Once upon a time, in a land far away...actually it's only a half hour drive from here...my grandmother asked me to help her record a program. I tried to show her how to do it herself, but she didn't seem interested in learning. At the time, I didn't get it. What was so hard about programing a VCR?
Fast forward to the dawn of the DVD age. Our first VCR/DVD player combo was pretty simple to program, but it eventually had to be replaced. That's when we decided to upgrade to VCR/DVD-R (because recording on DVD's would save so much space!) Oh boy. That machine drove me nuts. The instruction novelette that came with it was written in English but could have been Greek because I just couldn't quite GET IT. There were way too many steps required to set up a simple recording. After several tries, I did what most normal people do once they get to the stage that they realize technology has passed them by...I gave up. If I missed an episode of Heroes or NCIS, I would simply watch it online instead. The problem was that I couldn't do that with American Idol and since softball games directly interfered with getting my David Cook fix, I found myself resorting to the unimaginable. Yes, it's true...I begged my teenager to help me.
Earlier this year, when we replaced our 20 year old set with a new TV for hubby, we also traded in our old cable box for a new fancy, smancy DVR cable box. Everyone told me that I would love having a DVR, but to be honest, I was afraid to even try figuring it out. I didn't need to face the humiliation again. Accepting that I technologically challenged had been a big step for me. I was comfortable with my status. Why risk further shame?
Then it happened. I don't know how to describe it other than to say that a reckless feeling overcame me, prompting me to give it a shot. The kids were in school, which meant that hubby would be the only one to witness my attempt - and he would never dare laugh at ME. Well, not much anyway. He was lying on the bed with The Mistress (aka his iPhone) when I softly commented that it would really be nice to record Angel since I'm usually busy getting the kids ready for school when it's playing. I think there must have been something in my tone because he actually looked up from his game playing and took me seriously. After a whooping 30 seconds of direction, I did it!!! I set the DVR to record Angel. OMG that was so easy!!! I even found out how to go back and actually watch the recording! I am WOMAN!
That jubilant feeling emboldened me. I put the remote on the nightstand, looked over at hubby (who had returned to his game) and offered something I knew he'd been waiting for.
"I'm ready."
He almost dropped the phone in surprise. Almost. Tentatively he asked "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Now - before I change my mind."
He reached over, gently took my hand and led me....
.
.
.
to the van. I should have been a little more nervous than I actually was as we drove to the AT&T store to get his new 4G phone and transfer the 3G one to me. After all, I had mocked The Mistress for so long that part of me secretly worried she would rebel once she was mine.
The transaction was almost painless. Except for the paying part, but even that was less than I was expecting. My first phone call came in even before we left the store. Thankfully hubby was right there to show me how to answer. Whew.
Once home, he took both phones and handled all of the transferring for me. Then he went to work. Now it's just me and the phone. Obviously I can't call her The Mistress anymore (that title was transferred over to hubby's new phone.) I'm not sure what I'll name her. First I think I'd better figure out how to actually use her. So far, I know how to answer it when it rings.
This may take a while.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Fall Fails
This year the first day of fall fell on September 22nd. At least that's what the calendar says. Mother Nature apparently had some last minute details to attend to, so she ignored the calendar and waited until Monday, September 27th to send a bit of cooler air this way.
I love fall. Who doesn't? There is just something so refreshing in the air that
Didn't it say that to you?
Cooler weather also means I can finally get to a couple of projects that I'd been putting off. It's not quite cool enough to open the windows for the four hours that it will take my oven to self clean so I still get a pass on that one for a while, but I can at least do a bit of gardening now. On the way back from picking up the gardening soil and mulch, I wondered if I should try moving the overgrown salvia or just rip it out. It's very pretty in early spring. Later in the summer the bees love the flowers. The problem is that it is just much too tall for the area it's in now. I decided a while back to replace it with Candytuft, which, according to the seed packet will give me "white dainty blooms" that "cover a dense mat of dark green foliage." That sounds pretty, doesn't it? Anna and I had fun watching the soil pellets "grow" in warm water and then planting the tiny seeds. Most of them have sprouted and are waiting in a tray on my window sill.
Unfortunately, I didn't have time to do any actual gardening yesterday. As soon as I got back from Lowes, Emily called me from school because she accidentally left her binder in her last class and by the time she retrieved it, she missed the bus. When we got home, we were greeted by a friendly, thirsty black lab who thought the best way to show me his appreciation for the water he found (in Ke-Kat's bowl) was to run into me - several times. Ke-Kat was NOT amused by the interlopers behavior. Emily picked up her cat and tried in vain to hold on to him, but Ke-Kat thought that the top of her head was a better than her arms. That was about when my oldest, Danielle, decided to join us - with a broom. Now we may very well have been in danger of being licked to death, but I didn't see the need to exasperate the situation with weapons, so I sent her straight back into the house. We borrowed a leash from my SIL and Emily set off to find the doggy's owner. By then, it was time to get my younger two from the bus, supervise homework while cooking supper, feed the kidlets, bring the older two to CCD class, fold clothes, pick up the older two from CCD class, remind the children that they do, in fact, have to take a bath every single day and that brushing teeth wasn't optional. After sending them all to bed it was, at last... quiet.
