I love it. The one writer I know who has made ANY money at all, ironically, hails from my own hometown.

His name is Gordon Grice. For so many years, he and I endured a love/hate sort of relationship, and this was BEFORE we were both writers. I don't think you can ever NOT be a writer. We both were, we just weren't trying to make a living from it. How could we? We were twelve. And then eighteen. He went off to college a year earlier than I did, what with being a year older and all. But he'd return, come by my house to ask if I'd like to take a ride. We'd journey to the local park and talk. And talk. And talk some more.

The point remains: He has made a modicum of a living from the practice of writing while I have not. I work hard to deal with the reality of the situation but still...it's hard.

He has several publications in print. I don't know who he impressed or how he schmoozed since he was NEVER very good at that...trust me...but he did. He is a master of all things insect. Don't ask me to explain it, however the fact that I am most likely the person from our hometown who knew him second best. The one who knew him best was our mutual friend/confidante,and his debate partner, Danne, but I digress, as usual...

He is published. For that reason alone I could hate him, but of course I don't. Okay, sometimes I do. But I also know he's not exactly rich so I can live with it. Kinda.

He posted something last night. (that's right, my nemesis and I are facebook buddies): "The decision to become a writer suggests a fundamental fiscal incompetence."

To which I replied: "No shit."




 

That's right. The left side of this page mocks me with its number. It says, "Wow, are you ever lazy, these days! When will you get back here to the Land of Promise, the place where you share yourself and most importantly, the place where you WRITE?!" To which I respond with a whine,

"Don't rush me!"

Really?! I'm in my latter forties now and still have yet to achieve the lofty goals I set for myself when I was eighteen. WHEN should I be rushed, then?! WHEN?!?!

If I could I'd spank myself but I don't know if it would do much good. My mother spanked me when she was at the end of her rope with me...I could be rebellious and stubborn as a child. My older brother would stand behind me while I stood defiantly in front of my mother. She'd be demanding an apology for some infraction or other-usually for something I said-and I'd respond with a clear "no!" My brother would cower and hiss, "Are you crazy?? Just say sorry before you get it!" But I wouldn't. I'm not built that way...not then or now. Sure I might be wrong, but why not stand my ground and see what would happen?

Not always the best route, said my sore butt at a later date while I was sniveling on my bed. But the next time a standoff occurred? I didn't back down. I never learn. Sigh.

And so it goes.

I figured out, sort of, what's lead to my recent malaise. I've been depressed before, I mean REALLY depressed, so I know what that feels like and this isn't it. I have my moments of depression and my life is a mess of calamity, but depression just isn't it. So what? What has caused this writing cessation of mine?

Almost four years ago, on June 1st, I made a drastic change in my life. Thomas and I decided to take our great friendship to the next level and there's been no going back ever since. With Tom it's been, not a smooth ride by any stretch, but certainly an uphill one. I find him interesting, hilarious, smart, and so very well-read. He's cuter than a bug on a stick and extremely caring of me. This is a man who brings me coffee if I'm working late whether he's worked his own butt off or not. No matter how tired, worn out, sad, or sleepy he is he will never hesitate, not even once, to go the extra mile for me. And I like to think I do the same for him.

Sometimes he'll bring a book home that he knows I'd like for no other reason than he saw it and knew I would want it. He never, ever makes me feel like I "should" be doing something other than what I want to do. He never demands anything from me...absolutely nothing. If I feel guilty about the sink full of dishes he tells me to knock it off, I'm entitled to relax just like everyone else in the family. He'll help me with the sink full later...and he does. All this is after he makes me laugh until my sides ache and talks to me about world issues in a way that keeps me engaged. He shares his latest reading experience with me, encourages me in every way...the key in this relationship is so ridiculously simple, I'm amazed more people don't realize the secret.

We respect each other. That's it. I respect who he is and what he needs, and he does the same for me. We joke around, sure-we're big on sarcastic humor in our family-but the bottom line remains that he respects me as a person and treats me accordingly. I work to do the same for him. We don't snipe at each other, we don't get petty and hold in grudges with each other. Maybe we're too old for that, or maybe, by now, we just know better.


What does all this have to do with my malaise, you ask? Just this:

I can't blame my crummy marriage anymore because I don't have one. I can't blame the person I was IN the crummy marriage because he isn't even a part of my life, anymore, and certainly he has nothing to do with my life choices.

I can't blame anyone else for ME. For so many years, even though I denied it to everyone-including myself-I could blame life circumstances and the person who placed me in positions where I was angry, overworked, unhappy, unfulfilled. We were NOT a fit, my ex-husband and I, and as a result I was unable to concentrate on what I needed to do for myself, to make my dreams and goals a reality...I didn't have a helpmate; if anything he was a hindrance, said my dissatisfied and angry countenance.

That was partially true, the part about how we didn't fit. Even then I knew the problem wasn't HIM, it was the fact that I was a square peg, he was a triangle, and we were trying to shove ourselves into round holes. It never worked, ever.

But now my problem is this: It wasn't him, it wasn't my life circumstances, it wasn't about anything but ME.

I have worse weight problems than ever. I'm still at a dead-end job without enough power and far too little pay. I'm not a professional writer because I'm not getting my work OUT there. And I'm not writing. I can't blame anything for any of this...but myself. It's all me. It was never WHO I was with or WHERE I was or HOW I was living. It was ME.

There's that old, cliche`d saying: No matter where you go, there you are.

Damn.
 

...18 days? No way!

So much going through my head, so many blogs unwritten.

How do I break through my apathy?? I'm not sure. I'm really not.

I'm depressed to a point but that's nothing new. I figure all creative-types are now and then. That couldn't be it.

