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 |  “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
Maya Angelou |
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I'm doing it again, looking towards a fresh start on the road to throwing it all out there. I want this road to be paved with meaning and intensity. The way I try to do everything. I'll lighten it up along the way, but not too much. Complacency is not what I have ever done; I think I have tried for "complacent" in recent years and have failed spectacularly. So this new beginning? I'm stripping off the mask. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well we all have a face That we hide away forever And we take them out and show ourselves When everyone has gone Some are satin some are steel Some are silk and some are leather They're the faces of the stranger But we love to try them on -Billy Joel |
| Unbelievable. My dryer has stopped working. I have two vacuums. Neither one is working. The new General Manager at the hotel where I work is a fool who has been discussing me to everyone but ME. She is, indeed, a fool who has absolutely NO understanding of why I have to do things the way I do...we have an owner who is cheap, who does not provide me with the tools necessary to perform the tasks I must during "night audit", so I have to improvise, and I believe I've done pretty well in the face of such odds. But I'm thisclose to being SO NOT HERE anymore. It is a thought like that which perks me up, actually. And to think it all started because my supervisor told the owner I deserve a raise. How very ironic. I need income, obviously. I mean I have a nonworking dryer, no vacuum that works, and I've developed an affinity for the roof over my head. But how much do I have to put up with-from a job I don't even like and which pays so much less than I'm worth-before I shout "ENOUGH!" Enough of everything. Enough of people who live in my house and think they can dictate to me and refuse to clean up after themselves. Enough of being held hostage by one of these people through her child-I care deeply for my granddaughter, but I'm putting up with SO MUCH CRAP from her mother it's about to make me throw up. I get it, Liz is unmedicated and I'm trying to be understanding, but when she lives in my house, eats my food, is using her absent sister's laptop computer to the point it will most likely be ruined when she returns from basic training, tries to yell and verbally abuse me when one little thing doesn't go her way (as usual), does not take care of said grandchild well AT ALL, and acts like I'm asking SO MUCH of her when I tell her it's time to get off her rear end and help...ENOUGH!!! Enough of a job working for other people I do not respect and do not like. Enough of feeling GUILT every time I want to do or say something for myself. Enough of pinching pennies because the job I hate pays in pennies. Enough of spending SO MUCH TIME picking up after everyone and trying to fix THEIR lives to the point that I have nothing for myself. No time, no money, no peace. Just enough already.  |
| I have a secret. It's NO secret that I'm not experiencing the easiest summer. This is a no-brainer for anyone who knows me and has had to put up with my moody self. I try to keep it under control, and sometimes I succeed. More and more often, though, I'm cracking... So we all find what works to break the stress, right? For me there are a few habits I've developed to channel me through it all...when that little vein on my forehead begins to throb, I know it's time to pull out whatever it is I need that will muddle me through another day with the people I love. And the job, the health issues, the guilt and the worry...I need a break from the swirl. I need to dive into worlds where none of it exists. Or sometimes, I just need to feel young, again. I watch television on the computer...some of it being things like "The Big Bang Theory" when I need a total escape, other things like "CSI" or British detective series-I love them, so refined they are as they solve brutal yet clean murders! But then there's that nagging wish, occasionally, for the escape into youth. The place where I can feel vital and energetic and just full of anticipation and joy. Just joy. And therein lies the secret... A few months ago, a friend of mine started talking about New Kids On The block, the first of the great Boy Bands, right? They actually came together back in 1984, when they were barely into adolescence. They didn't make it big until they were almost out of their teens-most of them, anyway-in 1988. They exploded with their second album and just got bigger and bigger...this was all back in the late '80s and early '90s. I had not time for such things during that era. I was in my young twenties, actually closer to the ages of the band members than I knew, but I was an adult. Most of the band's followers were screaming, hysterical teens and pre-teens. Hence during that time I rolled my eyes and moved along in my life, caring for toddlers and cleaning my house. For a good portion of that time I lived in a foreign country, so one would think I didn't hear much about the New Kids...oh no. Germany went INSANE for those boys. And I rolled my eyes. Back to a few months ago, when my younger friend was excited about the New Kids and a new album they had coming out. Seriously, I asked her...they were a flash in the pan, I thought. Boys who had their moment in the sun, a few went on to their own brand of stardom, and that was that. Not even close, my friend assured me. They'd gotten back together in 2008 after fourteen years apart and were better than ever. Sure, I said with all the skepticism of a jaded adult. I figured those memories of youth had a lot to do with how she felt towards these boys. I'm sure that was part of it. And then I listened. I figured, what's the harm? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PN1EFs9XQoc  I was blown away. Completely blown away by how much I LIKED this song! I listened to it again. Then again. Then I found the rest of the music from the album. And I liked them. Okay, I more than liked them...I LOVED them! Good grief. I felt kind of weird. Isn't this group supposed to be about nostalgia and those girls who loved them back when I was already a grown-up with grown-up responsibilities? Aren't I a bit old to watch these videos and...okay I'm going to admit it...drool over the FINE men they have become?! That's right. They make good music and look even better. There you have it. My secret. My guilty pleasure. When the real world just becomes too much...I break it all down with one of those catchy New Kids songs. They aren't deep-meaning for the most part, they won't give me some grand moral epiphany or make me think about the greater good. They just make my body move and my eyes light up. I have to remind myself: that's okay. It's GOOD, even. Now I'm headed over to Youtube...*beebop/drool*  |
| "You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." Ray Bradbury said that. I concur. I almost did that years ago; writing is what saved me during those most difficult years with Liz. Things are still difficult...shoot, every MINUTE with Liz is difficult. And that's all I want to write about THAT for the moment. I need to shift my focus elsewhere. I really do. Back in "the day" I used the blog I wrote in for so many things: balm, bandaid, patchwork, writing tool, writing exercise. I even took some entries and created articles or essays out of them. I used the opinions and ideas I'm usually full of to create more than just a blog or a journal. That "Blog of a Lifetime" was just that. My LIFE. I've tried to re-create the sort of connection I had with my blog a few years ago. We were one, it and I, a pulsating mass of life that had no beginning and end...we were that circle you hear about from songs-"the circle of life." Everything I ever felt or experienced went into that blog--there wasn't much I wouldn't splash onto its cyber pages. Times have changed. I didn't want them to, but part of "the circle of life," a part I sometimes embrace and sometimes don't, is change. Even though it's a circle, it doesn't stay the same. Whirling back around doesn't guarantee you'll be where you were the last time around. While you were busy taking that ride...the path altered a bit, moved on its axis just enough to create, if not chaos, well then at least change. It's what keeps the momentum of the circle going. And there's the rub. No "circle of life" remains the same. To be real and honest, we wouldn't want it to. I don't want to be where I was back in 2005, even if sometimes I feel like I AM-ha ha-I'm really not. This circle has dragged me through a lot... So now my purpose for THIS blog, this cyber world where I still want to "strip off the mask," is about where I am NOW, and where I want to be going. HOW do I want my circle to morph during my next go-round? And that, boys and girls, is what we'll explore during this most auspicious journey...I do know this: I know that I want to stay drunk.  |
