the law, (he faked identification to work on the lifts at a resort) and he picked me!
For the next twenty years, only taking off three years to give birth, I have endured the torture that is his passion. As yin/yang opposites, we are the perfectly partnered pair.
I tell the daughter, “Be warned.” On a date, remember misery has long-term significance."
In spite of each new gadget invented to ease the misery of skiing, the trek to the slopes is still rife with dangers—shoulders bearing guillotine skis and ski poles that have stars of impalement at the ends. One cavalier turn and I can decapitate the whole avalanche patrol.
I make it to the slopes with a heel-toe, heel-toe, gear-toting lurch, only to wonder once I’m there, where to stick all those handy transportation gadgets—down the bibs in front, or do I hook ‘em up and let ‘em flap off my gators behind?
Skiing has its own unique verbiage to disguise its inherent wretchedness. The ski term off-piste means to glide rapturously in deep powder off trail, through snow-covered trees. When I ski off-piste, it happens accidentally, flailing frantically out of control, dodging and ducking trees, ditching skis and poles, and any sharp object that could imperil my ungainly finish.
But, most of the time, I ski “piste-off,” fighting the ski position, half bent over, leaning precariously forward, sliding and slipping while all the way screaming, and wildly zipping past signs that say slow.
To me,
The youngest tagged a tree while off-piste-ing. I volunteer to sacrifice the rest of the day and follow the child strapped on the patrol’s snow sled to the x-ray machine. It could’ve been me.
Hmmm, I’ll have to keep that idea in mind, T.
Ski promoters boast that this sport appeals to a wide range of individuals, regardless of one's proficiency level, clothing, or accessories. As long as you have buckets of money, you’re in!
These same promoters minimize the fact that skiing is the great equalizer in one other very important aspect; appearance. No face, even professionally lifted, looks good while skiing. Everybody is red faced—from windburn on a windy day, sunburn on a sunny one or frostbite from the terminal state of skiing. The typical hairstyle is either hat-head or windswept and you can easily spot a true skier by the snotty nose, raccoon goggle burn, and the stiff-legged plod.
It’s equally as easy to identify a phony—a skier that gets on the lift and skis straight down the greens directly to the lodge—because they are still able to sit comfortably—even recline and lift their feet up, read a book and drink cocoa. I admire the fact that in an emergency, they can fake a convincing injury and back it up with a most imaginative tale.
Reality Bite: That’s my kind of skier.
It’s equally as easy to identify a phony—a skier that gets on the lift and skis straight down the greens directly to the lodge—because they are still able to sit comfortably—even recline and lift their feet up, read a book and drink cocoa. I admire the fact that in an emergency, they can fake a convincing injury and back it up with a most imaginative tale.
Reality Bite: That’s my kind of skier.
…precurs-ing
As I look back, I should have been clued in by our honeymoon—a prime example of his detailed torture. The sweet guy kept it a secret. In retrospect, that part was good. Had I known, I may have cancelled the wedding. An older, wiser, person would have realized that it was portend of our future together.Dear Journal:
During this fun-filled week, I swear we have traversed four states and hiked across a national park that spans two nations. I packed for sunshine, beaches and warmth, yet just moments ago I was standing in knee-deep snow, short-sleeved and shivering having a memorial photo taken for posterity.
Our hotel is five-star; tour buses stop here to view it. It’s the focal point on the front of the national park map. The reservations had to be made months in advance, and the view is breathtaking … as seen from the reservation desk, because our room has no windows. Twin beds shoved together and a bathroom boasting of the original plumbing with a vintage claw foot bathtub, tepid water and chain pull toilet aren’t my idea of a honeymoon hotel …
As I may have mentioned before, the husband doesn’t believe in relaxing vacations. He believes in maximizing whatever opportunity we’ve afforded ourselves. I’ve hiked the wilderness areas (every year as my birthday surprise). I’ve RV’d across Alaska[1] and we annually ski the “Greatest Snow on Earth.”[2] Our vacations are designed to make me look forward to going home again. And it works.
… We can’t afford to eat; the restaurant is also five-star, and they don’t need extra dishwashers. We jaunt into “town” morning, noon and night for meals. It’s a walking trail only—the entire community is, so we share the road with flora and fauna in the merry weather. When we hike back to the hotel, we’re starved and yet must trek out again.None of this makes much difference to me because I’ve scheduled my first migraine ever to hit this week. On the upside, my soul-mate doesn’t have to go animal watching to view the habitat of a bear. The new Mrs. Terina Dee.
This whole vacation situation is a result of two things: my inability to say no to him and our mutual aversion to divorce. It may also be my attitude. If I acted like I was having fun, the sadistic thrill would end and he would probably quit taking me.
Reality bite: I should be grateful. When he vacations with the “boys,” most of them schedule the next week off as sick leave.
[1] For future reference: When Alaska boasts of “shorts and tanks weather in June,” they mean for Alaskans. The rest of us, from the lower forty-eight, still wear layers, layers, and more layers. Bring rain gear, Alaska is 90% ice and the rest of it is falling water. T.
[2] Utah Ski Association ad campaign. *&^$%#!
Thursday
...gorge
I feast from life’s platter by literally wadding each day full and then chewing through it frantically trying to gulp down everything before I run out of breath. Modest and restrained are not part of my writing vocabulary.
I have become one of those persons who thirst for excitement, devour challenge, and gorge myself on new ideas, projects and people. And when it’s over, I will sigh deeply and then mop the plate and hope that my enthusiasm hasn’t left everyone around me nauseated.
Reality Bite: de gustibus non disputandum[1]
[1] There is no accounting for taste.
I have become one of those persons who thirst for excitement, devour challenge, and gorge myself on new ideas, projects and people. And when it’s over, I will sigh deeply and then mop the plate and hope that my enthusiasm hasn’t left everyone around me nauseated.
Reality Bite: de gustibus non disputandum[1]
[1] There is no accounting for taste.
...consumption
To me,
A house of order, a house of peace … Is that even attainable in my day and age? Today, I exceeded the recommended weight limit, broke the law of averages and worst of all, I’ve ignored the daily recommendations of fiber—all of which promise safety, reliability and a healthier colon. What next? T.
When I sit down to write, I get instant, immediate relief like that antacid commercial, (but unmedicated.) I just relax in my chair in a lotus position and chant my little two or three syllable M&M’s--mommy mantra[1] (anything that alludes to the promise of grown children), and I feel an immediate release as I sink into the oblivion of writing.
These mantras are trite phrases that I can repeat over and over in moments of stress to calm myself and return to reality. I use the tried and true--phrases like, “Life’s not fair, ” “I told you so,” “I’m the Mom that’s why,” and although my newest one is lengthy, it’s become one of my new personal favorites, “Life doesn’t have to make sense and therefore neither do I.”
It’s reassuring to find that in times of extreme duress, these perfect comebacks are creamy, yet satisfying and they don’t melt all over your hands.
To Me:
Is it relief or exhaustion I’m feeling? Who knows, and who cares. Whichever it is, it works. I chant and everyone thinks I’m a swami or a salami? T.
The added relaxation of writing pushes my stress level to maximum and reminds me that for complete rejuvenation, I must spend a moment of each day meditating in total comfort and reflection—seeking inspiration and pondering the beauties and purpose of life.
Another stress relieving technique—aromatherapy— comes very highly recommended. The process involves lighting a candle, sprinkling fragrant pillow potpourri and smoothing on lotions and potions to release tension and increase redolent reflection.[2] If I had time to do all that, would I be stressed?
Dear me,
I’m combining calming yoga positions with other activities. Downward dog works well while toilet brushing, and I sit in lotus while I slide about dusting the floor with my bottom.
However, writing while in sun salutation is too much of a challenge, and after accidentally testing a selection of yoga positions, I find I sleep best in corpse. Striving to keep the knickers from twisting, T.
I’m driven by the race toward greater efficiency. I must multitask, or I waste time …but with yoga? Am I missing the point?
[1] All M&M’s are not candy coated, although chocolate still holds the #1 place when I’m desperate for self-meds.
[2] Certainly more pleasantly scented than Chapter 11’s opening. Wait for it. It’s not worth skipping ahead.
A house of order, a house of peace … Is that even attainable in my day and age? Today, I exceeded the recommended weight limit, broke the law of averages and worst of all, I’ve ignored the daily recommendations of fiber—all of which promise safety, reliability and a healthier colon. What next? T.
