Project 2,966 - Carrie B. Progen

I saw the post for Project 2,966 and became immediately excited. I knew I must do this. I must. It is my duty to participate. I have, as many do, a kinship to the Big Apple, a love that goes unrequited and deep, a love that never lets me down when I get the opportunity to visit, that has the capacity to bring tears to my eyes when I see my skyline in pictures or movies. I have, as we all do, a personal where-I-was-story about 9/11.

But then, looking down the list of names, I suddenly froze. I cannot do this. I mean, who am I? Who says I have anything to give? What makes me so special that I have the ability or the entitlement to write a memorial for a person, much less a person I do not even know? I cannot do this. I will not do this. Nevermind. Close the door, er, internet window.

Within seconds, I remembered, I am a writer. And if we do not write, people will never know. I am a writer with a blog and that is what is required here. I am a blogger with access to this list of names. I did not stumble on this by mistake. This is the way it is supposed to be. This is not about me. This is about writing.

Writing in and about New York is and always has been important to me. So why not now?

Scrolling the list of names, I did not know how to choose. Do I pick someone old, someone with a long life story? Do I pick someone young, say, just out of college? Do I search for someone named Ivy, maybe we have a bond based solely on the name? Again, doubt filled my body and I did not know how to proceed.
So I closed my eyes. I ran my finger over my mouse and then placed it on the computer screen. I had landed on a name. Someone my age. Someone who, like I wanted to, left home for life in the big city. She was living the life I wanted to be living.

Carrie B. Progen

Carrie was 25 on September 11, 2001. She was an administrative assistant at the Aon Corporation, which was on the 92nd and 98th–105th floors in the South Tower. Along with 175 of her co-workers, Carrie did not survive the attack.

On the train every morning, Carrie drew pictures of her fellow commuters. What I have read expresses that the pictures themselves seemed to give way to the soul of each person, in a way that she could see it. Her boyfriend recalls her calling this time "the moments when New Yorkers were thinking the most.".

Caring and kind, she was a true friend to those who knew her and an amazing aunt. She always had a present for her nephew. She stood up for what she believed in and spoke her mind. She was honest and forthcoming. What she said, she meant. And she meant what she said. She had a style all her own, and it showed in her dress. She didn't care about money or expensive things, just the little things. She lived everyday to the fullest.

She came to New York from Ashburnham, Massachusetts, a town of about 6000 people.

Carrie made the same sacrifice as many that day. She died for our freedom. It was not a choice. She did not choose to take a stand. It just happened that way. Along with every other person who died that day, she deserves to be remembered and honored.

This is Carrie. In addition to the thoughts I always have when I light my candle on September 11, this year, a special thought will go to her and her family.

I found this picture online and thought it showed a great spirit.

(Epic.) Elevator. Explosion.

Seriously. I was eight. And, in all my 34 years of living, I don't think I've ever been witness to anything so dramatic, scary, or mind-boggling...

I present you with the letter E in the ABCs of your home state blogfest.


I love sports, playing them. I like to think I have a natural ability to play. I am not really the kind of person to sit down and watch sports on television. (I do like to go to games, though.) Softball is by far my favorite sport, though it is one I had to practice at. And practice I did. I was always in the yard with my mitt, with my glove, with my bat. I wanted to play. There is something about that sport that I love. And I wanted to play.

In the town I lived in, there were no try outs, if you wanted to play, you played. We were divided by age. Good or bad, everyone had a shot, everyone got to play, no one was always on the bench. That didn't matter to me – I wanted to be good.

I was at softball practice on this day. We were, if I remember right, just starting, so we would have just been throwing the ball back and forth to one another. There was a weird sensation, as if the ground was shaking. I remember looking at the ground, and then the sky. And then to my left. And then I saw it.

The grain elevator across the street exploded.

Literally.

Exploded.

Fire shot out of the top of this cone-shaped building that had always been right across from the ball field. I didn't even know what happened in that building. Someone had to go to the hospital, he had burns all over his body. There were news people there. We were ushered away, back to our homes. Back to the isolated safety of living in a small town.

And that is my memory of the elevator explosion.  Softball practice.  Looking down.  Looking up.  And seeing fire in a place where I knew fire was not supposed to exist.

For this blog, I tried to do a little research on it.  I found myself in circles, asking questions of my dad, of a friend who lives in Nebraska.  Memories are shaky, at best.  I googled all we could collectively think of.  Being a small rural area in the 80s, there isn't a lot in the way of archives.  And no video exists, at least that I can find.  I know one exists, at least that one did exist.  Who knows if it is still alive!

What I did find, though, was a date.  May 15, 1985.  That is when it happened.  I feel strange possessing this information.  I am not sure why.

What I can conclude about this feeling is that I lived in a time and place where there was no time and place.  The only place was where we were.  As children, we had bicycles and free reign.  The place was wide open, it seemed huge at the time, but in reality, the town is less than a half a square mile in area.  We had a swimming pool and ball fields.  We had two parks and a playground at the school.  We knew everyone and everyone knew us.  Time meant very little to us.  There is a town whistle that blew at 7am, 12 noon, and 6pm.  That was how we knew what time to go home.  I didn't even know I was eight when this happened until now. 

So to now, to have a date feels, I don't know, funny.

Small towns, I mean, Villages (part 1)

I say part one because I'm sure there will be more.  Towns under 3000 people make up 89% of Nebraska.  That's a lot.  I am from one.  But, apparently, based on that percentage, so are most other people in Nebraska.  The total population of Nebraska is under two million people.  That isn't a lot.  I currently live in a city with more people than my home state.  That is bizarre, and kind of hard to wrap my head around. 

This week is the letter D in the ABCs of your home state blogfest.  (Why do I hear the announcer-lady on Sesame Street?)

I'm going to focus on two villages in this post.  Davenport and Deshler. 

I remember being taught in elementary school about cities, towns, and villages.  Apparently, most places in Nebraska are actually villages.  A village is smaller than a town, smaller than a small town, yet bigger than a hamlet.  I have always been word girl, and though I do not remember the grade, I do remember the lesson, the feeling of gaining some secret knowledge.  I do not know what made that lesson so special to me, but it has stuck.

I do not know a lot of specifics about these towns villages.  But I have family in both.  I have memories in these places. 

My mom's sister and brother and their families live in Deshler.  When I was growing up, my Aunt had a playground in her backyard.  No lie.  The town village had two playgrounds, and one was literally in her backyard.  There were swings, a slide, and (I think) some monkey bars.  My cousins and I would swing super duper high and then they would yell jump!, and being the tomboy I was, I would jump.  We would swing so high that the swingset would start to jump a little.  It was awesome. 

My uncle had the biggest house I had ever seen.  It seemed that way at the time.  Having been there as an adult, I realize that it reality, it just has a basement that is finished where all us kids could go and play games and watch television while the adults were upstairs.  Most holidays were at his house, probably for this very reason...to keep the kids out of everyone's hair.

