Stream of Consciousness Sunday: Let's Start Writing Again, Shall We?

Five minutes of unedited, stream of consciousness writing hosted by All Things Fadra.

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Yep, I’ve been missing here for over a month. There are two reasons why, but it is mostly because I have not felt the ache to write. That's not exactly true and I will explain later. I used to write every day when I started this blog. The excitement was palpable. I couldn’t wait. Well, that was three and a half years ago.

I know the urge and the words ebb and flow. I’m patiently waiting for them to return in a documented form. The weird thing is, and maybe you do this too, I create posts, or morsels of them, in my head almost constantly almost daily. It actually feels I am writing. Mentally. And here, in my head, the words flow easily.

Yesterday, I Instagram stalked some blogger friends (I do follow them, so it wasn’t that creepy) who were attending Blogher. I have know idea where it is being held, but it looked like they were having a blast. They had cocktails in their hands! And I saw one of my hands down favorite writers/people. Kirsten from TheKirCorner.com. I immediately messaged her and she, of course, immediately got right back.

I told her I am happy because she is having a fabulous time. having fun and being recognized for her work. I also said, “I miss writing.”

She jumped on this comment immediately because she hasn’t been writing as regularly either and she proposed a pact. “Let’s start writing again. At least once a week.” Something like that. I agreed and it made me smile. I don’t know when I will start back but I think it will be after the summer. 

September 1st sounds like a good one, a start date, doesn’t it?

Stream of Consciousness Sunday: Saturday Nights Through the Decades

On Sunday over here, there’s this thing we do. Write for five minutes about whatever you feel like dumping (the good, the bad, or the ugly), but don't edit it before pushing publish. I’d like to give a shout out to my auto-correct today for fixing my misspellings and not replacing them with the usual nonsensical stuff.

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Boy have my Saturday nights changed over the last quarter century. 

We first stayed in on Saturday nights because or kids were little and, frankly, we didn’t have the money for either a babysitter or TGI Fridays. We added ground beef to Ragu, poured it over spaghetti, made some toast, and called it dinner. They loved it! Maybe at ten o’clock when the kids were finally down, we’d have a bottle of beer. Some of the best Saturday nights of our marriage were spent like this.

When we couldn’t get our kids to stop growing so fast, so we rode the roller coaster of activities. Saturday night meals were often rotating drive-thru fast food, or whatever snacks I had in the back of the Suburban. We were a family on the run. Some of our best family memories were during this whir.

Then high school hit hard and our Saturday nights were spent organizing driving shifts with other parents. Maybe sneaking in a quick dinner out or a movie then playing “Rock, Paper, Scissors” for who would wait up. Because the curfew sheriff was always awake. Most Saturdays we wished the kids had their driver’s licenses already.

Wow, was ignorance bliss because once they did, Saturday nights meant no chance of rest until the keys were hung back up. And fingers crossed that curfews were made because who feels like playing “Bad Cop” at midnight, though we would if we had to. We were lucky here.

Being an empty nester, Saturday nights feel a little like being a kid in a candy store. Though whhat we secretly longed for was a text to know how you were. (I’m just being nice. We don’t worry about it all that much.) Wanting to know you are safe.

But still, ironically, the very best Saturday night feeling in the world may be having your kid tucked safely under the covers of their own bed and relishing in the chance to walk past their door, again, with the opportunity to peek in. 

That was my Saturday night last night.

Stream of Consciousness Sunday- Are Poems a Better Cure Than Wine?

Yes, it is Sunday and I didn't even need to check the calendar. I can always tell because I hear the [thwack] of the big paper as it hits the door. Time again for Stream of Consciousness Sunday. The rules are simple! Set a timer for five minutes, write (but don't edit), publish, and link up here. This is what I have to say today even though I really wanted to say something completely different to begin with...

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I could spend these next five minutes wallowing or ranting. I want to. It would be super easy too. It has been the kind of weekend that’s filled with nothing but worsening news. Horrible.

And my sleeping buddy is out of town. And I wanted to relish it in solitude. And planned to eat a million things, and everything, bad for me. 

My covers. 

My remote. 

My ice cream.

Instead I am not sleeping well, fielding disturbing text messages, and never made it to the store to buy the bad stuff. It is after noon; I could turn to wine.