| Prepare for a litany of complaints. I can't help it. It's what I'm feeling so I'm going with it. Honesty is my writing policy: 1. It is HOT. This makes me cranky, sluggish, icky-feeling, fatigued, unhappy, and smelly. Do. Not. Like. !!! 2. My house is a haphazard, cluttered, ridiculous mess. You see, there are two grown people living here besides myself and Thomas. They are my children, but THEY ARE GROWN. They obviously did not receive this memo, because they persist in the belief that whatever goes on in this house is exclusively my responsibility. Like when they were ten. They did more as teenagers when I had an allowance to hold over their freakin' heads! And now I am old, I'm not in the best of health, and I need them to take care of themselves and their own messes. They do not. I have cajoled. I have threatened. I have attempted to guilt them, I have tried to be truthful. Next I'm going for slaughter. Sure I'll be in prison and minus two offspring, but the house will stay clean. If they don't start getting off their GROWN UP ASSES it's going to be the most attractive option. Seriously. 3. My job drives me batshit. It's beneath my abiities, it's beneath my tolerance for idiocy, it's going to make me crazier than my kids. I don't know why I'll be committed. Could be the kids, could be the job. It's a toss up, really. 4. I am worried and feel monumental guilt. About my elderly mother who just had another hospital stay and I can't even travel to see her. About my aunt for the same reasons. About my brother who has to shoulder this load without me...and let's be real. I'd be better at getting the stuff done that needs to be done for them. But I can't. I'm sixteen hours away. And it doesn't look like I'll be able to get there anytime soon. So the guilt and worry continue to mount and make me crazy. 5. Did I mention that IT'S HOT!!! So. Very. Crabby.  |
| 16 days. Not really, though. I wrote a FABULOUS entry on the 4th of July, but when I was almost finished the "erase" fairy swooped in and gobbled it up. I was so MAD I refused to rewrite it. What can I say-I can be petty, sometimes. Can't we all. So I've decided that no matter how lame and silly, I'm going to create in this blog o' mine EVERY DAY for at least 30 days. I came to this decision because, upon thinking about it, I was my most creative when I did this. Unfortunately I am not at the place I was so many years ago, when I spent the day "panting at the bit" to spend some time alone at the end, writing what had built up in my mind...it was like a purge, and it was so COOL! I do have thoughts that "ride the wave" throughout the day. I wish I had a computer "rightthen" so I could record what I was thinking. But unlike years ago, the thoughts dissipate like mist.  I don't know how to fix that. Maybe I can't. Maybe it's the price of age. I want to write a short story. I even have a premise inside my head. The catch is that I've had plot ideas inside my head before, only to watch them dissipate just like the blog-entry-ideas. Well this sucks. What do I do? I learn again. I learn to write when the mood strikes me, when the creative juices flow. I make compensation for the current behavior of my brain: I write it DOWN if I'm not near a computer. But the writing? It has to happen. It just has to. So I try. It's all any of us can do. Right?  |
| There is an 18-yr-old girl who worked as a hostess in the restaurant of the hotel where I work. She's been a problem, pretty much, since the day she was hired. She flits away from her post to "chat" with front desk clerks who are busy with their own work, she glides into our back office to gossip and flirt with male co-workers who should be focusing on THEIR own work, she has a tendency to walk into work more than an hour ahead of her schedule, clock in, and sit. For all these reasons-and at least a handful more-she should have been fired after her first month. I can understand giving someone a chance...in fact I think we should. A rough start doesn't always mean the person "just won't suit" or will never catch on. A rough could be just that. But when someone has been told over and over and over again what the expectations are, and the person continues to ignore those expectations...well then it becomes a matter of acting on the problem. The woman who manages the restaurant has become my good friend. She comes to me with quite a few of her issues in the restaurant, just to vent or ask my advice. I told her a looong time ago to let this 18-yr-old go. I could tell she was going to become more of a problem, not less. My friend wanted to continue giving her a chance...partially, it's true, because the aspect of having to interview and find a replacement for the girl was not a pleasant one. But how much should someone be allowed to get away with? I'm not just thinking about this particular girl. I'm thinking about people in general. I feel like my grandmother, but I can't help it. I feel like I'm standing in the middle, watching society as a whole degenerate before my eyes. It's not necessary to be kind to each other, anymore. We say what we think and we think what we say. We all like to think that "letting it all hang out" is a positive, but is it? This very blog is entitled, "Stripping Off the Mask." It's supposed to be dedicated to the process of me being honest about myself, my thoughts, my feelings, and my emotions. I believe I'm at my best as a writer when I actually do it, when I let it "all hang out." But there's a time and a place. And a way. It's not while you're at work. It's not in the face of the person in charge of you, whether that person is your supervisor at work or your parent at home. It's not in the car because someone "cut you off." It's not in the form of a "slam book" or "slam page" on facebook, berating others for their flaws-real or imagined. What's happening to us?! I'd like to say it's just "them," the younger generation.  But it's not. It's all of us. And sadly, the younger generation looks to US for their cues on how to act. How are we doing with that?My friend kept letting this 18-yr-old girl get away with it, with working but really NOT working. She let it go when the girl was less than respectful with her...MUCH less. She looked the other way when this girl short-changed guests with her lax work habits and self-involved attitude. What message did it send to constantly "let it slide?" The girl finally went too far and dropped the "f bomb" on my friend, although she STILL wasn't the one to actually fire her. The Head Chef did. Sigh. I see parents of teenagers and young adults doing this every day...even parents of younger children. Their kids snap at them, demand something, walk away when being spoken to. The parent-often from MY generation-sighs, looks sad, and "lets it go." The result? We're "letting it all hang out." |
| Attraction is a strange little animal. You can't predict it, the thing doesn't announce itself and give a composite explanation of why you feel something for one person and not another. There's absolutely no rhyme or reason of any kind to who attracts us and who doesn't. When I was in preschool...probably my first boyfriend when I was four years old...no wait...my first boyfriend most likely happened when I was THREE of all things! There was a little boy who lived down the street from my grandmother. His name was Heath. I remember people commenting about how much we liked to play together...I even remember the thrill of feeling when we DID play together! Don't ask me to explain it, my first memory happend when I was one. I'm strange. But when I was four, there was Brent. He was in my preschool class and my dance class. He was blonde with blue eyes, very popular even then. How can a child be popular? If you have to ask that you haven't been raised in a small town. *eyeroll* The point is, for the preschool season he was known as "my boyfriend." The teacher assigned us to be Christmas Pageant partners. We sang "I saw mommy kissing Santa Clause" while I sat on his diminutive lap. Later, in fifth grade, we became mortal enemies. Probably why I like dark haired men to this day. Ha ha. Patrick happened when I was in the first grade. He asked, one morning, to hold my hand at the reading table. He whispered it in strangled tones while our teacher was busy with instructions. I whispered "yes!" He was blonde too, come to think of it. VERY blonde. His hand was slippery with sweat. I'll bet mine was too. Maybe the sweat helped facilitate the amazing electric buzz I felt when we held hand...a lot after that, much to the chagrin of our teacher, Mrs. Shaffer. She'd give us "the eye" every once in a while, but he was the Principal's son and I was her favorite student, so she didn't say anything even