Another thing about Deshler: it is where the Thayer County fair is every year. SUPER FUN!  We went all the time, and my uncle's house was only a couple blocks from it!  The park where it was held (the other park in town) is where the pool is, and the twisty slide!  Talk about the best thing ever for a kid!   If I could get side-tracked...that slide was amazing.  We would slide down it on sheets of wax paper to make us go faster.  Big time.

Davenport is where dad's sister and her family live.  It is also in Thayer County.  I am trying to remember if I have ever even been in the village, you know, mainstreet, of Davenport, and I honestly don't think I have.  My aunt and uncle live pretty much on the outer corner of town.  They have goats, chickens, dogs, cats, and other animals.  They have a piano in their basement, and when I was a kid I would go down there and pretend I could play.  They also have a pool table with a topper that is a ping-pong table.  Awesome.


A memory that never fails me is the road sign.  Both destinations are on Route 136, which always facinated me.  Our post office box in the town village I lived in was 136.  As a kid sitting in the backseat, I found this to be an amazing thing.  I don't know why.  But in my world, it meant something. 

Deshler and Davenport hold many memories from my childhood.  Holidays, birthdays, family.  They also represent playtime and parks, fairs and festivals. I was struggling to find a D for this week's blogfest, thinking this was lame.  However, I am glad I gave in and gave it a shot.  It has been a nice trip back down the twisty slide.

ABC Blogfest of my Home State - A, B, and C

Once again, I’m late for the party. I’m late for everything. Even dinner.


I have been catching up on my blog-reading, and saw that Alex posted has something about another A-Z blogfest...and since numb hands kept me from completing the last one, I thought I should give this one a go. I mean, seriously, lightning rarely strikes in the same place, right? We'll see what happens just after letter L and before M this time. Hopefully, I'll have a chance to write about M, and maybe even N...

Aleta at Fleur de Aleta is hosting the ABC of Your State weekly blogfest. Today is “C.” However, since I've missed two weeks...I'm going to do A, B, and C all together.

I am from Nebraska. Before you ask, “Where is that?”, I present you with this visual aid. Yes, I did anticipate your question, based on having been gone for nearly 25 years now, and well, being asked this very thing countless times.

Before we proceed, I do want to say that this is all from my own perspective. I left my home state when I was ten. Therefore, I have a pretty sheltered point of view. I took Nebraska History the year before we moved, and do have some memory of facts and figures – for instance, I can tell how long in miles it is from North to South, and from East to West in my home state. However, as far as culture, etc., I have only a child's view. Top that with the fact that I lived in a farming community of less than 400 people, a county with approximately 6600 people, my range of the real world was pretty small. So please forgive the lack of insight into greater things. I will touch on some places I have been, but again, it is usually from small range, looking back, all those years ago. From the adult perspective, I have of course, been back. And the contrast of the young innocent love versus the older city girl is very intriguing.

My goal in this blogfest is to remember my childhood. I lived a ton of life in those short ten years. The world was mine for the taking. And I took all I could. The one word that always comes to my head when people ask me about growing up there, (usually with utter disbelief that a town that small even exists) is FREEDOM. I want to write about being free.

This tree is in Nebraska.

Arbor Day

Arbor Day is a big deal. Arbor Day was founded in Nebraska City, Nebraska in 1872 by a guy named J. Sterling Morton. The whole purpose of Arbor Day is to plant trees, take care of existing trees, and you know, hug them.

When I was in elementary school, we celebrated Arbor Day. I don’t really remember a lot about said celebrations, but I know we at least talked about it, because that knowledge is in my head. Apparently, for good.

My parents and I planted three trees in front of our house when I was little. We were in Nebraska a few years ago, and I noticed that those trees are varied in size, the two bigger ones surround a smaller one, and I found that to be quite symbolic, two parents caring for their child, in the center.

Union Pacific Missouri River Bridge

Confession: I did not know this bridge had a name. I mean, I guess I assumed it did. But when I pondered B, ‘bridge’ kept coming to mind. This is the bridge that connects Omaha to Council Bluffs, Iowa, over the (you guessed it) the Missouri River.

Like I said, we moved when I was ten. I have this memory of riding in a big yellow moving truck with my dad through that bridge, thinking my life was over. It was the last moment of living in Nebraska. We went through it on every trip back, and it was exhilarating going in and always sad going out. The bridge is big, to a child’s eye, green, and very symbolic of a moment in my life I thought I would never recover from crossing that bridge.   But now I see it as symbolic of a moment that changed me for ever.  For good.

Cornhuskers

GO BIG RED! That embodies the Nebraska mentality. There’s a joke that you know someone is from Nebraska if they have three or more shirts that say Cornhuskers. It’s true. When I was little, UNL was a Big Ten team. They were unstoppable, as was Cornhusker fever. Herbie Husker was a fixture on lawns. It is a lifestyle. There is no choice. You are born a Cornhusker. You will die a Cornhusker.

There’s my first three letters. I’ll see you next week for D.

Independence...and Stealing from Small Children

Today is the 4th of July. I’m sure that means something. Independence. Freedom. Gratitude for all we have in the United States of America. The pure luck of being born in a place without all the oppression and complete rule our founding fathers sailed thousands of miles to escape.  Wait...sailed?  They didn't just get on a plane?  No, and they didn't sail on luxury cruise lines, either.  This was a big deal.  They sailed thousands of miles without a GPS or an open bar or on-ship entertainment.  That's how pissed off they were.

And so we celebrate. We gather with friends and family to swim, boat, eat hot dogs, hamburgers, and wait for dark to set off fireworks.

Fireworks. That’s how we celebrate the great sacrifice of many men and women for our independence. We light a small piece of string on fire that causes an explosion that makes a noise and sends a momentary spark of color into the sky, hoping against hope that we don’t set a tree or the house on fire in the process. Hoping that the guy in charge of lighting said string doesn’t get his face blown off.

Do I sound jaded? Sorry.

I enjoy fireworks very much. I think they are pretty. I enjoy listening to the reaction of small children, the reaction of complete wonder and excitement when they see that spark of color in the sky, wondering how daddy made that happen, and can he do it again and again?

Pepsi and I loved little naps.

I rarely go out see fireworks anymore, though. This is a choice. My childhood dog, Pepsi, was terrified of fireworks. Indeed, she was terrified of all things that made noise – thunder, lightening, a car backfiring, an explosion on the television. This has made me a little cynical, and a lot overprotective.

I housesit, and am almost always doing so on holidays, including the 4th of July. I choose to not go anywhere on the night they set off fireworks (rarely on the actual fourth in the town I live in). I prefer to stay and make sure the dogs are not going to go into complete panic meltdown, like Pepsi used to. I would rather make sure they are okay and well taken care of. Luckily, I can usually see them from where I am staying, either in the front or backyard.

