a life less ordinary

On the team

2009-10-23T09:07:00.002-04:00

My son is trying out for the school basketball team. He's in the 8th grade, has played basketball for 7 years, off an on, for different leagues. He is nearly 6 feet tall, skinny as a rail, and the kid can play. I know, I'm his mother, but I really wouldn't encourage him as much as I do unless I knew he had skills.

So he made the first round of cuts. And as I waited in the school parking lot for him to come out of the gym, my stomach did flips and I found myself chewing on my nails. But he made it through. One more round of cuts to go.

I think I'm driving him nuts with the "It's okay if you don't make it, honey. We are so proud of you for getting this far," and the "Just try out as though you're already on the team. Be confident," and the "Don't let anything stop you. Just do your best. Don't give up..."

Okay, I KNOW I'm driving him nuts because he did the "Yah, Yah, Mom, I know. You told me a hundred times already."

When I hear myself encourage him to "go for it" and "never give up," I feel a certain sense of hypocricy. DO I believe in him. Oh, absolutely. But I wonder if I "walk the walk," with my own life dreams and passions.

As a writer, I talk the talk. I share tips with other writers, words of encouragement, and I write. But do I believe completely in my own skills? Not always. Not enough.

Where my son sees his competition -- the kid that can dribble like a pro -- and automatically starts to doubt his own abilities as a player, I read an article published by a fellow writer and automatically compare my own writing to theirs -- and in those moments, I don't feel quite good enough to be part of their team.

So the final cuts may be announced today, and if he doesn't make the team, I will be right there encouraging him to keep practicing, try again next year, never give up. And maybe those words will inspire my inner voice (the nasty wench that she is) to be a little easier on me.

Presbyopia? Who knew?

2009-10-20T21:00:00.003-04:00

My husband told me when I turned 40 my eyesight would start to fail. I scoffed at his callous remark, reminding him that I've passed every eye exam over the past 20 years with flying colors. 20/20 baby. Nothing more, nothing less. I had perfect vision.

Hyperopia, or farsightedness, occurs when the light rays that enter the eye do not focus directly on the retina, but in fact, they focus behind it. This is caused when the eyeball is shorter than it should be. People can be affected by hyperopia at any age.

Presbyopia, on the other hand, also causes one to have difficulty reading close up, but it is age-related, and affects people over 40. It is caused by the hardening of the lens inside the eye. The result is the same as hyperopia: poor near vision.

Hyperopia is not inevitable, and it can be treated surgically. Presbyopia is inevitable.

My 40th birthday came and went. 41. 42. Eye exam: perfecto. My husband's theory was obviously inaccurate. I had super-woman eyesight. I am an anomaly. I was convinced that my youthful eyesight -- my 20/20 vision -- would not let me down.

My 43rd birthday. Nothing. Even in the dimmest of lamplights, my ability to read a book before turning in for the night didn't suffer. No spectacles required.

Then, as sudden as heart attack, my eyes betrayed me. It's not even as though there was any warning. I replaced the bulbs in my nightside lamp, bought myself some heavy-duty eyedrops to take care of the obvious strain that was causing my blurred vision, but the hazy pages appeared to me every time I opened a book. And over the course of just a few months, I was shopping for reading glasses. Yes. Me. Reading glasses.

With a knowing smile, my husband helped me select a cute frame and -- because he's so much nicer than I am -- refrained from sharing the "I told you so" that I know was hanging out on the tip of his tongue during the months he watched me deny my fate.

The bright side? I still have my own teeth? Hey, it's something...

Girls just wanna have fun

2009-10-16T10:37:00.000-04:00

Last night I visited two spooky houses. In my entire life I don't recall ever going to a haunted house. I'm a scaredy-cat. I don't watch scary movies and I still have a hard time sleeping in the house alone. My vivid imagination is what does me in. In the dark and quiet house, I hear the sounds of intruders creeping up the stairs and groans from the furnace in the winter keep me up at night wondering when the family of demons will appear in my bedroom doorway. And I never turn my back to the doorway.

But, there I was, feeling my way through the darkness as bloody people with long fangs and bad breath crept up behind me and whispered in my ear.

I was not alone in the darkness. We were a convoy of women. Six of us. We held hands, grabbed onto each other's coats, and made our way through the gore and dripping blood (ok, water) like teenagers. Screeching and giggling at every turn.