But I have this collection of poetry next to me. It is the first time I have ever read one. It somehow makes me feel lighter just holding it. Is it magic?

It is so lovely. My heart seems in a constant state of pitter-pattering flutter as my eyes sip the words. It is like a feast of fine chocolate. A word buffet. Of too many good things. And my spirits is soaring.

I am usually a very impulsive person. If I love something, I devour it. But I am using every ounce of restraint I have to eat this up slooooowly. Savor. Taste. 

Read each poem. 

Go back. 

Take more in. 

Feel it.

More.

If it weren’t for this book, these poems, I don’t know what I would have done this weekend. There isn’t any wine in the house. I didn't get to the store.

Which works better for you? Wine or poems?

Stream of Consciousness Sunday: Do You Tell Fellow Writers About Typos?

How does Sunday come around so quickly? Here I am, again, writing stream of consciousness style and linking it up over at Fadra’s place. 

The rules are simple:

Write for five minutes.

Don’t edit.

Publish.

Here goes…

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I wish I could simply butt the heck out. Usually I am so, so, so good at it. Friday, I was not, and I am feeling a bit self-conscious. Maybe uneasy or uncomfortable are better words.

You see, I informed someone, a fellow blogger and acquaintance, of a typo in a post. I thought said writer would probably want to know because maybe the piece was written for something important. Or maybe not even important. Just because. And not to be a pill or anything. As much as I would want to know, I thought this person would want to know.

I even think I have had a writing/blogging conversation with this person, and we agreed that sometimes we can’t see a typo/mistake even though we have read something over and over and over. And sometimes we don’t have the time. Or sometimes maybe we don’t even care. But I do care. I know this person cares.

Oh well. What’s done is done. I can’t take my words back though I hope it was accepted in the spirit in which it was given. I only wanted to help. 

Because I thought you might want to know. 

Because I would want to know.

Kid-less Easter Mornings

Five minutes, unedited on Easter Evening all thanks to time and Fadra.

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Last night we "Rock, Paper, Scissor"-ed for early morning as soon as the sun rises dog duty. Two out of three. Can someone be horrible at "Rock, Paper, Scissors"?

I left the comfort of my warm and cozy feathertop bed, clad in jammies, and a coat to cover them up, to take the dog out bright and early this Easter morning (I hate "Rock, Paper, Scissors").

The temperature was mild. It was quiet. I felt happy.

The brief bit of unanticipated solitude, walking by the river, and with the skyscrapers reflecting the rising sun, got me to thinking. I miss crazy Easter mornings with the kids. I miss waking up early to  hide eggs, setting out the baskets with plastic green grass filled with candy, Legos, and Beanie Babies, and half eating carrots left for the Easter Bunny. I miss frilly outfits, boy shorts and dress shoes. I miss them at home.

When I got back inside (before 6:50 am), I hung my coat on its hook, peeled off my pajama pants, and got back into the same warm and cozy bed I so recently left. Snuggling up to my husband since we had plenty of time before church, I remembered that even though I miss my little kids, I really like Easter morning just the two of us too!

Sunday Stream of Consciousness: Jet Lagged...Still...

I was going to write one thing this morning because it has been weighing heavily on my mind, but it is too big of a "thing" (aka a rant) for a five minute Sunday stream of consciousness entry. So you get to hear about something else (aka potentially mundane). Yay, you!

So here are the rules set forth by All Things Fadra. Write for five minutes. Don't edit, fix, tweak or touch the words once down. Press publish.

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I have been gonezo, out of the country, halfway around the world on a cross country tour of Nepal with a dear friend (here's a shout out to you Air!), leaving my family behind, high and dry if you ask them, for 2 weeks. Breaks are good, right?

The time difference between here and Kathmandu is 10 3/4 hours (ahead). Have you ever heard of such a thing? Not 10 hours. Not 11 hours. Not even on the half hour. 10 3/4 hours. Whose idea was that? Maybe, I think, Iceland has a wacky time difference by being on the half. I don't know, but, come on Kathmandu. Try calculating this on the fly to figure out a suitable "FaceTime" time or texting time. Actually, because it was morning for me and night for them, there were advantages. I got to quickly participate in a few daddy/daughter date nights (my hubby likes to be occupied). And when it was tucking myself into bed time, they were well into their work days, and 'twas the perfect time tochat. It really turned out well because I would have my day of fun without the worry or, Yikes!, the disruption of daily home life creeping in. The only hitch was my college age son (as always?)who wasn't exactly with the program texting a few times during the night. Gave him a virtual smack upside the head!

