Write Your Story

I wish every human could be seen through closed eyes.
It's what you see when you are not actively looking at hair, skin, lips, that tells you who they are.
Confused? Judging me? Let's try it, as an example.

When I look at my husband, I see beautiful blue eyes, a whitening dyed beard, a fresh haircut, and at our home, an old t-shirt and the sherpa slippers I bought for him.
When I close my eyes, I see a man. He strives to do his best in his work and his home, but most important to him is to be a good father to his two children. He's tired. He works hard bringing home our only income. He plans and hopes for our best future, but isn't entirely sure what that will look like. Still, not knowing, he keeps his pace. He does all of this for our family.

You see?
I try to see people this way as often as I can. Seeing another requires a calmness in my breathing. I need to be baseline happy at minimum, and not frantic about my to-do list.

Not too many months ago, I was all dressed up at a work party of my husband's. He waved another man over to introduce him to me, and I could see this man. It wasn't his plaid suit coat or his tie. I saw him through his face---and I couldn't tell you exactly what those details were, but I felt like I should hug him. So of course, I did, which was socially unexpected at that moment, but surprisingly not awkward. I think my husband used the word 'genuine' later.

Yesterday I returned from a writer's conference, which was less about the writer and more about the biz, but still a good time. The woman who was tasked with cleaning my hotel room---I forgot to get her name!---was thorough and friendly and kind. I don't think she knew how appreciative I was that she had mopped my floor and cleaned my bathroom. I opened my room door and smelled cleaning products, saw the floor shining. I turned back to the hallway to thank her. I don't think I thanked her enough. It felt like she had done this for me. One of the reasons we go to conferences is to get a break from our lives, to grow appreciation and love for those in our circles by having a little distance. I had rented this space to be mine for just a few days, and I think she did more than she was being paid to do. On the morning that I left, she and I talked for a while out on the sidewalk. She told me a bit about her life, and I asked questions, wanting to know more. I offered to edit and publish her story onto Amazon, which is what I am doing currently for my friend Kate.

Everyone has a great story. At times, reading their stories let's you see into their soul.

I got the idea from my excellent friend Brenda, to write stories for women who could use a little  posture, lift, strength, validation. In this case, though, these people would be lifting themselves by testifying. I'll proudly stand behind them.

She Shops

The title is just the first thing that popped into my mind; I may change it later.

Imagine a world where if a woman just was stressed and over-worked, worried about her family perhaps, or studying for midterm exams and needed a physical and mental reset to relax---a world where, next to the nail salon in the strip mall next to Publix, she could stop in for a quick orgasm. Maybe the shop takes appointments, but walk-ins are welcome too.

This world of sexual and gender equality came to me after waking from a dream. Rated PG.

I, (if I'm entirely honest) a frumpy unfit yet attractive woman, am out for a girl's night with three beautiful women. One of which is Sandra Bullock, who is almost exactly my age but is not frumpy or unfit. Just to be clear. So you have the visual.
In my dream, we are in a maze of stages, cafes and bars separated by cozy lounge areas. We're not really there for the music, but for each other. We talk and laugh and drink and eat. Throughout the night in a private room, when each woman is ready, she is given an orgasm by another in the group. I am unwilling to be a giver, for childhood abuse reasons, so I watch and wonder at the female human body. It's all very friendly.
My turn is last and Sandy is my giver. I stop to freshen up, and go back to meet them, but I get lost. There are all these aisles dividing these separate areas, definitely not designed on a grid system, and though I am diligent in my search, I cannot find my way back to them.

I don't wake up disappointed. It was a fun dream. Not just fun, but relaxed and open. The four of us had a space to be whole and complete women.

Which brings me to the she-shop idea.
Men have been catered to at saloons and baths throughout history.
Imagine a world where women were given the same opportunity.

Maybe when you imagine it, you see male sex workers mixed in there as well. My imagination didn't allow for men. Again, being honest, but as I was first sexually abused at four years old by a man with a penis, you'll forgive me my bias. I'm not gay. I wasn't ever allowed to be gay. I have no idea what being gay would even be like.

...and back to the she shop: midterms, lunch breaks. The thirty minutes before picking up the kids from school, instead of parking in a line of cars a quarter-mile long, you stop in for a quickie and then pick them up when there is no line. Self care list: hair trim, nails done, orgasm. Then stop at the grocery store for some dinner ingredients. Maybe there's a cell phone friendly online booking menu: giver preference, scent preferences, music choices, lighting. Maybe even a warm couch area, or a bed choice, or a full one-hour bubbly bath. Not like a cold doctor's table covered in paper. For an extra charge, they can give you flowers on your way out. Or a balloon.
Gift cards available for Mother's Day...

Ten Things I Absolutely Love The Most:

1. Using a lint brush on the carpet in my closet, after vacuuming. No hair, dust, lint---then walking on it barefooted.

2. Once or twice a year, indulging in really crappy fiction. Popular, but crappy. Most valid reason for staying up late, (meaning after 8pm.)

3. Unexpected but not completely wacky paint colors on walls and doors. O-o-o-o-hhh

4. The solar-powered Santa bobble head super-glued to my dash in my car all year round. I especially love how he grooves to music on a sunny day.

5. Organizational office tools: 4 x 6 postits, sticky page flags, highlighters, chunky manuscript clips, colorful green pens (just cuz), file folders, unlikely cups for pens, my high-glazed ceramic dishes full of rubber bands and paper clips and lip stuff.

6. Having the AC on in December and January, but wearing a sweatshirt. Thanks Florida.

7. Christmas mugs for every beverage all year long.

8. Living most of my day in my head, where life is beautiful and I am blissed out 24/7. Which explains the funky smile on my face in the grocery store or walking the dogs. Sometimes it's the only happy place, so it's really important to have one. I have multi-colored settees, and macarame chandeliers. What does yours look like?

