Stress: Defined

In one of the stories I'm working on, there's a father who attempts suicide and a mother who explains it to her children by saying that potential is a burden.

I feel very burdened at the moment. Not helped by the fact that there's an full-page article of me out in my Alma Mater's quarterly newspaper - in which I'm touted as being a somewhat successful writer.

It's a small school, what can I say?

I feel pressure to write more, write better, write longer. Yes, longer. I am again beginning to attempt a novel. A different novel, one that I'm excited about, which is good. But it's certainly more mainstream than literary, per say, and I feel a certain guilt, as though by writing such a novel I would be dumbing down to appeal to a larger audience.

But, considering that literary short stories hardly pay the bills (unless you are Alice Munro), perhaps it's time to attempt something with a larger appeal. Something frivolous enough to be an airplane read, or the book that the women in your office pass between cubicles as they each take turns reading it.

As always, most of the stress I'm feeling is monetary. We're contemplating moving elsewhere, as housing prices are much less in other parts of the country. We're contemplating trying for baby number 3, which means we'll need a larger house, which means we'll either need more money, or a less expensive place to buy.

Or, I could get back to work on that frivolous best seller and we could be set for a little while.

Work is something I am disconnecting myself from lately. It's a source of stress, and more expense in gas than it makes up for in compensation. The only reason I have not yet given my notice is that I have already made travel plans using the wonderful discount that I get at this particular brand of hotel. After seven years of extremely discounted hotel rooms, it's hard to give it up.

They also insist on my coming in on Saturday night, which is poor timing, as we had planned a double date to an arena football game on Saturday night. So I am stressed about that.

Mostly, I'm letting stress itself stress me out. And that is never good.

Almost Home

It's nine o'clock and I'm alone in a hotel room next to Penn State. Had some decent steamed tofu and dumplings and now I'm attempting to squeeze the final drops of creativity from my pores before I drive another 8 hours tomorrow and return to my previous incarnation - Mommy.

(Of course, you'll notice that even having said that, I'm typing here and not on a fiction piece.)

Picnic

It starts with a picnic. Why do these things always start with picnics?

Freshman year we had a picnic out on the chapel lawn. Long tables of hot dogs and hamburgers, soft corn on the cob that has been soaked so long it's chewy when it should be crisp. Our entire class spread across the grass in pockets of budding friendships, or relationships that would turn into acquaintances and 'hey, remember that guy?' conversations in four years time. The introductory picnic. I dread these sort of things the way the new kid in town fears entering the junior high cafeteria with a loaded tray and nowhere to sit.

Of course, as the email just arrived in my inbox tells me, the conference next weekend kicks off with a picnic, followed by a reception.

I'm already panicking or racking brain for reasons that I can't possibly make it.

But I am, for the first time in four years, without excuse. My kids will be hundreds of miles away. I will have a car and be in a place with really nothing else to do with myself BUT mingle at with other writer's and work on my own craft.

What have I signed up for?

S I X

Random things, courtesy of Phx.

1. My feet shrunk a size after having kids. A side effect I was pleased with.

2. I hate the telephone. I hesitate to answer it (and yes, I always check the caller ID). I get stressed over making calls on it. Why can't everyone operate via email?

3. When the doorbell rings I will rarely answer it. If we are expecting a delivery, I'll take off to the bedroom and let my husband deal with it.

4. I wonder if I have undiagnosed social anxiety disorder?

5. I let my kids watch PBS until I've had at least two cups of coffee.

6. When I was little, my sister and I decorated toilet paper tubes with markers, cut three holes on the top and then sold them door to door around our neighborhood for 25 cents a pop. We called the trumpets. My mom was not amused and made us go back to return the money.

If I've inspired you to be random yourself, please, consider yourself tagged and let me know.

Status

So here's the shape of things. It's nine-thirty on a Friday and I'm working. And by working, I of course mean binging on dark chocolate (PMS), playing Scrabulous online and occasionally hunkering down and taking out the red pen on the never-ending editing project I (stupidly) accepted for way too little money.

