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...!


 

Here's an eye-opener:

It was wonderful for my friend and yours, Scarlett , to write in a comment that I'd, perhaps, be able to teach my coworker, Jeffrey, a thing or two about life...I spent almost an entire shift with him tonight and while I certainly hope I DID teach him something, the bottom line is that HE taught ME. Isn't it funny how life situations turn out?

He desperately needed help with his written application for a job with a non-profit organization in Mexico. He's a decent writer but lacking with a few skills; he's humble enough to acknowledge that, has read some of my work, and asked if he could stay so I could, basically, tutor him and serve as an editor. I said "sure." I cringed on the inside, but I'm never one to shirk teaching duties when they come calling-

From the beginning to the middle of the night it went the way of the expected: I read his work, edited and critiqued, was forced to "debate" with him here and there about grammatical rules and such, and in the end he mostly listened to me and peppered the night with his thanks. That was nice. We did talk about his penchant for perfectionism and how he might put it on others, as well. This is why he comes off to others as arrogant-he's compelled to correct any imperfection, even when it's not his own. That in itself was a just a bit of an eye-opener...

As the night wore on and his defenses were muted by exhaustion, he began to open up more about his life-of course it didn't hurt that the application questions were all about his life. In listening to this young man talk, I discovered, to my consternation, the source of his intense perfectionism.

There was a requirement on the application that he "write his life story." In an attempt to get him to open up more with the written word, I asked him questions about his early childhood, his family. His answers were evasive and designed to distract until he finally lifted his head, looked at me, and said, "My father is emotionally abusive." I responded that it couldn't be worse than emotionally absent and neglectful, which is my own paternal experience. He proceeded to enlighten me.

Every day of his life, Jeffrey has endured the taunts of a father who has drummed into him that he's not good enough. He made straight As all through school, worked hard to be an achiever in everything he did, became a member of the National Honor Society, won a full scholarship to college...and yet it was never enough. Jeffrey used a startling rendition of his father's voice: "What are you doing with your life? You'll never amount to anything, you haven't got what it takes, you'll never be able to take care of yourself, you aren't good for a damn thing!" He kind of chuckled, shook his head, and whispered, "what was I supposed to be? I was fourteen." My mouth dropped open.

Nothing makes me angrier or more sad than witnessing the results of abuse--any abuse. This young man has been told day after day, week after week, month after month that he'll "never amount to anything," that he's worthless, that he'll never be able to support himself, that he's more helpless than a baby...I wanted to drive to his father's house and kick him. Really, really hard.

Of course I told Jeffrey that there's no such thing as "perfect," that he's just fine exactly the way he is, that he'll go places in life his father can't possibly imagine. I told him his father has issues he has visited upon the person he's supposed to support the most. I hope some of what I said got through...his father has had twenty-six years to drum his own twisted message into his son.

As Jeffrey left and I watched him go, swinging his computer bag behind him, looking skinny and small, I felt ashamed. I'd assumed the reason he felt compelled to correct whomever he was with had something to do with an inflated opinion of his worth. In reality it comes from a panicked need to create the ever-elusive perfection; anything less is abject and utter failure. On HIS part.

So what did I learn? To "practice what I preach."

You never know until you walk a mile in his shoes...
 

I don't think too many people saw this entry the first time I wrote it, so I'm re-posting it in the hopes people will choose to read.

As with any "cause" or "movement," Occupy Wall Street has seen its share of those who seek to destroy what most are trying to accomplish. I believe the REAL reasons for what's happening needs to be front-and-center:


"When 94% of elections are won by the one who has the most money, they are not elections; they're auctions."~Dylan Ratigan

And herein lies the problem.

There are many people, right wing or not, who don't seem to have a grasp on what the movement "Occupy Wall Street" is about. What they see are people all over the country protesting...what? The fact that we're a free enterprise system creating millionaires and billionaires through our capitalistic way of life? Are they bitter that they are NOT "the 1%" who sport a bank balance large enough to make countries in Europe weep with envy? Are they wanna-be hippies who need to make a ruckus about SOMETHING and chose this particular movement because there's really nothing else to protest about (ha ha)? WHAT, exactly, is the issue?!

