My New Book--'Falling Forward'

"Let go of the past and go for the future. Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you imagined."

- Henry David Thoreau

Tomorrow Is the First Day of the Rest of My Book

Today is the last day in May. This means tomorrow I have to start producing the new book online. I should have worked yesterday, since the deadline is so close. I should have...but I didn't. I did a few things, checked my outlines, got my notebooks, well, most of them, since they are scattered everywhere. I should have spent yesterday writing for hours, but I didn't. My instinct is to cheat, not writing fully in the moment, but writing weeks ahead so all I have to do is stick everything online. For me that is cheating. I said I would be writing this in real time, meaning everyday I write, you get to see, to read what I go through to try and get this baby off the ground. Being a complete and utter dork, for my entire life, I am used to humility. It is my natural habitat. Take your most embarrassing moment and picture yourself living it every day. That is my life.
I had the benefit of an editor last time, so this took the pressure off me. By the time the book was produced it had been gone over, word by word, line by line. Editing is really tedious. I give editors so much credit for their ability to look at the same stuff for months and never cease to miss the smallest thing out of place. I had to edit the book with my editor last time. Quite frankly, I was sick of me and my writing by then. Her notes would come back to me, "Maybe phrase it this way...This seems redundant...Can you give me more of this..." Emily, my editor was a rock star as far as I am concerned. She had the patience of Job.
Without Emily by my side, guiding my writing, my phraseology, steering the course of my thoughts and stories, I have real fears about what this will look like.
In the end, it is supposed to show my imperfections. This part of writing the book is supposed to be unfinished, raw, unedited.
I had someone suggest this was unprofessional. I agree, it is unprofessional. The professional thing to do would be to wait and let someone shred the pages of the book down to nothing and rebuild. That is what writers do in order for their work to be it's best. This project was never supposed to be professional. What I want, what I desire in it's greatest measure, is to have this connect, to show the gut level of who I am. I guess, if anyone wants the "professional" version, they can wait until it's published in paperback and Kindle.
My goal is simple- be a prolific writer all summer long (Monday through Friday, because I need a few days off, too), try my hardest to do good work, forgive my foibles and mistakes, connect in whatever way I can to the people who so graciously read this, and learn something new about myself. This is about pushing myself to do what I say, stick to my word, produce something tangible, and grow as a writer.
Another writer told me recently I was crazy to put my crap online. She said I should wait to publish it and then put it here. She rattled off a dozen reasons why this was a terrible idea. You know what I heard? Fear...plain and simple I heard the nagging voice in my head that tries to stop me when there is risk involved. I get it, I do. She wrote in all caps, "WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE?" I thought about that for a long time. What am I trying to prove? Am I trying to prove anything? My answer is this: I don't know.
There is this great part in an Indiana Jones movie where he is standing at the edge of a cliff. He is supposed to leap without seeing where the path is. He is supposed to have blind faith that the directions are right, that his instincts are right to follow them, even without seeing the ground to step on. In the movie, we the viewer then get to see that what looks like a cliff with a drop to the bottom, is actually a path that can only be seen from a different angle.
That's what this is. It is a view point from a different angle. Maybe it is all the negative stuff people have hurled at me lately, or maybe, just maybe it's the best thing I have done in years.
My mom, bless her heart, used to say this to me whenever I was afraid, "What's the worst thing that can happen if you do this and it fails?" I love this question because I have learned from my mom that in truth the worst thing that can happen is I have taken a summer and written all summer long, things that will never make it to print. The worst thing is people will hate it. That doesn't scare me even a little. I had 4 kids in 4 years. They are in college. If you want to scare me, you had better bring your A game, because people not liking me or my work happens in my house on a daily basis.
I am thrilled to be doing this. It's like a roller coaster ride without the vomit. The worst thing would be if I didn't try. Living in fear, backing away from a challenge is crippling. It would mean I am no longer recognizable to me.
Tomorrow, is going to be the a great day. It will be me and you and this blog, throwing out chapters and seeing what sticks. I feel very much in the moment, very alive, like I am buzzing. I know folks who do extreme sports do get this kind of feeling. I get to have it without the worry of a broken bone. Now to me, breaking a hip, now that is something to be scared of.

Always Remember To Never Forget

A typical day in my life is this:
"Have you seen my glasses?" Michael replies with a grin, "They are on your head."
"Have you seen my car keys?" "They are in your hand." "Have you seen my grocery list?"
Michael again grinning, giggles, "I found it in the fridge next to the empty milk jug you were going to recycle."
O.K., so I forget everything. I spend as much time in my average day looking for things I need as I do using them. My mind is full of people's schedules, animals and professional deadlines. One kid tells me something about their friend and grandma's phone number shoots out of my other ear. I make lists everyday that I promptly misplace somewhere in our small home. It used to be I blamed our giant house for my never being able to find things. "If we had a smaller house, I wouldn't be so absent minded", I would begin my rant why everything else was at fault for my inability to recall the simplest of things. The truth is I became completely scattered years ago and have never fully recovered. Maybe it was having four kids in four years, or maybe it was how busy we all were, or maybe I have always been scattered, and now I am finally seeing it for myself. Whatever the reason, I continue to try and organize myself, investing in post-it notes, paper for lists, Tupperware for storing stuff, and my never ending supply of calenders that never quite get filled out with the proper appointments. In the end, with all the helpful accoutrements, I still find myself failing to get where I need to be in the organization game.
There are a couple of things I always remember. I remember to feel grateful to my bones for being here at all. There have been moments when I have wondered why I survived and Danny didn't. My prayers, back, right after he died were, "Lord, why me?" I certainly didn't have more to offer, I thought. I most admittedly was not as sure of myself, or what I was doing. The answer came later to me, in quiet moments, when God and I had a few moments to connect. Why I was here was not going to get answered in any way I originally wanted, but my being here, my breathing, my getting up everyday, putting my feet on the floor, trying to be better, trying harder to become a person who would honor Danny, and God, that was the reason, the only answer I really needed.
The other thing I always remember is that I love being an American. Having traveled to other countries, I have grown to appreciate how fortunate I am to live in a country where I can speak, as a woman, as a person, as a citizen in my country without the fear of recourse. I love my country and it's people. Not because we are perfect, but because we never stop growing, never stop learning, we try every morning we get up and put our feet on the ground to be better. Being an American is something I have come to cherish above nearly all else. God, family and country are priorities most of the American people have. Visiting countries without the benefit of clean water, or readily available food stuff, or neighbors you can count on, are just a few reasons to love being born here. What other country puts such emphasis on being happy. We have the right, the privilege, of our pursuit of happiness. The idea, the concept of the pursuit of happiness, still brings tears to my eyes, every time I think about it. As an American, that pursuit is honored by every branch of government. Yeah, even Congress, occasionally, throws us a bone.
I decorated for Memorial Day for the first time this year. I bought American flags and planted them all around the entrance to our house. It is my reminder to myself how blessed I am to be born in this country that others die trying to get to. I never had to swim an ocean, walk a desert, or lay in a belly of a ship to enjoy my rights as an American. I never had to starve, in order to save for transportation, or risk the lives of my children in order to crawl my way to freedom. I was born into my freedom. I was raised with a father who served in our military, before I was even a thought, to protect the rights of his unborn. I have all the benefits of living in a country where freedom is valued so much, the people here are willing to die to protect it.
I feel the overwhelming sense of grief of Memorial Day. Maybe it's because I have lost someone, so valuable to my family. Maybe it's because I revere their bravery so much. Mostly it's because it could have been my father, my sister, my son or daughter who perished in the name of freedom. It could have been my family quietly decorating grave sites. It could have been so many of my friends, who I so dearly appreciate. These soldiers who we honor this weekend, well, they are us. They belong to all of us. Their blood is our blood, their history is our history, their families are our neighbors, sisters, brothers, friends.
While I remain a proud American, I am also a grief stricken one. The wars rage on, soldiers of every race, gender and position continue to perish protecting our America. Since last Memorial Day amidst the cook-outs, the picnics and the flag waving, 549 soldiers have perished. 549 funerals for loved ones, our bravest, have been planned and executed, 549 times a family had to hear the worst phrase they will ever hear, "I am sorry to inform you..." With all of that, those very families raise their flags, say the Pledge and sing the National Anthem, so proud of the loves they have lost, for being the brightest and best our country has to offer.
I ask that we all take a moment, sit a minute in silence, say a prayer and remember those who gave their greatest gift for our right to remain the home of the free and the brave. Our pursuit of happiness is their greatest wish for us all. My greatest wish for them is peace, here and wherever they are.
God Bless you and yours this weekend, and God Bless America.

