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 |  Am I supposed to write? |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Documenting the trials and tribulations of sharing my writing. I know it will be a grand adventure. I'm sure I'll get a sore butt from the bumps along the way, but they are just part of the ride. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| I have given up on the "evil, stubborn, refuse to be written" blog entry first started March 26. It's a new month and I refuse to let it haunt me any longer. It can rot in the world of "For My Eyes Only" hell until it is a distant memory. I thought about deleting the entry, but looking at my failures is always humbling and inspiring. I will probably never figure out why it couldn't be finished, but I no longer care. It came, it stumbled, it goes unfinished. I don't like to think of myself as a quitter, but enough is enough. I'm already more satisfied with this little blurb than I ever was at any point with the dreaded 3/26 disaster. Every day I tried to fix it. I even changed topics regularly. Nothing could help. For that week, words were not to be found. Well, the joke is on it!! The ship is sinking and I escaped in one of the life boats. I will live to write another day. |
| When I meet somebody new, odds are I will remember their face. With women it's a bit more dificult because we're changing hair colours and styles, and some of us go up and down with our weight, but in general, I do okay. I'm good with first names as well, but don't dare ask the last name or how we met. I am not sure. Every so often I do experience a "Twilight Zone", moment when someone approaches me, calling me by name and I don't have the foggiest clue who this person is. This happened to me last night. I was accosted by a woman who was tickled pink to see me again. Apparently, it has been some time since we have run into each other. She greeted me with a big hug and had a sincerity about her which made me feel I must know her. As hard as I tried, I saw nothing familiar about this long lost friend. As I'm working up the courage to nonchalantly ask "Who the hell are you?" she throws another curve ball. "And how is your sister? I heard she's due in July. Fabulous news for your parents." It seems she not only knows me but she knows my entire frickin' family. UGH! How do I ask who she is without appearing to be an ass? I can hear the lecture from my mother now: "I understand you didn't recognize 'Janie Smith'. I was so embarassed when I was speaking with her mother and she told me this. How could you not know Janie? We've known the family for years. Her mother tells me you had to ask who she was. I'm so disappointed in you young lady. I raised you better than this." I chased the nagging voice from my mind and began to send telepathic messages to my friends hoping one would appear and I would get this woman's name through a series of introductions. It seems my message went to her boyfriend instead and he joins us. I had never met him before but now I know his name is Gregg, that's with two "g"s. And the inconsiderate buffoon only refers to the mystery woman as dear, honey and babe. No help to me. Having let the conversation go past the obligatory pleasantries, the moment had passed where I felt I could ask who she was or how we met. I bluffed my way through the visit and was saved when some of their friends began calling them back to their table. THANK GOD! She gave me another squeeze and said farewell. As she walked away she hollered back to me to give all my family the best. That just ain't going to happen. |
| At times I may resent the word old and I know how it can be offensive when used at the incorrect time. I did however, miss the moment when being reliable became a bad thing. When did this happen? Green fuzzy slippers, which have outlived three or four other pairs, are old and reliable; good thing. Kraft dinner is an "old reliable"; good thing. My dad in a crisis is always reliable. He is also old. Still a good thing. Despite these positive examples, I couldn't help but feeling vexed by the way a colleague used this phrase in his description of me. He noticed the tension he created and tried to save himself. He explained this was not meant as an insult. Let's give "He" a name. We'll call him Ken. Ken continued to fall even lower in my graces when he compared me to the McDonald's french fry. "You know how you can always go to Mickey D's and get good french fries? No matter what time of day or which restaurant you visit, you get good fries. Now think about "Baker's" (local restaurant with 4 locations) french fries. Somedays the fries are okay, somedays they are fabulous but there is no consistency. You can't count on your craving being satisfied by a "Baker" french fry. You my dear, are a McDonald's french fry." Besides making me terribly hungry, Ken changed nothing with his comparison of me versus a potato. While shooting daggers from my eyes into the back of his skull, I had an epiphany. I understood why I was insulted. Ken implied I was too consistent. Good all the time but never great, wonderful or marvelous. I was the minimum standard. PFFT! While I was still primed and ready to blow, a friend arrived for a lunch date. An appointment which had slipped my mind while stewing about the words old reliable. Louie (whose real name I can use because I'm only saying nice things about him) would bear the brunt of my bad mood. We ordered our meal and I finally exploded. If I remember correctly, there were several expletives and I continuously referred to Ken as a tool. Louie laughed at me. He has never taken me too seriously. This is probably why our friendship has lasted so long. Lou can spin anything into something postive but that is an entirely separate entry. He explained being a McDonald's french fry means my very worse, is still good and much better than the rest. In a competitive world where almost everything is available upon demand, it is not about how good your good is, it's about how good your bad is. I've taken the position if being old and reliable is the worst thing you can call me, it's not all that bad. I won't feel bad I come to meetings prepared. I won't feel bad I try to be nice. I won't feel bad I have high expectations for myself and others. I won't feel bad I go to the parties no one else attends. I won't feel bad I try my darnedest to be true to my word. I won't feel bad I'm good. I'm proud to be a McDonald's french fry. |