As usual, I am housesitting on this holiday. I have three Yorkies in my care, and my dog, Spencer Bean, is with me. Last night was the fireworks show. Once I felt comfortable that all the dogs were okay with the noise that was happening outside, I took them to the backyard to watch. As they were running around playing as if nothing was happening above us to the west, I began to think of Pepsi. I always think of her on occasions like this, even in thunderstorms. It is a weird feeling of loss, sadness, happiness, and gratitude that is hard to define.

My Spencer Bean

As I was sitting on the step looking up, thinking of the dog that was such a part of my life, my own dog, Spencer Bean, stopped running to come over and sit next to me. He didn’t announce his presence, didn’t make a big “I’m a beagle and here I am!!!” entrance. He simply walked over and sat down to my left. He sat there looking up at the fireworks with me, and didn’t move until I got up.

This was the most incredible experience. As I watched him out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that from time to time he would turn his head toward me, and then back up at the sky. He knew, as dogs do, that I was feeling something. And he did, as dogs tend to do, take care of me by standing beside me.

A friend, who knows about this, called me a little while later to see how I was doing.

There is something to celebrate. Freedom and love. Gratitude and hope. And the knowledge that all our friends, even the furry ones, are here to protect and love us, and we them. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones today and everyday.

Maybe I’m not so jaded after all…

Oh, and one more thing.  I overheard the most wonderful thing from a child's mouth. A neighbor kid, who, from the sound of her voice, I would guess to be about four, said with all the excitement her little body could handle:
"Daddy! What's that word you say when something is so pretty it makes you happy all over?"
Her dad responded, "The word is cool."
And she yelled back, in a voice that led me to believe she was about fall face forward into the pavement from excitement, "YES! COOL! I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THAT WORD!!!"

Ladies and gentelmen, a future writer lives next door to where I am housesitting.  Don't you just love that description?  "...so pretty it makes you happy all over"  I hope she remembers that and puts it in a book someday.  Truth be told, I hope to beat her to it.  I love it.  I just stole from a child.

For the 9 Millionth time...He did NOT kill John Lennon...

...Mark David Chapman did.  But, there is a website that says he did.  They even have a little book proving all their, um, cough, *theory*, cough.  I post the link because I find it humorous and rediculous.  I think you might, too.  These people even have a van with their website painted on the side.  That's how I found out about them, in New York City, on John Lennon's birthday, headed to Strawberry Fields with my other soulmates.  It is the most amusing thing I've come across.  And sad that they can make money on something so tragic.  Society.  Ahhh, gulible society, supporting this lunatic.

Anyway, Stephen King did not kill John.  He saved my life.  Again.

I have all these things to say.  I know there is a novel in me.  Somewhere.  Deep, deep inside.  It needs to come out.  I need to write.  But I can never seem to get past 5000 words.  And that is not a novel. It is not even a novella.  And, by definition, it isn't even a short story.  I'm just writing really long, fictional journal entries.

I have this picture in my head about this breath spray from when I was little.  It was a green and white canister.  How can I make that a story?  It's just breath spray...

But my mind will not let it go.  On Saturday, I put Stephen King's On Writing on the ipod in my car.  I always listen to this when I need to get the ball rolling.  I listened to it until the very end, last night on the way home from work.

While listening, I got a couple plot ideas.  I have written them down and am working on streaming them together.  I don't know if this will be my novel or another short story, but it is something. 

And it all started with a one ounce green and white can of breath spray from the early 1980s.  It's weird what the mind remembers...

...and how some small, seemingly insignificant item from childhood can become a story, if I let it.


p.s. For those of you who haven't yet checked it out, I started a new blog for my cooking adventures.  Please check it out, comment, and follow.  Thanks!
http://www.ivygrowsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/

I'm doubl-ey writing!

Here's a quick note to let you know I have started another blog.  Not to replace, but to add to my writing.  It will highlight my kitchen and the happenings that take place there.  As many of you know, I have really enjoyed this journey of learning to cook, and taken several pictures.  I have also had a difficult time expressing how much this process has meant to me, what I have learned.  So I set up the much needed outlet to write about it, not just posting pictures on facebook, or writing a sentence or two here. 

Writing has always been my creative outlet. And cooking has become a close second.

If you have a second, please stop by and sign up to follow.  Your comments and suggestions are welcome.
It's new!  It's exciting!  It's mine!

Thank you all for your support in my writing, here and over there.

http://www.ivygrowsinthekitchen.blogspot.com

Back in the Saddle Again!

And the rest of my ABCs...(condensed, of course...)

Picture it: Atlanta, Georgia, April 15, 2011...

I’m sitting innocently at my desk, a stack of paperwork in front of me. I long for the paperwork to be over. For the day, Friday, to be over. I am methodically going through the stack while wondering how I can write a blog on my chosen M word, excited that I have been keeping up with the ABC Challenge, and that, half-way through, my desire to write has really been rejuvenated by this blogfest.

I sneeze.

My right arm goes numb. My hand, the dominate one, is twitching and suddenly goes limp and numb as well. My neck, well, there's no numbness there. It's screeching, seething, agonizing pain. I wish for numbness, but it never comes.

And so it began. The last two months of my life have been chiropractor visits, massage sessions, bikram yoga, and finally doctors and surgeon consultations. I have a bulging disk in my C6.

This is nothing new. Two years ago, I had the same thing happen to me on my left side. That time, it was caused by running. Uber-stressed in my last semester of school (summer, no less), I took up running. I was so caffeinated, that I could not go to sleep at night. Once I was ready to sleep, I would put on my running shoes and go. Problem: I have flat feet and was running on pavement. Solution to sleep, but not my body. One week after I graduated (stopped running), I woke up in the middle of the night with this exact same pain and numbness, just on the left side.

What the sneeze did, in essence, is reactivate this injury. Apparently, a sneeze has a speed of up to 100mph. That's a lot of movement in that short period of time. One side of the nerve controls the left side of your body, the other side controls the right. When I sneezed, the side that controls the right gave in and dropped, after two years of supporting both ends.

I've been in bed. I was in bed for nearly two weeks. Then I slowly started to get up and out. Every movement was deliberate. Every action pre-planned. Living this way is a great teacher. Patience is not something I come by honestly, and I had to be patient, both with myself and my surroundings. I had to not get frustrated.

Chiropractic helped. Massages helped. Bikram Yoga helps. But nothing was fast enough. So I went to the doctor. They took an MRI and sent me for a consultation with a surgeon. I’m not excited about that. I am thinking I will not get surgery. So, my next step is an acupuncturist. I am going to get an appointment to go see one for next week.

The worst part of all of this was that I could not do my two favorite things: write or read. I could not (and still have trouble) writing because my hand was numb. My thumb and index finger are still numb, so it is difficult to hold a pen. Typing was annoying because I could not really support my laptop and my fingers were not doing what my brain told them to. More frustrating than anything, really. Reading was difficult because holding a book was a little much. It is still an interesting feat, however, I do a little everyday. 

There are lessons in everything. I am still realizing the ones I have learned in the last two months. Maybe I will write about them someday soon. I do not want this time to go unfounded, and lessons have always been a growing point for me.

