Write or Sleep? It Depends on the Chair

asdfjkl;asdfjkl;asdfjkl;asdfjk;asdfjk;asdfjkl;asdfjkl;  

I composed this masterpiece one day a few weeks ago, sitting in a recliner with the laptop on my lap. It afforded me a short walk down memory lane, thinking of my typing teacher at Fairhope High School (Miss Thomas), and the buns-numbingly boring job of calling out individual letters of the alphabet for the class to translate into keystrokes on paper. She was a nice lady and I possess one of my few useful skill thanks to her efforts.


But I couldn't turn it into a blog, or a poem, or anything else useful. Reclining in the La-Z-Boy, with two dogs sharing my lap with the laptop, the old typing exercise didn't cause the juices of creativity to come gushing out. In fact, shortly after composing "asdfjkl;," I think I dozed off.


A few days later I was stationed across the family room in my overstuffed chair, with a dog in my lap, a dog on the ottoman and the laptop perched awkwardly on the edge of the chest next to me. At my feet lay another dog, next to my sewing basket. A pouch containing supplies for a much-needed manicure sat on top of a huge stack of books I'm supposedly reading. Surrounded by so many competing interests, I sat with my blog composition page open for several minutes, before typing this:




"You will not make me do that. There is no way you can make me do that. Under no circumstances will you force me to do that."


For some reason, that paragraph was one I always practiced before typing tests. I don't know where it came from, but after 30 years it just sprung from my fingertips.


It's pleasant to type, but it makes for a pretty dull blog entry. Unsure of what to do next, I think I took a short nap.


Inspiration is a fleeting thing. Some days, I have to open five or six tabs to handle all the writing ideas I have. Other days are just "asdfjkl;" days. Sometimes I'm distracted by my surroundings, other days I'm distracted by my thoughts, and occasionally (but not often), I have something better to do than sit at the computer.


A couple of weeks ago, I was working on an idea for a blog that I submitted to a website. I was very excited at the opportunity to write for a different audience, one full of strangers who aren't already tired of my schtick. I put myself under lots of unnecessary pressure and yelled at people and dogs who tried to talk to me while I "worked." I finally moved upstairs to the big library desk in my bedroom. Sitting on a hard wooden desk chair, I quickly made several pages of hand-written notes, gathered some pictures and began to write the piece, beginning to end, until I was done.


A few days later, I sat down to start selecting blogs for editing to go in a collection for a book. Mary and Camille were both writing on their respective computers in the living room, so I decided to set up shop in a huge, overstuffed chair we have in there. I wanted to chat with the girls while I worked, since we were planning spring break activities. I got a comfy blanket, a cup of decaf , a dog to warm my feet, my laptop and a notebook. Not only did I not get any work done, I don't think I talked much to the girls, and I also fell asleep there and spent the entire night, fully clothed, upright, my laptop keeping me warm in that cushy chair.




While I was in Virginia on spring break, I took my trusty notebook and favorite pen out on the deck of the rental house. The beautiful scenery of the Blue Ridge Mountains surrounded me, there was a light breeze, the sun was warm overhead, and I had an Adirondack chair and stool set up to enjoy the vista. I made some notes about our vacation activities up to that point, watched some bird activity through the binoculars, ate a cup of yogurt, and pondered blog topics. The combination of physical relaxation and mental effort made my eyes close, and soon I was...you guessed it...napping.

This pattern has been emerging for months now probably evident if I'd been paying attention. I make a plan to do some writing, get nice and comfortable, and then don't write, because I haven't figured out how to write in my sleep. I think I've figured out the culprit in my occasional writer's block:

Comfortable chairs

The last few days I've been very productive. I've worked on several of my long-term commitment projects, set up my new blog, and cranked out a few pieces I've been working on for weeks. I've done all this writing at my kitchen counter, on a straight-back barstool with a small cushion. The laptop doesn't sit on my lap, but on the counter, and my feet aren't pointing at the ceiling, they are underneath me, perched on rungs and cold from lack of dog heat.


I think it is ironic that it took me this long to realize that what applies to others should apply to me as well. I encourage my kids to do their homework at a table or desk, with minimal distractions, with an attitude of attentiveness and a goal of getting it done. Why did I think I could undertake the "job" of being a writer slumped in a club chair, covered in animals?


My new approach will be to use each of my comfortable chairs for specific activities. The club chair is ideal for reading and sewing. The recliners are nice for watching TV. The overstuffed chair is perfectly situated for visiting with the girls in the evening, away from the kitchen and the TV.


And my current perch, the kitchen island, allows for quiet background music, monitoring the progress of the meal I'm cooking, and offers a view of the kitchen sink, some streaky windows and the gorgeous expanse of my backyard.

I think this spot works for me.

Seventeen Years Ago Today...

(Author's note: Publication of this installment was delayed because of software issues, writer infirmities, multiple birthday celebrations and solar flares. We regret any inconvenience this delay may have caused. MMA)

Seventeen years ago today, I was in labor with my first child. The process of giving birth was spread out over several days, but Mary Kathleen did eventually get born. She spent her alleged "due date"  swimming around, eventually turning wrong-side up, and beginning her lifelong commitment to jumping in feet first and approaching life bass-ackwards.


If that comment sounds a little cruel, I promise that my darling daughter knows how lovingly it is intended. Because Mary Kathleen has never been normal. She has certainly never been boring. She has never been predictable. She has always been a girl in possession of her own plan, her own vision, her own way of doing things. As a child, her teacher conferences always seemed to include a reference to "marching to her own drummer," to explain her unique tendencies. I always want to say, "Yeah, but you should have seen her before she was born!"

Having decided she wasn't interested in being born on her due date, she changed directions, presumably to take over the fractional remainder of my torso that wasn't already full of baby and baby-nurturing parts. My doctor attempted to invert her by a pushing, twisting process that was fearfully unpleasant, but the kid wouldn't budge, hinting at her future loveable stubbornness.