This morning, I decided to get the grocery shopping finished early. I got in the car...and gagged. Guess what happens when you forget to take gardening soil and mulch out of the back of the van? Uh huh. It wasn't nice. Dear readers, you will be happy to find out that I did not throw up. It was close, but somehow I managed to keep my breakfast where it belonged. After removing the offending bags, I sprayed the entire van with febreze in hopes that if it didn't take the smell completely away, it would at least add a nice lavender tinge to the manure stench. Then I put the windows half down to let the vehicle air out.
Three hours later, I cautiously tried again. The smell was bearable. I sat behind the wheel, started the engine...and got the unnerving feeling that I wasn't alone. He couldn't have, could he? I turned my head and there he was. Curled up ever so cozily on the back seat, Ke-kat raised his sleepy head and gave me a look that said "Let's see if that stupid dog can find me in here."
Yep, Fall is off to a brilliant start.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Ke-kat
Today is a special day in our home. On Sept. 5th of 2009, my daughter Emily came into the house bursting with excitement. She'd found a tiny kitten under a wheelbarrow in the yard. Now you must understand - I had successfully avoided giving in to the "can we have a pet" plea for a long while. Four children is plenty enough responsibility thank you very much. A pet means more work for me. A pet means increased bills (vet visits, pest treatments, food, toys and so on.) A pet means arranging for care when we go on vacation and figuring out how to bring an animal along when we are forced to evacuate for hurricanes.
I didn't want a pet. My Emily did. She is the animal lover here. Animal Planet is her favorite TV station. There was no way I could look at her face and say that we couldn't keep that scrawny bag of fur. I did say that she first had to go to all of the neighbors to make sure that the kitten wasn't for them. No one claimed it. It was so tiny that we couldn't imagine that it had wandered far on it's own. Later I found out that our local shelter had just begun imposing a drop off fee for unwanted animals, so I suppose it's likely that someone decided that our yard was a less costly place to dispose of the creature.
Since there was no way I was allowing it in my house, Emily and I built a makeshift home out of spare bricks, wood and chicken wire. I'm not totally heartless. I wanted it to stay safe! At the store, I bought kitty chow, flea bath and a flea collar...plus a couple of toys. Later we got a tag for the collar. Emily checked for important parts, declared the kitten a "girl" and dubbed her "Cookies and Cream" - Cookies for short. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to call her that. To me, the kitten was and will forever be "Ke-kat."
In those early weeks, I discovered something important about the kitten. When ever I noticed Ke-kat digging a hole, I knew to get away - FAST. You see, kitten poop happens to be the absolute worst smelling stuff on the face of the earth. They bury it in order to survive. No creature could stand being near that foul odor for long. No creature but Emily of course. She didn't care if the kitten pooped on her shirt. And it did sometimes. Especially when we gave it milk. Emily searched the internet and decided that milk wasn't good for Cookies. As the person who does the laundry here, I completely agreed.
After a couple of months we realized that we didn't want MORE kittens, so I checked around to see about getting Ke-kat fixed. The local vets wanted $200 for the operation. It was explained to me that the procedure was more intensive for female kittens. I understood that, but wasn't ready to shell out so much, so I kept looking. A friend told me about the SPCA in New Orleans. There it would cost us a mere $50 for the "fix" and another $40 for the shots. We packed Ke-kat up and took her in. Later that morning, I got a call telling me that HE was ready for pick up. ummm...excuse me? He? Yep. He.
I should have figured out earlier that s/he was a he. After all, every time he sees me, he immediately lies down and stretches so that I will bend over to scratch his belly. It's not that I think that I should have seen certain parts that would have given me a clue. I'm just pretty sure that a female would totally ignore my existence. Ke-kat, however, loves me. He brings me presents often. Not a week goes by that I don't open my door to find a dead frog, dragonfly or lizard waiting for me. When I garden, he showers me with attention by leaping out of his "hiding place" in the flowers and grabbing my hand. When I have gardening gloves on, he isn't shy about sinking his claws in - I can only assume that's because he wants to pull them off in order to view my hands better. Thankfully he doesn't use his claws when he uses the same move on my legs to prevent me from stepping back into my house.
Yes, Ke-kat loves me. He doesn't have a clue that, a year ago, I was secretly hoping that Emily would come home with news that he actually belonged to one of our neighbors. He doesn't care that I was furious with him after he ripped apart the screen on the dining room window or that I shoo him down from the top of my van each time I catch him up there. Ke-kat is part of our family and he knows it. He loves me...and I kinda like him too.
Happy "found you under a wheelbarrel" Day Ke-kat!
I didn't want a pet. My Emily did. She is the animal lover here. Animal Planet is her favorite TV station. There was no way I could look at her face and say that we couldn't keep that scrawny bag of fur. I did say that she first had to go to all of the neighbors to make sure that the kitten wasn't for them. No one claimed it. It was so tiny that we couldn't imagine that it had wandered far on it's own. Later I found out that our local shelter had just begun imposing a drop off fee for unwanted animals, so I suppose it's likely that someone decided that our yard was a less costly place to dispose of the creature.
