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.

Avoidance

There is much going on lately. Travels (and returns) - Car problems (and resolutions) - Stress (and more stress) - Planning (and daydreaming.)

But there are also reminders of grace and joy. There is the buzz of hopefulness and curiosity. We are walking around with thought bubbles, the constant chatter in our minds of what-if? and why not?

Yet none of this is conducive to writing. The pit in my stomach, the nervous energy, the daydreams - distractions, all.

I have not written a clear sentence in weeks.

Monday

I may have ADD

These are some of the assorted thoughts pinging around in my brain at ten to midnight when I should be sleeping and not, well, blogging.

I can't believe I listened to the entire Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch song "Good Vibrations" while driving to work this morning.

I can't believe that I think I might have enjoyed it.

Check Duotrope

Of course I enjoyed Good Vibrations. I was a tween/teen in the 90's, living near Boston.

Hummus

Man, Marky Mark really worked his career pretty well - from underwear advertisements to leading man in Hollywood.

Scrabulous

Why am I still thinking about Marky Mark?

Blueberries would be perfection...but only if they're on sale (and there are at least two that look slightly under ripe in the container. I like them tart.)

Do I like the name Sunday Rose?

Does it matter?

No.

My hair is purple (unfortunate self dye job) and frizzing out in the humidity.

Wordle.

Why didn't I spend more time on the treadmill this afternoon?

Humidity.

I wonder if anythings been updated at Duotrope.

Nope.

I wonder if my submissions have been lost - or if I'm just never going to hear back from a certain few places.

Birds. Migration. I should hurry up and finish Birds in Fall so that I can stop staying up late to read.

Who am I kidding. Then I'll just be online instead.

So

A guy walks into a bar...

Or actually, a hotel lobby where we sell beer and wine, though he is clearly not in need of either. The only thing he needs is a shower, a breath mint and a good night's sleep. But instead of any of those things, he decides to stand up at the front desk and tell me his idea for a movie.

Fantastic.

It's an hour until the end of my shift and I was stupid enough to tell the man that I have a degree in writing. When will I learn to lie to the people who ask me questions about myself? What's that? You want to know my story? I actually dropped out of high school, have four children and am working fifty hour weeks to pay for my raging addiction to nasal spray.

But no. Instead I stand, smiling until it hurts, and listen to drunk men talk (to themselves mostly), nodding appropriately.

Tonight's gentleman points out his wedding ring no less than ten times and assures me constantly that he has never strayed.

Really? High five, man. You want a sticker? I might have one with our logo on it.

Anyway, he goes on to tell me, in riveting detail, the opening scenes for his movie idea. Which is basically Lost in Translation, only set in New Orleans. And, since he's drunk and my time is just about up, I'm honest with him when I tell him that, Yes, it has been done before.

It's not always like this. There are some guests who come in (and who are generally sober) that I genuinely look forward to chatting with. One such guest came down to the desk twice last night, but was too polite to stick around after he checked on his next reservation, not wanting to interrupt my conversation with sketchfest-here's-my-movie-idea-man.

But enough about work.

Home life has been good. In an attempt to trim my daughter's bangs from dangling over her whole face, I've officially given her a mullet (in case the God given one that she had was not bad enough.) It wouldn't be so bad, if we didn't already live in a part of Southern NH where mullet's are considered a part of local culture. (On a good day in the summer you might even spy a rat-tail.)

Writing-wise, things are going well. The piece that I was asked to rewrite a few weeks ago was accepted. So, that's three pieces coming out in the next few months. Not a bad start to the new year. I'll let you know when things are out (some will even be available online...)

Editing-wise, things are slow. I'm behind on my biggest project, partly due to the cold that tore through my house, but also because I was thrown a couple of curve balls (ok, the same person who requested that I write a letter on plagiarism for her about a year ago, asked me if I could basically whip up an entire thesis for her...due this week. Obviously, this was a no go. But she is family, so I'm trying to help as much as possible, without being responsible for any form of cheating.)

And now that I'm officially rambling - I'm going to stop. Will return with more concise thoughts later. Sooner than later.

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.

Preschool and Blankets and Hammer Pants, Oh My!