I'm lazy, too. But surely creative-types are lazy. Doesn't keep them from creating. RIGHT?

I'm tired. I have lots of health problems, pretty much brought on by myself. My people are ridiculously healthy. No cancer, no chronic, uncurable diseases. No genetic reason for my apathy.

I'm not fit, I'm not creative, I'm not proactive. And there is absolutely no reason I can come up with for why. "Why."

Well that's just sad.


 

...Nineteen days ago? That's what it says...

I can't believe it. Why does time pass so fast??!

I posted a song on Facebook: "Papa Don't Preach" about a young girl who's pregnant. She has to tell her father and she's not happy about that. She knows what he thinks, she doesn't have to hear it again. She says, and I quote: "Papa, don't preach!
" Of course it's Madonna. Anyone born prior to 1980 would know that. Even after.

Born after 1980. It freaks me out. I was born in 1965, got pregnant in 1987 for the first time. I had to tell this Presbyterian family who didn't believe in sex at all, I'm pretty sure. I have no idea how I was ever born. They were appalled by my procreation abilities. How, in my family, could they NOT be?!

In my mind I'm still in the '80s, in the days of Michael Jackson and Ah-Ha, and Spandou Ballet. I have some sort of Euro-hair and ballet shoes with a blousy dress or shirt and definitely a broach...it's hazy but I see it...

I know a boy a grew up with; he was what they call "punk" with the hair-sprayed hair, billowy pants and long shirt with that ever--present broach. I found him once at a "club" in 1986, it was in Oklahoma City and he was fushia-colored...

He's a surgeon. Who knew.

The time it rolls along...

I'm not only a mother. I'm a grandmother.

Surreal.




 

Last night I found internet links I stared at, tried to process...didn't have much luck. Tonight I sit and stare at the blank screen I intend to type into about these things, yet words skitter away from me and I'm left with this blank space both on the screen and in my head. I need to process it, deal with it, work through it like I never have to this day, to the time I'm firmly marching through middle age, making it too quickly to the other side without having resolved any of what, in my life, is the glaring piece behind so much of what I go through. I found pieces of my father. And not just of my father-the man I haven't seen since I was twelve or spoken to since I was fourteen-but fragments of my childhood. I found those, too.

I watched something that triggered this impulse to look for my dad in cyberspace. I've done it before with little-to-no luck, although once I found a phone number, was forced to call it by a friend of mine who cares about all this abandonment stuff I go through, only to discover he has a number that doesn't accept calls from numbers it doesn't recognize. A reprieve of sorts.

But last night. Last night I googled his name and found information I haven't, before. He was a writer, my father the abandoner, who most likely has no idea that I am a writer, myself. He was an editor for newspapers and magazines, but all I knew from 1980 or so was that he'd had a breakdown of some kind and wasn't working. Then nothing, a vast tundra of silence with occasional tumbleweeds blowing through what was already a tenuous connection to a father I never lived with.

And suddenly, there it was. He hadn't gone into some mole-like hole of an existence that would explain this yawning void from him in my life and my older brother's life. He was the editor of one cattle magazine in 1990, of another in 1995. He is even cited in essays and articles from pieces he wrote. Scrolling down, reading about all this activity from him during the times I needed him, hated him, pined for him, and desperately wanted him to want ME; it was surreal. He is even mentioned in the 1978 Writers' Market as the editor of a magazine, a contact for queries. Surreal.

I also, finally last night, picked up the trail of my half brother. I haven't seen him since he was five years old; he is now forty-one. I have at least one nephew I've never met. I also found my ex-stepmother (she and my father divorced in the early '80s) and most of my step-siblings, people who factored significantly into my life and memories of childhood. I had the same swirl of mixed feelings-I might have had a mini panic attack, even, staring at the older faces of people my brain pinged to see. They looked nothing like what I remembered and yet they did. Whispers of the faces I knew still live behind the wrinkles and gray hairs.

I tamped down the insecurity bubbling up and, after finding them on facebook, I friend-requested them. I alternately wish I hadn't and I'm a little relieved I did...I'm not sure which thought process is stronger. So far there has been no response but I'm not surprised-they probably have their own emotions to work through and I'm not sure any of them get on that site very often. I'll simply be patient, like I have been for the past thirty years or so.

A couple of years ago I went to a counselor for a bit and shocked myself when the story of my father popped out of my mouth. She told me this issue is obviously huge in my mind and life and I needed to get through all the muddled mess in my head before I had a shot of getting through to the other side. At least, before she left the office where I saw her about five times, she was able to tell my that my family's not so weird, and that the eerie silence from them is not ME. Families with alcoholism tend to fracture, maintain distance, and drift away...

My father's family has a history of alcohol abuse. His father, his father before him, and my own father. I won't hesitate to write or say that as a stepfather he was a tyrant-another reason I may not hear from the step-siblings. As a weekend and summer-vacation dad he was great; he forced his wife and the kids to put on quite a show for my brother an me out of the fear my mother put into him. I'm realistic enough to know what she saved me from, my mother. She's a hell of a woman.

Every once in a while I google my dad's name just to see if there's an obituary about him-he'd be 80 years old, after all. Someday he'll have to meet his Maker, explain himself. I'd love to get a transcript of THAT.
 

...and as my life turns and turns and turns...

I can't wait until I job search tomorrow. *fingers crossed* I want to be able to focus on things other than the dismal situation I face every day that I go to work. I want a LIFE! At this point, it's hard to have.