It was my first time meeting most of the women, who graciously invited me to tag along on their annual excursion and I had a blast. It was funny and scary and I can't remember the last time I laughed that hard.

As women we wear so many hats - wife, mother, daughter, sister career woman, house cleaner, baker, grocery shoppe-- but no matter where we are in our lives, or how well we even know each other, women connect. Maybe it's because we all want the same thing: to be loved and to be happy. And along the way -- between car pools and staff meetings -- we just want to have some fun.

Going Home

2009-10-15T08:10:00.011-04:00

Just about a month ago, I went home. It had been several years since I visited my hometown of London, Ontario, Canada. More than 10 years ago, with four kids in tow, ranging in age from 2 to 13, we left family and friends behind and headed south. We've lived in the suburbs of Atlanta ever since.

During the past decade we've had plenty of visits from family. Escaping the cold winters of Canada, my mother-in-law enjoyed spending Christmas here with us. My sister has declared Thanksgiving the perfect time to visit Atlanta, as long as she can sneak away from the rigors of her own busy life to come and stay. My mom enjoys Atlanta in the spring. After a long winter, she loves to come and plant my gardens and go for walks through the neighborhood. Everyone comes to me, and I love sharing my life here in the U.S. with them.

I thought I was pretty "caught up" on my family time this year as everyone, except my dad, was here to see my oldest son get married.

Just about a month ago, my mother-in-law passed away suddenly. Before we knew it, we were on our way home.

The lyrics to a well-know Bon Jovi song say:

"Who says you can't go home?
There's only one place that call me one of
their own

Every step I take, I know that I'm not alone
You take the home from the
boy but not the boy from his home
These are my streets, the only life I've
ever known
Who says you can't go home?"

Breakfast with my dad. Sitting outside my mom's new home, watching the world go by. Going dress shopping with my sister, Michelle. Dining out with family at my favorite chicken place, Swiss Chalet. Going to Tim Hortons for the best coffee in the universe.

Just walking through the familiar streets of downtown London, visiting the Garden Market, strolling through the parks, I was overcome with the feeling of home. A feeling that all was right in that moment.

Familarity is a funny thing. I left home all those years ago in search of something new and exciting. And my life is good. But when I was home, surrounded by the sights and sounds of my past, I felt like me. And, like the song says, there is this feeling that you are not alone. That you are in a place where they call you their own. No matter how long you've been gone.

The people who knew me when, they embraced me just as though I had never left. Without hesitation we fell into the familiar rhythm. And the streets. They are mine. They may be a little run down now (aren't we all?), but they hold the memories of my youth. They provided me the path to something new, but always welcome me home.

What I don't know for sure

2009-10-12T21:19:00.006-04:00

I've decided that instead of writing what I know -- which is what we are told we must do -- I should write about what I don't know.

I'm almost certain that what I don't know is far more intriguing than what I do know. For instance, I know that you can fit four kids, one Christmas tree, and a week's worth of groceries into a Ford Taurus station wagon. I know that Spanx were invented by angels. I know that it takes longer to dry my hair than it does to dry a load of towels. I know that you can't shake a steaming thermos of hot chocolate with the cap screwed on tight. I know quite a lot of stuff.

But I don't know how to belly dance or what it's like to be a professional singer. I don't know what it feels like to walk a marathon or build a house (though I'm sure I could do that, with a little more time in at the gym.) I've never climbed a mountain or saved anyone from a burning building. I don't how to rob a bank or what it was like to live on a farm. What would it be like to live my days on the sea or drive a big rig across the countryside? I don't know!

So why, when given the opportunity to create something from nothing, would I write what I know? You know?

Coming up for air

2009-10-04T08:21:00.009-04:00

Like most people, I've been through some changes at my job in the past year. Between the hundreds of layoffs and multiple company re-orgs over the past 11 months, employee morale is in the toilet. Everyone is struggling to stay motivated, with the rumor mill churning out weekly reports of gloom and doom yet to come.

Although I escaped the company cuts (so far), I did fall victim to the effects of the negativity and uncertainty that still permeates the air. It's very easy to get caught up in all of it. The worry about losing your job. Seeing good people walked out of the building, knowing that they have small kids to feed and elderly parents to care for at a time when jobs are scarce. Thankful that it wasn't me.