Since the doctor was a man, and he'd never had a full-term baby stuffed from his ribcage to his bladder, he assumed more force was needed. He enlisted the help of another doctor, and they performed a 4-handed "external version," which was less painful than actual childbirth, but only just.

So I was ready for this kid to get on with it.  I had the name, the crib, the diapers, all I needed now was the baby.  When I went home that Thursday, (March 16, 1995), with a correctly positioned baby in my belly, I was more than ready to have labor commence. And commence it did.  On Friday she used her magic baby powers and broke my water, and we were on our way to the mythical moment of "labor." And what a moment it was! It was the moment that actually lasted 4 full days.

Naturally friendly, Mary was born waving!

I could share many more details of baby-birthing, but I'll save the rest of the sordid tale for later. Suffice to say that Mary Kathleen came into the world Tuesday, March 21 at 10:53pm, after a protracted struggle, and she was VERY UPSET when she got here. Like most exhausted young children, she laid in my arms and screamed bloody murder for the first few minutes of her terrestrial existence. At long last, she slept. This was the first of many nights spent thusly. But in spite of her unpleasant behavior, we decided to keep her.

In the ensuing 17 years, she has rarely given me any reason to complain about her behavior. Once she got over her unpleasant birth experience, she became the most amazing little person and quite a lovely companion. She was, however, a challenge to any hope of a peaceful existence. Walking at 8 months, her learning curve was so steep that she was battered and bruised at 9 months. There was no sitting still, no quiet contemplation in the playpen, no peacefully observing Mommy fold laundry while safely strapped into a seat. No, life with toddler Mary Kathleen had one dynamic - she led, others followed.

At about 16 months of age, she seemed to jump the gun on the "terrible twos." I was afraid she was heading for one of those unpleasant phases that cause mothers to call their children brats and try to leave them with grandparents for long weekends. But what appeared at first to be meaningless tantrums, soon turned out to be fury at our lack of understanding. She was trying to communicate, but no one could keep up. Once we figured out that she was demanding answers, and lots of them, about her surroundings, we discovered how to head off nasty behavior.

When she acquired a little sister, Mary greatly expanded her skill-set and helped in many ways. Having a baby to boss around was a never-ending novelty for a sister 2.5 years older. Somehow, through all the years and phases of childhood, my two girls have almost always gotten along. Camille has always been willing to offer her sister the admiration and worship older siblings are wont to command (I have personal experience with this role.) And Mary spent hours of effort molding Camille into the playmate and friend she wanted her to be.


Childhood is never easy, and hers was no exception. Mary has weathered all the same growing pains as many other children, and  enters these waning days of childhood with her head on straight. She never presented any lasting behavior problems. She's always been kind to a fault and sensitive to the feelings of others.

Thankfully, her twin loves of art and animals carried her through many a trying situation. She loves animals and has had so many pets I've lost count. She's volunteered at the pet shelter for nearly 5 years. And she's probably one of the most successful pet-sitters in our neighborhood.


At the age of 3 she began drawing pictures of anything and everything, sometimes 40 or 50 pictures per day. At age 5 she announced she she was going to be an artist, and those who know her today know she held fast to that goal. She doesn't know if she wants to make a career out of her talent, but she is driven to create on a basic level, and couldn't stop telling stories with her pictures if she tried. She has a single-mindedness that adults (read: parents and teachers) mistake for inattentive tunnel-vision; what she ever liked, she still likes, be it a stuffed animal or a cartoon, a color or a friend. Her love knows no timetable, and maturity, instead of making her cast off childish things, has perhaps made her value her childhood loves even more. What she loves, she loves unconditionally. And that's forever.


My eldest daughter has just one more year of high school, then she will move on to another stage of growth. Like every other transition and challenge she's faced, she'll be scared and indecisive, she'll want to chart her own course, but she'll be constantly seeking reassurance. Like the fleeting regret caused by a bad haircut or a course choice that is just too difficult, she'll make a few mistakes along the way. I devoutly hope her mistakes are not as stupid and avoidable as mine were, but I don't get to choose her problems and tell her how to solve them in advance. The best I can wish for is that she graduates from the school of hard knock with fewer bumps than I sustained.

My hope for her is that her life with our family has been one of building strength and character, and developing inner resources for the challenging years ahead. I hope her future disappointments are tempered by the assurance that things have always gotten better with time and a good night's sleep. I hope that her confusing choices are resolved by engaging her brain and listening to her conscience, for that strategy has not steered her wrong so far. I hope that she will still ask us to weigh in when major decisions loom in her path - because I know that I'll always want to be involved, but it won't always be my place to do so. And I hope that she remembers to value herself, and try to shake off the criticism she's sure to experience, without letting it bring her down.



Mary, you have a heart of incomparable tenderness and you are a devoted friend to many. I'm awestruck by your talent, humbled by your devotion and honored that I get to claim you as my daughter. I'm happy to see you growing up, your horizons expanding, but I hope you'll always keep your home and your family in your heart.

Help! A Kardashian Stole My Husband!

At least I think she is a Kardashian.

And when I say she stole him, I don't mean it has actually happened yet.  But I'm worried that it will.

You see, infidelity is everywhere.  Broken marriages are the norm.  And celebrities are often a major  cause of these breakups.

Now when I say celebrities, it's not possible for me to be specific, because with only a few exceptions, I cannot tell celebrities apart.  But I know if they have a reality show, a clothing line or a cologne named after them, they are probably a homewrecker.

In case you think I'm being hard on today's celebrities, who probably work as hard at unearned fame as celebrities of previous generations, I'll harken back a few decades for the first celebrity scandal of which I have any memory.  Elizabeth Taylor was a husband-stealer from way back, and I can remember the grown-ups talking about her shameless immorality and homewrecking ways. I suppose even back then you could parlay your notoriety into profit.  It's not a new gimmick, and God only knows how much she made off that stinky "White Diamonds" scent, created after she ballooned up to 225 pounds, and left her 14th husband at rehab.  I know I'm speaking ill of a dead legend, and let me say that when it comes to her movies, I'm a huge fan.  But her morals and comportment left something to be desired, at least in her younger years.  (But I could say the same thing about myself, so...)

