Quantity vs. Quality

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I’m stealing a few moments to compose this post… Why, you ask? Because I absolutely lost track of the days this week! I know, right? Not that anything in particular has been happening…  Trust me when I say nothing special – absotively, posilutely, N.O.T.H.I.N.G.   S.P.E.C.I.A.L. – has been going on this week; one beige-tinted day bleeding into the next… With that, I’ve just lost track of which boring-blah, “do I really have to do this again?!” day it was, and missed my typical Wednesday evening post…

I am proud to report my son’s face still sports some pretty spiffy stubble, for those with super-sharp vision! He complains about it every other day, as he rubs his hand across his chin. I just chuckle and urge him to carry on the brave fight! I think for his birthday – well, more an early birthday gift – I’ll get him a nice set of blades and a razor handle, from one of those mail order men’s shave vendors. I think he’ll enjoy that; it’ll appear much more “manly” than the, umm, planetary-named blade of blush tone he currently has resting on the sink in his bathroom…

I, on the other hand, have come to the conclusion that attempting to rush from a 40,000-plus word-count, 8-week semester in school that ended in late October right into NaNoWriMo was definitely ill-fated, at minimum. Both the excruciating physical pain in my hand due to arthritis in my lower thumb joint coupled with the emotional stress of pushing – nay, bullying – myself into such an undertaking has left me feeling even more drained, and with that, the fibro flares and tumor headaches have become more frequent instead of the exact opposite – enjoying the idea of not being in school right now, relaxing, taking in all the life has to offer, spending time with friends and family, and foregoing the stress of a rigid non-work-related schedule. It is apparent that I needed more than 10 days to recuperate from the school term, and I didn’t allow myself that time.

On the bright side, I did come up with a new story line, and I will pursue it! If everything works out well, I will actually COMPLETE this project! (I do go to bed every night thinking up both dialog and scene progression, so that’s good!) I just won’t continue to force myself to meet some unattainable – unattainable for me, anyway, and at this particular juncture in my life, extremely unrealistic – timeline for the sake of what, saying “I did it”? I’d rather say “I did it!” when I know saying so will go hand-in-hand with presenting something worth reading, and won’t land my toosh in a hospital bed!

Here’s to growing wise in my old age, and appreciating the difference between quantity and quality.

Anything You Can Do…

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So, the Goose Egg has been sufficiently cracked, liberally scrambled and riotously consumed!

What on earth am I referring to?

NaNoWriMo… (see my previous blog post, “November“)

My previous attempts (five or so years ago, and thus far this year) have produced nothing more than flamboyant nullity with regards to word count.

However, I am happy to report, I have finally shaken off the cloak of Anxiety – I still may have a shawl on, just for familiarity and comfort, but I’m definitely not allowing Anxiety and Fear to smother me anymore – and I’ve started this new tale!

I’m only 800 words into it, but I’ve also only had the opportunity to invest about 4 hours, including a smidge of research, so I’m feeling good! Besides, 800 words is better than what I had 5 hours ago!

I want to thank my son for motivating me, even though he’s completely oblivious to the fact that he’s the reason I’m writing again! (Last night, as we drove to the ballot drop box, I told him about the “November” blog post and how he was definitely outpacing me in his November challenge. He asked what the story line was for my latest project, and I explained the bare bones of it; he didn’t tune me out, which I took as a sign that it wasn’t a complete bore.) Because he has so bravely (translation: reluctantly) refrained from excavating his meager whiskers from his chin and upper lip, I felt it only fair that I open my laptop and at least attempt to write a paragraph or two… Hopefully the remainder of the week will see the multiplication of this miniscule word count into an explosion of literary greatness!

 

A tidbit for your entertainment:

Ennie had known nothing but urban living. She was raised in a traditional suburb with its tract homes, four-way stops, carefully manicured front yards, driveways with basketball hoops, and sidewalks dotted with tricycles, skateboards, and discarded baseball mitts, miles from the skyscrapers of the downtown jungle, but near enough that light pollution made wishing on evening stars merely a Hollywood movie set ploy.  She had skipped along those tree-lined avenues with girlfriends on her way to and from elementary and middle school, and learned to drive her father’s old pickup truck in the large parking lot behind the neighborhood shopping mall, early on Saturday mornings before the six-screen theatre opened its doors, flooding the perimeter with the intoxicating aroma of fresh popcorn, ready to tantalize the rush of moviegoers and hold them captive with a lightshow larger than life. Longtime residents watched the pudgy, freckle-faced tomboy graduate from tearing up her mother’s rose garden in search of worms and isopods, holding them captive in glass jars, to a daredevil strapped atop a pair of roller skates, blazing down the east hill with reckless abandon, and absolutely no concern for cross traffic or the consequences of bodily harm. The younger kids in the neighborhood had the pleasure of her company in the absence of their parents, as she swiftly became the neighborhood’s most reliable and trusted babysitter. She introduced different genres of music to the children she had the opportunity to interact with, as she always had some song lifting her spirit, causing her to dance and twirl. She also took the time to teach some of the kids that wanted to learn – and even some who begrudgingly protested but peered over folded arms and past furrowed brows – different skills, including cooking and baking, photography, crocheting and embroidery, and even took the time to write stories with those select families she watched on a regular basis.  Fingernails and toenails were often of differing colors, and she gladly shared her flare for the eclectic with anyone who asked – or asked mom and dad’s permission. Her smile was more of a city trademark than the city’s seal itself, and Ennie made it her personal mission to greet as many individuals a day with a gracious smile and a joyous “hello”.