I had a list written out of the subjects I wanted to write about for the ABC blogfest. I'd like to share the rest of it, beginning with the letter M, where I would have been on taxday 2011, when all hell broke loose. I am only going to write a few sentences about them, since we are covering half the alphabet in one sitting. 

Meatloaf. and Mashed potatoes. and Macaroni and cheese.

These are my favorite foods. I crave them often.

New York City.

This is my place. It is where I feel safe. I long for it when I’m not there.

October.

The month of my birth. It is a breathable month, the trees changing colors, the cool and crisp feeling of the air, the wind. It reminds me that I am alive. I was actually due in November, but I was meant to be an October baby.

Prepositions.

I love prepositions. I am obsessed with them, the way they change and interchange, or completely change the meaning of a statement.

Quiet.
Being quiet is something that I had to learn. Be quiet and listen. To myself, to others, to the god of my understanding.

Reading.
I love to read. I always have. It inspires me and takes me to a whole other place.

Shickley, Nebraska, population 376.
This is my hometown. I’m going to write an entire blog about it someday, since I didn't get the chance during the blogfest.

Tattoos.
I have them. I’m getting more. I'll post pictures soon.

Underwear. My secret girly obsession.
I am not girly. But I love girly underwear.

Virginia Woolf.
My favorite author. I have been reading Virginia since I was in middle school. There's something about her style that encourages and drives me.

Walking.
Walking is my favorite activity. I feel alive when I actually take the time to get there slowly, observing, watching, looking. It is one of the best things about New York City.

Xanthrippe Richmond. my original pseudonym.
In seventh grade, I developed this name as a way of writing from the outside. Xanthrippe even had a signature very different than my own. S/he always wrote in green ink.

Yoga – My biggest fight turned into my biggest need.
I did not want to do bikram yoga, I thought it was a little nutty.  But, it has turned into the 90 minutes of my life when I am able to shut down my head, and focus on my body, mind, and spirit. I go to solve problems, both physical and mental. And usually walk out of there with a solution.

Zealots - they scare me.
Living in the bible belt, I have seen my fair share of zealots. They are crazy and creepy. One of them told me I needed a hug a couple months ago and I screamed like I was a human rape whistle.



Zealot



That is the Reader's Digest version of the rest of my alphabet. It's good to be back writing. Even though this took longer to type than it should have, it sure is worth it.

 

Hating Like

Slam poet Taylor Mali wrote a poem in 2005.  I like it.


Totally like whatever, you know?


In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences — so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally...
I mean absolutely... You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like...
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation... ness
is just a clever sort of... thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since...
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.



I don't understand what has happened.  I'm not that old.  But I do not remember ever using or hearing the word "like" like I hear it now.  I remember when it was funny, in a Valley Girl sort of way.  But I never thought it was, or could ever be, like, real, you know?

I remember learning about like: 

Like is used in similes, not in metaphors. 
"I play the guitar like Eric Clapton."  (Untrue, yet a good example.)

Like, Nick Cage is like, like, hot!

Like shows appreciation or a feeling towards someone or something.
I like bacon.  (Okay, I LOVE bacon.  But we're talking about like here.)

Like shows comparisons between two related things.
My watch is like his, except blue.

And then, there's finding out if someone likes you.  Usually, someone near you in study hall:
Do you Like me?  Circle one: yes     no

If you circled yes, you do Like me, do you Like Like me?   Circle one:  yes    no

If you circled yes, you do Like Like me, would you Like to hold my hand at lunch?  Circle one:  yes     no

But never as a word just randomly put in the middle of a sentence, one, two, seven times.  Maybe this is why we need unlimited minutes on our phones?  Our conversation time has to go up with the amount of likes are like in one like sentence.

People DO talk this way.  I do hear them.  All the time.  I cannot stand it.  In an effort to not get angry or scold strangers and friends about their complete misuse of the word and explain that "I like went to the park." is not a simile and then explain the rules of the road to them, or to simply ask them if they actually went to the park or did something resembling going to the park, I have started counting.  I count the likes in a sentence.  I count the likes while people are talking.  This is amusing. 

However, it gets me in trouble.  They usually want a response, and I like, don't have one.  The only thing I've heard is like, blah, blah, blah (one), like, blah, blah, blah, blah (two), like, blah, blah, blah, blah (three)...

Please, share your experience with like.  Do you say it?  If you do, can you tell me about it?  Do you hate it?  Do you want to punch anyone in the mouth because they use it so much?  Have you ever asked anyone to stop talking because of excessive use of the word?  Have you ever stopped listening to people who use it?

Kinky. My word in 7th grade.

Kinky - (adj.) quirky or eccentric.

I love this word.  I have since I came across it all those years (YIKES!) ago.  Quirky or eccentric...all in five little letters.  It seemed perfect!

I used to have this habit when I was younger of looking through the dictionary at random to find new and interesting sounding words.  Two years later, I eventually read the entire thing.  I also had a habit of writing out lists of words I liked, and then spending time looking them up in the thesaurus and finding new ways of saying them.  Which, I think, is how I came across kinky.  It is a synonym for different.  It means a lot of things.  My seventh grade brain couldn't wrap itself around the other part of the word...

Kinky- (adj.) slang  given to unusual, abnormal, or deviant sexual practices; perversly erotic in behavior

Who knew it was sexual? 

Who knew it meant deviant behavior?

Who knew it meant perversly erotic?

Who knew it meant all these things?

I guess a lot of people. Apparently, not me.

In my ignorance (lack of knowledge), I said it.  A lot.  I used it in any sentence I could for a long time, both verbal and written, as I did with all my new word finds.  I have always loved words, and when I found one I particularly liked, it became my word, a word I would use to the extreme. 
 
There are so many things I love about words in general, and the word kinky seemed to have it all.  Kinky.  I love the way it sounds.  Kinky.  I love the way it is spelled.  I knew then that the letter k is a rarity when standing on its own twice in a single word.  Kinky.  I love the way the letters look stacked together. 
 
I guess I'm lucky that my parents let me use words, no matter what they are.  I feel I'm lucky that I love words and wanted to use them.  I get so discouraged when I hear parents say to their children "Don't say that."  To kids, it's all an expieriment.  It's just them testing the waters of their brains and their vocal chords.  In school, teachers tell their students not to write a certain way or to use certain words in their writing.  It's all about the challenge of the new.  It helps them grow and change and become who they are. 
 
Wow, this post took a weird turn.  But, writing it out sometimes does that.  Stop filtering.  Say what you mean and mean what you say.  And find new ways to say it.

J: When I balk at writing, it must be of the honest kind...

I love to write. Obviously. I always have. It’s something that comes naturally and easily.

I write stories. I write poems. I write lyrics.

I even think story form most of the time.

So, what does this have to do with the letter J?

I hate to journal.

