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Author, Historian, Storyteller

Fathers, WritingLeave a comment

It is a very recent development that I claim the title of writer.  Despite the fact that it has always been something that I did, I never really identified with it as part of who I was.  However, when I stumble upon things like the one I am about to share, it makes me shake my head that I didn’t figure out that writing really is a deeply ingrained part of who I am.  So for your father’s day enjoyment I present an oldie – judging from the handwriting I’m going to guess that this was presented to my father when I was about ten.  I do hope you will forgive the liberties that ten-year-old me took with the rhyming scheme, 31-year-old me resisted the urge to edit.

 

Twas the Night Before Father’s Day

 

Twas the night before father’s day and all through the world

The mothers were stirring cause the baby just hurled.

The children weren’t nestled all snug in their beds

Cause my sister just kicked me square in the head

Mom was in her curlers and pop in his cap

Finally settled us down before I kicked her right back

Revenge isn’t sweet said pop with a sigh

That wasn’t very nice to kick her in the eye

When out in the den there arose such a clatter

Pop sprang from the room to see what was the matter.

When what with his wondering eyes did he see?

But a miniature pond cause I broke the window accidentally.

The rain was pouring in so lively and free

Dad knew in a moment new carpeting it would be.

He was fuming and red from his head to his toe

But calmed down again cause he knew I felt low.

And then in the attic we heard with a beat

The prancing and pawing of little bird’s feet

Faster than bullets towards us they came

Their leader whistled and shouted and called them by name

Come on Ollie, now Stanley, now Larry and Moe,

On Wally, on Beaver, on Shemp and Groucho.

They shouted as they fled off into the night

Happy father’s day to all, and the kids won’t even fight!

Inspiration, Live and LearnOne comment so far

I was supposed to meet my cousins at Disneyland last night.  I haven’t seen them in a really long time, they’re in town, so I braved the traffic and after work drove down to Disneyland.  Where I discovered that I couldn’t actually get into the park itself because it happened to be a black-out day on my pass.  It hadn’t even occurred to me that I needed to check blackout days – it was a Thursday night after all – but there you have it.  So I drove for three hours round trip to give them a hug outside of the main gate and chat for half an hour.  Not exactly the evening that I had imagined, but it turns out, that it was exactly what I had needed – perspective.

This could have easily ruined my night, and after the rough week that I’ve had at work I’m honestly kind of proud of myself that it didn’t.  Let’s face it, it was an EPIC Disneyland fail and there was no one to blame but myself.  But you know what, it gave me time to decompress.  For two hours driving through rush hour traffic I was present, I was in the moment.  I wasn’t worrying about my to-do list at home, I wasn’t worrying about work or all of things that I need to cram into my weekend and accomplish.  I drove.  I changed lanes, I accelerated, I applied the brakes and I listened to music.  I was blissfully disconnected from everything except for the immediate presence of the traffic around me.  Yes, I did just use the word blissful in a sentence describing LA traffic and yes I am probably crazy, but the jury’s still out on that one!  Then I got to catch up, commiserate with family that I wouldn’t have had a chance to see otherwise.  It was short and not at all as planned, but it was novel and novelty has a charm unto itself.

One of my favorite movies is “Grosse Pointe Blank” and one of the characters talks about Shakabuku.  “It’s a swift, spiritual kick to the head that alters your reality forever.”  Now I’m not saying that my reality has been altered forever, but I feel like last night was my Shakabuku – kick to the head/LA traffic, yep that’s a much more accurate description.  I spend way too much time planning and working through all of the possible outcomes of a given scenario instead of simply living.  Taking the world on as it comes, making the best of what I am given and accepting the outcome.  I don’t need to think out ten different scenarios of how a situation may turn out because that’s nine scenarios that will never exist outside of my own head – assuming of course that one of those ten is what actually happens.  What a huge waste of time!

So new goal: embrace my Shakabuku.  Let go of the incessant planning and worrying and live right here, right now.  After all, the best laid plans generally go awry anyway.  Oh, and go to the library and get an audiobook.  A good audiobook would have totally rocked last night!