And I started taking it home with me, which is something I promised I wouldn't do. I filled our home with the negativity of it all. And seemed to matter, seemed so important to gripe and wallow in all of it, until just a few weeks ago when I turned on my cell phone to read "EMERGENCY" - a text from my 23-year old daughter.

My husband and I had just arrived in Michigan, far from our home in the suburbs of Atlanta, when I read the message. When I called her back, I could barely hear her over the pounding rain. She was crying hysterically, but what I heard was, "I lost my car. A wave of water hit my car. I was in it. I thought I was going to die."

When we left that morning, parts of the city and surrounding areas had flooded, but we thought it was over. By evening, when my daughter was driving home from work, the swell of the rivers and the overflow of water due to clogged-up sewers, caused the road she was traveling on to suddenly be overtaken by a wave of water. I still don't know where it came from but within seconds the water was high enough to flood her engine. The door wouldn't open and the windows wouldn't open.

Hearing all the details, after our return, terrified me. Thinking of my child trapped in a car, with water rising, feeling helpless, feeling as though she was going to drown, was too much. Watching her as she told the story, I could see she was reliving it. I could see how scared she must have been.

To make a long story short, she managed to get out. The ignition turned once, enough for her to get the window down and get out. I don't even know how to explain how scared I was, and still am when I think about it, at the idea of her trapped in that car. In the moment that she recounted the horrific events of that evening, I held my breath. The thought of losing her too much to bear.

It's easy to tell that there is a lesson for me in this. My focus has been on the wrong things. I've snapped at those who love me because I had a bad day at work. I know it all sounds very corny and cliche, but you really do have to live in the moment because just when you think that you have it all figured out, that you're coasting along, things change. It's the only thing that's constant. That, and breathing. I'm going to start appreciating both just a little more.

If the pants fit

2009-09-01T06:50:00.004-04:00

You're only as old as you feel.

Getting older is better than the alternative.

With age comes wisdom.

I've read all those age quotes, and have even come across books where the author raves about how great it is to be old. How wonderful it is to be so wise and confident and calm; to be at the point in her life where you don't care what people think and understand fully what life is all about...yada, yada, yada.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for growing old gracefully, and all that. And I do think that the alternative sucks, but am I embracing my age? Loving all the changes that have taken place in and around my body in recent years? Don't think I'm quite there yet.

It's the maintenance. The time and money spent on maintenance, specifically. That's where I'm having some trouble. In my 20s, I never wore makeup. Night cream? Who needed it? I didn't die my hair, or even get it cut more than a few times a year. I could buy clothes just about anywhere, off the rack, without even trying them on. And I didn't need monthly massages to remove the kinks in my neck and stiffness in my lower back. I could eat whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Didn't have to spend hours at the grocery store analyzing the percentage of fiber or calories in the can of pasta sauce I was buying.

A dear friend of mine, after cleaning out her closet, was in need of several new pairs of pants. Pants shopping, for me, is right up there with bra shopping, as I have yet to find a pair that fits where it needs to fit (now that I'm older). So, my friend, who is a beautiful woman in her 50s with the most positive attitude toward life that one can imagine, is loaded down with 17 pairs of pants in the dressing room at JC Penney. After trying most of them on, without any luck -- too tight here, too short through here -- a sales clerk comes by to see how she's doing.

"Having any luck," says the saleswoman.

My friend, "You would think so, seeing as I have 20 pairs here. But, no."

The woman leans a little closer. "Honey, I know. When you get to be our age, it's tough, isn't it?"

My friend glances at the "older" woman, thinking. Our age? Bitch, I dont' think so.

"You know where you oughta look? Over there in that back corner, there's an entire rack of pants that I think will work for you. Comfy, comfy, too."

My friend graciously thanks the woman, wondering how she could have missed an entire rack of pants. As she approaches the back wall, she sees why.

Pull-on pants? Seriously? That woman thought I needed pull on pants?

My friend flips through the rack. They look comfortable, for sure, she thinks. She pulls out a couple pairs -- one black, one navy. She figures she may as well give them a try.

To her surprise, the pants fit perfectly AND the way that they were designed, no one would ever know that she had graduated to pull-on pants.

She showed me them at lunch, smiling as though she had this huge secret. Now, my friend is the epitome of the beautiful southern woman. Class, all the way. And if SHE can wear pull-on pants, and be proud of it, I guess I can get used to some of the inconveniences of growing older.