Longevity

Today's blog is brought to you by the letters CAL.
When we first moved to Houston, it was for Mike's job. He had put in for a transfer to another department. Worrying there would be an impending merger, we set off on our adventure to try and protect his long term investment in his company. When he got the job we were a little surprised, and scared. In theory it all sounded good, moving so far from everything we had ever known, but when the theory turned into reality, we were both more than a little nervous.
Michael moved to Houston first, while I stayed back home to pack and finish the school year with the kids. His new department welcomed him in. That's the thing about the company he works for, no matter where you come from, they always treat you like family. One of the first people to "adopt" him was a woman named Laurie.
Laurie, having moved several times herself and being a fellow Ohioan, took Mike in without hesitation. Being an avid baseball fan, she invited us to Astro games, cooked for the guys in the department and shared recipes with me. She is the matriarch of their department, the long standing employee, who much like her co-workers has seen just about everything with their company.
Today we are all going to an Astros game to celebrate our friend Laurie, who has dutifully worked at the airline for 40 years. To put this in perspective, she started when I was 8 years old. I think she was about 10 when she started. She saw Continental Airlines grow from being a one trick pony to a booming, competitive company. She survived the era of bankruptcy, the devastation of 9/11, and ultimately the merging of Continental with United. She has gone in to work everyday, for most of her life. Her loyalty to her airline is unparalleled for me. Back when I worked as a nurse, changing jobs was part of the gig. Geriatric nurses stayed only as long as the money was the best in the area and the shift was desirable. But for these people, Continental people, they stay for the long haul.
Laurie is more than my friend, she is someone I admire. Having gotten to know for her for the last 7 years, I know she has one of the largest, most generous hearts that has ever been. Laurie, will make you cake, send you a note, come to your party, bearing food, of course, and buy your book. Her friendship has been invaluable to us. She helped make Houston home.
Today it was my turn to make the cake for her, my friend. It is about literally the least thing I could do for all her hard work and loyalty, not just to Continental, but for everyone who works there with her, too.
We are going to celebrate a life, one who has shown day in and day out, what true dedication is. It has been my privilege to know Laurie, as a friend, as a worker through Mike and an outstanding human being.
You know how people talk about how there is no real loyalty in companies anymore? Well, I have seen it first hand, starting with Michael, leading to his friends and co-workers at Continental. Their company motto, "Work Hard, Fly Right" is a direct result of people like Laurie doing what they do best.
Congratulations to my dear friend Laurie for 40 years of unwavering loyalty. It's an honor being included in a well deserved, long overdue celebration of time and sacrifice by one very special woman.

Hand Me My Shovel I Am Going In

As excited as I am about my upcoming book project, I confess that I have moments of weakness when I panic that after a week, it will all fall apart. In theory, on paper (as if anyone used paper anymore) this should all pan out. My mom used to say to me when I would get stage fright, "What's the worst thing that can happen?"
I would then proceed to list off an imaginary Armageddon scene that would cause her jaw to drop, eyes to widen and ultimately shake her head as she mumbled something about me being melodramatic. Who me, melodramatic? Nah, never happened.
I am a little nervous about this. The amount of writing I will have to do on a deadline is somewhat daunting. This is the only real hang up I have for now, is the amount of production it will take to keep this train on track. An editor, my editor, used to pull more out of me, just so when we whittled things down, there was enough work to edit. That's what editors do, they are pushy little people that extract as much blood out of a writer as possible. As a writer I would finish a chapter, send it off, only to have my editor ask me if I had more to offer. I felt like it was done, finished, she never agreed. My editor from my last book was in a word, wonderful. She wasn't cruel, mean, nasty, she was my own personal Jiminy Cricket. I wish she were a part of this, so I had someone pushing me in a nicer way than I ever handle myself. I tend to be a task master, berating my lack of creativity.
Because I write non-fiction, I have to do the archeological dig to find what is so interesting abut my little life. I spend hours pulling details out of a story. That is my only other big concern for this, is that I am able to keep up the pace while still digging half way to China if necessary to find the thread, the tiniest link between my life and what others live. The entire reason I write is to connect, create a bond between you and me. I want you to know I feel what you feel, I have lost what you have lost. Ultimately, my book should recognize that we all pee and bleed the same. This is the lesson I have instilled in my children, that no matter what someone is on the outside, no matter how they act, what they have done, what they committed, we all pee and bleed the same color and consistency.
The new book will have name changes this time. The last book taught me not everybody loves to be written about. Even this blog, it has come to my attention that some people, who shall remain nameless (I just made myself laugh), don't appreciate me using our stories as entertainment. I decided to rename the folks in my stories in order to spare them any embarrassment. Personally, I like being embarrassed in my writing. Public humiliation should be something of a concern, except some of my best stuff is me being a giant dork falling on my face either literally, or figuratively. For me this all about connection, so if I have to tell stories where I look like a complete moron, so be it. I don't clear stories with people I write about first. The stories are told from my perspective so I own them. Besides, if I allow everyone editorial rights, I would find myself not having anything to write about. I figure if the story remains unchanged, from my perspective, then naming someone something different will allow them to feel anonymous, and I still get to have my chapter. I have warned the family that I will be digging in going deeper into our archives. I will be revealing more of the details of our lives. I will be telling the story of us and where I came from, with all the nuances of each moment, paying great attention to the moments when we are least attractive, when we are caught off guard, when we have failed miserably. It was through some of my greatest failures, I learned the most. It is those visceral memories, the ones where they still take your breath away years later, those are the little gems that all of us have. We all have those moments that taught us to never do that again.
There are only 5 more days until this all begins. I still have some minor organizational tasks to do before June 1. I have been writing, writing more than I have in months, so as not to disappoint. I have told you I have my helmet on, now I have my shovel to do the digging, the only thing left is to find my flashlight, so I can go into the scary corners of my memory, making certain you get only my best work.
I have not considered what will determine if this project is a success or failure. Projecting an outcome is at the very bottom of my list, for now. For all the times I have searched for answers, this is one time when knowing the ending is not something I desire.
My intent for this is to be interesting, educational, entertaining and fun.
My writing has always been my form of cheap entertainment, and now I want it to be yours, too.