November

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Two note-worthy events happen during the month of November: “Movember” and “NaNoWriMo”. For those that unfamiliar with these events, allow me to introduce you to them.

Movember – when gentlemen forgo the ritual of shaving their facial hair and instead “grow a mo’” – mustache – to both bring awareness to, and, hopefully, commit to raising donations that benefit men’s health (which include prostate and testicular cancer and suicide prevention) by participating as a “walking, talking billboard in honor of men’s health” during the entire month and joining in or hosting fund-raising run/walks or other events.

NaNoWriMo – according to their website (www.nanowrimo.org), this event is for anyone who has ever aspired to writing a novel – which I’m sure is a passion most here have either dealt with , are dealing with, or don’t want to admit to, for fear of awakening a beast too rebellious to contain… The goal of NaNoWriMo (for those not “in the know” stands for National Novel Writing Month) is to complete a 50,000-word novel, written between November 1st and 11:59 PM November 30th.

 

 

Okay, now that we’ve all become properly acquainted, let’s move forward, shall we?

 

 

My young son asked me the other day if I had ever heard of “Movember” or “No Shave November”, to which I informed him I had, indeed, heard of it, and understood it to be in place to help bring awareness to men’s health (as it is, indeed)… We briefly discussed the topic, and I jokingly urged him to participate. Now, of course, I don’t know that he’ll be able to actively raise any funds for the cause; however, I’ve been wanting to see what type of facial carpet he could attain if he would just step away from the razor blade for a little while! He’s still so young – I forget sometimes that he shaves, he’s that young – and most of his facial hair comes in tawny-colored so it blends in with his complexion. However, ever since the first time he put the blade to his face and removed the three or four hairs that took residence between his nose and top lip, he’s been obsessed with the smooth skin feeling – stubble of any sort drives him bonkers!

And then there’s me… (Oh, I could almost hear the collective sigh from the universe…) I’ve wanted to complete a novel for SSSOOOOOOO long, it’s nearly pathetic at this stage – almost like that sweet four-year-old girl who, when asked what she wants to be when she grows up, replies “a mermaid!” and you just don’t have the heart to tell her it’s well, out of this world, never going to happen in a million, billion, trillion years, simply impossible… Well, yeah, that’s me. I want to be a novelist – or for goodness’ sake, simply a writer by trade! – however, it’s beginning to seem like an impossible achievement. Alas, I still (figuratively lay my head down and) dream! I know writing is something I can do, when tasked – I’ve been a student on several occasions, and have therefore been tasked with numerous written requirements. Thousands upon thousands of words, carefully chosen and with the precision of a craftsman, delicately positioned to convey and entertain, educate and persuade the reader while demonstrating a knowledge and understanding, a passion and compassion, not only for the subject matter, but also for the art form of writing itself. I know that I can write… So, why is it that my mermaid’s tail remains an impossibility?

As of the composition of this post, 1/6th of the month has come and gone. Kudos to my son, who has resisted the urge to shave – not that you can tell by looking at him, but he claims there are whiskers there that are driving him mad, and the sheer unevenness of his mustache stubble is simply unruly (ooooookay, if you say so…). As for me, surprisingly, over the past 24 or 36 hours (I don’t know when it all started, truly, and it really doesn’t make that much difference in the long run!) I began crafting a brand new story line, with twists and turns, surprises and secrets I had never envisioned before! Although I have two in-process works that constantly tug at those guilt strings, desperate to inch forward in progress, remorsefully staring at me like malnourished pups begging table-side, I thought a new creative path might stir up the desire for exploration and journey. Thus far, as fate would have it, my word count toward the famed 50k NaNoWriMo word count is sitting at a nice, symmetrical goose egg.

I can’t begin to explain the anxiety! Even writing about writing causes anxiety! Why? The fear of the unknown – what if writing something brilliant actually leads to the fulfillment of a dream? What then?? I wouldn’t know what to do with myself! And would I be able to replicate such a feat? I mean, really, C.S. Lewis, Ray Bradbury, Hemingway, Stephen King, J.K. Rowling – whomever you fancy! – they were, and are, blessed with abundant talent that surpasses any general conception of talent! And until one can earn enough through writing – which is a feat in itself – there’s the drain on time and energy of the dreaded “day job” (which right now, is my total “Stockholm Syndrome” – but more on that later!)… If I were to tell you that in writing this blog post alone, I’ve stopped and walked away from it on three separate occasions, you’d think me mad! (Okay, so I guess I just admitted to it anyway, and you’re free to think whatever you want – it doesn’t change the facts…) In the interim, I’ve cleaned my kitchen, washed the dishes, made popcorn – because, hey, whole grains, right? – and almost purchased a new desk for my son, all to avoid the thought of finishing this blog post and maybe, possibly being faced with the anxiety-inducing thought of starting my NaNoWriMo manuscript… Agh!

