It’s been a while

Sometimes I have this great urge to write something. The frustration I feel when I cannot is overwhelming. Almost to the point of wanting to say, ‘forget it, I never have time for it.’

The last few days have been terrible. Ethan with his virus of some kind, causing fever spikes of close to 104, crying and whining almost all the time makes life a little hard for me. Logan has a really bad attitude so much of the time. Whining and throwing tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. It drives me nuts, and sometimes I just want to scream at them. ‘get a grip! it’s not the end of the world!’

But they are children and have no way of understanding me, other than I just yelled at them. So, I keep my voice as calm as possible, soothe when needed and stand firm in my decisions. All too often, I just want to crawl into the corner of the room, put my face in my hands and cry it out. Something I just don’t do very often. I actually called my sister crying the other day on the way home from the Dr’s office. I was so worried about Ethan and so frustrated with my husband not being able to understand any of how I am feeling. I think she was very surprised, but she listened to me whine, and somehow, that made it a little better. I love my sisters, and I miss being able to drive over to their homes whenever I felt like it. Just a quick visit to say hi, or to hang out. Trying to figure out a new recipe for cookies, to watch a lame movie or some kind of crafty thing. Now, the 5 1/2 hour drive just wipes me out. Taking the boys and the dog is a daunting task for even a sane person. Which I am far from. I thouroughly enjoyed myself while I was down there, but when it came time to leave, the sense of lonliness came back almost immediately. I know I ahev a couple of friends here, but none of them understand my like my sisters do. None of them know my quirks and zany habits. And I hesitate to show them that side of me. Again back to the scared to make friends thing… I get scared to show them what I am really like, for fear that they will think I am nuts and not want to see me again.

Ah, the joys of insecurity. Those wonderful self defeating thoughts that swim through my mind in a constant state of awareness.

I should be writing on my novel. I know it. But the whine of my mind is not in it. This is the first time in weeks that I have more than 5 minutes to write.

I should be out in the garden, or cleaning one of the rooms in my very messy house.

Blah blah blah…  Go away self critic.

The emails

As of a month or so ago, I became the assistant organizer to the writers group that I am a member of, and already the treasurer. I was super excited about being able to help, promote and come up with new ideas. Ben appreciates the help. But little does he know one tiny idiotic move on my part can create a plethera of emails that comtinue to hit every member of the groups email inboxes..

Next week we have a guest speaker coming, author Grant Blackwood. I have been trying for a few days to get all the details together so I can post the meeting on our meetup.com webpage. Hoping that the sooner I have it posted, the more people will come. After getting all the details from the author, the owner of the location and Ben, my mind begins to whirl. Ambition takes over, I want to make SURE that people will come. All morning I had been emailing another member regarding his play I was critiquing for him. He happens to work at a local newspaper.  So I asked him if his paper had a spot for upcoming events or announcements. A place that I might stick a blurb in about our upcoming meeting/guest speaker. Something that might assure we have a good attendance, and hopefully promote Northern Colorado Writers Group.  After realizing that people might have to sign up to RSVP to the meeting, I wonder if I should put an email in the notice. One that people could just email how many would be coming with them and I could keep track of how many were coming, since seating was limited. After searching through the organizer menus and whatnot on meetup’s page, I find an email address. OH! I think. This must be the one that goes just to the organizers. But, just to make sure, I send an email to it.

Not more that two minutes later, the emails flood in. I replied to some funny ones with what I though was a witty response. Only to later realize that when you hit ‘reply’ it goes back to ALL of the members. Oh dear god.

I think there was a total of 15 emails that some people came home to last night. As of this morning two people have clicked on reply, so the humiliation continues. I have to laugh, cause if I don’t I will never be able to face any of these people again.

Here are some of the resonses that I thought were funny:

me: Ok, it goes to all of us. Never mind. 

 G: OK. . . .put me back on. . .  

me: I was looking for an email that would only go to organizers for people who wanted to come to a meeting but not join… this wasn’t it.
What should I put you back on?

That one went to everyone… errrr. So I send out an email apologizing for inundating their inboxes with my lunacy, explaining about how I happened to miss the text at the end saying ‘if you click reply, it will go to all members on the meeetup mailing list.’

These next ones I had figured out my mistake and replied to their personal emails…

JW: I’m not you.

me: Thanks.
What a mess that was, and probably still is!

J:I am not you, nor am I a part of the you that is “us”. But it was still great to hear from you us’s…

R: I am not you…but I might be you in a parallel world…oh oh, the
possibilities about, BWAAHAHAAHAHAAAHAHAAA  ( <—– diabolical
laughter )

me: Oh god, this is getting to be hilarious. I keep hitting the reply button and sending yet another stupid email out to the ENTIRE group….
hmmm my alter ego? my dark side twin ( insert evil laughter here)
possibilities are endless….