There are hats, t-shirts, posters, and even faces sporting different kinds of messages: "We are the 99%" is a popular one, meaning they are not in the Millionaires-to-billionaires club. But even that little missive is not clear. What does it mean, why do we care, how does this affect us as a nation??

We are a country founded upon the idea of the right of people to pursue whatever dream they carry in their minds and hearts-of course there have been variations along the way, say if you're a woman or a minority, but in this time and place more than any other, we citizens have the right to do what it takes to become wealthy; no one tells us who and what we have to be in this life, we have the ability to decide that for ourselves. This is part of what makes it so cool to be an American, part of the reason "foreigners" want to make it to these shores so much-the freedom to decide who and what they are as individuals is an intoxicating incentive...

Should we do away with this very integral part of who we are as a people, as a nation? Absolutely not. The movement I support is not about taking away a person's right to follow whatever life path they choose. It's not about taking away from those who become wealthy.

It's about too much power that is currently wielded by those who have the riches others do not. It's not about taking away their money; it's about taking away their POWER, the power they shouldn't have had in the first place.

In this country of freedom and individual rights, there is no person on earth who should have the ability to buy votes in the political arena. NO ONE should have the right to, with their riches, decide for us what our laws and policies should be. Money shouldn't speak louder than the masses. For some time now, it has.

And THAT is what "Occupy Wall Street" is about. The different signs you see about healthcare, jobs, unions...it all comes down to this: PEOPLE matter more than MONEY.

Our government needs to run based on this simple, steadfast principal, and right now it's not. Those active in the movement have made it their mission to bring this simple, yet so very important message home to those who are currently being bought and sold, who are basing votes, laws, and policies on the Almighty Dollar.

PEOPLE MATTER MORE THAN MONEY.

 

A couple of days ago I wrote about the fact that I have a memory which reaches back into years many others don't. I can remember so much of my life from very early on, but one thing I didn't mention...I'm a "big picture" kind of person. In many different ways.

carlton607 mentioned that it would be great to have the kind of memory where one could remember things like when to get an oil change and when the bills are due. Yes it would be great to have that kind of memory. But I don't.

When it comes to BIG PICTURES I'm able to remember...I can remember what every classroom from my childhood looked like; I can remember almost everyone I ever went to school with; I can remember what I had for lunch a year ago if I think about it long and hard enough...but I can NOT remember when the next bill is due. I can NOT remember to bring a pencil to a classroom where I'll need it. I can NOT remember my glasses when I walk out of work every single day. When it comes to the details of life: I'm a mess. Simple and true.

This afternoon my middle daughter took my youngest to work. On her way out the door my youngest looked at me intensely. "PLEASE-when you cme to pick me up bring this bag of clothes. I'm spending the night at Rachel's house (her friend) and I need these for tomorrow." I looked at her and she looked at me. The girl has known me for seventeen years. I am the mom who consistently forgot to put my name on a field trip form. I forget to give her lunch money when it's due. She reminds me regularly of her dr's appointments and school events because if she doesn't...it's a no-brainer that I'll forget. Sigh.

So to ask me-to expect me to remember-was folly on her part. Sure enough, I remember the bag on my way to pick her up. I had to tell her when she got in the car, then I pleaded with her to simply take the bag with her and stuff it in a locker her work provides from now on. "You've known me all your life," I said to her. "You need to know better than to think I'll remember." Guilt weighs me down when I do things like this. Double-sigh.

It's a crazy world inside my head. I can remember every question to every trivial pursuit question and I'll smoke my opponents every time. I'll be able to repeat a news bite about some crazy star who got in trouble verbatim, even though I only hear these things in passing, I promise! I can tell you my phone number from fifteen years ago.

But I can't remember when my electric bill is due. It almost got shut off a couple of months ago. *embarrassed*

NO I'm not happy to bet this way-I once had an English teacher who asked me if I just WANT to be like this...absolutely not. If I could change myself I would. My oldest daughter has it to a greater degree than me, even. The poor girl, the one with a "gifted" IQ is right now driving her cousin CRAZY because she can't remember to tie her shoes in the morning. That might be an exaggeration, but it's not much of one. Triple-sigh.

In every way of life I tend to be a "big picture" person. I gloss over details and zero right in on the panoramic view-I do not understand the concept of doing anything else. In relationships, in politics, in teaching- I'm often heard saying, "what you really mean is..." because I have little patience for getting bogged down in the little stuff.