Oh, and I check people in. Four so far tonight. No interesting customer's tonight though. No one lingering to talk about anything more than where they can get the best pizza locally, and how late do they deliver?

My son stuck his head in the toilet yesterday, after peeing.

I have no idea what goes through his little mind, how it brings him to these conclusions. I just don't see how, even a preschooler, can come to the conclusion that yes, absolutely, dunking my clean little face into a potty of pee is definitely the most logical thing to do at this moment. And then I'll go and climb up on Mommy's lap and hug her with my damp little hands and tell her all about it.

So yeah. Work isn't so tough. Aside from that editing project. I haven't spoken of it much, won't go into the gory details. But it's there. And it's a beast.

My alma mater is writing a profile about me for their quarterly publication. They contacted me a couple of months ago to ask if I'd be willing to be interviewed, as someone who is successful in their given field. I agreed, quite flattered and feeling a tad like a sham. I gave them the names of several of my close friends, fellow alums, who are just as creative and successful with their gifts than me. Moreso, even.

Still, they emailed the questions yesterday and I spent last night at work agonizing over how to best explain myself and my work. I'm very uncomfortable in the spotlight, much more now than I was when I was a student at this same school.

Even doing this whole 365 photo project on Flickr, I'm having trouble with having self-portraits up there. It's too much focus on me. I toy around with the idea of shutting it all down, daily. This blog too sometimes. Not that I update it nearly as much as I should anymore, but still. It's shadows of my life, out there, open to the eyes of the world. Very vulnerable, I think. Much like those pictures I keep taking. Not that they're all of me, because they're not. I would never do that sort of challenge (though many, many Flickerites do) - but even taking just "a photo a day" often leaves me scrambling at the end of the day for a subject to snap.

And when in doubt, there I am.

Blueberry

We have friends who are house hunting in this very buyer-friendly market. Not only is the market on their side, but they also have the financial support of family, as well as large monetary gifts from their recent wedding - all to put down toward their first home. All of this is wonderful.

They looked at a large home in a neighborhood the next town over from ours - at our urging (move closer, please!) - and then stopped by to visit with us and the kids before driving the half an hour back to their small apartment. And as we sat around chatting with them about atrocious houses and what they're looking for, what they're willing to spend (versus, what they've been "pre-approved" for), etc.

They are good people, some of our best friends, and I'm so happy for them. But, I'm also human, and can't help but have the fleeting moments of envy at their incredible, unbelievable, good fortune. To be buying in this sort of market (as opposed to when we packed up and moved north to simply afford a teeny-condo over the border), to not have to worry about finances too much (both working full time and also enjoying that cushion of wedding loot), to have the time and energy and funds to devote time to getting their house (whatever one they choose) up into their ideal shape - before having children.

They're looking big. Big yard, finished basements, giant garages. The works. Meanwhile, they sat describing this to us in our 1250 square foot, ranch style home that was built on the rails where a mobile trailer once sat. We are not big. We are not flashy. We do not even have hallways to speak of, more like rooms that just branch off of one another. Our driveway does fit two cars and we do have a deck and a good sized shed, but our neighbors are both trailers. Our neighborhood is entirely mobile. The epitome of low-class, low budget, low, low, low.

I sank into the lowness of it all last night as I slept. I can't remember my dreams exactly, but I know that I woke up this morning feeling lower than I had before their visit last night. I was unsatisfied and bitter and thinking well, we could afford a larger house if we were both working too. And we're only here because the market was so terrible when we needed to buy a place...

And then I reached into the refrigerator to offer my kids yogurts after their waffles. We had a plethora of strawberry, but only one blueberry left. I gave my son the choice between the two and he chose blueberry.

He is now down for an early nap, because as soon as he saw his sister licking the pink strawberry yogurt off of her spoon, he woefully regretted his decision and began to whine for a strawberry cup of his own - even though any other day of the week, blueberry is great, blueberry is his first choice. Blueberry is grand.