The manager in charge of making the schedules started doing this to me a few months ago: I have no idea what shift I work and when on any given week until about three days before Tuesday, the day our new week begins. I have turned into the "days off" person. Any time someone who works the shift "full time" gets a day off, I'm up to bat. I have been working days, evenings, and nights every single week. No wonder I'm having a hard time sleeping, attempting weight loss, putting up with adverse events, etc. I'm exhausted and fed up. I can't WAIT for the job search tomorrow. If I can stay awake for it. Tomorrow I'm lucky, I don't work until NIGHT.

I'm relieved I made the choice to write about my employment hardships because without an outlet for these negative vibes I exude as a result of the stress...I'd explode. Who knows HOW I'd explode and onto whom. My mental well-being has to be more important than the possibility of being "found out." I'm past caring. Which is good, considering I was "written up" last Wednesday for writing something "potentially negative" on facebook. Yup, written up because the co-worker I'd previously written about stalks me, there. I've since blocked her ability to see anything about me on the site. What is it they say about closing the barn door after the cattle have stampeded out of it?

I'm on thin ice there, anyway, and my freedom of expression means more to me than the job that's giving me bleeding ulcers. But it rankles and I let them know it. I was "taken to task" for a comment to a link sent to me, claiming our hotel was 'about" to turn back into a chain hotel. I responded that it already was back to being said hotel, but we weren't doing anything the brand requires so I guess they were antsy for the revenue. That's it. Nothing as inflammatory as I could have said. To my own eye, I simply told the truth. That was it. So HA! If they didn't like that, they sure wouldn't like my blog entries of late, would they?! *evil laughter here*

I asked the front desk supervisor where in the world they got it and who would do such a thing...I mean the person responsible had to really LOOK for this comment! It wasn't something I wrote without provocation, it was only a response to a link! She wouldn't tell me, I guessed, and from the look on her face I knew I'd hit it squarely on the head. Wow, I said. The woman is stalking me, finds any little thing she can to get me into what she considers trouble, and you people buy into it. She sat there staring at me with her mouth half open. This woman doesn't know my co-worker like I do, she's only been there for about two months. The co-worker I'm talking about is the one who's gotten probably five people fired in the time I've been there. Who knows how many she's responsible for before my time.

And they buy into her every time, regardless of the fact that some of who she's blasted and ruined have been-yes-management. One of our managers is one who's returned after having been fired a few years ago. She was directly responsible for his first firing. And none of them see through her. It absolutely boggles my miind.

But I'm done writing about this place, done letting it all infuse me, mind and body, until I can't sleep for the stress of it all. I'm done letting people I dont' even LIKE encompass my days, nights, and life. I'm done with this job no matter what.

I want a life, again.
 

I want to focus on writing. I want to focus on making my life something I smile about every day that I wake up. I want to feel a song in my heart and a bounce in my step as I go through my day. I want to pass my joy on, spread it around, infuse it into everything I do and touch. That is when I get there. When I get to the place where the joy which presently eludes me is mine, again.

I miss the person I can be when I'm joyful.

I was there as a teenager when I learned I was really good at competitive speech, when I found out I wasn't just good, I was GREAT. I remember excitement, anticipation, intensity, and joy. I remember the confidence I exuded during that period of my life, when I knew I was meant for something bigger than where I came from, when I knew I was going places.

When I was in the army, those people skills still served me well. Sure I was learning to defuse bombs, but it was in dealing with PEOPLE that I really excelled. Drill Sergeants actually liked me...I made it so. I knew how to TALK to them. I was in charge of my particular barracks area because the drill sergeant in charge of our platoon thought I could make the females "get along." It was a rough task I never quite mastered, but he liked me, anyway. I remember the joy I felt when I'd run down those stairs of the barracks where I lived. I recall the determination I felt when I went after those tests they gave us, when we couldn't miss more than two questions out of a hundred or we flunked...this was a bomb, after all. I remember learning to blow up munitions, setting the time fuse, watching it run down, the satisfaction when it worked exactly like it was supposed to.

Joy.

Then I went to Kansas after learning to defuse bombs, and the joy started to dissipate.

From the beginning I was not liked by the commander of my unit. I didn't know why, and I didn't know how to fix it which was a completely new situation for me. I began to feel deflated, then demoralized from the shoddy treatment I received. He punished me at every turn for the most minor of infractions. When I told him I was pregnant with my oldest daughter, he actually gave me an Article 15. Ostensibly it was because I'd been misleading about where I'd been going when I went to the doctor to confirm the pregnancy, which should have been wildly WRONG right there, wouldn't you think? I turned him into the the Inspector General on base who basically told me to suck it up and I was lucky he didn't try to kick me out. For WHAT, I asked. Being pregnant (and single)?? I was dismissed and given no opportunity to state any more about my case. I was so out of my element.

I transferred to a different unit where I was going to learn a different job involving downrange chemical warfare-that's right, never the conventional job for me-but I asked to be released after having Elizabeth. I needed to be her mother more than anything else, and even though my new unit was SO MUCH BETTER than the other one, I felt bruised by my military experience, which made me sad. I left EOD school with such high hopes, such joy....

But it was gone.

Did I allow someone else to take it? Did I allow life circumstances to steal it away from me?


Today before I left work, my friend who comes in to take the day shift told me that I really need to look hard for another job. She said she heard our heinous coworker and the front desk supervisor with their heads together, talking about me a couple of days ago. She heard that one of our new coworkers is being brought in during the heinous coworker's night shifts to train for the position. "I don't have a good feeling about this, Susan," my friend said.

I'm not sure how I feel. I've never been fired from a job, I don't plan for this one to be the first. And even though I so very heartily dislike some of the people I'm forced to work for right now, it's really hard for me to feel disliked. I guess it is for everyone, but I think I let it go too far.