though she knew... At recess we chased each other. When you're seven years old that means a lot. [At this point in our lives he's gay. I knew he was gay by the time we were in the seventh grade. Anyone who DIDN'T know wasn't paying attention. Not sure what that means...] After Patrick there was David. Then Chris. Then a dry spell until Curtis in fifth grade. Not that he liked me back so much. That was the first time I experienced what it was like to like someone not because they were attractive, but because they were smart and witty and funny and just...something about his personality. He had carrot colored hair and big brown freckles. He was skinny and wore overalls ALL the time. But none of that mattered. I LIKED him. He was so smart! And it was all dictated by that infernal buzz...I have no idea what happened to Curtis... I have wondered if I became so interested in boys at an early age because I didn't have a father figure. I saw my father once a year if I was lucky, twice a year a few times at most. I was obviously missing a male figure in my life. I have no doubt that's why I was ultra sensitive to the buzz generated by males who crossed my path. I was in seventh grade and experienced issues that had nothing to do with boys. Girls in my class were just noticing that there is an opposite gender, experiencing their first blush of something called "attraction." Since I'd experienced the phenomenon in preschool...I couldn't relate. The first of many times. Gary was my first REAL boyfriend...refer to the story I wrote that's archived here:
I'd like to say that story ended well...it ends on a forlorn note in the story, but in real life...?? I found him through e-mail, on facebook. We reconnected. He's kind of a jackass. *eyeroll*Then there was Mark. And Paul. Then Mike. Then John. Okay I was a little fickle. A LOT fickle. But I reformed. And NO, I didn't "go all the way" with very many of them, actually. I wasn't so "easy." Which lost me a few potential boyfriends, come to think of it...I made a child with Ken, a young man I met while I was at school for Bomb Squad when I was in the Army. He was young of course, like me. He was funny, so smart it hurt. He embarrassed me, too. There were times when he was innapropriate, rude, full of anger and aggression...but still there was something. I have no idea where it came from, but the attraction factor? It was there. Some electric buzz when he touched my hand, some thrill inside my soul when he said something smart and witty... Then I married Bob, a safe sort who caused the kind of low-level buzz which dissipated over time. And made two more children. We divorced twenty years later. It took me over forty years to find my soulmate.  His name is Tom. Duh. *eyerolls* The reason it took me so long to find him? There's enough in that question for a whole other blog entry. So why take this walk down "boy memory lane?" I'm not sure. But I do know this. I tell the young women I come in contact with-including my daughters who don't have NEARLY the track record I do: Keep the faith. Don't think the boys-and yes BOYS-you meet today are the ones you're "meant to be with." Poppycock. The person you're meant to be with is the one you don't even see at first, the one who make you laugh the VERY first time you read-or hear-something he says. Or does. Or writes. Don't give up. Don't settle. It took me a long time and a lot of boys-to-men to figure it all out. If I hadn't met Tom, I would be with no one. Absolutely no one. I've told others and I'm actually serious: It is SO MUCH BETTER to be alone and absolutely FINE with it than with the wrong person. I know. I've done both.  |
| Eh, the writing thing is still an "in progress" kind of thing. I perused the "contest" site, the one that used to inspire me, the one that inspired me so much I have written what is probably some of my best work in response to these contests. I won't say there was NOTHING, but it was pretty close. There's one contest I may enter, but I only have until the 31st to produce some contestable work. At this point I don't know if it can or will happen. I'd like for it to...but what I want and what occurs are often two separate things. My house is in such chaos. If I think about it too much I swear I get the shakes. I'm not a clean freak, but what I do like is order in regards to my living space. If my space is chaotic, I feel chaotic and it just doesn't work so well...nothing does. The first thing I do when I come into work is clear up any mess strewn about by previous co-workers. If I don't do that first I can't focus, can't concentrate on what I need to be doing. That's how it goes with my house. When the place gets too cluttered, too chaotic, I cannot focus. On anything. I don't even care if the clutter gets stuffed into a closet as long as I can't see it. I'm not a clean freak, I'm really not. I guess I could call myself an "order" freak. ?? I dunno. All I DO know is that in a house full of everyone's junk strewn far and wide, I'm a mess. I'm being admirable about NOT yelling, NOT freaking out, NOT experiencing the anurysm I feel boiling just below the surface. I ask the girls to do their part and they mostly do...what drives me crazy is how they can't pick up after themselves as the go along. They can't find a trash can for an empty container...what IS that?! Everything builds up until I ask-politely for someone to clean it up. They do. It stays that way for a matter of hours. HOURS. Then chaos reigns again and I'm back to having the shakes. This situation is temporary, thank God. I wouldn't be responsible for my actions if I had to deal with all these people in my living space ALL the time...I honestly couldn't deal very well. I'm certainly not meant to produce OR belong to one of those huge families who never and WILL never find any space or time to call their own. When my kids were little, what kept me going was knowing it didn't last forever, the period of time where I was almost nothing more than "mother." I have always wanted to be more than that. It's not that I don't LIKE being "mother," I do. I have no other achievement that is greater than those three girls. I WILL never have another achievement greater then them. And my granddaughter...! I'm so glad I have a chance to get to know her in a way I wouldn't if she weren't living in my house. She's not like any of my girls. She is herself, Olivia,. A tomboy of a little girl who loves jumping on the bed and falling down as much as she loves having a dress put on her and preening in front of a mirror! I rejoice in the moments I'm able to be a part of her world.But the chaos of it all gets to me. The lack of silence. I need silence like I need air. I don't know why-I know some don't. But I do. And as the fates would have it, I had to work nine days in a row last week...most of that training, so I didn't even get alone time at work, I count on my quiet, night aloneness there to get me through the more chaotic periods at home... I'm really good at not showing it, I think. I smile, I'm understanding. This is a temporary situation that no one is thrilled with but we all deal. For the preservation of my sanity, I need a library day. Preferrably before Tom's birthday on Saturday and Olivia's birthday next Wednesday. Not to mention Sarah's departure for basic training on Tuesday. Maybe Calgon... |
I'm so bored. I don't mean I'm a little bored. I mean I'm a LOT bored.  I think I'm ready. For what? For anything. Anything that doesn't involve laundry, dishes, picking up, sleeping, or working. Anything at all. What I'm going to "settle" for is writing. I'm ready. It's been a long time since I wrote anything of actual merit, even between the "pages" of this most auspicious journal. I think this one is going better than the last, but still...stagnant brain produces stagnant work. It just does. So what to do? How to get motivated when I'm feeling so stagnant and bored?? Good thing I'm still a part of this site. I'm starting here. I'm going to peruse the contest page and hope something leaps at me with an open chest, waiting for me to fill it. I'm hoping something there will motivate me enough to get me busy and keep me that way...brain actually ENGAGED. I need it. |