As I explained to him that he made his choice, that it was a good one and that there's plenty of strawberry for tomorrow or the next day, I heard my own words come back to myself. Be thankful for what you do have, don't whine for what you don't. I told him.

Of course, he's only three and the whining and whimpering and fretting over every goopy spoonful that his sister loaded into her mouth of that precious, delicious, most amazing yogurt ever - continued and escalated. So, he's down for a nap to settle down and think about thankfulness and what it means to appreciate what we're given.

Now, I'm left sitting here, imagining my life without him. What my life would be had my husband and I waited five or six years into our marriage to have children. What if we had decided to go for the big house ourselves. (And what if we had, and in order to keep it after having children, I would've had to relinquish them to someone else's care five days of the week, and spend my time in an office and on a commute and working for someone other than my family?)

And I realize that these questions are just as silly as my son clamoring for something other than the blueberry he loves any other day of the week.

I've been given more than what I need. I've been given things, people, that I love. And I need to listen to my own motherly advice. Either that, or take a nap.

Marital Bliss

Found this original note "You Stink" above my desk the other day, and of course, responded in kind (and with a grin on my face.) You see, I'm not a romantic, flowers-on-Valentines day sort of girl. I'm a goofy-random-joking-note sort of chick. And my husband is just so sweet.

Can you feel the love?

Just Me?

My husband gave me the word that he won't be able to come with me out to Ohio for the writer's conference in June. I knew he wouldn't be able to, not with having just started at his new position. But still, I had hoped. And when he finally came out and said No, my gut reaction was to backpedal and not go at all.

Am I so co-dependent that I can't even face one week apart from him?

Seven years ago, I was wandering Europe - alone - fully convinced that I would never marry and that this would be my life. Bumping around the world, overnight trains, dirt streets, nickle bread lunches from small town markets, muddy knees, worn boots, hands well used.

Yet, here I am. Mortgage. Cars. Kids. Movie rentals in my mailbox, Amazon.com for my shopping needs (why go out into the world when I can buy things with my finger tips and wearing PJ's?) I walk nowhere alone, unless you count the mailbox.

When I first met my husband, I was a different girl. A behind the wheel girl. Literally, I had a car, he did not. That changed in the first six months of our relationship - he got his vehicle back on the road and I've relinquished the wheel ever since. I guess even more than I realized.

So, I'm trying to warm up to this idea: I'm going on an adventure all my own. A plane ride, a rental car, a week of virtual silence (compared to a house with two children) and a laptop (well, not yet, need to purchase one...anyone have one they'd like to sell for cheap? I can't pay much, but I can credit you in the acknowledge part of my first publication. Eh?)

I'm trying to imagine coffee shops and diners and morning workshops and evenings spent maybe even talking and socializing with other writer's - imagine that. No TV. No sounds of my husband playing Halo in the next room. No cat at my feet or kids on my brain. Just me.

It's almost to crazy to conjure such a possibility in the realms of my imagination. Yet it will be here before I know it.

And just now, typing this, I feel a glimmer of excitement for it. A good sign. Maybe it's not too late for that girl yet.

Satin Ribbon Loving 7/365, originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

From his bedroom window we watch the snow tumble down in stark white clumps and marvel as it piles up our driveway. Maybe we should have some cocoa, he suggests, sound like a good idea?

He speaks like a bonafide little person now and associates snow with cocoa, because it's what we drink after coming in and emptying our boots of damp snow sludge, after we hang our wet mittens above the pellet stove and stuff our socks in the washing machine.

He associates cocoa with warmth and being home.

So we have some cocoa and then he plays, quietly though as his sister naps.

First we try a puzzle, but since it is one he has long since mastered, he loses interest quickly. So we color, write our letters and talk in hushed voices about how much fun we're going to have when Lila-Bean wakes up, when Daddy comes home, when we have cupcakes after dinner. For him, life is all in the anticipation, in the wondering what's going to come next.