I let these people steal my joy. No one should have that kind of power. No one else should be able to take from me what is rightfully mine.

I might need the job for financial purposes, but it's hard to think this job which pays pennies (okay, a couple of dollars) above minimum wage is irreplaceable. It's hard to think that I should continue on like I am, worried every day about people I don't like who don't like me.



About a month after I transferred to the new unit when I was in the army, the commander from my old unit walked in the door where I was working. At the time I was very pregnant and on desk duty. I smiled at him, asked how he was doing, told him to tell everyone else I said "hello." The best thing about the encounter was the look on his face. When he first saw me I think he was frightened, like I was going to burst into tears or point and yell or something. Instead I smiled enthusiastically and engaged him in social niceties. He didn't know what to make of it.

There was definitely joy that day.
 

I hate my job.

There. I said it. But I don't just hate it. I really, really detest it.

It's not the job, itself. For those who don't know, I earn a paycheck by standing at the front desk of a high rise downtown hotel. It's not a job which requires a college degree, a good thing since I don't have one. I have umpteen trillion college CREDITS but I have yet to take the required classes necessary to get that piece of paper in my hands. So I work at a job that doesn't require it. I still maintain the idea that it's a job I can perform while I pursue writing and chase the degree(s) I so desperately want.

This is not a good job in terms of pay-it's a mediocre-to-crummy job in that particular aspect. But honestly speaking I LOVE the guests. I live in a city where the majority who travel here are sick. They are worried, sad, anxious, scared, or simply resigned. They are mostly good people who need a kind face, some reassurance, and lots of directions. I don't mind providing any of it. In fact, I really enjoy it. Nothing makes me feel better than knowing I helped someone make their day even a little brighter, made the burden they carry just a tad bit lighter. I didn't start hotel career in this city, but every guest in every hotel has a story and they all need some reassurance, some kindness, and I have always felt great for providing it. I even like doing what it takes to make the hotel run, the computer and paper work. Even the math isn't too terrible, although once I worked for a hotel where they made us perform a MANUAL night audit even though the computer did one of its own. EEK!

Then there is this place. It's not the job. It's the atmosphere that permeates the building, the oppression I feel as the escalator glides me up and into the lobby which houses the front desk and back office where I spend eight hours a day, four to five days a week.

I've worked here almost two years. I came to this hotel after nine months at one and eight months at another. I'm notoriously "flaky" when it comes to employment; I needed to prove to myself and society at large that I had staying power, or such has been my thinking in the recent past. The owner is not a nice person. He's rich, of course, but this is not what makes him unsavory. He is cheap to the point of ridiculousness, refusing to put enough money into the property to make it as lucrative as it should be. He thinks people are interchangeable. By this I mean he thinks he can get rid of an accountant who's been here for thirty years and knows the property and its fiscal history like her own and replace her with some young person for half the pay and no benefits, expecting her to be just as good at the job. He thinks he can hire a warm body for the front desk and he/she will be as good as any other. He does not consider any one person on his staff to be valuable. He does not believe his staff are deserving of such common courtesies as days off and time-and-a-half on holidays. He grudgingly provides these things because his lawyer tells him he has to. Seriously. An owner like this with an office inside the back office, whose presence is a constant and tooth-grinding fact in this hotel (although he owns others) creates the worst kind of work environment where the employees are left to soak up all the dysfunction...

Change is the catch word we who work in this establishment get used to. I've been through two general managers and an interim where there was no manager, at all. Mr. Owner REALLY doesn't like paying them. Which is ironic since we now sport a new GM who, as far as I can tell, doesn't do anything. There is an assistant manager, one who used to work at the property until he was fired when this current owner bought the place, then rehired at half the pay. He is the grunt worker who is responsible for the lion's share of the work. This is true even though we now possess five new managers: the GM, the assistant, a "front desk supervisor", a restaurant manager, and a sales manager. There is also a "management consulting" team wandering around. We at the front desk are supposed to listen to all of them and do what we are told...by all of them.

The morale here has never been good, but in the last two months it's gone from bad to worse-than-bad. During the month of January one new manager a week was sprung on us; I never knew from one shift to another who was in charge and what was expected of me. We who have been here through several "changings of the guard" have been treated with a mixture of disdain and dislike, as if the reason this hotel hasn't succeeded in the past has something to do with us. It does not. It has EVERYTHING to do with the person who actually calls the shots. These new managers combined with new personnel who were "trained" to treat we "oldsters" with the same disdain...they're beginning to see it. And morale is plummeting to depths I've never seen.

In writing and then reading the words, is it any wonder my personal morale has sunk quite low in the last year? I've gained all kinds of weight, stopped writing, haven't done anything proactive for myself. I am angry at me for allowing was simply supposed to be a JOB to permeate every aspect of my psyche. First the owner and now the people I'm forced to deal with every day, these managers who look down their noses at me and make me feel small...I've allowed it all to define me.

I haven't written about the extent of my unhappiness with my employment for several reasons. First I thought I should "suck it up" and deal with it like an adult. People have rotten jobs and they make it through, why can't I? People deal with rotten bosses and bad situations and don't feel the need to run away, so why should I? And really, I could jeapordize my measly paycheck if I wrote about how I REALLY feel and some peon from work stumbled across it...??

I had an epiphany today. The bottom line remains that NOT writing about it and dealing with the emotional aspects of what I've gone through...that's just not me. Never will be. I have to write it before I can deal with it. I have to acknowledge that I am not one who is capable of shutting off emotions; I can't work in a negative environment for eight hours a day and come out of it without a scratch. Some people can, or at least with a minimum of scratches. But not me. Inside, since this job, I feel like I've been mauled by a bear.