| I'm about to get selfish. I've written about it before, this NEED to make sure everyone else is happy which basically leaves me panic-attacked and freaked out because it's completely impossible to MAKE people happy. It doesn't matter what I do or how much I put other peoples' needs ahead of my own...they're just going to feel and do whatever they feel and do. For some reason it is hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I have absolutely no control over other people. I really don't. For so many years I have given words to this concept but not anything else. I knew in my HEAD that I can't dictate how others feel, etc, but I've never actually FELT the idea of letting it all go. For some reason, this morning I had one of those epiphany things. I was sitting here, frustrated because the house is a mess, food doesn't get prepared on time, laundry doesn't get done like I want, but none of it has anything to do with ME. No matter how much Tom assures me he doesn't mind waiting for his evening meal, I get upset when he has to. No matter how much my kids stare at me and tell me to "quit sweating the small stuff" when it comes to their lives-or even sweating the BIG stuff because in the end THEY are responsible for their own choices...I do it anyway. I sit around and sweat about EVERYONE'S lives. I have completely lost touch with myself entirely. I didn't notice that until just this morning. I was sitting here thinking, after Tom went to work, that I want the house more picked up by the time he gets home so he doesn't have to walk into chaos. I want the house cleaned up for everyone else for various reasons. But then it hit me like a lead balloon: I want the house cleaned up for ME. For MY SAKE. I was completely startled. Am I So out of touch with my own needs and wants that when I flash on something I feel for MYSELF I'm shocked by it? Of course the uncomfortable answer has to be "yes." I'm so busy running around, thinking about everyone else's needs and how I have to fulfill them or I've failed....hello?! What the HELL?? I thought I was past this. Obviously I'm so not. And truly, in most ways I think my family would be relieved to have me "off their backs." It's a lot of burden when someone else places THEIR happiness-or lack of it-on yours. People need to be free to live their own lives their own ways, to feel or not feel or be or not be...when someone ELSE, no matter who it is, makes THEIR satisfaction all about yours...well that's a lot to handle. Okay, deep breaths. It's time for me to back off of everyone else and worry about myself. That old cliche`d saying is true anyway: "If mama ain't happy, ain't NOBODY happy."  |
| Warning: I'm going to whine. I'm so depressed. I thought if I wrote it out...maybe it will help. Sigh. It's one of those maudlin, drama-ridden depressions, the kind where in your head you're clutching yourself and breathing, "oh woe is me," whilst the world seems to continue on as it was, which only adds to the self-absorbed sadness that no one seems to notice your precarious state...I feel like, today, I'm a ripe candidate to be the primary character in a Tennessee Williams play. Sigggghhh. Today was mother's day. Everyone worked or slept or had issues of their own. Fine. But I had to cook. *pout* Sure I only threw frozen ravioli in water and baked up frozen garlic bread, but still. *gloom* I wasn't able to do anything for Liz. I really wanted to. She's had a tough few weeks, it's Mother's Day, only her second one, but I'm poor. *double gloom* There was a buffet at the hotel for Mother's Day. Usually after a huge spread, they hold something back for me...little cheesecakes, some homemade out-of-this world garlic mashed potatoes, a little brisket...on Mother's Day? Nothing. Nada. Zip. And to add to the insult, people left the mess from THEIR tasty treats in the back office for the night person to clean up. *triple, quadruple, and quintuple gloom* The girls were nice. They hugged me, they said the right words, they posted cute stuff on my facebook wall, but DAMN that house is a huge mess! It now has the stuff of two rooms from Rachael and Sarah, plus a portion of Liz's life in bags and boxes...I can hardly walk in the living room, the counters in the kitchen are filled with sundry items the girls have brought home to be stored...isn't it amazing that these things can only make it as far as a kitchen counter?! God forbid a place should be FOUND FOR IT!!! *puff, pant* That's what has me down more than anything...the state of the house. I mean it's MOTHER"S DAY, I wasn't going to get up, exhausted as I am, and try to find some organization to the piles. I figured that could be my gift, right? Apparently I'm the only one who thought that. *maudlin sigh* Rachael and Sarah both worked today. I get that. But come ON, they're young and spry. I feel like they could have done SOMETHING. *sulk* Of course I'm going to have my "little talk" with ALL the girls tomorrow about how this can't continue and the house HAS to get picked up before I get shakes and convulsions and kill someone. Just saying. But it would have been really, really nice if I didn't have to do it. If I could just see them, just once, pick up and organize my house because they know how it makes me crazy when they don't. And the thing is, I know they can do it. I've seen them organize their OWN spaces, dorm rooms and an apartment. *woe* Bills I can't pay. Knee pain that keeps me from organizing the house the way I want to. No insurance to take care of said knee pain. Crappy job that doesn't pay enough. And I had to cook. On Mother's Day. |
| It's been a crazy two weeks. Here's what I've learned: Dealing with Liz on a different level, an adult one where I don't admonish, nag, or otherwise treat her like she's an adolescent seems to work. At least for the moment. We are cohabitating with a minimum of friction and some actual communication. It's obvious that it's tenuous, but it still counts. Especially when there's a toddler in the mix who's dealt with MORE than enough strife and raised voices. I have vowed that this will be my gift to her...none of that in my house. In refusing to 'revert to type' with Liz, several things have occurred. She seems to be more responsible for her surroundings, cleaning up after herself and her daughter more than she did before...which is to say AT ALL. The last few times she came to visit with Olivia, it was all chaos all the time because my daughter didn't budge in this way. I'm too old and arthritic, these days, to try running around, picking up after everyone. I'd end those visits with Liz full of guilt because of the relieved sigh I'd emit when I saw her home...as in somewhere ELSE. She doesn't clean the way I would, or even the way I want her to. But I bite my tongue, relax, and say "thanks" with a smile for what she does. This seems to spur her on to do more. Even though it's "my house," I'm learning to give slack. I've always known this in theory-that things don't have to be done the way I would do them-but putting it into practice has never been easy. I am learning to chant the mantra I hand to others constantly: "don't sweat the small stuff. And it's ALL small stuff." Totally cliche` but to me, as I've mentioned before, cliche`s become such for a reason. And now we have Rachael and Sarah back on our turf. Tom and I have gone from an empty nest to a small house bursting at its seams. Not for a long time, but even temporarily this is going to be interesting. *teeth gritted into a smile* I have to admit it's kind of nice to know they're all safe, I know where they are and it's under my roof. There's a certain security in that. But I was also getting used to the quiet. Sigh. Sarah will be jetting her way, on June 4th, to Basic Training at Fort Leanard Wood for the army reserves. She'll be gone until October, training for Military Police. She'll no longer be under my roof. She's going to be OUT THERE in a BIG way. On one hand I'm so nervous for her, almost scared...on the other, "one down..." She'll be back in October, staying with us until January. I'm hoping the other two won't be, by then...We have to get Liz signed up for all the benefits she can get. No one needs them more than she does, very much so until we can get her on medication and she's been stable for a period of time. I'm intensely proud of her for acknowledging this...finally. In this way it's more than a little obvious she's grown. But when we get her signed up, Liz will apply for housing. Our place is just too small, and both Liz and I have acknowledged that we'll work well together so much better when she has her OWN turf. They'll be close but not TOO close. It will be a good deal. As for Rachael...she'll leave when school starts up again. She'll pack up her car in August and head back to Winona State University. After another year at school, who knows. The sky's the limit. She'll never venture too far, which is just fine with me. But she does like her own space, and as she gets older I'm sure the pull to find it for GOOD will call out to her with an urgency she won't be able to ignore. So it's temporary, this bursting-at-the-seams house. I remember how weird it felt to be ALONE this last fall. Now it feels weird to have a house so full of grown people for the start of the summer. Parenthood. Always the conundrum. |