9. Shuffling a deck of Santa cards. OMG so much fun. Makes me very happy.

10. Ugh, the last one? Hmm. Dharma wheels and mandalas and hands of Fatima. All three depict a center, a soul. Or in sciencey speak, a second brain in our upper intestinal area. Whichever. I have a mad connection to my second brain. So much joy.

M A B S

MABS. Middle-Aged Bodies Stink.

Create your own support group if you'd like. You likely already have, but it's a very lean group, isn't it?

Think about it. Maybe they didn't give you early retirement for whatever reasons they told you. (Ohhhh...) That's right. Epiphany happens. 

It's not that younger people don't see you, it's because they don't want to smell you. They can see flesh sagging and hair loss. Give them some cred; they'd still talk and laugh with you despite your appearance. Intelligent individuals are pretty accepting. But just seconds before they make eye contact, their nose tells their brains, "DON'T DO IT!!!" So they look down at the bottom shelf cereals in the aisle or take out their phones immediately. I've even seen people in line at Lowe's leave the line in a ruse to go grab something they forgot SO AS NOT TO BE STANDING NEXT TO THE MAB. 

We like to blame the social media and technology. Less social skills because of the increase in screens. Think about this: they have no problem talking face to face with each other. They are just choosing to not engage as they attempt to flee.

MAers have always blamed the newest generation, Elvis, the Beatles, marijane.

Our kids don't really think we are ridiculous. They roll their eyes as they walk away so as to finalize the contact! See?

So go take another shower. Invest in some cologne, please. You deserve a life surrounded by those you love! Your loved ones would benefit from your love and wisdom and experience. Make sure your outsides smell as good as they possibly can.

And just because I am attempting to be helpful and "fix" the problem, stop eating stuff that makes you gassy. You know that I am speaking from my own experience, too, so don't think my pointing fingers are only facing outward. 

Ha. The reunion this summer. Carby dinner, birthday cake slivers because I couldn't dare to have a plate with a whole big piece on it, and eat it with a fork like a civilized grownup. Slipping slivers into my mouth as I clean up the kitchen. Ya ever notice I don't clean up the kitchen when there was no sugar for dinner? Ya. Then family adult games on the deck. "At least we are outside," is what I kept telling myself. I should have gotten up and spared the humans. I sat there, squoonching my buttocks into that slotted deck chair, not enough of a breeze for anybody's liking. My poor husband sitting next to me. To his credit, he never pointed me out, even when people started getting up and moving away from the main group. True love, that is. 

If it causes inflammation or bloating or lethal gas, don't eat it. Dairy? Broccoli? carbs? And don't mash up the lethal foods with non-gassy varieties. Cake with chicken is still cake. Maybe you'd get by with broccoli and chicken... You know your body. Pay attention if you don't. Keep a gas log. A cute little memo book you can carry with you at all times. Maybe a red one, like the color of a stop sign. Or use your phone! Take notes however works best for you. Got gas? Write down every circumstance. Time of day. What you ate. Other symptoms: tired? nauseous? 

Maybe taking notice and prevention won't do anything for you other than make you attractive to those in proximity. Or maybe it could prevent further physical degeneration. Tell yourself whatever motivates you to smell better. MABs are the smelliest human subgroup on this planet. Let's be more considerate.

With love to all my family and friends. I'm trying,

Tami

FOR YOU

GOOD MORNING. Yes, indeed, this post is for you. Who you? Always women. I write with females in mind. Audience is a she, la audience.

Why not men?

Hmm. Emo intelligence, for one. They may not get it. Although I've recently met a couple of males who are using the right side loft of their brains, windows wide, most men I have known would not get my stories, would get bored of them, in fact would regard them as a kind of sweet torture. As in, why would anyone want to read this? and what a waste of time. Like seeing his wife on the couch watching the Hallmark Christmas movie-of-the-month in July when he returns from the hardware store, her cheeks wet with tears. Oh, baby jesus, he thinks as he heads into the garage. That's the strongest image currently, so let's go with that.

Why such a skew? I see women everywhere I go. Men are almost in half-color, faded images, deserving of a word or two, but really not anything to concentrate on. I am not being snarky---this is truth. Other than my son, who I would take a bullet for (but we're white, so I probably won't have to) I rarely notice a man. Oh, except that time I went kayaking and rented a vessel. The man gently pulled my hand by the fingers, closer to him just by inches, so he could attach my wrist-paid bracelet to my right arm. Oh...it was like my brain fireworked and my heart kind of stalled. Starved. Perimeno.

Is there any in between? When I am sitting next to a man at a plastic work party, my husband on my other side, four-tenths of my brain is thinking about my appearance in this man's eyes. Am I pleasing to look at? (What the hell is that?) I am not at all interested in knowing this man better, or not even fascinated by his conversation, but somehow I need to look good for him?

Relax. I'm not going to analyze myself in front of you. A blog does not a therapy session make. 

(But... there's a fear in the presence of a man, am I accepted, am I attractive, will he hurt me?)

Audience. Ya, I don't know. Is what it is.

Hi Bill

Garfield and Peanuts lover.
Acey Duecey player and teacher.
Model airplane maker.
Navy man.
Santa Claus. Literally. Sometimes I was an elf.
Previous driver of a white Spirit and a locomotive truck, in parades.
Jokester. Rough tickler.
Sunday Lunch provider: water-based ham rectangles folded in half between two slices of fresh white bread, with mustard.
Movie nights: Amadeus was our last.
Giver of ice cream outings.
And rides, sleepovers, shelter.
Daddy Daughter fill-ins for me.
The guy who lived in the pink house.
Buyer of my first DC temple trip, where I got sealed to a new family 9 years later.
💖And the clothes I wore on that trip.
Ping pong table used for holiday meals in the basement, where I watched Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve.
Closest thing to a father.
Thank you. For all of it.

