2014. The winter of the Polar Vortex.
Polar Vortex. Sounds like an amusement park ride. I guess it kind of is like a rollercoaster, but with more frozen snot bubbles and less fun. Negative 15 degrees and close to -40 wind chills? Fuhgeddaboutit.
No, I mean, really. Forget about it. Because if you don't, you will flee Michigan as soon as you can get your car battery to hold a charge again.
When we look back at this winter we will be reminded of how close we came to joining a monastery and/or finding creative ways to off our family. That's what happens when you end up with roughly 24597 snow days after Christmas break. My kids' brains literally turned into cream of wheat in the space of three weeks. Three verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry loooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg weeeeeeeeeeks. In case you wondered, it is not favorable to have kids with craniums full of porridge. They don't have porridge kids in the monastery. Or in jail.
Oh, please. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you had fantasies about that whole "vow of silence" thing. And arsenic. But I didn't do it, and neither did you. I chalk that up as a win.
In an attempt to break this funk, the other day I tried to recreate Dittrich fur's bareback, fur-wearing gallop through the snowy countryside--except with a saddle and without the fur. Oh, and at a walk. In snow up to her knees, my horse felt more like a camel than anything else. We made it two times around the yard before I called it. Horses can have heart attacks, too. The way my day was going, I didn't want to push it.
Oh, and I miss running.
Really. I just said that. And I even meant it. It might be a sign of the end times--better check that.
I miss running outside. It's not the sub-zero temps that scare me, because I've been out running in -11 degree wind chills (and colder temps than that doing barn chores). It's not even the snow or ice on the road, thanks to my handy-dandy snow chains. No, I'm a tough cookie. That road is just not big enough for the both of us, a car and myself. And I can't trust my neighbor not to schuss straight into my kneecaps with his redneckified F-10. Plus, the treadmill's been unkind to my foot this week, so I've taken some time off to help it heal. I guess sitting in bed mainlining chocolate chip cookies is the next best thing.
There's no real point to this blog, other than this winter blows. Pass the cookies!
The End.
Showing posts with label Annoying. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Annoying. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Thursday, January 2, 2014
This One's For the Fellas
Yeah, you heard me, guys..... And, when I say fellas, this isn't to exclude the ladies, should you be in a same-sex relationship. If you're in a relationship and not the one physically growing a human being, I'm talking to YOU. Filter off, and quite possibly, gloves off. I'm blaming this a wee bit on not being topped-off in the sleep department, but maybe just a little because I've seen a recurring theme over and over (which is what a recurring theme is, I guess). And, frankly, for you thrifty gentlemen, I think you could practically put me out of a job if you'd just pay attention and figure out how to put into practice what I'm about to say.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Fifty Shades Of Frustration
I am on Twitter. I'm not too terribly proud of it.
My motives were good. I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot. Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away. Or so I thought.
By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value. Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:
I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter. The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike. Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes. Something happened late last week to change that, though. An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.
Until last night. Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so.... I don't have the words to describe it.
I followed a particular female author, just because. She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars. This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice. Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care... about something, at least. Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser". They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are. Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.
I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary. The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book. At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.
It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant.... I just.... Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)
So, whatever. I get it. Sex sells. A lot. Like major best-seller a lot. That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying. I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.
This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again. At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series. Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic. Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.
What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term? If not, it is now) with his followers. I mean.... What??? Y'all have no shame. I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?
I'm not against romance novels. I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life. I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking. Trashy novels don't require thinking. But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.
It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against. That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies. That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z. Depressing, really.
I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel. However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to. I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.
And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down. A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.
#rantover #amiright?
My motives were good. I wanted to connect with other writers so I could stop boring my friends and family who don't really give a hoot. Twitter seemed a logical place, with people much like myself just a hashtag away. Or so I thought.
By searching out and following random (and not-so-random) writers and publishers and editors, I found myself eyeball-deep in self-promotion and little else of value. Tweets like these, by the thousands, sweep through my feed:
BUY MY BOOK FOR .99, TODAY ONLY #bythewayitsucks
Mona doesn't need dignity where she's going... VAGUE BOOK TITLE #scrubyourbrainwithlysollater
#Write your #novel in five hours but.payme20bucksfirst.com !!!!