Still, for some celebrities, it's not enough that they have 6 million friends on Facebook, and fan clubs and stalkers and magazines with their picture on the cover.  What they really want for their very own is someone else's spouse.  Preferably someone also rich and famous, but so long as they are happily married to someone else, they are a potential love interest/headline grabber for the celebrity.

And I, as the ultimate head-in-the-sand expert on celebrities, have found the whole Kardashian phenomenon inescapable.  I watch news, weather and history on TV, but I still know about the 72 day (or was it 72 hour?) marriage that involved a Kardashian girl.  Without knowing where they came from or what they actually do, I cannot seem to go a full day without some mention of a Kardashian in my hearing.  Therefore they must love publicity.  And one of the best ways to get publicity is to steal someone else's husband.  Which is why I'm worried that one day my children and I will be interviewed by (*insert popular search name here*), sobbing about how whichever socialite/model/businesswoman stole my man, for spite and headlines.

Now that I've given this topic a thorough going over, without one single concrete example or peer-reviewed reference, I can share the real reason for my Kardashian concerns.  This quickly written, poorly edited essay is a test to see if the repeated use of the word "Kardashian" will increase traffic to my blog.  But just to keep things interesting, let me tell you the made-up stuff my husband is doing that makes me think he's a target for an illicit affair with a Kardashian:

1.  He got his hair cut without being told.
2.  He asked me to iron his nicest shirt two weeks in a row.
3.  He keeps saying he needs to get in shape.
4.  He's on the computer "working" at all hours of the night.
5.  He remembered to put the seat down.
6.  I found a plastic comb in the center console of his car.
7.  He looked up at the TV when the 1-800-FLOWERS commercial came on.

If you were me, wouldn't you be in agonies of suspicion?  I feel some detective work is in order.  I need to find out who these Kardashians really are, and figure out how they are messing with my husband.

According to Wikipedia, the final word on such matters, the surname Kardashian is Armenian and means "stone carver."  Only one family with that surname is featured, and in that family, there are three daughters who all seem to have the same jobs: socialite, model and businesswoman.  So it's going to be hard to tell them apart by their profession alone.  Wikipedia also warns that this family, while unusual, should not be confused with the Cardassians, an alien race from Star Trek.  That's helpful

But I'll need Google images to see who I'm really dealing with.  Here they are, the tramps:

From your left to right, that's Kourtney, Kim and Khloe.  Okay, they are cute and they airbrush nicely, but what right does that give any of them to propose a wild affair with my husband?  He's really busy, doesn't like to get dressed up and he's almost always broke.  Why can't this mystery sister chase someone else's husband?  There are plenty of celebrity men who seem to have no problems cheating on their devoted spouses - chase one of them!  I'm thinking Ashton Kutcher, I'm thinking Jesse James, in fact, I need a column to do justice to this list:
Jude Law
Eddie Murphy
Blake Shelton
Ethan Hawke
Kobe Bryant
Jack Nicholson
Usher
Randy Travis
Arnold Schwarzzenegger
Tiger Woods
Mel Gibson
Donald Trump
John Edwards

Not that women don't do their share of cheating - celebrities and otherwise.  I'm only focusing on the men because, if the Kardashians are looking for a married man with an demonstrable record of cheating, there is no shortage.  They have no need to come bothering nice husbands like yours and mine - you know, the terrified, conforming, henpecked kind.

 So if anyone sees any of these pathetic bimbos hanging around my town, let me know.  They shouldn't be hard to spot, since their cleavage seems to arrive at their destination a few seconds before the rest of them.  They are clearly not the kind of girls who make you think "Hoosier resident;" more like "hooters investment." Also, if you see a Kardashian of any description at any of Eric's  haunts, like Ace Hardware, Tractor Supply Store, Bass Pro Shop, or at the Pitt Stop in downtown Granger (Wednesday is $1 Bud night), notify me right away.  I'll whup all three of these stilettoed socialites to keep my Prince Charming safe from their immoral, yet exquisitely manicured clutches.  I'll strike out for common decency and family values, helping to keep everyone's Everyman husband safe from Hollywood hussies and their ilk.

And with any luck, maybe I'll get my picture in the paper, which should really help my blog traffic.

Those Who Can't, Blog.

I've decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month this year.  Considering my abysmal record of consistency in blog-production, I expect to stink and fail, but I intend to give it a go.  After all, stinkage and failure are nothing new for me.  Both daughters are taking the challenge, too, so we are approaching it as a lazy yet meaningful family activity.

Older daughter Mary has been involved in this national creative writing effort for the last two years.  When she first began telling us about it, I thought it was a ploy her English teacher cooked up to trick the class into experimental writing.  Turns out, it really is a growing, coordinated movement intended to connect novice, struggling or insecure novel-writers and create a supportive, encouraging atmosphere that will allow anyone to produce a 50,000 word novel, or fraction of one, in 30 days. (Note how my list-heavy, adjective-laden prose and run-on sentences are just bursting onto the page already!)   Check out the detailed NaNoWriMo event webpage at http://www.nanowrimo.org/.

Now, since I never seem to start anything on time, I'm sitting down this morning, November 1, the first day of NaNoWriMo, to begin reading a book that tells how to best succeed at this effort.  In typical illogical fashion, I've decided to write a blog about starting to write a novel, right after I read the book about writing a novel in 30 days.  To add to the irony, it's been about 30 days since I posted a blog entry.  I've almost talked myself out of it already.  I'll make this a short post so I can get on with my reading about writing so I can get on with writing.  Should I write about reading?  Write about writing?  Ugh!

Mary's first year's effort was a disappointment to her - she didn't quite make the 50,000 word mark by November 30th.  I was impressed by her determination and hours of labor.  She says she tried to change her plot in mid-stream and bumped into a dead-end from which she couldn't escape.  I think they call this writer's block in the trade.

However, last year, she read the book No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty, which is designed to prepare the fledgling NaNoWriMo participant for the experience of grinding out approximately 1,600 words per day.