LifeLeave a comment

So I’m wearing panty hose again, I hate panty hose.  I think you all know that.  But I’m wearing them, because if there’s something that I hate more than panty hose it’s doing laundry.  Therefore I have no clean dress pants and since I’ve been freezing in my office all week it’s a skirt and panty hose for me.  Seriously though, laundry, is there anyone out there that actually likes doing laundry?  Or dishes, I hate doing dishes more than I hate doing laundry and the reason is really simple.  They are tasks that no matter what, you are never done!  You can devote your entire Saturday morning to washing all of your clothes, linens, etc and scrubbing every dish in the house.  Ta-da!  You’re done and for thirty glorious seconds it’s beautiful.  But then you realize that you’re a little parched from all of that hard work, so you get a glass of water.  That’s when the spiral of despair begins.  You realize that not all of the dishes are clean anymore, because the very act of congratulating yourself on a job well done with a refreshing glass of water has dirtied a dish.  Then you realize that while you spent hours washing, drying, folding, ironing (okay scratch ironing, who actually irons anymore?), and putting away the clothes, you are in fact wearing clothes . . . which are now dirty . . . which means that even as you have finished the job, it has started all over again.

 

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

 

This is why I hate laundry and dishes.  You’re never done and the satisfaction of doing the work is short-lived at best.  This is also why I own over a month’s supply of underwear.  You can get by with the smell test on a pair of pants for one more wear, but on a pair of underwear that’s just nasty!  So as I am at the end of that supply I will once more begrudgingly be doing laundry this weekend . . . naked . . . and drinking straight from the faucet, because damnit I want my victory of everything clean all at once!

Live and LearnLeave a comment

I made the decision that I wanted to start incorporating more exercise into my weekly routine. After all I sit at a desk for 40 hours a week at work and I would prefer if my ass didn’t start to resemble the chair that it sits in! I already walk my dogs on a daily basis and truth be told keeping those little monsters at bay is an arm workout combined with a walk, but I felt the need for more. So I sat down and came up with a workout routine that would slowly ramp myself up into strenuous, healthful workouts several times a week …

 

Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound like me AT ALL! Which would explain why I instead dove in head first and did a P90X workout followed up by an intermediate pilates class. Yeah, that definitely sounds more like me, because I am smart!  S-M-R-T smart!  Which means that I now have been introduced to a whole new level of pain.  Forget saying that it hurts to move, at this point it hurts to exist!  The very act of breathing is painful.  Apparently out of shape at 31 is significantly different than out of shape at 26.  And I only did half of the P90X workout, I’m fairly certain that I wouldn’t be able to walk if I had done the whole thing!  Good grief!

I believe that it is time to regroup, maybe do some yoga, or a hot bath with a glass of wine and handful of ibuprofen.  Maybe approach this whole exercise thing a bit more gingerly, a bit slower.  A beginning pilates class.  Because while I was an instructor, that was 8 years ago and just because I know the exercises does not mean that I can still do them.  Lesson learned!  However, thank you to the puggles, my arms are perfectly fine.  The little monsters!

Depression, Happiness, Live and LearnLeave a comment

I am currently in a funk, have been for a couple of weeks now.  This is nothing new to me.  I have been clinically depressed since I was eleven-years-old.  I know that this is not PC, not “appropriate for polite conversation,” but I don’t believe that people should be ashamed of mental illness.  It doesn’t make me any less of a person, it doesn’t change the way that people look at me after they find out.  The people that matter at any rate.  In fact, I’ve found that talking about it helps.  When the people around me know, I don’t feel the need to put on the act that I do around others.  You see I am a very high functioning depressive.  A common reaction that I get from people when I tell them, is that they had no idea I suffered from depression.

Actually, I don’t like to say that I suffer from depression, because suffer has always implied to me that I am a victim, that I have no control.  I decided long ago that I’m not a victim.  I battle depression. It is a war and one that I will likely fight for the rest of my life.  I take it head on and I take no prisoners . . . most days.  However, like any war I lose battles, and then I’m in a funk.  Sometimes I can identify what caused it, sometimes I can’t.  Some days are simply funkier than others.

And no, that week or two that you felt really low does not give you an adequate frame of reference for what the past 20 years of my life have been like. So please don’t tell me that you know how it feels. You don’t. That would be like me telling a marathoner I know all about it because I ran track in high school.  To a certain extent, it’s insulting.  It belittles my reality.

