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Author, Historian, Storyteller

Archives for June 2013

Live and Learn, WomenLeave a comment

Don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate the role that pantyhose play.  There are definitely days that I am a fan of the “control top.”  And who hasn’t put on their last pair of clean dress pants only to immediately spill coffee all over them and thank the stars for a pair of dark colored nylons to cover up the fact that you decided to sleep in an extra fifteen minutes instead of shaving your legs?  These are all good things, and for people as lily white as me, a good pair of pantyhose is the only way you will ever see my legs with that oh so attractive tanned hue.  But unless you happen to be the exact size of the pantyhose model, they don’t fit right.  If you’re short you get build up at the ankle.  If you’re tall the crotch lands just above the knee.  I don’t even think they fit right on averaged sized people and don’t get me started on knee highs!  There has got to be some sort of pantyhose fairy that goes around to make sure that whatever size you buy, no matter how long you study that little chart on the back, something about them won’t quite fit right.

I am well aware of this. Yet somehow I always forget while getting dressed in that rosy-hued, half-asleep oblivion of the morning where I believe that I will actually be comfortable wearing women’s clothing all day, that at some point during the day there will be a pantyhose meltdown.  A point at which the pantyhose revolt, and refuse to play nicely anymore.  They stage a coup on your comfort and sanity and you wind up with the crotch twisted up against your inner thigh which cuts off circulation to your other leg a little bit and no matter how much you tug, shimmy and cajole they won’t budge!  So you fight and struggle with them until finally in your frustration you pull just a little too hard, or your nail catches just so and a huge run screams down the length of your leg faster than you can exclaim, “WHAT NEW SWEET HELL IS THIS?”

Sometimes this melt down happens at the end of the day.  But on some glorious, I love being a woman days it happens the second you are far enough away from the house that it is no longer practical to go back and remedy the situation.  Forget a horse, my kingdom for a razor and some shaving cream so that I can rip these suckers off once and for all and go about my day like the somewhat sane person that I usually am.  Although that’s not really an option either, because you just know that the second you start, that woman from the office down the hall with the styled hair, perfect make-up and never a seam out of place on her matchy-matchy outfits will walk in and give you that look.  You know the look that I’m talking about.  That haughty, “You call yourself a woman, get your act together!” look.

So you suffer in silence, escaping to the bathroom on regular intervals to tug and cajole but usually only succeed in making the situation worse.  Until one time you’re in there losing the battle and she walks in.  You brace yourself for the look, but it never comes.  Instead she gives you a look of commiseration and takes off her suit jacket so she can fight with her rogue bra strap.  Then it hits you, she’s not perfect.  Like you, she’s just trying to keep her shit together and make it through the day.  So you shelf that little green jealousy monster, and adjust the bra strap of the perfect stranger.  Why?  Because solidarity sister, our clothing is out to get us; we have to stick together.

Characters, Happiness, Live and LearnLeave a comment

I have been struggling lately, and have struggled before, with why I write.  Who wants to read it? Why does what I have to say matter?  This is probably why the majority of what I have written has never been read, and I’m not fishing for compliments or validation here.  Anybody that has “gone fishing” before knows that all of the praise in the world doesn’t make a bit of difference if you don’t already believe what they’re saying yourself.  That’s the funny thing about praise.  Those who need it can’t hear it, and those who don’t need it, can.  I’ve always pondered this but never shared the question with others, until today.  Today I posited this question to my friend Stacey, who hands down has read more of my writing than any other person.  She’s my sounding board for my novel, she’s my confidant, she is brilliant and beautiful and talented and one of my best friends.  Her response to me, was to share an epiphany that she had recently had herself – maybe you can’t find the answer, because you’re asking the wrong question.  What does your writing mean to you?  How does writing make you feel?  When all is said and done, isn’t that what really matters?

Cue my brain exploding.

But in a good way.  What does writing mean to me? I write because I always have, it’s always been the best way to express myself.  I write because it is a part of me, the best part of me.  I write because if I didn’t the thoughts and stories and imagery would get so backed up and piled up in my head that I wouldn’t be able to see straight for the commotion.  I write because sitting in a dimly lit corner with a notebook and pen, or a blinking cursor, makes me happier and gives me more fulfillment than anything else.  Yes, a blank page terrifies me, but it is also my best friend because there is always more blankness to be filled.  There is always more room for another story, another character, another thought.  There is no feeling in the world like putting pen to paper and letting a world unfold before you.  Like letting a character loose in that world to live their life.  I don’t care how much thinking I do before hand, how much outlining I do, I never know where a character is going to go or what they’re going to say until the pen hits the page.  Sometimes they’re predictable, but sometimes they surprise me.  Captain Henry breaks my heart.  I want to like him, I want him to be a good man so badly it hurts, but he does bad, bad things.  And every time he does my heart breaks all over again.  He does good things too, but the lady of justice stands sentinel in my heart weighing his deeds, and I have no idea which way the scales will tip when the story is finished.  I hope they tip to the good, but I don’t know.  I don’t know that he does either, we’ll have to wait and see.  Maybe I just have to like him despite the bad things that he does, accept him with all of his faults.  I talk about Henry like he’s a real person, because to me he is real.

This is why I write. Good, bad or indifferent, I write because it makes me happy.  Writing completes me.  That’s the answer.

Dating, Happiness, Live and Learn, LoveLeave a comment

I’ve spent quite a bit of time lately talking with a friend who is in a bad relationship – and we’re talking bad with a capital B – and it’s really got me to thinking that maybe it’s better to be alone than with the wrong person.  It seems like a lot of people stay in bad situations largely because they fear being on their own.  As someone that has been a single more than I have been a couple I really don’t understand that.  True, I’ve never been in a long-term relationship, or a marriage so I can’t fully relate, but I can’t help but think that alone has got to be better than bad.

Now that’s not to say that I want to stay single for the rest of my life.  I would love to find someone that I can spend the rest of my life with.  That’s something that I want very much, and there are times that it weighs very heavily on me that I haven’t come anywhere near that.  But I have also learned that I can be very happy on my own, which, I think, is why I don’t put up with guys treating me like crap.  I walk away.  Yes it sucks to watch something crumble.  It sucks to go from “+1” to “1”, but I’ve never regretted the decision to walk.

I’m single now, and I’m in one of those “it sucks to be single” moods.  Which is ridiculous because I have so much going on right now that my brain would probably implode if I tried to throw a relationship in on top of everything else, but hey the heart wants what the heart wants.  I think that’s the saying anyway.  But I know one thing about my heart, it knows exactly what it wants and exactly how it should be treated and listening to my friend’s tribulations has firmly cemented that conviction.  So for now I can leave all the “Mr. Wrongs” at the bar and walk away knowing I made the right choice.  Sometimes being alone is better, because with the right friends even though you’re alone, you’re not lonely.