I'm sorry I didn't say it regularly for the last 30 years.

I'm coming.

Purely Zenified

Zenify

My new word.

I've been struggling with my anxiety more in the last 6 months since we doubled my depression medication. The depression is SOOOO not a problem anymore, but my ADD symptoms seem to be accentuated to say the least. I'm freaking crazy most of the time.

Last time I met with my psychiatrist he had me double the prozac to alleviate the zappy electrified feeling. Taking that new dose though caused some real problems. I couldn't sleep at all, so my left eye did that thing, where the eyeball swells up with a liquid abscess that burns when I blink. Ya, that only takes two nights of bad sleep. Touchy. I also noticed a stomach ache (or stomache) when I took the medicine. It's possible that the nausea is a result of adding kombucha drinks to my day to clean out my liver, which is another interesting topic. Stick around.

As luck would have it (karma?) my last two appointments with the Doc have been cancelled, so the short prescription ran out after missing a couple of days. I couldn't double anymore, so I had to request a refill of the old dosage. The whole experience has made me lose my affinity for the prozac, and perhaps that's been prodded by the overpriced pharmacy industry and the government control corporations enjoy in general. I'll see Dr. B today, so I think I'll request not to take it anymore.

As much as I want to get into a dialogue now about the other pills I take and my thoughts on those, I did title this Zenify, so I will struggle to stay with the original topic.

Because of the screetchy anxious feeling, I've tried to "use" teas and essential oils to calm me down. I had a facial massage with lavender oil, I have had decaf coffee, various teas including kava. I have meditated and napped and basically zenned out in a chair or on the floor. I have a little vile of stress-relieving serum that I rub on my neck after I shower and before bed. Overall, I think these things have helped ME to relax a lot more. I capitalize ME because these are things I am DOING, as opposed to taking a pill and letting it do the work for me. I don't recall ever making that distinction and working on things with real coping skills, intentionally. I use things. I use everything. I use caffeine, I use sugar, I use alcohol. I use them to do something for me. Beyond normal levels of enjoyment or pleasure. In very compulsive and addictive ways.

This new method trying to actually care for myself, is kind of amazing. I have cared for the kids, the dog, the husband. I haven't really cared for myself. I am selfish, but don't really care for myself. I'll guiltily go and have Asian immigrants care for my nails and feet, I'll have someone care for my hair. It feels much better to care for my own cuticles, and stay in touch with how I am feeling right at this very moment, and can I do anything for you, or get you something to drink? What do I feel like? What is happening right now...? I am Zenifying.

The first time I felt zenned was on the little trip to Bloomington I took with Jackie, when we stayed at Susanne's and Anna's. I was laying down, reading a book, getting drowsy, and Susanne asked me if I was all zenned out. Yes, yes I was.

Zenning is not the absence of hard work. I can really work my ass off, and then retreat and find my peace. I like doing this. But I definitely could do more. I haven't painted a wall in weeks and weeks. I haven't unpacked the picture frames in the garage, and we've lived here for a year. I need to trim the bushes around the air conditioning units, and plant some new things by the cable utility boxes. I did pull weeds and trim the tree in front of the living room window this morning, but then I rushed up to shower because I thought I might have a bug, or bugs, in my hair. After my shower, I cared for my nails and cuticles and skin. I cared for my hair. Currently, I am getting very drowsy typing this idea out. Usually, I would rush to make some coffee, but I think I'll not...

UPDATE: I STAYED ON MEDICINES BUT GOT KICKED OUT OF MY PSYCH'S OFFICE BY HIS WIFE. I GOT THAT LIST OF JOBS DONE, BUT OF COURSE, THERE ARE MORE ADDED. I FIND THIS ENTIRE POST BORING AND UNEVENTFUL. YOU REALLY SHOULD READ SOMETHING ELSE.

Tami's Brain Circle

Good morning. I am so zen right now, and I have a great idea.

I walked about 3 miles this morning. my car had an appointment to get detailed. You probably know what that means, but I really didn't until recently, and was so excited about the idea that I made an appointment for her. (I never thought of my car as a her until just this moment.)

So I brought her in, and walked home. The detailing will take about 4 hours. yeah, that long---because they are going to clean and steam and scrub every last bit of her insides. OHHH, so excited.
I walked home and it was quiet. I had no music to distract me, just my thoughts, and my breathing. It was nice to be alone and not working on anything or watching a screen. Like writing or painting or ceramics, but nothing in my hands. Just the thoughts. Some have said they like yardwork for the same reason. Built in thinking time.

So I was alone with myself, and I liked it. After about a mile, it was so very clear, this idea for me to stop facebooking on my phone. It's the last thing before bed, and the first when I wake up. I did it this morning! At first, I thought that I would just take it off of my phone---leaving instant messenger on so my fb people/family can reach me. With all of the political groups I belong to, I acknowledged how nice it is to see family stuff on there, my nieces and nephews, my siblings, my parents...

***The more that I read what other people think, the less I think for myself. I've created a pocket, a liberal political pocket, separate from other sections of humanity. Facebook timeline preferences create an unrealistic world and skews my perspective to think this pocket is more universal than I think it is. Maybe. Maybe it's the underbelly of 70% of society. Or maybe it's 10% and I perceive it to be more important.

After walking for 45 minutes, I feel like my mind and my soul is open to 360* around me. But with my facebook timeline, I'm only seeing 20% of the world, and that is so limiting.