I'm a big boy now, I'm not a baby anymore, he tells me. And though it's true, my heart still winces at his words. Because for me, life is all in the moment, the exact moment we're living in. And after they're tucked in at night, I long to have the moments back, to replay hugging their wriggling warm bodies fresh plucked from the tub. To have again the giggles and crumbs and silly outbursts over who's toes would taste better with ketchup at the dinner table. To have them reaching for me, calling for me, wrapping their arms around my legs.

My husband worries that their clinging is overboard, that they reach for me too much and I need to be careful not to cater to their every whim. Which I certainly do not. But I do make exceptions. I'm only human, I bend. And how can I not? If they only want one moment more in my arms when it's all I want from them as well?

Pimping

I may have officially crossed into the realm of pimping myself out. Or at the very least, I have certainly allowed my creative services to be pimped. And I'm not ashamed to admit, I think that I liked it.

I was asked to write an "about me" for someone else. Specifically, it was for a friend...who also happens to be my boss. And the "about me" article was for her online dating profile. And I worked on it while at work, with her giddy, giggling, blessing. So, in a sense, I was being paid to 'get idea's' from other people's online profiles (oh - my - goodness - was that fun) and then try to construct a witty, eye catching profile for her, sure to ensnare Mr. Right (or at least not Mr. Extremely Wrong - which I do worry may be a possibility after seeing some scary profile pictures.)

I also got my first glimpse into the world of online dating, which ultimately became more like a glimpse at how far removed I am from my 'peers.' Not because am married and they're single or because they're looking for relationships online (hello, I am happily married, yet still reach out to stranger's via the blogosphere, because we're human and connecting with other humans is, well, a very human thing to do...) but because these people don't use real words. There are thirty-something's out there using those little text messaging abbreviations that drive me completely insane. LOL. BFF. IDK. (Texting drives me nuts to begin with. Who can press those little buttons anyhow? And why even go through the trouble pressing them when you can just call the person and speak in the time it takes you to send the message?)

In any event, that night I went home and sat down at my own computer and tried to write something, anything, but my brain was acting like sludge. (A side effect of having spent my work hours reading online dating profiles...I think so too.)

In the morning, I finally pulled out something for my friend. Something so sweet and witty and silly that it could only exist in an atmosphere that appreciates the sugarcoated and airbrushed. I worried after I sent it, the same way I worry whenever I'm waiting to hear back from an editor about a story. I worried about wording, pacing, did I make sense? Was it enough? Was it too much?

She loved it. It took her all of a minute to shoot me an email back exclaiming that I rock.

And I thought - really? Is this on a very minuscule scale how it would feel if I 'pimped' my creativity out, if I wrote in the style of some unnamed big author's who have their latest novels everywhere and couch cushions waiting for them on Oprah? Would it be so hard to stop sweating the threads of constructing sound literature (trying to weave the plots and subplots of stories together like threads) - to stop caring so much and just write.

Write fluff. Get paid. And feel...meh? Slightly satisfied to have made someone else happy. Not entirely unhappy myself. A little underused, perhaps. Slightly "I sold out-ish." But, not bad.

Maybe there's room for (some) fluff. Not that I think I could read it myself. But from what this week has taught me, someone else might. And they might even pay me for it.

Staying Home

It's nice. Today is actually my first day without having to go to work at all, but the past two days I have enjoyed having my children all to myself while working shorter shifts, later in the day.

Today is the first time I've attempted to write something new -- in a long time. I've been stuck in a rut, using the whole 'working two jobs, my husband is out of work, I'm going crazy' thing as an excuse to not be productive. Until I learned last night that another of the stories I've been pimping to a couple of literary magazines has been picked up. Which is great, don't get me wrong. It's a fairly new magazine with a lot of buzz and the selection process for publication was quite competitive. So I'm pleased. But this also means that now I can no longer "waste" time submitting it to other journals.

And so now, it's on the shelf for me. Leaving me with a hole in my day. One less story to try to place. Back to the drawing board, so to speak.

I'd forgotten how difficult this is to do with the kids - fighting naptime and demanding things like diaper changes and lunch. Pshaw.

