...Sticks & Stones & Words...

Remember the old saying, “Stick and stones may break my bones, but names and faces won’t hurt me.” Even though we may have said it in a lyrical sort of way, ending with a nah, nah, nah, nah, nah nah. It’s a dangerous lie. Words have spiritual value you know. They can create life in our spirit or they can produce death. Cruel words crush the soul and wound the spirit of the person.

I posted this quote on Facebook and after I did, a barrage of memories of my childhood in the early 60’s came flooding back. I remember my mother telling me to say this when I was at the mercy of some mean nasty kid that made me cry. I remember screaming it at the top of my lungs with tears in my eyes a few times at someone who hurt my friend’s feelings or mine. Sometimes it’s just hard growing up. We took the dose of childhood with a spoonful of caster oil, pulled up our big girl panties, and went forward. I was talking with my husband about our different childhood memories and he chuckled and gave me that look, you know the kind that says, hold on, stop right there, and then he blurts out, “Sounds to me like you were one of the mean kids.” Naturally, I gasped, “Not me,” I replied. “Well,” he says. “Sounds to me any kid that screams at another kid, ‘Your mother wears Army boots,’ is kind of a mean kid, don’t you think?”

“Humph.” Back in the early 60’s that was a common thing for kids to say if they wanted to be spiteful. “But, they said it to me,” I retorted. Any comment made towards someone’s mother was a personal attack. Fightin’ words to be exact. I grew up with a close-knit group of neighborhood kids. We were all born and were raised on the same street. We were the next generation of kids whose older brothers and sisters were in high school or already graduated. Our street was our territory and those who invaded it, most of the time weren’t welcomed. Hmmmm…come to think of it, what I just wrote makes us sound like a bunch of little bullies. I assure you we weren’t. And, we were not the new generation replicas of the Little Rascals either. But there were a couple times someone was initiated into our spur of the moment clubs. We did stupid things to them, like blindfolding someone and making them smell a concoction of rotten fruit that fell off the trees and ended up throwing rotten fruit at everyone in rotten fruit tag. We made up stuff to do and yes, there were a couple kids who were picked on more than others, but no one was ever immuned. Eventually everyone was the blunt of a prank, you know how the saying goes, what goes around comes around. It came around that eventually our school peers picked us on…something like a rite of passage without the ceremony. No one is inoculated from being victimized once or twice in his or her lives.

This leads me back to the beginning of why I started to write today’s blog. Words. Words are spoken from being hurt. Words are written when you’re hurt and can’t express them any other way. Both forms have hurt me. I have hurt others by both. Words can be vicious hooks with enormous power, becoming a living entity that grows, spreads, and influences others directly or indirectly. Words can be taken out of context. I am not above saying I have held grudges because of spoken and written words, hell, I’m the Queen of Grudges! One word, just one frickin’ word out of place driven by emotion can submerge a relationship. I know. I think of my mother cautioning me, “Don’t ever put in writing what you wouldn’t want repeated. You can never take it back.” She was a wise woman in many ways. Now, I will close and let you ponder the power of the written and the spoken word. Notice how it provokes and divides or calms and connects. Does it create and produce change? I have pondered the same questions and my own faults. I am increasingly more cautious in what I say and how I listen to the words around me.

Oh, and one last thought, if you ever hear a kid scream, “Your mother wears Army boots!” Tell them that you personally want to thank her for wearing them and God Bless Her!

Peace everyone...

...Bad Boys & Why We Love Them...

“…Sometimes I'm a strong man

Sometimes cold and scared

And sometimes I cry

But that time I saw you

Knew with you to light my nights

Somehow I'd get by…”

~Stevie Nicks, Leather and Lace

The setting: Menacing clouds continued to move in and hover our little cabin. Thunder rolled and lightening eerily illuminated the darkness. The rain plummeted against the windows and roof with force. It’s nearly midnight and a few friends, girlfriends to be specific, got together. The torrential rain made it impossible to travel unlit flooded roads. The local radio station broadcasted tornado warnings for several more hours, and with the affects of too much wine, we declared it a sleepover. After all, no one had to be anywhere specific the next morning.

I suppose one wouldn’t think of middle-aged women having a sleepover, but the thought of our younger days made us giggle at the suggestion of having an old-fashioned pajama party. Why not, we may be getting older, but some of us refuse to grow up! Candles burned and the conversations varied like the shadows on the wall from the flickering flames. The last and the longest topic we talked about was about boys. Yes, even at our age we still talk about boys like we were teenagers again. Specifically, the conversation was mainly about bad boys and what the attraction to them is. We all dated a few of these stereotyped boys, and a couple of us married them. (Most guys are probably rolling their eyes, you don’t have to finish reading the blog, but I invite you to stay.) Many of the women who have read the first sentence have their eyebrows raised and are now sitting on the edge of their chairs, thinking this may be juicy reading. The rhetoric from a few lit women won’t nearly be as spicy as it was that night, so, I’m just going to highlight the night in a PG rating.