I nearly called it quits, deciding I'd failed in ferreting out real live people on Twitter. The best I could tell, Twitter was one big, soulless PR/Advertising dumping ground for authors and booksellers alike. Not at all the place where tormented artists were huddled together, whining about deadlines, writer's block, and plot holes. Something happened late last week to change that, though. An innocent question led me to small community of writers loosely tied to NaNoWriMo, and, finally, I found hope in the whole Twitter idea that I'd been scoffing at all this time.
Until last night. Yes, I had four whole days of Twitter happiness, and then I discovered something so..... so.... I don't have the words to describe it.
I followed a particular female author, just because. She's no one I'd heard of before, and I didn't remember her at all until something popped up on my newsfeed last night while I was watching the Oscars. This woman was interacting with her followers (something rare amongst authors on Twitter, with the exception of the incomparable Neil Gaiman), and I took notice. Authors/celebrities who take the time to talk to their fans impress me--it shows me they care... about something, at least. Her follower complained that her website had crashed, and the author explained it always did after she released a new book "teaser". They began talking back and forth about how wonderful and quirky the books' main characters are. Now, I had no idea who this lady was or what she writes, but I was intrigued.
I proceeded to download a free sample of one of her books from Amazon without reading the summary. The sample netted me 10 or so pages to read and decide whether I am interested enough to buy the entire book. At $10, I'm already fairly certain I'm NOT interested, but I wanted to see this quirky character everyone's in love with.
It took me about five pages before I realized that this series is completely hanging onto the coattails of Fifty Shades of Grey. (Please don't ask me if I am into Fifty Shades of Grey unless you want to hear me go off on a day-long rant.... I just.... Yeah, don't ask me about it, that's all.)
So, whatever. I get it. Sex sells. A lot. Like major best-seller a lot. That's not really my beef here, although it's really annoying. I'm taking a deep breath and trying--but failing--to climb down off my soapbox.
This morning I checked my Twitter account and came across this author again. At some point, she (or one of her followers) had shared something by an individual on Twitter pretending to be the main male character of her book series. Not that weird--I'm assuming that most fictional characters have a Twitter account maintained by some fanatic. Maybe someday even Liam or Claire will have their own Twitter accounts, too.
What disturbed me is that this fictional character was having fairly graphic Tweetsex (is that a term? If not, it is now) with his followers. I mean.... What??? Y'all have no shame. I don't want to imagine any of you doing any of that with any of that, knowwhatI'msayin'?
I'm not against romance novels. I like it when people fall in love, in real life or in a book's life. I've been known to drown myself in chocolate chip cookies and a trashy novel when I can't be bothered with thinking. Trashy novels don't require thinking. But.... some of these books are topping the charts! And I don't want to believe it for a single second.
It's discouraging to know that this is what I am up against. That most of the readers don't care what the plot is or how utterly unbelievable a character is as long as they are drrrrty birdies. That I will likely never see the same level of success because my main character doesn't let him x her y with a z. Depressing, really.
I'm not yet swearing off Twitter because luckily I did find a few quality individuals along the way, and a couple of them have helped quite a deal with my novel. However, I guess I will have to learn to be more discerning of the complete strangers I pay attention to. I suppose that's not a bad thing to apply to most areas of my life.
And even though it's disheartening to see, I'm not going to let the Fifty Shades of the literary world get me down. A captivating story can be created without all of that, I'm sure of it.
#rantover #amiright?
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
For Your Consideration...
Last week I attended my sons' Valentines parties with toddler in tow, even though school parties make me want to drink. If my kids didn't keep track of these things on some invisible ledger and then judge me with tears filling their huge brown eyes, I'd be happy forgoing them altogether. Ohboy #2 is especially sensitive to this, and shamed me for a solid week when I accidentally (really! I swear!) missed his Halloween party. Ohboy #3 usually gives me grief for overlooking the more obscure school celebrations like "Grandparents/Special Person Day". When they say "Special Person", apparently that means ME. It's appropriate, I know.
On Valentine's Day, I dragged myself from one classroom to the other, at the opposite end of the school. Ohboy #4 happily stomped along with me, and I found myself thankful that he was too big to carry. I dreaded class parties when he was unsure on his feet and spent most of his time in my arms. He's never been a small child--he's built more like a linebacker than his refined, aerodynamic siblings. In the early days I always left functions with my whole body trembling from muscle fatigue and dripping with sweat. Now that he can walk and throw a mean right hook, it is not quite so bad.
Except... When my baby is safe in my arms, he can't receive the full force of some kid's hacking cough right in his chubby little face.