Dang it! If my son can persevere despite the savage tortures of microscopic uneven and unruly mustache stubble, I should be able to boldly face the blinding white of the blank computer screen and toss a few unassuming lines of dialogue and understory much like Bob Ross with his simplistic “even if you’ve never painted before, this one you can do” brush strokes and, voila, just like those famed ‘happy trees’, my story would just miraculously unfold upon the canvas!

Wish me luck!

 

 

“The secret to doing anything is believing that you can do it. Anything that you believe you can do strong enough, you can do. Anything. As long as you believe.” – Bob Ross, from “The Joy of Painting”

Heart of Gold

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He said humbly, “I’m sure jealousy had a bit to do with my attitude tonight…”

What fourteen-year-old thinks this way?

Okay, first, I have to get this out of the way before I have a whole battalion of Grammar Police knocking at my wee little Blog-dom door front: in a “perfect world”, he should have said ‘envy’ and not ‘jealousy’ – as there is a striking difference in the two terms, one being a fear of losing one’s position or situation to someone else, especially in an intimate relationship whereas the other implies the feeling of wanting what someone else has – and I understood what he meant, which was the important part! So, now, moving on…

What fourteen-year-old has the wherewithal and groundedness, the sheer levelheadedness, to understand and realize his behavior and motivation came not from anger, or sadness, or any other random combination of fatigue and cold pizza indigestion, but in fact from envy? He wasn’t rude about it – to his friends, or to me; he just stated it plainly, and quite humbly. This wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned this growing trend within his close-knit group of friends; however, I could hear – nay, I could feel – the heaviness of his heart as he spoke solemnly during the brief drive home.

First, there was the Homecoming Dance itself. He looked very sharp! (I know, as ‘mom’, my opinion is quite biased; however, he DID look very handsome!) Towering at nearly 6-foot-tall, decked out in slim-fitting dark grey slacks, a crisp white shirt with French cuffs, a black suede vest with antiqued silver pocket watch, and a black neck tie with gold, silver and bronze accents, not to mention bleached blonde shoulder-length tresses and a genuinely sincere smile, it was hard to say he was anything BUT eye-catching! As fate would have it, though, he was ‘the seventh wheel’, and “melancholy” was the overarching mood of the evening… Apparently his three buddies paired off with the three accompanying young ladies (two couples were already well-established, and one couple just decided to start their dating relationship days prior to the dance), supplanting my son along the dance’s outer perimeter, solo, as they meandered in differing directions. Oh yes, the proverbial “Wall Flower”; that was my boy… (In my not-so-subtle and humorous way, I reminded him that he was a tall, bright, beautiful sunflower and not just some measly lil’ garden variety wall flower – I’m not sure that it helped overall, but he did smile for a brief moment…)

The following weekend, after a friend’s birthday party, on the drive home, he mentioned to me, “You know Mom, I’m the only one of my friends that’s not part of a couple… I’m the only one that doesn’t have a girlfriend or boyfriend…”

::sigh::

“…distractions…” was all I could think to tell him… “All they are right now, honey, are distractions…”

“I know, Mom; but, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be distracted from time to time…”

                    Gaw! Who raised this kid?! He’s too smart for his own good!

          And what hurts me the most?? I know his pain! I long for the same “distraction”… I long for the feeling of knowing that someone, somewhere is distracted, thinking of me… I long for that companionship that’s been missing in my life for so many years…

          How could I tell him honestly that it’s wrong to not yearn for that type of friendship, companionship, when my heart cries out for it too?

I just drew in a slow, deep breath, smiled a mom’s loving smile and told him: “Honey, the day’s going to come when these girls are going to figure out how wonderful you truly are, and good laurdy, you’re gonna have to beat them away with a stick! They’ll be lined up around the block! I kid you not, Hon! You have a heart of GOLD, and I’ve been sayin’ that for YEARS! Being in a relationship for the sake of being in a relationship isn’t good – and you know that! It’ll lead to hurt feelings and bitterness – for both of you! Better that the two of you find each other and the relationship be built on a solid foundation. Give it time, honey! Don’t “settle”. Don’t try to be like everyone else – you’re not everyone else! Just be you and it’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen – remember: it’s all in the details; details matter! I have faith it won’t be long! You’re quite a catch, and I KNOW your heart is true!”

I know he heard some of it, and some of it he chalked up to “mom-talk”. But I’ve never wavered from telling him that’s he’s got a good, true heart, and that “details matter!” He knows that…

This past weekend, after trying to endure an evening watching some friends, umm, “over display” their affection for one another while at a group event, his admission of being envious showed his maturity – he wasn’t angry with them, or bitter; he knew he was envious. But, at the same time, he was able to poke fun at the situation (suggesting that next time, he arm himself with a spray bottle and use it as one would when training cats to stay off the counter tops, or to trigger a “cooling down” session between the two ‘lovebirds’ while in public), and carry on with life.

I hope he gets the opportunity to show his genuine kindness, respect, humor, and wittiness in the days, weeks, and months to come. He’s somewhat introverted, which makes finding “love” difficult; however, stranger things have happened! Besides, he’s still young, still very handsome, and still completely loved by his mom!

(…as for his mom’s chances of finding love – good laurdy!)

am i merely beige?

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Have you ever felt like you’ve been given a 120-count box of crayons and a beautiful coloring book full of intricate, scenic pictures, and for some reason you haphazardly yet thoroughly scribble over each and every page with the same beige stick of wax?