When I sit down to write, I get instant, immediate relief like that antacid commercial, (but unmedicated.) I just relax in my chair in a lotus position and chant my little two or three syllable M&M’s--mommy mantra[1] (anything that alludes to the promise of grown children), and I feel an immediate release as I sink into the oblivion of writing.
These mantras are trite phrases that I can repeat over and over in moments of stress to calm myself and return to reality. I use the tried and true--phrases like, “Life’s not fair, ” “I told you so,” “I’m the Mom that’s why,” and although my newest one is lengthy, it’s become one of my new personal favorites, “Life doesn’t have to make sense and therefore neither do I.”
It’s reassuring to find that in times of extreme duress, these perfect comebacks are creamy, yet satisfying and they don’t melt all over your hands.
To Me:
Is it relief or exhaustion I’m feeling? Who knows, and who cares. Whichever it is, it works. I chant and everyone thinks I’m a swami or a salami? T.
The added relaxation of writing pushes my stress level to maximum and reminds me that for complete rejuvenation, I must spend a moment of each day meditating in total comfort and reflection—seeking inspiration and pondering the beauties and purpose of life.
Another stress relieving technique—aromatherapy— comes very highly recommended. The process involves lighting a candle, sprinkling fragrant pillow potpourri and smoothing on lotions and potions to release tension and increase redolent reflection.[2] If I had time to do all that, would I be stressed?
Dear me,
I’m combining calming yoga positions with other activities. Downward dog works well while toilet brushing, and I sit in lotus while I slide about dusting the floor with my bottom.
However, writing while in sun salutation is too much of a challenge, and after accidentally testing a selection of yoga positions, I find I sleep best in corpse. Striving to keep the knickers from twisting, T.
I’m driven by the race toward greater efficiency. I must multitask, or I waste time …but with yoga? Am I missing the point?
[1] All M&M’s are not candy coated, although chocolate still holds the #1 place when I’m desperate for self-meds.
[2] Certainly more pleasantly scented than Chapter 11’s opening. Wait for it. It’s not worth skipping ahead.
…snooze
Most relaxation techniques make me snort—because if I find a moment of calm around here, I’m snoring. Any moment of peaceful introspection is interrupted by a nap. If I relax, I nod off. The head bobble isn’t caused by narcolepsy; but by life. I look forward to carpools, because I can sleep at the red lights—if I pay the children to wake me when the light turns green.
My volunteer opportunities of choice are bake sales and ticket-taking because those venues provide convenient on-site napping facilities. The thread-count on most linen table cloths is higher than my nicest sheets and in a pinch I can slip under the table and steal a snooze between customers.
If waiting in any line is license to nod off and snore, imagine the deadly nature of sitting at a computer typing. After the hands nod off and turn to dead weights, I’m forced to edit out page after page of endless letter a’s and j’s. If I compound the problem with soothing scents of candles or potpourri, I could lose entire days slumbering beneath the desk on my trash can pillow.
The family seems to think that the cause for my drowse is boredom, not exhaustion, so when I slide under the edge of the family’s patience, they salvage me from between the bed and wall (where I’ve slipped while in the process of making it) and announce that they have an idea! We’re going on vacation.
To me,
Admit it, vacations are really not a break from work, just a change of venue.[1] Double yuck, T.
Reality Bite: Rescue me from relaxation.
[1] Somebody brilliant said that one! Okay, it was me.
My volunteer opportunities of choice are bake sales and ticket-taking because those venues provide convenient on-site napping facilities. The thread-count on most linen table cloths is higher than my nicest sheets and in a pinch I can slip under the table and steal a snooze between customers.
If waiting in any line is license to nod off and snore, imagine the deadly nature of sitting at a computer typing. After the hands nod off and turn to dead weights, I’m forced to edit out page after page of endless letter a’s and j’s. If I compound the problem with soothing scents of candles or potpourri, I could lose entire days slumbering beneath the desk on my trash can pillow.
The family seems to think that the cause for my drowse is boredom, not exhaustion, so when I slide under the edge of the family’s patience, they salvage me from between the bed and wall (where I’ve slipped while in the process of making it) and announce that they have an idea! We’re going on vacation.
To me,
Admit it, vacations are really not a break from work, just a change of venue.[1] Double yuck, T.
Reality Bite: Rescue me from relaxation.
[1] Somebody brilliant said that one! Okay, it was me.
Wednesday
…tenuous balance
I’m not the only person who trashes the van; but I am the driver and somehow that makes me ultimately at fault. I am just too busy for the biannual detoxification. I vow that after the last cleaning that required superfund certification and a 16-horse shop-vac, (I love those vacuums that suck up the dog and come back for more) that our days of eating en-route were over.
But life happens, and the trips stretch from here to eternity. The tormented toddler creates a solvent that weakens my resolve and I crack and then desperately grapple in my purse for stale crackers to fling over the backseat to the salivating screamer, who is buckled in for his safety and my sanity.
Hello me,
Mom always said, “He who makes the mess cleans it up!” How does that work? I haven’t figured out the details, but I love that idea and I’m adding it to my mommy mantras… It’s me again, T
I’m not surprised that immediately upon making the mental effort to delve into the depths of my vehicular filth, that it is just about then that the husband subdues all of his manly impulses and opens the door of the minivan.
When he is bombarded by the stench and the avalanche of detritus, he feels it is his therapeutic duty to add to my pile of guilt with his own form of belated intervention. [1]
“How can you, a sentient being, drive a vehicle in such a state of disgust?” he wonders out loud (much too loudly).
That’s what I get for going there—for mentally opening this whole disgusting bag of worms, but I have already been there and over-rationalized that, and I give him the summation of my intricate analysis: “It’s easy if I sit on only one cheek with the tips of the fingers barely touching the steering wheel. Then I don’t end up stuck to anything or with anything stuck to me.”[2]
To me, bizzy me,
Sorry, had to run in the middle of the last net-note. I left a child at preschool again, and I’m screeching off to pick him up.
“Mommy you promised,” he sniffs as he sits in the back seat gazing numbly out the window while he sucks his bottom lip.
Guilt ridden, I anguish out loud, “I gotta stop promising things I can’t produce!”
The oldest daughter overhears and responds, “Or, you could start producing things that you promise.”
Too busy and thinking again. I hate that! T.
When I run out of ready retorts and I find myself inching along the precipice—the very edge of sanity with one foot flailing, I remind myself that my feng shui of happiness is centered in finding peace and serenity amidst uproar and chaos.
To me,
I want the newest option for the vehicular straight jacket—the inclusion of a muzzle. I’m all for mandatory restraining devices in vehicles, for everyone up to and including fifteen-year-olds. T.
I practice on that balance beam, a strange version of yoga that is adaptable to every occasion. If I breathe deeply, cross my eyes and hum my calming mantra eerily off key, it seems that problems (and people) go away and I am pleasantly surprised by my balancing act at day’s end.
Reality Bite: I came through it all and didn’t strangle anybody.
[1] He has delayed ESP—extra sensory perfection, maybe Book Three?
[2] Lighthearted flippancy is preferable to howling hysteria.
But life happens, and the trips stretch from here to eternity. The tormented toddler creates a solvent that weakens my resolve and I crack and then desperately grapple in my purse for stale crackers to fling over the backseat to the salivating screamer, who is buckled in for his safety and my sanity.
Hello me,
Mom always said, “He who makes the mess cleans it up!” How does that work? I haven’t figured out the details, but I love that idea and I’m adding it to my mommy mantras… It’s me again, T
I’m not surprised that immediately upon making the mental effort to delve into the depths of my vehicular filth, that it is just about then that the husband subdues all of his manly impulses and opens the door of the minivan.
When he is bombarded by the stench and the avalanche of detritus, he feels it is his therapeutic duty to add to my pile of guilt with his own form of belated intervention. [1]
“How can you, a sentient being, drive a vehicle in such a state of disgust?” he wonders out loud (much too loudly).
That’s what I get for going there—for mentally opening this whole disgusting bag of worms, but I have already been there and over-rationalized that, and I give him the summation of my intricate analysis: “It’s easy if I sit on only one cheek with the tips of the fingers barely touching the steering wheel. Then I don’t end up stuck to anything or with anything stuck to me.”[2]
To me, bizzy me,
Sorry, had to run in the middle of the last net-note. I left a child at preschool again, and I’m screeching off to pick him up.
“Mommy you promised,” he sniffs as he sits in the back seat gazing numbly out the window while he sucks his bottom lip.
Guilt ridden, I anguish out loud, “I gotta stop promising things I can’t produce!”