And so the big picture: I HAVE to get the hell out of here!

That said, I have to be realistic, practical, and here is the flip side: I have to earn a paycheck for survival. I'm past forty and not in good shape health-wise. I'm obese with really, really bad knees, incapable of performing tasks I could have handled even a year ago, six months ago. There is no health insurance which nixes my ability to pay for what it would take to get me more viable on the job market. So here it goes...I'm going to have to call around and ask for help. I HATE that! I hate the idea of asking for charity, begging for something I never thought I'd have to beg for. At this point there is no alternative.

I'll have to suck it up and deal with it like an adult.






 

Yup, that's right. Here I am. I haven't posted a blog entry since the first week of December. Why the long hiatus? Was it famine? Pestilence? Was it about Unhappiness? Extreme depression? Was there a medical reason for my long and echoing silence from the blogging world?

Nope.

the only word I can find for it is "apathy." But it wasn't even that. I had ideas in my head almost every day for a blog topic. Quite often I even wrote it out in my head as I went through my day. I've done way too much "facebooking" lately, making it the place where I comment extensively and post my rabid and staunch belief systems, why I believe what I do...I haven't formulated my opinions as well as I'd like to though, which is why, all this time, I probably should have been blogging like a maniac, spending the time I was writing in MY HEAD putting it into written form. So why didn't I? Why didn't I get over here to this fabbo blog o' mine and get busy?? I really can't answer that because honestly, I have no idea. Maybe I wanted to experiment with how it would feel to go through my life with a lack of expressionism. It sucks, quite honestly. So I have no explanation for why it went on so long...other than inertia.

I have so many plans and ideas in my head. I want to create a political blog. I've wanted to for quite some time and I just haven't. I've wanted to get my rear end-along with my nimble fingers and moving brain-over to this site so I can read my friends' blogs, review, write, create, do the things that make me vibrant and keep my passion going. So there it is. Why? I have no answer for that question. *virtual shrug*

I saved some of my comments to controversial facebook postings. Sounds weird, doesn't it? But at the time it was where I was writing and expressing myself. I figure "what the heck?"

Most of what I'm posting here has to do with religion. In the U.S. we've been going through a firestorm over this, which actually stymies me. We are in the 2012. I thought we'd answered the question of "freedom of religion" over 200 years ago. But what do I know? I know I'm all for that separation. I know the only way to govern in a somewhat fair manner is to keep government and religious beliefs and practices separate from each other. It's only ONE of my many, many opinionated stands. There will be more. Oh SO much more...

This entire commenting "blog" of sorts was in response to a rather inflammatory picture posted by an administrator for a liberal facebook page I belong to. It was a slam on different kinds of religion;


Here's the thing: I don't mind if you're an athiest. That's your choice and this is a country based on the freedom to CHOOSE. I don't mind if you want to make cogent points about what led you to believe the way you do, you certainly have that right. But I don't think it has a place here, where it's supposed to be about helping Obama's fight to make this country become what it should be. It's not about making YOUR points concerning religion. It's the same principal as it would be if you were a Christian who used this page to promote your beliefs, or if you were a believer of anything else using this page in a way we didn't sign up for. People can become alienated from the central purpose of helping OBAMA if you insult and dismiss what they believe. You may not consider it insulting, but THEY may, and why go there in a place where we need to be cohesive? Use your OWN page to promote your own agenda. Simply my opinion.



It is a person's right to believe what they wish. At the same time, we also have the responsibility to respect the beliefs of others. I thought that's part of what we DON'T like about the right wing, their unwillingness to accept the rights of others to believe and practice whatever they choose. If you slam other religions or religion in general, what makes you any different?



Who said you can't mention being an Athiest? Go for it! You seem to keep missing my point. There is no problem with us talking about what we believe and why. That certainly doesn't mean anyone needs to SWAY anyone else, simply talking or writing about yourself will bring up your personal belief system. There's no way to avoid that and we SHOULDN'T. What we SHOULD do is RESPECT every single person's right to have those beliefs without belittling or insulting them. THAT is the crux of what "freedom of religion" is all about...the right to choose and the FREEDOM to express ourselves without fear of censure or insult. THAT is the ideal of a country where no one is right or wrong, where no one has the right to tell anyone else how to live or what to think. It's what we need to strive for as a nation.




What's horrific is the idea that you can FORCE someone to believe the way you do by imposing your own belief system upon them. Even Jesus says we must come to him of our own accord. Barring something you think is against God's law is not going to get your point across EVER. God said, "render unto Ceasar's what is Ceasar's. In other words, SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE. It's the best idea EVER. If you are actually a Christian who wants what Christ wants, you will see the wisdom of this ideology. Not the Right Wing WRONG way, but the REAL way.



There you have it. Part one of an extensive fight that's been waged in this country...for the soul of it. I'm daunted but never will I give up what I know to be "the good fight." I'm going to use my words.




 

I do love the musical Chicago.

Tom found the holders encasing my cds and dvds, one of which encased the fabulous musical "Chicago." I can't wait to share it with Thomas , although it might make him a little nervous, ha ha!

The musical epitomizes so much: greed, adultery, lust, opportunism, lies, theft...you name it, the sin has been fractured.

Why do I LOVE it? It's real. It's dark, horrific, difficult, and extremely entertaining! If the roles are done correctly, you come away from the experience of having seen the musical with a lesson in your belt, regardless of the ending (spoiler alert).

What was Chicago like during the days of Prohibition? Not nearly as pretty as lore would have you believe. Not nearly as decadent and unforgivable as the law would have you believe. Life usually works that way. And THAT is why I love it so much:

Wow. So much emotion and so much nostalgia all at the same time.