| Well here we go again... After a four year respite, Liz will be back under my roof. Granted, she'll be with the cutest toddler in the universe-but this toddler is also Liz's and...need I say more. I'll need more than a little strength to make through all this, but I think I'm ready... I knew this day would come. I knew there was a time when my oldest daughter would need me again to the point I'd have to open my doors and take her in. To NOT know would be do deny who she is, and I'm way past that. I think I'm ready, though. It's been tough, this "holding pattern" I knew was going to end. It was getting to the point that I was gnashing my teeth, waiting for the call and the moment when I knew we'd all have to "step up" and once again save Liz. It came. The "boyfriend" is in no better shape than Liz. The poor baby. It's been nonstop drama since they moved in together. Now they're using her as a weapon against each other. It's nauseating. I have to get the child out. If Liz comes with, that's okay, part of the package. I know Olivia will have her challenges and I'm old, Tom is old. We'll do what we can.Things I know now: I can't make Liz behave herself. I won't be able to make Olivia behave herself. All I can do is my best. And I will. Sigh.  |
| So many things I want to do and yet I have not. I'm past berating myself for it-okay only kinda-but I do have plans for my writing life, many which include this site. It's early morning on the 21st of April, a day before I found this site back in 2005. I was looking for something back then, anything that would help me with my quest to become the kind of writer I wanted to be, anything that would help me move beyond where I was at the time...and where was I? Anyone who has taken the blog journey with me might remember, but there are a lot of blogs around here to keep up with so... I was a mother to two teenagers and a little girl, the oldest a sufferer of bipolar disorder, diagnosed the year before and full of issues I felt so powerless to help with. We had her on meds but getting her to take them was a fight...it seemed like everything with Liz was a fight. Some things just do not change. I had no support system when it came to dealing with her unique problems. Her father, to this day, likes to think if she'd just "buck up" she'd be fine. So frustrating back then AND now. Like if he admits the problem is ingrained, what? He's somehow at fault? Or she'll "skate" on what she shouldn't?? I know those are a few of HIS issues, unfortunately impacted on her. But digression is my way, let's see if I can steer this back on-track:So there was Liz, suffering in ways I couldn't begin to imagine...although I had an idea and in the way of mothers, I suffered right along with her. Then there were two other kids at home, girls who needed me as much as Liz did but "short changed" because of her problems. IT wasn't fair, I knew it, and I felt more guilt than I knew what to do with. I didn't know how to change it. Sarah, the youngest daughter, was so resilient. She was right out of fifth grade in June of 2005, an independent, bossy little thing with a take-charge attitude that serves her well as a law enforcement major. When she was ten and eleven, it caused a few skirmishes with the neighbor kids...actually I shouldn't call them that. The scenario would run more like this: Sarah would get upset-bent out of shape-when the other children decided not to follow her directives, when they would choose a separate path than the one she would map out for them. She would come inside either teary or "in a snit." The fallout would last for about ten minutes, until a child would come to the door, apologize to Sarah, and promise to do things her way. Good grief. I rolled my eyes then as I do, now. I'd like to say THAT has changed but...we are who we are. Sigh. Rachael, my academic loner, uncomfortable in the company of many. She's able to be personable when she wants to be, but she doesn't always WANT to be. It's not that she is a "snob"...although perhaps she is, in her own way. She hates to be labeled that because it doesn't fit who she really is, not completely. I used to say-and yes, still do-that she doesn't suffer fools well. Or at all. At least those she determines to be foolish. If she determines that someone isn't worth her time, she's not going to waste hers. In some ways it's not such a bad way to be, but hence the term "snob." She has no time for reality show nonsense. She has never felt the subjects of clothes and boys have great worth, and she's not afraid to spend an hour telling you why she's passionately liberal and firmly in love with Shakespeare's tragedies. Yup, some things really do. not. change. As the girls branch out into life, so must I. How have I fared, these last eight years? I'm not where I want to be in most ways. I'm disappointed in myself in too many areas. I could make excuses for why and how and where and who...but in the end, facts remain. There are ways in which I could have worked smarter, times when I could have made different choices and I might very well be farther along with my end dreams. In one aspect, of course, I have won in life's challenge: I am NOT married to someone with which I have nothing in common, someone who made me gnash my teeth every time he opened his mouth and inanity came pouring out. *cruel but it's how I felt* I am no longer tethered a person I don't even want to spend time with. As I repeat ad nauseum, I would not back up in time and do things differently because, no matter how hard any part of my past has been, I wouldn't be HERE, in this moment, with three fabulous young women I can call my daughters. I wouldn't be grandmother-which still blows my mind-to a beautiful little girl who lights up the world with her presence in it. Eight years ago, if I'd been told that I would move on in life with another life partner I'd have scoffed in disbelief. At the time, all I wanted was independence, a release from the ties that bound me in ways I never thought I wanted to be part of, again. I was partially right... You see, there was a time when I would read about or watch a story about two people who were married or partnered for life, and they'd have these FEELINGS for each other. They'd miss the other's presence, they'd feel empty if one of them was gone, they'd worry endlessly if they didn't know where the other person was...there was this CONNECTION. I couldn't identify with it. I started to think those feelings were something writers made up to make partnership more attractive than it actually was. Then came Tom. Eight years ago in June I opened up a story he wrote, right here on WDC. Six years ago, almost, we decided to see how the "couple" thing might go. Four and a half years ago I uprooted my family, we moved North...and I haven't regretted it even once.Not even once. So have I moved upward and forward in every way I want to? No. But have I moved upward and forward in some really, quite seriously important ways? Oh yes. I've learned, in my advanced age, that I can love my girls and stand beside them and counsel them when they ask for it, but their lives are their lives. Period. Even Liz's. I still work to maintain that emotional step back, but I'm sure I'll get better at it as time marches on. And I need to keep looking at what a success this new partnership is, the one where I'm always eager to hear what he has to say, the one where I miss him when he's gone, I worry about him when he's out in bad weather-I mean REALLY worry, not just lip-service-the one where I am never bored, always happy to see him. Writers don't just make this stuff up!  I'm going to work on the rest, on getting involved in WDC again and with my writing life. And I'm going to focus on what's good in life and in the world. I love the quote I found yesterday: Life is like a roller coaster. You can either scream every time there's a bump, or you can throw your hands up and enjoy the ride! |