Journaling is, um, real. It is directly attached to feelings.  And has a purpose. It is writing for the sole purpose of an outcome containing growth and getting through. And it there is all kinds of room for error, for improper spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

Getting through what?  Getting through the roadblocks in my head and the speedbumps in my soul.

I journal about two or three times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It depends what is going on. I have kept journals on and off for years. Initially, I always balk at the idea. It is frustrating to me. It forces me to look at myself, to be honest, to work towards a solution. And sometimes, that is just not fun.

I write what's real in my journal.  I write and write and write.  The same things over and over and over.  The point of journaling is to find a solution.  And that takes days.  Sometimes weeks.  On the same issue.  The words change from day to day, and eventually, the problem words turn into solution words, the solution words take over, and all of a sudden, days later, I know what to do.

As I move through each day of journaling, I re-read the entries and ponder my course of action.  As I re-read the entries, I try to ignore the writing mistakes I made in my haste to get all the thoughts and feelings out.  Sometimes I get stuck on the mistakes.  Sometimes I wish I had typed instead of hand-written my journals so I could go back and correct the mistakes - as if they were never made.  This is deflection, not wanting to face the issue on paper, and instead, focus on what I can fix.

But I must hand-write.

As much as I detest the act of journaling, I see it for what it is, and it is finding soltutions.  It is unabashedly looking at myself and knowing there is room to grow and change and become.  And that makes it worth every minute, every word, every imperfection those pages contain.

What's in a Name?

“Mary Poppins, is that your name? It’s lovely.”


I have heard that so many times.

Ok, it’s actually, “Ivy Bliss, is that your name? It’s lovely.”

Yes. Ivy Bliss is my name. My first and middle name. I tend to just go by that, my last name is difficult to spell – not because it is hard, but because it could be spelled in so many different ways, due to phonetics. Also because when people see it on paper, it is always said wrong.

And, of course, there’s a story behind it. My parents are not hippies. That’s me, remember?

My mom doesn't.

My parents worked at a ski resort in Colorado long before I was born. My mom was a maid, and my dad ran the ski lift. They met several famous people in that time. My mom met Lucille Ball. My mom is not a fan. Apparently, Lucy lined up the maids and hand-picked who was allowed in her room. She told them who looked like a thief and who was pretty enough to clean her room. I have heard that story my whole life. Therefore, I have never seen a single episode of I Love Lucy.

However, my dad met Buddy Hackett, and his daughter, who was very young, maybe four or five at the time. This little girl fell in love with my dad. Her name was Ivy. And for some reason, it stuck.

On their way to the agency to pick me up, they stopped to get something to eat. Their waitress’s name was Bliss. And it worked with Ivy.

So there you go, I am Ivy Bliss.

Make Love Not War...with the letter H

I’m a hippie. I always have been.


I believe in peace, love and happiness. I flash peace signs. I listen to rock n roll from long ago. I am obsessed with The Beatles. I relate and feel something in their music. Paul Simon can send me into a trance.

I love everything about the 60s and 70s. The bell bottom jeans, the revolution, the freedom. I would have given anything to be at Woodstock.

I wasn’t even born then.

I have always had this idealistic point of view, like it was this carefree time. I know I would have been a hippie, riding around the country on a bus, protesting the war.

That’s the problem. War. It wasn’t an ideal time. It was scary. Every day, someone was dying. Every day, someone was killed for a cause of some kind. Every day, there was turmoil. It was a time filled with fear-based action driven by reality. It was a new reality, television brought the war and the riots into homes for the first time.

Now, I’m not saying that what is going on today is any less fearful. I think we are a little immune based on having television, radio and internet. We are information driven, and need it now. We have the ability to know what happens all the time, everywhere in the world.

I think maybe, in addition to the music and the hippie lifestyle, I am drawn to the simplicity of the time. As much as I thrive on technology and am a computer-geek, there are times when I wish I had the ability to turn off the phone, the computer, the television. It is a crutch I can’t quite live without, like so many of us.

I started this post thinking about how much I love being a hippie.  It took a weird little turn.  But that's what happens sometimes when we write, I suppose.

Green.

I haven't posted the last two days for the A-Z Blogfest.  The days just got away from me.  So, without further ado, G (Friday).

Green is my favorite color. It always has been. In all shades, except bright lime green.


Some think it is because of my name. Some think it is because it’s where I come from. Some think it is because of nature, because of the trees I used to climb or lay under and the grass I would lay in.

I guess they are all right. Kind of.

My name is Ivy, so by default, green was bound to me from the beginning. So maybe I was born this way.



Shickley Longhorn Helmet



I am from a small town. In a town that size, high school sports are pretty much everything. Shickley Longhorns. Go green! The school colors are green and white. I grew up wearing green. So maybe I was brainwashed.

A tree outside the town I'm from in Nebraska.
One of my favorites.

Then there is nature. I spent my childhood outside. I would climb a tree and sit as far up as I could go. I remember picking the best branch, the one with the biggest and greenest leaves, and that is the one I would sit on. Or I would find the biggest shade I could find and sit under it. I love to sit under trees and read or write or stare off into spare. I would run through the fields and the grass until I fell down. Grass makes a better bed sometimes than an actual bed. So maybe it’s just in me.

I don’t know why I like green. I just do. It’s part of my life, and always has been. It can calm me like very little, just by looking at it or thinking, concentrating on the color.

FOOD! Oh, glorious FOOD!

“I can't cook.”

“Oh, no, I'll buy something for the party. You don't want me to poison anyone, do you?”

“I don't know how to cook.”

“Where do you want to go eat?”

These are the things I said over and over for the first 33 years of my life. Truth be told, I was afraid to cook. I was afraid it wouldn't be good. I was afraid that what I made wouldn't look, smell, or taste like it was supposed to.

My paternal grandma is an amazing cook. She has a very old propane stove she has to light with a match – the same one she has had my whole life and longer. She doesn't have any fancy gadgets or machines to make it easy. She does it the same way she has done since the 1930s – by hand and from scratch. She makes everything by hand. Donuts, jelly, bread, (the world's best) macaroni and cheese, everything. Watching her when I was little, she made it look so easy, but also, there were a lot of steps involved. And a lot of work.

It is kind of intimidating to watch. To hear her tell it, it's as easy as breathing. But this is also the same woman who sits down with a pen and crossword puzzle for twenty minutes, maybe a half hour, and when she stands up, every space on it is filled with the proper letter. (I sent her the first crossword I ever completed on my own, at the age of 24.)

So easy? As easy as breathing? I think I need a second opinion...

My mom is a good cook. Mostly, my grandma taught her. When my dad was in the military, she lived with them. She makes a lot of the same stuff. Just not so much from scratch, and with the gadgets and machines. She does do a bang up job on the macaroni and cheese.

So, what of me? I have never had much interest. I am more of an outside child. I wanted out. I didn't want to be inside in the kitchen on a nice day, I wanted to be outside running, playing, climbing trees. If it was cold, I wanted to be inside, reading a book or imagining up my next story. I didn't want anything to do with anything domestic.

My first meal.