Mary took the lessons in the book to heart, to the point that she can give official-sounding lectures about the book and its principles of draft writing.  She completed the challenge last year and has been editing her novel off and on since then.  When she's done, we will order a few bound copies of her story about good and evil in a feline alternative dimension. She hasn't let me read much yet, but the few parts I've read are very promising.  She has a wonderful, evocative vocabulary and more imagination than anyone I know.  I envy her her early recognition and dedicated use of her creative and artistic gifts.

She convinced Camille and I to pursue the NaNoWriMo challenge this year.  Camille actually wrote a few paragraphs before school this morning.  She has a plot idea that seems to stem from a combination of teenage angst and a fascination with super-powers.  Mary is not working in the cat universe this year, but I still think talking animals figure into her plot idea.  Updates to follow.

And me, well, I'm practicing my considerable skill of avoiding starting something. (What a terrible sentence!)  So after I dig up some suitable pictures to round out this anemic entry, I'll cuddle up with No Plot? No Problem! (click here for an amazon link) and see if I can read 172 pages and write 1,600 words before the girls get home from school.  Because the only thing I like better than impressing my kids is embarrassing them:

Anyway, with kids this cute, do I really need any more accomplishments?

Ten Commandments of a Failed Domestic Diva

Looking around at my house on this peaceful Sunday morning, I'm stunned that I would ever refer to myself as a Domestic Diva, even in jest. From the mushy comforts of my favorite chair, seated twenty feet from my kitchen, I can see piles of some sort of debris on the counter that may actually be bacterial colonies at this point.  My October calendar workpile is leaning precipitously toward sliding off the breakfast table and onto a sticky floor that is insulated with a heavy layer of dog fur. Since I can't work up the moral or hygenic indignation to do anything about this state of affairs, I feel the need to convert my laziness into a haphazard philosophy that can benefit others.  Draw near, Gentle Reader, and learn from my practical strategies and attitude of contentedness:

1.  When there are several unfinished projects taking up needed space around the house, go see a good movie.  (I saw "The Debt" yesterday, leaving behind a house full of cluttered horizontal surfaces.)  A quick procrastinatory dose of escapism makes the mundane seem more manageable.

2.  Never ask your spouse if they need help doing a job you desperately don't want to do.  Examples of this mistake generally involve the yard, basement and/or the garage.  If they ask you, plead "Weaker Sex" status or lack of certified training.  If all else fails, make a vague reference to your "cycle."  That should send them running to a male neighbor for help,

3. When carpet stains reappear, or you notice that a room needs touch-up painting, or your windows are too dirty to see out of, rearrange your furniture.  It takes several days for the novelty to wear off and for you to remember what you were trying to hide.  And once it's hidden, it may as well have disappeared.

4.  Do not waste time or energy trying to train dogs to stay off furniture, or stop barking at other dogs or jumping on people they like.  Find a professional and get a quote for the service.  Then laugh hysterically as you watch your spouse turn blue at the cost of the estimate.  If years of effort have failed, accept that both you and your dogs are stupid and/or lazy, and just give up.

5.  Feel free to leave things out on counters and tables to provide reminders (wink) or "visual cues" (wink wink), but don't pretend those cues hasten the speed those items get attended to and put away.

6.  Cook what you like to eat, and don't spend time trying to get people to eat healthy stuff they hate.  Like you, they'll just sneak the bad stuff the first chance they get.

7.  Corollary to #6:  Cleaning the kitchen after a meal no one liked is 10 times more unpleasant than cleaning a kitchen full of clean plates and empty pots and pans, and much more likely to involve profanity.

8.  Calling friends to talk about how much you dread all the jobs on your to-do list only magnifies the unpleasantness and delays the inevitable.  Try calling a friend to celebrate a completed task.  They'll resent you for it, but it makes more sense.  And write the annoying call on your to-do list so you can check it off too - a win/win!

9.  Basements, upstairs bedrooms and attics are out of sight of visitors for a reason.  Don't ruin it for the rest of us by keeping them clean for anyone but the most important, discerning guests, like your mother-in-law.

10.  If you want to decorate like Martha Stewart, cook like Rachel Ray or exercise like Jillan (what's her last name?), be my guest.  I admire your dedication to excellence.  At one time, I felt that way too, but visible evidence proves it was a fleeting aspiration.  I can finally admit that I like my hodge-podge furniture, slap-dash meals and leisurely strolls on my treadmill.

If you closely follow these Ten Commandments, as I have, you are clearly headed for Housework Hell, or some variation thereof.  However, you are welcome to help me think of a new, more suitable nickname for myself, since "Domestic Diva" has outlived its ironic usefulness.  Right now, I'm leaning toward "Malingering Matron" or "Contented Cow."

Return of the Intermittent Blogger

Back in the spring, I made the rash, definitive statement that I was going to quit goofing off and become a serious, disciplined writer.  I even got my husband's blessing to put concerns of earnings aside and just concentrate on learning to write as an earnest, daily habit rather than a hobby.

I put that statement out there in my blog and got many warm, positive comments.  I was feeling pretty smug about finally figuring out what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I even applied for freelance jobs to help me develop my technical abilities and to benefit from professional editing.

My 50th birthday, complete with the bustle and activity of visitors, travel and parties, occurred in early June.  Immediately after my visitors left, Eric, the girls and I went on vacation.  While relaxing, I worked on some of my unpublished essays and even got a job with one of the online sites I'd applied to (that's a story for another day).  I felt I must be in Harmony with the Universe.  Ever since I'd had that burst of inspiration to just pursue writing to the exclusion of my other half-hearted job efforts, things seemed to be falling into place.  I was on a roll.

Then my mother died.  After a few days of nursing a painful but (we thought) not life-threatening condition, she died very suddenly at the end of June.  This news was a terrible shock, made even harder by the fact that my family is 900 miles away.  Suddenly, Eric, the girls and I were traveling to Alabama to bury my mother and grieve with my many relatives back home.  The other-worldly-ness of that week was like a fog that still hasn't lifted for me.  A return trip a few weeks later also took a toll on me mentally, and I've been unable to write very much since then.