I endured a "lovely" time with my 17-yr-old daughter. I love harking back to the blog entries that seem like yesterday, when she was a beautiful little girl and much less apt to stab me in the heart. I wish I could confess to melodrama but no. Sigh.

She's beautiful, vibrant, intelligent, and annoying. She's also hurtful, stinky, and difficult. In that order.

My oldest daughter suffers from bipolar disorder which at the moment is rendering her nasty, churlish, and unwilling to listen to reason,. hot-tempered, and evil. My middle daughter suffers from procrastination. This renders her indecisive, uncooperative, and mulish. My youngest daughter suffers from teenager-nis. Need I say more.

I'm currently listening to music from the 70s and 80s. This is why "so much nostalgia and so much much emotion." I'm at a loss.

Tragedy. Beegees. Look it up.

Tonight I went with Tom to his NanoWrimo write-in. I don't usually go with him because I'm not participating in the event, that month-long novel-writing experience. Tom loves NanoWrimo, looks forward to it every year and has actually been the Municipal Liaison every year since 2005. He's good at it, too! He hosts a kick-off event every year right before the first of November to jump start everyone, get them fired up and ready to write, then he schedules write-ins throughout the month at different venues throughout the city. He's an amazing organizer and does a really fabulous job with his writing during this month, as well. He works best as a writer when he's in the company of others, I think. He loves to visit coffee shops and write...it puts him in the "zone." Those who write know what I mean-

I tried to participate in NanoWrimo one year. I worked at the 'stream of consciousness' kind of writing that is required during this month. I wasn't good at it. I became mired in the desperation of producing words when I wanted to go back and fix what I'd written before...no self-editing allowed during NanoWrimo. I really did try to be "okay" with letting the editing process go until after I'd written a full 50,000 words to be a full-fledged participant, to simply let my mind go and WRITE. I wasn't so good at it.

I went with Tom tonight so we could eat together-this month keeps Tom busy and it's nice to spend some time with him. Three other NanoWrimo participants showed up; it was an evening of merriment punctuated with some writing thrown in-between. I am writing a short story of my own and determined I'd work on it while others were winding up their word counts and novels.

I did write. I listened to music for authenticity to the story and worked to get into the "zone" I know is necessary for my writing process. I was pleased with most of what I came up with but it wasn't much.

Unlike Tom I don't do well in crowds. To write, I'm better with isolation. My perfect writing area would be encased in semi-darkness in some sort of bubble where I could spend hours in my "zone", where nothing but the music I choose and the characters who dictate to me exist. I love libraries when I want to write, especially if they have those little rooms where closing the door closes out all other life forms. My ideal writing experience...

What's your writing style? We all have one...!


 

Woo, so much for the blue month! I don't know if I'm going to try it again. I do need to blog more often than I was but my brain just doesn't work the way it used to. Perhaps, like our bodies, our brains just aren't meant to function exactly the same way as time marches on-I don't know. It might be that my physical self is so out of shape that my brain is, too. I'm kind of betting on the last...it's a catch-22 type thing for me, though.

I have bad knees. Right now they are really very, ickily bad and a HUGE reason I've gotten so HUGE, ha ha. But the really very bad knees have been the reason I'm not active, anymore. I dn't take the dog on walks, I don't walk by myself, I don't get on exercise equipment. I don't do much that's physical because the bottom line is the simple fact that I can't. I mean I really quite honestly can't.

It's getting worse. I know I'm walking funnier which is not cool-I don't mind being different but this is something else. It's obvious something is wrong with me. Wow, the feeling of being "handicapped" is uncomfortable. In every other way I don't mind being unique, off the beaten path. But to "walk funny" and have people look with a mixture of sympathy and...I don't want to say "repulsion" but it's a small variation of that...it's intensely uncomfortable. I try to walk like a normal person when I can, but that's getting more and more difficult.

I hate it when people tell me it's because I'm overweight that I have knee problems. My knee problems are intensified because I am overweight, but the extra weight did not cause the problem-I've had this problem since I was a child; I wasn't overweight until I was in my 30s, and even then I didn't get BIG until years after that.

When I was little, especially after being really active like being the catcher during softball season, I had problems with my knees locking. I'd be crouched and make my move to stand...and then I couldn't. My knees would lock and I'd be on the ground, writhing in pain. Someone would have to force my leg straight with an audible POP. Afterwards it didn't hurt too much, but the pain of the lock...agony. I was told that I had floating kneecaps and would have problems with them all my life. At the time, when I was around eleven years old, I didn't "get" the concept and it wasn't such a big deal to me. Yeah.

When I was about nineteen, one of my knees went completely out of socket for the first time. I had been spending almost every day riding a bike for miles after my college classes-I was getting addicted to it! One afternoon when I swung one leg over to mount the bicycle, I felt the grinding pain and was once again on the ground, writhing in agony. This time the knee went back in on its own, but I couldn't walk so well.

I went into a doctor and was put on crutches for about a week. I was told there was cartilage stuck under my kneecaps and if I didn't get it taken care of very soon, I'd be in big trouble by the time I was forty. I was nineteen at the time. The concept of "forty" was unreal to me. I didn't have insurance, no way to pay for surgery even if I wanted it. I brushed off the doctor's warning ...and joined the army.

The Army Recruiter told me not to say anything about my knee problems or I wouldn't get in. I kept my mouth shut, thinking that WHEN I had an issue I could get it taken care of on the army's dime. I felt a little niggle of guilt, but there was also a measure of relief that I could get this pesky little health issue taken care of.