I'm working today. All day. Two jobs, until 11. Can you see my megawatt smile gleaming through your monitors? No? Odd.

In protest, I've spent most of my time here (job number one, AKA "the office") working on finding a preschool for my son. Unfortunately, most preschools have a "must be four" by September 30th cut off. And so I'm now considering nursery schools, for which programs are given ridiculous or completely random names. Camelodopheri (seriously), Pisces (other groups include the Little Dipper's and Aquarius...), and most any derivative of Teddy Bear or Snuggle Bug you can come up with.

And some of these places are just ridiculous. Sweet Pea's wants us to fill out a questionnaire, all of us. My son would need to list his favorite foods and colors (as well as name his friends, pets and relatives...) whilst my husband and I answer such subjective questions as:

How is your child special and unique?

What are we? Snowflakes?

When I step back and remove myself from the fact that I'm actually, officially, considering sending my son out into the world to be cared for (and taught by) another human being, I freak out a little and somehow feel as though I'm admitting failure. Which isn't the case. I think that my son is smart and developing well at home under our guidance. I just want to give him an opportunity to socialize (re: get used to not being around me 24/7 - which might allow us to sit through an entire sermon without him screaming bloody murder from the children's church room...)

I went to preschool and wasn't damaged by it, for goodness sakes. I even met my first little boyfriend and smooched him behind the trashcan while at good 'ol Paddington Station (apparently names haven't gotten any better or worse in the past couple of decades...and as for the boyfriend and I - we did actually reunite briefly in junior high, but ultimately his MC Hammer pants and flat top proved to be more than I could handle.)

Still, Mommy guilt is sneaky and it's getting to me a little over this. And worse, it's a double edged sword - I feel guilty for sending him out (for six to twelve whole hours a week without me - the horror), and if I kept him home I'd feel guilty for not giving him the opportunity to be apart from me and learn from other's.

Of course, I've been letting Mommy guilt get to me a little more lately anyhow. It started with the kids not settling easily the other night for bed. When I went in to check on them, my son asked for a glass of water, while Lila was curled in a ball, rocking back and forth, face down on her blanket, moaning "Blanket...blanket..." I delivered the water, blew kisses and left thinking how adorable it was that my daughter is so attached to that darn blanket.

Fast forward five hours. It's after midnight and we're getting ready for bed, before I stand up from the couch, I realize my daughter's blanket is laying on the carpet at my feet. How had I not noticed that? And the realization dawns - she wasn't snuggling with her blanket, she was sobbing FOR it.

And so began a week of feeling inadequate over the all but irrelevant parts of our lives. Though, I do have to say I'm pretty proud of Lila for self-soothing herself to sleep without going into a tantrum for lack of her precious blanket. Not that she normally does resort to tantrums...but she is getting ever closer to the dreaded two's (which started at about 18 months with her brother.) So I worry.

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.)

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.

Because Pictures Make Easier Posts

I have a few posts bobbing in and out of focus at the moment, and I have an hour or two here in the office to attempt to grab at least one of them and wrangle it into submission, into a post that isn't simply a photo-update of my life.

But since pictures are easy and at the moment words are elusive, here is another photo post while you wait for me to formulate something coherent.

I post a lot of photos and stories of my children here, some cute, some funny and some that might even be considered embarrassing. Out of fairness, knowing that their embarrassing, humorous experiences have only yet begun, and that I will most likely retell and photograph them, because I know myself and know that I have a hard time not sharing a good story or picture - I've decided to unveil some of my own embarrassing moments, captured so lovingly by my own parents.

In the meantime, I call this brief glimpse into my adolescence, "The Badness That My Parents Allowed to be Captured on Film, Fully Knowing The Embarrassment To Come"

This is a New Kids On the Block tee-shirt. Oddly enough, I remember this picture being taken, and the chuckle of my father when I declared proudly that NKOTB was in fact the best musical group ever. Ever. I was quite serious about this point, as most ten year-old's would be, of course. My larger concern though is with the shirt that I'm wearing, not the one that I'm holding. Because, yes, a fascination with NKOTB is forgivable for a prepubescent girl growing up in the late eighties, early nineties. However, wearing a short-sleeved knit shirt with, what appears to be, a pink-roofed houseboat stitched on the front, is not.