Anyway, I haven't strung together more than two or three hours of sleep, particularly during the night, since I arrived home on Wednesday evening. My face falling onto my dinner plate. Yawning all evening while out with friends last night. It's been hard to concentrate. Hard to be productive, even unpack. Hard to do anything. Poor me, right?

This morning, right now, is the first time I don't feel completely inhuman (although I am tired of getting up before 6am everyday). I never knew jet lag could be so...so...debilitating! AHHHHHHH, but it was worth it!

SOC Sunday: A Winter Storm Seen from the Sky

I live in a condominium on the twelfth floor of a high rise building. The entire front and most of one side is floor to ceiling windows. We face South, mostly, though the windows afford us a large slice of East as far as the horizon allows, and the West until the skyscrapers disappear as the Chicago River veers.

We are under a full-fledged weather warning.

Whisper fine flakes of snow are swirling in the strong wind, beating into our windows. I can hear their wet pelting sound hit the glass. A bus drives below on LSD. Snow adding four inches to its height. A usually congested thoroughfare on any other day, the only cars on the road now are brave souls. It is probably a skating rink out there.

This is the first winter storm "event" I have witnessed so far this winter. Maybe we will get 14 inches, or 5, but it is pretty watching it develop down below, from above. It's a prospective I haven't had before. One hundred and forty some odd feet in the air.

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Five minutes, unedited, push publish.

Allthingsfadra.com  hosts the place to link up our stream of consciousness writing on Sundays. If I could, I would write this way everyday. I should. Just do it.

Stream of Consciousness Using Only Thumbs!

Have you ever loved something that you became slightly more than a little devastated when it went away? Me too! That's why I am so thrilled Fadra reconstituted Stream of Consciousness Sunday. And even though my computer is still fried (still because I haven't taken it in, still because I am nervous that it is irreparable and will cost me bunches), I am typing my thoughts, yet again, on my phone. You get a few less words, by the way, committed to screen using merely your thumbs even though mine are quick thumbs. The upside is auto-correct in equal measure to the downsides from the same feature. Who knows what this will actual say because one of the rules is unedited. I won't go back and check!

I don't have much to say today, at least nothing terribly important. I feel light-hearted though, and that is always a sweet way to spend the day, especially one with nothing terribly important to do.

I'm digging the heck out of two books I'm reading. Shall I share? Yes, I will. Department of Speculation by Jenny Offill. I'm about halfway through and She's just nailing what if feels like as a mother, and wife, of a small child. The story is told in (usually) related and clever snippets. Different! The other is The Woman Destroyed by Simone de Beauvoir. I am just in the first, of three stories, but it but it is intense.

How are you spending your day? Is it snowing by you? It is here. Nasty day but there is a plentitude is pages to read, movies to watch, and a full DVR. I like days like this. Do you? When there is no real pressure to do anything.

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Five minutes, thumbs only, unedited.

Fadra! Thank you for bringing back one of my favorite things to to on a Sunday! Visit allthingsfadra.com and participate so we can read what you're pondering on a Sunday even if it's not much of anything at all! Like me.

How Do You Feel About The Phrase "It Is What It Is"?

This saying causes me to cringe akin to pointy fingernails dragging ever so slowly across a chalkboard. Maybe that's a little bit melodramatic. It drives me nuts though, and I bring it up because I heard it said several times this last week. How do you feel about it? 

Without commenting on the fact that it's meaningless and redundant, nothing good seems to precede its use. Like, “I just cleaned the house for you. It is what it is.” Or, “I bought you that book you were drooling over. It is what it is.” Or, “We’re going on a date tonight. It is what it is.”

It doesn’t work that way. It is always something more disappointing in the realm of, “The dog keeps eating your socks then throws them up on the rug every morning. It is what it is.” Or, “Your parents can’t come (to whatever). It is what it is.” Or, “I’m sorry you didn’t get the job/promotion/anything you really wanted. It is what it is.” 