I believe the conversation started when one of us mentioned she wouldn’t mind if a particular movie star, put his shoes under her bed, and naturally, the more recent parts he played were about the proverbial bad boy. Well…after we wiped the drool from our lips, and some racy comments, one thing triggered another and what followed were some observations about the bad boys we have known.  
Some women/girls just happen to think bad boy types are more fun than the jock type guys. Often their boyish mannerisms, no matter what their age, these naughty guys take themselves less seriously, and are often the sexiest. Besides a simmering sensuality, these guys possess a strong physical presence…part primal, part alpha male, with a big dose of testosterone mixed in. They’re the sorts of men most women want to be with. The problem is, they’re likely to be in bed with someone else while you sit around waiting for a phone call.

The bad boys I’m talking about are not the social renegades wreaking havoc in society or the pretty boy toy types. It’s the rugged, Clint Eastwood kind of guy, not the accountant, or in the terms of my generation, the greaser, not the frat boy. Remember all the girls who fell for “The Fonz” in the TV series Happy Days? With the snap of his fingers, girls came cooing from all directions. It certainly wasn’t ole Potsy or Richie Cunningham they were interested in going after. Then there’s John Travolta in the role of bad boy, Vinnie Barbarino in Welcome Back Kotter, or the greaser part Danny Zuko, which the good girl Sandy Olson (Olivia Newton-John) fell for in Grease. The list of examples goes on and on. You see them at the movies, you read about them, and they are the subjects of country songs. These bad boys tempt women because most women find them hot, unpredictable, and mysterious. As outsider types, they are misunderstood or in need of redemption. They’re not bad men/bad boys, they just don’t play by the rules. They often have secrets, and often have been wronged in the past, making it a journey to have their faith in humanity restored.

When we got together for our little tête-à-tête, none of us imagined that we’d talk about this particular subject for the length of time we dedicated to it. (I see you guys rolling your eyes again…Quit! Unless, you’re one of the bad boys, I’m talking about! In that case, read on and let me know if we were off base.) These are some more qualities we discussed to be intrinsic of a bad boy. Bad boys tend to be a lighter sort of guy, not light enough to be considered happy-go-lucky, optimistic, or in any way traditional. The bad boys we’ve known were rule breakers and full of sass and brass, some came with a swagger and a deliberate grin that made you blush. They drove motorcycles and wore leather; they loved hot cars and drove them way too fast. There is something a little dangerous, sexy, irresistible, and macho about a bad boy. They are usually flawed, they’re risk takers, and they are impossible. We feared them and we loved them. They are the type of men women/girls are attracted to despite their mother’s warnings. They’re rebellious and yet magnetic, sort of like heat seeking missiles. Some of the bad boys even come from the wrong side of the tracks, and hated authority. Yet, they were memorable because they were often the most honest and even principled guys we dated. I wondered if the bad boys I crossed paths were somehow emotionally tortured, and haven’t reconciled their needs for love and family.

Most of the time, they avoid or have a hard time admitting they have vulnerabilities. And, the women who are drawn to them stay for the excitement and the thrill of the ride they provide. These bad boys were usually interested in freedom and adventure, over security and safety. Usually, they were unconstrained, untamed, highly promiscuous, and some considered themselves the black sheep of the family. They were not interested in maintaining a certain reputation. They were cocky, straightforward, and extremely self-assured. Bad boys are typically less than noble, or as under control as the straight-laced good guy. The overall conclusion is even when these bad boys are breaking hearts, seeking revenge, or walking barely on the right side of the law, we sometimes empathize with them and are truly fascinated by what makes them tick.

Are you wondering if the women/girls who are drawn to bad boys are bad girls? No, not necessarily. Many times, it’s not the aggressive female who is attracted to these types, but the good girls. The quiet, awkward, don’t make waves kind of girl who were never accepted into a group by their fellow peers, or the wallflowers that were bullied. They are magnetically drawn to the bad boys to be rescued, for protection and acceptance. Perhaps, some women/girls are able to express themselves more honestly and freely with a bad boy, finding friendship and not necessarily a relationship. Unfortunately, for most good girls who hook up with one of these alpha males types, they are sorry to say, penned with the same title, many times strictly by association. It’s the way society thinks. Oh yes, don’t get me wrong, there are the bad girls, and there are the bitches, an entirely different breed from the Pollyanna types who does a complete 180 because they no longer want to be someone’s verbal punching bag. But, that’s entirely a different blog for another day.

...Morning Coffee...