This is a picture that might be considered one of my father's crown jewels. Not only am I rocking florescent (electric?) blue spandex and a magenta tee-shirt (which I adored) but I am also wearing socks. White socks. With. Sandals.

And here we are at the Grand Canyon. I don't know if I need to say anything to further explain the hideousness of his outfit, but I will. Notice the red hat beneath my arm. I wore that. Also note the black circles attached to my ears - earrings. But you don't get the full affect from his picture. No, those black circles are only the top of a mess that dangles in a giant yellow squiggle down to my shoulder, where a black star rests (Thank you Ames discount racks). The glasses I will not touch. Those are classics.

This photo needs no defense. Stone-washed denim jacket. Leopard print spandex. Another Ames special dangling from my earlobes. You're jealous.

And this, well, it's not so bad. To be honest, it's probably something I could even wear today. If I only had an over sized pair of brown corduroy's to cut off, then patch with an old flannel shirt, and a men's undershirt to pair with a hemp necklace, and a scrunchie to wear around my wrist like a bracelet. Oh, and an additional forty pounds or so.

Well. That was fun. I'm going to go and work on something a little more productive now, even if only a real post for the blogosphere.

Why I'm Like a Ten Year Old

Ok, so remember that whole thing about spending the money from the Ann Arbor Festival winnings on school debt? How I had such grand delusions of being responsible with my winnings?

Yeah.

New camera is on it's way - ordered as soon as the check arrived in my mailbox.

But I need it, you know, for that cruise I'm taking next month...the one I paid for with the money from the Family Circle prize...

I'm seeing a trend here...writing for money = writing for pleasure.

Hmmm.

Actually, there's not much to think about. It's good.

Another good thing (and reason I am like a ten year old) - one of my favorite strange movies from childhood is on this morning (followed by the sequel - sweet) and my son is enjoying it almost as much as I did growing up:

My August

It's the damp end of the season, the month when the hair on the back of your neck clings to your skin. Everything sticks, even the air to your skin, your skin to your skin, the bend of your elbow, knees. All of it, a tangled mess of wet heat by the end of the month.

It occurred to me today as I ran a cloth over the counter top and watched bare-legged children race up and down the street through the window over the sink, that I haven't spent nearly enough time outside this season. That the season itself hasn't mattered as much as it should. A few BBQ's, evenings spent smelling like insect repellent and still slapping the suckers from my arms, neck, cheeks, while trying to cut chicken breast into pre-school sized bites - but otherwise, it might as well been March or October, the way that I've wasted the summer away. Working some. Typing not nearly as much as I should. Dragging myself through the mundane without paying much more attention to the glorious season outside, save for the occasional complaint that it's too hot, too humid, too...August-like.

At work, it's air conditioned, which is nice as I'm forced to dress in a standard issue sweater and pair of pleated navy slacks - the entire ensemble designed to create a uniform shapelessness amongst the women on the staff. I look like a light blue square, like a puffed-up pastel after-dinner mint, with a smile, of course.

I think about the time I'm missing at home while I wait for the minutes to blink by on the digital clock. 6:30, they might be on the deck, cooking out, swatting bugs. 7:30, probably bath time. I imagine my son giggling and asking for Lila to play in the tub too.

The sixty-year old woman beside me has a sour face and is quick to assure me that she is in fact the keeper of all knowledge. From tollbooths to organic cooking to opening restaurants in the mountains of Montana. She knows it all. Does it all. I make the mistake of telling her that I write. She does too, of course. Her ghostwriter has already told her that her story is a guaranteed best seller.

I sigh and steal a glance at the clock. 8:30, my husband is probably reading the Bible to The Boss and tucking him in. Lila, already asleep beneath the hum of the air conditioner in our room. While I stand and listen to an argument as it erupts with me in the middle, holding a slip of paper, scanning it like it holds some sort of solution to the discussion that's whizzing around my head.

The customer at the counter assures me, as soon as Ms. Sour Face has turned her back, that I have been wonderful and she will be letting the manager know that. I blink and think to say that I really don't care one way or the other. She could tell them that I cursed them all out for all I care. I'm not even really here.