R: We forgive you…what are you cooking at the next meeting for us all?

:0

me:Cooking up? Well, if you mean that I am cooking up a plot to have you all worship me as your leader before we drink some kool aid…
If you mean food, I’m not cooking anything. This time. There is a coffee shop right there…

P: It has been an interesting string of emails….sounds like a good story plot.  The subconscious forwarding of her innermost secrets?

Anyways, you get the point…. What a fiasco. Oh well, It will be a while before I can forget about this one. I will be reminded of my dumbass move because as each member checks his/her email, they will find the messages and I know there will be a few more that don’t see that wonderful little message at the bottom of the email.

Please Note: If you hit “REPLY”, your message will be sent to everyone on
this mailing list

 

I don’t wanna grow up

The sound of rain pelting Ethan’s window coming through the monitor is filling the room. It’s kind of a tinny, crackly noise. Every once and a while a snort or a snore comes through loud and clear. He’s a little snotty right now, so his nose gets plugged every once and a while. Logan is up in his room listening to music and creating some kind of race car with legos. I have a cup of hot chocolate on my desk next to me, the washer and dryer are going. I cleaned the fish tank this morning. (I had some kind of algae growth that would not go away. So I bleached everything. And while trying to rinse the bleach out of the tank, it cracked. A nice big crack on the side. Dammit. So I went to the store to buy a new one… Only ten bucks. But it still makes me mad that I broke it.) My writing exercise for tonight’s writers meeting is done. Dishes are clean, living room picked up. I feel like I accomplished a lot. I know I did.

But why do I still have the feeling like something is missing. Like I need to try to cram more into my already crammed lifestyle. But I am trying to downsize that. I want to make more time for the things I really need to do. The things I love to do.  I feel like if I have too much going on, I will speed through each one, and miss something.

I wanted to go back to work. Because I loved my job, I really did. But I know I need wait a while. I need to be a mom right now. So, I stay at home, every day. I spend 4 days with just me and the boys. The weekends are something I treasure, since that’s when I acutally have someone else here to help me with the boys, and for adult companionship and conversation.

I wonder how I can have no clue what I want to do with my life yet I have so many things I want to do. I wan to spend more time reading, writing, crocheting, sewing, hiking, climbing, playing with the boys…. The list goes on and on. But when you really get down to the nitty gritty, I don’t have a clue what to do with myself in the future… You know, when I grow up.

 

Writing assignment #?

This exercise was to think of an experience you had in a nursing home and write about it from the other persons point of view.

This was harder than I thought it would be. Because I had to make up some things about Maxine, because I never really got to talk to her much.

 

 

I hate these darn peas. Maxine thought as she pushed them around on her plate. I wish that young man in the kitchen would spice up these meals. They are just so bland, so plain. Oh I know he’s just doing his job. Just like the rest of the people in this God forsaken place. No one really takes pride in their work. Not like I did. I made sure I did a good job at whatever I was doing, whether it was mopping a floor or filing a report for Mr. Shyster lawyer. 

Her husband, Arnold, had left a few minutes earlier after they spent the entire meal yelling and arguing. Maxine didn’t want to be there. She missed him, wished she could go home to live with him. Or maybe he could come live with her. 50 years of marriage makes a person used to the other, the closeness, the companionship. 

Taking small bites of chicken and chewing them 50 times each she tried to finish her dinner before they came to wheel her away. The kitchen staff was already out clearing the dirty dishes and glasses from the empty tables. Maxine was always one of the last to finish.

Chewing the last bite of the over peppered chicken she watched as the new kitchen girl cleared trays and plates, politely asking other residents if they were finished with their meals. She had been walking out of the kitchen when Arnold was leaving, his last words accompanied by a grunt as his gnarled hands flew to sign good bye to her. Maxine had watched the girls eyes widen with shock. Most of them were surprised to find out that both she and her husband were deaf mutes. She waited to see if the girl would take the plates without asking or raise her voice to ask if she was done with dinner, as most did. As if yelling would make her hear it.

Watching her while she cleared the table next to hers, she noticed that the girl smiled at the flirtations of the man occupying it.  The smile reached her eyes, which was surprising. Most pasted a smile on their face as they went through their tasks, thinking that no one would notice the façade they tried to portray. The smile brightened the face that was dominated by large blue eyes.  Pushing the cart to her table, the girl made eye contact with Maxine and smiled.  She knew her mouth opened a bit in shock when the girl’s hands came up and fumbled through each letter of “Are you finished?”