On a bright note, she did send me a quick note this morning, further convincing me that there truly are SOME benefits to growing old.

"By the way, these Easy Care Pull On Pants are great timesavers when you have to pee!"

Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional.

I've lost a lot of things

2009-08-26T08:38:00.004-04:00

I've lost a lot of things in my life. Keys. Money. Bets. Boyfriends. And in those losses, I did one of two things: replaced the lost item or found a way to accept the loss and move on. Well, recently I've discovered that I've lost my sense of humor. I can't seem to pinpoint the exact moment that I noticed it was missing or where I might have left it, but I'm almost certain it's somewhere in this house. Although, I tend to use my sense of humor much more often when I'm outside the house, so ... Good Lord, it could be anywhere.

My guess is that someone has already scooped it up and taken it home, tried it on, and found that my sense of humor (with its sharp edges and biting sarcasm) was a perfect fit. I love my sense of humor. It has helped me through many awkward moments, and brought light to an otherwise dull Sunday afternoon . Oh, how I miss it. And it's not like I can just go and pick up another sense of humor. It took me years and years to cultivate it, nurture it, and allow it to take risks.

I remember when my sense of humor met its match -- a dry and witty type with impeccable timing and delivery. It took time for them to warm up to each other, but the bantering that ensued after they found their rhythm brought people joy on many a Friday night (especially after a few cocktails). (*Sigh). So now here I am, humorless, finding the days longer and the evenings a little darker.

So be on the alert, people. If you're talking to someone and they fire off a witty comeback or laugh a little too easily at a not-so-funy joke, they may be wearing my sense of humor. You'll know my sense of humor, if you see it. It's clever, quick, and sometimes a little crass. If you find it, please call me right away. I'm having the entire family over for dinner next week, and my sense of humor has always been an important guest at these family events. I'm certain that she would not want to miss it.

Safely letting go

2009-08-21T06:53:00.008-04:00

My third child just got his driver's license. Three of my children are now completely in control of their own destiny on the mean streets of Atlanta (or Lawrenceville, Buford..).

When my oldest son got behind the wheel for his first solo ride, I was proud and frightened. As I imagine all mothers are, in that moment. And every day I would say to him on his way out the door, "Drive safe." And he would roll his eyes and grumble something like "Yah, yah... I always am." 'Cause you know they know everything about driving when they are 17, right? I was persistent, however. I reminded him every day. Even the day that he over-corrected and went off the road, taking down a telephone pole, on his way to work.

Thankfully, he was not seriously hurt, and I'm sure he learn something from the experience. I know I did.

With our son, Nick -- the newest of drivers in the family -- we discovered a program that I highly recommend for parents called Fear this 4 Life. Nick was not thrilled to be spending an entire Saturday (with his father) learning defensive driving skills, but he knew it was important to us.

When he got home from his day of training he couldn't stop talking about it. And when he got in the car the next day, he was more confident in his ability to maneuver the road.

I am a worrier. Always have been; always will be. But all we can do, as parents, is provide the tools they need to make it on their own. I don't let go easily, I'll tell you that. But I'm learning. I guess I don't have a choice, do I? If only the doctors would have provided me with this information - about how these tiny bundles would one day want to ride bikes in the street and drive vehicles without you by their side --I may have been better equipped (and by equipped, I mean a fully-stocked supply of Xanax.)

Now I've gone and done it

2009-08-19T08:31:00.004-04:00

I did something yesterday that I swore that I would never do "in a million years." I joined a gym. Signed paperwork and the whole bit. I'm a full-fledged member now. Well, for this month, I am. As this is my first gym experience (ever!), I felt compelled to choose a facility that offered an easy "out" should the entire fitness idea take a turn for the worst.

But don't get me wrong: I'm committed. I want to do this. I want to get fit. I want to create this new routine and I desperately want to love it.

So the motivation? Obviously, there's the idea that I'm not getting any younger. My body is seizing up on me. My neck is stiff. My feet even hurt (and I have a desk job!) And just last week, when I was doing jumping jacks my ass slapped me in the back. Yea, might need a little lift there. So, getting fit for me has a lot to do with tightening and toning. And being able to show off a leaner, meaner me to a dear friend of mine who just a few weeks ago called me "doughy" in an endearing sort of way (??).