Three days later--Sunday morning--he is running a fever and barking like a Sea World performer. Ohboy #3 follows his lead, spiking a fever soon after. The next morning Ohboy #2 follows suit. Luckily, Monday was President's Day, a day already scheduled off from school. I'm thankful for that built-in recovery time.
Only now it is Wednesday and everyone is still feverish, coughing, and miserable. And why? So someone could let their sick child attend a party at school? So they didn't have to take a day off from work? But where does that leave my family?
I have health insurance, but it is crappy. We pay around $80 per office visit because our deductible is, like, a trillion dollars. To take all three of my younger children in to be cared for, should I need to, I am looking at $240. Should they need prescriptions of any kind, such as Tamiflu, my out-of-pocket costs would reach nearly $400+. (And, if we're being technical, my doctor prescribed Tamiflu and when my husband went to pick it up, our insurance was being useless and he would have been required to pay $200 for the prescription for just one child... He opted not to buy said medicine because we're poor).
Also--what if I was a mother working outside of the home? I mean, I am, but only when this last birth happens, and then I'm off call for a little while. But what if I had a 9-5 that I had to take time off to care for my sick kids? That's a loss of wages for me, as well. So on top of the expenses for the doctor and the drugs, now I'm not clocking in hours at the job. And for what? But because I am a mostly-stay-at-home mother, it must not matter because, heck, I'm home anyway. Clearly it is not an imposition to me at all to have the plague hit us head-on and then pass through six individuals..... because I stay at home.
And this doesn't even really factor in what my children miss at school--especially Ohboy #2, who struggles more than his younger brother. I know I'm whining a teensy bit, but, for the love! This is the fourth round of major illness this winter! I'm not sure how much more I can take!
All I'm asking is for a little consideration, here. You and your family are important, but so is mine. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
On Valentine's Day, I dragged myself from one classroom to the other, at the opposite end of the school. Ohboy #4 happily stomped along with me, and I found myself thankful that he was too big to carry. I dreaded class parties when he was unsure on his feet and spent most of his time in my arms. He's never been a small child--he's built more like a linebacker than his refined, aerodynamic siblings. In the early days I always left functions with my whole body trembling from muscle fatigue and dripping with sweat. Now that he can walk and throw a mean right hook, it is not quite so bad.
Except... When my baby is safe in my arms, he can't receive the full force of some kid's hacking cough right in his chubby little face.
Three days later--Sunday morning--he is running a fever and barking like a Sea World performer. Ohboy #3 follows his lead, spiking a fever soon after. The next morning Ohboy #2 follows suit. Luckily, Monday was President's Day, a day already scheduled off from school. I'm thankful for that built-in recovery time.
Only now it is Wednesday and everyone is still feverish, coughing, and miserable. And why? So someone could let their sick child attend a party at school? So they didn't have to take a day off from work? But where does that leave my family?
I have health insurance, but it is crappy. We pay around $80 per office visit because our deductible is, like, a trillion dollars. To take all three of my younger children in to be cared for, should I need to, I am looking at $240. Should they need prescriptions of any kind, such as Tamiflu, my out-of-pocket costs would reach nearly $400+. (And, if we're being technical, my doctor prescribed Tamiflu and when my husband went to pick it up, our insurance was being useless and he would have been required to pay $200 for the prescription for just one child... He opted not to buy said medicine because we're poor).
Also--what if I was a mother working outside of the home? I mean, I am, but only when this last birth happens, and then I'm off call for a little while. But what if I had a 9-5 that I had to take time off to care for my sick kids? That's a loss of wages for me, as well. So on top of the expenses for the doctor and the drugs, now I'm not clocking in hours at the job. And for what? But because I am a mostly-stay-at-home mother, it must not matter because, heck, I'm home anyway. Clearly it is not an imposition to me at all to have the plague hit us head-on and then pass through six individuals..... because I stay at home.
And this doesn't even really factor in what my children miss at school--especially Ohboy #2, who struggles more than his younger brother. I know I'm whining a teensy bit, but, for the love! This is the fourth round of major illness this winter! I'm not sure how much more I can take!
All I'm asking is for a little consideration, here. You and your family are important, but so is mine. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Where You Least Expect It
I want to update my status on Facebook to complain about my new dishwasher and the fact that it is doing the same thing that caused my old dishwasher to meet its end. I want to complain because my kids piled in my bed while I was on the phone and now there is no room for me.
I can't.
