My cretinous computer calendar beeps at midnight. “Congratulations, A New Day Dawns in Scheduled Bliss.”
The children have abandoned me, retired to bed and left me to the whim of their homework specters. I nod off on the desktop, but I am rousted out bright and early at 4:45 by the CCC’s infernal beeping that flashes “Welcome to a Structured Morning.”
I stumble to the bathroom and try to wash off the woodgrain texture imbedded in my face while I perform the early-morning revile, begin breakfast and review the final draft of the essays, only to be told by the daughter (usually up and dressed by 5:00) that she is going back to bed until 6:30. Yeah! I can fix lunches in relative peace!
Beep! “A Happy and Organized Morning to You.” It’s now 7:00 a.m. the screen-filled message interrupts and impedes the eldest daughter as she coaxes the computer to finish editing, emailing and printing the not-grounded-in-any-reality-I-know-of attitude essay. Her school bus cruises past just as she coerces the computer to print.
The elder son has cajoled the ancient computer to edit his own rough draft and print it after a knock -down-drag-out, winner-take-all clash, but if I take the daughter to school, that means the elder son must wake the younger son and the two of them must be dressed, fed and ready when I return. That’s really pushing the envelope, but I haven’t had to ask for a miracle yet this day. And I’m due.
I feel the pressure increase as I wait in a traffic jam, and listen to a news report about some nuts idea of a new bridge that will add even more cars to the sandwiched morning mess on this street. We'll never make it in time and I abandon plan one, and by the seat-of-my-pants improvise plan two.
The daughter calls home and explains the newly revised plan to her brothers. I successfully wing it without the input of any cursed computer curmudgeon, and I wonder if the captious calamity creator could have pulled this one out of its hat?
The revised plan requires sacrifice and involves the eldest forfeiting his seat in the school carpool to oversee the youngest and that means that Mom will have to make a special trip to drive the eldest to school, and the youngest will be forced to accompany us, so strip him from the tub, dry him off and cram a toasted pastry into his hand; I'll pick you up in the driveway and we're off!
That's Life, frantic and fruitful. I'm home now, alone and heaving a sigh. Sitting in front of the computer typing and trying to find any excuse to ignore the intrusive blinking interruption insisting that, “This is the Moment, This is the Day.” And I remember that I really should be sewing the capes for the Jeykle and Hyde production.
I could always go upstairs and add another layer of mud to the never-ending art project previously known as the son’s bedroom... let me enter it into the computer and see what it thinks.
Reality Bite: Moms, not computers know best how to harness chaos.
Thursday
Monday
…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 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.
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.
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
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