It's not a good way to be all the time. It's not a bad way to be, either. For me, it just is.

I need to get rich so I can surround myself with people who can deal with the details...then again, Thomas is pretty good with the details. That's why we still have electricity.




 

I have asked myself: will I be able to post an entry tonight? I am so very, unbelievably, bone-crunchingly tired.

I decided to stop asking myself and decided to go ahead and write, see what I come up with...


There is a young man at work named Jeffrey. Jeffrey is twenty-six years old and he knows everything. Sometimes I like this young man-he can be funny, he's very smart which works in his favor when he stops trying to push that fact, and he's well-read. To a point.

One evening when I was starting my shift as he was ending his, I happened to mention that I'm re-reading the Harry Potter series. It took me a few years to cave and actually read this book series, but once I DID cave I couldn't believe it took me so long! JK Rowling may not be my favorite author for style, but the woman most certainly knows how to spin a yarn that sucks you in and keeps you there until the last sentence on the last page...and longer. I bow to her abilities, and I told Jeffrey as much. He scoffed, snorted, and I knew what was coming. I sighed.

"She has done nothing more than take the stories of others and copied them," he said with a snort.

I looked at him, this young man who is not a writer but is so positive he knows so much. I kind of chuckled. "Of course she does. Unless a writer lives in some sort of soundproof bubble-like structure made of brick and mortar, everything a writer comes up with will have its basis in something else. How could it not?" We are all, we writers, the sum of our life experiences, our reading past, and the writing styles we admire most. We are encouraged to study the writers we admire most and to give it our own spin of course, but to emulate what it is we like. This is what we do...eventually our styles meld and mutate enough to look like something that is uniquely ours...but no man is an island, and no writer is alone in his head.

I told Jeffrey these things and he snorted again-I do LOVE that snort . He used Tolkien as an example of someone who created his world solely from his own mind with no help at all...WHAT?! I had to tell him. It was my task and I embraced it. "Um, Jeffrey, have you read any biographies of his, read anything about the making of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy? He got a LOT of his inspiration straight from"...I had to pause and look at him..."the Bible."

Jeffrey prides himself on his Atheism and I certainly have nothing against him for it. But like anyone with a fanatical belief, he tends to beat the drum of his opinions a little hard for my taste. I couldn't help enjoying the stunned look on his face. "That's not true," he protested. "That can't be true."

"Oh, it's true," I grinned. "Look it up."

I love to find out where my favorite authors found their ideas which gave birth to what I consider the greatest stories-William Faulkner used his hometown, his roots, and the people he grew up surrounded by to create works of fiction that absolutely take my breath away for both his style and his storytelling brilliance. Popular authors definitely draw upon their own life experiences and look where it gets them! Stephen King writes in Maine because he's lived there all his life; it's what he knows and he uses his vast "knowing" to create some amazing work. John Grisham uses both his Southern roots and his law degree to weave tales based on both, a marriage which works again and again...

The point I was trying to make to Jeffrey-I'm not sure he either understood it or believes it YET-is that no man stands alone on this earth, not even the writers whose stories and/or styles we love most. Their ideas started somewhere, the seed of what became a great piece of work began even, perhaps, when she looked out at the landscape on a passing train and somehow came up, first, with the Hogwarts Express.
 

For as long as I can remember-ha ha-I've been able to remember-

My first memory happens when I'm about a year old; I was picked up out of my playpen and given to my aunt who had returned home to visit-she was an English teacher at a high school not too far from our hometown. I remember feeling distressed, crying because I didn't know her, I mean I was barely a year and hadn't seen her on a regular basis-or maybe ever, I'm not sure. But I do remember the adults around me clucking their tongues and saying things like, "Oh, Susie doesn't know her Aunt Jane!" I recall being handed back to my mother but feeling the recrimination from the rest of the family members gathered around. I didn't care. I was back with my mom. And yes, I really do remember this. If I think about it for long I can recall more details, like how the standing lights behind the couch were on and we were standing almost directly in front of the couch, the grown-ups clustered around me and my aunt...