| After losing the same blog entry four times, I've decided to change topics. Rather than reading a rant about how I think nothing is more boring than perfection, I will ramble on aimlessly about nothing. Not really nothing, more like a revelation. How many times have I changed my mind because of something I believed to be a sign or bad omen (bad omen...is that redundant?)? The story I couldn't print last week, the one I gave up on, was it the next award winning masterpiece? I abandoned it. I let it lay dead in my PC because the fates told me to walk away. I tried to ignore the printer error. Persitence paid off and I got it working. I printed a second copy on which I spilled my coffee. The dog ate the next copy. Seriously, my four legged friend Abby pulled the pages of the desk, shredded the papers and dispersed the white bits around the house. I'm still picking up the mess. I couldn't print another copy because I ran out of ink. It was at this point, I walked away. Now I look back and wonder if the fates were telling me to walk away or were they testing my faith in myself? Maybe that was the story which could have changed my future. If I had printed the pages and walked to the mailbox at the corner, perhaps I would have purchased a winning lottery ticket in the variety store. My reward for hard work. Feasibly the story, if it made it to the mailbox, could have arrived on the desk of a powerful editor who would be the first to recognize my undiscovered talent. Add a wild imagination to a bunch of what ifs and my future may be very different. If alternate realities exist, am I living it up sometime else? This is what I think about when things don't go as planned. |
| Thanks to all of you here at WDC I am 18 again and loving it. If only my body could change like my spirit. I remember being 18 very well. It was, what my mother refers to as "One of the black years". I was hundreds of miles away from home, had not talked to my family for months, was living in a seedy motel and had far too many vices. I've come a long way baby. I am a perfect example of how people can change and grow. If you know a lost soul, never give up on them. Some of us are lucky enough to find our way back to ourselves. I was young and looking for a place to belong. I had always been the odd ball out. I knew a lot of people but had few close friends. I was becoming an adult and didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was scared and confused and so I ran. Yes it is cliche, but I ran away with the carnival. What a great way to see the country. I'm not recommending the experience for everyone but it suited me. I don't regret it because it helped make me who I am today and I like me now. The point of this random rant is we are all able to change. What we are today will eventually be a memory. Time will age us and experience will make us wiser. These are not my words but appropriate to the mood... "The only difference between a tragedy and a comedy is time." I read this on a sign at a funeral home and it has stayed with me. I prove it true every time I laugh at the stupid stunts I pulled in my youth. Eighteen is a fragile age but an awesome Community Recognition number. To each of you that make WDC a great place to write and visit I extend my deepest appreciation. |
| When I sat down today I was determined to write a funny blog. I would find some way to translate one of the many humourous incidents in my life into a story. Things happen and plans change. Today's deviation from the original idea is not due to frustration or my taste for cheese. I was distracted by my e-mail. It brought news of generous and thoughtful acts of two very special people. Despite my best efforts, I cannot take my mind off the fact I could know such wonderful beings. Individuals actually went out of their way to make me feel special. Today's great mood is brought to you by my friends, rain  and Anyea . I thank you. |
| I am the friend with whom you want to shop for clothes for a special occasion. I will tell you the gown you are trying on makes your bum look fat or gives your body an odd shape. I will let you know if I think the colour is not flattering or the length is not appropriate and even suggest you may want to try on a larger size. I am not a bitch, I am honest. I'm not mean about it but you are my friend. I want you to look good. Those close to me appreciate this trait and book me for shopping dates months ahead of their special event. I find it odd that a characteristic appreciated in one facet of life is not always appreciated in others. I have a rule; don't ask a question if you're not prepared for ANY answer. I'm not saying I don't censor myself, I do. Timing is everything. When meeting the new beau of a friend, my comments on the first evening may be "I didn't think that was your type" rather than "He's an idiot. Dump his sorry ass.". Upon seeing the new leather couch I may admire how it suits the room; not question the practicality of the two cushion chesterfield that never seats three because nobody wants their ass in the crack. Diplomacy. My problem comes to the big stuff, like when my friend says she's marrying the moron I haven't liked from day one. How can I not say something? As much as I'd like her to leave him at the altar, it's her decision and for some unknown reason she loves him. I don't need her to dump him but I want her to see his flaws as well; go into the marriage eyes wide open. I love her and want her happy even if I don't understand her choices. So we play a game of pretend. I spoke my mind, no need to repeat myself. It's not going to change things. I'll walk down the aisle and be happy for her. Our friends all believe he won me over and I've come to like him. I don't discourage them from this thought. Where do you draw the line between honesty and friendship? Why do we have to choose? More often than not, a true friend will tell you what you need to hear which can be very different than what you want to hear. You can't sing! For crying out loud don't audition for a musical, never mind Canadian Idol. You are not funny! Please don't go on stage Open Mic Night. You stink! May I introduce you to deodorant? Someone must say these things. Why not a friend? I must walk this line carefully. I have lost friends in the past and I'm sure to insult more. This is not my intention. I only want the best for my friends and some of you need me to tell you what that is.  |