I realize this is a creation of my own. I made this. Not facebook, but I have liked posts and followed pages. The more I use it the smaller my brain circle becomes. So I am expanding my brain circle, and taking fb off of my phone. I will be available and here if you need me. I may write on my blog periodically. And when I am ready, I will come back to fb and modify my groups and likes, etc. So that I can see better.

I will miss seeing pictures of family. I do like that. Most of family news I get on facebook, so that will not be a good effect. Maybe I will make more phone calls? (Smile) How primitive.

Big Truck

Noticed: rarely do I see a woman driving a huge pick up truck, the kind with six ginormous wheels and that measures as wide as two Prius' side-by-side. Sometimes with the words Heavy Duty and 4X4 emblems on the back. This is what I'm talking about:

Granted, I do not live in Texas, where I imagine women have been driving similar vehicles for generations. But only because that's the vehicle their husbands taught them to drive way back when. Male-driven society teaches "the little woman" how to drive.

I was driving behind this truck this morning, with it's polished silver exhaust pipe that could bathe in my bathtub. And I thought, as you would, He's compensating for something. And here is where I sit in judgement, I know. I'm a horrible person. But I'm telling the truth. I thought, This man needs this truck, needs to fill it up with tons of gas. He needs all that gas, because he needs that big truck. Which is re-stating, I know, but a man like that, needing all that gas, and (my next psychological step) not wanting to pay much for it, would most-likely (here's the stretch) vote republican. Am I wrong? Of course I'm not wrong. But, as Donald Trump so graciously has proclaimed, I have a problem being politically correct. Let's just tell the truth. The truth only hurts if your (an idiot) acting in ways that are irresponsible and show lower intelligence. I'm not hiding behind words here, I am willing and frankly able to communicate differences of opinion without punching, kicking or biting. I may mentally spit on you. Hours after we've talked. But I welcome any comments or feedback you'd like to share.

I feel bad for that man. I mean, we can't assume, as you may think I'm implying, that he has a small penis, therefore needs the big truck. The chances of all big truck drivers having small penises...come on, there can't be that many. I don't know how many such trucks are out there or were purchased last year. I am convinced that there must be either a childhood reason for the need, or father/mother issues...maybe an older brother beat up on him as a kid, and he never got over it. I feel compassion for that man.

On the other hand, what if there's not a conditioned factor that leads to the need for the truck? I guess there could be some genetic physiological explanation. Hmm. Or if it's a combination: you have this couplet of genes AND you are raised by not-so-good parents, for example, boom. Need Truck.

Feelin' The Bern

Hello! It's been a long time...

If it wasn't obvious, I have some issues with balance in my life. Not just personally, but with everything, from the way I eat a meal (eat all the cauliflower first, then eat the meat or whatever) to how I spend my work time and my free time. Whatever it is, IT will take up most of my waking hours, and usually some sleeping hours as well. For example, I have been thinking of getting a new car. I look at cars everywhere I go, I google cars, dream of cars. Can't stop mentioning and talking about cars. I was very passionate and excited about cars. Until I decided not to get a different car, and suddenly I am able to focus on something else. I am compulsive and "all in" on anything I do. 

Today's topic: getting Bernie Sanders elected president of the United States (POTUS.) As is my norm, I am all in on trying to do whatever I can to make this happen, while still being a mama and a wife and keeping clean clothes in my closet. Occasionally I even cook a meal. I'm not doing much beyond what a gazillion other volunteers across the country are doing: calling voters, monitoring callers calling voters, training others to call voters, and being hostess at the grassroots (Bernie/Progressive issues) office for others who are also volunteering. I am watching and live-tweeting debates, which causes my family peeps to flee to other rooms in the house. You know, your basic Berniecrat or whatever we/they are calling us.

My attempt has been and continues to be balance. I need certain things to take care of myself. Sleep, food, showers, clean clothes. I need to foster and enjoy relationships with my husband and kids, and help them also to meet their own basic needs. My dog needs food and potty-walks. You get it. So I have limited myself to doing Bernie stuff mostly during MY TIME, when others are doing their jobs or classes, with the occasional weekend event or conference calls/live streams from home. 

I'm adjusting this balanced plan starting next week.

I'll be hostessing/training in the afternoons---until 6pm. (GASP.) I'll be making time for some of the ME-stuff that hasn't been happening, writing to open the creative door each morning, writing here on my meaningless blog each week, writing my memoir---focusing on the transitions between the excerpts I've already written. Perhaps having some bursts of fiction explode out of my brain. HA!---and while I am adding those things back in, I'll be prepping for dinner also before I go in to The Office. 

Good luck to me. 

See you in a week if I am successful.

I Heart Education

Elli is on my lap and I think Jackie went upstairs, so perfect time to write. I was reading over a few of my blog entries from the last few years. The post I made at 750words.com yesterday I used as a blog post after some revision. It's good. In fact, some of my other posts are written well also. My writing is kind of bouncy and meandering and fun to read, even a little entertaining. And in no way is it all positive rosy depictions of life. Not at all. But I think I address reality, somewhat. I don't however post on my blog when I'm depressed. If I did that, the flavor would be totally not fun, if I got any words at all on the page. "Nothing to report." Maybe that's all I'd be able to spit out. Fun stuff. Very Eeyore-esque.

I started my blog in January of 2014, when I went back to college at the freeing age of 44, as an undergrad junior at Indiana University, where my husband was assistant professor. I was pretty convinced he would get tenure, we would stay in Bloomington, and our son would attend IU also. I thought if I was attending, he would be able to see me study, kind of modeling the behaviors of a college student. And I did. I studied and read and wrote fiction and poetry and research papers. A lot of my work at that time just ended up taking me away from my kids. But I was convinced the modeling would end up being a good idea. Then, of course, Steve did not get tenure and we had one year to prepare to move. Which is a long time, ample time to perform all the tasks of relocation well, but too long if you're not really into saying goodbyes. Steve moved in January of last year, and the kids and I followed in July. We have now lived here for 6 months.