Each time I sit down to compose a post for "Polite Ravings," I start with the full intention of finishing and publishing that idea as soon as I can.  I've always had a self-defeating hesitation to click on the "publish" button, which I've described in a previous blog, but I don't start writing with that hesitation in mind.  It generally develops as I'm trying to neatly summarize my various ideas, points of logic, lesson for the day, or whatever blather I'm trying to recap.

But since my mother's death, and in the confusing aftermath, I've been unable to conclude any of my blogs.  Finishing my thoughts, tying them up with a bow and presenting them as complete and coherent ideas eludes me more than ever.  And I'm not even struggling with my self-imposed "thesis statement/supporting information/conclusion" format.  It's more basic than that.

Writing make me cry.  Writing makes me sad.  Writing makes me miss my mother.  Because if anyone on this planet wanted to see me succeed at my writing efforts, it was Momma.  And, unbeknownst to me until recently, I've been writing my blog to her and for her all along. 

Now, as I attempt to craft witty sentences, I think how she'll laugh.  I wonder if she'll notice a sneaky double entendre, referencing a subject she'd consider indecent.  I often grab the phone to call her and ask help remembering forgotten names or details for retelling a story.  I utterly failed to realize how much of my life is referential to my mother and her potential reactions.  And nowhere do I process my life and experiences more intensely than in writing about them.

But I've discovered that the key to my inability to complete a post is the fact that, in grieving my mother's death, I'm dealing with an unexpected, unplanned ending.  Momma's ending was not well thought out; she didn't tie things up neatly with a bow; she didn't get to summarize everything she thought and conclude with a nice clean ending.  Her ending was abrupt and hurried, with no chance to make everything tidy and understandable.  For some reason, this knowledge has become an obstacle to my writing process.

So I write, then I cry, then I write some more, then I break down again, then I give up and find something productive to do.  I have no idea when I'll be able to finish the entries called "Just Crown Me Now," or "The -ogs Have It," or "The Wisdom of the Queens," since they all involve Momma's deep influence on my thinking.  Interestingly, I started working on all three of those blogs before she even came to visit in June.

And I can't possibly publish some of the drivel I wrote in the early weeks after she died.  I may as well have been composing in Swahili, for all the sense those entries make today.  But I have to publish something, just to get back into the swing of things.

So I guess I'll just end abruptly and publish this.

The Gift that was Mother's Day

I'm a bit of a cynic when it comes to the recent onslaught of made up days for gift-giving.  Even when I've been on the receiving end, whether it was Secretary's Day, Sweetest Day, Teacher Appreciation Week, Dumb Blonde Month (Wednesday), I didn't like the contrived nature of forced gratitude.  I've always envisioned a dark-paneled, smoke-filled board room, filled with executives from Hallmark, FTD, Russell Stover, Honey-Baked Ham, DeBeers and WalMart, brainstorming about the next invented "special" day to foist on the unsuspecting but ever-willing shopping-obsessed public.  With Mother's and Father's Days a cultural standard, and Grandparent's Day the new guilt-inducing day to "oops" about, it can't be long before we begin celebrating Cousin's Day, Brothers-In-Law Day, Pool-Boy Day. (Note to self:  find a job designing those cards.)

In keeping with the "attitude of gratitude" that inspired this entry, I should refrain from any more sardonic wit concerning our card-and-gift-giving mentality.  Especially since I had an exceptionally lovely Mother's Day.

I love getting gifts, and even I try to think of suggestions for gift-giving occasions  like Mother's Day (mostly to steer my children away from the candy aisle).  My idea of a good gift is very broad, because I like almost anything, the older and tackier the better, and if I don't like it, I'll regift it.  The price of an item is not important, because (for me), a well-chosen cheap gift trumps an expensive ugly sweater  or bottle of perfume any day.

Plus I love used stuff, especially if it comes from an antique store, flea market, garage sale, or some other place where you get to look through other people's castoffs and see what they didn't need but you do.  My taste, so-called, is pretty simple.  Two categories covers it:  I like "stuff" and  I love "things."  If you wrap it in paper or shove it in a gift bag, chances are I'll be charmed.  ("Stuff and Things" is also the name of the new cologne created by noted unicorn artist and late-night talk-show host Greg Gutfeld, but keep that on the down low for now.)

In addition to the gifts, Mother's Day is always pleasant, because the girls make breakfast, people are always refilling my coffee unasked, I usually get to talk on the phone to my mother and sisters, and we ordinarily have my mother-in-law over for dinner, with Eric doing the cooking.  And it always falls on a Sunday...why can't the Calendar Czars arrange that for Dumb Blonde Month?

But seriously, this Mother's Day was special.  I received some very nice gifts, and that was part of what made it so nice.  But from the beautiful sunrise to the goodnight kisses, this Mother's Day gave me joy.

Some of my Mother's Day gifts:

A new flower bed for my scarlet peony, excavated by my wonderful husband after our lovely four-mile walk.  He always does some kind of outdoor project for me on Mother's Day weekend.







A new hummingbird feeder.  Words to live by:  "You can never have too many birdfeeders."














The dvd of   "The King's Speech ."  Colin plays a reluctant king who suffers a terrible stammer whenever he attempts to speak without using profanity.  See it if you haven't already - it's a sublime, intelligent film.

 

A breakfast of scrambled eggs with ham, a side of yogurt with sliced strawberries and a fresh sprig of garden sage, courtesy of Chef Mary Kathleen.

(I was too busy eating to think of taking a picture.  It looked much tastier than this dish.)

Kitchen shears to replace the kitchen shears which became garden shears:

Dinner at Bonefish Grill.  Bang-Bang Shrimp - need I say more?

Spring concert by the South Bend Youth Symphony, including a fabulous performance of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice," featuring a certain bassonist carrying the eerie melody of the enchanted brooms

fetching a bit too much water:

 


 A Baltimore oriole visited my for the first time that I'm aware of.  It was such a brilliant orange, it almost hurt my eyes: 

What a treat -- but alas, this is just a google image.  Stay tuned - I intend to lure him back with fruit and jelly.