Thirty years ago, I would have never (and I mean that with a capital ‘N’) done what I do now most mornings. For example, I would have never sat and contemplated the world through a picture window. There wasn’t any time for such idle nonsense. What I would do is check the thermometer, looked to the sky for rain clouds and drink my coffee while putting my makeup on. I would have been speeding around the house like Speedy Gonzales, getting ready for work, putting a load of wash in, making lunches, eating on the run, and rushing around during morning rush hour shuttling kids off to school before the daily commute to my 9 to 5. All of this, I did before I took my first breath of fresh air!

If someone told me back then, I would be sitting at my dining room table drinking coffee out of a coffee mug large enough to be a cereal bowl and watching a variety of birds coming and going as they build their nests and forging for food in my backyard, frankly, I would have said, “Yeah, right, in my dreams!” That dream was like all the rest I had...it wasn’t going to happen any time soon!

This morning instead of reading or writing I took my bowl-sized cup of coffee outside and watched, and listened to nature in and around my little world. Once I managed to block out the usual sounds of daily commuters, I focused on the wonders going on in my own backyard and how it applies to the world in which we live. The ants were marching one by one, collectively working together to support the colony. Inchworms were measuring the Marigolds (really, they were...I have Marigolds in the flower garden). Social butterflies flitting around flower to flower. Blue Jays, Robins, Morning Doves, Wrens, Hummingbirds, Blackbirds, and Cardinals feeding on the abundance of seeds, bugs, and acorns that our yard provides. All of them minding their own business, except for the pesky mosquitoes and flies, which are not prejudice who or what they irritate. And lastly, no matter how many times we’ve tried to discourage the squirrels from digging up my bulbs, they sneak around and loot the garden with the quickness of a thief. 

By no means am I an expert on this subject, and it doesn’t take someone with the intelligence of Einstein to observe how human and animal social structures interrelate. We interact with a variety of similarities, the obvious being, to live we need oxygen and nourishment, but what is similar is how practical attempts to survive on a daily basis are solved. I believe this is starting to sound like a term paper, so the best thing for me to do is back up, punt, and get back to the simplistic ponderings I started to write about. Recently, it’s been pointed out to me how easily I can get off track and wonder if it’s a medical thing…yikes!

Returning to my harmonious moment in the backyard garden, the similarities I saw were; social groups, employees, families, homemakers, thieves, home wreckers, racism, acceptance, and to sum it up, an industrial nation of living creatures making their way to survive in the world. I am saddened when I hear of a senseless act of violence on TV, and wake the next morning to find a pile of feathers, knowing an innocent little life was lost to a predator. I am filled with joy when I hear the newly hatched nestlings being fed by their nurturing parents. I am angry when a flock of Crows scares off the other birds or raids a nest. I am satisfied when the Red Tailed Hawk runs the Crows out of its territory with the precision of a fighter jet.

Off in the distance the sound of a train whistle echoed, taking my mind back to a different time. A reminder when my life was filled fulfilled with simple pleasures, like the smell of Lilies of the Valley and Lilacs. Searching for the elusive four-leaf clover and making clover necklaces, Kool-Aid tea parties and running through a sprinkler. When was the last time you poured yourself a generous cup of coffee or tea and listened (I mean really listen), to the great symphony nature performs for free?

Enjoy your day with peace and love…

...Pondering About Change...

“We are taught you must blame your father, your sisters, your brothers, the school, the teachers - but never blame yourself. It's never your fault. But it's always your fault, because if you wanted to change you're the one who has got to change.” ~Katherine Hepburn, Me: Stories of My Life

“They say a leopard doesn’t change his spots; do you think that people ever really change the way they are?” This was the topic of a few conversations I’ve had recently. These are a few more responses I heard, “The only time in the lifetime you can change someone is when they are in diapers.” Another one was, “People don’t change, they redirect, i.e. a recovering alcoholic is still an alcoholic, they are just redirected.” And another response, “Change is much easier if one is motivated to change. If one is unmotivated, it is difficult, if not impossible, to force a change just because you want it to happen.” This question usually pops up when someone is frustrated with another’s behavior and has “tried everything” to get that person to change his ways. When nothing makes an impact, the pessimistic conclusion is that change is not possible.

In my opinion, for what it’s worth, there is truth in each one of these statements. I’m not sure if I entirely believe in the first response, but it did make me laugh. I believe the second statement is more accurate. Change doesn’t take place magically like it does in fairy tales. Sure, you can fantasize that people can change their habits the way they change their clothes. Just do it! Snap out of it! Out with the old and in with the new. Kiss a toad and find a prince. Sorry, this is not the way change works in the real world. Someone can't change if they can't see themselves doing anything wrong. But you already knew that, didn’t you?