| Why have I put off writing THIS time? I gave my "students" a prompt: Tell the story of the first time you knew you needed to be a writer. I've told them the task is for ME to do, as well. For some reason, every time I tried to come up with a "story" for this particular prompt, I fail. ?? So no more stalling. Here it is: There never WAS a time when I knew I "needed" to be a writer. For as long as I can remember, I WAS a writer. I don't even remember reading my first book. They were just always there. My mother read all the time, as did my aunt, my grandfather, my brother...we all READ. My father was a writer, as was my mother in a more roundabout way. My grandmother even sat and wrote her "lists" at the end of a day. It just always was. The written word was never NOT surrounding me. My greatest fear, when I was about five years old, was that I would never learn to read. I'd sit with a newspaper in my hands and get positively panicky because what I saw was gibberish. I couldn't make heads or tails out of it and I would think to myself, "What if I can NEVER read? What if this black print is gibberish forever?!" I didn't think it would happen but I couldn't be sure. I actually lost sleep over this issue, one I never shared with my parents. How could I relay this fear to people who actually wrote printed words for a living?? So I stewed for the summer before kindergarten... Gradually, of course, the printed word became more than "gibberish" to me. By the time I was six I could read those lovely "Dick and Jane" book with ease. I LOVED reading! I thought it was the most amazing thing to learn EVER! I worked very hard at going beyond Dick and Jane and their dog Spot, their little sister Sally...I wanted to read the printed words on the newspaper. I'd sit with my grandfather on weekend mornings, sounding out words with his help and feeling SUCH relief that the worst had not, in fact, happened. One of the best days of my childhood happened when my father was forced to take us to his newspaper office in Amarillo, Texas. There was a snow storm that prevented us from returning home after a week at my father's house; he had no choice, one day, but to take us to his place of business. What I remember? Walking into a bustling city room with the clattering noise of the printers. The typewriters, the lights, the print...so much print! I was dazzled, enchanted, charmed...I wanted to BE there all the time, I wanted to inhale the newsprint smell and just make myself a part of this world. What I saw was the "city desk," the area in the newsroom where the latest stories literally flew through the air as journalists-of-the-day jockeyed for the positions their words would take on the furiously printing newspaper pages. I actually, at one point, squinted my eyes shut and pictured myself amongst the journalists running around, sitting and pounding out their stories at metal desks, on "brand new" electric typewriters. It always was. My first actual story happened in the fifth grade. Alfred Hitchcock wrote a series of books for young people, a group of mysteries featuring three adolescent boys who would stumble across exciting, spine-tingling mysteries and solve them. I loved those books, inserting myself into their stories and acting them out, even. So one day I sat at the red formica table in my room-it was a big room-and pulled out a notebook and a pencil. I wrote, in my fifth grade scrawl, "The Mystery of the Stolen Ring." The story led to others. I'd sit for hours and make up more adventures for these boys Hitchcocki invented, but gradually the characters morphed into my own. I never stopped writing after that. I've never stopped reading either, thank God. I love the Stephen King quote-and yes, he really said it, I have the book it came from: If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write. I've danced with them all my life, this reading-and-writing thing. I don't imagine I'll stop until I'm dead. |
| "Write about a person who does everything 'by the book.' " That was the prompt I sent a girl who asked for one. I seem to have a growing following of budding young writers here at work, young women who want to tap into their "inner creative writer." We're all new at this so I'm not sure-quite yet-how much feedback to actually give, so I tread cautiously in this hesitant beginning... Bridget is an amazing person, a college graduate with an English degree. She's 22 or 23, around the same age as my own girls--lately I seem to "collect" young women the age of my own which is mildly amusing, considering how much time I've spent in the company of young women from this generation. Perhaps that's why I'm so at-ease with them, and they can sense it...?? Not sure, but whatever it is, I enjoy befriending and mentoring these girls. I need to get more serious about it; they are on the cusp of actually looking up to me...a serious issue for me, these days. I seem to be procrastinating with every single thing in my life, lately. No energy, low hum of listlessness. I can't even call it "depression." It's just some sort of inertia I desperately need to break through. Not sure how to do it yet. But of course, as is my way, I digress. I have set for myself the goal of writing something to send out based on this prompt, this attempt to jump start not just Bridget, but myself in the course of writing events:I'm reminded of Tom. He doesn't do EVERYTHING "by the book," but certainly more than me. I've never been one who liked to color inside the lines. When the kindergarten teacher told us to, I wasn't the brash child who took the black color and SCRIBBLED on the outside of those imprinted lines...I was more subtle than that. I'd stray a bit with the green. Fudge a little with the red. I'd crinkle up my face, sneak a peek at the in-charge adult, and, with my tongue protruding and ever-so-lightly bitten, I'd pick and choose where, exactly, I'd let my crayon venture over to "the other side." Then I'd feel good somehow, like they can hold me back, but only as much as I LET them. When the teacher would hang the pictures on the wall, I'd stop and chuckle at mine every so often, knowing for myself that those little flaws...weren't flaws at all. Tom is different. I can see him, at five years old with that little tongue protruding, lightly bitten, working ever-so-very hard to stay WITHIN the lines. When the color bled out beyond, as it would inevitably do, I can see his frown of consternation, his worry ever-after that only this flaw would be seen, this errant part of an otherwise lovely, by-the-book masterpiece. For Tom, it would eventually be ALL he'd see when he looked at the colored picture...that tiny little fudge, the place where he strayed from the accepted border. I can see him actually sweating over it as the teacher hangs the pictures on the wall, nodding and smiling at the group of obediently colored bright, childish endeavors... I warned him. When we first came together as a couple, I told him about my seat-of-the-pants life, my comedy-of-errors which seems to follow me wherever I go. I would like to think that some of what I've gone through is just luck-of-the-draw, this life's way of throwing curve balls at us all, making us play a little of that dodge ball we were forced to play as children...but I know better. I know about this piece of myself, this need to fudge, to occasionally-okay sometimes more than that-stray to the other side of "acceptable," of calm or staid or-dare I write it-"common." No one could ever accuse me of being "common." I like to think I've done a little something for Tom in the course of our relationship. I think I've gradually helped him "loosen up." He's learned that sometimes it really IS okay to "go with the flow," there's nothing wrong with thinking AND running "outside the box." In fact sometimes, it's the preferred way of looking at the world, But maybe he's done a little something for me, too. Maybe he's teaching me that sometimes, it really IS preferred to stay inside the lines. Life can be simpler, it can be easier. I don't ALWAYS have to buck the system, strain at the confines of living in a civilized world. There are times when I need to relax and just be okay with restraint. I'll always stray a little, though. It's just who I am. And he'll always come after me with one of those crayon erasers, ready to clean up whatever piece of the picture I've fudged with a little too voraciously. He's learning how interesting the picture can be, however, when we keep a bit of the fudge. |
| I didn't sleep last night. Or most of today. I had the night off from my job last night, the "sleep' thing should have been easy. I'm usually sleep-deprived, hoping I can be ready to fall into slumber on those precious nights when I'm at home, in my bed, tucked in during the night instead of up at work, working on paper, rolling the computer over to tomorrow... Sleep has always been an elusive thing for me. Even when I was very small, I remember begging my mother for one more hour, one more minute, one more second before I was relegated to a twin bed in the back bedroom of my grandmother's house. Yes, most children do that, but for me it was a little different. I wanted to put off going to bed because I knew what awaited me: time. Time spent staring up at the spackled ceiling, counting the little raised dots or trying to find a picture there...time when I probably began my storytelling, running scenarios in my head that were both reruns of my life-and lives on the television-and ones I made up why I lay there, night after night, trying to find something to occupy my mind with while the rest of the house slept. Sometimes I snoozed, and then I'd wake up in the early hours of the morning, when the house was still and nighttime noises made their way in from the outside. I loved early morning, like two or three am...I'd lay still and listen for the mournful whistle of the train calling to me, telling me that its journey to lands far away was not over, not even close. I'd picture myself on those trains, sometimes in a sleeping berth, but sometimes I'd picture myself just jumping onto one of those