Since there was no way I was allowing it in my house, Emily and I built a makeshift home out of spare bricks, wood and chicken wire. I'm not totally heartless. I wanted it to stay safe! At the store, I bought kitty chow, flea bath and a flea collar...plus a couple of toys. Later we got a tag for the collar. Emily checked for important parts, declared the kitten a "girl" and dubbed her "Cookies and Cream" - Cookies for short. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to call her that. To me, the kitten was and will forever be "Ke-kat."
In those early weeks, I discovered something important about the kitten. When ever I noticed Ke-kat digging a hole, I knew to get away - FAST. You see, kitten poop happens to be the absolute worst smelling stuff on the face of the earth. They bury it in order to survive. No creature could stand being near that foul odor for long. No creature but Emily of course. She didn't care if the kitten pooped on her shirt. And it did sometimes. Especially when we gave it milk. Emily searched the internet and decided that milk wasn't good for Cookies. As the person who does the laundry here, I completely agreed.
After a couple of months we realized that we didn't want MORE kittens, so I checked around to see about getting Ke-kat fixed. The local vets wanted $200 for the operation. It was explained to me that the procedure was more intensive for female kittens. I understood that, but wasn't ready to shell out so much, so I kept looking. A friend told me about the SPCA in New Orleans. There it would cost us a mere $50 for the "fix" and another $40 for the shots. We packed Ke-kat up and took her in. Later that morning, I got a call telling me that HE was ready for pick up. ummm...excuse me? He? Yep. He.
I should have figured out earlier that s/he was a he. After all, every time he sees me, he immediately lies down and stretches so that I will bend over to scratch his belly. It's not that I think that I should have seen certain parts that would have given me a clue. I'm just pretty sure that a female would totally ignore my existence. Ke-kat, however, loves me. He brings me presents often. Not a week goes by that I don't open my door to find a dead frog, dragonfly or lizard waiting for me. When I garden, he showers me with attention by leaping out of his "hiding place" in the flowers and grabbing my hand. When I have gardening gloves on, he isn't shy about sinking his claws in - I can only assume that's because he wants to pull them off in order to view my hands better. Thankfully he doesn't use his claws when he uses the same move on my legs to prevent me from stepping back into my house.
Yes, Ke-kat loves me. He doesn't have a clue that, a year ago, I was secretly hoping that Emily would come home with news that he actually belonged to one of our neighbors. He doesn't care that I was furious with him after he ripped apart the screen on the dining room window or that I shoo him down from the top of my van each time I catch him up there. Ke-kat is part of our family and he knows it. He loves me...and I kinda like him too.
Happy "found you under a wheelbarrel" Day Ke-kat!
Saturday, August 28, 2010
I Want...
"I want candy."
"I want a new DSi game."
"I want Bakugan battle gear."
"I want another flashlight."
"I want a friend to sleep over this weekend."
"I want a puppy. A REAL puppy."
It's good to want things. At least that's what I tell my children when they barrage me with requests. When we want things, we reach for them. We set goals and we work toward them. Wanting moves us forward.
Except when it doesn't.
Often times I find myself telling my children that they cannot have what they want - not because it's an impossible goal but because it's not good for them. For example: they aren't allowed to stay up all hours of the night playing video games. That would wreak havoc on their bodies and brains. Reaching the treasure chest to win Link's hover boots isn't nearly as important as getting a good night's sleep, but when they are in the "zone" they aren't considering that. They only know that they want to continue playing the game. That's when momma has to stand before the power button and say "save now or lose your progress."
The thing is...we don't outgrow the tendency to sometimes long for things that we know are bad for us. What happens when we no longer have mom standing at the power button?
My Facebook friends have heard me whine about my love/hate relationship with Sonic Dr. Pepper. My brain KNOWS what will happen when I finally give in to the craving. The sweet deception will lull me into a false state of optimistic confidence. I'll honestly believe that I'll be able to enjoy the pleasure of that icy joy without consequence. And sometimes I can. That's the clincher. Sometimes I can have one and then go on my merry way through life withoutwanting needing another for a while.
Sometimes I feel the edge creeping up on me the next day. When that happens, I have two choices. I can either give in to the caffeine call (which will only prolong the inevitable), or I can try to tough it out. The tough it out option can be particularly suckish, but eventually I have to accept its punishment.
How do you deal with wants that you know you shouldn't give into?
"I want a new DSi game."
"I want Bakugan battle gear."
"I want another flashlight."
"I want a friend to sleep over this weekend."
"I want a puppy. A REAL puppy."
It's good to want things. At least that's what I tell my children when they barrage me with requests. When we want things, we reach for them. We set goals and we work toward them. Wanting moves us forward.
Except when it doesn't.
Often times I find myself telling my children that they cannot have what they want - not because it's an impossible goal but because it's not good for them. For example: they aren't allowed to stay up all hours of the night playing video games. That would wreak havoc on their bodies and brains. Reaching the treasure chest to win Link's hover boots isn't nearly as important as getting a good night's sleep, but when they are in the "zone" they aren't considering that. They only know that they want to continue playing the game. That's when momma has to stand before the power button and say "save now or lose your progress."