The oldest daughter overhears and responds, “Or, you could start producing things that you promise.”
Too busy and thinking again. I hate that! T.
When I run out of ready retorts and I find myself inching along the precipice—the very edge of sanity with one foot flailing, I remind myself that my feng shui of happiness is centered in finding peace and serenity amidst uproar and chaos.
To me,
I want the newest option for the vehicular straight jacket—the inclusion of a muzzle. I’m all for mandatory restraining devices in vehicles, for everyone up to and including fifteen-year-olds. T.
I practice on that balance beam, a strange version of yoga that is adaptable to every occasion. If I breathe deeply, cross my eyes and hum my calming mantra eerily off key, it seems that problems (and people) go away and I am pleasantly surprised by my balancing act at day’s end.
Reality Bite: I came through it all and didn’t strangle anybody.
[1] He has delayed ESP—extra sensory perfection, maybe Book Three?
[2] Lighthearted flippancy is preferable to howling hysteria.
Tuesday
…refuse
To me,
Wormwood is told something to the effect of, “Don’t make them sin, only unable to prioritize.”[1] That’s me. My life is a perpetual state of overwhelmed and exhausted, so why not add writing to the mix? I can do this … too. Love T.
I struggle to live with the notion that I can drive up to the garage, hop out, load myself up and make it to the back door with a child’s half-emptied ‘pack-pack’ slung over one shoulder and one of those plastic grocery bag slung by its handle over the crook of my elbow. Oh! And today’s to-do list shoved in my back pocket.
How does someone live like this? It’s simple. I don’t allow myself to notice. If I looked around and had time to evaluate, the small semblance of sanity that is still rattling around in the maze of my mind may find its way out.
Ha, me!
Stay-at-home Mom—what a misnomer, I muse as I drive across town to the practice de jour. What was I thinking? I’m working in all my spare time, so realistically my goal is to publish sometime next century.
Hopeful, T.
The balancing act is complete when I tilt my hip far to the right to support the arm holding the piano books, the sports bags and rogue library books that try to escape and join the jungle in the shadows under the seat.
I hate making a myriad of trips. It’s a personal pet peeve. I’d rather overload myself and leave whatever falls by the wayside to be retrieved on the next trip. Unfortunately, the next trip goes like the last trip, and the cast-offs accumulate-either in the vehicle or midway on the trail in between. If I had that one extra hand, then I could rake up the day’s trash and stash it in that last, desperate spot of storage; the waistband of my pants.
To me,
Today, I empathize with agoraphobics, who fear wide open spaces and never leave their homes. As the vehicle exits the garage on even the smallest errand, I drive into a time abyss, and when I return, hours have escaped, and I have no recollection of where the time went. T
Reality Bite: I refuse to be walking refuse.
[1] C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters. Maybe. That’s what I got out of it.
Wormwood is told something to the effect of, “Don’t make them sin, only unable to prioritize.”[1] That’s me. My life is a perpetual state of overwhelmed and exhausted, so why not add writing to the mix? I can do this … too. Love T.
I struggle to live with the notion that I can drive up to the garage, hop out, load myself up and make it to the back door with a child’s half-emptied ‘pack-pack’ slung over one shoulder and one of those plastic grocery bag slung by its handle over the crook of my elbow. Oh! And today’s to-do list shoved in my back pocket.
How does someone live like this? It’s simple. I don’t allow myself to notice. If I looked around and had time to evaluate, the small semblance of sanity that is still rattling around in the maze of my mind may find its way out.
Ha, me!
Stay-at-home Mom—what a misnomer, I muse as I drive across town to the practice de jour. What was I thinking? I’m working in all my spare time, so realistically my goal is to publish sometime next century.
Hopeful, T.
The balancing act is complete when I tilt my hip far to the right to support the arm holding the piano books, the sports bags and rogue library books that try to escape and join the jungle in the shadows under the seat.
I hate making a myriad of trips. It’s a personal pet peeve. I’d rather overload myself and leave whatever falls by the wayside to be retrieved on the next trip. Unfortunately, the next trip goes like the last trip, and the cast-offs accumulate-either in the vehicle or midway on the trail in between. If I had that one extra hand, then I could rake up the day’s trash and stash it in that last, desperate spot of storage; the waistband of my pants.
To me,
Today, I empathize with agoraphobics, who fear wide open spaces and never leave their homes. As the vehicle exits the garage on even the smallest errand, I drive into a time abyss, and when I return, hours have escaped, and I have no recollection of where the time went. T
Reality Bite: I refuse to be walking refuse.
[1] C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters. Maybe. That’s what I got out of it.
Saturday
…binge
I’m well aware of the side effects of giving in to gluttony. At some point it’s going to come back on me. Despite the claims of the little purple pill,[1] when one overindulges, there is no short-term fix, only long, hard consequences. At some point in the near future, I will have to pay for my writing excesses with the all-too-familiar pangs of regret.
To me
I think fast and write quickly; there is no time for temperance. Write, write, write, and suffer the ill-effects later. I regurgitate every random thought that passes. There must be some value in the worst of it. How much? Well, that can be decided later in the trim-down-to-svelte phase.
Insatiable me, T.
The rough draft process of writing is so exciting! I feel such success as I watch the manuscript expand with each addition. The contents are dubious in origin and even more doubtful in merit, but I judge them the same way I evaluate the contents of my refrigerator.[2]
I first try to recall with fond memory, what it once was originally and then I move past that image and try to imagine what it could become with a few new additions, judicious blending and a new appealing title.
To me:
The children are again wondering about my version of bangers and mash. I assure them that it is a delicacy in England as I wonder to myself, “Is there anything delicate about England?”
I just throw together last weeks leftovers and heat it good. Blimey, it can be delicious, but it’s never boring, neither the food nor the accompanying conversation.
Like the contents of the fridge, writing has such potential, but the quantity of the ingredients is no guarantee for success, particularly when I toss everything from the larder into the mix. While it doesn’t always result in gourmet, the usual outcome is surprisingly palatable and depending on my level of desperation, I am pleasantly surprised at what I can stomach.
To me
Dinner tonight was fast food. The black jelly bean rolling around the floorboards counts. I snagged it up! Yum! T.
Realty Bite: Stress feeds on stress
[1] Whatever it is, I’m convinced that I must get it—more of it! I need it!
[2] There is special consideration given to items whose tentacles unwrap from the container long enough to scream, “Don’t use me.”
Friday
Gorge
Hi me,
I notice that that my eye to belly ratio is off and that once again, I have bitten off way too much. Writing is a bigger mouthful than I ever imagined. Munch, munch, T.
I feast from life’s platter by literally wadding each day full and then chewing through it frantically trying to gulp down everything before I run out of breath. Prudence and caution are not part of my living vocabulary.
I am one of those persons who thirst for excitement, devour challenge, and gorge myself on new ideas, projects and people. And when it’s over, I sigh deeply and then mop the plate and hope that my enthusiasm hasn’t left everyone around me nauseated.
Reality Bite: de gustibus non disputandum[1]
[1] There is no accounting for taste.
I notice that that my eye to belly ratio is off and that once again, I have bitten off way too much. Writing is a bigger mouthful than I ever imagined. Munch, munch, T.
I feast from life’s platter by literally wadding each day full and then chewing through it frantically trying to gulp down everything before I run out of breath. Prudence and caution are not part of my living vocabulary.
I am one of those persons who thirst for excitement, devour challenge, and gorge myself on new ideas, projects and people. And when it’s over, I sigh deeply and then mop the plate and hope that my enthusiasm hasn’t left everyone around me nauseated.
Reality Bite: de gustibus non disputandum[1]
[1] There is no accounting for taste.
Thursday
…reality bites
The process of writing is a unique experience. I have always envisioned the inveterate author sitting before a desk, in cardigan and tweed, leaning back amongst leather in a contemplative pose, eyes vague and distant, elbow on armrest and chin in hand, waiting to record the details of each brilliant thought.
In my reality, the pathetic writer is usually clothed in contraband that was either stumbled upon or wandered by. Pajamas hang below the hem of the decade-old sweat shirt with “Buy two, get me free” on the front. I have cadged a pair of circa 1990 stirrup pants, not ratty enough to be thrown out, but not fit for public consumption either, and on my feet are one yellow and one green sock. These are worn primarily because they are the same size and because they have each languished mate-less for eons in the sock box and have earned some time out.
At some point in the day, desperation adds ankle-high boots to the ensemble, and I’ve felt no equal nor pressing reason to remove them, so here I sit, teetering uncomfortably on the bottom step of a three-tiered stool whose top step is currently being used by a kindergartener to storm the castle walls.