The girl said the words as well; mouthing them in a way that she was sure made it easier to read. 

My goodness, what is this? Thought Maxine. The girl was chewing her lower lip while signing her name, Melissa. She may only know the alphabet, but at least she is trying. Maxine was touched by this rare display of kindness and signed back, “Almost.”

Using her spoon to scoop up mashed potatoes she ate the last bite of her food and then pushed her plate across the table with a smile.

The next evening Maxine sat at her usual table, watching other residents eat their dinners. Arnold wasn’t coming tonight so her table was empty. Whoever did the seating arrangements must have felt that since she couldn’t have a conversation with any of the other residents, that she wouldn’t mind sitting at a table by herself.  Stupid people, never thinking beyond what they can’t understand. Maxine thought. If only they would ask me if I like sitting alone, if I mind that they seat me facing away from the window.

A rattling cart made her turn and look down the hallway. It was Melissa, pulling one of the heavy food tray carts out of the kitchen. She must be taking dinner to those in jail. She liked to think of those behind locked doors as being in jail. There was nothing else to look at besides bulletin boards with things pasted onto them, so she watched Melissa pull the cart down the hallway, stop at a door, take out a set of keys, unlock the door and pull the cart through.

Dinner tonight was served by the tall Barbie one. The smell of cigarettes followed her throughout the room. Tonight she had pink hair. She smiled sometimes too.

Maxine ate her dinner watching the hallway for Melissa to come back with an empty cart, hoping that she would help Barbie clear the dinner plates.  Maybe I can show her more sign language since it seems all she knows is the alphabet.

Melissa and Barbie both came out of the kitchen to clear tables. Maxine smiled as they came by her table. They both made eye contact with her and smiled back.

Maxine watched as the girls moved about the dining room, clearing tables talking with residents and making them laugh.

What a difference, these two, she thought. They care, really care. Not like so much of the staff here. I hope they work here for a while.

Melissa made her way around the room stopping lastly at Maxine’s to carefully sign “Are you done?”

Maxine smiled and signed “Not yet.” Pointing at the cart and the kitchen, Melissa signed “I’ll be back”

Slowly eating her dinner, Maxine savored each bite. She liked the way the cook made tonight’s meal of spaghetti and meatballs. It must be the tall skinny one, she thought. He makes good food sometimes.

“LET’S GO MAXINE!”

It was one of the nurses, and she didn’t bother to see if Maxine was done with her dinner. Or that she was reaching for her glass to take a sip of water. Melissa had just come put of the kitchen carrying a plastic tub, watching in shock as the nurse, detached and businesslike, flipped Maxine’s feet into the rests on the wheelchair, unlocked the wheels and pulled her away from the table. Yelling and banging on the arms of her chair, Maxine tried in vain to make the nurse listen. Suddenly, the nurse stopped. Maxine watched and tried to read lips as Melissa started telling the nurse that she had asked if Maxine was done, and she wasn’t. She pointed at a table on the other side of the room where three men were sitting, talking. All were done with their meals.  The look on the nurse’s face was deadly as she turned around to shove Maxine’s wheelchair back to the table and stomp off to the table of men.

Smiling, Melissa signed “Now you can finish”. Maxine felt tears come to her eyes as she signed “Thank you” and reached over to grab Melissa’s hand and give it a squeeze. Turning to her plate, she ate the rest of her meal while tears of joy blurred her vision.

Maybe huslter will hire me.

I try to write humorous things. unfortunately, most of my writing tends to be on the depressing side. With a little bit of whine, diarrhea of the mouth and some sarcastic self defeating words.

I want to be a writer, publish novels. So I try to challenge myself in my writing styles. Write about different things, strange subjects. someone at my writers group encouraged me to write something that was very difficult for me. It was embarrasing. I read all these romance novels. But, every time that I even went that direction with writing, I immediately got embarrassed and couldn’t write any more. He laughed at me. Why should writing a scene about someone eating an apple be any different than two people making love? Uh, shit I dunno. Cause I don’t like describing things with the words most books use. They make me laugh.

Yesterday, I read an entire book in 2 hours. When I was done, I was angry with myself for not making the book last longer. But I also felt a sense of failure. The author’s writing style was so different from mine, and I felt inferior. Then I thought about what was suggested to me to write. So I sat down in my office chair and wrote it. I wrote a sex scene. It was much easier that I thought. For some reason, I was able to put aside the blocks I had set up about writing.  I don’t know if I will ever let anyone read it. But it is a start, right?