We brought home a gorgeous buffet, which completed my antique furniture wish list for the foreseeable future:

These amazing daughters are irreplaceable gifts:

Camille and Mary Kathleen

I have a wonderful mother-in-law who exemplifies generosity and kindness:

Eve Arnett

And the woman who gave me life, reared me well and is still my biggest cheerleader and fairest critic -  my mother:

Carole Jones

Sometimes, the question of why I am so blessed when others suffer makes me crazy with wonder.

But this Mother's Day, I just enjoyed my many, many gifts and offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the people, the love and the great good fortune that fills my life.

Domestic Diva and the Week of Unsupervised Activity

Since Eric's been out of town all week, I naturally set the bar a little high and fell short on project completions.  But I made lots of progress on some sewing/mending jobs that had plagued me for a while, and made a respectable stab at trying to revamp our budget to allow for the huge rise in food and gas prices.  As I said, nothing is totally finished, but I have to shift gears this afternoon and do a little cleaning and tidying (hide unfinished stuff) before he gets home.

So, lacking a real theme to explore today, I'll just do a brief recap of a few interesting things I did this week.

1.  I contributed my olfactory talents to a neighbor whose smoke detectors in went into intermittent alarm mode for no apparent reason.  After a thorough inspection of the house, we took the covers off the detectors and blew them out with air-in-a-can.  A cute little spider ran out of one, and then there were no more alarms.  Saved the taxpayers a small fortune by averting an expensive 911 call, and got to feel like Robert DiNiro in "Backdraft."  Just call me Inspector Arnett.

2.  Watched a neat docu-dramentary about the "little ice age."  Who knew Stradivari achieved the amazing sound we enjoy because of the effect of the temporarily harsh climate in European forests?  It was entertaining History Channel fare, and they didn't propose an alien invasion as the cause even once.

3.  Camille participated in the Stickley piano competition, a prestigious regional competition for young people.  She performed Burgmueller's "The Knight Errant," a happy, tricky piece that she's worked on tirelessly for several months.  This was her first time to enter the Stickley, and she approached her performance as a chance to get her feet wet in the big leagues, so to speak.  She wasn't thrilled with herself, since she made a mistake or two, but I was so proud of her having the courage and determination to try.  She has talent, but more importantly, she has discipline and a willingness to work hard.  These two traits will carry her farther than raw talent ever could.

4.  Mary Kathleen is approaching her 16th birthday, and owing to her almost constant employment as a babysitter or pet sitter, she has enough money that she can't even come up with a decent list of gift ideas.  I'm sure a request for a Japanese teppanyaki dinner is coming, but she won't be pinned down on a party or outing idea.  She's going to end up at Chuck E. Cheese if she's not careful.  Mary's also working on summer plans.  She wants to work at the art camp sponsored by the high school, she wants to do a credit project for Animal Science (anyone want to let her raise chickens at your house?), and she's got to take driver's education.  Plus she wants to get a job at United Arts and Education.  Oh, and visit a few college campii.  Sounds relaxing, doesn't it?

5.  I watched two movies that I've had in the dvr queue for several months, plus went to one at the theatre.  "The Portrait of a Lady," with Nicole Kidman, is a film I've meant to see since it came out in the late 90s.  I like other adaptations of Henry James' novels (The Wings of the Dove, The Turn of the Screw), but this was such a let-down.  I don't intend to do a movie review at this time, but it's so disappointing to get your hopes up about a movie, and have it disappoint.  It's the opposite of my feelings about "Just Go With It," the latest idiotic, contrived vehicle for Adam Sandler.  I dislike him and his brand of comedy so much, I had extremely low expectation (it's amazing what you'll do to get out of the house in winter sometimes). The fact the Jennifer Aniston and the rest of the cast was decent, while not redeeming this piece of trash, made it much easier to enjoy as stupid escapism.  And last, but definitely not least, I watched "Sunshine Cleaning," with Amy Adams, Emily Blunt and Adam Arkin,  which was very enjoyable.  In desperation, Adams has to take a job doing crime scene clean-ups, which ends up being lucrative.  She and Blunt have great chemistry as sisters with a bittersweet tragedy in their past.  Anyone would like this story, but it's got a bit of profanity and more than one sex scene, so it's not for the kids.

6.  I joined a new ladies' service club this week.  It's actually a new "branch" of a club to which I already belong, but this chapter will meet at night and on my end of town.  I joke about Medical Margaritas, my drunko group and my life of leisure, but deep down, I care very much about being a contributor in the community.  I look forward to making new friends and helping out with some worthy local causes.

7.  Drunko was last night.  Delicious food, yummy drinks, excellent company, home by 11.  Perfect.

8.  Camille and I are taking off for a quick overnight in Indy tonight.  She's attending a conference which emphasizes STEM careers (Science, Technology, Engineering and Math).  She went last year and had a ball; this year she has a friend from Columbus who is attending as well.  I see myself peacefully browsing at one of the local antique malls, broadening my knowledge of the market and honing my negotiating skills.    Or maybe I'll ride down to the Garden Show at the Fairgrounds, if it's not snowing...

Now that I killed an hour recapping my week, I suppose I need to get ready for the weekend.  We have a couple's dinner tomorrow night, where our favorite local chef will be preparing a five-course meal for a group of us who won his services in a silent auction.  I'll see Eric for the first time in a week when we meet at this get-together.  It will be a lovely way to end a pleasant week.

p.s.  Prayers and thoughts go out to the many people affected by the earthquake and tsunami disasters.  I marvel at how lucky I am, and wonder why that is. 

Mental Liver Spots

I was always very close to my maternal grandmother, and still miss her every day, even though she's been gone since 1996.  I could write an entire book about Gay Ellis Smyer, and maybe one day I will, but today I mention her because she was the first old person that I knew well.  And since I'm slowly becoming an old person myself, much of what I think about getting old came from her.