I know that you want to help, I know that you want to fix the problem and I appreciate that this desire comes out of concern and from a place of love.  But please understand, that this is not your problem to fix.  Suggesting that I get more exercise, or eat healthier, or get daylight lamps, or investigate the different meds on the market is the opposite of help.  I’m doing the best that I know how to do and you giving me all of these suggestions tells me that my best isn’t good enough. It layers funk on top of the funk.  Not to mention, I doubt very seriously that you have come across a study, approach or new theory out there that I haven’t already read about and very probably tried.  I have worked my way through the advice, strategies and gamut of meds available. I know what’s out there.  If there was a med that offered a benefit that was greater than the side-effects, you can bet your sweet ass that I would already be on that sucker!

This does not mean that you can’t help, you can definitely help.  Here’s how.

  1. If we live in the same city, get me out of my house.  Let’s go for a hike, or a movie, or lunch.  Get me out of the house and don’t take no for an answer.  I will have a billion reasons why I can’t; I have to clean the kitchen first, I have no money, I have a bunch of emails I’m behind on, I have to blah, blah, blah, etc.  Come over and keep me company while I clean the kitchen, then suggest we go for a walk because that’s free! Get me out of the house; even if it’s only for 30 minutes.
  2. If we don’t live in the same city, call to say hi, to check in, but don’t make it all about me.  If the entire conversation is fixated on how I’m doing, how I’m feeling, what I’m doing to feel better, I’m going to start to feel like a monkey in a cage.  Ask how I’m doing and if I want to talk about it I will, if I don’t let’s move on with the conversation as normal.  Please don’t tip toe around like you’re walking on egg shells, because then I feel the need to put on an act that all is well and good to make you feel better and to put you at ease.  That is EXHAUSTING, and depression is exhausting enough all by itself.
  3. This one’s counterintuitive, I know, but tell me about an issue you’re having and ask for my advice. It reminds me that there are issues in the world other than my own. The German’s call it schadenfruede, it works. But a word of warning, make it a lighter issue that you don’t need critical advice on, because depending on the level of funk you might get some really crappy advice!
  4. If you do come across an article or study that is interesting and that you think would be of benefit to me, email me the link. That way I can read it when I am in a head space to receive the information and benefit from it. Telling me about it will more than likely feel like you’re forcing the information down my throat.
  5. Understand that sometimes I have to embrace the funk, the silence, wrap myself in the dark clouds and get drenched by the rain before the sun can shine through again. So if I don’t answer your call, please don’t take it personally. I still love and care for you, the clouds have just filled my head so thoroughly that there isn’t room for anything else. Try again tomorrow.  Send me a picture of a monkey hugging a puppy or a sarcastic meme.  All good things that show you care, but give me some space.
  6. Accept, like I have, that this is a part of my reality and I’m going to have down days and down weeks. Don’t be alarmed. However, if I’ve ignored 4+ calls in a row or spent 4+ calls in a row crying and I am cancelling all of my plans except the bare minimum to survive, then some alarm is warranted. I have crossed the threshold into the benefits of the meds now outweigh the side-effects.  Feel free to remind me of this. But if not, if I’m functioning and working through it, let me function.  Support me at my current best so that I can get back to my normal best.
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.

Fathers, Live and LearnLeave a comment

With summer coming up, for some of us it’s already upon us, there seems to be a lot of talk about kids and boredom.  Which kind of makes me scratch my head.  Growing up, my sister and I were not allowed to be bored.  Okay, we were allowed to be bored, but my dad made it very clear from a very young age that we DID NOT want him to “solve” our boredom problem. His theory was that there were always things to do, so how could someone possibly be bored.  Therefore he was more than happy to direct you to one of those tasks like: sweeping out the garage, hauling firewood, picking up dog crap in the backyard, sanding the front deck (not with power sanders mind you, a block of wood with sandpaper stapled to it), etc.  And should the word “bored” escape from your lips these were not suggestions, these were directives. Generally half way through the assigned task he would holler from the door, “Still bored?  I’ve got more stuff for ya!”  We learned quickly that we were NEVER bored.  EVER!