People I love are struggling at this very moment with things much larger than my annoyances. Their hearts are breaking. Their hearts are stopping. Who cares about the sand on my dishes? Really? I'm not sure I even care that much, except every dish I own is dirty and I haven't perfected my "making a cup out of a piece of paper" trick yet. Still, I have dishes to complain about, and electricity and water, even though the combination doesn't seem to be working as flawlessly as I think it should. Poor me.
This is such a broken world, home to unspeakable pain and struggle. And yet, there is such beauty hidden in the oddest of places. It's what I wish for the ones I love who are hurting, that beauty will find them where they least expect it. For me, tonight, that will be singing along quietly to a mellow song as I hand-wash dishes for my family's breakfast tomorrow.
Breakfast with my wild, loud, quirky family. I figure things don't get much more beautiful than that.
I can't.
People I love are struggling at this very moment with things much larger than my annoyances. Their hearts are breaking. Their hearts are stopping. Who cares about the sand on my dishes? Really? I'm not sure I even care that much, except every dish I own is dirty and I haven't perfected my "making a cup out of a piece of paper" trick yet. Still, I have dishes to complain about, and electricity and water, even though the combination doesn't seem to be working as flawlessly as I think it should. Poor me.
This is such a broken world, home to unspeakable pain and struggle. And yet, there is such beauty hidden in the oddest of places. It's what I wish for the ones I love who are hurting, that beauty will find them where they least expect it. For me, tonight, that will be singing along quietly to a mellow song as I hand-wash dishes for my family's breakfast tomorrow.
Breakfast with my wild, loud, quirky family. I figure things don't get much more beautiful than that.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Advice To My Younger Self
Write the letter, if you must. All 30 pages of it. Pour the words from your heart like water from a pitcher. Get it all out--every last drop--until you've said all you need to say. Then destroy it. I don't care how the letter meets its end. Fire. Paper shredder. Teething puppy. Computer trash can. Whatever.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
Don't you dare send that letter. If you have a novella of angst and emotion pent up inside, sharing it all with that person isn't likely to change a thing. It will, however, come back to haunt you like the gamble you took when scarfing down that grey-looking burrito from the gas station that one time.
Keep a journal, a diary, a blog instead, but be prepared to cringe when you look back. You're constantly growing and changing as a person, gathering life experience and wisdom by the arm-loads. What you fiercely believe now will probably be only a speck of what you hold to be true 10 or 20 years from now.... Don't be a bit surprised if you don't even recognize the person you used to be a decade or two down the road.
The world is so different now then it was when I was younger and figuring everything out. I thank God that I was not born to this generation, where every racing, uncensored thought can be shared instantly. I didn't need the extra help, finding my way in the most awkward way possible. My younger family members are traveling these well-worn paths. They are falling fast and hard in love and lashing out for offenses they won't remember when the sun rises tomorrow. They are baring their souls on page and screen, words that can't be returned or wiped clean.
It's tough, this growing up. It's hard to look back and know where you would have chosen differently. It's even worse to have a liftetime witness.
Burn the letter. You are more incredible--today, yesterday, 10 years ago--than you will ever know. You don't need the letter to convince him, promise.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
It Strikes Again.
My husband has the flu. Again. It's like the third time this winter.
It just hit me that this is his way of getting a day to lie around in bed. Thirteen years, and it's finally sunk in. Sure, he'll argue that he would much rather not get sick, but I know the truth. He's a baby.
When I had the flu nastiness a couple weeks ago, he left me for 10 hours to work. Working is good, don't get me wrong. But working on the weekend while four kids are home from school and wreaking havoc while the little lady--me!--is burrowed under layers of blankets trying to ward off the chills... Not so good. The shining moment of that particular day was having to fight the nausea and dizziness to walk down to the barn to take care of the animals because he forgot to on his way out... Not my favorite. And you better believe I am keeping score! ;-)
We have a long history of dramatic flu here. The most vivid was the flu bug of July 2009. Some guy (who will remain nameless) was up and down all night, illin', and then proceeded to nap in bed the entire next day. Meanwhile, it was actually THE due date of our fourth Ohboy. In the middle of early labor contractions, I ran to the grocery store to buy someone else Gatorade, popsicles, and chicken noodle soup, then spent the rest of the day taking care of the kids. As contractions picked up in the afternoon, I took the boys to the pool to distract all of us. At 6 p.m., with the clammy husband still lying in state in our bed, I marched in our room and demand he get up and pull himself together. Our baby was coming, and soon.