I thought I entertained a talent. I thought I possessed a gift. But lately, all I notice is a hole in my heart – a dark space, a void, where once there was a spark. It became a passion – a drive – early in my life. Some may even equate it to a drug; it offered a way for me to experience a high. The rush of adrenaline and the euphoria of tactile “creation” were unmatched. It ushered me into another realm from which I could escape whatever sinister chiasms of reality threatened to devour my spirit. I became quite dependent on the tantalizing notion of being able to bend reality to suit my mood. However, the unwavering tick of the clock proved not as forgiving, and I had to slink away, nary a moment to sip from the pool of cathartic verbiage to poetize.

Desperate for tangible evidences of creativity, I found less potent “soul-narcotics”, and began spinning yarns (literally, yarn projects – crocheting, knitting, anything to experience “creation” again). But alas, days dripped into weeks, which poured into months, which flooded into years, cascading to this, my breaking point, where I can no longer deny this overwhelming desire to dive – full-body, wholeheartedly – back into the throes of addiction; to once again toil over the expression of hopes and desires and to feel the exhilaration of exquisitely executed alliteration. Of course, breaking free of my captor, Monsieur Obligatoire, was no easy task; the complete success of my escape still remains to be seen. Until I am dragged, kicking and screaming, back to the dungeon of dreary academia expository dribble, I will satiate my lust for imagination activity by hacking away at long-slumbering story lines and plodding plot schemes in hopes of developing some delectable morsels adequate and suitable for consumption.

Forlornly, I long for the days of effortless prose, uninhibited wanderings of whimsy and intriguing exploration beyond the concrete and gray… Is there a way back to the garden? Is there a way back along the dry and unforgiving path to where the thick twisted tree branches bow and sway under the weight of vibrant song-filled fantastical birds and the yellow-pink air, swirling sweet with fruit and fresh rain? Will I again triumphantly return and know the joy of simple and profound inspiration, nestled peacefully between passion’s flame and the tangible side of imagination? That is my hope.

Managing to hike up through the brambles and weeds, over the rocky, worn path, and past the dilapidated fencing, I stand before the rather large, somewhat intimidating door… Without preparation, without thorough planning, without unabashed confidence, I now seem to lack the strength – more precisely, the courage – to push beyond the barrier; truth be told, I can’t even bring myself to humbly knock and beg passage. Trying with all that is left within me to muster up the fortitude and resume my journey despite the dark raging storms, the tempests of deepest doubt and the gusts of insecurity that berate my spirit, I dig my heel into the sandy soil, draw a breath from my right pinky toe, exhale with the exuberance of a teenager at the dentist’s office, and forge on.

Prelude to “The Kiss”

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“Mom, can you believe some people’s luck?” he began with such exasperation. “I’m so jealous!”

Okay, before we get any further with this, allow me to roll this story back about five months, to the middle of May 2016, and the start of summer semester in school – human resources management.

               Relevance, you ask? Hold on, I’m getting there!

So, while digging deeper into the required assignments, and doing research to help construct the foundation of my mock HR policy manual, I happened across a wonderful piece of, well let’s just call it “literature” for the sake of tidiness. It was a pilfered, several-years-old handbook for new employees, chock-full of unconventional tips for the corporate newbie, offering a hand to help guide said-tenderfoot through the maze of job assignments, coffee pot etiquette, and even how to not to freak out about the availability of dartboards and massage tables, but to get suspicious in the event of catered lunches with caviar… I know, I started thinking to myself: how do I land a job at THIS place? Dartboards and massages? Yes, please!

Here’s where things start to get interesting…

Reading further, I start to realize what type of company this is – I was genuinely unfamiliar with the organization’s name because the line of work they’re involved in is just not up my alley. However…

“Son, have you ever heard of XYZ Company?” I asked of my youngest, not sure what type of response to expect. His dead-pan expression made it seem as if I had asked him if he had ever heard of a big gaseous ball in the outer reaches of space, bursting forth with an unsurpassed brightness, often referred to as THE SUN. He went on – in small words, so that I was sure to understand the extent of my error and simple-mindedness – to explain the vastness of this company’s reach in their field of expertise. I flipped my laptop around to show him the, umm, illustrations (reminiscent of the Dick and Jane series fame, circa 1930s), and for hours, he and I discussed this XYZ Company in great detail. It was a wonderful bonding moment for us –bringing together one of his passions alongside one of my school obligations, and cemented the idea that education isn’t necessarily droll. The highlight: finding out that XYZ Company resided in our own backyard! At that point, my son decided he wanted to gear his upcoming studies toward nearing his feet to their front door. Goals are a good thing!

So, fast forward back to Saturday afternoon…

No! Wait, not that far! (No, no – hear me out! If I skip this bit, nothing will make sense, trust me!!)

So, THURSDAY, at work, one of my clients sends over some last minute documentation for filing; I make a quick comment to him about something I notice regarding, yep, XYZ Company, and he says “Oh yeah! Did some this-and-that for them; great bunch of folks!” I throw in a “my son would be so jealous” comment, mentioning it’s his aspiration to work there in the future, and get hit with a “my friend so-and-so works there full-time, how about I see if he can hook you guys up with a tour?” Umm, yes, please! Emails start flying Thursday, and by the end of day on Friday, I’m in touch with “the friend” at XYZ Company, who’s helping to secure my nomination for “Mom of the Year” award! Get this: I’m asked if we’d prefer being put on the list for the ‘group tour’, or if we’d rather just tag alongside “the friend” on a personal exploration… Seriously?! I can’t breathe!! And I can’t tell my son; I’m keeping this a secret!