So I have the membership. I have good sneakers. I have gym shorts (not too short as I intend on doing a lot of leg presses), and I have a sports bra (might need another?). I think I'm all set. And I'll hold off on buying cute gym clothes (as another dear friend predicted I might do), until after the first month. I'd like to think that the cute gym clothes will be the prize for toning my thighs to a point where they aren't kissing each other as I walk the length of the fitness center. I gotta have a goal ...I'm good with setting expectations and meeting deadlines, so here we go... I'm ready for the new me.

Let me explain ...

2009-08-13T07:38:00.009-04:00

Yesterday someone pointed out to me that I tend to over- explain things. Now, I'm not sure if she was providing constructive criticism in hopes that I might learn to "get to the point" in future discussions, but I do know this: She was irritated by me. I don't like to irritate people!

Ok, so I can talk. I won't deny that. And I can go off in tangents while chatting with friends over a glass or wine, but I didn't realize that my verbal skills needed such polishing. That I was one of THOSE people. You know the ones. Those people who just go on and on and never get to the point. Those people that I loathe talking to because they "over-explain" things, and life is just too short to wait for them to get to the punchline.

So, you can understand that it came as a great surprise to me that I was in the company of THOSE people. And honestly, I'm wasn't sure how to move forward, past that comment. I was initially offended -- ok, really offended -- and didn't take it well. Apparantly I don't take criticisim well, either. It got me thinking, which is a dangerous thing. (Am I over-explaining this?) And in thinking about that comment, I was able to pull up several other qualities about myself that I didn't care for too much: I don't exercise enough, I don't volunteer anywhere, I am impatient with people ... Oh, and now, add to the list, I tend to wallow in self-pity!

The point of my story? Yes, I'm getting there. I really "over-reacted" to the "over-explaining" comment. In life there are people who will say things to you that will hurt. It's likely, even, that what they are saying is the absolute truth, and it may even help you in some way in your life, but the question will always be "Did they really have to say it?"

It's so much easier for us to point out negative things about others. Even if we don't actually tell them directly, we're all guilty of pointing out the fatal flaws in our family, friends, and even strangers walking through the airport wearing blue panties under their white pants (ok, yes, someone should tell her).

So, even though I may pull a Tennessee Williams from time-to-time, I can be somewhat entertaining to talk to. And for those of you who couldn't bring yourself to tell me that I tend to "over-explain" (and I love you for it) -- we'll talk...

If I should die, let it be AFTER I get the beach house

2009-08-09T21:28:00.015-04:00

When we were kids, we were taught to recite the bedtime prayer, "Now I lay me down to sleep," every night before we went to sleep." For those who don't know the words:

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake,I pray the Lord my soul to take."

I never told my mother, but that prayer really scared the shit out of me. I would lay there at night thinking, "Did I have to say that prayer because there was likelihood that I was going to suffocate in my sleep?" Then I would contemplate the whole idea behind breathing, questioning how it was that your body would continue to breathe when you were unconscious. And then I would start to believe that it was all a 50/50 chance -- to breathe or not to breathe, once sleep overtook you.

That damn prayer kept me up long hours, just breathing. Keeping one eye open - inhaling, exhaling -- so that my soul wouldn't be sucked out of my body before I got my first training bra.

Thankfully, my soul is still intact. And even though I'm not reciting that prayer at night, I do keep a list of things I'd like to accomplish (you know... before the big day) in my life. And every year around this time I review the list, adding new things and removing things that have lost their zing. Skydiving, for example, was removed last year. At one time -- probably after a few too many Merlots -- I thought the idea of jumping out of an airplane sounded exhilarating. And for many, it probably is. After reviewing the pros and cons, I decided that I would rather not hurl through the sky at mach speed hoping that a big, colorful balloon will float me safely to the ground without getting twisted around me because of a sudden shift in air pressure caused by a fluke storm brewing in Alabama. Sorry. I'll keep my feet planted firmly on the ground, for now.

So, the list. Well, after reviewing my 2008-2009 accomplishments, I was a little disappointed. I could only check off two: Sports car. Nude beach. At this rate, assuming I don't add one more thing to the list, I will be nearly 70 by the time I'm done and I'm not so sure that I'll be up to climbing a mountain at that age so I better get that one out of the way soon.

Things that were not "checked" included things like:

Join a gym (or make peace with my thighs)
Learn how to back into a parking space
Take guitar lessons
Finish first draft of novel
Do something for the greater good...