Even typing this - my daughter insists on squeezing herself between my knee and the keyboard and my son just burst from his room (where naptime has apparently failed...again) demanding a cracker - and now I feel terrible because in response to his plea for carbohydrates and artificial preservatives, I snapped at him with a resounding NO!

*sigh*

I'll be back. Maybe.

Happy Day!

In the past week I have nibbled the dark chocolate off of no less than fifty miniature York Peppermint Patties and then wrapped the white centers back in their silver wrappers and stuffed them in my coat pockets (until I could get home and dispose of them properly...because I was driving in the car while doing this, mind you.)

Apparently, this is what I do when I'm overtired, overworked, stressed and PMS'ing.

Thankfully, I have tonight off of work. My hormonal rage is subsiding and my stress is lowering by the second. Today is a good day. Not just an ordinary sort of sun's out and the sky is clear kind of day - no this is a Who Needs Chocolate? kind of good day. A My Husband Just Got A Good Job, kind of day.

That's right ladies and gentlemen, I'm officially stepping down as bread winner. (And there was much rejoicing...)

Not only is his new job a step up in the hospitality field, but it's about fifteen miles closer to home and no longer in another state (that has been stealing pieces of his paycheck for the past three years, even though we haven't lived there...)

All around, today is something to smile about.

In fact. It's something to pack up and finish your work day early about. So that's what I'm going to do.

Go home. Shower my loved ones with love and just be happy.

It's been while.

Yup

You know how it is. Friday night. Midnight, actually. And your husband is playing video games (has been for going on three hours now) so you begin to go a little stir crazy. Maybe camera crazy. And then the next thing you know...

Meh. Oh well. There are worse things I could've done with the past half hour of my life. Besides, I've needed a new profile picture for a while now.

I learned some things while snapping these random pictures. First - I think that I actually prefer these sort of sans make-up (ok, and I hadn't showered either...) late night quick arms-length shots to the type where we try to hard to smile nice and look pretty. And secondly, that if I ever hold the camera above my head, it is impossible for me to take a picture without looking like I'm trying to be seductive...and failing.

In any event - I now have a folder labeled "Boredom Self-Portraits"

(Note, now between taking the pictures, uploading them and blogging about them, I have officially wasted a full hour.)

I wasn't very productive today at work either - something about the day itself had me stuck. Despite all of the mammo technicians in their Patriot get-up's and the shiny football shaped balloon in our lobby (T-minus less than two days until Kick-Off) and the Chinese food that had everyone happy and mingling during their lunch breaks - I was in a funk. Must be the drizzle or the hazy gray skies or the slush that sinks into my sneakers just walking to the car.

It's that time of year again.

Thankfully, for only another month or so.

(At which point, I will have to find other things to blame my procrastination on...)

Ramble Ramble

I'm wondering if I'm normal. Having said that, I also wonder if you are too. No offense. I don't mean to suggest that everyone reading this falls into the category of abnormal, especially not in any perceptible way. I'm simply curious if most of us out there, reading blogs might fall into the same sort of inner-panic that I do. The sort of anxiety that leaves us writing and reading blogs almost as a form of therapy, for lack of a better word.

I myself am perceptibly normal. I bathe. I wear appropriate clothing. I speak clearly, manage (somehow) to function most normally in every situation. Sit. Speak. Eat. Breath. Keep your hands inside the ride at all times. I am a mother of two, for goodness sakes. There's no room for crazy here.

To the outside world, I'm vanilla.

It's the inner struggles that have me questioning my grounding in the realm of "norm"

For example, today I dreaded the holiday potluck here in the spacious (note sarcasm) office kitchenette, as though I were walking into the office of a needle-happy doctor. Caught at my desk by my boss, I followed her at command (I mean, invitation) to the roomful of Christmas-sweater clad middle-aged mammography tech's where I felt immediately out of place, as though I were vibrant and loud like a shrill, shrieking alarm. All eyes turned to me and I shrank back, hoping to disappear between the time clock and bulletin board.