I've always thought little old ladies are adorable.  When I was a little girl, I thought our neighbor, who I called Bibba, was the cutest lady in the neighborhood.  She had hair the color of cumulus clouds in the Alabama sky, and she was a teeny, stooped little lady, the same height as me when I was nine.  But no matter the time of day or the occasion, she always had her orange lipstick on. I was fascinated by the streaks and spots that thick orange product left on her teeth, but her lips maintained their brightness through many cups of coffee and cigarettes.  She was always baking something aromatic that drew us kids to her porch door to see what was cooling on her kitchen table.  She baked so frequently that even her old basset hound smelled like cookies.

Many caring older ladies peopled my childhood:  Mrs. Garrick, Mrs. Deese, and one elderly red-haired lady whose first name was Lolita, who always talked to me about her antiques and her garden.  To me, the older ladies of my acquaintance had their acts together.  They were beacons of decency and civility to their neighbors, families, churches and communities.  I never thought getting old was a bad thing as a kid, because the older ladies I knew were so amazing.  And none more so than my grandmother.

I called her Grandmother, which seemed like a genteel title when compared to Memaw or Gammy or any of those folksy nicknames my childhood friends addressed their grandmothers by.  But she was a lady of many accomplishments, back when the terms "lady" and "accomplishment" carried some weight in society.

It's not my intention to write a biography here, but I'll list just a few of the roles my grandmother played:  daughter, sister, scholar, beauty queen, wife, mother, teacher, secretary, nurse, writer, mentor and "port in a storm."  Her talents and encouragement are woven so deeply into the fabric of my being that I can't attempt any task, however mundane, without drawing on some lesson she imparted to me.


I always considered my grandmother the benchmark of beauty for older ladies.  And I guess that's why my childish compliments brought a wry smile to her face. I genuinely thought the things that made her different from me were beautiful.  I thought her thin halo of gray and white hair was so pretty...but when I told her that once, when she had her hair in brush rollers hidden under a  scarf, she looked at me like I was crazy, and probably told me to go brush my thick, tangled locks.

Another thing I admired was her hands.  And not just because they made me bacon and grits every morning and sewed, crocheted and knitted vast quantities of clothes and needlework for me.  I liked the way the blue veins bulged through the opaque skin of her hands.  I truly thought that was an attractive look, compared to my smooth, plump hands.  I would often sit with one hand tightly grasping my opposite wrist, to make my veins pop out like hers.  She and my mother scolded me for doing that, and warned I would do permanent damage, but I just squeezed my wrists in secrecy.  And don't you know, today I have those bulging veins, so I guess that worked just like I hoped.

My grandmother's hands were speckled with spots, what the old folks called "liver spots" back then.  To me, they looked like freckles, and as a fair-skinned blond, I desperately wanted freckles.  But Grandmother corrected me - I did not want freckles, and she had age spots because she was old.  I shouldn't want to look old or be freckled - I should be happy with my peaches-and-cream (whatever that meant) complexion and my youth.  Thinning hair, age spots, spreading hips, hammer toes, trifocals, bright white dentures - these were all fascinating hallmarks of senior adulthood that were interesting because they were so different from me, and because they weren't happening to me.


How silly I must have seemed, sitting with my curled toes jammed to the floor, trying to develop hammer toes.  I also thought I was the luckiest girl in 6th grade, when I got wire-rimmed glasses that looked just like my grandmother's pair.  And my first year of wearing makeup, I bought a tube of Coty lipstick that must have been named "Safety Orange," just because the color looked so beautiful on Bibba.  I even remember stealing some gray bobby pins from the bureau of my great-grandmother Dabbo, looking forward to the day when I could pile my hair into an enormous bun and secure it with pins that matched my gray hair.


Well, today I type with hands that bulge with blue veins and gnarly knuckles, and I have quite a few brown spots as reminders of the years of careless, unprotected sun exposure.  My hair is still reasonably thick, but nothing like the tresses of my youth.  I got my middle-aged spread and the attendant waddle years ago, and during my childbearing years I went from a shoe size 7.5N to 9.5W. 


I also have a few non-visible signs of advancing age.  I grow more forgetful every day, and start entirely too many sentences with the phrase, "When I was younger..."  I find myself very preoccupied with the changes in the world since I was a youngster, which seems to be the favorite subject of 90% of nursing home patients with whom I come in contact.  My brain often behaves like it already belongs to an old person.


As a young adult, I was dubious of the idea of Heaven and Hell, and enjoyed vigorous debates about the existence of an afterlife.  But when I lost Grandmother, right on the heels of becoming a new mother, and losing my best friend to suicide, my devastation decided that question for me.  I became a believer in an afterlife of some kind, because I couldn't fathom an existence without some connection to my grandmother.  And as the years have marched by, I have benefited from that choice. I've felt Grandmother's presence in my life many times; often proud of me, sometimes correcting, but always benevolent.


It's a comfort to think that she's up there, watching me grow older and understanding, only too well, how unpleasant it can be.  She'd probably advise me to wear better shoes, take care of my teeth and gums, lose a few pounds, walk more, drink less and always wear rubber gloves when washing the dishes.


She'd tell me to put some Jergens lotion on my hands, and don't worry with fade cream, because the liver spots are here to stay.  Then she'd tell me to touch up my orange lipstick and look in the mirror, because there is a beautiful older lady there, smiling at me.

Happy Monday to all, and to all a good week

Let me just begin by saying that I have two equally wonderful daughters.  If anyone had ever told me that I'd like my own children so well, I wouldn't have believed them.  Your children are supposed to be a constant trial of your patience, and your most cherished dream is alleged to be attaining the empty nest years - right?

Well, I don't feel that way.  At least not yet.  And realizing I'm lucky, and realizing it could change any day, and realizing I'm probably jinxing myself by even saying this, I'll still say right here in front of God and everybody that I like my girls almost as much as I love them.  And I'm not playing favorites, but today I'm only writing about one of them.