We were kids though, so there was generally the yearly reminder at the beginning of the summer when one of us would let it slip.  Or worse yet, one of our friends would let it slip.  Our father had no problems setting any child under his roof to a task to “cure” boredom, and cure it he did!  We did not have video games or computer games, we did not have the internet and we did not have 200+ channels to choose from or movies on demand.  We had books, board games, bicycles, the great outdoors and our imaginations.  We used all of them and quickly discovered that there was no need to be bored.  We had the world at our disposal . . . as long as we stayed in the yard and came in when it got dark.  But truth be told, even that was negotiable.

While I am sure the ten year old me sanding the front deck would disagree, I think he did all of us a great service.  I can’t remember the last time that I was bored.  It’s not in my vocabulary.  I always have something to do, can create something to do to amuse myself.  I don’t need outside stimulation or motivation.  He taught us to be independent, starting with something as simple as our own entertainment.  Well played dad.  Lesson learned and deck sanded . . . I’m still a little bitter about the deck . . . not that you’d notice or anything . . .

Happiness, Live and Learn, Love, MothersLeave a comment

My nephew was born this weekend.  Okay, disclaimer, he’s not really my nephew.  Not by blood anyway.  His mother and I have been best friends since we were two.  I have no memories pre-Jolene.  We grew up together and went to college together.  I have a standing invitation at her parent’s house and her Aunts’ house whether she’s there or not.  She is my sister from another mother and therefore, I reserve the right to claim this new little bundle of amazing-ness as my nephew.  I am Crazy Aunt Kat and I come armed with pirate onesies!

Despite the fact that I have not yet gotten to meet him in person and hold him, I am so in love with this little boy.  My heart melts every time I get a new picture, and I am not one of those people that generally gets all mushy over babies – puppies yes, babies no.  So for me this is a very new thing and got me thinking about the very nature of love.  How something so small, whose only accomplishment/contribution to date is being born, can elicit such fierce emotions so quickly.  In fact thinking about him makes me feel so good, it bubbles over into the rest of my life.

Then in contrast I saw this extreme jealousy today, because someone paid attention to one person instead of the other.  It was almost as if by paying attention to Person A, it meant that Person B wasn’t loved.  I seriously think that there are people out there who believe that love is a finite thing.  There is only so much to go around, so you better Bogart all you can when you have the chance.  I know people like this, I’m sure you do too, and I just want to grab them by the lapels and shake them into better senses.  But that’s not really an accepted form of dealing with other people so I restrain myself, and instead would like to say to them:

Love is not a cookie jar!

Let me explain.  I think that there are people out there who believe that love is like a cookie jar; I will use a completely fictional person named Jill as an example.  Jill started out life with a cookie jar, chock full of cookies, and every time she showed someone love she had to give them a cookie.  As a child she gave love freely, her jar was full, there was no conceivable end in sight.  But as she grew older, and discovered that she had maybe given out some of those cookies to people who didn’t deserve them, she became more covetous of her cookies.  She realized that she would eventually hand out her last cookie and then what would she do?  So people had to earn her love, they had to work for their cookies.  Worse yet, she became jealous when someone that she loved gave a cookie to someone else because that was one less cookie that they could then give to her.  So Jill sabotaged those relationships until the only person left for her significant other to give cookies to was her.  She hoarded her cookies and congratulated herself on the fact that her partner only gave cookies to her.  Life was good . . . except that it wasn’t.  Life was actually very lonely because she had driven most everyone away, despite the fact that she still had plenty of cookies in her jar.  The sad thing is that if Jill had simply taken the time to look inside of that jar when she pulled out a cookie for someone, she would have seen that no matter how many cookies she took out there were always some left.

I truly believe that love is not a finite thing.  It is not something that can run out.  For every person that I love, for every person that I show compassion towards, I get some of that back.  Sometimes I might not get back the same amount that I gave and sometimes I might get back far more than I gave.  You never know, but the point is that you always get something back.  Love is infinite and no matter how many times you dip your hand into that cookie jar you will always come out with a cookie.  The more that you can give truly and freely, the more you will get back, until that jar is overflowing.  In my mind, that is how love works.

So I guess that love is a cookie jar.  It’s just happens to be the best damn cookie jar that ever existed, because there will always be more.

Cookie Monster

Who wants a cookie?