Okay – NOW on to Saturday!

Completely – and I do mean completely!! – out the blue, he’s talking about how he’s jealous of his buddy, and I’m clamoring to find out why. (He doesn’t seem to be “upset” in this jealous rage; it’s more of an exuberant jealousy, which I’m guessing is a good thing…) As the story goes, his friend has posted pictures he took – wait for it!!! – while. on. a. tour. of. XYZ Company headquarters! Really?? I had to know: a group tour?? How did he score a deal like THAT?? My son didn’t have the answers, and based on the dates the pictures were originally uploaded to his social media page, the tour was over two years ago. Still, it was genuinely something to be excited about. Me? I felt as if an elephant was standing on my chest as I tried to share in my son’s covetousness, full-knowing what adventures lay just around the corner!

I wanted to say something! Oh, it took everything within me to keep that secret bottled up; to not blow my cork and say something foreshadowing like “just wait a week” or “you’re a pretty lucky kid, too, you know?” Oooohhhh! The suspense, people!

 

          (side bar: this will actually be the THIRD ‘big-reveal’ secret I’ve been involved with this year – first, flying down with my two children to surprise my mother for her birthday/Mother’s Day; second, flying my mother and one of my nephews up to my area and surprising my daughter on her birthday by having her Grandma at her birthday dinner; and now, this! I KNOW what I want the next surprise to be; the details just haven’t panned out yet…)

 

It’s Tuesday, and this spectacular event is slated to take place on Thursday. I’m hoping my heart can hold out for two more days!

…Giddy… can’t breathe!

Dress the Part

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Conversations aren’t always the easiest to strike up.

          Well, that’s not true! According to my youngest child, I have a knack for chatting up fellow patrons  in the line at the grocery store waiting to pay for their produce, fishing for unbiased feedback from strangers outside the changing rooms while hunting through second-hand haute couture, even alleviating awkward silences on the elevator while scaling urban high rises. But, when it REALLY matters…

My youngest child is at a new school this year, and is experiencing all the thrills that go with the territory: new teachers, new schedules, and a new terrain to navigate in record time each day. He’s not the only new face on campus, though – there’s an entire grade-level worth of “newcomers”: the 2016-2017 high school freshmen class! These individuals, stuck between adolescence and adulthood, trying to fumble and flail their way through the muddied waters of senior high school – no long the “upper classmen” of middle school, tight-knit and secure in their relative proximity to one another as ‘a pack’. Now, scattered across countless acres of mundane, mud-colored buildings, corridors humming with pounding feet and the crashing of exhausted metal locker doors barely clinging to their hinges and a veritable menagerie of shapes, heights, hair colors, widths, eye colors, voices, talents, laughters, snarls, social cliques and antisocial exiles representing all corners of the city, county, school district, and outer banks of consciousness possible. Tough enough task just to make it through each day during that first month. But that’s not enough for the soul-crushing monster that is High School…

 

Must. Inflict. More. Emotional. Scarring. Through. Social. Awkwardness.

 

          Is it just me, or in retrospect, does that seem like the general mission statement of high school?

Two weeks in, and all of a sudden, there’s a social function that requires focused CONVERSATION. The Homecoming Dance. It’s become so much more than what it was when I was in high school – back before the fall of the Berlin Wall and fashion-forward Swatch watches. Now, it’s pre-sale tickets, suits, ties, evening gowns, pre-dance dinners – it’s pre-Prom, for all grade levels! But what do you do when you only know 6 people on campus – those six friends you had in Middle school, four of which are guys you band together with to terrorize online gaming servers and blast everything into oblivion by way of Steam-enabled games? Sure, talking with the person sitting next to you in Geometry or Video Tech class is easy if it’s just random chit-chat about classroom subject matter; however, when there’s a calculated risk underpinning a seemingly innocuous dialogue, casual and light-hearted antics give way to fear, anxiety, and trepidation. Compounding on the perceived pressures of unplanned conversations with a relative stranger, add to the mix the innate cloddish and provincial mannerisms of life as a teenager in general, with untimely voice cracks and unanticipated brain drain, how could it even be conceivable to drum up the courage to talk with a fellow classmate? The list of unknowns is far too overwhelming! I haven’t even mentioned the earth-shattering concept of (gasp!) rejection… (dun-dun-duuuuuun!)

 

Enter ‘Spirit Week’ dream concept: “Traffic Light Dress Code Day”.

 

Okay, picture this – there are those whose lives are truly uncomplicated; they know their path. Class schedules are always without a hitch, friends all live within shouting distance of their front porch, their dog and cat are snuggle buddies, and their bathtub never drains slowly. And questions about a date for the Homecoming Dance? Pish! That’s a no-brainer. Then there are those who wrestle with details: did ‘So-and-So’ get a parent’s approval? Does ‘Whos-a-Whats-It” have transportation? Maybe there’s a relationship that’s as predictable as a bee’s flight pattern during a wind storm, and it’s anybody’s guess until the 11th Hour… Lastly, there are those who are totally open to the idea of unpretentiously parading into the dance with a partying partner but who lack the “partnering” skills…

Red.      Yellow.      Green.