Even though I don’t intend to write romance novels, I feel like I made a step towards knocking down some of the mental blocks I have set up about writing. I feel accomplished, and I like that. Next step? I dunno.  I don’t think I’ll be submitting anything to Hustler magazine though.

Feelings

Being human, we have these things that make us act a certain way. Feelings. Personally, I’d like to throw mine out and get a new set. Most think that I don’t take offense to things. Bullshit. I do, but why the hell should I say it does. If I feel that discussing it might solve a problem, then I bring it up. But most of the time, I keep it to myself. Why? Because nine times out of ten I took offense to something that wasn’t meant how I took it.

Then we move on to hurt feelings because of what I didn’t to to make someone else happy. Now this can go off into another tangent on people pleasing. I try my hardest to make sure I don’t hurt any feelings of others, go out of my way to be there for others. But you know what? I don’t get that back. People tell me they will call, I never hear back. I tell someone I thought I could count on that things are rough right now and I really need someone to talk to, to whine to. In person, not on the phone. and I get blown off. What the heck.

It is thurday evening, and I have an hour before I go to my writers meeting, where I hope to have some adult contact, that’s not family. I am ready to tear my hair out because my boys are fighting.  With me, the dog, the cat, each other… I feel like I am a terrible mom when my oldest tells me that Im a mean mom and he hates me. Jesus. I can’t even finish writing, i have to go break up a fight before it escalates to someone getting hurt…

the stereo

Mom is moving in with her boyfriend. A big step for her. It is also a strange step. His house is already furnished, he has everything a house could need. So that leaves mom with a lot of things that she doesn’t need anymore… So she gave me her stereo. After living with us for a few months, I guess she wasn’t the only one that got frustrated with our 10 year old stereo that won’t even play cassette tapes. After helping her pack up some of her things, I loaded the very nice home theater system into my car.

After bringing it into the house I sat on the couch for a few minutes trying to think of how I was going to fit yet another thing up on the shelf with the dvd player and vcr. Yes, we still have and use VHS tapes. Our old stereo fit into this nice little hole in the dresser we are using as an entertainment center.  I take everything off the shelf because the new one is the largest of the bunch, and must go on the bottom. It is then that I hack and cough at the dust that comes flying off everything. Holy crap, I thought I just cleaned up here.. Oh wait, no… it’s been a while. After cleaning everything and the shelf, I begin to stack things up. Stereo, VCR, DVD. Ok, it’s not too ridiculous. But the stereo is longer than the shelf and hangs off the front. No problem, look these two shot glasses fit ever so nicely between it and the TV. Perfect. Now begins the wonderful task of plugging it all in to each other. After an hour of plugging and unplugging I get it right. I think at the end I was trying the same damn thing over and over again. Just unplugging it all and then starting over, but plugging those damn things back in the same places. It was only then that I realized I have the cable plugged into the DVD and it was supposed to go into the VCR. sheesh.

It’s nice to be able to listen to the radio and CD’s again on a nice sound system. Even if it means I have a another stupid remote control to figure out….

Lonely

Being lonely stinks. For so long I have considered myself somewhat of a loner. Mostly out of self defense, since I found being friends with people just ended up hurting in the end. Since being married, I have become accustomed to the other person in the house. The boys are great to have, don’t get me wrong. But too much of the time I find myself craving conversation with an adult. So I call everyone in my cell phone address book. Most people are working, so I leave messages. Or I just hang up, hoping I didn’t get them in trouble or something. I become slightly depressed. Wondering if I am at the end of my rope, this being alone thing. I think that if I could just talk to someone on the phone it would be better. Then a day goes by where I talk to everyone that I had called earlier in the day or the day before. And surprisingly, I feel worse. I crave not just conversation, but talking to that person, seeing them smile when I tell them about Logan’s latest saying. Companionship, after almost 10 years of marriage, is never something I thought I would take for granted. Snuggling on the couch and talking after the boys have been put to bed, waking up in the morning to that terrible morning breath or even arguing over little details like should we have bacon or sausage for breakfast seem so much more important to me than I ever thought. Today his boss informed him that he has to have his part of the new building done by July 15th. Which more than likely means he will be working 50 hour weeks, and that leaves very little time to spend with his family. He’s three hours away. At least Logan only has 2.5 weeks of school left. Then we can go stay with him during the week.

I find myself looking forward to my writers meetings with much more enthusiasm than the other members. I want to reach out to other members, hopefully start a new friendship. But I am the only stay at home mom. Others have work, family, other friends. I don’t fit in.