I believe people can change, but I believe change takes time. From my personal observation, change that lasts precipitates from a crisis or some earth shattering epiphany and it doesn’t always include certain character traits. You have to feel it in your marrow before real true change can happen. When change happens quickly, I’m not certain it rarely lasts. It’s exhilarating when someone is stimulated by a motivational speaker or captivated with the achievements of reality show contestants, or even momentarily electrified by a spiritual leader. I know, because I have felt those temporary sensations. They are great ways to jumpstart change. But I also know that meaningful change, like honesty, love, and trust, must survive the test of time.

At times, I have thought that a narcissistic personality prohibits a person from truly changing. I discussed this notion with a “professional” and he confirmed much of my thinking is true by enlisting these following comments: “Narcissists seek out relationships that will feed their ego. People in their lives are treated as extensions of themselves. Whatever they want, the other person should want. Narcissists can, at times, by quite generous with others. Their generosity, however, has to feed their ego and their sense of importance. Narcissists need continuous validation from others to feel good about themselves. Feeling empty on the inside, they have an insatiable need for praise and acknowledgment from the outside, and show little empathy for others. Looking at a situation from a different viewpoint is either foreign to them or is shrugged off as unimportant.”

Yes, this was a fascinating conversation, which makes me ponder the phenomenal success of social networking websites. We show others our narcissist tendencies when we feel the need to post something about our lives (which I’m guilty of) and wait for others to “like” or “comment” on our statuses. We look for those we lost touch with until our eyes bleed, the jock, the cheerleader the most likely and the less likely to succeed, the old lover, the nerd, and of course, our childhood friends. We continue to judge them by the content of their posts, only to discover, in our minds, some of them have never changed. So, why do we continue to be voyeurs and continually visit their profiles to validate our suspicions? The answer…the need to know is inherent of human nature, and to prove without a doubt our suspicions were right. After Harry left Sally, what became of him and had he changed his cheating ways? Who did Sally marry after the break up? Our feelings, our lives, our children’s and our grandchildren’s lives are displayed for John and Jane Q World to see and interact with. While we are looking at them to see if they changed, they are looking back at us. Did we measure up to their expectations? Scary isn’t it? Then you wonder about change…

..."Inducing the artistic coma"...

When Will I Find The Time

by Monica Sharpe

Today

I stopped writing

to make coffee

to read the newspaper

to shower

to put a load of wash in

to water the outdoor plants

to check the mail

to pay a bill

to send a birthday card

to call a friend

to put the wash in the dryer

to vacuum

to mend a snagged sweater   

to make lunch

to fold laundry

to go for a walk

to check my email

to answer a letter

to plant flowers

to make a cup of tea

to run errands

to make supper

to check my email

to chat on Facebook

to put laundry away

to shut off the computer

and then I wonder

at the end of the day

where I will find time

to write great things

This poem depicts how some days, my busy little activities along with the more serious commitments nibble away at my concentration. I get mad at myself when I cannot achieve a significant amount of words, whether it is in the form of a poem, a short story, or my novel. Trouble is, I want it all. I want to make more quilts. I want to learn how to do stain glass. I want to be like Martha Stewart in and around my home, and I want to paint with ease like Bob Ross.              

It occurred to me that my mother was at heart an artist. She never had idle hands. She crocheted tablecloths, afghans, doilies and baby clothes. She was a seamstress and designed her clothes. She wrote songs and stories. She could draw. She did a lot of different things, a little bit. As I recognized this about my mother, I also saw myself. I know how to do many things, a little bit.

A fellow writer told me that the achievement of a mature artist is a balanced life. We need the benediction of daily necessities, such as cleaning, gardening, cooking and playing. Ordinary life informs our writing, heals our spirits, and keeps us from going, simply nuts.

Maybe, I will never turn out to be the notable writer I dreamed I would be some day, simply because I want it all. There are too many forms of self-expression and so many things I like, and want to do. So, until I can figure out what venture will come next, I will take another walk and think about what I will write about next, then try my best to “induce the artistic coma.”

Today's Pondering...Karma

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow once said, “If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we would find in each person’s life, sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.”


Everyone is suffering in one way or another. Some suffering is obvious; some is subtle. The fact is that few people in the world have found true permanent happiness. Most others suffer in their constant striving for approval, for pleasure, for respite from all kinds of hungers, for freedom from all kinds of thoughts and entanglements.

I fit in the last category. I have looked deep within and see that my own anger, restlessness, and abruptness have hardened the shell, shielding pain and anger. I’ve said it before, that I am no good at confrontation. It doesn’t mean that I am not compassionate or that I’m not aware of the suffering of another, coupled with the sincere wish to relieve it. It also doesn’t mean I am not willing to be compassionate before I have allowed myself to come to know what is inside me, before I feel my own outrage or fear. There is a cycle of healing, to experience, release, and transform, and we often have to live through the full cycle to heal.