And then they foisted their pot-luckiness upon me. Eat! Try these! And look - feta burritos with cranberries. Cranberries! And I grew more and more uncomfortable. Bumbling, really.

I scrambled to pluck appetizers, scattered them over my plate, snatched a few squares of fudge to bring home for the kids - and then I raced back to my quiet, private office - where all feta-stuffed burritos found their home in my trash bin (cranberries and all.)

And I thought - I wasn't always like this. I was a bold child - a wake-up the neighborhood, go door-to-door with my zany ideas type of child. As a teenager and young woman too - even the things I did, the social situations I was involved in less than a decade ago, all give me anxiety just thinking of them. Have I changed that much? And if so - why? Age? Is all this adulthood finally getting to me? Or is it stress? Stress-induced maturity, leads to social anxiety? What was once OK is now risky, therefore, stressful, therefore, causes me to be anxious?

Or maybe I've just never been a big fan of forced socialization. Maybe my not wanting to participate in a yuletide potluck with a gaggle of virtual strangers is nothing short of normal. Maybe they're the ones who are strange - the people who want to reheat food from their home kitchens and then serve them in a room no larger than the gutted interior of an SUV - maybe they're the weirdos.

Come to think of it, I was almost always home sick from school on Valentines Day. It became like a joke between my mother and I. My sister would go to my classroom after school and bring home my box of valentines and a plate of cookies and cupcakes, and I'd go through the thin paper envelopes in the quiet of my own bedroom. Not much different than today, I suppose. (Though cupcakes fared better than the feta burrito's...then again, maybe not.)

Impatient

See that look in her eye there? It's saying, "Get me outta here! I know I'm a mess and you're only trying to help, but really, look, over there, I should be over there. Seriously. Get. Me. Out. Of. Here."

I've decided to use the impending Nor'easter as an excuse to call off from work on Friday. Not my boring-I'm-overqualified-for-this-job hotel job, but my one day a week office job where they hardly have enough work to keep me busy for eight hours anyway, so I can't feel guilty for not driving the thirty miles to get there in the middle of a snowstorm.

And besides, on Friday my husband has business to do. At least one phone interview, perhaps two. Big things, potentially. Though, very unknown things. We're not even sure what this job he's interviewing for is...or even where the job is.

Did someone say Arkansas?

At this point, I'm so tired that I'm absolutely ready for whatever comes our way. Whatever it takes to get me back home to my children and my writing.

I am that girl in the highchair begging to be let down as quick as possible - messy or not.

Wherein She Lets Go

This has been me as of late. Just plain tired as all get out. And today, slogging through brownish slush to and from my office today, the weather matches my mood.

Lately, as I've gone to work without showering, gone shopping with a baseball cap over greasy hair and without makeup or even clean pants, I've been pondering where exactly the crossover is from simply being tired to "letting oneself go."

And I think I've come to terms today - that the line in the sand is as simple as this:

Tired = too exhausted to physically bother with the process of presenting oneself.
Letting yourself go = Not caring. Not bothering to present yourself at your best, even when you have the energy to do so.

And I am firmly in the latter - but honestly, and this just solidifies my assertion, I don't care. Pimples? Don't care. Lips pale and in need of gloss? Pshaw. Wearing a sweater inside out and sweatpants with holes in the knees? If I'm actually at home long enough to enjoy dressing down like this - then yes, yes and yes.

Things

I'm telling myself that I'm not going to cry.

Again.

I'm caught in a slow moving circle, every few hours feeling weighed down, pressing myself against the sobs, mostly managing to hold it in.

They beat me last night and I choked on my own tears, buried my face in the blanket.

Today has been better. Cried only once. Mostly I've been feeling the swollen pit of it in my stomach, turning sick with this weight, this worry, this anger. This sadness. But I only cried once. And that was only because I talked about it. Thought I could make it without my lip wobbling. But I couldn't.