And then the unthinkable happened. With all the hard work of basic training and the strengthening of my ligaments, I didn't have many knee problems while I was enlisted. I had a few little issues like each knee going out of socket here and there, but honestly the pain would dissipate as soon as it went back in and I'd forget about it. My life marched on and I was focused on other things, other issues like getting pregnant. In my twenties it never occurred to me to mention the knee problems when I went to a doctor.

Out of the army, increasing problems with those particular joints, even my ANKLES starting to grind out of socket...well damn. I finally broke down-ha ha-and went to an orthopedist. I was in my late thirties when my first ortho told me my knees looked about 70. Phhht! He wanted me to lose weight before he operated to replace them both because the less I weighed, the longer the knee replacements would last. I worked on it. I went into the office every four to six months to get cortisone injected, I also received strong painkillers; it was a good thing and a bad thing. I was able to function almost normally back then, able to pretend nothing was as wrong as it really was, which in turn made me lax about losing the weight and getting the surgery...once again I seemed to think I had forever...

Life quick-stepped along like it always does, I moved to Rochester, and then I lost my healthcare coverage. Through no fault of mine I was one day covered for health care and the next day I was not. Suddenly "forever" was looking a lot like "never."

So here I sit. My weight has piled on instead of sloughed off, I can't move as much as I want to or much at ALL, I don't have any urge to go out shopping because it's always a heavy excursion for me, no pun intended. I have to gauge how my knees feel on a particular day to decide what I'm capable of doing. I'm a rebel when it comes to the rolling cart in stores like Walmart and Target. I'm forty-six years old. I will crawl on the floors before I get in one! I know it sounds vain but I can't help it; if I were older and needed it-like my mom does-I'd feel better about it. But I don't WANT to need it yet! If I get into one it will feel like I'm giving up the idea that I can walk under my own steam and I'm just not ready for that.

But every day it gets a little tougher to walk, a little harder to put one leg in front of the other. I picture my knees in there being completely useless and my forcing them to creak forward when they're in little pieces, like a rusty ferris wheel joint.

I know I'll have to do something about my good ol' useless knees. I'm just not sure what. I can't afford to pay for the kind of care I'd need, I have no insurance to help. It's a conundrum, the kind we in the United States are becoming more and more mired in.

I'm so frustrated. I know I need to get physically active to be healthy in mind AND body, but my knees aren't up to the task. Sigh.


 

I'd forgotten how much I love music.

It speaks to me, some of it at least. When I drive my youngest daughter to school in the morning her music does NOT speak to me. But some does...why do I allow myself to forget that?!

I've started a short story. I knew the premise, know the basics of where it's supposed to go, but I wasn't sure of much else. I couldn't decide many specifics, didn't know the person who has been languishing in my mind, waiting for his/her story to be told (yeah, I'm not giving it away).

Last night I needed to pass some time,, I wanted to do something that would relax me. I decided to find some music...I have NO idea why I don't do it more often, open up the avenues in my mind that respond to the lyrics and melody of my favorite singers and composers. The upsurge in my energy level and the increased flow of my creative juices turned the ignition key, my thought processes jump started and I KNOW! I know who the person is, the one who has been knocking on my noggin, asking that the story be told. I know where he/she has been and who he/she has become. I see it laid out for me like a storyboard.

There was nothing in the songs I listened to which tell the story with any clarity...not for anyone else. There's nothing in them at all about the person's situation...well maybe a little of that...but nothing about WHO and WHAT and WHERE to the point that a future reader would listen and form any connection at all. So why did it happen? Why did I reach an "AHA" moment with songs that could easily have no link to what I'm going to write?

I think it's that whole "humanity" thing. The songs I listened to last night were from the musical "Rent." I have read the story of the man behind this amazingly awesome production, the fabulously written music. I cry a little every time I listen and remember. For those who don't know, Jonathan Larson suffered from an unknown heart condition and died the day before his musical was to hit the Broadway stage. Already powerful, the story behind the story packs a punch that saddens and inspires me all that the same time.

I've posted the lyrics to some Rent songs in both this and "the other blog" before, so I thought I'd branch out a little and post one I know I haven't. Now the one I'm going to put here isn't really what spoke to me concerning my upcoming short story, but it speaks to me so very eloquently about what's going on now, today, all around us. It hits the crux of what bothers me about modern society, and it works to remind me why I don't want to be "one of the masses" in this way:

Thanksgiving is coming, the turkey's getting fat...

And I'm prepared to roast it! I love to cook-I love making enough food for an army, having half an army show up to enjoy each other's company and give thanks, and be left with half an army's food for the rest of the week...or longer.

I don't think I liked Thanksgiving food as much when I was younger-the taste of turkey and its trimmings have improved with my age--wonder what that's all about. In my youth I'd have probably been ecstatic with a Christmas pizza.

But this year my menu will follow the norms the way it usually does in my "old" age: Turkey, sage stuffing, REAL mashed potatoes and turkey gravy, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, cranberries, and lots of pie for dessert. This year I'm leaning towards making an apple and cherry pie. And I always have to make the pumpkin pie and provide lots of whipped cream. Sarah would revolt without it and who needs that! And oh yeah, Rachael would revolt without the deviled eggs...

So I love Thanksgiving. I love to sweat over a hot stove and feel achy but accomplished by the day's end. What I love more than the dinner on this day is the one the next day, heh heh. And the next. Yum!

What I hate is how the retail industry has horned in on my day.

It used to be the "day after Thanksgiving" didn't have a special name, it was simply the day after Thanksgiving. Everyone knew about the sales going on in stores and many were brave enough to venture out into the crowds and partake of them with an eye towards the coming Christmas holidays. It was nice to find a good deal or two for some family gifts, maybe a fantastic bargain for a toy a child has asked for throughout the year. There was an early morning up-say 6am-with a stop for coffee and then maybe half a day spent shopping. Not a bad way to spend some time after gorging on all that pie...