I think I'm going to have to step it up a little. After all, my soul is on the line here and time if of the essence.

44 is not the new 25

2009-08-05T07:08:00.008-04:00

So it's my birthday in a few days. I'll be 44. That's dangerously close to 45, which is halfway to 50, which is two times 25...which is the birthday I remember most.

I was working in the same office as my husband when I celebrated my 25th birthday. We weren't married -- we were, however, in that delightful stage where everything the other person does is incredible. The air between us was electric-- so much so that many of our co-workers steered clear whenever the two of us were near the microwave in the break room.

Flirting and laughing at each other's dumb jokes. Long lunches at the park. Talking. Listening. Staring at each other. You know, the usual stuff that couples do before they got married...

Anyhow...so on my 25th birthday, I arrived at the office to find a huge banner posted on the window "Welcome to the Quarter-Century Club, Gwen!" Now, I know that doesn't even remotely romantic but for some odd reason I just thought it was the most amazing thing. (I was 25, ok, give me a break).

Maybe it was because my handsome courter clearly spent a great deal of time making sure the 2 and the 5 were the same size on the banner; that the colors matched; that the candles on the birthday cake that he drew were aligned just right (if you knew him, you'd get this). Whatever the reason, that 25th birthday present was the icing on the cake (so to speak) for our relationship. Just months later we were engaged.

20 years have passed and although I'm still an active member of the quarter-century club, I'm feeling the pull of the half-century club (of which my banner-making boyfriend turned husband is now a member). I haven't started getting the AARP newsletter yet, but I have to put on reading glasses to read the back of DVDs (new), and my knees need WD40 every other day or I can't make it up the stairs at night, so I'm well on my way.

I know one thing for sure, I'm going to have to hide the art supplies. I'm fairly certain that a "Welcome to the half-century club" banner hanging above my head will not hold the same endearments as it's predecessor.

Technically speaking

2009-07-30T12:45:00.006-04:00

I try to stay up on the latest technologies and newest gadgets. Partly because I want to impress my husband (who is an IT genius), but also because I'm really intrigued by the advancements in modern technology. Ok, I'm not really "intrigued," but I do like to keep up with new STUFF so I sound smarter than I really am.

The Kindle, for example. Great idea. Load in a bunch of books and you can access them anytime, anywhere. What a concept! A slim, lightweight, handheld that takes the place of books like the 720-page The Historian, which cost me $$ in overweight baggage charges.

But, can such an unattractive (cold) device take the place of a novel? Would it feel the same to click and navigate to the next chapter while snuggled in my bed at night? What about the way a book feels in your hands? Will I feel the story come to life without being able to caress the pages one by one?

New books or old, I am a lover of books. I just had an entire wall of my house dedicated to them. Books surround me when I'm at my desk, writing. Writing a book. A book that I hope will end up in the hands of someone who carries it with her from place to place, and then tucks it under her pillow at night after reading just one more chapter.

As much as I'm excited about the portability and features of this cool new device, I'm not completely sold on the experience. Salsa-stained pages and dog-eared corners are more my style I think. Besides, the poor little Kindle would never survive my reading routines. Many a books have met their demise in my whirlpool tub --

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you Tomorrow

2009-07-27T06:20:00.009-04:00

I always thought of myself as a "go for it" kind of person. If I want something bad enough, I've been known to abandon everything (children, my good sense...), to seek it out.

I talk the big talk, "If you want something, you just have to go for it," "Life is short..." "If you don't look out for yourself, who will?"

Recently, however, I've been doing something I really never thought I would do - procrastinating. I still talk big about all of the great plans I have: Lose 10 pounds. Write 1000 words a day. Volunteer. Learn how to play the guitar. Paint the hallway. But I'm spending far more time talking about all these great and wonderous things I am GOING to do.

Don't get me wrong, I don't procrastinate without good reason. When the first seeds of my second novel began to cultivate in my imagination, I couldn't wait to get started. As soon as I had a place to write, I could get to work on my masterpiece. The desk arrived at Christmas.

As soon as my office was painted. Too dreary to write in a room with putty-colored walls. Done (along with colorful artwork and bright red chairs, just in case the dreariness slipped back into the room.)

As soon as there were book shelves to hold all of my books (for inspiration, of course), I could begin. Done.

Spring arrived. Who wants to write when flowers are blooming everywhere?