There's not much I don't remember. I can recall being in kindergarten-I can tell you stories about the classroom, the children I was with, the teacher I didn't like. If I think long enough, putting the moving picture in my mind, I can tell you where the toys were located in the room, what the paste smelled like that we used on construction paper. I went to a private Christian kindergarten...I can tell you about the time I got in trouble for fidgeting during prayer at the end of the day. I remember first grade and the wonderful teacher I had there, how Patrick Nelson held my hand during reading time at the little reading table and then chased me during recess. I can tell you about the time I lied to my mom for no good reason about supplies we needed for the classroom and she caught me in it...I have NO idea why I lied about something so stupid!

And there's the rub of a memory like this: there's no forgetting the embarrassing and stupid things I do, the ridiculous things I've done. If I sit with nothing to do for long, my brain starts running like a movie projector and I have to be careful to skirt around the stuff I just don't want to see, the moments in my life that make my face go hot with shame. Too bad I can't just forget, dammit!

I've learned, slowly, that a memory like mine could be considered unusual. If I pay attention I can remember most things, but it's a blessing mixed with a curse for sure. If I'm NOT paying attention my family knows it because I have to ask again what time something is supposed to happen...oops, I was paying absolutely no mind to them the day they told me...yet another red-faced moment. But as the years move along in my life, I find this weird memory of mine failing me in bits and pieces. Just the little things like the name of one of my daughter's friend or the times of her dance classes...things I would NEVER have forgotten a few years ago...

And yet still I am able to hang on to the bigger things. I have recall of conversations with others that they long forgot. I have to remind myself that I am the odd one, not them. It's not personal that they can't remember what I do. It's normal.

I sometimes wonder what it would be like not to be able to hang onto so much. I can describe my third grade classroom in detail; I can describe ALL my childhood classrooms, the school buildings, the people inside them...I can tell you about papers I did or didn't do for homework during those years. If I think about it long enough, I can remember dinners I had years ago, grocery trips from when the kids were toddlers...I mean really weird stuff! I can describe the contents of my pantry from an apartment in St Louis, when Liz and Rachael were three and four. I could sit you down and take you almost step-by-step through my life, but I'd never do that to someone.

The idea of NOT remembering actually scares me-is that strange? To me it would be like all the things that have happened in my life, the conversations and decisions...it would be like those moments had no meaning. I know in my head it's not really true, that even if someone doesn't remember exactly what I do or as much as I do...that doesn't mean their life events aren't significant. I guess I'm just like this and I don't know what it is to be anything else.

I started thinking about all this when I watched the television show Unforgettable tonight. I'd resisted watching it when it premiered this last fall because it's supposed to showcase a woman with an uncanny ability to remember. For some reason the idea of them creating a show around this issue made me extremely uncomfortable, although I didn't want to delve into why. I think, in watching it, I figured it out. I was afraid the people who made this show, who have been writing it, would make the woman out to be either a freak or some sort of superhuman. People with unusual memories are neither. It's just something nature provided, probably genetically, that is a fact of life for me and others who can remember like I do. There's nothing extreme or crazy about it, nothing that makes us stand out anymore than someone who has red hair or another person who inherited double-jointed toes.

I have to admit, the show deals with it well. They don't make the title character out to be much more than what she is. There are times when they stretch the boundaries between reality and UNreality, but it is Hollywood after all. When DON'T these people give into the temptation to exaggerate?

Just as I mentioned before, my ability to remember IS experiencing a bit of a drop; I'm pretty sure it has something to do with age-durn it-and hormonal changes. There's also that pesky lack of sleep. But the big stuff? I've learned to live with the crowd in my head. I think, to me, the silence of their loss would be deafening.




 

‎‎***** 23 ADULT TRUTHS ******

1. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

2. Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.
...
3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.

5. How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

6. Was learning cursive really necessary?

7. Map Quest really needs to start their directions on # 5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind-of tired.

10. Bad decisions make good stories.

11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day..

12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.

13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page technical report that I swear I did not make any changes to.

14. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

15. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

16. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Light than Kay.

17. I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.

18. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

19. How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?

20. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!

21. Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.

22. Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time.

23. The first testicular guard, the "Cup," was used in Hockey in 1874 and the first helmet was used in 1974. That means it only took 100 years for men to realize that their brain is also important.



*Thanks to my friend Jim Fuller. He posted this over at "that other place" and I thought I'd share its awesomeness!*
 

It's been one of those days, the kind I will not look back upon with fondness.