I don’t feel I want to obscure the emotions I feel…the anger, fear or resentment, but I am working towards a more expanded understanding, that first by experiencing those things, I can move to other stages of self fulfillment, including the compassion I feel for myself. Eventually, I will come to see that everyone who makes another one suffer is also suffering greatly, and more than likely, has suffered at the hands of another.

I had a recent conversation with my son about karma and destiny. You know “what goes around comes around”…and “karma’s a bitch.” There is a great deal written about karma, which asserts that your suffering is preordained as a result of previous actions that you’ve taken in other times. I also think karma is stemmed from our roots, physical issues, illness, pain, hunger, and poverty creating states of human suffering and misidentifying ourselves as a being separate of those things. I relate what I just said the Hank Williams song, ‘Family Tradition.’

Okay, I’m getting off the path I started on, my mind wanders, and some days I wonder if I’m a prime candidate for ADD. Who know, maybe I am. I’m looking out the window, I see the sun is shining, the temperatures are rising, flowers blooming, and yes, my mind is wandering. With a broad smile on my face, I know it’s a good day to be alive!

If you’ve followed my journey this past year, you’ll see I ride a rather large wave. I’ve never been surfing, but I have experienced being in a boat in a storm. First, you’re looking up to the dark ominous sky, then in the blink of an eye, you’re staring at the water, all the while wondering if your little boat will plummet towards the bottom of the ocean. Not all my emotions are on the surface, but you have an understanding how I strive for contentment!

Peace…

...The Circle...

“The Circle has healing power. In the Circle, we are all equal. When in the Circle, no one is in front of you. No one is behind you. No one is above you. No one is below you. The Sacred Circle is designed to create unity. The Hoop of Life is also a circle. On this Hoop, there is a place for every species, every race, every tree, and every plant. It is this completeness of Life that must be respected in order to bring about health on this planet.”
~Dave Chief-Oglala Lakota~

Sometimes, I can be a little dense not being able to see the forest through the trees. I also been told I must live in a dream world, yeah right. Life is not always viewed through rose-colored glasses, but I tried to wear them every chance I got. What can I say, I liked the cheery color. Okay, enough of the clichés and get back to the point I’m trying to make.

Sometimes, I thought an achievement needed to be monumental or else it doesn’t count. That’s how I viewed most of “my” adult life. I gave it my best shot when I gave 120%. I was at times an overachiever. I was competitive in my personal life and in business, the typical Type A personality. I was also accused of flitting around like an unsettled fly when something needed to be done or was out of place. I fidgeted (I know, I know...the term is OCD) until it got done or forced myself to walk away, wondering if anyone else noticed, and if it bugged them too. You know, like that crooked picture in a public place, or the piece of rice balancing on the man’s beard which is sitting in the booth in front of you at an upscale restaurant. It’s hard to restrain yourself from doing or saying something about it. In today’s world, I would probably be accused of shoplifting if I tipped the picture, or the stacked brunette sitting across from the man in the booth would threaten me with the nearest steak knife, then badger the poor guy all the way home about the “other woman.” Yep, I can picture that happening, and I’ll bet you can too!

So back to the big picture and yes, I am taking the long way around. Sorry. Well, I looked at the whole panoramic picture. I couldn’t find myself, “Someone must have painted over that portion,” I told myself. The artist surely must have made a mistake. I fretted over decisions I made, and those I didn’t have any control of. Recently, we chose to live a simple life with simple pleasures, like the “old” days. It worked for a while, and then I lost sight of what I was trying to accomplish and reverted back to my old habits and ways of thinking. My thinking isn’t about the amount of material things we own, like the saying, “Those with the most toys wins?” I often wondered, what exactly do they win? They can’t take their possessions with them in the end, and quite frankly, the behavior bores those who they compete against. What I lost was the inner peace, and being content with who I am.

Yesterday, I heard the voice of a stranger loud and clear in the form of an email. She thanked me for my written words of encouragement on an Internet suicide site I posted on over a year ago. She has been following my blogs since. I don’t know where she lives or how old she is, but, I know her name and that makes her very real. I get many emails after I post from people who don't want others to see their comments, but this particular one was special. The reason it’s special is because her words touched my heart and it had perfect timing. It’s not fair to disclose anymore than I have already said about her. It is I who should be thanking her, and everyone else with his or her kind words of encouragement and healing energy. I very sincerely, Thank You!

Let me back up a bit, most of those who read or subscribe to my blog know about my fight with depression. It’s been out of the bag for a while and I work on my positive thinking daily. For months, I have prayed diligently to God to hear my pleas. I prayed to please give me purpose and clarity or let me die. People, who don’t suffer with depression, just don’t get it. I have it, and I don’t get it either. I tell myself it’s all in my DNA and I can rise above it. Right? Yes, I can and I have, but it’s not easy. I know you don’t want to keep hearing the same damn thing every time I write, so, I’ll zip it.