empty cars full of nothing, watching the world whiz by while I traveled to parts unknown...I even put that in a story that ultimately got published. Night life has always held its allure for me. We know, now, that some are what we call "night people" and some are what we call "morning people." I've never been one of the latter, by the way. I remember being awakened for school by my mother, feeling cranky and crabby as six years old, frowning dangerously for the first hour, at least. I couldn't help it. Eventually it became a family joke, the way I couldn't "find the right side of the bed" in the day. Probably because I stayed awake at night-but it wasn't by choice... Even now...it's not under my control. Poor Thomas had a time of it adjusting to my weird sleep patterns-or often the lack of them. I'd awaken at two am when I wasn't working at night and wander...I couldn't help it. I did enough of that "lying in bed" stuff when I was a kid, thank God I don't have to do it, anymore. I can get up and...well, wander. The crazy thing is-and yes, I use that word-I know who I'm like. I'm like my mother. And my grandmother. The women who were constantly trying to get me to go to bed. Another family joke was the way my grandmother wandered at night...we actually called it that. Like clockwork, she'd get up at two or three in the morning and "putter." She kind-of sort-of tried to be quiet, but the shuffling of her feet was one of the nighttime sounds I got used to. She'd shuffle around in the kitchen after dark, putting water on for the coffee she'd ingest in a few hours. She'd sit at the kitchen table with one dim light to illuminate the writing she'd do...for her it was mostly lists and letters. She loved using those nighttime hours to catch up on her correspondence. Now that I read some of those letters I find tucked into her lovely oak hutch...I think they were her journals, but she couldn't call them that. For her the idea of keeping a journal would have seemed frivolous, so she had to find a way to write for what she considered was a discernable purpose. So they were "letters" which never got mailed. Instead they were relegated to the back drawers of that hutch, gathering dust for me to find when I visit and embark on my own nightly shuffles... So now it's my mother. When we visit, there's still a telltale shuffle in the same kitchen with the same linoleum floor. Sometimes I could wonder if it's my grandmother's spirit, loathe to separate from her precious nightly sojourns, but I know the truth. I know that the torch has been passed, so to speak, and it is now my gray-haired mother who shuffles around, sitting at the same table, writing her lists and letters by the same dim light... And when we visit the same house in the same town on the same block where I grew up, I still hear the lonesome whistle of the train around two or three in the morning. I grin, I can't help it, and I remember. Wide awake, of course. It's who we are. |
| ...that's pretty much what I want to do. The way I used to do it. For the longest time I refrained from writing what I really wanted to write because this country, quite honestly, has gone so madcap crazy. It doesn't seem like we can have a civil conversation about what we believe and how and why...about anything! Of course it all begins and ends with politics. Which is really sad to me, because this country's greatness began when we were able to believe differently and still tolerate each other, when the President was from "the other party" and members of Congress were still able to work with him because what they cared most about was getting the job done. Remember that? Ah, the old days... And so I believe differently from others, of course. Don't we all. Not one person on this planet can claim to believe what everyone else does, that's insane and impossible. There are those who retreat completely and claim to have no opinions at all on much of anything. I don't really believe that. But they are the ones who just can't find it in them to fight about it, to battle and theoretically roll around on the ground with the worst of the zealots...on both sides. I have never made light of my opinions or stopped voicing them, but what I DID do was put away my soapbox. There are those who would think I relish conflict and seek out confrontation. They would be wrong. In reality, if I know the debate can't be had civilly...I get a stomachache. I actually do. I don't like making someone upset or mad, especially at me. I have my beliefs and my reasons for them, and they are dear to me, so very much a part of who I am, of course. The entire reason for my trusty little soapbox. I have climbed onto it even when I feel out of my element and away from my comfort zone, the one where we can debate like adults and come away shaking hands. Maybe I got used to it in debate, that ability to take different sides, swing verbally ABOUT THE ISSUES while it's happening, then part on friendly terms. Even less-than-friendly-terms isn't the worst thing. I can handle a little adversity. But anymore, we're not talking about a LITTLE adversity. We're talking about--let's face it--madcap crazy. The shouting, even over the internet, absolutely appalls me. The verbal swinging, the cursing, the name-calling...sometimes I'm just at a loss. I picture myself standing in the middle of a free-for-all, holding up my hands helplessly while everyone "goes at it" with anything they can find. Whipped cream, a chair, whatever is near...just let your opponent "have it" seems to be the "word of the day." I don't get it. But I also can't do it, anymore. I can't stand on the sidelines and watch the brawl. I have to say what I think and be who I am which has EVERYTHING to do with taking that stand on my soapbox of causes. I refuse to enter into the fray, so I'll do what I do best. I'll stand above it, explain myself the best I can, and move on to the next one. I will NOT sling mud and name-call or stand still for someone who does. When did we become a society which embraced the Lowest Common Denominator? Something tells me it has everything to do with Jerry Springer and the Jersey Shore. *eyerolls to the skies* So I did it tonight for the first time in a while. I waded into a mess and commented in what I believe to be a rational manner. Because the initial posting on, of course, Facebook was inflammatory to an enormous degree, it's usually the kind of thing I have sidestepped for quite some time, the kind of post that puts an actual bad taste in my mouth. The woman posted on the page of Scott Pouty, the young man who came out as the cameraman behind Mitt Romney's words concerning "the 47%." She cursed at him in the post to his page, called him names, vilified him as if he'd put the words in Romney's mouth, then sat back while liberals took exception to her words. What I really "loved" was her seeming "shock" at the attacks which ensued. Really? You post on a page that is CLEARLY for everything you are against, do so in an inflammatory manner, then pretend to be "outraged" at the outpouring...good grief. I don't like many of the responses. To get one's point across, it's detrimental to slip down to a level of cursing and verbal brutality. It was done, of course, on both sides, with neither one being the winner. Duh. So when this woman posted yet another comment about how evil all the commenters were-although she, herself, cursed with the best of them, this old-lady-Christian...I decided to wade into the fray and try to sensibly comment: wasn't going to comment, but my fingers are powerless under my brain's explosion...Nicola, all this man did was record what Romney was saying. He didn't put the words in this man's mouth, he didn't tell him what to say. What he recorded was real and was uttered by a person running to be the leader of the very people he was dismissing as pretty much not worth his time or effort. What kind of President would that make him for the "47%?" Your grief should never be with the person who simply records what's being said and done. It needs to be with the person doing the "saying" and "doing." Of course this released a diatribe of "nothing is wrong with what Romney said," etc. Then she accused everyone there of being "on the devil's side" (sigh) To which I responded again, hopefully in a sane manner: Conservatives, as a rule, don't want churches to pay taxes. Conservatives, as a rule, don't want to implement any sort of gun control. Conservatives, as a rule, want to limit a woman's right to choose what's right for her life and her body. Conservatives, as a rule, want to "force" people to think and believe the way they do...oh yes you do. When you "force" school prayer, when you "force" a Christian agenda, you are FORCING YOUR WILL onto a supposedly free society. You have no right to do that, thank God. And yes, by the way, I happen to be Christian, although that shouldn't even matter. What I AM is a Christian who knows how VITAL it is to separate church from state, because only THEN is belief TRUE and REAL. Only THEN can we be assured of a society that is free to believe...or yes, to not believe. But that is every single individual person's RIGHT. You try to take the rights away that you don't like or that seem to differ from your ideas of "right" and "wrong." As a liberal, I say "live and let live." You know, the BIBLE'S way. Read it if you don't believe me. And not the archaic old testament, but the new testament you are supposed to follow if you really ARE a Christian. It's an eye opener. and I should probably mention, as I meant to, the gun control issue. NO "gun control" is not taking away a right...gun control ensures that more people have the right to continue living. That's a pretty vital right. Wouldn't you think? So there you have it. I won't continue with it, I'm done. There's no "talking sense" to people who make no sense, themselves. Oh what I'd give, these days, for a spirited debate with someone who doesn't leave their ability to reason and think at the door. No really. But the Soapbox? It's back, baby! |