Our world as we've known it has shifted, been pulled out from beneath us and left me grasping for anything for comfort. I've been telling myself that it's only an inconvenience, not a tragedy. And that the ache I'm feeling is that of change, of being forced out of a comfortable place, and not because it's the end of anything that really matters.

I tell myself these things: At least we have our health. At least we have our children and their health. At least we have family and a home and each other.

At least, at least, at least.

I didn't come here to tell the story again, I'm weary of repeating it, weary of it repeating itself over and over in my mind, feeling it hard and throbbing in my gut. I simply needed to come here for myself. To vent. To feel for a moment connected to something comfortable, something that I'm not letting go of.

I'm here because I'm exhausted and want to scream into ocean, let go of this burden, throw it out to sea and reel back in whatever is waiting to take its place.

But it's October in New England. And the ocean is a long cold drive away.

Blar, Harrumf and Woo-Hoo

There's a man at the hotel (where I pass the time between paychecks,) who uses the expression "Woo-Hoo" endlessly. He is tan, horribly so. His skin has the sort of shiny, stained quality that happens when you've never even seen a bottle of sun screen. Darker than a well oiled, oven roasted turkey. And he stands at my counter chatting most evenings that I work. Woo-Hoo.

He bought a Tiffany bracelet for a former guest of our hotel. He brought it to me, to try it on before he shipped it to her overseas. We're about the same size, you see, this young woman and I. Woo-Hoo.

As the heavy gold links dangled from my wrist, I squinted down at the diamond tennis-balls, set neatly between the two solid gold tennis rackets. A charm bracelet for a princess. I told him it's far too expensive of a gift, for a loved one, let alone someone living on the other side of the Atlantic who barely ranks above casual acquaintance.

No matter. Good things for good people, he told me.

I think about him when I get home, not because he has taught me any sort of life lesson, but because he is, essentially, a character. I couldn't have dreamed up such a quirky individual. A once-upon-a-time minor league baseball player who walked away from the game for a woman. Twenty years and four nearly grown kids with his soon-to-be ex-wife, and a house fire later, he's now living in a hotel, imparting his life's wisdom on the captive audience of the desk staff and buying $2500 charm bracelets for near strangers. Woo-hoo.

And that's just the tip of it.

Such glorious fodder for fiction. Any single thread from the tapestry of my encounters with him could be wound around my fingertips as I type out a fictional masterpiece.

Yet, I'm not typing.

I've got a couple of stories "in progress" - one finished and awaiting revision, the other sitting about half way done, abandoned for over a week, probably wondering if it's been left for dead at this point.

Now that I'm working (more), writing has become (more) like working. The only difference being that I feel guilty when I don't accomplish enough writing, whereas I can go for hours distracting myself at the office and never even consider it as I'm wrestling to get my mind to surrender to sleep at night.

I'm groggy lately too, so that probably has something to do with it. It being this ho-hum feeling of meh when I should be writing.

I'm hoping that our upcoming vacation rejuvenates me. At the very least, it will be over a week of not waking up at 6AM with my son demanding crackers and juice. And maybe that's enough.

Thoughtful

Hmmm, originally uploaded by Mella.

I've been thoughtful lately. Not the useful, purposeful sort of thoughtful though. No, this week has been more the distracted, keep my brain cluttered to avoid dealing with the things that are right in front of me - clear as glass - more filled with thoughts than thoughtful.

More than simply distracted though, because distraction suggests that one is attempting to focus but has been diverted, sidetracked. And clearly, I have been making a point to keep my mind as hyperactive as possible lately on a mission of avoidance. I've had no intention to focus.

No writing done. Not listening to the characters sputtering around in my mind (which almost always leads to these sort of momentary lapses in sanity.) Not paying attention at work. Sort of wading through the days here, though surprisingly more present than when I'm actively writing. Perhaps it's because rather than trying to focus on a story and finding my children to be somewhat distracting (always at the most crucial creative moment), I'm simply off and playing with them. Zooming toy cars around the house, crawling on all fours and sitting on the floor feasting on a plastic food picnic, laid out on a navy striped kitchen towel - set up by my son, who came and took me by the hand from the computer and invited me to shuffle off this adult coil and simply be.