Today, conversing with my better/kinder/nicer half during a several hour long drive, I asked, "Why do people say this?" His response surprised me, because he consistently approaches matters from a glass-half-full prospective. Though it concisely explained how I feel about it. 

“Bill Murray recently said when people use the phrase consider it synonymous with 'you’re screwed,'” he said. This made me laugh.

Now, I don’t know if my husband’s reply was a “butt fact” (butt fact =  saying something with authority, so it sounds believable, but it is most probably made up, and not based in any sort of fact). I didn’t have the energy to  “google” it either. It sounds about right though.

There is definitely a negative connotation to “It is what it is.” It basically means suck it up ‘cause it is probably not changing. You can't improve the situation. It is usually less than good news. 

It’s the inherent hopelessness it seems to convey, at least to me. Residing to a fact. It just doesn't feel happy. Maybe that’s what I don’t like about it. 

Maybe my lamenting is over the top. It's Sunday; my day to write off the tip of my tongue.

I say, "It just is."

It spares me the shivers.

Stream of Consiousness Sunday: Between a Rock and a Hard Place

I am always thrilled to participate in Jana's Sunday Stream of Consciousness. Who doesn't like a five minute brain dump that you don't have to edit? Today I will call it my five minute rant.

I detest feeling frustrated. And I equally detest feeling annoyed. But the feeling I detest even more, whipping both frustration and annoyance into the frothiest mixture of icky feelings, is one in which I feel between a rock and a hard place. It's that dreadful place where you have no choice, or feel as if you don't, because if you exercised your right to make that choice, a certain choice, you would be "the bad guy". Or deemed unreasonable or a bitch or probably even other worse things. 

You are asked if something is okay with you; works for you. Do you mind if...?

And the answer is "no"; it's not really okay. It doesn't work for me; I do mind.

But you feel you can't say "no". And you have to do it. Then act like you don't mind if it goes down at all.

You can express how uncomfortable it is for you fully understanding it's going to happen anyway. Because you have no choice but to say "yes". 

So you try to put some boundaries on it to make it seem better. And you throw out a "I know other people who would feel the same as me" for good measure. You feel like a heel for even feeling this way at all. And you feel like some sort of brat. But you can't help it because it's just how you feel. 

This is how I feel at this very minute. And I detest it.

Ever felt this way?

www.janasthinkingplace.com

Stream of Consciousness Sunday: I Want the View!

I had no idea until five minutes ago that I would be participating in Jana’s Sunday Stream of Consciousness (five minutes of writing, unedited, published wherever the heck you want). And this is her optional prompt:

What have you fallen out of the habit of doing (or not doing)?

This is an easy one. Unfortunately.

I have fallen off the “writing” wagon.

It happened somewhere around February, I think. I have reasons. Several of them. Some will say one of them is lame. It probably is and I’m sorry about that but I can’t help it. 

I’m lacking motivation, maybe inspiration, possibly desire. Not sure yet.

I understand that writing takes practice and I’m out of practice and each day this continues my desire wanes. Almost to the point that I’m no longer caring.

Who am I kidding? Words have been elusive.

I am also trying to wean myself too. From the computer. From a chair in a study that faces in the complete opposite direction as a window with a lovely view.

I want the view!

I want to say “yes” every time someone I like asks me to spend time with them. I want to pick up every time my cell phone rings (okay, I will continue to screen my calls but I will be more available because only friends have that number) and talk to the person on the other end that was thinking of me enough to call. I want to call the person that I was just about to text (I’ve actually been doing this much more in the last few months.) I want to be present in moments without thinking first that those moments might make great stories to write about the following day.

Maybe I just don’t manage my time well enough but…

I want the view!

SOCS: Dealing, My Way (With Anybody and Anything)

Wow! It’s been a long time. My fingers haven’t typed at this keyboard, sitting in my study, in weeks. I have no concrete reason or excuse except to admit I haven’t “felt” like it.