The thing is...we don't outgrow the tendency to sometimes long for things that we know are bad for us. What happens when we no longer have mom standing at the power button?
My Facebook friends have heard me whine about my love/hate relationship with Sonic Dr. Pepper. My brain KNOWS what will happen when I finally give in to the craving. The sweet deception will lull me into a false state of optimistic confidence. I'll honestly believe that I'll be able to enjoy the pleasure of that icy joy without consequence. And sometimes I can. That's the clincher. Sometimes I can have one and then go on my merry way through life without
Sometimes I feel the edge creeping up on me the next day. When that happens, I have two choices. I can either give in to the caffeine call (which will only prolong the inevitable), or I can try to tough it out. The tough it out option can be particularly suckish, but eventually I have to accept its punishment.
How do you deal with wants that you know you shouldn't give into?
Monday, July 26, 2010
Helpless
I'm in a slump. Yeah, I know. Wah Wah, poor lil me. You don't have to tell me to "get over it" because I've already told myself. The thing is that I'm also a procrastinator so I think I'll wait till tomorrow to "get over it." I can do that. It's allowed.
Trouble comes in 3's right? The faucet on the tub is broken, the desktop is having boot up issues (which is probably being made worse by me shutting off and on the power to get it to boot up) and the bottom element on the oven has died. That's three. We reached our quota, right? So what if they are all fixable problems. It's the inconvenience that counts! It's taking forever for the tub part to arrive. I'm having panic attacks about bringing my computer in to be fixed (how long is it going to take...how am I going to survive?), and the oven repair person won't be here until the end of the week. :::cue the wah, wah, wah:::
But none of that put me in my slump. None of that has me feeling helpless. Forget three. Trouble came in four this time.
It happened in a flash. My husband leaned slightly over the table to take a bite of his supper. That was all it took. No heavy lifting. No straining or twisting. He just tried to eat something and his back seized up. It wasn't the first time. He has dealt with back pain for quite a while. The worst was a little over a year ago. That time it hit him so hard that he fell and was unable to get up at all. Woefully weak woman that I am, I wasn't even able to help him get off the floor. A call to 911 brought the paramedics who took him to the ER, where he was admitted to the hospital for a couple of excruciatingly painful days before his back was sliced open and the offending part of his ruptured disk was removed.
Have you been in the position of watching a loved one suffer, knowing that there is nothing you can DO to make it better? Being here, in that helpless state again, has brought to mind a time when he was the one who was forced to stand by - unable to fight the invisible enemy that was attacking me. I never really looked at it from his point of view before. He had just come back from a 5 1/2 month tour in Haiti a few weeks before it happened. I was seven months pregnant with our second child. I went to my OB with a complaint of feeling "chilly" and before I knew it I was being hooked up to a special bed that circulated ice water, one monitor for our baby's heartbeat, another to watch for contractions, an automated blood pressure cuff that went off every five minutes, a pulse ox and three IV's. Naturally I can remember what that was like from my own POV, but now I wonder...what did HE see? What went through his mind when the OB told him that she decided to air vac me to a civilian hospital in another city because there were fears that if I were to go into labor at that point, the military hospital I was in wouldn't be able to support both my life and the life of our unborn baby. What must he have felt watching them load me into the helicopter? What strength did he drawn on when he took our little girl back to our empty quarters?
The funny thing is that I knew that we (baby and I) were going to be fine. Oh, there was a claustrophobic moment when I was pushed through a tunnel like tube into the helicopter. For an instant I wondered if the scurry and fuss was warranted after all, but that feeling quickly passed and I just knew that everything would work out.
I didn't KNOW that last year when I was the one watching. I only knew that my husband was in pain and I couldn't do a darn thing about it.
I didn't KNOW it yesterday when I was so frightened that he was going to have to go through the same ordeal once again. I still don't know that he isn't headed in that direction, but I am relieved that this time at least seems to be a bit different so far. He is still able to move on his own and there is hope that he can be treated with medication instead of another surgery. We'll find out more after his MRI tomorrow. Till then, I'm going to stay in my slump and admit that I'm... helpless.
Trouble comes in 3's right? The faucet on the tub is broken, the desktop is having boot up issues (which is probably being made worse by me shutting off and on the power to get it to boot up) and the bottom element on the oven has died. That's three. We reached our quota, right? So what if they are all fixable problems. It's the inconvenience that counts! It's taking forever for the tub part to arrive. I'm having panic attacks about bringing my computer in to be fixed (how long is it going to take...how am I going to survive?), and the oven repair person won't be here until the end of the week. :::cue the wah, wah, wah:::
But none of that put me in my slump. None of that has me feeling helpless. Forget three. Trouble came in four this time.