School's out! Ugh... between working full time and the kids being home, it just wasn't a good time to get started.

All the signs are there. I've procrastinated away almost two years!

My writer friends feel my pain. We talk about it on Facebook, for hours at a time.

"I wish I had more time to write," I say, while uploading a goofy photo from the weekend. And the hours pass.

Procrastination has settled deep in my bones, but I'm determined that tomorrow, tomorrow is the day I will conquer it. Right after I get new lighting for my office. Who can write in that darkness. Bad for your eyes.

Screw this

2009-07-23T07:41:00.006-04:00

I had a dream last night that I was working at a hardware store. I was happily selling nuts and bolts, and the odd two-by-four, to smiling patrons who were already envisioning the parties they would host in their remodeled family room. And the funniest part of the dream was that I was loving every minute of it (even the part where the entire staff came down with swine flu and I was the only one left to hold down the fort...it's a dream, ok, give me a break!)

I know why I had the dream. That's obvious to most people who know me. I'm anxious. I am looking for an existance that includes a stress-free job. And to those who know me (you know who you are), you also know that I would be completely miserable selling screws (the nuts and bolts kind) to contractors and husbands with a honey-do list. And, to those who do that for a living -- I apologize as I am certain there is a ton of stress in dealing with people (like me) 8-hours a day who think they know a nut from a ....well, you get the point. This is not in any way minimizing the stress involved in working at a hardware store.

My point, I suppose, the point of my dream, is that I get bored very easily. And, I have, for a brief moment, contemplated scrapping it all for a job at Home Depot (or Lowe's...as I'm told they are a better company to work for). But, we all know that there are no "stress-free" day jobs, right?

I don't believe my calling is to work at Lowe's (my friend Jane set me straight on that one), but I will always be the kind of person to expect more. Isn't that the whole point of being here? To expect greatness? So I work at a decent "day job" through the week, and in my spare time I do what I love. That's the reality of my journey (for now), until some big publishing house decides to sign me for a 3-book deal, with a huge advance...and the rest will be history.

I'm thinking, in the end, selling hardware may not be the best fit for me. As much as I can relate to the thrill of selecting a new bedroom color--I'm not convinced that I could really care that much if Joe the Plumber finds just the right PVC pipe fitting for his next job.

The joy of the journey is in the ride

2009-07-22T12:41:00.000-04:00

When there were four of us -- my husband, two kids, and myself -- we carted the family from place to place in our four-door sedan. A blue Hyundai Excel hatchback sedan, to be exact. The car seated four people comfortably, was economic (AKA really ugly), and outside of the fact that it felt as though we were dragging an elephant behind us every time we encountered an incline in the road, it was a great family car. Until child number three came along.

With two kids and a new baby, we upgraded to the Mercury Sable station wagon. Now, if you had asked me when I was 15 if I ever thought I would drive a navy blue station wagon, the answer would have been "Hell, no!" I was going to be a rock star, after all, so why in the world would I need a big ass car like that? So, the day I looked out the window and saw the station wagon parked in my driveway I knew my journey had taken a serious detour .

Imagine how we looked, after our fourth child was born, the entire family crammed into that wagon. Three in the front; three in the back. I so wanted a minivan. Yeah, me. I wanted a minivan like most (childless, cool) people wanted a Ferrari. I drove that thing around town, head held high, as if it WAS a Ferrari. Four kids strapped in and still there was room for lawn chairs, coolers, frisbees, a portable crib -- you get the point. I think., look back, that my judgement may have been compromised by sleep deprivation and the lack of social interaction with adults. So the minivan was my dream car?
The van was replaced about 7 years ago, when the kids starting leaving home, with a sportier Honda CRV. I bought it because I loved the truck sound it made when you put it in revers, but the CRV was about to be handed down to my 17-year-old son. I was, finally, stay with me...I was able to choose a car that worked for me, and me alone. I didn't need to wonder if a carseat would fit or if four bikes could be attached safely to the back or if it could haul a pop-up trailer...it was all about me!

Ok, us (I still do have a husband at home, after all). So, I did it. I bought myself a convertible. A Nissan 350z -- it's a two-seater... Count 'em. Two...only two. No back seat. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the journeys we took in the sedan, the station wagon, and the minivan, but somehow I think that that I will find (almost) as much joy in this next phase of my journey.