My Personal Goodbye to The Oprah Show

I started watching Oprah the minute she hit the national stage. I got married in 1986 to Danny, the two of us so optimistic, so hopeful about the future, because that’s what weddings are about, hope. I was working downtown Cleveland, Ohio, riding the bus every day, in a strange town, with no friends or family except my husband and his friends and family. On the days I could watch, I took in the information she gave, I watched everyday people deal with their dilemmas, learning lessons from others life’s experiences. In 1988 I gave birth to our first child, a girl, whom I doted on twenty four hours a day except one, the one I would sit and cradle her in my arms watching The Oprah Show. As years went on we had more children, Danny worked more and more hours and I was left at home alone to raise our children. Oprah became my sanctuary, my time of peace, learning and allowing the feeling that I was not so alone.
I had Betty in 1992. I went under not knowing if I would ever wake up, when I did, I was a completely different person, not be able to read or write or remember even the simplest things. My time in the afternoon watching the show helped me hang on; it helped me to sort my thoughts again. Eventually I would be able to function again, but in the interim the show reminded me that I was so lucky to be alive.
Danny began drinking and it was completely destructive, devastating me, leaving me feeling unsafe, unloved, and unacknowledged. The Oprah Show was my safe harbor during those tough times. Little did I know how much I would later come to depend on that hour to maintain my sanity which would skirt the edge at times, where I was feeling so desperate I contemplated taking my own life. The divorce felt like it should kill me, yet I kept waking up having to face the utter loss of everything I thought I knew. During my divorce I dropped out of society, except for work. Remember when you were taught if you had nothing nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything? Well, I had nothing nice to say, so I stayed home, doing what I called “rolling up the sidewalks and pulling the blinds”. My divorce was one of the most painful things I have had to endure. With Oprah on at 4:00 PM, I could keep my mouth shut and just listen. I could learn without ever leaving my house. I could feel as though I were a part of something without having to interject my negativity.
In what seemed like a flash in time, Danny was gone. This time I really was alone to raise our kids. Grief stricken, I fell into a deep depression where the only thing I felt certain about was how unhappy I was and what I could look forward to at four o’clock. In the nineties Oprah had changed her show to include how to get through the really tough times, how to find peace and personal happiness. Even though I had been to therapy, I got so much out of watching every day, her unravel someone else’s problems on her stage with a take away moment that kept me from feeling completely isolated.
I have made no secret about how lucky I was to marry Michael. He is without a doubt my favorite human being on earth. I am not sure if I hadn’t done the work, getting my own act together, if I could have received such a gift. Part of that was learning to how to get to the person I wanted to be rather than the person others saw or projected on me. I felt like my time with Oprah had been well spent, learning what I could, when I could.
We moved to Houston, Texas from Cleveland, Ohio in 2004. It was an eye opening experience for me. The cultural differences were vast, the weather was an enormous hurdle to adjust to, and our family and friends were twelve hundred miles away. O.K., so now you know what is coming, yeah, the first thing I did was find The Oprah Show, so I could watch. The funny thing for me was she was on at guess when? Yep, she was on at four o’clock right here in Houston. In the time we have lived here, and it’s been almost seven years now, I have had jobs, lost careers, raised the kids, sent them off to college, and moved several times, all with the help, connection, guidance and company of my friend Oprah. My personal tradition continued here in Texas.
In 2008 I got the rare opportunity to be in a taped segment on her show. I showed how to make cocoa cones as a cheap gift for her Favorite Things recession show. It was later considered a flop, but I got to be on, so as far I am concerned it was a huge success. It would have never occurred to me that I would have such a joyous opportunity, but there it was, a tailor made opportunity for my very frugal behind.
As my writing went from private to public, I continued to take my union break at four o’clock, to spend a few minutes with my longtime friend, The Oprah Show. It was my time to forget how scared I was, as I let go of the constraints of my own limited perception of who I was and who I could be. I watched others on her show take great leaps of faith in order to achieve their dreams. I borrowed their bravery and decided it was time to get going.
Today will be the last time Oprah and I will be together at four o’clock. I know some have no investment in this farewell, but I really do. Did The Oprah Show change my life? Certainly, it did. Had I not seen women leave damaging and abusive relationships, I might have very well perished in one. Had I not witnessed others speak of their dreams coming true, I might never have believed it for myself. Had I not taken a meager hour to stop and rest, I may have ground myself into dust trying to do the impossible with next to nothing. The Oprah Show did change my life for the better, in more ways than I can count.
I am not sad at her leaving today. She has earned her retirement from her daytime talk show. I watched her make uncounted sacrifices for her viewers and we her viewers, helped keep her going. My four o’clock will never be the same. But I am in my own new chapter, doing a job that takes up so much time, so much energy, that I am busy doing more living than watching. I will miss my time with Oprah, the moments I saw such heartbreak, a mere box of Kleenex wasn’t enough, watching things so funny, I nearly fell off my couch. My house warming gift for this, our new house was a T.V., so I could cook and watch Oprah at the same time.
Oprah did well by me, taking each show, thinking about the viewer, her responsibility to us and herself. I feel like in some ways all these years spent with her have brought me to this very place in my life when we both get to walk into the sunset and be who we were born to be. I would certainly not be the woman I am if not for the opportunities to learn so much, in such an accessible way.
So, from me to Oprah: Thank you for all the years you stood by your viewers taking such great care to help us along on our journeys. Thank you for being aware of the world stage you had, showing regard, respect and love for those who stuck by you. This has been a wonderful ride. I have enjoyed every minute I have spent with you. As I ready myself for the next chapter of my life, I know good things come to those who open their minds and their hearts, so I have no doubt your next chapter will be wonderful, too. I feel the love, too.
As for what I will do at four o’clock from now on? Well, whatever it is, it will be something just for me, because the greatest lesson I learned is I am worth an hour a day to love, honor and cherish.

Join Me On Facebook!

You can join my facebook page to join in our summer reading program. My new book will be making it's initial debut right here on the blog.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kellie-Lynn-Ketcham/92975306425
Be there or be obtuse!

Putting On My Helmet

I am getting ready for my newest project, writing my book in real time here on my blog. After I made my announcement, my best friend said I was courageous. Naturally, being the reigning queen of all Dorkdom, I hadn't considered myself courageous. I hadn't really considered a lot of things. I wanted a solution to my ever growing amount of stuff, but never considered it might be a little crazy to put unedited work up on line for the world to see. "Look Ma no hands, no feet, no editor!" It tell my kids all the time, "Life is hard, wear a helmet." Today I am putting on helmet. The chin strap hides at least 2 of my chins.
If anyone can pull off wearing my dress tucked into my pantyhose , it's me. It's not really because I am so brave, it's more about how comfortable I am being a dork. You know how some people will state with great conviction, "Failure is not an option!" They have confidence, charisma, a bounty of hutzpah. Yeah, I am not that kind of person. Although, failure is my least favorite option, I have heard the word "no" and fallen on my face, backside and every part enough to know failure will not kill me. It might ruffle me up leaving large dents and bruises, but it will never kill me, unless of course, I am sky diving. I tell my kids, "Be the dork". Tryingto hide one's dorkiness can suck up an entire of life.
Even though this could potentially bite me in the butt, I have to tell you, I am so excited about doing it. I am also a tiny bit stressed that I have put such a deadline on myself. Usually when I write I have all the time I want to drag my feet, putter around the house and procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate! Now, if I want my word to mean anything at all, I have to do what I have declared. I momentarily thought about tweeting the book 140 characters everyday, so I would allow myself my screwing around time. It would probably take my life time to get it all done, but look at the amount procrastinating I could accomplish.
I have to give up my personal page on facebook, too. I thought long and hard about that one. While I have over 500 friends, I have only over 100 people liking my author page. But the truth is, this will take uncounted hours to put the book online, and I can't trust myself to stay of FB long enough to get my work done. Some may view gazing at pictures of bunnies my friend, photographer Joy Cobb took as time wasting, but I like to think of it as art appreciation, getting my culture fix on.
Bottom line, I need to focus. I was once called hyper active, now referred to as ADD, when I was in about 8th grade. It was my history teacher that called my parents in, telling me he had suggested they medicate me (turns out the coward never actually told my parents that). I remember how he stood over my then small frame screaming about how destructive I was, how stupid I was, how I was a ring leader for those who disrespected him. I now know what an ass he was. He was a bad teacher and his students were bored. For years I thought there was something horribly wrong with me because of this small minded buffoon. Here is what I discovered...I am an out of the box thinker, I am smart, and yes, I am different, just like everyone, I have my own unique quirks and foibles, but I am not broken like he yelled. My organization comes from me sitting down making a list on paper. I carry my lists around with me. I also have binders for my paper or creative stuff. As a writer, I am visual in nature when it comes to work. As a writer, I write what I need.
So today, I have to sit down with paper and pen in hand and list out everything I need in order to make all this work. I want so desperately for this to go well, but if it looks like I am starting to swirl around the bowl, then I will write my Plan B.
I am so very excited about this. When the idea came up and I went to my counsel of elders about it, I was already making plans for it to go full throttle. Like a juried piece of art, I waited for the judges to come back with their critique. So far everybody is 100% on board.
Since I made the announcement via social network, I have the urge to go out, stocking up on blue books and number two pencils. I am not sure why that is, but it is like when I was taking the ACT to get into college. It would be great if some editor found my work through this blog and decided to give me my shot. I think, just having the possibility, allows me this giddy feeling of Christmas morning. It is not my intention to do this for anyone else except me and you. This is more about our relationship, than anyone else. If something great comes out of it, well, won't that just be the cherry on top of an already sweet sundae!
For the next couple of weeks, or few days, actually, I will be on here promoting the new book. I will be list making, organizing and getting ready for what I think will be my most difficult job, but most rewarding, too.
The book as it is being written, in real time, will be out of sequence. The finished published project will be as perfected as possible, but on here I will be writing whatever it is I need to work on without regard to sequence or table of contents. My mind doesn't think in order, so you will be on my roller coaster, seeing where I go day to day when I write. Some days it takes me hours just to get to the point of the story. I will try and watch that some, but this will be more about what the book looks like as abstract art. The stories will have organization, but it will be published here however it goes.
Just sitting here with my coffee, thinking about this makes me happy. I couldn't have imagined 15 years ago I would ever have an opportunity like this. I could not have even begun to contemplate what it would feel like to be so in love with your job, you create work for yourself that will suck up 15 hour days, and you don't mind.
I do not have words for how many times I have sat in my writing chair, thinking how magnificent all this is.
Well, I am off to outline what I need to do, organize the 228 spiral notebooks I have with the chapters, and get some number two pencils. I don't really need the pencils, but now I think it would be great just have some sharpened ones around for good luck.