In the exact words of my friend, “And the dawn came up like thunder!”

The Southern Gospel Choir is now singing, “Halleluiah, Halleluiah!”

Something finally clicked as I read this young girl’s letter. I don’t know who is responsible for the quote, “ Q. How do we change the world? A. With one single act of random kindness at a time.” Every time I post something, whether it’s on the Constipated Woman or other public forums, I may be touching another through my words. Yes, I admit I am hardheaded and deaf to believe God actually heard my prayers. I don’t know why, because he has answered countless others. And, I have to remind myself it’s not the monumental things that matter, but the kind words of another, a smile or a small insignificant gesture. You know, all the good stuff we attempt to pay forward!

I am lucky enough to know two women of Native American Indian descent, both spiritual, and both supportive. Everyone who has friends like that should be thankful to have that special kinship. You know who you are, and Thank You for the continuous flow of positive energy!

God Bless & Peace to All.

...I want to be just like him...

Two blogs in one day...I think I just broke my record!

I have to quit writing so late at night. My mind doesn’t shut down when my head hits the pillow. It continues to search through that “junk drawer” for the next inspiring thought, the right word that’s hiding under the pile of nuts and bolts, or a memory that makes me jolt out of bed and back to my laptop. That didn’t happen last night, but, when I woke this morning the first thing I thought of is a curmudgeon. Strange, huh? I thought it was too.

Curmudgeon, an interesting word isn’t it? The first words that come to mind if I didn’t know what the word meant would be another description of a troll, an ogre, or an uncouth Neanderthal of sorts. We’ve all known a few curmudgeons throughout our life and right now, I can name a handful of them.



Not long ago, we went to the funeral of a business associate. The minister was a friend of the man who passed away. I remember my reaction when he referred to the deceased as a curmudgeon several times throughout the eulogy. I was stunned and almost appalled that someone, even a friend, would candidly speak about him in that way. As the minister proceeded to speak about his friend, he pointed out all the good he did and all the selfless hours he gave of himself to influence the youth in our community. I saw the expressions on many faces soften, many of those, including myself, who probably never knew a fraction of the things he was involved in, and I can truly say when the service was over, I am glad our paths have briefly crossed.

Today’s thoughts are not about the loss of someone I wish I knew better. It’s about how people perceive a curmudgeon. The label usually refers to a crotchety, ill-tempered old fart. A cynical party pooper who likes to piss on a parade once in a while…a pessimist, full of resentment and stubborn notions about too many subjects to list today. A good portrayal of some curmudgeon’s is done through primetime adult cartoons, for instance, when Homer Simpson’s dad, Grampa Abe Simpson (I had to google his name) comments on all the ugly people. Did he not look in the mirror? No, I don’t watch those kinds of shows. Unfortunately, I am one of millions who are subjected to seeing clips on the network that promote them. I consider it a waste of my time and my intelligence which I will never get back…but, maybe some of those writers know a few curmudgeons and poke fun of them while possibly trying to make a point. Who the heck knows.

The curmudgeon’s I personally know have a rough, in your face exterior, and scare most people off for one reason or another. Maybe it’s because they don’t have “happy” eyes. I’m not going to delve into those reasons, because there are too many scenarios, like there are too many personalities. But, if you ever get to know one, under that burnt crust lies a heart of gold, and he will “give you the shirt off his back” with genuine generosity and probably a smile on his heavy lined face. He’ll also tell you not to tell anyone or he’d have to kill you.

Curmudgeons are proud, but misunderstood. They walk a straight and narrow line, and most will tell you the truth, however blunt it may be. People don’t like hearing the truth and avoid confrontation with them, therefore, pegging them as opinionated assholes. I don’t know what made them the way they are. However, if you do know one, you can only surmise something happened in their past that made them who they are. But, (here’s the big but) then again, some may have just inherited the asshole gene. As I said before…who knows.

Once you get to know a few of these misunderstood curmudgeons, you will discover they are some of the most loving, kind and giving folks, you have ever known. Some of them are happy with themselves and boldly defend their convictions and/or the rights of others. Nothing seems to bother them. They can tell you where to go and give you instructions on how to go about doing it. They can balance their problems firmly on their large shoulders and gently let it roll down and bounce off their asses. And, they can do it without anyone seeing how it’s done.

Everyone puts a guard up to keep from being hurt or used at one time or another. Some of those guards are invisible as we are force fed the verbal abuse put on our plates. I’m tired of being prim, proper, and “nice.” I secretly envy curmudgeons. I always have, and I want to be like one. I want to be able to tell someone to f#%k off without guilt. I want to know where I can take lessons before I’m too old and don’t give a crap. So, if you or someone you know is willing to accept cash…I will be a willing participant!