In my twin role as dueling despot and plagued penman, I flail a sword with one hand and ruthlessly disembowel my journal, page by page, with the other.
“Somehow,” I muse thoughtfully, with the chin in the hand and elbow on the knee, “this is not what I envisioned.”
Reality Bite: It’s your delusion. If you don’t like it, change it.
In my reality, the pathetic writer is usually clothed in contraband that was either stumbled upon or wandered by. Pajamas hang below the hem of the decade-old sweat shirt with “Buy two, get me free” on the front. I have cadged a pair of circa 1990 stirrup pants, not ratty enough to be thrown out, but not fit for public consumption either, and on my feet are one yellow and one green sock. These are worn primarily because they are the same size and because they have each languished mate-less for eons in the sock box and have earned some time out.
At some point in the day, desperation adds ankle-high boots to the ensemble, and I’ve felt no equal nor pressing reason to remove them, so here I sit, teetering uncomfortably on the bottom step of a three-tiered stool whose top step is currently being used by a kindergartener to storm the castle walls.
In my twin role as dueling despot and plagued penman, I flail a sword with one hand and ruthlessly disembowel my journal, page by page, with the other.
“Somehow,” I muse thoughtfully, with the chin in the hand and elbow on the knee, “this is not what I envisioned.”
Reality Bite: It’s your delusion. If you don’t like it, change it.
Wednesday
…malnourished
To me,
Yes, I’m still writing a book … after I fix a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Oops, first scrounge in the freezer for bread, put in a load of wash and start supper. I’ll turn on a video and call about car repair, then I’m back to … oh yeah, the book.
This task is not too daunting if I remind myself that this is merely another New Year’s get-organized project. I’m compiling all the little sound bites of reality that I’ve written over the years from primordial pen-and-ink to high-tech e-mails and it’s no more of a task than reorganizing a pantry that’s been moldering for three decades.
I’m writing a book twenty minutes at a time amid intrusions, so that’s what I’ll write about; Life—that thing that keeps interrupting while I’m working on my dreams.[1]
As I read through the torrid missives of my life, I find me asking myself the same question my children hate to hear: “Wow. Did you learn anything that time?” I appear to be a connoisseur of failure who is only blasted with enlightenment amidst the trauma of the current life drama and when the gust finally subsides, I’ve forgotten.
Yes, I’m still writing a book … after I fix a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Oops, first scrounge in the freezer for bread, put in a load of wash and start supper. I’ll turn on a video and call about car repair, then I’m back to … oh yeah, the book.
This task is not too daunting if I remind myself that this is merely another New Year’s get-organized project. I’m compiling all the little sound bites of reality that I’ve written over the years from primordial pen-and-ink to high-tech e-mails and it’s no more of a task than reorganizing a pantry that’s been moldering for three decades.
I’m writing a book twenty minutes at a time amid intrusions, so that’s what I’ll write about; Life—that thing that keeps interrupting while I’m working on my dreams.[1]
As I read through the torrid missives of my life, I find me asking myself the same question my children hate to hear: “Wow. Did you learn anything that time?” I appear to be a connoisseur of failure who is only blasted with enlightenment amidst the trauma of the current life drama and when the gust finally subsides, I’ve forgotten.
No good ever seems to come from trial and tribulation, so I have resolved that when I experience a beam of pure understanding, I will take note of it, right there on the page—a reality bite—so that there is some remote hope that I might remember!
Reality bite: Just for my information, there is no vacuum made that will suck up wheat berries. If the sucking level is changed to mow, you can hear it hit the top of the vacuum and ricochet back to the carpet, being driven ever deeper by the beater bar. That’s what I get for praying for patience.
[1]Who knows who said it? The first 100 of 308,000 hits didn’t know either.
Reality bite: Just for my information, there is no vacuum made that will suck up wheat berries. If the sucking level is changed to mow, you can hear it hit the top of the vacuum and ricochet back to the carpet, being driven ever deeper by the beater bar. That’s what I get for praying for patience.
[1]Who knows who said it? The first 100 of 308,000 hits didn’t know either.
Tuesday
…a quazi life
To me with love and chocolate.
I’m now living my own version of starving writer. Meals are no longer a relaxing sit-down affair. I savor scraps like a starving scavenger. I lap morsels from plates as I clear breakfast to prepare lunch and wash the lunch dishes to free up spoons and forks for dinner. It’s been weeks, and I‘m still cataloging the journal (after I check on a child, call the husband, fling the bread in the oven, dash upstairs, play another game of Candyland,[1] toss in a load of wash and fold the last one).
Reality Bite: Chocolate. It’s profound and I’m noting it here so I’ll never forget.
The most important coping mechanism that I learned from my mother, is the phrase “That’s Life.” It is her way of saying, “Just get over it and move on.” I remember Mom using the phrase, “That’s life” to end our lively, yet futile debates. We took aim and lobbed off a few stray test rounds, but before we could really hone in on the target, with the subtlety and panache of a sniper, she shot from her arsenal two words and just like that, the issue was dead.
“That’s Life,” were the profound words that meant, “That’s just the way things are,” “Get over it” and finally, “I’m not discussing this with you any longer!”
I’m finally getting it. It’s taken me over thirty years and a lifetime of self-inflicted wounds to realize the significance of those two words. “That’s Life”—the secret to all of life’s mysteries and the answer to life’s deepest questions. Life is not fair; not even, nor equal. So get over it, adapt and amidst the confusion, laugh and make the best of it.
To me,
Today, I slipped to the end of my rebuttal rope and was swinging near to breaking. The words “That’s hard, tough luck, and too bad,” dangled near, but I grasped the old stand-by, “That’s Life!” The sage wisdom of that two-word phrase carried me through the tumult and put an end to the bitter banter.
Reality Bite: I am indebted yet again to Mom.
[1] Note to self: Research trademark laws and investigate possible product placement.
Monday
…my expertise
I’m never very far into a book when I turn it over to read the back flyleaf. What qualifies this person to write a book, what is the author’s background and education? What can I learn from this person? Is she an expert?
Yo me,
I don’t really have any time to learn be an expert at writing. I’m too busy honing my expertise in every other area. This is crazy. What makes me think I can do this?
I think that it’s Mommy power that makes me think I can do anything. My life affirmations originate from the notes on the fridge. Today, it’s the one that says, “Because I said so.”
There’s something to be said for absolute power corrupting absolutely.[1]
So I’m writing… still. T.
So what qualifies me to write a book? I should say right up front—I’m self-proclaimed. Watch and listen closely. Here goes: “I’m an expert; a specialist with opinions on life.” I just said I am, so I am. “And I am writing a book.” See, there it is again, because I said so. You can skip over the back cover because it’s right here in black and white. I am an expert.
Television fuels my delusions because “expert” no longer means anything, particularly in the area of tags on unmentionables. If a professional sports figure or a martial artist can be a BVD professional, then I guess I can be an expert on life! Who knew!
Truthfully, I don’t know everything about most things, but I know enough to be dangerous and sometimes that’s funny. Naiveté and ignorance are bliss and can prove to be hilarious.
In my effort to validate myself and refine the word expert, I consider all the brilliant businessmen whose expertise is in fraud and deception. If those are necessary attributes to being successful, then here I am—again uniquely qualified because I’m a Mother.
And I’m writing a book because I am an expert!
To me,
It’s okay to say I’m an expert. An amateur fears he’ll make a mistake, but an expert plans on it and can fix it, or at least put a good spin on it.[2] And boy, am I spinning, T.
The world abounds with self-proclaimed experts like me; doctors of theology that are experts at family therapy and actors that are experts on political events. When they appear on talk shows discussing the topic of the day, I listen avidly, particularly to the actor/doctor. I never know what valuable medical tidbit I might gain.
I do harbor doubts once in a while. If they are reputable actors, haven’t they spent most of their time honing that expertise? If notoriety validates, I’ll be even more reputable!
Yo me,
I don’t really have any time to learn be an expert at writing. I’m too busy honing my expertise in every other area. This is crazy. What makes me think I can do this?
I think that it’s Mommy power that makes me think I can do anything. My life affirmations originate from the notes on the fridge. Today, it’s the one that says, “Because I said so.”
There’s something to be said for absolute power corrupting absolutely.[1]
So I’m writing… still. T.