Change Will Do Me Good

I have been wrestling with my work lately. As I write the second book, I find myself distracted with the amount of writing I do on the blog, facebook, twitter, linked-in, Bebo, Myspace, email, column, etc., blah, blah blah. The truth is I don't have enough hours in the day to work, promote, sell, write, and still have enough time to enjoy my life anymore. Well, I do still enjoy my life, but even that takes precision planning and scheduling. I feel like it's time for a major change. I need to downsize what is repetitive and focus on the real work, which as an essayist, is my writing. So...
I have hatched a plan to simplify my work load. I told Michael what I planned to do and at first he balked a little bit, mostly because as my benefactor, he worries he is not able to finance my writing career enough. Trust me he pays out the nose (he will now take issue with the reference to noses). I know for him, he is concerned with me getting every opportunity available, but the truth is, we cannot always do what we want, can we?
In an effort to be completely honest, here's the thing...
My last book is published through an Amazon company. I love them, truly and plan to publish through them again, but it is "self publishing" which means instead of an advance from a publishing company, which would have to be paid back if the book didn't sell, I had to pay out $3000.00 for the work of publishing the book myself. For us that is a lot of payola. The idea is I fronted myself the money to publish, then had to sell the book and earn the money back. Well, I haven't exactly earned the money back. I am not crying poor, here, but I am a realistic person who has a budget to live on. While Michael would gladly shell out money again next year, betting on my ability to write, I am not able to see my way clear to doing that.
I absolutely do not want anyone to feel bad for me. I do everyday what I love doing, what I am passionate about, what I am obsessed with. Doing work that you love is everything, and I believe I will find my way to eventually earning a living at this. I have reinvented myself at a time in my life when others are watching their careers wind down to retirement. I have been REALLY lucky.
O.K., so that is the back story of the money conundrum, here is the other issue; if I write and publish another book, I will be off-line for months, disappearing until the work is done, which in my case takes about a year. I can't reconcile leaving my blog, and all the social media stuff and the readers and friends I love so much for that length of time.
I am faced with a choice here. I have multiple things to consider, one is the world audience I now have here on this blog. I have readers in remote places on earth that may not have access to my book, even though it is for sale in India, the UK and here.
I have been caught up trying to think of a good solution for everybody, for months now. And by George, I think I've got it!
Starting JUNE 1, 2011, the name of this blog will change to the title of my new book. I will be writing the book in real time and posting it here. You, my darlings will literally be reading my chapters as I write them. Every week day (Monday-Friday) I will be publishing another section of a chapter of the book, here on the blog. I will be showing you everything I go through to get this done first, before my editor ever gets the chance to correct every wrong thing I have done. I write very stream of conscious, so you will see chapters that ultimately won't make the cut in the published book!
The economy is not supposed to clear up until 2014, trust me, I read everything money. To publish a book now, means taking the chance that people, readers I love would not be able to buy it. So, I think it is brilliant to let those who want to read it here for free.
I get to stream line my work load, keep my blog, write my book, be accessible online, and give my loyal readers my new book for free. How great is this?
The bottom line for me is a saying someone told me a long time ago, which ironically ends up in my new book, "Do what you love and the money will come."
Mark your calenders for June 1. It's going to be quite a journey. I can't wait to get started. This is the best idea I have had in a very long time. We will be doing this together, and what could be better than spending time with friends?
Lots of love and my new book coming at you!

Poo Poo Pa Doo

I was thinking about my analogy in the last blog about the artists working in urine and feces. Crapping on Mary, the Holy Mother is not my idea of art. Maybe it's just me, but pasting buttons on a cartoony picture of a celeb is not art for me either. Maybe I am just an art snob. I have never even considered the idea of calling my painting or my sculpture, or my writing true art, as if I had the definitive talent to do so. Maybe it's my insecurities that bubble to the surface showing how, even though I have been paid for my "art" in several forms in my lifetime, I still hesitate to consider myself an artist. Or maybe, if you live long enough, you learn not to believe your own press.

Years ago when I was working at a nursing home just outside the inner city, but still within crack house range, I had a patient who loved to draw on the wall. Intricate, sometimes broad stroked murals were painstakingly drawn on the wall beside her bed, as she was bed ridden and unable to walk or stand to be ambulatory by herself. Every night I worked on her floor, I would sneak in on rounds to watch her draw her next creation on the wall. Sometimes she would explain to me in great detail what she was trying to portray, others she would scream, "Get the hell out of here!" I tended to tiptoe in and see the mood of the room before intruding on her work. One of the nurse's aids would come in berating (we'll call her "Helen") Helen for writing on the wall. I would then try and get the aid to stop and see what Helen was trying to show us. "Look at the detail she put in tonight," I said in a whispered hush. The aid then looked me square in the eye and scolded me," There ain't no detail. She coloring on the wall that I will have to clean off! Tried to get her to use pen on paper, but she won't do it." The aid then went off to get the disinfectant we needed to scrub off the latest piece, a grand sweeping mural that went from one end of the bed to the other. Within moments the mural was gone, the canvas clean for the next night's masterpiece.