For one day during ‘Spirit Week’ (the week leading up to the Homecoming football game, and Homecoming Dance, where students are encouraged to partake in activities that show their ‘school spirit’), individuals dress in the color that corresponds to their dance-date situation. If your dance-floor moves are spoken for, then red’s your color. If ‘it’s complicated’ for any given reason, dress the color of sunshine. “Green light” indicates you’re open and available!

As I was describing this to a family member, the reaction was mixed. Direct quote: “The color thing almost sounds humiliating. Like, look at me, I’m single. No?” I went on to explain that participation was merely BY CHOICE, and in my humble opinion, I thought the concept was inspired! This was my interpretation of the theory:

If you’re too shy to ask someone for fear of rejection, or you’re not sure if they’re going with someone already, you’re reluctant to ask. However, if you see them wearing green – or, on the flip side, if they see you wearing green! – it opens the opportunity for conversations that otherwise might not have taken place. At fourteen, are they really going to be ‘humiliated’ about their singleness? (please, please, PLEASE, I need to hear a resounding “no!”)

Besides, it’s not really a “look at me, I’m humiliatingly single”, but more of a “look at me, I have the potential of being your new best friend – because apparently I’m gusty enough to play along and I’m honest with people”!

Family member’s response (direct quote again): “Ok. That perspective makes sense.”

 

…for the record, my son wore green pants AND a long sleeve green shirt… I haven’t heard if it started any conversations, though…

On. Fire.

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This girl is ON. FIRE.

Before you start waving disproportionately large foam fingers and flapping poster-board banners amid chants and cheers in rousing support, let me drizzle a damper on your enthusiasm… I know, right – nobody’s questioning anymore why I’m at home, writing a blog on the weekends and not out hooping and hollering and creating a general ferfuffle of mayhem with a group of scantily-clad lady-friends, tipping our frou-frou drinks as we climb up on tables to dance and sing and… Ah, who am I kidding? I’m not even sure I watch movies where the main characters do that! Anyway, back to the “fire” and “extinguisher”…

Last week, I hit mid-point in my classes – YAY! (Okay, foam fingers and poster-board banners accepted HERE!) However, in order to do so, I pushed myself to limits that were extreme. Let me see if I can put this into perspective: this past Monday – just a couple days ago – was the first time in 10 days that I went to bed before it was “tomorrow”, and I’m not talking about a leisurely stroll across the PM/AM threshold! Most “nights” ended around 3am, with dry, scratchy eyes, clenched jaw, a crabby dog chasing a bewildered cat on a trek from the laptop to the bed. From there, I’d muster enough energy to pet/lecture the bellowing feline from upstairs (yes, I have one cat that’s afraid to come downstairs, but at the same time suffers from separation anxiety – go figure!) to remove himself from my bathroom sink long enough to afford me a swipe with the toothbrush, drop my frame onto the mattress, only to start the process again at 6am. Lucky for me exhaustion helped induce rapid sleep – most “nights” I couldn’t recall five minutes after pressing my head to the pillow… But, after a while, a routine like that catches up with you. *Spoiler alert: I don’t run very fast!*

The vicious one-two-three pounding of Thursday, Friday and Saturday were definitely my undoing. There was a HUGE group project due in one class, and one quarter of our group was M.I.A. There were fourteen parts to the assignment, and 8 of those fourteen parts had over 5 parts to them. So, in essence, the project actually had over 60 parts to it, and we were a man down! I couldn’t spare any time at the office, because, well, I had work to do there (duh!), and even had an obligation to be present one evening at a school function for my youngest child. I forewent the concept of eating to save time, stretched minutes into hours in front of the computer, compiling data, analyzing ratios and forecasts, formatting spreadsheets, and composing technical mumbo-jumbo to coincide with the charts and graphs that would comprise our group project. I managed two and a half hours of sleep Thursday “night” before heading out the door for a full day at the office. Friday night quickly became Saturday morning, and the sun was up before I went down! I stole five and half hours’ sleep that morning, but repeated the process that next night – teetering off to bed Sunday morning about 5am, and returning to the glow of the computer screen at 9:30 that morning. All of the week’s assignments were due by 9pm local time. Oh, yes, I guess I failed to mention that besides the group project, I had FOUR other individual assignments to complete that week! Luckily, two were done already (the smallest of all the assignments that week), but the other two required a colossal amount of reading – not my forte! 200 pages in one book, and 15 peer-reviewed articles for the other assignment. Ugh. With six minutes to spare, I had all my homework turned in! (Again, foam fingers and poster-board banners…)

That’s when the stress level lowered, and the auto-immune triggers started their pyrotechnic display!

I was reluctant to head to bed early Sunday night (that’s its own blog post, trust me!) and so I kept with tradition, and meandered toward my room around 1am (relatively early for me)… Halfway through the night, I woke to immense pain. My legs ached and my skin felt as if it was on fire! The mere contact of one foot against the other and my right calf resting atop my left calf as I lay curled on my left side created sparks throughout my nerve endings. I slowly reached my arm to brush the blanket away from my legs, and struggled through the stiffness in my shoulder. Wow! I. Was. A. Mess.