That said, my younger daughter, Camille, gave me a lovely start to my day.  She didn't know it, but that doesn't matter, because it's Monday and that usually means headless chickens tripping over each other in the kitchen from 6:00 - 8:30am.  But not today.

I should back up a bit and explain that Camille is a musician.  She plays piano and bassoon, and is quite accomplished at both.  I was what you would call musical as a young person - I played in the band, sang in the church choir, dabbled at piano - but in spite of the fact that I had a little talent, I didn't work at it or value it like I should have.  I don't refer to Camille as "musical," I call her a musician because she takes her instruments seriously.  Whether in a group or as a soloist, she owns her effort, her talent, and her accolades.  When she isn't pleased with her results, she doesn't blame anyone else.  I think that's impressive for a girl of thirteen.

 

Most mornings, Camille only has a few minutes to spare (she is a slow mover upon waking, but that's fun dirt for another blog when I'm annoyed at her).  If she has a few minutes to spare, she usually turns on the TV to watch one of her archived episodes of "Dancing with the Stars."  I despise television in the morning, but I can usually ignore ten or fifteen minutes of Tom Bergeron and the most dramatic panel of dance judges in world history if the volume is turned low enough.  But today, she decided instead to practice her new piano piece:

and it was so lovely.  I'm amazed that a child raised by me could attempt something so delicate and emotive.  I don't know how she broke the genetic bonds of uncoordination to play so well.

I began my Monday to the soothing sounds of my daughter tinkling the ivories with her usual care and seriousness.  Add a cup of coffee and a furball warming my feet, and I was in heaven.  So here I sit, writing about my lovely morning, and there goes Camille:

waiting for the bus in the rain, with a fifteen pound backpack strapped on, and a bassoon to wrestle onto the bus and under the seat for the half-hour ride to school.

So the next time I start to wallow in the attitude of the unappreciated mother who does everything so my kids can have it easy, someone please remind me to look back at this entry.  My kids have it good, there's no denying that, but they don't have it easy.  And Camille demands more of herself than we demand of her.  So I should just thank God that I have her in my life, and that she'll be living with us for at least a few more years.

Thank you, Camille, for a lovely start to Thanksgiving week.

 

 

Friday night

Some weekends it seems we barely have time to come up for air.  I won't bore you with the list of activities our girls have on weekends, but it's almost as bad as the week anymore.  But they have wholesome interests and worthwhile pursuits, so we try to accommodate them.

That's why this past Friday night was such a treat.  We usually eat dinner together at least 3 school nights, but it takes some doing, and often it's a brief meal dominated by discussions of logistics and statistics.  A sample school-night dinner conversation is a rapid-fire conversational do-si-do of statements and requests, and may sound something like this:


Child 1:  "I got an A on my Japanese exam, we're reading about the Franco-Prussian War, a kid created a test-tube toot in chemistry and I'm out of lunch money." (bite)

Parent 1:  "That's nice, that's boring, don't use that word at the table, and how much do you need?"  (chew)

Child 2:  "I need 5 pieces of neon yellow poster board by yesterday, I have to practice 2 instruments for one hour each, I'm DVRing 3 shows tonight so you'll have to miss Monday Night Football, I'm out of my special shampoo, and your friend called this afternoon and said call back within 5 minutes if you want the tickets." (slurp)


Parent 1:  "Look behind the piano, practice in the basement, I cancelled your recordings, use my cheap stuff, and you're grounded! (swallow)

Child 3:  "I need a ride home from Pet Rock Society, your laptop is too slow for my computing needs, the shower drain is clogged and I want to get my other eyelid pierced."  (gulp)

Parent 1:  "I'll pick you up at Door A, buy your own damn laptop, tell Dad, and not until you buy your own laptop. (dagger eyes)


Parent 2:  "I love family time.  Let's sing our favorite song...Beans, beans, the musical fruit..."

Not to say every night at the dinner table is as calm and organized as my example, and I really only have two kids, but there is almost always singing at the table,(sorry, Momma), and as long as Parent 2 lives here, there will always be some mention of tooting.

This particular Friday night was great - no homework or lessons to plan around.  Eric grilled steaks in the snow, and dinner was rounded out by leftovers, so I didn't even have to cook.  Conversation was leisurely, with lots of "code-talk" by the girls, referencing their favorite shows or music.  Eric helped bring relevance to the discussion, invoking The Blues Brothers, Monty Python and Ulysses S Grant.  Teachable moments followed by tooting references - dinner as usual. 

After dinner the girls dug out the snow gear and played in the backyard for about an hour.  Every few minutes I'd hear a squeal or scream and a burst of laughter and think - they're 13 and 15 and still playing in the snow together...thank you, God!

After they came in and warmed up, they decided to put on a little concert.  Mary Kathleen has been working on some difficult cello pieces and demonstrated her improvement in technique by playing several selections.  Her vibrato has become very controlled and steady, and she shifts hand positions now with much greater ease.  My heart just wanted to burst with pride and amazement.  When we moved here, Mary Kathleen really wanted to be in band - she wanted to blow something and be loud.  Somehow we went to the wrong meeting and met the nicest orchestra teacher in Indiana, who convinced MK to try the cello.  And here she is, delicately coaxing beautiful sounds from four strings with a clump of horsehair.  I just can't get over it.

Camille could barely wait for her turn to exhibit.  While Mary enjoys cello and wants to do well, her heart is in her art, specifically drawing.  Camille, on the other hand, never met an instrument she didn't want to learn to play.  Musical accomplishment is very important to her.  As a 5th grader she decided that she wanted to play bassoon.  It's not an easy instrument, not small or sleek or cute or even pretty-sounding (it plays the grandfather in Peter and the Wolf).  But she has embraced this instrument and is doing very well trying to master the sound and all the air it takes to get this huge array of tubes to sing.  Her Friday night performance was a reminder that practice is a solitary pursuit, rarely noticed by others until we decide to sit down and play audience.  She has come so far in eighteen months, I was truly stunned.


It won't be long before these people want to leave here and go somewhere else and have their own lives beyond these four walls we call home.  But Friday night, and for now, they belong to me.