Here's the thing about Helen's work: She drew in poop, her own to be exact. She would dig in her behind to get a perfectly ball shaped piece of poop and then begin to draw the images only she knew the meaning of. We did give her writing and drawing utensils to no avail. During the day she would sit in her chair, sometimes chattering away, sometimes very quiet, but never wanting to draw with conventional tools. I am not sure what fascinated me, and irritated the aid more; the fact that Helen refused to draw with anything other than her own feces, or that her work was sometimes incredible. I said once out loud, "She has an impressionistic eye.." The response I got from my co-workers was, "You are shit crazy, you know that? Don't be stupid, that woman doesn't know a single thing she is doin'."
I stood after being admonished for what they called "wishing nothing was something", staring down at my shoes. I went to the place of thinking I had spent too many hours on my feet with little food, not much sleep, so maybe I was trying to get a sweet idea from a poop pie.
Once when Helen talked to me in the hall late one night when she refused to sleep, she told me of a car full of boys who had raped her when she was young. She told me the make and model of the car, the look on the boys faces, the way they had hurt her and tossed her out the car when they were done. I figured this would have had to happen in the 1930's or 40's. I ran to the aids who had known her longer, breathless, I said in a begging voice, a voice that sounded scared, horrified, desperate, "Is it true Helen got gang raped when she was young? Is it true? Oh, God..." I stood before the crew waiting for an answer. Helen was diagnosed with dementia, so I was hoping for some solid information from a rational person. I had already checked the chart and there was nothing about our patients social history, and most of the medical history only dealt with medications and surgeries. We never got to know when they had suffered some huge trauma, unless the family told us, or someone who worked there knew them in their previous life.
The older aid, the more experienced aid looked at me and said, "I am not sure. She has told that story more than once, so I wouldn't be surprised. At night, sometimes she cries about it."
And there it was for me, the reason I knew had to exist for the poop art that was carefully drawn on the wall every night. Some of the crew never believed there was any insight into the drawings, but I had always maintained there was, there was some sort of catharsis going on for Helen while she expressed herself on her bedroom wall. Was the poop a metaphor of some kind? Did she even know why her compulsion to do wall art every night before she slept existed? I never got any more answers to my questions. I still do not know if the tiny woman in the wheel chair was gang raped as a very young woman. I tend to believe it was true. I saw her face, her eyes as she told in detail what seemed to be her greatest pain. She didn't make much sense in her other conversations, being confused by daily events, never knowing time or place, but this she knew.
From that moment on I paid attention to every stroke mark, every dot, every purposefully put mark she had made on her wall. Some nights were stark in contrast and content, some nights there were sweeping images with light and shadow, texture and layers.
I wish I had seen this during the digital age when I could have taken pictures of her artwork. Of course, we had to scour it off the walls due to it's unsanitary nature, and the smell. Oh, the smell on some nights was horrendous. I am not sure how she got through it without gagging. I will tell you this is the only time when someone worked in feces I ever compelled to talk about. I wish I had the images to show you, maybe you would see what I saw, too.
So none of Helen's great artwork was saved or even seen by anybody other than the staff.
It's a pity really, some if it was really great stuff.

A Million Little Lies

i was not a writer when i first read his book
i was just a reader who loved words the sound of them the feel of them as they slipped into the crevices of my brain making their way along the synapses causing my body to react
i was just a woman who wanted so desperately to write something of my own
i was just a person who wrote every day hoping that one day very far into the future at the time that i too would make someone feel something with my words
i read his book believing the genre it was promoted as
believing even as my boggled mind could fathom the extraordinary pain the incredible hardship the lasting effects his words had on me that somehow this unbelievable story rang true for him
then like all of us i found that the story had been made up the truth was not in evidence
i felt lied to duped deceived by this man who sold his soul for the chance to be in print
i know of his desperation as a writer not a drug addict
i know how much i want my own words to be put out promoted sold in mass so that i may be self supporting rather than dependent on my husband feeling sometimes crazy like van gough being supported by his brother theo wondering at times if in my own desperation i will end up eating the lead paint choosing my own demise
i sit for hours upon hours writing things i feel certain will come of no use
i work at something where the reward seems to come to those who will stop at nothing to be sold lock stock and ethics
then i heard him say after it had been years that the lesson was still at large
after he was found out in writing salacious lies sold as the truth he says simply matter of factly
i have no respect for the genre memoirs they all do what i did embellish the truth
so there it was for me a platform that had global effect he still did not own his own undoing
yes he said he was guilty but i noticed as he indicted all non-fiction writers that his face never changed he remained unchanged
he said he did not cry but laughed hysterically in a cab back in new york
he told how people sued him how he got stared at
poor poor child after he stood in front of a group of millions saying look i survived all this so you can survive too but in reality he did not survive
his pathological lies as an addict are still real to him his demons still pulling at his coat tails and his conscious
i have lots of experience with addicts on many different levels i have suffered at the hands of where their addiction became insanity where the lies became their paranoid truth where their violence became their normal
i felt my face burn hot beating red veins throbbing at the latest lie that had been told on a platform i felt certain he should not be on due to the destructive nature of his words
he is not accountable for what he brings to the world
he finds no remorse in those he hurt by selling his goods as real time events
he continues to believe in his addled and warped thinking that it is ok to say you are something that you are not
immediately i thought of course in your art you do not have respect for my genre
how could you when clearly you are not a part of it and never could be
the truth is time consuming drama is sometimes very mundane in fact leaving the writer to dig until it feels as though tears are made of blood
writing real time real talk is like taking an open wound and bathing it in alcohol
his art he called it art as if he has the right to do so as if others were crazy not to see that his work his disrespect disregard for genres for writers for writing itself could now be called art
his art reminds of the artists who unable to create great realistic or impressionistic art rely on the shock value of working in feces and daring others to try and get it under the guise of greatness
when someone of lesser known opinion sees it and calls it shit he sits condescendingly and mocks them for their ignorance
the pure beauty of art is more than shock value michaelangelo did not work in his own urine
obsessed to the point of personal detriment he worked at his craft every day pushing his physical limits right to the brink
van gough gave his mind for his craft a prolific painter singular in his kind and style he painted over 300 paintings in a year constantly working until the genius in him could take no more
monet painted art beginning an era of water impressions his painting getting more vivid at the end of his life due to aging eye sight and war
when i go to an art museum i view their truth what their minds eye saw what their simple signals from brain to hand that created magic
what is so magical about writing fiction and then lying to be published
what is so wondrous about writing something good you then tout as true knowing in fact things never happened the way you declare in words written and then spoken on a world stage
never veering from your new fictionalized version of yourself until
you
get
caught
my anger comes from all the frustrating mind numbing time it takes me to get the details right
the hours i spend talking listening to others so as not to make up things so it gets easier for me
my journey is not about ignoring the rules of writing and ethics
my journey is not about outing my family and friends embarrassing all of us in some sort of demonic wish to be famous whoring out my soul to the highest bidder
my stories may be of little interest to the literary world
i may never be famous or even heard past the people who currently read them
the difference between said artist and myself is i spend much of my day fighting ego and arrogance the two evils that will kill a non-fiction writer
they scratch at my heels when i am writing about myself all the while whispering in my ear that the story with a few minor changes could make me look like a fricking hero if i only leave out my unsavory parts
i am not an artist because my opinion of me only matters if i am still following the path i know is right and true
what others call is of no consequence if i know for certain i have done the work
praise can only be heard by deafened ears if i am looking to be soothed in a time of shaky unsettling nervousness
so my words say this
not all writers embellish
not everybody sells their soul along with their story
not every writer even wants to be famous most of us would be completely content to sit and write all day just making enough money to live doing what we seemingly cannot live without
i pity him
he still doesn't get it
maybe the addiction he battled took his ability to see things as clearly as those of us who were more victims of addicts than addicts themselves
maybe he will recognize his failings in another person a mirror i have seen in my lifetime reflecting back every fatal flaw every misgiving every tiny nuance of error i carry along with me on this my journey
maybe he will let go of the ego that has falsely allowed for his mistakes so he can walk in the light of what is rather than what sells
i am not famous
i am not read by millions
i am not rich or even able to support myself
what i am is comfortable in my own voice
i sit in a place of knowing that the readers i do have appreciate me for my own voice
my own words my own thoughts the work id do everyday to try and make a difference to someone out in a world i may never get to see in person
i am not perfect or a hero or idol or role model in the sense that i am in my work what you the reader to choose me to be
what i am to my core to the depths of my still childlike soul is
grateful

Happy Birthday, Old Man!