It was childbirth. By default, I won. His arguments were irrelevant. There was no way on God's green earth that I was having a baby--in the birth tub in our room or on our bed--with him lying useless under the covers. If nothing else, by forcing him to sit upright with a cramping, nauseated stomach, I was teaching him empathy. I'm not above feeling almost happy that he had to go through that with me. That's right, I'm kind of cruel like that.
Or the flu we all had when Ohboy #3 was a newborn. My husband left the room in favor of sleeping on the couch. He thought he was being considerate, but what that really amounted to was my having to get up to change and feed the baby by myself smooshed in between mad dashes to the the restroom. Yep, still keeping score.
So tonight, as my husband is curled up next to me sleeping it off and I gather up some extra oomph to get dressed to take care of the animals, I am notching one more point on my side. We'll never, ever be even, but at least now I know without a doubt that this man--strong as he is--is still a marshmallow..... or a really good actor.
Rest well, Mr. Ohboy, for you will pay tomorrow. Muahahaha!
It just hit me that this is his way of getting a day to lie around in bed. Thirteen years, and it's finally sunk in. Sure, he'll argue that he would much rather not get sick, but I know the truth. He's a baby.
When I had the flu nastiness a couple weeks ago, he left me for 10 hours to work. Working is good, don't get me wrong. But working on the weekend while four kids are home from school and wreaking havoc while the little lady--me!--is burrowed under layers of blankets trying to ward off the chills... Not so good. The shining moment of that particular day was having to fight the nausea and dizziness to walk down to the barn to take care of the animals because he forgot to on his way out... Not my favorite. And you better believe I am keeping score! ;-)
We have a long history of dramatic flu here. The most vivid was the flu bug of July 2009. Some guy (who will remain nameless) was up and down all night, illin', and then proceeded to nap in bed the entire next day. Meanwhile, it was actually THE due date of our fourth Ohboy. In the middle of early labor contractions, I ran to the grocery store to buy someone else Gatorade, popsicles, and chicken noodle soup, then spent the rest of the day taking care of the kids. As contractions picked up in the afternoon, I took the boys to the pool to distract all of us. At 6 p.m., with the clammy husband still lying in state in our bed, I marched in our room and demand he get up and pull himself together. Our baby was coming, and soon.
It was childbirth. By default, I won. His arguments were irrelevant. There was no way on God's green earth that I was having a baby--in the birth tub in our room or on our bed--with him lying useless under the covers. If nothing else, by forcing him to sit upright with a cramping, nauseated stomach, I was teaching him empathy. I'm not above feeling almost happy that he had to go through that with me. That's right, I'm kind of cruel like that.
Or the flu we all had when Ohboy #3 was a newborn. My husband left the room in favor of sleeping on the couch. He thought he was being considerate, but what that really amounted to was my having to get up to change and feed the baby by myself smooshed in between mad dashes to the the restroom. Yep, still keeping score.
So tonight, as my husband is curled up next to me sleeping it off and I gather up some extra oomph to get dressed to take care of the animals, I am notching one more point on my side. We'll never, ever be even, but at least now I know without a doubt that this man--strong as he is--is still a marshmallow..... or a really good actor.
Rest well, Mr. Ohboy, for you will pay tomorrow. Muahahaha!
Saturday, January 19, 2013
It's a Virtue, and I'm Not Particularly Virtuous
Nothing I've written is remotely near being ready to publish. There are sentences to weed and phrases to prune. Characters to cultivate or burn away, the choice is up to me. Plots need water or redirection like vines on a trellis. In other words, a ton of gardening.
Have I mentioned I'm not particularly great at keeping green things green? Gardening is a bad metaphor.
This week I gave myself the option of writing or not writing, editing or not editing. Laying in bed catching up on bad t.v. and afternoon naps instead of deadlines and writer's block. Staying up late watching Conan because I can or going to bed obscenely early because there's no word count left. My break should be refreshing. My synapses should be snoozing so they can return ready to fire more quickly and easily. But no.... That's not what's happening.
Instead, my stomach is churning with each day that passes in which no forward progress has been made on my dream. I don't like being in limbo. I don't want to rush this thing, but I hate being suspended in this void.
I'm reading to distract myself, to refuel my creativity and see how others more successful than myself spin a tale. Apparently it's not working, because instead of losing myself in these books, I push my way through each one. My brain is persistant, nudging me every few pages. "Pssst! Hey! If she can do this, so can you!"