It happened in a flash. My husband leaned slightly over the table to take a bite of his supper. That was all it took. No heavy lifting. No straining or twisting. He just tried to eat something and his back seized up. It wasn't the first time. He has dealt with back pain for quite a while. The worst was a little over a year ago. That time it hit him so hard that he fell and was unable to get up at all. Woefully weak woman that I am, I wasn't even able to help him get off the floor. A call to 911 brought the paramedics who took him to the ER, where he was admitted to the hospital for a couple of excruciatingly painful days before his back was sliced open and the offending part of his ruptured disk was removed.
Have you been in the position of watching a loved one suffer, knowing that there is nothing you can DO to make it better? Being here, in that helpless state again, has brought to mind a time when he was the one who was forced to stand by - unable to fight the invisible enemy that was attacking me. I never really looked at it from his point of view before. He had just come back from a 5 1/2 month tour in Haiti a few weeks before it happened. I was seven months pregnant with our second child. I went to my OB with a complaint of feeling "chilly" and before I knew it I was being hooked up to a special bed that circulated ice water, one monitor for our baby's heartbeat, another to watch for contractions, an automated blood pressure cuff that went off every five minutes, a pulse ox and three IV's. Naturally I can remember what that was like from my own POV, but now I wonder...what did HE see? What went through his mind when the OB told him that she decided to air vac me to a civilian hospital in another city because there were fears that if I were to go into labor at that point, the military hospital I was in wouldn't be able to support both my life and the life of our unborn baby. What must he have felt watching them load me into the helicopter? What strength did he drawn on when he took our little girl back to our empty quarters?
The funny thing is that I knew that we (baby and I) were going to be fine. Oh, there was a claustrophobic moment when I was pushed through a tunnel like tube into the helicopter. For an instant I wondered if the scurry and fuss was warranted after all, but that feeling quickly passed and I just knew that everything would work out.
I didn't KNOW that last year when I was the one watching. I only knew that my husband was in pain and I couldn't do a darn thing about it.
I didn't KNOW it yesterday when I was so frightened that he was going to have to go through the same ordeal once again. I still don't know that he isn't headed in that direction, but I am relieved that this time at least seems to be a bit different so far. He is still able to move on his own and there is hope that he can be treated with medication instead of another surgery. We'll find out more after his MRI tomorrow. Till then, I'm going to stay in my slump and admit that I'm... helpless.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Seeking John Marco
If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it. ~Toni Morrison
I feel that quote with every fiber of my being, and yet, writing comes last. I know, I know...it's suppose to be this overwhelming force that leaves me unable to eat, sleep or do anything else until I create. The need to record my story should supersede any and every desire that dares to distract me from the singular purpose of composing ...ummm...excuse me a moment.
.
.
.
Anna was hungry. Now, what was I saying? Oh, forget it. Writing comes last. It doesn't matter that in rare moments of still, the story calls to me, begging to be unfurled. Just thinking about my fictional island brightens my soul with purpose. There are times when I find myself wanting to re-read chapters that I haven't even written yet. My characters are friends that I long to visit.
They will wait. They have waited this long already.
I guess that means that I'm not really a writer. Heck, I can't even seem to give a few lines to this blog as often as I would like.
What I am (beside mom, home management connoisseur, cook/nutritionist, laundress, maid, finance director, transportation specialist, keeper of electronic gaming devices, homework motivator, psychologist, referee, teacher, judge, jurist, enforcer of law, mind reader, Anna chair, first aid dispenser...yeah, I know that everything after "mom" is redundant but it's my blog so I can yammer on if I wanna) is a reader.
Books are my escape, my sanctuary, my portal to new worlds. Stories feed me. Unfortunately life doesn't always leave me time for decent meals, so there are long spells when I have to make do with grazing. When I take the kids to a fast food place, I devour every silly word printed on their happy meal boxes/bags. Standing in line at the grocery store, I'll scan headline after headline on the magazines on display...until I literally feel my IQ falling and then I'll tear my eyes away from that and start reading the ingredient list on the items in my cart. And then there is the internet...or as I like to call it...paradise. From email to news articles to discussion boards to social networks to blogs, the internet is a never ending smorgasbord of awesomeness.
It was here on the world wide web that I was first introduced to Mr. John Marco - on Myspace to be exact. Any female with a Myspace account knows that there are three types of "friend requests" there.
First there is the "let's keep in touch here too" kind. Those are from people you know.
Next there is the "Musician" request. Those are from people who want you to hear how amazing they supposedly sound. Sometimes they are worth checking out. Sometimes you wish you hadn't bothered.
Then there is the "Girl collector" request. Those are from pigs posing as men. Luckily, they are pretty easy to spot.
The friend request from Mr. Marco didn’t quite fit into any of those categories. You see, he is an author. I had not read his books, nor had I even heard his name before that day, but suddenly I was intrigued. An author made a request to ME? I had to find out more. Wiki told me that he had two sci/fi - fantasy trilogies in print (he has since had a young adult novel published as well.) Various reviews let me know that the books were worth checking out. I did and before I was halfway through the first of his novels, I was a fan. I was also a little star struck.