My old man is finally an actual old man today. My dad's birthdays are something I continue to be awestruck by. While my age doesn't seem to bother me, his age is insane to me. Today he turns 103, OK, OK, he actually turns 79, but it feels like a 103 to me, so that's my story and I am sticking to it.
For as long as I can remember the silent one of the family has dictated through dirty looks, and facial frowns what goes on in my immediate family's household. A simple gesture, a downward turned frown, a mere eyeballing could send shivers down our spines. That is how it has always been for the Ketcham family. Tick Dad off and there would be hell to pay. I managed to give him more wrinkles than a 10 hour bath. Every gray hair on his head is, or probably should be credited to me. My dad had no problem getting what he wanted, if and only if he was patient enough. Sometimes thing would work out beautifully for him, other times, the vein in his forehead would bulge to the point of bursting before I would do whatever it was he wanted. Now a days, I am the least of his worries. Who would have seen that coming? Certainly, not him.
Pop and I look a like, or so I am told. I tell people all the time I have his jowls, like a hound dog, they sag beneath our chins, waggle when we shake our heads and make us look as though we haven't smiled in twenty years. I have his pointy nose, which I have made fun of his reminding him his nose could double as a can opener, in case of emergencies. I have part of his blue eyes and part of my mom's hazel eyes. It is the one spot where both my parents DNA is visible immediately.
As we have aged, my old man and me, we have become friends, of sorts. I will always be his daughter, the one he looks out for, gives unwanted advice, and reminds to change her oil filter, but when we see each other, these days, we really see each other.
I used to treat my dad as if he were an ottoman in the middle of the room and I was Dick Van Dyke. I would skirt passed him, so as not to wake the beast. My dad was a military guy with high expectations of his kids, which, and I am not totally sure why I felt the need to drive him crazy, I decided that I would crush his expectations, and create new ones. My mom's favorite saying is, "Life is not fair." My dad's response was always, "Your telling me!" Where he would then direct one of his famous looks in my direction.
Dad is an only child in every sense of the word. He had daughters, so he remained the alpha male. He is exactly that, even today. He has his chair, his cup and his routine, which if you disturb, you do so at your own risk.
What most people don't know about my dad is he has the heart of a poet, the soul of an artist, which he has practiced both. He used to sketch, pets, kids, things that meant so very much to him. He has written poetry, so surprising it brought tears to my eyes. Being the stoic, silent type, one would never guess behind the gruff facade lies a romantic, a soulful man with deep seated emotions, able to be expressed with nothing but a piece of charcoal or pen.
What I love about my dad, which there are too many things to put in print in a single blog, is that he is complicated, layered, complex. He has allowed me to believe I could reinvent myself, and I have, several times over, now. He taught me if I really wanted something to go for it, do the work, take my shot. Dad is not one to gush over my accomplishments, that is just not his style. He reads my work, and says, "That's nice", the "nice" word being used by him for every occasion. I looked "nice" on my wedding day. He doesn't have to say everything to me. I understood what he was saying beyond his words a long time ago. My dad hugs me hard every time we part company. His strength hasn't diminished, even though his hair has. That hug, that singular act, is what tells me my dad is proud of me. It is his way of saying he loves me, though most times I do get to hear the words, too.
Today, I get to think about my dad and how blessed I am to have him. I didn't understand why he was so hard on me, until I grew up and had to make it on my own. Even then, when I needed him the most, he got in his car and showed up, without hesitation.
I'll be honest, most days I curse the jowls and pointy nose, but the rest of my dad... Well, I feel pretty lucky, I am as much like him as I am.

Birthday In Review

Yesterday I turned 48. I usually don't think about my age. It doesn't seem relevant unless I have had to learn a lesson the hard way, I wake up with something broken that was fine when I went to bed or it happens to be the day when I am required to change the number on the countless forms I fill out on any other given day.
I have never been one to say I am younger than I am, quite the opposite. I usually tell people I am older than I am. Maybe I don't look so hot for 48, but I will rock out 64. I never understood the lying about one's age. Saying you are 35 when clearly you are anything but, makes me cringe. My candles on my cake yesterday were the numbers 100, my kids idea. If that is what they think, so be it, I have earned every year on that cake, mostly due to them, so let them eat cake.
I got a gift this year I have wanted for a while. Years ago, I used to play and sing music. It was part of my everyday life. I was a full blown choir and band geek. Music defined the moments in my life that were the most important to me. I performed before hundreds and a few times thousands of people, with a little nervousness, but now since I am so far out of practice having given it up so long ago, I can't sing in front of my family without having a full blown panic attack. Doing music seemed as though it were a past life. I was talking to my best girlfriend from college, Lovey, when I said I had gotten the gift because I wanted to start playing, and singing again. "I didn't know you sang..." she trailed off. No, I don't remember ever telling her, either. Once out of my small hometown, most people didn't know how much I loved to sing or play. "Yeah," I said, "I used to sing at everything, church, funerals, weddings, whatever was handy. I gave it up when I got married the first time." I heard the sadness in my own voice, and being my best friend she did too. Back then it had been a choice, now, I couldn't remember why that was.
Michael and I talk about everything. He knew I was unhappy having given up the one thing in my life that was only for, or about me. Much like my birth name, it was ingrained in me this love of music and now I wanted it back. I write in my birth name because it's mine, it's who I am to my very core. I love being married, but I question why we need to become someone else in order to do it. The tradition of acquiring your husband's name comes from a time when women were property, rather than individuals. We have romanticized it, in order to make it palatable, but I still feel as though we shouldn't have to if we don't want to. I took Michael's name because he asked me to, not because he expected anything. Being 38 when we got married, I had my own ideas of what I wanted for my future, so he and I talked about our expectations. I have the best of both worlds now, something I could never have imagined years ago. I am Michael's wife mind, body and soul, but when I write I am me, the me who showed up on May 9, so very long ago.
I took piano lessons in college. I had access to a piano at school and home so I practiced, a lot. I was never bored, because I had my horn, the piano, my favorite albums, church choir practice, the latest wedding music to rehearse, I had more than enough things to do to keep me occupied. As I married and had kids, I had no piano, no way to practice, I had nowhere to go with all of my love for music. Beyond singing my kids to sleep, I slowly began to lose my own voice. Looking back it was part of why Danny and I couldn't keep our marriage in working order. His voice was the dominant one, while I slowly shrank away to nothing. I couldn't sing in front of anyone now if a gun were held to my head. I imagine myself saying, "Go ahead and shoot me, this is not going to happen." My fear got bigger as the years went by, and I have sang in public once, for my parents 50th anniversary, a song during a roast I did. It took every ounce of courage I had, to stand up in front of their friends and our family to do that. I figured the odds were in my favor that they probably wouldn't make it another 50, so I was done. For my parents, I would do almost anything. I had to publicly put the "almost" in so my mom wouldn't use it against me.
I sing in front of the dogs. Given enough liquid courage, always the smart way to conquer fear, I might karaoke, but ultimately I keep my light under a bushel.
The gift my family gave me was an electric keyboard, a full size electric piano. I had asked, but I usually give them several options to pick from, so I didn't see this coming. I had pictured a little keyboard I could put on the dining table and peck around on. What I received was nothing short of a big chunk of me I thought I had lost forever.
I cannot play, hardly at all anymore, but what I can do is re-learn what I lost. I sat looking at the keys, playing scales, my left hand lazy, not wanting to play along, but I pushed through anyway. I screwed around with all the bells and whistles, literally there are bells and whistles, it's quite unbelievable, and I began to remember the girl who loved all things instrumental.
Every time I have a birthday, I look back over the year at my accomplishments and my failures. Not so different than New years I make resolutions of what kind of person I want to be in the future. I make a list of what I want to change, what I like about myself and what I may have to let go. I pulled out all of my old instruments, my guitar, my horn, and now the keyboard, and of course the voice I carry. I won't be posting videos on YouTube waiting to be the next Beiber, this is not about that. I just want the opportunity to live as a musician, because for all of my earlier life that is what I was.
As I sat in front of the piano, my son looked at me and said, "How are you reading music?" I looked at him stunned for a minute, "It's my second language, you never really forget." The boy still unbelieving that I could pull the rabbit out of the musical hat than said, " Yeah, but I play all the time and I can't sight read. You haven't done anything in years...that is really impressive." I smiled as I went back to hunting and pecking my way through the nursery songs thinking, "Ah, my first review, it's pretty good. Imagine what can happen if I practice, practice practice."