My husband is not helping. "Finish that book yet?" Every. Single. Time. He. Walks. In. The. Door. I love him, I do. But sometimes, I loathe him.
Mommy Dearest isn't helping, either. When I described to her why I was overwhelmed about editing my first book (a.k.a. "The Book Written Entirely In Passive Voice"), she shocked me by telling me I was probably over-analyzing my book. A few minor changes, she said, and I would think it's ready to go! She's my mama. It's written into her job description to believe I can do no wrong--except for that typo on page 35 and the other one on page 110--but it's still strange to have her on more of an accelerated timeframe than myself.I probably owe her money.
On top of it all, the crazy (and not-so-crazy) thought occurred to me to write the third installment first just to see if I could and the stars aligned. And by "stars aligned", I mean "does any of this make a lick of sense?" If I chose to write more now, I would need to find another place to live because I am pretty sure that would be the end of my marriage, right there. My husband's already convinced these books will never see the light of day past my computer screen and I'm just pretending to write.
So, yeah. There's a lot of pressure. From books that aren't but very well could be my own... From my well-meaning (but adolescent) husband... From my usually well-planned but impetuous mother. But mostly, and most deeply, from my own self.
I'm not letting anyone talk me into putting anything out there before it's really and truly time, but I sure hope this feeling of suffocation decides to leave me soon.
Have I mentioned I'm not particularly great at keeping green things green? Gardening is a bad metaphor.
This week I gave myself the option of writing or not writing, editing or not editing. Laying in bed catching up on bad t.v. and afternoon naps instead of deadlines and writer's block. Staying up late watching Conan because I can or going to bed obscenely early because there's no word count left. My break should be refreshing. My synapses should be snoozing so they can return ready to fire more quickly and easily. But no.... That's not what's happening.
Instead, my stomach is churning with each day that passes in which no forward progress has been made on my dream. I don't like being in limbo. I don't want to rush this thing, but I hate being suspended in this void.
I'm reading to distract myself, to refuel my creativity and see how others more successful than myself spin a tale. Apparently it's not working, because instead of losing myself in these books, I push my way through each one. My brain is persistant, nudging me every few pages. "Pssst! Hey! If she can do this, so can you!"
My husband is not helping. "Finish that book yet?" Every. Single. Time. He. Walks. In. The. Door. I love him, I do. But sometimes, I loathe him.
Mommy Dearest isn't helping, either. When I described to her why I was overwhelmed about editing my first book (a.k.a. "The Book Written Entirely In Passive Voice"), she shocked me by telling me I was probably over-analyzing my book. A few minor changes, she said, and I would think it's ready to go! She's my mama. It's written into her job description to believe I can do no wrong--except for that typo on page 35 and the other one on page 110--but it's still strange to have her on more of an accelerated timeframe than myself.
On top of it all, the crazy (and not-so-crazy) thought occurred to me to write the third installment first just to see if I could and the stars aligned. And by "stars aligned", I mean "does any of this make a lick of sense?" If I chose to write more now, I would need to find another place to live because I am pretty sure that would be the end of my marriage, right there. My husband's already convinced these books will never see the light of day past my computer screen and I'm just pretending to write.
So, yeah. There's a lot of pressure. From books that aren't but very well could be my own... From my well-meaning (but adolescent) husband... From my usually well-planned but impetuous mother. But mostly, and most deeply, from my own self.
I'm not letting anyone talk me into putting anything out there before it's really and truly time, but I sure hope this feeling of suffocation decides to leave me soon.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Love Languages
Tonight I came to a conclusion.
The Love Language my husband speaks to me is Cookies. This explains why I've been on a perpetual diet for the past 13 years. All of my woes can be solved with the sweet union of sugar, butter, and flour. Nevermind the immediate guilt, ever-expanding muffin top, and four-pound weight gain the next day...
Somehow I trained him to do this, to answer my frustrations with food. Maybe it should be a good thing, but for an addictive personality such as mine, notsomuch. If I'd put any thought into his training at all, I should have taught him the way to my heart was to buy me horse tack or books or something. ;-)
If you have a significant other, what do they do to make you feel loved or comforted? Even if you don't, have you figured out those things that make you feel cared for? Please share!
The Love Language my husband speaks to me is Cookies. This explains why I've been on a perpetual diet for the past 13 years. All of my woes can be solved with the sweet union of sugar, butter, and flour. Nevermind the immediate guilt, ever-expanding muffin top, and four-pound weight gain the next day...