What's that? Do I miss college? Do I want to go back? Good questions. I miss some of it: the structure provided by the attendance of classes and the bus schedules, the topics of creative writing and world literature were really fun to dive into. What I don't miss is sitting with all these 19 year olds at the age of 44. If I saw a class buddy in the hall at another time in the week, a very limited "Hi" was sometimes pushing it. I wasn't there to be social, though class time was the most socializing I had done aside from church in years. I loved it. But not one of my professors was older than me. I'm not being age-ist, but as sometimes happens with age, we think we've learned a few things over the years, and someone who has not been there yet cannot possibly see things the same way. It was an odd combination, not being as knowledgeable as my professors---or even as many other students!---but having experienced more of LIFE. Very weird. I loved the tasks, the studying, the writing assignments, the books. God, I love the books.

So, recently, I went into a college bookstore, and browsed the shelves, recognizing, "Oh, I remember taking English 101..." and passing quickly by the accounting and nursing sections. I was drawn to some textbooks, some lit books and lots of others, but settled on buying 6 books to bring home and study in my own time. What a great idea! I can spend a little bit of money on books at a discount college book store, and map out my own course of study for them in whatever topic I choose! Which actually is really close to my previous approaches to attending 5 different schools altogether. I never cared about the degree I would receive at the end. I was loving the learning. Best times in my life. Could it be possible to get a good education of a topic by choosing to read and maybe give myself some writing and research assignments? And, if I liked a topic so so much, I could find more resources to study in 201, 301, and 401 advanced classes. Of course, all this studying would enrich my life incredibly, or so I assume, but would it help me get related employment in the case of my husband no longer bringing in the bacon? That would be a "no." Unless I could impress someone in an interview, displaying all the knowledge I retained and was able to retrieve appropriately at any given time. HA! I guess it's possible.

Zora Neale Hurston

Hello.

Today I had book club where we discussed Zora Neale Hurston, previously Zora Neal Lee Hurston, but she dropped the Lee and added an E to Neal, probably due to her 3 marriages. She was from Georgia, and moved down here to Seminole county/Maitland area. I can't remember the name of the "ville" but there's a week of devotion to this author in the form of a festival, where the University of Central Florida and local libraries work together to show the movie, have people read the books, have a walking tour of (Eatonville! That's it.) and other fun literary stuff. I guess the movie has Halle Berry playing Janie in Their Eyes Were Fixed on God, which was her most popular novel and the movie's story, and also most like Zora's own life. Amy, the librarian who leads my writing group, and also who led our book club today, praises Hurston as her most favorite black female writer---even more than Toni Morrison! Can you even believe that?? (Big intake of breath.) Anyway, the book is great. It's written, as most of Hurston's books, in a southern black dialect that some at-that-time modern black people would have loved to see disappear, right along with the reality that was slavery. The story illustrates the very real culture and events depicting life for blacks at the end of slavery. This town, that is still here in the county that I happen to have just moved to 6 months ago, is declared as the first all-black city, with a black mayor, etc, in the history of the country. People from all the southern states moved down here to live in it. Hurston's character, Janie, comes from Georgia, while Hurston's real-life people claim to come from Alabama. The story basically goes along through Janie's 3 marriages. Everything about Janie is daring for that time period. The book, and her other works, did not do well before she died in 1960. It took time for the non-feminist world to catch up to her. University classes regularly read this book as a window into Florida and southern and black history. No coincidence then that this author is praised around here in February every year, as the shortest month of the year is declared Black History Month. There's a bone for "their community." Proof that racism is dead.

The book club discussion frequently went back to the "dialect" and the "black accent" and some readers absolutely could not read past page one, and chose to download the audio book onto their devices. Whether the club members were from the south or not, most agreed that hearing the words as they are written is much easier to understand than reading them off of a page. A few times, I found myself wondering if the discussion were of a southern white woman of that time period, and that white woman was married controversially 3 times, if the discussion would go where it went. I don't think any of these women are intentionally racist,  but I could see their, and my own, white privilege flag waving proudly. What I mean to say is, if a black woman walked into the room, or had stood at the doorway and considered entering, she would have heard what I sensed, and upon noticing the black woman, as light or as dark as you please, all of us would have back-pedaled a little and felt the need to explain their previous spoken sentences.

There was an interesting mix of feminist, girl-power praise for the book, which, like I said, was way ahead of it's time, black, brown, yellow or white, off-set by quite an opposite view. Some thought the book created fewer options for women and situations that boxed Janie in too much. It was written in a time when officially blacks and whites should be able to go to school together and pee in the same toilets. But unofficially, women were not legally allowed to vote, denied ownership of property and definitely living a stranger in a man's world. One could argue that at that time no women living in America or anywhere else could imagine the benefits I enjoy today as a woman. Not in their wildest dreams.

Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe Flora Neale Hurston dreamed of a time when a woman could start and own a business, decide to get married or to not, decide whether or not she would have children, or make all kinds of decisions about her body freely, work the same business and education jobs as any man, and travel and spend her money as she damn well wished. Perhaps she did imagine a world where the framed boxes white men put everything and everyone into would fall and all people could decide for themselves how they wanted to live their lives. I wonder if she had the capacity to imagine every person valuing every other kind of person as a human being and respected and loved them as equal, and that respect and love translated into laws and governments of equality. Hmm.

zorafestival.org

I Heart Them Both

Okay, before I get into it, let me clarify what I'm going to say with the gratitude and love I feel for my husband. He is almost perfect. I'm not going to list all the things he does that I am grateful for. As he does them, I make sure to thank him, so he always knows. I know that if I wait to play catch-up, something will happen to one of us, or both, and it'll be left undone. He is great. I am a very lucky girl.