9:00, he's probably sitting beneath the ceiling fan in his recliner. I'd like to think, perhaps, beginning the countdown to my arrival home, but I know that there's probably a game on, either sports or video, and that he'll be either sleeping or mid-level when I do eventually get to leave, driving through the dense night air, making my way home.

The Mall and Me

I don't do the mall. The mall does me. This one at least, with its flat screen televisions hanging down over me as I walk beneath, scouring the ceilings for the words "Restroom This Way"

Dr.Phil points as me as I pass, "Don't forget, you have choices!" The words scroll across the giant screen and I look down and straight ahead - down the tube of kiosks, storefront displays, and people, shuffling past me, some walking into me, all seeming to somehow fit here, in this mad environment.
Choices. Uh huh. I acknowledge Dr. Phil with an eye roll as I glance up to the next TV screen - some other daytime television "celebrity" is spouting rapid fire words, selling...something. I don't wait to find out what.

I keep walking, toward who knows where. I hear two men discussing the poor shoe choice another shopper has made - clearly, they don't match his charcoal pants.

I can only imagine what they could say about me.

Rumpled t-shirt, the same denim Capri's I've been sporting for the past few days, only my wedding and anniversary rings. I feel like a sore thumb, a big one, swelled with gangrene and turning chartreuse, in this world of flash and fashion.

Oh, the fashion.

Apparently, I've missed something. Somewhere between graduating from college and this afternoon, I fell into a hiccup in the fashion world and am now sort of bobbing around in the sea of newness like a piece of lint in the sink that just won't make it's final exit down the drain.

And that's fine with me. I'll just try to avoid places like "the mall" as often as possible. And I do already, really. They take too much of my money, for one thing. Even walking out with an $88 dress for $50, I feel cheated, swindled. I can practically hear the walls snickering at me as I make my long, slow-footed walk between the final rows of cosmetic counters before I'll make my grand exit into reality.

But really, they can keep that money. It's the time spent that I want back.

Coming Clean

(I wrote this the other night, then quickly filed it away as a draft. I wrote it only as a challenge to myself, to come clean about the things I never mention here - things that, in the grand scheme of things aren't terribly important, but are a part of who I am, and I've felt that by not expressing them, I've somehow been hiding them...)

I write because writer's have the luxury of hiding behind closed doors, between bookends, away from debate. Specifically, I write fiction because it is something completely free from the jurisdiction of reality, with all it's arguments, opinions, and misunderstandings. Even here, where I'm "open" about my life, I prefer to write about others, or school, or the poop my kid smeared all over his bedroom- when the reality is, it's only a shadow of who I am.

I'm nearly silent here about the things that keep my husband and I awake at night. The hours we spend discussing our world, politics, beliefs, the planet, the future. I'm quiet, because I so loathe debate that I'm almost considering turning off the comments box on this post. I'm quiet because while I know what I believe and why, I am not a great orator, and my gifting with words is for fiction only. And although I'm passionate and opinionated, I'm also compassionate and understanding and would have a terrible time trying to explain to someone why I think that certain choices are wrong.

Now you see? There's the beginning of my troubles - I believe that there is absolute right and wrong. It's something that, if someone knew nothing else about me, might make them turn away from the start. I'm quiet, because I never want to be the person who makes someone uncomfortable. I don't say much, because I'm more interested in knowing people than in being right at the end of an argument.

Having said all that - my writing, my family, this blog, everything that I say and do is sprung from the core values that I live by. And even if I never mention them here again, as an exercise in honesty in the otherwise oft-murky blogosphere, I'm going to just come out with them.

For the faithful readers of The Empty Sky, I don't suspect you'll find any surprises. But for me, this feeling of putting my thoughts and beliefs out there is actually quite terrifying. Surprises or not.

Here goes:

I'm a Christian. Not news, I know. But I feel the need to clarify. I am neither the televangelist watcher who hands out tracts on airplanes, nor am I the "special occasion" (Wedding/Funeral/Christmas/Easter) church goer. I am born again, baptised and passionate about God and raising my family according the guidance given us in the Bible. Had I not met my husband, I planned on being a (probably single) missionary traveling around Eastern Europe, putting my hands and heart to the best possible use.