Peace…

Tonight's Pondering ... “Déjà Vu.”

“Déjà Vu.” What a sexy expression, don’t you think? My heritage is French, and I love this expression derived from the French meaning, “already seen.” Unfortunately, I do not speak French, but I can understand a little if someone speaks slowly. This pondering is not about sex, although that would be a delicious subject to write about…but, not tonight.

Most of us, I’m sure, have experienced something familiar with the reaction, “I’m certain I’ve been here,” or “Hey, I think I’ve done this before.” I know I have, numerous times. Déjà vu sparks a memory of a place we have already been, maybe a person we have met before, or the feeling we’ve done an action before. I have been in tuned to these feelings most of my life and tried to figure them out. Is it a signal to pay attention to what is taking place or maybe complete what hasn’t been finished? I don’t know.

Some say it may be a past life experience, a memory from a dream, a precognition or even reincarnation. I think it’s something unexplained, something beyond the limits of memory, an offering to expand knowledge about ourselves. I don’t know about you, but when that vivid sensation overcomes me, I don that blank “doe in headlights look,” trying to decipher when or where it took place. Then, when I happen to look off to my side, I see the look of bewilderment washing over the face of whomever I’m with, and he or she wants to know what I was smoking or what planet I was visiting.

But seriously, most of us are raised to consider that anyone who isn’t a member of our family or an immediate group of friends, to be a stranger. Then there are times, you meet a total strange and something clicks, you feel deep inside you’ve known for years. I have been fortunate enough to know a few friends like that. This is what prompted me to write about this subject tonight. You feel comfortable in each other’s presence with no pretense. You can talk to them about anything and they understand exactly what you’re trying to say. You share experiences and you laugh easily with them. The tone of their voice, the way they drink their coffee, all seem commonplace and perfectly natural. It isn’t that they remind you of someone else or their qualities are simply enchanting. You don’t relate to them as strangers, but as an equal with whom you share like mind and in some cases, soul. It’s mystical, it’s magical and sometimes…just plain groovy!

Time to end my pondering…


Peace…

Vulnerabilities...

I read mostly fiction as a steady diet. I read into the wee hours of the morning, or while I should be writing. While I indulge in this reading spree to research factual characteristics for my fictional characters, an important realization was taking place, even fictional characters are vulnerable, and for me, it’s the essence behind writing my novel.

I mused about this concept while I read, walked, pulled weeds, and cleaned house. I kept thinking about the idea of vulnerability how it applied to my life, my relationships, and my sorrows. I cannot speak for your vulnerabilities, but I’ve been ripped off, lied to, slandered, gossiped about, slapped, falsely accused and had my truths not believed. I’ve had my heart broken, my pride stomped on, witnessed unforgivable acts, and heard words that hurt so much I wish they didn’t keep replaying in my mind—but they did and still do. In all these moments, some tear soaked, some life defining, but all of them character building moments…I have felt vulnerable.

I believe when a person feels scared, and alone, and overwhelmed, and pissed off, when the sting of unfairness sinks its teeth in, bites deep and makes you miserable, it makes for a great story. We don’t—well let me clarify that—I don’t, read fiction to follow the perfect lives of perfect people who float through blissful days filled with sunshine and baby bunnies. Instead, I/we want to wallow in a character’s misery and struggles, to plunge into his or her emotional depths, to experience the doubts, worries, and pains of someone else to lessen my own vulnerabilities.

Doing everyday tasks and when I write, memories of my childhood vulnerabilities would strike with another vivid snapshot. One of the first was down in our basement, which was set up as our family room. It’s where we all watched television, of the black and white variety. It was a dark, stormy Saturday afternoon; my brother had a friend over and we watched The House on Haunted Hill. Out went the lights—naturally, the only way to watch that type of movie—I thought it was big stuff to be watching a scary movie with my older brother. But the boys decided to tease me and as a joke, for the duration of the movie they grabbed me from behind, screeching and imitating the witch. I sat there terrified, unable to move, with my heart beating out of my chest. For years, I envisioned, whenever I walked into a dark room, a bony claw would clamp down on my arm. Because of many more incidents like this, it’s no wonder Halloween was never a favorite holiday.

In our childhood, we also first meet real life bad guys. These cruel lessons come in the form of a classroom bully, a sadistic cousin (yes, I had one of the worst), a teacher who has it in for you, (I had a couple of those too), or just a creepy stranger. At an early age, we learn distrust and unease, and because life holds dangers, we discover that it takes resilience and courage to navigate through our days; sometimes doing things, we’re not very proud of. These are the type of incidents that make up the heart of tantalizing fiction. And, these are the type of memories I touch on when I write. We all can relate to vulnerable characters in precarious situations, because we’re well acquainted with our own fears and feelings of vulnerability.