There is something quite wonderful about being able to speak to a favorite author. That isn't something I ever thought of doing when I was younger. Back then, I didn't think much about the people who wrote the stories that I enjoyed so much. Authors were simply names that had to be listed on book reports for English class. How the sentences came to be on the pages wasn't something I took time to wonder about. They were there and I loved them. Nothing else really mattered. Somewhere along the line, that changed. It started when, at 17, I read Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings knowing that although it read like fiction, it was actually an autobiography. The character was the author...the author was the character. Suddenly the people who wrote the stories were as real to me as the words they used.
Later (okay...MUCH later), the internet opened doors to discovering more about the word weavers that I learned to admire. I’ll admit to visiting RK Rowling’s website frequently back when my life revolved around Harry’s fate. (Okay, maybe not my entire life, but I did once comment to a friend that it would totally suck if I died before the seventh book was released.) I’m a “fan” of Terry Goodkind’s Myspace and Facebook pages. Every one in a while, I’ll check out Christopher Paolini's website (hoping, hoping, hoping to see some sign that the fourth book is getting closer to being published.) Twitter updates from Kevin J. Anderson let me know what progress is being made on the next Dune book.
Yes, those types of things are nice - but it was Mr. Marco's blog and Facebook updates that I most looked forward to reading. I guess that's because his posts offered a personal connection that fan pages and official websites don't. When he wrote about reading to his son's kindergarten class or mishaps that occurred on a vacation, he became a real person to me.
Then he disappeared.
Gone from Myspace. Gone from Facebook. Even his blog was closed. After a while, curiosity got the best of me and I emailed him. His response was very human. While I will not divulge the details of the correspondence, I can say that his explanation spoke to me not only as a fan - not only as a reader, but also as a person who understands how the demands of life can trump even the deepest longing to write.
So I am sending out a "thank you" to Mr. Marco. I hope to be one of the first to buy his next novel. I'd like for him to know what an impact he has had on me. By sharing a bit of his life with his fans, he helped me see him as human being and not simply a name on a book cover. That was a gift that, in turn, helped me understand that I can be more than I am today. If other authors/humans can work to overcome the challenges before them, I can too! I will not give up searching for those stolen moments that I can use to jot down a thought or two. I will not toss my fictional world aside even when, in exhaustion, I don't think that I'll ever be able to give it the attention it pleads for. Today I am a reader, but if I keep seeking... I might just find that I can be an author too.
I feel that quote with every fiber of my being, and yet, writing comes last. I know, I know...it's suppose to be this overwhelming force that leaves me unable to eat, sleep or do anything else until I create. The need to record my story should supersede any and every desire that dares to distract me from the singular purpose of composing ...ummm...excuse me a moment.
.
.
.
Anna was hungry. Now, what was I saying? Oh, forget it. Writing comes last. It doesn't matter that in rare moments of still, the story calls to me, begging to be unfurled. Just thinking about my fictional island brightens my soul with purpose. There are times when I find myself wanting to re-read chapters that I haven't even written yet. My characters are friends that I long to visit.
They will wait. They have waited this long already.
I guess that means that I'm not really a writer. Heck, I can't even seem to give a few lines to this blog as often as I would like.
What I am (beside mom, home management connoisseur, cook/nutritionist, laundress, maid, finance director, transportation specialist, keeper of electronic gaming devices, homework motivator, psychologist, referee, teacher, judge, jurist, enforcer of law, mind reader, Anna chair, first aid dispenser...yeah, I know that everything after "mom" is redundant but it's my blog so I can yammer on if I wanna) is a reader.
Books are my escape, my sanctuary, my portal to new worlds. Stories feed me. Unfortunately life doesn't always leave me time for decent meals, so there are long spells when I have to make do with grazing. When I take the kids to a fast food place, I devour every silly word printed on their happy meal boxes/bags. Standing in line at the grocery store, I'll scan headline after headline on the magazines on display...until I literally feel my IQ falling and then I'll tear my eyes away from that and start reading the ingredient list on the items in my cart. And then there is the internet...or as I like to call it...paradise. From email to news articles to discussion boards to social networks to blogs, the internet is a never ending smorgasbord of awesomeness.
It was here on the world wide web that I was first introduced to Mr. John Marco - on Myspace to be exact. Any female with a Myspace account knows that there are three types of "friend requests" there.
First there is the "let's keep in touch here too" kind. Those are from people you know.
Next there is the "Musician" request. Those are from people who want you to hear how amazing they supposedly sound. Sometimes they are worth checking out. Sometimes you wish you hadn't bothered.
Then there is the "Girl collector" request. Those are from pigs posing as men. Luckily, they are pretty easy to spot.
The friend request from Mr. Marco didn’t quite fit into any of those categories. You see, he is an author. I had not read his books, nor had I even heard his name before that day, but suddenly I was intrigued. An author made a request to ME? I had to find out more. Wiki told me that he had two sci/fi - fantasy trilogies in print (he has since had a young adult novel published as well.) Various reviews let me know that the books were worth checking out. I did and before I was halfway through the first of his novels, I was a fan. I was also a little star struck.