I am pro-life, and strongly so. And while I mean it in the obvious sense, that I'm against abortion, I also mean that I am for all of human life. If ever there is a question where life is in the balance, I prefer to err on the side of life.

Now for the tough one, especially as I was raised in the midnight blue state of Massachusetts. Though I first registered as an independent - I am married to a card carrying member of the GOP, and I cannot foresee a time in the near future when I could ever vote democrat. (Please, don't shoot.) Of course, this doesn't mean that I adore all Republicans either. I am not a blind voter.

Speaking of which, I'm just going to sputter these out quickly and move on: I am against big government, against amnesty for people who have broken the law to establish themselves in our country and could potentially wind up living off of our tax dollars sooner, for having cheated the system. I like democracy, I like the constitution and while our government is flawed (not referring to the specific administration that's bungling things at the moment - but the principles of our government at their core), it has great potential, and I fear for the future if we lean too far in either direction.

And because it has been in the news lately - I believe in climate-change and in being responsible with the habitat we have been provided with. Having said that, I also fall into the category of people who believe that it is a natural occurrence, that the planet goes through warming and cooling periods and that things are being spun, stretched and pushed in an alarmist manner. (Note: You still won't see me tossing litter from my private jet as I fill the sky with CO2 anytime soon.)

I'm ever aware that while I do have these opinions on life and politics, that things are always changing, new facts presenting themselves, new discoveries made, and I so I don't ever let myself sit too comfortably on my opinions. Perhaps another reason why I don't share them often...or, ever.

My faith, however, is unwavering. And though the world may change, God does not.

I'm sure there are more confessions, opinions, beliefs that I should/could/would say, but it's midnight and I am spent.

If you've read this far - I can very nearly promise you that you'll never read anything even remotely this blunt, political and potentially controversial again. As I said, this was an exercise - one that I've been considering for quite some time. Coming clean.

Thank you for reading. Stay tuned, The Empty Sky will return with lighter blogger-fare momentarily.

(Also, because I do so loathe debates, I have decided to turn the comment box off on this one. This was more of a challenge for myself than an attempt to instigate political/religious/cultural debate - not that that's a bad thing. If you do have anything you'd like to say, please do drop me a note - my email address is in my profile.)

Still...Waiting

Mailbox still empty. Even after I walked all the way out to it in the rain yesterday afternoon. No thesis.

Also, still not a word from any of the submissions I sent. Though, I did see that the markets are still alive and well - sending out rejections for sub's that were sent well after mine (thanks Duotrope!) It's either a good sign, a sign that my manuscript was lost, or it could mean nothing at all and I may receive a "your submission made it far in our editorial process, but unfortunately it does not fit our current needs," type rejection.

I suppose we go back to waiting. At least the thesis should be here in the next day or two.

And in the meantime, it's the weekend and I've got an art show to check out and a house to clean and time to be spent lolling around doing nothing of importance with my husband and children - might as well enjoy the quiet time before the thesis does arrive.

Why I am a Petty and Impatient Woman

A couple of our friends are getting married in a few months. Great friends. The type of friends who help you move, or help your family put the dock in the lake summer after summer. The type of friends who come to your house with dinner and a movie to keep your mind off of terrible things, like loss.

My husband and I are in the wedding party, happy to be so. As I've said, these are great friends. So why is it that I'm so petty as to whine about needing to dye shoes or alter a dress? Certainly, I never heard a squawk out of my eight bridesmaids when they had to squirm around in their strapless little numbers.

Maybe it's the hormones - ugly, make-you-cranky, hormones - but earlier today, I was directed to their wedding site, where they have a listing of their wedding party. A who's who, so to speak, listing how we know the couple and interesting information about each person. For most of the people - it lists school's graduated from, degree's in process, goals attained - for me? "We all met in college. Mel married Vin. She lives with him and her two kids."

Huh?

I know I shouldn't be petty, and as far as the site is concerned, it's hardly important. It's just the idea that this is how a very good friend of ours knows me. I'm a wife and I'm a mom. Forget that I'm weeks away from finishing my MFA, that I work 20+ hours a week outside the home, and am finally having some success as an emerging writer.

Nope, I just live with my husband and change diapers.