| Tonight the weather is bad. When I say "bad" I mean it's BAD for March! Snow is falling at a rate I haven't seen in Minnesota since two years ago when we had a December to beat all Decembers. At three in the morning they told us we have seven inches. It's supposed to snow until nine am. Get the picture?! We are BURIED! This is on top of the eight or so we received last week and the rain which nicely coated everything in an icy sheen. Yeah. Buried. On a different note, there is an adorable young woman who works in the restaurant where I toil at the front desk. Her name is Molly. I found out she actually used to have an account right here, at writing.com! She, like me, has fallen away. She isn't writing like she used to. And so we agreed: A new commitment to what we love with the help of one another...I send her an e-mail with a writing prompt and she has to return it with something she's written...and vice versa. We will be accountable to each other. And with any luck I'll get her back into the writing.com fold...A couple of days ago I sent her our newest prompt: "A minute of failure..." A minute of failure what? That's what we're supposed to come up with, so I've thought about it. I've pondered, mulled, and thought. Here's what I came up with. A minute of failure means nothing. It's the successes we need to care about so much more. Tonight, on such a terrible, snowy night, I left our hotel doors unlocked. Would "management" agree? Most likely not. What I care about, however, does not have anything to do with "management." What I care about has to do with people out there who have nowhere else to go. In the years I've been working the night audit shift at hotels, I've gotten to know some of them. They are, of course, "down on their luck." They are without jobs, they are often addicted to drugs or alcohol or both. They are, more often than not, destined to remain where they are no matter what I do or don't do or say or don't say. There's not much one person can do to alter the path of another. What I CAN do, though, is care about them tonight. I can care that they have a warm place where they can sit, where they can relax without worrying about whether they're "allowed" or not. I can be the "port in a storm" on this one night they most likely will never remember. But I will. And that's what matters. We found a man, the guard and I. She saw him wander into the restaurant and sit in a chair. I certainly couldn't leave him to sit there, so over to the restaurant we walked. I asked him, "Is there something I can help you with?" He struggled up in his dirty layers of sodden clothing and responded, "No." He was too tired to make anything up. "I just came in to get out of the snow." "That's okay," I answered. "That's why I left the doors open. But you'll have to wait it out downstairs. You can't sit here." "Okay," he responded. He struggled up and started to hobble away. He turned around. "It's nice to know I'm not doing anything wrong by being here." His eyes were wrinkled, bloodshot...they were probably blue but the color and vibrance had been obliterated long ago. "Not a problem," I responded. "You're not doing anything wrong. I just need you to go downstairs." So he did. Someone has shelter from the storm. Am I "supposed" to provide it? Absolutely not. Will I anyway? You bet. And because I look at this man's wrinkled, gnarled face, this man who will never tell anyone I gave him shelter, this man who will most likely forget me in the next fifteen minutes... My "failures" really do mean nothing-the times I haven't followed through on my "promise" and the moments I've allowed to slip by without making the most of them...erased. It is my successes which count. I kept him dry. Success. It's who I am. |
| I think I've been a stranger, lately. And by "lately" I mean for the last few years. There's nothing wrong with mellowing a little-there are reasons why I have, I went into most of them with the last blog entry of my last blog. But inside my head I'm not entirely mellow. Why do I project it when I don't FEEL it? Not sure. But what I DO know is that I have to crawl back into my skin. I have to be who I am. As my mother coined for me so very many years ago...I am "Susie Goodfellow," soapbox queen. I have owned it for too long to STOP owning it, now! Very early this morning-say at around 5:00am-our chef Jon from the restaurant called me (for anyone not "in the know," I work at the front desk of a high rise downtown hotel, at night). He asked if the cook Jason had arrived. He had, I informed young Jon. The boy is not out of his twenties, yet, and he runs the kitchen of our restaurant. Not too badly, I should probably add. I did encourage our manager-of-the-moment, about six months ago, to give Jon the run of the kitchen. I knew he'd do well...but as usual I digress! Jon told me he'd be in shortly. My back prickled. There's nothing I hate more than to be even in the vicinity of a firing. I don't like seeing it. I don't even like HEARING about it! I knew Jason was in trouble. I knew he couldn't stay with us in his current condition. But that didn't make knowing what was coming any easier. When Jon arrived, he came to me with a clipboard and a somber expression. "I need you to witness this," he said. My eyes grew into saucers. "Oh no," I stammered. And I'm not really given to stammering. "I can't. I just can't!" Jon stared at me. "There's no one else," he reasoned with me. I've been with the hotel, now, longer than anyone but the accountant. There's a reason I'm not a manager. Several reasons, actually, but one very significant one has to do with my inability to be "tough enough." I can be 'tough enough" when it comes to issues and causes I staunchly believe in. I can be "tough enough" when it comes to people making the wrong choices for themselves or others, I can "stern-face" with the best of them and debate, argue, reason. I admonish young co-workers in e-mails, go through protocols, instruct and guide...I've even been told by students-of-the-past that I'm "scary." What I can't do, though, is fire someone. I cringe just to KNOW someone is losing their livelihood. Even when they deserve it. I told Jon I REALLY didn't want to be part of the process, at least not to Jason's face. We'd shared morning conversations, smiles, pleasantries. He would bring me the newspapers from the lobby so I wouldn't have to go down the escalator to get them with my bad knees. I knew why he was losing his job, and the reasons were valid, but I just couldn't do that to him. I couldn't sit there as a co-worker and embarrass him like that. I told Jon the truth about why I didn't want to do it. "I'll sit there if I have to," I sighed. Jon stared at me and shook his head. "No, it's okay. I'll do it where you can still witness the paperwork but you don't have to be there." "Thank you." I said. I did have to sign off on the paperwork, but at least Jason wasn't forced to deal with the extra humiliation of another person there when he experienced a low point in his life. He's had lower, and I expect he will again,soon. He deals with demons he's tried more than once to shake. Sigh. Afterwards I told Jon again that I completely understood why Jason had to go. Jon made the right choice for the property and the other co-workers. It's not fair to keep someone working when they can't pull their fair share of the load. Jason had reached that point. Had it been my job to do? I probably would have taken the coward's way out. I'd have sent him a text. So I'll never be the manager of a high rise hotel. I'll never be "management" or experience life in the corner office. I knew that about myself a long time ago. Guess my soapbox will have to do. |
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