In August, at 33, I moved (again). I decided it was time to learn to cook.

In the months leading up to this move, I researched everything about cooking. I bought all kinds of gadgets and machines. I bought basic necessities. In the midst of all this, I kept wondering if I was just wasting my money.

Here's the thing. I was scared. SCARED. I had no clue what I was doing. I had no clue if I could do this. My go-to emotions are fear and self-doubt. And, I’m bad at math. All the measuring and dividing (when you cut recipes) terrified me. Oh, and I am not patient. Not at all.

But I forged on.

Going to the grocery store was a whole other adventure. I didn't know where anything was, beyond the cereal isle. I felt lost and confused every time I had to buy something new. I felt silly looking at the varieties of items with a blank stare on my face. I would spend at least an hour in the store every single time. This was not easy.

I wanted to cook smart, healthy, and cost-effective. It is hard to stay cost-effective when you don't have any basic ingredients. It seemed every recipe cost over $50 at the beginning. I didn't have flour. I didn't have sugar. I didn't have the proper kind of milk. I didn't have...

I didn't have anything to store this in. I didn't have Tupperware. I didn't know where to get Tupperware. I knew about Tupperware because my mom has it. I wanted the Tupperware she has. That is what I am familiar with. That is what I am comfortable with. Problem: her Tupperware is as old as I am.

Retro tupperware!

Ebay. I got on ebay and found retro Tupperware. I bought it.

As far as the food goes, it is coming along. I am learning. Everything I have made up to this point has been good, with the one exception – asparagus soup. I just think I don't know enough about spices yet.

I try very hard to stay away from boxes. I want my food to be as whole as possible. Healthy was one of my goals. And, besides, my grandma doesn't use boxes. Even the sweet stuff, like brownies, don't come from boxes. All homemade so far.

Peppermint-chocolate brownies.
NO BOX.

There is a difference in the way my grandma and I cook. I have the gadgets. I have the machines. She, on the other hand, has her history and her knowledge. I call her from time to time and update her about what I am cooking. She shares stories and recipes with me. We have a bond now that we didn't have before. My one regret: not having her teach me when we lived near each other.

The fear is gone. I get a butterfly or two when I start a new recipe, but it is not overwhelming, and I have the faith that it can be done if I do what I am supposed to do.  I have found that I truly love to cook.  There is something amazing about homemade food.  Maybe it is the lack of processing.  Maybe it is the freshness.  But maybe, just maybe it's the love.  I think it is all three.

The (de)Evolution of Electronics

I'm going to try something different today. A short story. Fiction.


I was inspired last night at dinner with my friend and roommate, Kelly. Both English majors in college, we tend to see the world in stories. And last night, we saw the makings of a potential story. After pondering the situation for a while, we decided two things:

1. The hilarity of the situation, with a little tweaking and imagination could make this a great story.

AND

2. It fits the letter E.

The backstory of this is that we saw a child of about seven dining with his father. We were happily talking away and filling in the happenings of our weekend to each other. In contrast, once seated, they figured out what they wanted off the menu, then the father proceeded to tell his son his schedule for tomorrow. Then, he handed his son his touch screen phone and the kid turned it on, found a video, and watched it through the remainder of dinner. They didn't speak at all after that.

Based on that, here's the story Kelly and I came up with.

The year is 2025. Two girls in their early thirties are sitting at dinner staring off into space. They are not talking to each other. It is obvious they are good friends, however seem to have nothing to say. Maybe they have been together for days on end? Maybe they are just at the lull in their friendship where communication is not important.

But maybe, just maybe, they do not know how to communicate over a meal.

Once they placed their order, a family was seated at the table next to them. Once the family ordered, they began to talk. They each told the family with excitement about their day, the information gathered in school, the stresses of work, what they were doing over the coming days. They even talked about current events, what they had read in the papers, seen on the news, the latest books they were reading. They seemed to have an endless stream of conversation.

This irritated the girls.

“Can you believe this?”, remarked one of them. "When we were kids, we didn't have to talk at dinner. We all had our gadgets and were completely preoccupied. No one had to even look at anyone else.”

“I know. I was just thinking the same thing. How obnoxious it must be to have to think of things to talk about. I was just enjoying how we always sit in silence.”, said the other.

“Oh how I miss the days of oblivion, when mom was on the phone and disregarded everything I said and did because she was too busy to notice. How dad was always checking his email. What happened? How did we get here?”

How they got there is in the last twenty years, technology has taken a hit. Smartphones, devices, and electronics in general had hit the proverbial wall. There wasn't anywhere to go but down. And backwards.

The absence of portable electronics has made it necessary for people to communicate again. As demand rose for more more more in our society, computers had to get bigger again, not smaller. Cell phones that did too much took up too much power and now have to be plugged into the outlet of your car. And the fatter our society as a whole had become, the more impractical touch screens and small buttons became, thus making everything larger in general so we could type with our fat fingers.

Gone are the days of instant access to anything and everything. And it has caused yet another generation gap. The mid-20s to late-30s crowd does not know how to talk to each other, or the people around them. They stare into space, longing for the days of Angry Birds and texting the person across from them. The late-30s to late-50s crowd can't stand not getting that email the second it is sent, and doesn't quite know how to function professionally without knowing what is going on on the other side of the world right now.

What is going on in Hollywood? Who is in rehab? Who is going to jail? Who hooked up on their latest movie set?

We have to wait until we get home to find out. OH HUMANITY!

In contrast, the younger people are talking. They are excited and animated when they speak to each other. They relay stories back and forth. Their stream of thought and communication is constant and seemingly never-ending. They talk with their hands. They talk and talk and talk. And their parents can't figure out where they learned such a thing.

This generation will know how to find information out for themselves. They will know where to look and how to access it, without relying solely on machines to do the work for them. They will know how to spell and punctuate and think. All for on their own accord. Their parents and teachers think them to be geniuses.

The two 30-somethings (and most of their generation) are sad and depressed – they feel they are the ones who truly know you don't know what you got till it's gone. They do not understand this new generation of thinkers. They live lives of silence, unable to communicate their thoughts and feelings into words because they have always had a machine to do it for them.

This is the beginning of something I think I will continue writing. I think there is more to this, more to find, more to write. It's an interesting switch on reality. I do miss the days when I had to wait to get home for a phone call. The days when I didn't panic because I don't have service for an hour inside a cement building.   The days when I didn't jump because my phone rang.  When I could listen to the radio for the entire car ride.

What do you think, fellow bloggers? Can you communicate with your friends without a machine? Are you amazed at the lack of communication in public exhibited around you?

D is for Spencer Bean the Wonder Beagle

Okay, that's a little much.

D is for Dog.

Way back in May of 2010, I told you about my dog, Pepsi. And that I was going to get a tattoo of her on my left side. Way back in September of 2010, I did it. A beautiful picture of my childhood dog, now with me forever. And, as I had hoped, it truly brought more healing to the pain of her death some seventeen years prior.

