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?