That said, I'm going to attempt to write why I think I (actively) LOVE my little white dog more than my husband.

I got this idea last night, and instead of getting out of bed---which would have been impossible since I had taken my nighttime menopause pill already--- to write it down, I rolled over and fell into a well-deserved sleep. I had walked in a parade yesterday morning, gotten some sun, and talked to folks about voting for Bernie Sanders for POTUS 2016. I don't generally walk in parades, as a rule. Not usually my thing, if you wondered. Then I went to the beach with said husband and daughter. I was too tired to write it. And I hoped I would remember it. And for the most part, I think I do.

So I love Elli, our little white dog. We got her 7 years ago, rescued from a meadow after her owners took her four puppies to sell. She was only 2 years old then, which is really too young to be pregnant for a little Maltese. So she was saved and then we found her a week later. She was depressed. Wouldn't eat or play. She was still lactating. And now I'm like her mom, and she's taken care of those randomly occurring cravings for holding a baby. Lots of emotional bonding behind all these little details. She NEEDS a lap to sit on most of the day, so if I'm free to lounge on the couch, she will be there soon after, asking permission to come up and lay with me. She pauses before she lays, looking at me with a yearning. Please touch me. Sometimes I do, sometimes not. But because she has a 50% chance of getting rubbed, she always asks, her little eyes pleading. If I am not up for it, I'll tell her to lay down, and she listens. But if I am, I start with her head and cheeks, her eyes go to another place, a peaceful, xanax-type place. She loves to be touched. Then she's move a little to the side, hoping I'll run my hands down her back, and once I do, she drops on her back so I can rub her tummy, which was her want all along. She's very clear about what she wants. And if I can, I give it to her. But she feeds me at the same time. It feels good to love her. She looks at me with appreciation and almost worshipful joy. At other times, she will slide her head along my torso, in a hugging manner. She'll rest her head on my shoulder or cuddle into me as we lay together. She follows me into whatever room I'm working or playing in, just to be near me. Every day or two, she brings a toy or slipper in her mouth and places it at my feet, hoping I'll play fetch with her. When she returns with the thrown item, I have to gently chase her to wrangle the thing from her mouth. So far she hasn't lost any teeth doing this. Crossing my fingers. What I have with Elli could also describe a courtship between a man and a woman. A girl and a boy. A very comfortable, loving, reciprocated friendship saturated in love and affection. God, I love her. I'm so grateful for her. She just walked over to me, as I write this. Can I sit on your lap? she asks. No? OK, well thank you for sliding my cozy round bed closer to you, and in the sunlight from the window. You know me so well.

So, next my task is to go back over this descriptive pink fluff and catch the identifiers of my love for this little doggy. I must take that list and apply it to my relationship with my hubby. Perhaps then I will see the lacking, make some adjustments. And maybe, just maybe, I'll ask him to make some too. Fat chance. I think I've lost hope of him doing some of those things. Those things that would make me happy.

But then, I so appreciate the things he does do. Do I really want to change anything? What if he didn't do what he already does anymore? Then I'd have to ask for that back. Hmm. Maybe I should just be happy I have him AND the dog. Two loves. I am so lucky.

Just Roll With It

Everything changes. 

Today I am wearing a tank top in Mid-December, enjoying climate-controlled 74 degrees in my ginormous central Florida house---because I have a house in central Florida. Where I live. Weird, right? I have become one of those people. One of the lucky ones to live in paradise. There's a really tall palm tree in our front yard. I can't put my lit-up baby deer decoration on the grass, because we still mow the lawn. Weekly. Last year at this time, my old furnace was groaning because it was below zero outside and it was working so hard to keep the house at 68 degrees. I was dripping my faucets so my pipes didn't freeze and break. This year, I'm hanging my poinsettias by the backyard pool.

I had them lob my long hair off last week. I picked up my new (awesome) glasses today. It's like I'm wearing a disguise. Two weeks ago, for our well-attended Thanksgiving holiday, I looked like a completely different woman from the neck up. Sometimes change is fun.

Life is like that. The sets change. Our theme music exudes ever-evolving melodies. Our stories pile up. But hopefully, and I wish this for all people everywhere, there are some constants. The core people you surround yourself with. Sometimes the lines blur between family and friends...let's just call them our "people." And maybe surround isn't a literal meaning; maybe your people are spread out all over the country. But those who emotionally orbit your soul. The ones you'd drop everything for to go help at a particularly hard or happy time. The ones you would call if you really needed something.

Our other constants: treasured items you wouldn't have time to grab in a fire, but pieces that you would miss greatly if they were lost. My mother-in-law's wedding china with the green edging. The worn blankies both our children were glued to so many years ago. My books and paintings and writings. The photos stored on our computers. Our family's Christmas stockings and the children's homemade ornaments.Too many things to list that, when we see them, bring joy to our hearts.

Change can be difficult. Difficult, as in...it can really suck sometimes. Depending on your age and maturity level, moving for instance can really suck. Leaving your comfortable home and city, school and neighborhood, is painful. Navigating a new life, while applying every effort to maintain who you were and what you did is rocky for a while. Sometimes it takes way too long to feel the bumpy road start to smooth itself out. Hopefully, you make new friends that become like little railings you can use to steady yourself as you seemingly run in circles while you search for familiar landmarks and routines.

We have to trust that this move, this change, holds some value and added meaning to our futures. We have faith that there is a purpose to enduring and conquering, and enduring some more. As we create our new normal. 