But it is Sunday and Sundays are my second favorite day of the week and in celebration of this fact and to put something down on paper before I bask in the very first day it has felt like Springtime in Chicago, Jana offered up a stream of consciousness (five minutes to type then immediately press “publish”) prompt of:

Dealing (with anything and anybody)

Oh BOY, has this changed over the years.

I remember being a young, gainfully employed adult, then young mother, and trying to control absolutely everything I came in contact with and I mean EVERYTHING. I thought if I did, I could determine (okay, force) a suitable outcome, which definitely translated into the one I wanted. It worked about 50% of the time (most likely with the same probability as accompanied by my extraordinary measures). The interesting thing about this approach is that I was almost always 100% stressed out. With worry. With pending disappointment.  With exhaustion.

A quick decision maker by nature, and very impulsive, I make mistakes continually throughout any given day. I am the first person to admit I’m incredibly and undeniably imperfect. I feel a certain amount weight lifted being able to acknowledge this.

But thinking about my approach to dealing this morning and being a gazillion years older than that young, naïve mother, I realize that control is almost one of the very last things I desire or need. In fact, I almost hate the feeling I get from forcing something. And who wants something you have to "force" anyway (and there is a difference between making something happen by working for it and using force to produce it especially against another's will, in my opinion).

I find much more peace from sleeping on things (decisions and issues!!!), reducing my expectations of others AND going easier on myself. I am the only person I can control. Maybe not my scattered thoughts so much but how I react or act on them.

I can’t control, nor would I want to, anyone else. Because I never want to make anyone do anything that they don’t want in their own heart.

Be YOU! Let me be ME! If we like each other, YEA!!!

It sounds so hands off but it makes it easier for me to close my eyes at night (who am I kidding; I never sleep anyway).

SOCSunday: Tired. Lazy. Crabby.

Sunday stream of consciousness at Jana’s Thinking Place is going on right at this very minute. There is an optional prompt of which I am opting out. It has taken me hours just to walk from the family room to the computer and type for five minutes.

The rules are five minutes, leave it alone, push publish. Here goes:

Not only am I having a “fat” day (hate this feeling), I am extremely tired, incredibly lazy and quite possibly intensely crabby (you know what you know….). I don’t intend to ask anyone for confirmation on any of those adjectives particularly with regard to my mood, but no one’s really talking to me anyway as of yet. It is 1:30. Do you think I did something or am I giving off the “vibe”?

Last night was P!NK!!!!! It was the most incredible concert experience I’ve ever had the privilege of spectating and I’ve spectated a lot of experiences (spellchecker is hating all over my use of this word. It is a word, isn’t it?). Wow! She draws a very homogenous crowd and it provided for quality people watching which besides seeing P!NK is one of my most favorite things to do.

You’d think standing and dancing for two hours straight burned enough calories (should Google that actually. Must be hundreds, right?) and that I should be able to eat anything I darn well want today.

But there’s nothing worse than feeling chubby, lazy and crabby because in that “perfect storm” the only thing you feel like doing it is eating. Because you shouldn’t be?

Cereal

Peanut Butter on a banana

A donut

Chips and salsa

Chicken tortilla soup

A bowl of salted caramel and chocolate malt ice cream (yes, two scoops)

And now someone just asked me to get out of my sweats. We are going somewhere.

I don't think sooooo.....

It is only 1:45pm.

More lazy, more crabby, more eating to do. 

It's Like Going to a Voluntary Torture Chamber

You know what Sunday means to me...stream of consciousness writing linked up at Jana's Thinking Place. Jana's totally optional prompt this weekend is "It's like going to..."

I will try to explain my current obsession in 5 short minutes, in bursts of unedited writing. So here goes:

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It’s like going to…

A voluntary “torture chamber” and losing your mind for 90 minutes.

It feels like Death Valley in July when it’s really only 105 degrees.

It smells like the most disgusting pair of boy’s gym shoes.

It’s feels like your heart will never stop racing uncontrollably or your head won’t shake the dizzies.

It’s the same no matter where you go or whom you do it with. It will be exactly the same every single time. You know what it’s like and you do it anyway.

It’s like bathing in your own sweat. The kind that runs down your face, past your eyes, into your mouth. Drips off every fingertip. The end of your nose. You want to wipe the sweat. That’s the challenge but if you don’t challenge yourself, you can’t improve.