By the time 6am rolled around, I was cognizant of the leg pain, the resurgence of the right shoulder ache, and was presented with tenderness and aching in the left elbow, additional “fiery” skin sensation along the mid and lower back, and non-stop pain in my left thigh and right thumb (two pains that I was aware of and have been dealing with for some time now – at least the left thigh… see Power Through the Pain). In as long as I’ve had fibromyalgia, this was quite possibly the worst flare-up I’d ever experienced! My wily schedule had definitely caught up with me, and I was paying a hefty price!

For two days, I quietly endured the “fiery” flesh at work; however, Tuesday was coupled with a few other ailments – most likely because I took a low-dose muscle relaxant Monday evening on my way to a full seven hours of sleep! (The muscle relaxants do their job wonderfully; however, they and my stomach don’t always have such a complaisant relationship…) I had to rein myself in, contact the appropriate personnel, and eventually just leave my poor, wrecked body in bed for hour upon hour.

I’m happy to report that the “fire” has scaled back tremendously; my left thigh, left elbow, right shoulder, and right thumb are still giving me fits, but at least I’m not writhing in agony if my legs touch, anything! Rejoice in the little victories, my friends!

          Speaking of little victories, twenty-three days left of school! Then I can actually get to writing my stories again! No more 12-page research reports! Woo-hoo!

Reverse Psychology

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I know I’m not the best parent that ever lived. Heck, I doubt I’m even the best parent on our block! Probably not even the best parent in our triplex, and Brandy and Steve haven’t even been parents for a full year yet… That’s not to say I don’t try, though!

And despite having a completely overloaded schedule, I still allowed my childhood companion, high school counselor, lifelong roomie, and long-time nemesis, Guilty Conscience, to whisper in my ear, “What kid is going to remember that you did this or that task for ‘their benefit’? What they’re going to remember is whether you took the time to spend time with them!” Gee, thanks, GC! You’re brilliant!

So, at the request of my 14-year-old, who oddly enough, broke character and rambled on in the kitchen for over 40 minutes (he’s a two – to – three sentence kind of kid, usually) about this new television program he happened upon, all while I prepared our dinner, I set aside the school books, and agreed to watch the pilot episode with him (thank you, Netflix, for your diverse library of programming). I did, so rudely, though, preface my response with the explanation that it could only be one episode on this particular evening, as I did need to continue on with my homework assignments – obligations are obligations, after all, and even in showing my propensity for taking time for quality time, I needed to also demonstrate that I was a responsible person!

The show was as interesting as he described, and it opened the opportunity for some informed and thought-provoking conversation between the two of us. I promised him we would re-visit the show as time allowed. Unfortunately, he didn’t like the idea of having to wait – although I didn’t exactly ask him to. By the time he invited me to join him in watching the program, he was already at Episode Five (proof positive that he didn’t have to wait for me), and wanted to advance forward. He learned quickly that I was not going to sit and binge-watch with him this time! Sorry, kiddo!

Okay, so here’s where things get complicated…

Remember, I already admitted my failure at “perfect parenting”, so no finger-wagging!

There are those times – definitely not right now, in the midst of these two heavy-homework-laden courses in school, but believe me when I say instances have presented themselves – when I have NOTHING better to do than to let my brain rot away, watching rerun after rerun of “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives”, and my beloved 14-year-old cannot divert his eyes from whatever electronic device holds him prisoner, not even long enough to acknowledge my existence. Do I say something? No. Do I unplug said device? No. Do I restrict future screen time? (I know I probably should, but please refer to previously posted disclaimer) No…

I think the most “reckless” thing I’ve done in such an instance was refuse to cook dinner when I couldn’t get a response to what he wanted to eat that evening. I called – TWICE! – on my way home from the office. I texted and asked for a return phone call. No response to anything. So I came home. And when he continued to stare at the computer screen, I simply curled up on the sofa with the hyper pup, a ginger beer and the tv remote. Was I worried about his nutritional well-being? Not really. He knows how to cook soup, eggs, pizza, potatoes, pasta… And if he wanted to be lazy but still indulge his taste buds, there was microwave popcorn, a variety of cereals available, as well as fixings for black bean nachos. I knew he wouldn’t starve. I just refused to put forth the effort myself since he wasn’t going to acknowledge my existence. On that same night, I even went up to bed without so much as a word to him (it was a Friday night). He didn’t stop to say “hi” or “hey” or “Delilah chewed up another soda bottle cap” (our dog; don’t ask!) Not a word. So I responded in-kind.

However, it seems without fail, the moment I mention I have a cascading mountain of assignments to attend to, and I beg for him to respect my need for quiet time, he all of a sudden becomes a social butterfly, or is absolutely compelled to find the loudest, most obnoxious, disruptive television programming the satellite dish in our yard can siphon from the cosmos. Really?! We have ONE television in our domicile, so it’s not as if he’s holed up in his room, channel-surfing. No, he’s sprawled out on the sofa, bag of potato chips rustling under the weight of his scavenging fist, making sure to ignore the passage of time and continue to fill the air with static noise. And because of the less-than-ideal wi-fi service offered in our area (only one provider, so it’s not like I can shop around for another provider – the only other option is paying 3 times as much to the same provider for “upgraded” speeds…), I’m trapped down in the adjacent dining room area, feverishly working on my laptop.