After a drenching rain yesterday, the yard was scattered with leaves and acorns have been popping off of our roof, settling throughout the yard. And so today, I took the kids out to explore in the crisp afternoon. For a short while I traded my worries about finances and jobs and all the rest of the mess mucking up my mind, and I let them scatter like leaves over the grass. Instead of dwelling on the impending sense of dread, of waiting for the shoe to fall, I chose to sit right down on the soft cool ground and let the dampness of the dirt soak through my jeans. I laughed with my children. I played with the new camera that we probably shouldn't have bought in the first place. But for that brief moment, I didn't think about it, or anything else like it. No price tags or oil bills. No buyers remorse or thoughts of our bank account.

Instead, I snapped pictures, marveled at the blessings God has given me. My little home and our little yard. The smudged and smiling faces of my children blinking against the sunlight.

At dinner, as we sat down at a table spread with fine, good, healthy food, we prayed as a family. I peeked up at my son, who sat beside his father, repeating the blessing, thanking God for the beautiful day and for the full plate before him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his head bowed down. I mouthed the words with him. Thank you, Jesus.

And again now as I type this, I'm thankful. For the comfort and clarity of faith. For the reminder that nothing can separate me from the love of Christ - not evil, nor bill collectors, or even my own fruitless attempts at distraction.

Amen.

Three

Time for a Meme.
(Courtesy of Phx.)

Three things that scare me:

1. The fear of anyone close to me dying
2. Heights. I can't even climb a ladder without freezing.
3. Telephone calls between midnight and six am. They almost never bear good news.

Three people that make me laugh:

1. My Husband
2. My Siblings
3. My Friends

(So, I cheated on that one. Sue me.)

Three things I hate:

1. How quickly time passes, and how little I appreciate the moment as I live it.
2. Automatic toilets that flush before I'm done.
3. The fact that I can go out and buy a pair of pants with a ridiculously small number on the tag, and then still come home and find things to pout about in the mirror. Wasn't I supposed to be over that, like, months ago? (Years ago? Forever ago?)

Three things I don’t understand:

1. College football
2. Blind hatred
3. How my son can have a perfect day (potty training wise) and then follow it up with TWO episodes of peeing on the floor - right in front of me. Argh!

Three things I’m doing right now:

1. Playing Scrabulous (so addicted)
2. Rocking side to side (something I've always done, no idea why)
3. Thinking that there are better things to be doing with my time.

Three things I want to do before I die:

1. Be satisfied with something I've written, and hopefully have it be published
2. Travel more
3. Raise happy children to be compassionate, helpful, happy adults.

Three things I can do:

1. Make people laugh
2. Change a poopy diaper in the dark
3. Empty the dishwasher, make dinner & sort laundry - at the same time.

Three ways to describe my personality:

1. Sarcastic
2. Sweet
3. Silly

(I enjoy alliteration)

Three things I can’t do:

1. Work full time
2. Speak fluently in Romanian (anymore)
3. Beat my husband at basketball

Three things I’d like to learn:

1. How to use our fancy-pants new camera
2. How to do anything with my hair
3. How to lose a guy in ten days...Oh wait. I think that was a movie. I was just going with the "How to..." flow

Three favorite foods:

1. Hummus (shocker, I know)
2. Rotisserie Chicken (changing things up a bit)
3. Ice cream (not supposed to have it, thus, I want it. Often)

Three beverages I drink regularly:

1. Waist Watcher's soda (and yes, I know that it's probably altering my DNA and slowly mutating/killing me...)
2. Water
3. That's it, actually. Water and Waist Watcher's Ginger ale. I'm boring.

Three shows I watched as a kid:

1. You Can't Do That on Television (I had a crush on a boy named Alistair, I think)
2. Benson (we used to beg my mom to let us stay up past eight to watch it)
3. Kids Incorporated/Mickey Mouse Club