Somethings I have a hard time letting go of. Pepsi is one of those things. I don't know that I ever will, completely. However, it was time for me to begin the work so I could finally have another dog of my own. I have been looking on rescue sites for years, visiting the humane societies in my area, going to pet adoptions at stores in my town. I would never walk away with a dog, though, only a broken heart.

Tattoo in place, and Pepsi always with me, I began the work. I began to journal. I began to do serious research on breeds and sizes and temperaments. I began to formulate and ask questions and find answers.

Pepsi. With me forever.

I was ready to find my little male dog, the one whose name would be Emmett.

In short, I got serious.

In February, I found him. I found the perfect dog. I saw a picture of him online and knew he was mine. All I needed was that one look in his eyes on my computer screen. I don't know how I knew, I just did. I could feel something, something I hadn't felt about any of the other dogs I had looked at in pictures or in person.

The description was Beagle mix. His shelter name: Pinto (stupid).

I called the shelter he was in and asked them to please hold him until the weekend when I could come up to meet him. I would need to bring my roommate's dog along to ensure they were compatible. No matter how selfish and how much I wanted this dog, I knew the animals in my home had to get along, or it wouldn't be pretty. That was the only obstacle I could think of. Saturday morning, Chloe in tow, I drove two hours to the shelter. All the way there, begging Chloe to love this dog. Not that she cared what I was saying. The radio was on and the windows were down. She was happy.



I got to the shelter and got out Pinto (stupid). I walked him around a little on my own before going to get Chloe. He was so happy. He was peeing on everything and smelling even more. He was licking me and peeing again. SWEET FREEDOM! Once I got Chloe out of the car, it was like magic. This boxer and this beagle walked side by side, in tandem for the entire time they were together. Sure, they smelled each others' butts, but that was it.



It was decided. I got him. I had to leave him to get his shots, and fixed (because his previous owners were lame), and be microchipped.

I went shopping. Crate. Dog food. Treats. Toys. Blankets. Leash. Collar. This dog is going to have a whole new life. A life better than ever. His story is that his previous owner, the lame one, left him tied to a tree on a rope for 14 or more hours a day. Animal Control took him away. None of that crap in my house.



Spencer Bean coming home.



I kept thinking that he didn't look like an Emmett. I would have to figure out a new name. Even though I have always planned on naming my dog Emmett, I couldn't do it if it didn't fit. And it didn't fit. I thought he kind of looked like a Spencer. And, in honor of the shelter for rescuing him, I made his middle name Bean (because Pinto is stupid).

A week later, I drove another two hours to get my dog. Kelly went with me. Spencer Bean is better than I could have hoped for. Those eyes told most of the story, but not all. He is completely and totally the love of my life.

He isn't a Beagle mix.  He is a Beagle.  A Bluetick Beagle.  All that means is he has the ticks on his white fur, which you can see in the picture.  In all my life, I never thought I would have a full-breed dog, because I am an adopter. 

He is brilliant. I have had him since March 1st. In that time, he has learned sit, stay, lay down, come (though that one is still in progress, he does well), up, bed, and he sits down and waits patiently while I get his food ready and doesn't eat until I tell him to. He has gone hiking once. Him and Chloe get along like old friends. We stay at a friend's house a lot and he and her Beagle/Rottweiler mix are the best of friends. He stayed with my dad last Sunday and had a great time, my sister brought her two yorkies over and they played all day. Every person and dog he has met is his friend. He is not angry or aggressive, does not bark or anything. He has only pooped in the house once. Completely (and surprisingly) house-trained, he has not had to be in the crate at all.  He has only got in the trash once.

Spencer Bean, Chloe the Boxer, and Maggie Mae the Beagle/Rotweiller.
Two littles and a big.

When I got him, he would sleep in bed with me, but at the bottom of the bed and over. Now, as his trust is growing and he knows this is where he belongs, he sleeps right up against me or between my knees.

I know it took a long time for me to get to the point where I was ready for a dog of my own again. I think it was worth the wait. I think I could not have done any better. Spencer Bean is my personality. We are a perfect match. I am so thrilled to have him. I know, I just do, that Pepsi would agree and she would love him, too.

Running!  Oh Sweet Freedom!

C is for cookie, and that's good enough for me...

...oh, how I wish that were true.  I have, however, had three cookies today.  Thanks, Melissa's mom.

Today, I've decided to focus on something I know very little and very much about.

COMMITTMENT.

I know very little because I hate it.  Relationships, ug, require committment.  I have been in long-term relationships.  I have even lived with people.  BUT, I always leave in the end.  Before it gets serious.  Well, before it gets legal, anyway. 

The thought of spending forever and ever with someone creeps me the hell out.  I don't know why.  Truth be told, it kind of makes my skin crawl a little.  And I'm not even Mormon.  I don't believe I'll get stuck wtih my family in the celestial kingdom (read: afterlife), but, I do think as long as we both shall live seems like a super long time.

It's not that I don't like being in relationships.  I do.  I like having someone next to me.  I like having a friend who knows all of me, who accepts and loves me the way I am.  I like having someone think I'm pretty.  And I like thinking and feeling all those things about someone else.

I watch my friends date, get married, have babies, get divorced.  Maybe that's some of it.  Divorce is P-A-I-N-F-U-L painful.  For those involved and those around them. 

I am independent.  I like my space.  I like to go home to my own bed with my own dog and lay diagonal.  I like not wondering which toothbrush is mine and if someone else didn't care to figure it out.  I don't want to ever have to think about that.  It freaks me out.  Seriously.  Right now I am freaking out just thinking about it. 

Saying all this, I don't really sound like much of a catch, do I?  I think I am.  I can compromise.  I can be in relationships.  I can give as well as take.  Maybe I just haven't found the one yet.  I remain hopeful.  I doubt it will ever be anything legal, but maybe it will be something that doesn't end because I want to go home and do laundry.

Now, having said all that, I am very committed.  To many things.  To many people.  I have  friendships and responsibilities that I take care of on a regular basis that fill my time.  I am learning new ones.  I am changing my schedule.  Sometimes, I am so committed that I forget to make time for me.  But that is something I work on routinely.  And I am currently working on this. 

I have committed to this blog for the month of April.  That is exciting.

I am committed to personal time.

I am committed to taking care of myself.

I am committed to being a good friend.

I am committed to take good care of my dog.

I am committed to my job.

I am committed to my family.

I am committed to being helpful.

I am committed to being polite.


One day, maybe they will just committ me.

The Letter B...my four favorite men...

The Beatles!

I have been a Beatles fan for as long as I can remember.  Maybe longer.

I love them.  I have Beatlemania. 
I read and read and read about them.  I know more than is healthy, probably.

I am way past their time.  I do not remember when John Lennon was shot.  I have seen it on in documentaries and specials on television, though.  It hurts everytime.  I try to change the channel before it happens, but I never can.   I can't speak.  I just cry.

My birthday is one day after John's.

He is my favorite Beatle.  I feel a connection to him.  I dream about him.