Like I said, it's probably just that time of the month (I wish I wasn't a walking cliche in that regard, but it's true) - and it's not important how a bridal registry website has portrayed me. It's just me - being petty.

Now, onto the impatient part of this post.

I am not cut out for a writing career. It requires a well of patience that I simply do not have. Knowing this when I first decided to submit, I specifically chose magazines with records of expedience. Now, nearly 70 days later - I'm still checking my inbox and mailbox daily with anticipation.

At this point, I'd just like verification that they even got my submission in the first place - forget acceptance. I just want to be free from this burden of waiting.

Adding to the list of things I'm impatient for, my thesis reader (an author that I greatly respect) is due to have my thesis returned to me with her notes and comments any day now (but not today - I already checked.)

I feel like I'm standing in line at the DMV - the sort of raw, irritable impatience that comes from florescent lights and people sneezing in your bubble of personal space.

And on that note, Ms. Petty McCranky-Pants who lives with her husband and changes diapers, needs to go...well... change a diaper.

Peripheral Vision

I heard a harpist at the grocery store today. Plunked down between produce and express checkout, she plucked soothing melodies while I debated whether or not to scoop-up the orange-tinted grape tomatoes from the salad bar.

I didn't even realize she was there, didn't appreciate her music as being anything more than the static muzack that most stores buzz through their overhead speakers whilst we shop for canned goods or squeeze melons and heads of cabbage.

It wasn't until I passed her with my salad in a plastic bag. While paying, she had been right behind me, and while making my salad, she had been in front of me - but it wasn't until I was walking past her that I finally saw, finally made the connection that she and the music had been right there all along.

I love those sort of unexpected moments, caught ever-so-briefly from the corner of my eyes.

Five

Tagged by Jacopo, I had to scrounge through the recesses of my mind for Five Things that I haven't revealed on my blog before. I'm afraid that rather than interesting facts, what I've come up with is "my brain is mush-here's some babble."

The problem is, having been typing away here for well over a year now - there isn't much that I've never touched on. In fact, I'm not sure there is anything new under the sun - which leads directly into my first thought...

One

I ascribe to the ecclesiastical everything is meaningless mentality when it comes to the big picture and the focus of things here on earth. This isn't to say that I don't stress about life (as the archives of this blog will tell you quite the contrary), however, when I do reach a place of peace it's because my focus is shifted away from myself. We live modestly, with modest income. We are WalMart shoppers, (should be) penny pinchers, used-car drivers. Our stress levels rise with the price of gas, of milk, of life. But, like repeating a word over and over again - to the point that it sounds like slush in your mouth and you can't quite remember what it means - life loses its meaning when you focus on it too hard. At least, it does for me. And so I lean back and look a the wide sky, at the horizon dipping over the edge of the road, at the sun setting - and I remember how small I am. How small I'd still be, even asleep on a bed made of money, in a mansion set on a hill. How small we all are.

Two

I am thin-skinned, shy and quiet - preferring to write rather than socialize, read rather than talk. I'm also loud and raucous and will approach strangers without apprehension.

I sometimes wonder if I have dual-personalities.

Three

There is something strange about me. Something that attracts strangeness. Something that made a man at an autoshop cross a busy street to give me his boss's business card as I passed by (walking to the grocery store on a lunch break) - because he wanted to meet me.

Or, a 35-ish divorcee on a cruise with his elderly father, who approached me out of the clear-blue, to thank me for my presence on the ship - even though I was married ("I'm sure everyone notices that ring right away") he wanted to be sure that I knew that I'd made his trip so much better, just by being there. Odd. (And a tad creepy, as my friend and I went on to discuss after he left...)

I've had many, many random and bizarre moments like these - and it's not because I'm cross-a-crowded-street-beautiful or stunning in a stalk-in-a-crowded-cruise-ship sort of way - it's not. I'm fairly positive that there is simply something strange about me. Perhaps it's overactive pheramones, of the weirdness variety?

In any event, as a result, I have met an assortment of strange and wonderful people, men and women, all drawn in by my apparent weirdness quotient (including my husband - who, oddly enough, captured my interest by completely ignoring me when we first met.)