Moving our Stuff

Moving. Relocation. These are the pleasant words we use to cover upheaval, catastrophe. There are so many changes all at once, like no other time in your life. We all have that friend or maybe you are her, who moved several times in her childhood, almost bragging about her many adventures in various states and countries, like anyone who has stayed in the same neighborhood for 20 years is somehow less. You are mentally begging her to show you some weakness, some real emotion of how hard it was to leave her life and build a new one.

          No matter if it’s been one move in a decade, or more, the exploding closets and cardboard fingercuts, the SORTING…create an unrest in your belly. Your mind is constantly revising The Move List. You find if you do not build in some horizontal time each day with a calming cup of tea or a kava pill it will literally all explode out of you and the movers will find a bloody mess when they arrive to remove you from what you know. Why must we keep our moments of tears and unsurity to ourselves? Do you think no one wants to know? Hmm, you may be right. It may take some extra social superskill to gauge a friend’s threshold limits of honesty. As I am about to do, I recommend you keep sharing! Think of it as a filtering process to find that one true nugget of friendship.  (Disclaimer: I may be wrong and compulsive sharing may lead to lonely weekends and loss of phone notifications.)

          Let’s go to my closet, shall we? I have about 6 feet of hanging rack on my side of our marital closet. No shelves, just the hangers. It was tight. I never wore some of it. I tried this thing where you put the freshly dried things in front so you can know what’s not been worn. I do keep everything in sections---not by color. I’ve seen that: whites, tans, yellows, oranges (ew), reds, purples (I don’t do this one either), browns and black. This system makes no sense to me. As in: Oh, the weather is rainy, I think I’ll wear a yellow top? Ludicrous. First comes function, then colormood, which I’ll explain in a sec.

          When I say function, I mean the actual physical structure of the fabric. 30 degrees outside =  long sleeves. This should be the clothing choices that make sense. At the end of the rack, I put hanging slacks and dresses and skirts---any long clothing that might be disturbed by rolling drawer carts on the floor below. So we’ll call that category “long stuff.” The order of the other groupings depend on the time of year. I keep what I use the most closer to the closet door. Tank tops in the summer, long sleeves in the winter. It makes sense. So as the seasons change, I just grab all my tanks and hang them behind the long sleeves. You get the idea. Pants and shorts get the same treatment.

          Next then comes the colormood. Once you have decided what you need to cover your body in order not to die outside, you assess your mood. How am I feeling this morning? Bad sleep morning-afters usually require a dark color and flowy pants. Comfortable and dark. Grrr. Sporadically I wake up remembering a vivid dream, which I immediately write into my dream-to-story notebook on my nightstand. These mornings are happy and energetic---so clothing choices would be made like so: It’s humid and cool, so layers will be more comfortable; red t-shirt with tan cardigan hoodie, with white jean jacket.

          There has recently been an exception to these rules. If I have had sugar the day before, I know I will be having hot flashes today. This requires a tank top and light button shirt as a jacket---no matter the weather. The flashes started about a year ago, so I have adjusted to this new routine also.

          Which brings us back to adjustments. Moving. Change of routines.

          You can see by my previous that I like organization. A place for everything. I can’t explain why this makes me so happy and relaxed, but it really, really does. And I’m pretty good at it. We are a family of four and I manage to remember where the paper clips are, extra school notebooks, where his wallet was last seen and to keep hair and teeth bands in their spots. (Yes, 50% of us are teenagers.)

          At first, when I started sorting our stuff, 8 months before our actual move, it was enjoyable and I liked it. If we had not used it in a year, it was either brought to Goodwill or put in the garage to be decided upon later. I did this in layers. I top-layered the whole 2000 square foot house: games, coats, shoes, towels, blankets. I sorted that top layer with no anxiety or negative emotion.

          Our move is to a no-season climate. Our current home is attacked by sub-zeros and lightening, blizzards and tornadoes. We place our outdoor grills against the patio door, so the storms don’t blow them over the edge of the deck. Our cars, if left out of the garage, are covered with rain, snow, ice, bird poop or yellow pollen most days of the year. So, it is an adjustment to move into our new home, four states south. No shovels or salt necessary. There is no shock of pollen in spring, because there’s a steady flow all year long. This requires adjustment! Will I really only need 2 or 3 sweaters---or is that too much? What if we vacation in the north and I need this one pair of gloves? Will our boxes arrive only to be opened with a slap to the forehead? Sigh.

          The seasonal difference highlights a functional change in our closets. Much like the colormood of choosing daily outfits, there are emotional reasons we experience upheaval while sorting things for a move. I’m not emotionally attached to my 3 shovels but… do I really want to move 20 years of crates of both kids’ school memories? Can I filter that down to something more manageable---like 2 crates each? What if I throw away something that we’ll want to keep, in my frenzy to reduce our moving truck weight?

          So my process of elimination continues. Even the second and third cycle of elimination of closets wasn’t as painful. Recently, (I think) I finished filtering my clothes. I have kept out 14 t-shirts, 12 tank tops, only the pants I actually love to wear, and some dressy things for a cruise we’re going on the week before we move. (I know.) I packed my remaining winter things, and some other pieces I will keep but will go on the truck. One last time, I’ll pack another box or two, leaving just clothes for the 10 days we wait for the truck to arrive, which I will stuff into my car.

          What is erupting in me through this process is my relationship with each thing. I love this aqua-colored picture frame, though I've yet to stick a photo in it. My friends paid someone to hand stitch this queen-sized quilt for us before we got married. Do I need to keep it until I die, even if it’s mostly mauve? What’s the protocol here?! I love my friends, though I don’t see them anymore…I value our memories. Do I keep this because I might get Alzheimer’s and this will remind me of the ham salad we made in kindergarten in 1975? Where’s the line? Do I decide---do we all decide for ourselves where the line is between valued item and trash? I also see that having nothing to call my own as a child leaves me grasping for things decades later. (Don't touch that! It's mine!)
          I’m a writer. I’m writing a memoir. I don’t think I can throw away anything. Which means I pack it all.