Whew. That seems entirely too depressing to have come out of my brain…

 I must work on another post, something more upbeat…

 

Something or another

I have spent so much time worrying over what other people might think of me and not enough time thinking about what I think of me. That sounds confusing, but in reality it is nothing more than a people pleasing, low self worth type of behavior. What makes this hard is actually seeing what needs to change and having a difficult time putting to use all the good information that I have been given.

The other night at my writers group meeting, one of my stories was critiqued. It was received well, at least I think it was, and I got a lot of new information and leads to help me with it.  Yet today as I sit down to write, actually having uninterupted time, I burrow myself into a hole of self pity. It makes me disgusted to have it happen, I can see it happening. I know what I am doing and for some sick reason cannot stop it once the wheels have begun to move. I look over what others noted on the pages of my story and wonder if they just said the things they did to be nice and not crush my feelings. I begin to doubt my abilities.  The disgusted feeling is replaced with embarrasment, wondering how in the hell I will ever face these people again. They must think I am an idiot for even thinking that I can write. The feeling then moves on to anger and depression. Realizing that I have dug myself into a hole and not doing anything to stop it.  Then begins the crawling and digging out of the balck hole I so stupidly put myself in. I read and re-read what I have written. Praising myself for the superb descriptions and fairly adequate dialogue. I work my way out, and now I find myself without any creative spark. Nothing is there, not a damn thing to add to the story. A complete and total writer’s block. So, I write here. Spilling out my frustrations. Writing so fast that my fingers are actually keeping up with my mind.  I begin to feel better. Wondering if I will save this or actually post it for others to read. Then I remember I had long ago decided that I would not just save things like this… but post them.  And hopefully someday use the advice that I am bound to get.

 

Coals and Nails

Here is another addition to my book about me….

Something I never was able to realize was that farms and bare feet just don’t mix. There are two instances that I will never forget.

Before we had moved much of our furniture into the house, we lived in a tent in the back yard. It was kind of fun.  We had only been there 2 maybe 3 days and exploring was going to take years, so every morning as soon as it was light we were off on some adventure.  I was playing in front of the shop/garage building where the steps were pretty rickety and unsafe. I don’t remember details before the event, but somehow I managed to step on a nail. I do remember wanting to scream, but nothing would come out of my mouth but little whimpers.  Not really knowing what to do, I yanked the stupid nail out of my foot and watched the blood ooze out. It had gone in pretty deep, I could tell from the red tinge on the nail. It must have been centimeters away from sticking out of the top of my foot. Realizing that I needed help, I hobbled my way into the house where mom was.  She immediately saw something was wrong and helped me to the lawn chair that was in the middle of the dining room. I layed back on the chair as she cleaned my foot and held some paper towels on it to stop the bleeding. After a few minutes she told me to rest my foot on the towels to put pressure on with the weight of my foot. I wearily complied and tried to wish the pain away. Somewhere in my delirous haze, I heard her asking to speak with Dr. Bradley’s nurse. “Oh, no. No, no no no nono.” Was all I could think.  She tells the nurse what had happened, then is obviously listening to what the nurse is saying before answering with “Yes, I already did that.” “No, it did not go through the foot.” ” Yes, the bleeding has stopped.” “Does she need a tetanus shot?” That was all I needed to hear. I flew off that lawn chair and hopped to the door as fast as my wounded foot would let me. No way was I going to get a shot. I hated them. No, I was scared witless of them. There was nothing you could say or do that would change my mind. They were evil, as were doctors. Mom caught me as I went falling out the back door. “You had one last year when you stepped on the saftey pin in the park, you don’t need another one for 9 years. Now come back inside and let me bandage it up.” That was the best news I had ever heard. Releif poured through me as I let her help me back into the chair, where I spent the remainder of the day being pampered.

The farm my parents had bought needed a lot of work. Every where there was scrap wood, metal and junk. The trees surrounding it were in a sad state of neglect. Broken branches littered the ground and hung precariously from high limbs. Dad would pile them up to dry out for burning later. One of the first times he actually lit a pile on fire I was hooked. The whoosh of the fire as it engulfed the wood coated in gasoline was captivating. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.  From that moment on I was addicted, a pyromaniac. Sort of.  I loved watching the fire slowly burn each twig and branch into nothing but hot, red coals. It was fantastic. Walking around it to see all the fire, I didn’t even think about the flaming chunks of wood that popped out of the fire to land in my path. I stepped on one of those hot coals, burning more that half my foot. It is a bit hazy to me what happened next. What I do remember is hopping back to the house and going up to my room, stopping by the kitchen for some ice first. I sat up there watching the blister form wondering how the heck I was ever going to walk again. I don’t know if I ever told mom and dad. How I managed that, I don’t know. What I do remember is that I never walked barefoot around a fire again.