So what qualifies me to write a book? I should say right up front—I’m self-proclaimed. Watch and listen closely. Here goes: “I’m an expert; a specialist with opinions on life.” I just said I am, so I am. “And I am writing a book.” See, there it is again, because I said so. You can skip over the back cover because it’s right here in black and white. I am an expert.
Television fuels my delusions because “expert” no longer means anything, particularly in the area of tags on unmentionables. If a professional sports figure or a martial artist can be a BVD professional, then I guess I can be an expert on life! Who knew!
Truthfully, I don’t know everything about most things, but I know enough to be dangerous and sometimes that’s funny. Naiveté and ignorance are bliss and can prove to be hilarious.
In my effort to validate myself and refine the word expert, I consider all the brilliant businessmen whose expertise is in fraud and deception. If those are necessary attributes to being successful, then here I am—again uniquely qualified because I’m a Mother.
And I’m writing a book because I am an expert!
To me,
It’s okay to say I’m an expert. An amateur fears he’ll make a mistake, but an expert plans on it and can fix it, or at least put a good spin on it.[2] And boy, am I spinning, T.
The world abounds with self-proclaimed experts like me; doctors of theology that are experts at family therapy and actors that are experts on political events. When they appear on talk shows discussing the topic of the day, I listen avidly, particularly to the actor/doctor. I never know what valuable medical tidbit I might gain.
I do harbor doubts once in a while. If they are reputable actors, haven’t they spent most of their time honing that expertise? If notoriety validates, I’ll be even more reputable!
Sunday
...transcengendering
As I transform my memoirs into basic readability, I imagine the words lending themselves to a progeny-thanking moment. It may be that I will create words that will transcend generations, like those on the one page that my great, great, great-grandma Eliza wrote about her life, describing her loss of home and hearth to Indians on the prairie. “All of our possessions were scattered and broken, but we escaped with our lives and one lone, unbroken dinner plate.”
That note from that 19th century pioneer has had a major impact on my 21st century urban life. The possibility that my progeny may find the same power in one of my essays spurs me onward! Unfortunately, I expect that the one page that survives me will be on potty training.
If I expect any of my work to be as profound and life-affecting as my grandmother’s letter, then I’d better get writing! There must be at least one other person in the world who could benefit from my life-lessons. (The husband, who has dedicated his life to deciphering the mystery of me, doesn’t count!)
So, can I do this? Can I write a book? Good grief, if I have the patience and courage to live my life, I should be up to it! I sit at the computer, in the midst of my unkempt world of pestilence and pitfalls and I think, “This is it! I’m doing it!”
I’m compiling it all into a book, maybe even several books… but then I’ll have to start a printing house and a publishing company …
Reality bite: Grandiose delusions are treatable.
[1] The daughter says give credit for this one to the writer of Animal Farm.
[2] According to Dad, the expert.
That note from that 19th century pioneer has had a major impact on my 21st century urban life. The possibility that my progeny may find the same power in one of my essays spurs me onward! Unfortunately, I expect that the one page that survives me will be on potty training.
If I expect any of my work to be as profound and life-affecting as my grandmother’s letter, then I’d better get writing! There must be at least one other person in the world who could benefit from my life-lessons. (The husband, who has dedicated his life to deciphering the mystery of me, doesn’t count!)
So, can I do this? Can I write a book? Good grief, if I have the patience and courage to live my life, I should be up to it! I sit at the computer, in the midst of my unkempt world of pestilence and pitfalls and I think, “This is it! I’m doing it!”
I’m compiling it all into a book, maybe even several books… but then I’ll have to start a printing house and a publishing company …
Reality bite: Grandiose delusions are treatable.
[1] The daughter says give credit for this one to the writer of Animal Farm.
[2] According to Dad, the expert.
Saturday
Sunday
… a furtive finish
I have no problem giving credit where credit is due, (because it will pay off when I start my next project) but I would also like my share of the accolade. I want credit for the vision—for having the idea, and it would be nice if I could be praised for starting the project, but most importantly, I want recognition for my furtive finish.
To me,
I’m stuck with the laundry tonight, because in spite of everyone’s best attempts at helping with housework, washing clothes does not constitute doing laundry—it’s doing the wash. Somebody still has to finish the rest of the task by drying, folding and putting it all away!
From the land of the lonely, Terina
I’m the furtive finisher of projects unnoticed, bulb planting, sock sorting, money laundering, and bathroom cleaning.[1] The family sees the results and attributes them to mythical creatures: Mother Nature, the Sock Wizard, the Tooth Fairy, and the Scrubbing Bubbles. When there are no fantasy characters to thank, they blame the figments of their own imagination: “I really thought these pants were missing a button,” or “…I swear my shoes were hanging by their laces on the banister.” “Wow, this house is magic.” “I looked, and looked, and this morning, there it was, the missing object, right in plain sight.”
It makes me frustrated to hear, “… well, the last time I saw them, my schoolbooks were caught in the cobwebs of my ceiling. I must have imagined it!”[2]
Imagine that! I will deal with it—for now, but I await the moment when the myths of youth will be exposed, when the book is published and everyone has proof that I am a finisher.
In lieu of that, these and other fairytale truths will be revealed to the children when they leave for college and the chore-girl fairy flits away.
To myself,
After beginning the thirteen morning chores, I abandon the dishes to undertake the newest task. I dress, look for tools, locate the earplugs and the child. Then I string the extension cord, prune one bush, and the electrical cord. I repair the cord then short out the electrical box, relocate the child, transfer the car seat, buy gas, refill the other machine and then prune for two more minutes. I stop to eat lunch, add to the pile of dirty dishes, remove the pruning saw from the hands of the child and trim the side bushes.
Out of gas again, I spy the newest child catastrophe through the front window and frustrated, I prune my thumb with hand-trimmers and abandon everything to drive to the doctor for stitches. Ouchee, T.
It’s the nature of being a multi-tasker that ruins my reputation as a finisher, because right in the midst of it all, the first big job appears to be left incomplete. But at some point, usually in the dark of night after everyone else is asleep, I wrap up the original thirteen tasks. When it’s all said and done, wouldn’t you say that overall, in the big picture, I am a finisher? That’s my newest great hope.
Reality Bite: …in a perfect world, but that’s life.
[1] I’m also the finder of the lost, but that has to wait for the next book.
[2] More to come in book three, Committed: A Parent’s View—Out (not a shameless promotion, but incentive for me to finish writing it.)
To me,
I’m stuck with the laundry tonight, because in spite of everyone’s best attempts at helping with housework, washing clothes does not constitute doing laundry—it’s doing the wash. Somebody still has to finish the rest of the task by drying, folding and putting it all away!
From the land of the lonely, Terina
I’m the furtive finisher of projects unnoticed, bulb planting, sock sorting, money laundering, and bathroom cleaning.[1] The family sees the results and attributes them to mythical creatures: Mother Nature, the Sock Wizard, the Tooth Fairy, and the Scrubbing Bubbles. When there are no fantasy characters to thank, they blame the figments of their own imagination: “I really thought these pants were missing a button,” or “…I swear my shoes were hanging by their laces on the banister.” “Wow, this house is magic.” “I looked, and looked, and this morning, there it was, the missing object, right in plain sight.”
It makes me frustrated to hear, “… well, the last time I saw them, my schoolbooks were caught in the cobwebs of my ceiling. I must have imagined it!”[2]
Imagine that! I will deal with it—for now, but I await the moment when the myths of youth will be exposed, when the book is published and everyone has proof that I am a finisher.
In lieu of that, these and other fairytale truths will be revealed to the children when they leave for college and the chore-girl fairy flits away.
To myself,
After beginning the thirteen morning chores, I abandon the dishes to undertake the newest task. I dress, look for tools, locate the earplugs and the child. Then I string the extension cord, prune one bush, and the electrical cord. I repair the cord then short out the electrical box, relocate the child, transfer the car seat, buy gas, refill the other machine and then prune for two more minutes. I stop to eat lunch, add to the pile of dirty dishes, remove the pruning saw from the hands of the child and trim the side bushes.
Out of gas again, I spy the newest child catastrophe through the front window and frustrated, I prune my thumb with hand-trimmers and abandon everything to drive to the doctor for stitches. Ouchee, T.
It’s the nature of being a multi-tasker that ruins my reputation as a finisher, because right in the midst of it all, the first big job appears to be left incomplete. But at some point, usually in the dark of night after everyone else is asleep, I wrap up the original thirteen tasks. When it’s all said and done, wouldn’t you say that overall, in the big picture, I am a finisher? That’s my newest great hope.
Reality Bite: …in a perfect world, but that’s life.