Somehow I trained him to do this, to answer my frustrations with food. Maybe it should be a good thing, but for an addictive personality such as mine, notsomuch. If I'd put any thought into his training at all, I should have taught him the way to my heart was to buy me horse tack or books or something. ;-)
If you have a significant other, what do they do to make you feel loved or comforted? Even if you don't, have you figured out those things that make you feel cared for? Please share!
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Release
It was time.
And, no, the photo above is not really from the Ohboy home. Google "hoarders" and take your pick.... I guess people will put ANYTHING on the Interweb. Gasp! I know! I was shocked, too, when I found out.
I couldn't honestly tell you the last time I'd reached all of the nooks and crannies of my kitchen counter. We had run out of space to make lunches and prepare meals because there was a teensy little glitch in the feng shui of my Leaning Towers of Paper.
In the living room, I moved the Christmas tree (yes, the Christmas tree. In my defense, it's small and white, but, obviously not a Halloween tree) and thought I'd spotted Bigfoot, there was so much pet hair under there. The not-so-fine layer of dust coating everything made me feel all nostalgic like we were still passing through the deserts of Nevada and Arizona--if the deserts were wall-to-wall with bins of Legos and Angry Birds.
Okay, so I'm being a skoch dramatic.
Over the past couple of years, we've decided that Mr. Ohboy probably has some form of Asperger's. He's a fixer of things, but not at all neat. I think he used to be neat. He also used to be a tree-hugging Democrat, but then he married me and I flip-turned all of that upside down. Must've been my cheery disposition, huh? Anyhow, he's messy. And, lucky me, I have a few more boys up in this hizzy who are varying shades of the same incredibly sharp and yet very fragmented mind. Whether I nag for something to be tidied or he takes the initiative himself (which only happens in the garage), the results are always puzzling.... Usually a twisty-turny path lined with piles of things, leading to an eventual bottleneck. Straight lines and angles? No way! Navigation through even the most mundane room should be an adventure, and even a little bit dangerous! Where is the excitement in placing things against walls or--gasp!--throwing it away? Nowhere, that's where.
If you've ever seen one of those t.v. shows dedicated to hoarding, you'd understand that my family was just one major life event away from never washing another dish or throwing away a food wrapper. Again, I'm being dramatic, but, at the same time, I'm sure that lots of those people on those shows probably didn't see it coming, then BAM! They wake up six feet deep in used adult diapers and fossilized cats.
Last Saturday four of the six of us came down with some stomach thing, so we decided, come Sunday, to hang out at home close to facilities and far from other persons who probably didn't want what we had. That's when we (I) began Operation Declutter. Spurred on by some organization my mom had done in the boys rooms while we were on our trip, we began by dusting our room. To dust our room, we had to fold roughly 15 loads of laundry that had been dumped in the corner, file papers, throw away boxes.... you get the idea. From there we moved to bathrooms, crusty floors, my walk-in closet nightmare, the living room toy explosion, and, finally, the kitchen (a.k.a. filing cabinet with a stove).
Five days, I've been at this nearly from morning till night, taking the odd break to sit down, go to a prenatal appointment, or ride a horse. I estimate I clothed a plus-sized army with all of the clothes I lugged (literally) from the house--a mini-van full. In one load of garbage/recycling, the weight of all of those broken, boring toys lifted from my shoulders. I love the way my house looks, and the ease at which it takes to clean things now that I don't have to shift so much junk to unearth the surface below.
I've not completed my mission. I still have three toy boxes to sort through, and a few baskets of boy clothes to move into bins, which will be exiled forevermore in the plastic bin catacombs. The catacombs are next; and, while my soul is itching to tackle (and annihilate) the Rubbermaid abyss, I know I am tired and anxious to make some forward progress on the novel. The clutter was a snare to my creativity, the words finding themselves buried in unimportant things.
Releasing means receiving peace. I'll take all the peace I can get.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Rollercoaster Days
I rode my horse this afternoon while waiting for Ohboys 2 and 3 to be dropped off by the school bus. The bus driver won't let them off the bus unless she sees someone from our family, so I've taken to riding while I wait. What other kid gets picked up from the bus via horse?
My horse has been amazing lately. Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror. I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes. It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway. I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup. The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat. He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count. Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor. She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.