Not only that, but he’ll decide that on the weekend when I’m utterly slammed with research papers and exams, that he will simply die if he can’t have his long-time buddy come hang out at the house. What drives me up a wall is that despite MY need for solitary time in order to accomplish tasks, I end up having to be the chauffeur, the chef, the entertainment director, the moderator, the maid, and still manage to take care of my own checklist. “You do understand, I have a lot of homework to get done…” The empty promises of silence and respect for my work time; why do I fall for it?? I want my son to be social, to interact with his friends – to have a life away from the computer screen! I just don’t understand why he always seems to choose solitude and YouTube when there are no prerequisites on my time, but when I need a few hours of silence to devour the concept of balanced scorecards and product innovation, he can’t help but ponder, “I wonder how many episodes of this preposterous program I can watch before the sun comes up?”

I think I need to start using reverse psychology with him again, like when he was 4 or 5 years old. Please, make all the noise you want! Why don’t you invite your friends over? You don’t want to just sit there and stare at the computer screen all day, do you? Maybe then he’ll hunker down and not acknowledge my existence, allowing me ample quiet time (aside of the dog’s crazed barking fits, and the cat’s bellowing from the landing upstairs) to complete my assignments! Four and half more weeks to go!

Thirty days, and counting…

Challenge: ACCEPTED!

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Oh dear, what treacherous unscripted suicidal plot have I unearthed?!

Sure, challenges help build character, and testing limits often brings to light unsubstantiated boundaries.

But this? Chainsaws! High octane, rip-roaring, mauling “metal teeth of fury” chainsaws!

I’m concurrently skipping around with hula-hoops encircling my ankles, running up and down forty miles of highway daily, to and from the office, performing like a circus monkey for the corporate hierarchy while simultaneously monitoring the parade of cavorting high-school-aged monkeys and  tossing baked peanuts and other protein-rich snacks their direction – to fend off “h-anger” attacks. I’ve already got the spinning plates of Master’s classes, piled high with research reports, group projects, and computerized tests, delicately balanced so that their coinciding due dates match perfectly with governmental filing deadlines.

This is just throwing chainsaws into the mix!

Maybe chainsaws and raw eggs…

… chainsaws and feather pillows …

(no, wait! I think I’m just overly tired – note to self: must get more than 13 hours sleep over the course of 4 nights)

Sorry about that!

So, where were we? Oh, yes! Chainsaws and raw eggs… I think that’s the best I can do right now. I could go down the lines of juggling chainsaws in yellow rain slickers, since after all, the concept is ‘preparing for a rainy day’, but that would be a bit absurd, don’t you think?

While perusing another blogger’s site, I came across this 30-day challenge, and who doesn’t love a challenge, right? (…me! I hate challenges… oh, wait, rhetorical question… sorry…) The task: “Blog Ahead”! Now, what does that mean exactly? The concept is to carve out time during this challenge period, preceded only by a budget-breaking jaunt to the nearest Costco to stockpile every tasty packaged carbohydrate, gallons of your preferred caffeinated “go-juice”, and perhaps the obligatory fruit, vegetable, and theatre-box of chocolatey confections, hermit yourself away from the outside world, draped in your trusty flannel camp shirt (you know the one – with the singed hole in the pocket where the hot ember from the popping log burrowed its way to a quick death) and tie-waist knit pants that mop the floor with each step, and simply because you’ve committed yourself to this challenge, release the floodgates of unsurpassed inspiration, harmonious word synergy, and captivating musings without nary a hiccup or belch, and emerge after 30 days, with a surplus of 30 “stockpiled” blog posts, for those times when inspiration is as fleeting as a bargain price on gasoline, or when, you know, life.

For someone such as myself – one who has chosen to post once a week as opposed to every day (please refer to ‘note to self’ earlier in this post…) – the end result would be to have 30 blog posts in addition to the (*ahem* conceivably already written *insert laugh here*) four blog posts for the month of October (there being four Tuesday/Wednesdays in the month of October in 2016), for a total of 34 blog posts, from which I could pick and choose as circumstances dictate.

That seems all well and good. But for anyone who has read my posts (this one included), it is obvious I’m not a “pre-written blog post” kind of poster. And why is that? Because it’s not in my character – usually. However what I do find intriguing about this challenge (aside of the host site’s name – seriously! “Herding Cats & Burning Soup”! I just had to join, on that name alone!!), is the incentive to spend some time at least cultivating post ideas, AND massaging those ideas that have already manifested themselves over the past several weeks, but that I’ve neglected due to other hula-hoops, toasted peanuts, cavorting monkeys, and spinning plates…

So, before any chainsaws get thrown into the mix, I’m heading to Costco for a silo of Pepsi and a box of four-cheese rice crackers (don’t judge!), I’m ramping up my research skills so that final reports are nothing shy of technical “blog posts”, and alerting my circle… triangle (??)… of friends that I’ll be off the radar until after the Great Pumpkin visits with Linus in the pumpkin patch.

Anyone else up for chainsaws and eggs?? Here’s a link to sign up for the fun challenge!

http://www.herdingcats-burningsoup.com/2016/08/Blog-Ahead-Sign-Up-2016.html#more

Next on the menu: …peanut butter severed monkey finger omelets… or, feather pillows…