[1] I’m also the finder of the lost, but that has to wait for the next book.
[2] More to come in book three, Committed: A Parent’s View—Out (not a shameless promotion, but incentive for me to finish writing it.)
Tuesday
…eye solution
To: piquecritique@wow.com
Now I’ve gone and done it! I broke down and got eye surgery. I know, against my better judgment and everything I espouse about conforming to the world and the preconceptions of plastic surgery. Castigation, begin! Love T.
Have you watched the female comediennes? There is some morphing evolution that occurs when these women begin enhancing their natural attributes. Comedians are supposed to look funny, an odd eye, Feldmen, or her whole face, Phyllis Diller. These people make a living out of looking different.
I think when people stop looking funny, they stop being funny and I can prove it. I’ve reached the end of my wit, which does not mean that I’m witless, (I am) but what I really mean is that I’m no longer funny! (Oh, you already noticed?)
I’m on the road to comedic collapse, because I’ve followed the trend and had my number one self-deprecating feature surgically altered. The coke-bottle glasses are gone, therefore the source of mirth for my children is gone. They can no longer wink behind my back, or laugh silently in front of my face. I’m freed from being the butt of their jokes, free from their cruel taunts and I’m no longer stuck in bed while the morning passes and finally the children seek me out the bedroom where I’m hoarse from yelling, “Help! I’ve dropped my glasses and I can’t get up!”
I’ve done it! I had my blindness fixed. No more thick glasses, no more blundering and sadly, no more excuses about misreading the ingredients on a recipe card. I can see! It’s all they say it is and more!
Monday
...the eyes have it
I'm trying to justify such an extravagence as lasic. I was suffering pretty terribly. I was legally blind and rapidly becoming sensitized to the lenses. At night, my eyes were so tired they ached too much for sleeping. Soon, I would be in line for a new pair of glasses, which would cause the glass commodity market to spark out of control. For the good of the economy, I needed lasic.
So I did it! In the first hour, I found light of any kind to be an irritant and the eye-drops tasted bitter. (Trust me, the eyeball’s connected to the tastebud, and the tastebud’s connected to the…) Other than these minor issues, I’ve had no other side-effects, no pain, no burning, and no extra tears.
If it weren’t for my trusty drug reaction, I would have nothing to write about. I don’t remember much of that first night due to drugs. It happens every time. I warned the doctor that it would be better for everyone if I didn’t have the “relaxant.” I do “tense” so much better. The nurse reassured that five milligram tablets weren’t really anything to worry about.
At least that’s what I think she said, by that time I was snoring softly into my chest. She asked the husband to tilt the chair back, hoping to stop the mouth gape and drool. I vaguely remember meandering my way, with a double escort, to the operating table where I laid[1] down with relief, but when they said skooch up to the top, I started giggling.
I was pudding by that time and if they had told me to slosh on up, I might have attempted it. They tape your eyes open and the little machine sucks the eyeball up, which was a good thing because I couldn’t have managed that on my own. My memories end with me staring blankly at the blinking red light.
I slept like a baby from the office to the house; and I don’t recall how I made it in from the car. After about four hours of lying peacefully in a “lovely repose with hands crossed over the chest pose” (and obviously looking more at ease than the husband thought I deserved), I was forcibly awakened.
If I didn’t have to face people again, all would be well. It’s that drunk-at-the-company-party/morning-after that is mortifying. The next day, doctor and nurse were both very circumspect and only casually noted that I had been quite relaxed. The nurse remarked that it’s nice that I’m petite… Me? [2] …that they may replace the swivel stool in post-op with an armchair and that when they replace the chin-holder on the eye scope, they may try to reinforce it.
I remember now why I don’t have drugs during childbirth. It’s because of my big mouth. I have no discretion under the influence. The husband said that just as I was leaving, I announced to all-and-sundry that the reason the husband didn’t have this kind of reaction to medication was “due to his extensive history with drugs.”
Reality Bite: Please shoot me! Or just shoot me up again, so I don’t remember.
[1] Grammatically correct here as referring to an inanimate object, except my editor says that in all actuality, if I were talking about an inanimate object, I should use a passive voice, not active—“I was laid down”. Whatever.
[2] I’m weightier than I look. That’s what the ski patrol said when he piggy-backed me to the bottom. Oops, another story for another time.
So I did it! In the first hour, I found light of any kind to be an irritant and the eye-drops tasted bitter. (Trust me, the eyeball’s connected to the tastebud, and the tastebud’s connected to the…) Other than these minor issues, I’ve had no other side-effects, no pain, no burning, and no extra tears.
If it weren’t for my trusty drug reaction, I would have nothing to write about. I don’t remember much of that first night due to drugs. It happens every time. I warned the doctor that it would be better for everyone if I didn’t have the “relaxant.” I do “tense” so much better. The nurse reassured that five milligram tablets weren’t really anything to worry about.
At least that’s what I think she said, by that time I was snoring softly into my chest. She asked the husband to tilt the chair back, hoping to stop the mouth gape and drool. I vaguely remember meandering my way, with a double escort, to the operating table where I laid[1] down with relief, but when they said skooch up to the top, I started giggling.
I was pudding by that time and if they had told me to slosh on up, I might have attempted it. They tape your eyes open and the little machine sucks the eyeball up, which was a good thing because I couldn’t have managed that on my own. My memories end with me staring blankly at the blinking red light.
I slept like a baby from the office to the house; and I don’t recall how I made it in from the car. After about four hours of lying peacefully in a “lovely repose with hands crossed over the chest pose” (and obviously looking more at ease than the husband thought I deserved), I was forcibly awakened.
If I didn’t have to face people again, all would be well. It’s that drunk-at-the-company-party/morning-after that is mortifying. The next day, doctor and nurse were both very circumspect and only casually noted that I had been quite relaxed. The nurse remarked that it’s nice that I’m petite… Me? [2] …that they may replace the swivel stool in post-op with an armchair and that when they replace the chin-holder on the eye scope, they may try to reinforce it.
I remember now why I don’t have drugs during childbirth. It’s because of my big mouth. I have no discretion under the influence. The husband said that just as I was leaving, I announced to all-and-sundry that the reason the husband didn’t have this kind of reaction to medication was “due to his extensive history with drugs.”
Reality Bite: Please shoot me! Or just shoot me up again, so I don’t remember.
[1] Grammatically correct here as referring to an inanimate object, except my editor says that in all actuality, if I were talking about an inanimate object, I should use a passive voice, not active—“I was laid down”. Whatever.
[2] I’m weightier than I look. That’s what the ski patrol said when he piggy-backed me to the bottom. Oops, another story for another time.
Sunday
…an eyeful
Hey, I’m tentatively revising my wholehearted recommendation for eye surgery. I’m thinking that there are downsides that are only just now becoming apparent.
It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.” I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos.
Dear Journal,
Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.
I was legally blind and loving it! Even corrected, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor doesn’t promise perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows.
I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.
Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. There is a whole new world open to me in the bathroom now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed. I lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.
Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky eyedrops and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.
It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.” I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos.
Dear Journal,
Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign. I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.
I was legally blind and loving it! Even corrected, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor doesn’t promise perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows.
I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.
Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. There is a whole new world open to me in the bathroom now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed. I lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.
Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky eyedrops and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.
Monday
…hero-whine
Organization puts the son off his groove. He complains for weeks afterward that someone has been in his stuff and he won’t find anything again, ever! Ah, but I have an ulterior motive. Stay with me while I explain how the supremacy cycle can solve this problem.
“Don’t worry!” I yell as I swoop in, “Out of the Way! I’ll help!” Slipping into a Superhero persona is the only way to really make mental contact with the son. To reach him at his level, I introduce the comic book super villain, Batty Mothre whose arrival follows the comic book formula and creates greater mayhem, destruction and chaos and places the victim in even greater peril.
The son is expecting that, but the second phase of rescue calls for my character to follow the typical storyline and morph from bad to good and become noble and heroic. Again, utilizing the tried and true comic formula, my character then spends the next sixteen pages morphing from good to bad, back to good. I die twice and then I resurrect and rescue the victim from the disaster with my superhuman powers. And amid all of the confusion, I construct a force field that blows everything back to rights and he is ever and most eternally grateful, just like those confused souls in Gotham and this is how the tiny little cycle of supremacy pedals onward.
It’s me again,… the power of ruling the Lego world is similar to being a Super Villain toying with mankind. Aside from the obvious pleasures of wrenching the tiny people from their comfort zones, putting Mr. Motorcycle in Water-ski World, I can relocate entire civilizations. Vikings are quartering with cowboys and knights are swimming with underwater aliens.