You think there's no way you’ll wear a little bra and skin-tight shorts like the girl in front of you! But now you will because it makes perfect sense.

It’s like going into fight-or-flight mode and all you can think about is escaping so you push that out of my mind.

“This is simply a fidget.” You say to yourself. “So don’t fidget then.” You answer. Quiet the internal chatter.

Mind over matter, mind over matter, mind over matter.

And eventually the transformation happens.

You start looking forward to class and the chance to reflect alone for 90 minutes.  You want to go! You embrace this new addiction you’ve tried to hate but you can’t hate something that feels so good in it’s completion even though you dread every moment leading up to opening that door.

It’s a love you want to hate but you don’t.

It’s Bikram yoga.

It’s like going into a “torture chamber” that’s never felt so good. When it's over.

Stream of Consciousness Sunday: A Simple Blessing

The optional prompt today for Stream of Consciousness Sunday at Jana's Thinking Place is “Blessings”. The “rules” are to write for five minutes, leave it be and hit publish. My five minutes are inspired by the following quotes from an article I read in the paper this morning.

“Have you experienced that post-reading fog, where time has apparently stopped, or not stopped so much as become irrelevant, hours passing like seconds and eons simultaneously? Does television ever cause you to quite literally, take leave of your senses?”

“Television has gotten very skilled at storytelling, and in that sense has largely caught up with prose fiction, but fiction will always have an advantage: The book in your hands is the product of a single human consciousness; in reading it, you and that other consciousness are joined.”

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Of course I know I am very blessed. I’ve received a multitude of blessings in my life.

Love. Family. Friends. Health.

And this year my health was at the forefront of blessings received. Looking back 7.5 months later, I am extremely blessed to be walking, typing, even feeding myself.

But that’s not what I want to write about today.

I have been truly blessed with the love of reading. It is as intrinsic to my daily life almost as much as eating and sleeping. Without it, I don’t know what I would do; what would stimulate my mind and inspire me; what would take me places I may never go.

Of course, you could say that love and family and friends should be my inspirations. They do inspire me but reading is right there too. It’s my thing. It is, and has been from such an early age, a fundamental part of me. It's what I do. It's how people know me. As a lover of books.

I adore a great “post-reading fog”.

I love feeling “where time apparently stopped, or not stopped so much as become irrelevant,”

And I love being connected to another person through writing. So what if they don’t know I exist or who is reading their words. That matters not to me.

I feel blessed every time I open my eyes, see beautiful things and read words on a page.

I love that it takes me away for moments, hours, and years.

I feel blessed every day that the love of reading was gifted to me.

That's Not Why I'm Here: SOCS

So this stream of consciousness is coming from sunny FLA. Five minutes of writing that is not edited. Just written and posted. As always, I gratefully link up at Jana's place where other like-minded writers do too.

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Florida is not one of my favorites places because I don’t have much in common with the people who live in this part…they're old. Now some of you out there may be thinking, well she’s "old" too. And I will say to you, “NO. I’m not. Age is just a number.” I hope if you ever meet me you think, “Hey, she has a young spirit.”

But that’s not what this is about. This is about why I’m vacationing in a place I wouldn't choose myself. And I'm not Veruca Salt either.

I’m here because three other women are and I was graciously invited. I’m here because I’ve known these women as acquaintances for the last 13 years. I’m here because 3 years, 2 months, 13 days ago, we became bonded unexpectedly and forever because of tragedy.

In the face of a devastating event such as the loss of a 19 year old child who was the same age as one of yours, who was away on his own as a freshman in college like yours, who’s bedroom window was 15 feet away from yours, who’s death was so incomprehensible that you will never, ever be able to explain or make sense of it, there has to be people to pick up the pieces of shattered hearts.

And there are certain times of the year that bring out the “bad”. This is one of those times.

And as two of us listened to a sermon today in which she wanted no part, we understood that at times she feels abandoned by her faith.

And it’s not that we don’t speak of him. That the subject is taboo. It is anything but that. This morning, we had a nice long talk. We learned things about him we didn’t know, she’s never shared. We thought we knew just about everything.

My heart broke again. For her.

I cried but I often do.

And she gave me one of her trademark hugs.

I’m lucky.