???

          Time to get some calming tea.

What do you write?

 (Taken from our family blog, accessed at tabs above, from my post in 2010.)

Ahem.

It has come to my attention that blogs can be used for all kinds of purposes.

  It is so completely obvious that our family's blog is the rosy, perfect facade

 of the peaks of our lives.  True, it's good to let everyone know how we are,

 what is happening (like the Christmas Letters) but there is so much more.

  I've seen so many uses for a blog---family business, venting,

 speaking out on issues...even therapy.  Like journaling.

Which leads me to the question of the day.

So what do you put in your journal? 

 The rosy perfect stuff, so your grandkids

 will think they came from perfect stock

 (and thus feel unworthy, or possibly make them reach higher...)

 or do you tell THE REAL DEAL? 

 I have stacks of journals

 starting when I was 12ish, some with tear stains,

 a few pages with blood on them.

  I've considered abridging them into one perfect personal history...

but this question of authenticity has been preventing progression.

I've always been a realist kind of a person.  Some dislike it, others really appreciate it.

  But I do it for me.

  Being honest and not wearing a mask has been my mantra for years.

  Let's face it, lots of Mormon people wear masks.  And non-Mormon too, of course.

  But as I get older, will I?

The Old Stuff

I was always an artist---not with words, but with colors and shapes. I mostly used acrylics or oils, but also enjoyed charcoal for it's shocking contrast to the white page.

I don't say "always an artist" with a sense of accomplishment or pride...more like "that was my thing." It's what I liked to do more than anything else. This painting of three colorful horses is my reproduction of another artist's work. I loved it because they were obviously depicting three different stages in the life of a woman, and did it using unconventional colors. Or maybe three stages in my life. I see myself as the strong, confident horse in the back, having left exciting, fun youth and child-bearing (sad but peaceful) years behind.

After having an autistic son, a mini-me daughter, and managing a family for 20 years, I have trained myself to use other parts of my brain. Finding time---or making time to access the creative artsy side and paint or draw has been almost impossible. What has emerged, however, with all this planning and raising and teaching and advocating is love of word-arranging. Like you would arrange a half dozen types of flowers into one vase, or choose colors to make a room pop, I now like to arrange words in ways that make you stop and think.

To Blog or Not To Blog...

Yes, I know, this is my blog. But blogging is like, a thing now----should I do it?
 
There are varying opinions on both sides of this question. Here's one:
http://janefriedman.com/2013/03/15/its-time-for-many-experienced-writers-to-stop-blogging/

The author, L.L. Barkat, is specifically talking about writers writing blogs, especially experienced, accomplished writers.

And here's another:

http://www.becomingminimalist.com/15-reasons-i-think-you-should-blog/

The benefits this author, Joshua Becker, has experienced through blogging, and thus blogged about, are compelling, and desirable to me.

Let's suppose I become a more consistent, regular blogger---what would I write about?
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” —William Wordsworth
If anything, my blog would be REAL and passionate, and of course, rambling.

I have a blogging class this weekend here in Bloomington at WWfaC. Maybe that'll make up my mind.

Junot Diaz (!!!) Coming to Bloomington...

Becoming a Writer By Junot Diaz

From Oprah website, http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Junot-Diaz-Talks-About-What-Made-Him-Become-a-Writer

Photo: Nancy Crampton

"It wasn't that I couldn't write. I wrote every day. I actually worked really hard at writing. At my desk by 7 A.M., would work a full eight and more. Scribbled at the dinner table, in bed, on the toilet, on the No. 6 train, at Shea Stadium. I did everything I could. But none of it worked. My novel, which I had started with such hope shortly after publishing my first book of stories, wouldn't budge past the 75-page mark. Nothing I wrote past page 75 made any kind of sense. Nothing. Which would have been fine if the first 75 pages hadn't been pretty damn cool. But they were cool, showed a lot of promise. Would also have been fine if I could have just jumped to something else. But I couldn't. All the other novels I tried sucked worse than the stalled one, and even more disturbing, I seemed to have lost the ability to write short stories. It was like I had somehow slipped into a No-Writing Twilight Zone and I couldn't find an exit. Like I'd been chained to the sinking ship of those 75 pages and there was no key and no patching the hole in the hull. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, but nothing I produced was worth a damn.

Want to talk about stubborn? I kept at it for five straight years. Five damn years. Every day failing for five years?..."

(follow link above to read more.)

Junot Díaz's novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (Riverhead) won the Pulitzer Prize in 2008.

I'm a Writer!

Recently:

I have nearly completed a sequel to 2013 Noble Literature winner, Alice Munro's short story, Post and Beam. It is about the continuing lives of her characters, Lionel and Polly. I have contacted Munro's publisher's assistant to see if this is legal and asked a question or two. I have also requested permission from the Alice Munro Festival organizers to enter my short story into their writing contest.

I have revised and submitted 4 short stories and my first poem for grading at IU. Of these, I am in love with 2 of the 5 pieces. One of the others will become a novel, which I will continue to work on, one is meaningless, and the other is mediocre at best.

I'm surprised by my poem, meaning I didn't expect to write a poem that was not trash and that I liked. It evokes a bunch of emotion (as does my favorite short story) which I deem as way more important than following all of the poetry norms.

I am also surprised by how nervous I am at people reading my stuff. It's very similar to displaying paintings or drawings for critique. I care a lot less about the grade I get, but yearn for feedback.

I have decided that I would love to create paintings that reflect my stories/poems, and when compiled have prints of these works alongside the writing. I have yet to research any authors who have done this in the past.