At least their heads are. I divest the heads from the bodies and divide them into their own chambers, along with hats, weapons, bodies, and legs.
Help me,
Reality Bite: Be armed and aware… and afraid
“Don’t worry!” I yell as I swoop in, “Out of the Way! I’ll help!” Slipping into a Superhero persona is the only way to really make mental contact with the son. To reach him at his level, I introduce the comic book super villain, Batty Mothre whose arrival follows the comic book formula and creates greater mayhem, destruction and chaos and places the victim in even greater peril.
The son is expecting that, but the second phase of rescue calls for my character to follow the typical storyline and morph from bad to good and become noble and heroic. Again, utilizing the tried and true comic formula, my character then spends the next sixteen pages morphing from good to bad, back to good. I die twice and then I resurrect and rescue the victim from the disaster with my superhuman powers. And amid all of the confusion, I construct a force field that blows everything back to rights and he is ever and most eternally grateful, just like those confused souls in Gotham and this is how the tiny little cycle of supremacy pedals onward.
It’s me again,… the power of ruling the Lego world is similar to being a Super Villain toying with mankind. Aside from the obvious pleasures of wrenching the tiny people from their comfort zones, putting Mr. Motorcycle in Water-ski World, I can relocate entire civilizations. Vikings are quartering with cowboys and knights are swimming with underwater aliens.
At least their heads are. I divest the heads from the bodies and divide them into their own chambers, along with hats, weapons, bodies, and legs.
Help me,
Reality Bite: Be armed and aware… and afraid
Thursday
Frenetic
The frenetic life has somehow become my necessity, not choice. Saturdays and summers were once my own. I swore I would never be a free-wheelie mom, but here I am, dreaming of the compulsory hiatus of a flat tire, or an empty tank.
To: tripupmom
I called Triple A again. They promised at least a half-hour wait. When he came, I was sunning myself on the hood of the car and he complemented my shoes. Sometimes immediate online response is not all it’s cracked up to be. T.
I try to remind myself daily that for now, this is my road.[1] This detour in my life—continual craziness—will pass by too quickly and soon I will be sorry that I didn’t appreciate the view and savor the entire journey.[2] Still, I can’t help wondering how close to the curb I’m cutting and which direction the curve ahead will take.
To: thatsritch@take.out
I sat in traffic today while the children chanted, “We’re late; we’re late. It is our lifelong fate. My Mom is driving. Sorry mate! We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.” I do this joyously, right? T.
Like any rut or pothole, it’s hard to gauge the depth of the depression ahead while skidding toward it pell-mell. Not until I’ve careened through it and turned around to look back at the whole, can I really understand how deeply I was in.
Reality Bite: Maybe oblivion is not such a bad thing after all.
[1] …as my Mom reminds me, lest I forget.
[2] …and therefore there is no sympathy to be had down that avenue.
To: tripupmom
I called Triple A again. They promised at least a half-hour wait. When he came, I was sunning myself on the hood of the car and he complemented my shoes. Sometimes immediate online response is not all it’s cracked up to be. T.
I try to remind myself daily that for now, this is my road.[1] This detour in my life—continual craziness—will pass by too quickly and soon I will be sorry that I didn’t appreciate the view and savor the entire journey.[2] Still, I can’t help wondering how close to the curb I’m cutting and which direction the curve ahead will take.
To: thatsritch@take.out
I sat in traffic today while the children chanted, “We’re late; we’re late. It is our lifelong fate. My Mom is driving. Sorry mate! We’re late, we’re late, we’re late.” I do this joyously, right? T.
Like any rut or pothole, it’s hard to gauge the depth of the depression ahead while skidding toward it pell-mell. Not until I’ve careened through it and turned around to look back at the whole, can I really understand how deeply I was in.
Reality Bite: Maybe oblivion is not such a bad thing after all.
[1] …as my Mom reminds me, lest I forget.
[2] …and therefore there is no sympathy to be had down that avenue.
Wednesday
...seeking moderation
…obsessively average
Dear me,
Beware. A quest for perfection promises lifelong dissatisfaction (along with encouraging compulsive behaviors, like sorting underwear drawers and Legos). Find temperance somewhere. T.
The life of moderation is a difficult and lonely road. It’s hard to glide along being happy about achieving the goal of good enough——to fly on the heels of that anxious stride for excellence.
I find that maintaining a mediocre lifestyle is draining, in part due to the lack of outside reinforcement. I have to fly solo on this as there are no clubs or support groups, no workshops or interventions for the zealously average and I’ve yet to find a pill to assist me in being hopelessly mundane. I have scoured the self-help shelves for books, or even articles on maintaining one’s imperfection, but there’s not one. No author aspires for a Pulitzer in pedestrian, or a Nobel prize for normalcy. There are no red-carpet award shows for the successfully average.
I look for my own average individual to emulate, and just when I think I’ve found it, I get to know her, and realize that she too is striving to be better … and pssffft there goes my vision and my quest goes on.
Dear me,
I’m going to be very disappointed (but curiously relieved) when the person I’ve picked and placed on my pedestal to admire and aspire to be like, trips and falls back to human. And it is particularly discomforting when that person is me.
Once in awhile, I wander over and check out my self-help shelf. If I’ve accumulated more books on striving for perfection than curing myself of it, then I know that once again, it’s time to get real. So in an effort to benefit all mankind, I’ll sacrifice and leave the laundry to mold, the dishes undone, and the bed unmade. I surrender! I’ll take shoes from closets and fling them haphazardly in the doorways to reassure everyone that I’m ordinarily average and absolutely, obsessively imperfect.
Now I just have to explain this to the husband.
Dear me,
Beware. A quest for perfection promises lifelong dissatisfaction (along with encouraging compulsive behaviors, like sorting underwear drawers and Legos). Find temperance somewhere. T.
The life of moderation is a difficult and lonely road. It’s hard to glide along being happy about achieving the goal of good enough——to fly on the heels of that anxious stride for excellence.
I find that maintaining a mediocre lifestyle is draining, in part due to the lack of outside reinforcement. I have to fly solo on this as there are no clubs or support groups, no workshops or interventions for the zealously average and I’ve yet to find a pill to assist me in being hopelessly mundane. I have scoured the self-help shelves for books, or even articles on maintaining one’s imperfection, but there’s not one. No author aspires for a Pulitzer in pedestrian, or a Nobel prize for normalcy. There are no red-carpet award shows for the successfully average.
I look for my own average individual to emulate, and just when I think I’ve found it, I get to know her, and realize that she too is striving to be better … and pssffft there goes my vision and my quest goes on.
Dear me,
I’m going to be very disappointed (but curiously relieved) when the person I’ve picked and placed on my pedestal to admire and aspire to be like, trips and falls back to human. And it is particularly discomforting when that person is me.
Once in awhile, I wander over and check out my self-help shelf. If I’ve accumulated more books on striving for perfection than curing myself of it, then I know that once again, it’s time to get real. So in an effort to benefit all mankind, I’ll sacrifice and leave the laundry to mold, the dishes undone, and the bed unmade. I surrender! I’ll take shoes from closets and fling them haphazardly in the doorways to reassure everyone that I’m ordinarily average and absolutely, obsessively imperfect.
Now I just have to explain this to the husband.
Friday
Quirks and Foible
…notoriety
To me,
The husband is uncomfortable with my detailed revelations of all the family quirks and foibles. I told him not to worry; it’s not his reality, it’s mine and everyone already knows how messed up that is. T.
I write to make me more comfortable with me, and it’s like a nametag—I put it all out there for everyone to see right upfront. I ease the awkwardness of first meetings and help everyone decide well in advance, if they are obligated to make an exchange or do what they can to avoid contact entirely.
I read a recent article, or perhaps not so recent, from a newspaper, or perhaps it was a magazine about a man, or maybe it was a woman who decided to wear a name tag for a year. The article described the life changes brought about by breaking down the barrier of anonymity in society.
The article described what a positive experience it was and the individual decided that the experience was enlightening and that he/she may continue to wear the tag long after the experiment was over.
After this encounter, I was a little dubious about having one’s name front and center, but I see now that there are benefits. Take for example, one of those parties that are frequented by those who go to see and to be seen. For me to be seen, it takes most of a week to search and retrofit the outfit. Trashy to classy is a major overhaul these days and the ensemble had to blend perfectly with what every well-dressed man wears to an evening out, his everyday suit gussied up with a glitzy tie.