Congratulate Me, I Retired.

I have been incredibly lucky in my life. I know there are enough times it looks like three legged dog "lucky", but all in all, I think I have managed to do well.
One of the greatest things I have been afforded is to be a mom. I am not sure why I was trusted with this particular life event, but I tend not to question it, lest the big guy upstairs re-think the matter. Let's just say, if it ain't broke...
I always knew I wanted to be a mom. For me it was one of those things like when someone is sure they want to be a doctor, or nun. I knew it was what I wanted from the time I was born. Having four children isn't easy. It was easier when they were little and I could set them down and know for certain they would be there when I got back from the bathroom. I have often thought what a great idea a teenage playpen would be, but I think it would resemble a cage too much, so I doubt if that would ultimately fly.
I miss the days when they were little. I was surrounded by dirty diapers, plastic table settings with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Cinderella and the like. It was our fancy dinnerware, for special occasions. Each place setting had matching silverware, with place mats that were coated in plastic for easy cleaning. Every cup in the house had a lid, which for those rare occasions when I could have a cocktail made it convenient, so I wouldn't spill. My days were consumed with pre-school, macaroni art, baking cookies that matched the latest holiday, and laundry, lots and lots of laundry. I washed my own diapers, so having three in, made my washer groan from the strain.
Mike and I cleaned the house in about an hour yesterday. I felt really good that it was done, but sat stunned that it only took an hour. I remember when just running the vacuum used to take three hours because of the constant refereeing, separating of kids, or moving baby seats, cribs, toys and those rolly walkers out of the way. Picking up after four kids under the age of 5 took every ounce of energy I had. Having someone over to the house meant they, too, had to step over the constant kid droppings. I stopped apologizing after kid #3. Even that took too much effort to deal with.
I was thinking back to the time I had to take the kids to the grocery store with me. I would have the newest baby strapped to my front, one in belted in the seat in the front of the cart and the other two sitting in the actual cart part on their coats. I would have to get a second cart just for food. There I was wielding my way through the isles, talking to the kids who were misbehaving at the time, or anxious for their freedom, cooing to the baby, reminding the one sitting in the front to sit down or they would be put in the corner until they were 18. I juggled coupons, the list, the baby and carried a purse the size of small condo, so I could throw suckers, crackers or cheerios at whoever whined the loudest. Older mom's would stop and talk for only minute because they knew every second counted in that trip.
I remember birthday theme parties. We have had everything from army guys to princess parties to squirt gun fights. I always made the cake, myself, decorating it with toys, icing and the ever present sprinkles. We played every game I could think of, in order for the time to go faster for me, because I had invited more kids to an already full house. It was true, that my kids were a walking birthday party in their own right, but that never seemed to be enough, we always had to invite kids who had no siblings or few brothers and sisters, so they would see us as more circus act than family. I can't tell you how many times I had to explain how we lived to children and adults who should have known better. "Why is your fridge so full?" "Why are there so many beds in your house?" "Why do have three car seats in your van?" And my personal favorite from other moms, "HOW MANY KIDS DO YOU HAVE?"
Many women would ask if I were done having kids, as if I had no self control and needed to go to rehab for fertile women. I would then tell them yes, I was done, and I had lost two of my children who died before they were born. That usually stopped the question and answer portion of the program. I had wanted six children. I had the opportunity to carry six children, two of which did not make it early on. I have always thought they are in heaven with Danny keeping him safe and loved, in a reunion of souls.
Yesterday, Mike and I were cleaning, hanging out together and laughing our heads off as we sipped multiple mojitos. We grow our own mint just for this occasion. The kids were scattered all over town, at jobs, school friends, whatever. They don't tell me and to be perfectly honest, since they are old enough to know better, I don't ask. When they were in high school I used to tell them I was so far up their butts, if someone wanted a family photo they would have to do a colonoscopy on them. Now, I mind my own business unless I see a reason to interfere. So there we were drinking, laughing, having a wonderful time just the two of us. Michael asked if the kids should be here. "No, it's OK. I knew they would be busy. I am just enjoying this."
And that is the truth. I am enjoying not knowing everything all the time. I am taking the time to be with Michael and me, the two of us, without kids arguing, taking my seat or telling me stories I should NEVER hear.
I have no idea what will happen tomorrow for Mother's Day, except Michael and I went shopping for my breakfast ingredients. I opted for steak, eggs, hash browns, fresh strawberries, orange juice and espresso. If they show up,great! If they opt out, well, then I will continue having a great day. I have had lots of mother's days, small case letters. I have watched their first steps, and their big missteps. I have taught them to tie their shoes and drive cars. I have talked until we were both blue in the face, about life, love and respect.
This year I am celebrating the end of an era. I have had an exceptional run here, as the mayor of crazy town. God handed me a job I had wanted my entire life. This year He is giving me my "gold watch" and allowing me to retire, from the heavy lifting. I am very happy to step down and let my kids take over the reigns to their lives. So tomorrow I will be doing what others do when they have a retirement party rather than a traditional Mother's day, eating, sleeping in, drinking, playing loud music and making plans to buy that camper that sleeps two I have been eyeballing since 1992.

An Open Letter To My Mother

Dear Mom,
I never understood as a child, why you were so obsessed with good manners, to the point you carried extra hankies, told me to sit up straight non-stop, and reminded me to cross my legs. I was completely annoyed by the way you prodded me to say "please" and "thank you" before I ever got the chance. You drove me crazy with all your nagging about hygiene, clean rooms and homework. For every moment in my life either big or small, you stood behind me reminding me there was no excuse for sloppiness, bad manners or thoughtlessness...I thank you.
It wasn't until I had my own children did I fully understand the sacrifice. I would have eventually learned, but having kids in my 20's taught me that lesson even faster. When I became a mom, worrying, fretting over the smallest of things, is when the bulk of my "knowing" what you felt, took place.
I was thinking back to the days when I thought you had completely lost it, getting up everyday to do what I thought was nag me, when now I see, you were only taking care of the child you had brought into the world. You never had a day off of being my mom. You still don't get that luxury, yet there you are, having long retired from your employment, tirelessly doing your mom job until there is no time left between us.
There aren't enough numbers for the times I have called you, panicked, scared, elated, exhausted, celebratory, and just missing you. To say I have you on speed dial, is so obvious, so understated it is like saying the sun is hot.
There have been, and will continue to be, an insurmountable volume of times when I miss seeing your face, sitting next to you, having coffee in person, rather than long distance by phone.
Because I am a mom now, too,I know all the hard choices you have made on my behalf. I know every sleepless night you had, I know every heart break you felt, every moment of pure joy. I know, because you taught me to know better.
I am the person I am good and bad, because you brought me here, taught me what you knew and learned from what you could. The good news is, I believe you and I have done alright.
I have lived for the moments when I made you proud. I still wince at the times when I saw the horrified embarrassed look on your face when, well, when I did the exact opposite.
You taught me to cherish family, and now I do. You taught me to stand up for myself,and though it has sometimes been excruciating, I have. You taught me to be nice when what I was feeling was anger, despair or injustice, because you knew that sometimes it pays to wait until the dust settles.
I am writing you this, so you know for certain, I listened, I learned, and now I have taught your wisdom to my own children.
I know I say every time we talk, how much I love you, but this time I wanted to be sure it was in permanent ink. I love you, Mom. Thanks for giving me everything you had, every minute of your time, every loving thought you carried.
I wish for you a Mother's day full of happy memories, people who love you and cheesecake.