| So I found out today that pretty much everybody in my life has been waiting for me to take my writing more seriously. Why no one thought of encouraging me before this is a mystery. Apparently everyone knew I was destined to be a writer. My parents discussed my life long obsession with writing instruments. Pens, pencils, markers, crayons... I had them all. I even dabbled with paints. What entertained my parents most was I didn't use these tools to draw; I wrote the alphabet out, over and over and over again. I would practice my printing, and eventually writing, everywhere. On blank paper, newspapers, magazines, furnitures and walls. My father once woke up with h-i-j on his forehead. I enjoyed this combination of letters. I'm not sure why but I probably had a good reason at the time. Once in school I started writing stories. This was encouraged at the appropriate times but not appreciated during math and other lessons. My dad's punishment would be having me write a story about what I did and why my actions were wrong, thus continuing to encourage the story writing at all the wrong times. As an adult, writing has been a large part of every job I have ever held (almost). Always keeping in practice but never taking the writing head on. My friend tells me this is classic avoidance. I write enough to say I keep up my writing but not enough to truly call myself a writer. Over the past few days I've been sharing with special people the fact I have been actively writing again. Each person has the same reaction.... "It's about time." If this was so obvious to everybody, why didn't anybody speak up? |
| Yes, I broke one of my New Year's resolutions. It was inevitable. If it was going to happen, why not today? Besides, it shouldn't count, I really needed the stuff. This is what I told myself on the drive home from Staples, a bag of goodies on the seat beside me. I was feeling pretty good about my purchases as I walked into the house, anxious to unpack my bounty. This is when the Writing Gods intervened. My "must have" purchase was a new fountain pen. Many people told me a fountain pen writes faster than a ball point. So, for the sake of a rapid flow of words, when my mind is in a creative mode, I had to buy the pen. Here are some hints for others who have not yet had the fountain pen experience.  Take up the clerk's offer to let you try the pen, even if you have used the exact pen before. If you try the pen, the clerk must insert the ink cartridge. Should you turn her down, this daunting task is left on your shoulders When the clerk tries to give you instructions on how to load the pen, don't ignore her. Pay attention to the associate when she is showing you which end of the ink cartridge you are to insert into the writing tip. Attempting to pierce the wrong end of the cartridge may result in the breaking of the piercing needle on the base of the writing tip and/or ink bursting out of the cartridge and staining your hands as well the new pants you are wearing. Ink washes away best, from skin and fabric, with cold water and powdered detergent. |
| My parents had an unexpected trip out of town. This left me in charge of their youngest child; a recently adopted 6 month old Springer Spaniel. Abby is a bouncing ball of energy, true to her breed. They are predicting a bad ice storm, to be followed by two feet of snow. It's supposed to hit us after midnight. The forecast prompts a need to go to the store to pick up some things just in case. I can't bring Abby with me. She's in a digging and chewing phase and I drive a nice car. I was not leaving that destruction machine alone to chew the seats or worse. This meant barricading the puppy in the kitchen. My dad has a piece of 1/4" peg board he slides over the kitchen door, it stands about 5-1/2 feet high. He has screwed eye hooks into the door frame. One must then secure the board in place using two bungee cords, hooking each end through the recently installed eye hooks. I give the dog a rub on the head and leave through the door on the opposite side of the kitchen. As I'm getting in my car, a whole 8 seconds later, Abby's head appears in the window in the living room. The small high window in the living room. The dog was standing on the mantle to look out the window!! By the time I'm back to the house, she's sitting on the opposite side of the constructed barricade, completely in tact, barking. Hey I'm a glutton for punishment, let's try this again. I take down the barricade, bring the dog back into the kitchen and once again secure the temporary, peg board wall with bungee cords. This time, when I leave through the back door, I don't actually go to the car. I stick around and look in the window. I watch the canine yo-yo, spring up and over the barricade. She did it with barely any effort. I decided it was my parent's house and my parent's dog, I wasn't going to worry and I went to the store. As I left, I saw Abby's face back in the little window in the living room. It was no more than fifteen minutes when I returned to the house. Abby was sleeping on the kitchen floor in front of the heating vent. The barricade still in tact. I think I'm in for some excitement. |
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