We get to the party, the husband and I with our teenage daughter, who has been asked to act as a coat check girl. We are offered nametags at the reception table, but I am ultra cautious as the outfit is decorated with teensy-tinsy beaded flowers on velvet and I worry about pulling the tag off later and leaving a barren rectangle. Rather than being left with no option but to leave the nametag on into perpetuity, I stand and ponder my options.
As I shift the tag from finger to finger, hand to hand, I glance around and notice that the husband and daughter have been greeted by the boss—the big boss and they are quickly ushered over to meet the wife and rub shoulder-to shoulder with the other to-be-seen crowd. I am relieved to see that they are welcomed.
Another wanderer stops beside me. It appears that he has bypassed the nametag table in favor of the open bar. We made small talk over his wine glass while I surreptitiously flap the tag to see if drying it some would weaken the glue’s grip. I again send up the sonar and detect the husband and daughter still with the “In” crowd and looking very convivial. The circle has grown and I can tell the husband is guiding her in formal introductions with his hand at her waist.
I am still trying to decide whether to fold the tag in half or slap it on when another couple completes their nametag drama and steps toward me. I’m relieved that it’s someone I know because I realize that the wine man is shortly going to introduce himself and it will be necessary for me to free a hand. I decide to stick the tag on, but then I am stumped by another quandary, left or right. I know the article stated explicitly which, based on hand-shaking procedure, but I can’t remember.
The other couple greet us by first name and it’s apparent that they are familiar with wine man as pleasantries are exchanged. He’s fine, the children are fine, the night is fine, and as the conversation dwindles, the wine man glances around and then comments, “Wow, look at what Dave brought with him! Is that his new wife?
The couple and I glance in the direction to which he is goggling and as the couple’s eyes take in the group, their eyes flash back to meet mine as his next words, “Wow, he’s traded up!” cause their stunned mouths to drop.
I am obligated to respond with, “That is Dave’s daughter and last I checked, I’m still his wife,” and I slap the name tag to my chest definitively.
Reality Bite: The latest psycho-survey says that adults laugh as a response to fear… fear that a situation may happen to them. This book should be hilarious!
[1] The daughter reminds me, “like Stalin.”
To me,
The husband is uncomfortable with my detailed revelations of all the family quirks and foibles. I told him not to worry; it’s not his reality, it’s mine and everyone already knows how messed up that is. T.
I write to make me more comfortable with me, and it’s like a nametag—I put it all out there for everyone to see right upfront. I ease the awkwardness of first meetings and help everyone decide well in advance, if they are obligated to make an exchange or do what they can to avoid contact entirely.I read a recent article, or perhaps not so recent, from a newspaper, or perhaps it was a magazine about a man, or maybe it was a woman who decided to wear a name tag for a year. The article described the life changes brought about by breaking down the barrier of anonymity in society.
The article described what a positive experience it was and the individual decided that the experience was enlightening and that he/she may continue to wear the tag long after the experiment was over.
After this encounter, I was a little dubious about having one’s name front and center, but I see now that there are benefits. Take for example, one of those parties that are frequented by those who go to see and to be seen. For me to be seen, it takes most of a week to search and retrofit the outfit. Trashy to classy is a major overhaul these days and the ensemble had to blend perfectly with what every well-dressed man wears to an evening out, his everyday suit gussied up with a glitzy tie.
We get to the party, the husband and I with our teenage daughter, who has been asked to act as a coat check girl. We are offered nametags at the reception table, but I am ultra cautious as the outfit is decorated with teensy-tinsy beaded flowers on velvet and I worry about pulling the tag off later and leaving a barren rectangle. Rather than being left with no option but to leave the nametag on into perpetuity, I stand and ponder my options.
As I shift the tag from finger to finger, hand to hand, I glance around and notice that the husband and daughter have been greeted by the boss—the big boss and they are quickly ushered over to meet the wife and rub shoulder-to shoulder with the other to-be-seen crowd. I am relieved to see that they are welcomed.
Another wanderer stops beside me. It appears that he has bypassed the nametag table in favor of the open bar. We made small talk over his wine glass while I surreptitiously flap the tag to see if drying it some would weaken the glue’s grip. I again send up the sonar and detect the husband and daughter still with the “In” crowd and looking very convivial. The circle has grown and I can tell the husband is guiding her in formal introductions with his hand at her waist.
I am still trying to decide whether to fold the tag in half or slap it on when another couple completes their nametag drama and steps toward me. I’m relieved that it’s someone I know because I realize that the wine man is shortly going to introduce himself and it will be necessary for me to free a hand. I decide to stick the tag on, but then I am stumped by another quandary, left or right. I know the article stated explicitly which, based on hand-shaking procedure, but I can’t remember.
The other couple greet us by first name and it’s apparent that they are familiar with wine man as pleasantries are exchanged. He’s fine, the children are fine, the night is fine, and as the conversation dwindles, the wine man glances around and then comments, “Wow, look at what Dave brought with him! Is that his new wife?
The couple and I glance in the direction to which he is goggling and as the couple’s eyes take in the group, their eyes flash back to meet mine as his next words, “Wow, he’s traded up!” cause their stunned mouths to drop.
I am obligated to respond with, “That is Dave’s daughter and last I checked, I’m still his wife,” and I slap the name tag to my chest definitively.
Reality Bite: The latest psycho-survey says that adults laugh as a response to fear… fear that a situation may happen to them. This book should be hilarious!
[1] The daughter reminds me, “like Stalin.”
Wednesday
Valentine Sonata
Valentine Sonata '96
I spent the day in paper chaos
searching for the perfect card.
Striving for that phrase immortal
to impress you like the Bard.
A wealth of thought -- oh poems replete
some so sincere, some sickening sweet.
Of all the prose, none sparked the light
so not appropriate. Some lied outright!
My mind just tumbled o're with verses
Roses Are Red, or I Love You Because,
But nothing seemed to fit you perfect;
One so unique--it grants me pause.
You make my life just so complete
You’re one of a kind. Uniquely unique!
I should not, could not, have expected to find
A card to express what’s on my mind.
It seemed so hopeless. I felt despair.
At once I thought, “Get underwear!”
I rebuked myself, “Concede defeat?”
Not me! You know, I’ve such conceit!
A thought then struck. “A poem attempt.
I’ll write and express what’s evident!”
True poets don’t bother with rhyme or rhythm.
They say what they feel, and take criticism.
The truth be known it’s harder to rhyme
To send a message so sublime.
And yet, the true poem--it’s been defiled.
You’ll have to make do with an Oscar Wilde.
As I struggled and suffered to make the lines rhyme,
I was suddenly and rudely reminded, “The time!”
The children were starved. Dr. Seuss had just ended.
The dinner uncooked, the laundry resplendent.
The moment was lost, could not be recaptured.
My desolation complete. You would not be enraptured.
When suddenly, wonderfully, it came so inspired!
Personally, to angels, my life must be wired.
A revelation! An answer! A thought so sincere!
I’ll just resurrect the card you gave me from last year!
I spent the day in paper chaos
searching for the perfect card.
Striving for that phrase immortal
to impress you like the Bard.
A wealth of thought -- oh poems replete
some so sincere, some sickening sweet.
Of all the prose, none sparked the light
so not appropriate. Some lied outright!
My mind just tumbled o're with verses
Roses Are Red, or I Love You Because,
But nothing seemed to fit you perfect;
One so unique--it grants me pause.
You make my life just so complete
You’re one of a kind. Uniquely unique!
I should not, could not, have expected to find
A card to express what’s on my mind.
It seemed so hopeless. I felt despair.
At once I thought, “Get underwear!”
I rebuked myself, “Concede defeat?”
Not me! You know, I’ve such conceit!
A thought then struck. “A poem attempt.
I’ll write and express what’s evident!”
True poets don’t bother with rhyme or rhythm.
They say what they feel, and take criticism.
The truth be known it’s harder to rhyme
To send a message so sublime.
And yet, the true poem--it’s been defiled.
You’ll have to make do with an Oscar Wilde.
As I struggled and suffered to make the lines rhyme,
I was suddenly and rudely reminded, “The time!”
The children were starved. Dr. Seuss had just ended.
The dinner uncooked, the laundry resplendent.
The moment was lost, could not be recaptured.
My desolation complete. You would not be enraptured.
When suddenly, wonderfully, it came so inspired!
Personally, to angels, my life must be wired.
A revelation! An answer! A thought so sincere!
I’ll just resurrect the card you gave me from last year!
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