Four

I'm bored with weight loss/body obsession. I feel like Danny Glover from Lethal Weapon when it comes to questions of diet or the scale - "I'm too old for this..." Bottom line: I feel good. Too good to spend more than three sentences discussing it, either here, or with people in person.

Five

I believe God speaks in unconventional ways. Through CD players and alarm clocks. Through airport ticket-tellers and checkbooks. At least, He has to me. But that's an entire other blog entry - or four or five.

And now that my first thesis draft is just about ready to be shipped off to my mentor - I've got to go research the heck out of the subject for my graduate seminar (the final requirement before I can officially graduate and begin paying back Sallie Mae.) But this was fun. Writing a post that wasn't entirely thesis-related. Hopefully I'll have time for more actual blogging in the near future...

Riveting, I'm Sure

Thoughts at this exact moment:

Must finish submission (due the 12th)

Perhaps eating an entire mashed up yellow turnip (or, root-a-begah) by oneself isn't the wisest decision one could make.

Thank God for having a warm house. (The furnace is working today, for the first time in almost a week - my handy-husband is my hero.)

Beginning to consider homeschooling as an viable option for our family...(anyone care to recommend books or websites to guide my thought process here?)

Considering this, leads to feelings of self-doubt. The same 'ol cloud of it that comes and goes in it's shadow-casting position over my thoughts. Today, the cloud is - You can't possible handle teaching your children yourself - shaped.

Fairly certain at this point, judging by the icky feeling in my stomach, that my suspicions about the turnip were valid.

Perhap I ought to lie down.

My Mayhem

Mayhem, originally uploaded by Mellahoney.

We're fumbling through this for now - upheaval, mess, mayhem. Change is in the wind, and so are about a million germs (as the kids and I are all sniffling, sneezing, snotting), and so is something that smells (either the garbage, or a diaper, or both), changes at work, and Spring rising on the horizon, the thaw happening all around us - ice dripping and falling in dull thuds from our roof to the frozen ground.

In the midst of this dizzying mayhem of diapers and cell phones, tissue-clusters and sinks of dishes and tires with slow-leaks, I pulled out this journal that a friend gave me after Lila was born, and I turned on my fancy-pants Zen and I picked up a pen and I...sat in the bed and just stared at it. The word, Mayhem and the blank white pages inside.

And I thought, (The World Spins Madly On whirring ironically through my headset) What is it that I'm looking for in here? What did I hope to find on these stark white pages? Some sort of clarity in the midst of my daily chaos?

Attempting to return to this once easy and effortless habit was, well, an effort.

As a teenager, turning to a journal was necessary for dealing with all that cliche teenage angst that I carried around. Angst over imagined problems, social situations, stresses that shouldn't have been stresses at all.

Of course, I see this all now, now that I have no angst. Only a blank journal, a headset, and a husband sitting in the next room playing video games while I try to reclaim this habit of introspection, of writing things down.

Perhaps, the trouble is that I have no pent up frustration in need of venting. Life is, in general, good. I have a husband who does dishes and changes diapers. I have pleasant, well mannered children, who despite the occasional poo-on-the-walls-carpet-furniture-bedspreads-etc incident, are easy and wonderful. I have a home, a healthy relationship with my parents, my in-laws, good friends.

What is it that I wanted to journal about? Diapers? My so-easy-a-monkey-can-do-it part-time job? A few dirty dishes? Pshaw.

Instead, I finally brought pen to page and wrote a list of good things. Things to look on when riding a wave of stress or worry or self-doubt. I stuck in pictures of said good things. Pictures of my husband and I from before we were 'my husband and I.'

Pictures from our first apartment, the black and white ones I mentioned here before:

Things we wrote each other - Mella, You are Weird - His first love note to me, scrawled on a small piece of black paper while sitting at a booth at a 24 greasy-spoon diner (New England institution really, which has since been shut down.)

Then I moved on to pictures of my little whirwinds, the real mayhem bringers, the poop slingers, and my favorite people under the sun, the moon, the stars. I put their little hospital bracelets and the index cards with their birth weights and lengths - the first documents with their names, written in my mother's handwriting and taped to their glass hospital bassinettes.

It's all in there. My little journal of life-as-it-was-and-is.

My little journal of Mayhem.