Their music speaks to me.  It fills me up.  It grabs my soul.  It feels good.

I am stuck on what to write about them.  They make me feel so much.

I saw Paul in concert.  I couldn't speak, just stare.

I remember when George died.  I couldn't speak.  I just sat there.

There are times when their music will bring me immense laughter and joy.  There are other times when it brings tears.  The emotion, no matter which one, is always intense and meaningful.

I love the Beatles.  I can't put it into words.  I want to.  But sometimes, a song is just a song.  And other times, it is so much more than that.

I leave you with the song that fills my dreams most of the time. 

A-Z Blogest. The Letter A.

It's the first day of the A-Z Blogest! Time to get serious. Write. Write everyday in April except Sundays, going down the alphabet. This is going to be a time when we all learn a little more about ourselves and each other. When we write till it hurts. Write till it hurts so much it it feels good.

Personally, I am excited. Writing, though part of me and enjoyable, hurts a lot. It hurts because I feel stuck most of the time. When I don't feel stuck, it hurts because I don't have the time to get out all that is inside of me. When it is coming out and I have the time, it hurts because I can't get it all out the way I think it should. Because I'm a perfectionist. I committed to this - to keep moving, in spite of stuck or time or perfection/imperfection. For twenty-six days of the next 30, I'm going to write in spite of the pain and wait for it to feel good.

So, without further ado, I give you my writing on the letter A.

In thinking about the letters and what words I can associate with each of them, my mind wonders.  Far.  And it is hard to get it back home.  I am the girl who read the dictionary during the summer between eighth and ninth grades. (We moved, I didn't know anyone.) I know a lot of words. I think too much. I go down a list in my head of possibilities, most of them ridiculous, but mostly to avoid writing anything real.

(the most obvious choice) Apple - the pomaceous fruit of the apple tree, species Malus domestica in the rose family Rosaceae. It is one of the most widely cultivated tree fruits.
My friend is an organic farmer. She has apple trees, eleven of them.  I, however, am not a farmer. I know how to climb trees, appreciate their beauty, and sit under them on a sunny day with a book or a notebook and pen.
Apple peel. I love apple peel. In fact, I like the peel more than I like the apple.
So, I don't think I will be writing about apples.

Appendectomy - the surgical removal of the appendix.
I still have my appendix. So, I don't have much to say about this.

Apparatus - equipment designed to serve a specific function.
I like things that serve a specific function. But that's about all I can think of to say about that.

So, what do I know about the letter A? What can I write about? Three strikes there...

One more at bat, and I'll knock it out of the park.

Adoption - To take into one's family through legal means and raise as one's own child.

There's an A that I know something about.

Adopted. I am adopted. My sister is adopted. No, not from the same birthparents. That's black-market stuff. (You may roll your eyes, but you would not believe how many times I have been asked that question! Seriously.)

What does it mean to be adopted?

When you are three, it means that two sets of parents loved you so much that they are willing to do the best for you. One set couldn't take care of you properly, so they loved you so much that they gave you to another set that could. And you were chosen by the second set.

When you are six (and get another sibling), it means you ask for a brother and get a sister. So much for the 'choosing' crap. It also means that you get in the car and go pick up the new sibling (sister, really?) with your parents, mommy doesn't have to go to the hospital. And she doesn't get 'fat' like all your friends' mommies when they get siblings.

When you are eight, you start to learn about genetics in school. You learn that you must have two parents with blue eyes if you have blue eyes. You learn that one of your parents has to have brown eyes if you have brown eyes. You start crying and ask your teacher why you have brown eyes, because both of your parents have blue eyes. You have a meltdown because you are a genetic freak. And all the while, you know the truth. It becomes a game you play every time they start talking about genetics in school, because science is boring and it is your job to spice it up a bit, and also, apparently, being an antagonist is in your genetic make-up, too.

But then you honestly and un-antagonistically start to wonder what this other set of parents look like.  Obviously, one of them has brown eyes.  Obviously, one of them has brown hair.  And one of them has to be extremely short.  Who has the uni-brow?  Who is left-handed?  Do they both have innies for belly buttons?  Which one has a smashed up little nose?  Who did I get my perfectly-aligned toes from?

And then you begin to wonder about talents and the things you do and are.  About nurture vs nature, even though you don't know that term yet.  You wonder which of your parents can write a story.  Is that genetic?  You wonder which one of them is athletic.  Is that the same as having brown hair?  Your wondering continues every time you do something, for the rest of your life.  Does my birthmother or birthfather do this?  My handwriting looks nothing like my mom's, kind-of like my dad's, but is that genetic?  Who likes to read? 

When you are between the ages of twelve and seventeen, it means you are full of angst. Like every other adolescent. And in that angst, you decide you'd be better off with your birthparents, much like children whose parents are divorced, only you don't have this option because you don't know who the hell these people are or where to find them. You fantasize that they are rich Park Avenue type people, living in high society, drinking their morning orange juice from champagne flutes, having proper tea in the afternoon in china cups, and dining in ball gowns and tuxedos at a long table. In this fantasy, they are anxiously awaiting your return, and will take you on a shopping spree once you find them, so that you can fit in their world, so you can dine with them. Their life, and yours, will be one big party, with no curfews, no grounding, no fights...a perfect, storybook life.

When you are in your twenties, you begin to wonder about medical issues. You wonder about cancer and heart disease and female issues. You start to get irritated because you cannot answer the simple questions at the doctors office. You seriously begin to wonder what is going to happen to you.

You start looking. You wonder where to start. And once you get started, you can't stop. It becomes an obsession. If you are lucky (as I was), it doesn't take long. But it is an emotional rollercoaster.

You get the first letter. It is awkward. You write one back. Even more awkward. What do you say to this woman? Where do you begin the catch-up process? It's been years...do you start at nineteen days old, when you were brought home? Do you start at high school? Do you just ask your questions and hope she doesn't ask any back?

I don't know. I don't even remember much of what was in that first letter. I know I asked if I could ask her questions, because I did ask and got a lot of answers in the ones that followed. I sent some pictures of myself. I received some in return. I guess there is closure in that.  I do know that I am more complete because I could ask.  Because I know who she is.   Because she is now a part of my life. 

Now in my mid-thirties, the need has changed. As it has continued to my whole life. My birthmother and I do not keep in constant contact. We send letters on our birthdays, Mother's Day, and Christmas. She is a person I think of often, though. I am grateful for the decision she made.

I have really good parents. They have taken care of me beyond measure. They have supported me my whole life in every whim and decision. I have a college education. I have a car. I have had a roof over my head for every minute of my life, whether it be theirs or my own. They have given me the skills to participate in the world around me. They have made decisions for the betterment of their family, and I am a part of that family. And they have loved me. Always.

I have a birthmother who has been open and honest with me. 

What does it mean to be adopted?

Nothing. I have a mom and dad like everyone else.

It means I have that two sets of parents loved me so much that they are willing to do the best for me.