At first the mornings got earlier; 5am and then even 4. Then, if you want to get the truly AWESOME bargains, said the television commercials, you'd better come out here and spend the night! Set up camp outside Best Buy so you can be the first to nab a television at $100 off its original price...you WANT it! You NEED it!! You HAVE TO HAVE IT!!!

Then we heard the name for this day-after-Thanksgiving: Black Friday. Now we have a NAME for the day we gorge on RETAIL. "Now we can label this fabulous corporate holiday and eek every bit of financial life out of it we can," say the great Gods of The Almighty Buck. "We can open even EARLIER! Instead of being closed on the day families are supposed to gather and enjoy the fact that they live in the United States, we'll instruct them to enjoy the idea that they can SAVE SAVE SAVE if they SPEND SPEND SPEND!"

Who needs turkey and home and family? We will have STUFF at a bargain.


 

...to find something somewhat light and airy to put into this missive of my life, I branched out-

It's about me and it's not thought-heavy so it's win/win!

I like my blog. I like the way I think or I wouldn't think like this-duh!

But sometimes I think my blog sounds like an excerpt from "We Are The World." !

I don't mind sharing how I feel and think-I mean I wouldn't have a blog if I did, and it certainly wouldn't be so important to me, writing or not! But I also think I could lighten up a little....when I think of something light to write you'll be the first to know, blog o' mine! I think I manage it once in while...since I remind myself so completely of the song I thought I'd post it here:

As is evident from the calender to your left, I haven't been entirely successful in creating the blue month I'd intended. I've missed by, so far, three days. This is not to say I won't miss again...

What does it mean for me? Is my goal completely shot? Will I ever feel a level of success again?! Is it all for NAUGHT?! Not exactly.

Look at all the BLUE! I've succeeded if you ask me. At least so far. The main reason for this assignment for myself had to do with writing, again. It had to do with waking up my brain and feeling that old "flow" kick in...and you know what? It's kinda there. Not like it was, but I'm getting there.

So whether ever number up on the left is covered with blue or not, I'm actually feeling pretty darn successful. Which leads me to an issue I've thought about long and often:

When did #1 become the ONLY thing to be? The only thing that counts?? I'm so SICK of hearing people spout the tired phrase about being first or being nothing, about winning or losing, there's no in-between. That's CRAP!!!

When I was in high school many eons ago-ha ha-I was a part of competitive speech and debate. I took the "competitive" part seriously. I worked hard at what I did: public speaking, acting, debate. It was important to me so I toiled and practiced and got very, very good. I brought home trophies...but they weren't ALL first place. You know what? I didn't care about that! I didn't care if I came in first, second, or third in an event. If I placed high enough to earn an award, it meant I'd done better than most of the people there. More than that, it meant my hard work paid off. I was proud of every trophy. Sure it was nice to be first, but it wasn't the only thing that mattered.

I went to the State Tournament every year that I competed. Every year I placed third in the event I was there for. Every year I was a TINY bit disappointed, but I had an arrowhead-shaped medal from the state of Oklahoma, telling me I placed higher than countless others who'd participated all around the state in the same event I had. So because I didn't place first I was going to assume it meant nothing?! NO WAY!

Where does it come from, this attitude that first is the only thing that matters? Where does it come from, this "all or nothing" mentality we've suddenly been burdened with? No wonder we as a society feel so pressured to perform in every single aspect of our lives-no wonder the pharmacutical industry is making a killing off antidepressents. If we're not the BEST at every single thing we ever try or do or strive for, we're nothing. This way of thinking makes absolutely no sense, and it holds us all back in one way or another.

How many of us give up before we even try? Life, to me, is all about taking risks and making a leap and attempting something new. If being the best is all that matters, why try at all? Why give yourself the satisfaction of branching out in new and interesting ways if you know you'll never be the "best?"

Take a look, a real hard look, at those who are the "best." How many of them have had nervous breakdowns, broken-down physical bodies, lives encompassed ONLY by whate'ver they happen to be "best" at? How many of them seem remorseful, unhappy, encapsulized by their "best"?

I don't think I ever want to be the best at anything. I want to work at being good, maybe great...

#1 is nice, but it's certainly not everything. Or sometimes even anything.
 

I'm doing it. No later than Saturday, I'm writing a short story, my first in over a year. How sad. It might be a year and a half *counting in my head* Yup. It's been a year and a half since I wrote a NEW short story. That's damn sad.

I'm going to post the results here, on this blog o' mine...I really need to start visiting new blogs, take time out of my life to get over here to WDC and visit new blogs so these writers of blogs will visit mine. Viewership has gone waaaay down over here, but that's no one's fault but my own. Doesn't it just STINK when you can't blame anyone but yourself?:

Anywho, I have a pledge to me: I hereby promise that on Friday I'll get back into WDC...I'm going to review with the group I'm supposedly a part of-I haven't done that in quite some time. Heh heh. I'm also going to make it my business to visit new blogs and read, comment, introduce myself, become more of an active member. I don't know why I've become so lazy...

I'm enjoying the experience of blogging more often, again. Thoughts are starting to flow once more-thank God! I was worried about my brain capacity these days. Turns out there was dust, a lot of cobwebs, some dirt clods and such mucking up the works. Writing every day has begun the process of clearing at least SOME of it away. Once I write a new short story-viola! Perhaps, she said hopefully, the space in my head will once more be a pristine, clean place where words just flowwww...

Okay. My mind has NEVER EVER been pristine and clear. But still words would flow. Banking on that again...!