The day started out banal enough-I took my daughter to work in the early morning, returned home and went back to sleep...and had the worst nightmare I've experienced in quite sometime. It was bad enough that I'm not even going to describe it. I write about killers, I have been known to write some horror-but not the more graphic kind-and yet I will not share this dream. That should be clue as to just how repugnant and disturbing it was. How do our minds come UP with these things?! It's been in the back of my head like a demented sort of shadow all day long...

Work was not hard-it's never really hard-but it was annoying. Tonight was "clueless" night as I told Tom. Every crazy/strange/simplistic question that makes my head tilt while I want to say, "huh?!" was uttered today.

1. "Do you have wireless internet?"

"yes."

"Do you need a cord?"

*head scratch* I want to say, "Yes. Yes you do need a cord. You don't need a WIRE but you do need a cord." Of course I controlled myself.


2. A mother and son came to the front desk. I couldn't find their names anywhere. We finally discerned that they were at the wrong hotel. I sent them to the correct one which was at the end of the block, around the left corner, and about five blocks up. A half hour later they returned quite frazzled. "We couldn't find it." Seriously. How could they not find it? To not find this hotel from ours, and I'm being VERY serious here, you would need to purposely shut your eyes as you drive down the street. SIgh. I gave them directions again about three times: down the street, around the corner, five blocks up. SERIOUSLY! I gave them the address, the phone number, and a map. When they left they were still quite worried. Calgon...


3. A woman waiting in line to check in heard me tell the man in front of her that my credit card swiper is not working. She gasped. I had no idea why...it was an AUDIBLE gasp, the kind that makes you freeze what you're doing and stare at the person to make sure they're not passing out...her hands fluttered to her face and she said to her companion,

"that means I can't use a different credit card!"

What?! *head scratch*

"Umm, I can type the numbers in."

She didn't hear me the first time and continued to flutter and freak out. I said it louder:

"I CAN TYPE THE NUMBERS IN!"

She stopped and stared at me for a moment. "You can?" She asked hesitantly. "I didn't know you could do that."

*Facepalm* (HOW does she think I take credit card numbers over the phone?!)




4. Guest: "Do we have to pay for parking?"

Me: "Yes, unfortunately. All downtown parking belongs to the city and you have to pay."

Guest: "But if we leave our car at the meters across the street do we have to pay?"

Me: "Yes. The sign outside tells you that from 2-6am there is no parking over there at all. You'll be ticketed."

Guest: "But do we have to pay for parking in the ramp?"

Me: *Banging head repeatedly on ceramic counter*




5. Me: "Please don't use the elevator right behind you. That one is for the condominiums in the building. It won't get you anywhere."

Guest: *Walks to that very elevator*

Me (yelling): "PLEASE DON"T USE THAT ELEVATOR! IT WON'T GET YOU ANYWHERE!"

Guest: *door opens to the elevator you need a key to use and she stares at me* "Why won't this elevator go anywhere?"

Me: (running away from the front desk) AAAAAHHHHH!!!!
 

Last night at the hotel it was one of those busy nights, the kind where management has to pay two front desk personnel to work whether they want to or not. Although this hotel has been experiencing a signifcant decrease in business after being dropped by its franchise, , it's located directly across the street from our Civic Center, the place where conventions and concerts happen. So during those weekends that see an event of this kind in Rochester, we get slammed. A good kind of slammed actually-I like being busy. One thing I've learned in this position: I much prefer busy to not. "Not" atrophies the brain and creates that cobwebby sensation which halts too much brain activity. I like "busy."

The individual "lucky" enough to share desk space with me last night is named Koushik. He is from Bangladesh, a quiet, intense young man who has been in the country for just a little over a year. He attends college across the street from the hotel at the University of Minnesota Rochester, a satellite campus which focuses on-shock-the medical field. Koushik is a future doctor.

He has worked at the hotel for about four months, but it's the first time I've had the oppurtunity to work WITH him. During the few lulls in activity we experienced, we talked. I've always liked him-he's conscientious. He even asked me, after we'd been working for a few hours, if I noticed anything he could improve upon, anything he needed to know. WOW! He actually cared enough to ask-very cool, and showcasing the kind of person he is.