There is something quite wonderful about being able to speak to a favorite author. That isn't something I ever thought of doing when I was younger. Back then, I didn't think much about the people who wrote the stories that I enjoyed so much. Authors were simply names that had to be listed on book reports for English class. How the sentences came to be on the pages wasn't something I took time to wonder about. They were there and I loved them. Nothing else really mattered. Somewhere along the line, that changed. It started when, at 17, I read Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings knowing that although it read like fiction, it was actually an autobiography. The character was the author...the author was the character. Suddenly the people who wrote the stories were as real to me as the words they used.
Later (okay...MUCH later), the internet opened doors to discovering more about the word weavers that I learned to admire. I’ll admit to visiting RK Rowling’s website frequently back when my life revolved around Harry’s fate. (Okay, maybe not my entire life, but I did once comment to a friend that it would totally suck if I died before the seventh book was released.) I’m a “fan” of Terry Goodkind’s Myspace and Facebook pages. Every one in a while, I’ll check out Christopher Paolini's website (hoping, hoping, hoping to see some sign that the fourth book is getting closer to being published.) Twitter updates from Kevin J. Anderson let me know what progress is being made on the next Dune book.
Yes, those types of things are nice - but it was Mr. Marco's blog and Facebook updates that I most looked forward to reading. I guess that's because his posts offered a personal connection that fan pages and official websites don't. When he wrote about reading to his son's kindergarten class or mishaps that occurred on a vacation, he became a real person to me.
Then he disappeared.
Gone from Myspace. Gone from Facebook. Even his blog was closed. After a while, curiosity got the best of me and I emailed him. His response was very human. While I will not divulge the details of the correspondence, I can say that his explanation spoke to me not only as a fan - not only as a reader, but also as a person who understands how the demands of life can trump even the deepest longing to write.
So I am sending out a "thank you" to Mr. Marco. I hope to be one of the first to buy his next novel. I'd like for him to know what an impact he has had on me. By sharing a bit of his life with his fans, he helped me see him as human being and not simply a name on a book cover. That was a gift that, in turn, helped me understand that I can be more than I am today. If other authors/humans can work to overcome the challenges before them, I can too! I will not give up searching for those stolen moments that I can use to jot down a thought or two. I will not toss my fictional world aside even when, in exhaustion, I don't think that I'll ever be able to give it the attention it pleads for. Today I am a reader, but if I keep seeking... I might just find that I can be an author too.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Lake Woes
Thanks to a week long string of storms, we hadn't dared to make any family plans for Independence Day. On the morning of the 4th, however, the sun broke through the clouds - tempting us to enjoy the great outdoors while we could. I had just brewed a fresh cup of green tea when hubby walked in and suggested that we all go for a ride in the boat. I took a sip of my tea and glanced out of the window to judge the gathering clouds. Were we going to be treated to yet another afternoon soaker? Probably, but why let that stop us! I found myself suddenly willing to chance the rain. So what if we got wet. We were going to be in the water anyway! I drained the rest of my tea and then sent the kids to put on their swimsuits while I packed towels, sunscreen, a book and my camera. I had this crazy idea that I'd take a few pictures of the beautiful swampland and then sit back to enjoy my book while the kids swam with hubby.
This was our very first boat outing as a family, so you'll have to forgive me for being so naive.
Trying to fit the entire family in the boat didn't look like much of a challenge to me. Sure I'm fanatical about seat belts and car seats in the van, but this was a boat! Don't ask me why that made a difference to me. My thought process isn't very consistent. My husband, OTOH is much more logical. He knew that his cousin was going along to the same area which meant that we could split the kids between the two boats. We all found our places and put on our life-jackets as my husband carefully steered the boat into the canal. When I sat down, I discovered a slight problem with my life-jacket. It didn't fit. Sitting down pushed it up over my face. Then there was the fact that I could slip the whole thing right over my head altogether. My husband rolled his eyes as I pointed out that if it came off that easily while I was sitting down, it wouldn't do much good if I was knocked unconscious after being thrown from the boat. I wasn't going to be thrown out of the boat he insisted. My oldest daughter, who stands several inches taller than me, swapped her jacket for mine and we both got a better fit.
Impatient to get going, hubby started roaring down the canal as soon as I finished zipping the jacket. Actually, the increased speed might have begun even BEFORE I finished getting the jacket situated. Startled, I threw my arms around my baby girl and braced myself for the ride. That's when I discovered that holding a child on my lap in a boat meant having my face assaulted by thousands of tiny, needle like whips. Who knew that hair could be classified as a dangerous weapon?
Okay, you can stop calling me a wimp now. I didn't cry or anything. It was just an unusual sensation. Really. Stop laughing at me or else I'm going to have to start writing bi
rth stories. You don't want that do you? I didn't think so.
Hair whips aside, the ride down the canal was kinda wonderful. Clusters of elephant ear plants lined the banks. Every now and again I'd spy an ancient cypress tree dripping with Spanish moss. There was a wooden cabin just down a side canal that caught my attention. I would have loved to take pics of all of those things, but getting the camera out as we zoomed along doing 70 mph just wasn't happening. Finally, right before the canal opened up into the lake, I managed to get hubby to slow down enough for me to take a picture of the striking water lilies. I didn't, however, manage to get him to take the time to pull closer to the lilies, so unfortunately it isn't a very GOOD picture.