Peace everyone...

"What's Love Got To Do With It?"

It has been said that when a friendship is in trouble you need to change the rhythm of how and when you see each other. I suppose this applies to marriage too. I am still in the process of eliminating the ghosts that have filled my space…

I was cleaning closets and drawers and underneath my nightgowns, I pulled out the stack of cards and letters from my husband and reminisced through each occasions with absolute clarity. I sat on our bed and neatly sorted them by years. I never found it comfortable to receive…not gifts, compliments, sex or even attention. It’s astonishing how quickly we fall into a cycle of withholding. Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that the real problem was not my ability to receive, but the inability to give what I needed. The lack of trust intensified the problem and forced me to hold myself from the one I loved. I learned I was the only person capable of taking care of my happiness, and my life…and without each other giving and taking, our love would not have survived.

While I was tripping down memory lane, I heard Tina Turner's scratchy wail on the radio, “What’s Love Got To Do With It?” and thought, what does love have to do with it? What does love have to do with a long-term marriage? I couldn’t come up with an immediate answer, but I do remember some old chemistry that made us gel, and a whole lot of hopeful projections about who we thought each other was to the other. Here we are today, rapidly approaching thirty-nine years together, still separating our differences making something new everyday out of the old stuff.

We were once those golden people but we are not any longer…not better nor worse, only different. Certain experiences leave a mark on you. You look back and think, I’ll never be that way again. Like everyone before us and around us we are, have been, and are being tempered by life. These pictures and mementos I hold dear to my heart feel dreamlike, as if the experiences didn’t happen to me, yet it was my life and I did live it.

“Never, never again,” says the poet Kathleen Raine. “This moment, never, those slow ripples across smooth water, Never again these clouds white and gray…The sun that rose from the sea this morning will never return, for the broadcast light that brightens the leaves and glances on water will travel tonight on its long journey, out of the universe, never this sun, this world, and never again this watcher.”

Thoughts...

Bring up the topic of ghosts at any gathering and most of the guests will be able to contribute an anecdote of a sighting or a haunting usually set in an old building. I don’t know about most people but I’ve never been haunted by other people’s ghosts as much as I have been haunted by my own.

What haunts us most is what lies beneath the psychic surface of our own lives. The things stuffed away in the back of a closet, and the things that fall or go bump in the night which are buried in an attic or the basement all of it crying out to be buried, once and for all. They eventually become ghostly receptacles for all our thoughts, feelings, experiences and reflections.

Did you ever turn the key of a memory and have the hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you go through certain rooms or different houses in your life? What is it that makes your breathing shallow? What memory triggers a panic attack? What closet won’t you open? What piece of furniture do you walk by and sigh? Do you suppose it’s because we have a hard time letting go of physical possessions and mental images that we adore ghost stories?

Pondering...

I wonder how many people think of someone very special in their lives when the Lady Antebellum song, 'Need You Now' plays on the radio.  I wonder how many people look at the time and when "it's a quarter after one,"  reminisces about the special moments with that special someone again...and reflects...

Constipation...

Constipation…A condition in which the emptying of waste matter is infrequent and difficult.

Day after day you keep the internal gases building before you can’t take anymore and just BLOW! You know you have this condition when you look at yourself in the mirror and see only a shell of what you could be. Then the light goes on, and you realize you are exhibiting the symptoms of an acute case of opticalrectitis; the condition when your optical nerve is connected to your ass and thus, produces a shitty outlook.

I have to confess I have been constipated for almost my entire life, dating back to when children need to be seen not heard, always remaining prim and proper. If you can’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all. I turned the other cheek and the sticks and stones and names did hurt me. I’ve listened to monotonous stories over and over about things I’m not interested in then politely smile while my ears bleed.
We learned to keep our mouths shut to avoid an argument; after all it’s their word or no word. No compromise. Don’t make waves. Don’t grow in education or socially or else he’ll think you’re trying to be better than he is. You knew who he was when you got married and don’t expect him to change. Please put the toilet seat down. Please, honey this. Please, honey that…

It doesn’t matter what walks of life you are from, rich, poor or somewhere in between; just know ladies, we are all bitches and our men will agree we don’t give them any rest. As bitches, we will not forget every little thing that a man, and as matter of fact, anyone else has done to us. We will not forget every sweet word and definitely not every hateful word said to, or about us. The lethal combinations of words and actions begin the gases to build over a period of time. We feel it churning and wrenching our stomachs till we are so bloated we release it by spewing harmful rhetoric…then wish we remained constipated…and then, the cycle begins again…Smile!