When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch. Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve. I always ask him if he wants to ride. Usually he says no, today he said yes. While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle. He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.
As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard. Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house. He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things. I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard. It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead. His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn. At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest. My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was. I stopped having workable solutions years ago.
I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words. The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat. He did! Smiles abound!
When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished. I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough. He wanted something else. I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room. I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet. He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.
Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room. He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology. Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.
Ohboy 2 had spelling homework. He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time. They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this. Spare me the drama.
The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream. Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return. The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random. I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life. I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me. He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.
This will all pass. Someday I'll be missing this. Riiiiight?
My horse has been amazing lately. Today, for the first time in years she decided that she was okay with riding close to the border between the yard and the road, a mass of dark overgrowth chock full of boogey monsters and unspeakable terror. I've taken to putting pom-poms in her ears to block the noise, which seems to help her from jumping out of her skin but doesn't get us any closer to the bushes. It's also really helpful if the older gentleman across the street (hidden behind these trees and bushes) isn't out weed-whipping or dragging things around his driveway. I swear that man has spidey-senses and can tell as soon as I put my foot in the stirrup. The street could have been completely quiet when I go to the barn, and as soon as I go out to ride, he pops up like a really loud mosquito you're not allowed to swat. He's a nice man, but I know I've cussed him out in my brain more times than I can count. Today I won some kind of "perfect conditions" lotto--all things were in my favor. She did what I asked, even throwing in an automatic lead change as a bonus, until we both ran out of steam.
When I ride, littlest Ohboy sits in the yard with one of his beloved Angry Birds and the iPad, content to watch. Or at least he's being patient enough to wait without complaining. That little guy is better to me than I deserve. I always ask him if he wants to ride. Usually he says no, today he said yes. While we waited for the bus, I walked my mare around with little guy holding onto the front of my saddle. He was happy; she was ready to be done with all of us and eat some grass.
As soon as the bus dropped off 2 and 3, they came squealing into the yard. Ohboy 3 was mad because I would not drive him to the house (because I was still putting my horse stuff away), and he was not interested in walking to the house. He was jumping and throwing fits, slamming his backpack into things. I demanded (by counting to three) he ride the horse--poor horse--for four loops around the yard. It settled him down enough so that by the time we finish he was no longer screaming, but humming to himself instead. His feet touched the ground and he was okay for a few minutes until he realized that Ohboy 4 had the iPad and he wouldn't get a turn. At the end of the yard, next to the path that runs up to our private road, I saw Ohboy 3 and 4 in a pathetic competition of who could throw themselves onto the ground and wail the hardest. My horse was loose, but she was happy to eat the green grass, so I walked to them and tried to figure out what the problem was. I stopped having workable solutions years ago.
I sent Ohboy 3 home with the iPad, and Ohboy 4 was reduced to random grunting in lieu of words. The only thing that broke him out of his funk was asking if he'd like to give the horsey a treat. He did! Smiles abound!
When I reached the house, Ohboy 3 was famished. I made them all popcorn for a treat, but it was not enough. He wanted something else. I was not fast enough and he laid down to sleep in his room. I shouldn't have let him sleep, but I did for a little bit, anyway, because it was quiet. He'd been this way all day, based on word from his first-grade teacher.
Teenage Ohboy (1) was playing video games in his room. He was a couple days behind on his school work, and bolted from the house when I confronted him about it and confiscated his technology. Fourteen is a miserable age, and I wonder if we will all survive it with even a sliver of sanity remaining.
Ohboy 2 had spelling homework. He hates spelling (but loves writing, like his mama!), and he growled and kicked the cabinet the whole time. They are only learning six words at a time, and except for transposing some of the letters, he's got this. Spare me the drama.
The boys were all picking on each other, playing with toys they don't actually want to play with just to hear the other kid scream. Mr. Ohboy had been gone for 11 hours today, with no sign of return. The zen I had from riding was sucked from my soul, and I'm suddenly acutely missing Moe again, which is random. I realize that, on some very basic level, he was the steady person in my life. I could always count on him being the very same, all day every day, and always excited to see me and spend time with me. He never hit me with a backpack or called me an idiot, not even once.
This will all pass. Someday I'll be missing this. Riiiiight?
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Blocked
This endless blank screen is paralyzing.
This silence is suffocating.
At the end of the day once again, and I haven't opened this gift.
A terrible waste.
This silence is suffocating.
At the end of the day once again, and I haven't opened this gift.
A terrible waste.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
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