Later he talked a little about his current classes and how, in reality, he could pass his "m-cats" tomorrow if he were allowed to. He wasn't bragging, he was merely stating fact. I asked him about schooling in his home country; he told me that up to the eighth grade they receive a well-rounded education, but past that the emphasis is all about chemistry, biology, the sciences, and maths. He said they have to memorize the textbooks to take a test and nothing short of an A is ever acceptable. This is the environment he comes from...no wonder he could pass those tests tomorrow if he needed to!

Talking to Koushik was quite an eye-opener on many levels. I told him about a psychiatrist from India my daughter went to at one point and how he seemed so "married" to the textbook and almost unfeeling of the patients he was treating...it was strange, to me, that a psychiatrist should be unwilling or unable to RELATE. He nodded and told me too many of his Nationality-and in India the schooling is the same as in his country-rely on the textbooks they were required to memorize and the humanities, including psychology, are given far too small a role in importance, especially when it comes to the practice of medicine. I was impressed with his ability to understand that-I sensed the birth of a good doctor and a good man in this almost-twenty-year-old.

Before he left he talked about what it was like to be in the U.S. after growing up in Bangladesh. His eyes shone when he smiled at me and said, "Sometimes I can't believe it's true, I can't believe it's actually happened to ME!" Wow, I thought, that being in this country would mean so much...why, I asked him, DOES it mean so much? What is different about the U.S. as opposed to where he comes from? He looked at me a moment and said, "Freedom. Freedom to do and be whatever I want. I can't believe how some people talk about this government..." he trailed away.

I told him, "Part of living in this county is definitely our freedom. That freedom allows us to say whatever we want to about the government, it lets us gripe and moan and carry on as much as we want."

He nodded his head, still cautiously, and told me such slander would never be tolerated where he comes from, that even if there's no actual LAW which says it, the people just KNOW it. They do not dare to utter what it is they really think. Ever. He shook his head a little and said he's glad for the freedom to say what we think, but he said those who are born and raised here just do not know. There was a hint of sorrow mingled with fear in his eyes. "They just do not know."

I most assuredly practice my right to say what I think and feel...anyone who knows me at ALL knows that! I cut loose regularly with my thoughts and opinions about the state of our Union and about the people who run it. I feel compelled to say what I think when I think it, to put my words forward and make my stance known...but part of being FREE is also about responsibility. Do I follow through with the responsibility I have as a member of this free society? Do I work to change what I feel to be broken? Do I actively participate in the implementation of that change?

I owe it to the Koushiks of this world to do so.
 

"I love to help people."

"I volunteer all the time."

"There;s nothing better than seeing a smile on a child's face."


It's great to be helpful. It's fantastic to volunteer and be giving of your time and energy. It's nice to usher at church or volunteer in your child's classroom. But how do we behave when someone in our lives needs just a little help, or even a lot of help? If a friend, a neighbor, a family member has experienced a reversal of fortune or has an illness-even something like depression-that keeps them from being actively employed but still they walk about like a "normal" person...

He needs a loaf of bread until his next food stamp supply comes in. She's asking for someone to watch her child while she applies for a job, a couple of hours, maybe. He needs a ride to the employment office. She asked for a cup of milk.

Their house is a mess because she's been depressed and couldn't cope...what do you do? Even if you get in there, help her clean it up, try to do a little something to get her back on track...do you turn around and tell others "what a disgusting mess" it was? Do you walk around touting your goodness at the expense of the person you were supposed to be helping?

It's easy to feel sorry for someone who lives in a wheelchair or for someone who's bedridden. It's simple to observe when someone has lost a leg or suffered some facial deformity. THEN it's easy to be sympathetic, to care, to help.

When it's not so easy to see...we judge. We judge the man who parks in the handicapped spot-with a tag-just because he seems to walk into the store fine. We can't SEE the Mulitple Slerosis because it's not advanced enough-he's stiff and fatigues easily, but we can't SEE it so it doesn't exist. We point. We shake our heads. "What does HE need handicapped parking for?"

If we pride ourselves for being helpful, for being kind, for being Christian...that doesn't stop with the suffering we can SEE. It doesn't stop at authorized volunteer arenas.

It's the little things we do that can make all the difference...for others and for ourselves.

It's really true: You just don't know until you've walked a mile in his shoes.