We sped off again and hit the lake itself. That's when the fun really began. As we bounced from wave to wave, our oldest daughter squealed in delight and our youngest daughter slid down to the floor gripping my legs as tightly as she could. Me? Well, while I was jolted up and down in my seat, I reflected heavily on my last cup of green tea. Drinking it probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. In fact, avoiding all liquids for at least two days before attempting the trip would have been surely been a much better option.
After an eternity of rough riding (it lasted at LEAST five minutes!) we arrived at our destination. The boats were tied up and everyone got into the water. Almost everyone. Anna (the youngest) wasn't quite ready to venture in, so I stayed in the boat with her while she built up her courage. After a bit, I realized that it wasn't fear of the water that was holding her back. Her little face showed a discomfort that I easily understood. She had to pee. I knew the feeling. Hubby overheard us discussing our mutual problem and told us to just go in the water.
Umm...okay.
Right.
I could do that.
Maybe not.
Nope.
It wasn't going to happen.
Anna insisted that she couldn't either, but at least she was able to put her discomfort aside and begin to enjoy the water. I smiled and tried really hard to not think about the return trip across the lake. Eventually, I didn't have to worry not think about it anymore because it was happening. No, I don't mean that I was peeing in the lake...I mean that I was being bounced to death in the boat again. I'm pretty sure that at one point, my heart and stomach swapped places. What didn't move, thankfully, was my bladder. It kept it's size, shape and location all the way home thank you very much.
Later, just before bedtime, Anna made a small confession. She motioned me closer and whispered "Guess what? I pee'd a little bit on daddy when he held me in the water."
Ah, the unabashed joys of youth.
This was our very first boat outing as a family, so you'll have to forgive me for being so naive.
Trying to fit the entire family in the boat didn't look like much of a challenge to me. Sure I'm fanatical about seat belts and car seats in the van, but this was a boat! Don't ask me why that made a difference to me. My thought process isn't very consistent. My husband, OTOH is much more logical. He knew that his cousin was going along to the same area which meant that we could split the kids between the two boats. We all found our places and put on our life-jackets as my husband carefully steered the boat into the canal. When I sat down, I discovered a slight problem with my life-jacket. It didn't fit. Sitting down pushed it up over my face. Then there was the fact that I could slip the whole thing right over my head altogether. My husband rolled his eyes as I pointed out that if it came off that easily while I was sitting down, it wouldn't do much good if I was knocked unconscious after being thrown from the boat. I wasn't going to be thrown out of the boat he insisted. My oldest daughter, who stands several inches taller than me, swapped her jacket for mine and we both got a better fit.
Impatient to get going, hubby started roaring down the canal as soon as I finished zipping the jacket. Actually, the increased speed might have begun even BEFORE I finished getting the jacket situated. Startled, I threw my arms around my baby girl and braced myself for the ride. That's when I discovered that holding a child on my lap in a boat meant having my face assaulted by thousands of tiny, needle like whips. Who knew that hair could be classified as a dangerous weapon?
Okay, you can stop calling me a wimp now. I didn't cry or anything. It was just an unusual sensation. Really. Stop laughing at me or else I'm going to have to start writing bi
rth stories. You don't want that do you? I didn't think so.Hair whips aside, the ride down the canal was kinda wonderful. Clusters of elephant ear plants lined the banks. Every now and again I'd spy an ancient cypress tree dripping with Spanish moss. There was a wooden cabin just down a side canal that caught my attention. I would have loved to take pics of all of those things, but getting the camera out as we zoomed along doing 70 mph just wasn't happening. Finally, right before the canal opened up into the lake, I managed to get hubby to slow down enough for me to take a picture of the striking water lilies. I didn't, however, manage to get him to take the time to pull closer to the lilies, so unfortunately it isn't a very GOOD picture.
We sped off again and hit the lake itself. That's when the fun really began. As we bounced from wave to wave, our oldest daughter squealed in delight and our youngest daughter slid down to the floor gripping my legs as tightly as she could. Me? Well, while I was jolted up and down in my seat, I reflected heavily on my last cup of green tea. Drinking it probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. In fact, avoiding all liquids for at least two days before attempting the trip would have been surely been a much better option.
After an eternity of rough riding (it lasted at LEAST five minutes!) we arrived at our destination. The boats were tied up and everyone got into the water. Almost everyone. Anna (the youngest) wasn't quite ready to venture in, so I stayed in the boat with her while she built up her courage. After a bit, I realized that it wasn't fear of the water that was holding her back. Her little face showed a discomfort that I easily understood. She had to pee. I knew the feeling. Hubby overheard us discussing our mutual problem and told us to just go in the water.
Umm...okay.
Right.
I could do that.
Maybe not.
Nope.
It wasn't going to happen.
Anna insisted that she couldn't either, but at least she was able to put her discomfort aside and begin to enjoy the water. I smiled and tried really hard to not think about the return trip across the lake. Eventually, I didn't have to
Later, just before bedtime, Anna made a small confession. She motioned me closer and whispered "Guess what? I pee'd a little bit on daddy when he held me in the water."
Ah, the unabashed joys of youth.
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