Sometimes I Am Such a Big Baby!

A week from yesterday will be my birthday. I have been saying I am 48 for some time, now. I guess, once I reached a certain age I just needed the extra time to get used to saying the number. I am more than officially pushing 50, I have my front half leaning in, while my back half languishes in my 40's, resisting the decade that marks half a century.
Every year my birthday would roll in amongst proms, graduations, retreats, all kinds of busy. Every year I would say the same martyred, tired Mom speak of, "That's OK I don't really need anything. You don't have to bother..." I would emotionally crap on whatever was coming my way. In my head I would think, "It's too much bother, my age doesn't make a difference, we could save the money and get that new coffee pot we have been wanting..." I describe that as tired because that is what I made my family when it came to having a celebration for my birthday. By the time I was done bludgeoning them with all the insignificance of the day, they would walk around zombie-like, unable to process what they were supposed to do. If they did absolutely nothing, they would be considered selfish, if they celebrated anyway, they would be scolded for not listening to my wishes. I pulled the ultimate girl card. I made it impossible for them to win, or break even, for that matter. Regardless of what they wanted to do, I made sure they got it wrong.
I admit that is my least precious trait. I think all women have it genetically imprinted on their psyche, just how to make a situation into a no-win one. This is something I have been working on, this birthday fiasco, I created for myself. I celebrate everyone's birthday for practically a week, but when mine rolls around, I can't seem to get it right...until this year.
This year, I asked for everything. I don't expect anything, really, not because the family doesn't care, but because I gave them all kinds of options and now I just can't wait to see what they come up with. Packages have been delivered, secrets get whispered behind my back, lists are being made...I tell you, I am very excited about seeing what they have come up with. Michael asked me what I wanted for my birthday meal. "I want steak, grilled onions and mushrooms, a leafy green salad, ooh, and chocolate cream pie instead of cake!" "Well, that was fast!" Michael looked shocked. I smiled broadly, shrugging my shoulders, lost in the idea of a chocolate cream pie, which I have not had in years. I want to celebrate me for a change. I have done the whole self deprecating thing, or the whole Martyr Mommy thing. Now, I just want to have a good time.
This year is not really about my age. 48 doesn't mean much to me, except that I am still here, and I am happier every year I get to say that. I smile more than I frown, now. My temper has been softened, partially because I am lazier and getting angry takes so much effort, and partially because I have the benefit of perspective. I am infinitely more patient than I have ever been in my life. I'll be honest, it shocks me, how patient I am. I had given up hope of ever having the ability to wait and see. I think last year has much to do with the recent acquisition. Last year and all that moving, packing, unpacking...it taught me to shut up and wait. It was a good lesson I hope to never repeat as long as I live. Having put that in writing means I will definitely repeat it. It's part of a private joke between God and I. It's the literal definition of a location joke.
So I am giddy as a school girl, anxiously waiting for my big day to arrive. Whatever happens, I am certain I will love it. I plan to take the entire day playing loud music, drinking champagne, eating the fatted calf, and gobbling up the pie. Rumor has it in the house that the day before my birthday is Mother's Day and there may be cheese cake after the big brunch. Michael is off for several days coming up, my birthday included. He did tell me one thing we will be doing over our four day weekend, which is planting flowers. For this is why I love him so much.
Years ago when I was alone with the kids, it was awkward for me to celebrate Mother's Day for myself. The kids had no one to go to help them, so they felt bad they were too little to do anything on their own. I hated seeing how sad they were, so we made a tradition of buying plants and putting flowers in the garden. Instead of having a bouquet that would eventually fade, I would have flowers for months that reminded me of my children. They loved the idea, until they found out they had to help garden. They would always rally and participate, laughing at each other, and appreciating the work at the end of the day. They always noticed our flower garden after that, too. Once the plants took hold and started to bloom, they would say, "Mommy, did you see the flowers? They look so nice!" In the spirit of that tradition, Michael plans to take me to get some flowering vines to put in by our wine bistro. Every time I look out the large arched window I will be reminded of my children, my beloved husband and the year I finally got my act together and just let it all happen.

Here's What I Know For Sure

Today was an unseasonably, beautiful day in Houston, Texas. Our air is usually thick by now, with the heaviness of the moisture hanging in the air, but today it was breezy, cool, with windows open, the coolness wafted in the house. What can be oppressive, today felt like sweet relief.
I found that interesting considering the history we were all living. I found it to be a divine intervention of sorts. I saw it as a sign.
Today we remembered our dead, our sacrificed, that in the recent past wandered our country like the lost souls they were. They died in tragedy, in hopelessness, in agony. Every type of American was killed on September 11, 2001, from the aged to the infants, every shape, size, race, creed, and religion died on that day and on foreign soil since. I remember how we all wanted, begged for, demanded that we stay present, ever watchful for any hope of capture of a terrorist who tried to destroy the America we have loved our entire lives. We waited, sometimes impatiently, but always vigilant, keeping constant our demand on our government that they not forget, that we as a people not forget those we lost on that fateful day, and in war.
Friday the world celebrated a wedding, a joining of two people, who happened to be born into power. John Paul, who pushed hard for the church, his and mine, to begin to see the world as one, rather than as separate, was celebrated for his contribution in love. And today we got to lay our dead to rest... finally.
I know we all heard the whispers of those who were lost in the turmoil, the tumult, the disaster. We all bore witness to the abject horrified terror that had been inflicted on the innocent. It now gets to become our history, rather than part of our present. Yes, we are still at risk, but the message we have sent to those who would try and harm us is clear. We will wait, we will search, we will get justice for those who cannot represent themselves. We will not forget.
Any president would have handed down the order. Two presidents, who have little in common, had a singular goal for the people they serve. It was not Congress, or the President who brought us our justice, who honored our dead, it was us. The special forces, the navy seals, the people gathering intelligence, they are not famous, or powerful, they are us. They risked life and limb, just as the fire fighters did, just as the armed forces did, in order to release our tortured souls. They heard the demands of the rest of us, the whispers of the dead, the promise that was made on their behalf to make this right.
So this is what I know for sure, although this is not the end of things, what I feel is, it is a new beginning. For those who thought we were short sighted, small minded and would forget the promise we made, today showed that we are not a people who lose sight of what is important. We, Americans, are patient, resilient, and mindful of what our duties are, and the debts we know we must repay.
I did not dance in the street over a dead terrorist, who disrespected life, honor and love. What I did do was give up my gratitude for every man, woman and child who was sacrificed. I prayed for every soldier who boarded a plane as one person to land in sand becoming another. I felt great solace in my heart, the powerful feeling of peace, that the promise had been fulfilled, the souls had been released and the love, the pure love was what would continue for God, country and people.
I remain humbled, awe struck by the amount of generosity, heart-felt good wishes and sense of duty the people in this country feel, and act on.
While the military remains on the job, working tirelessly, day and night in a foreign land, to push the last of the hatred out to sea, we can wake up tomorrow and get back to doing what we always do; looking to those who need our help and give what we can. Hang on Alabama, we are on our way. We did not forget.

It's All About the Shoes

I am a shoe girl. This means my shoes are VERY important to me. While I am not one of those women who spend tons of money on a single pair of shoes, I have certainly spent my fair share on several pairs of fashionable footwear. Where some women covet certain designer clothes, I covet certain types of shoes. When we moved I paired down my shoes, quite literally. It broke my heart, but I needed to participate in the downsizing of household items, even my shoes. I am the type of woman who could easily spend hours shopping for the perfect shoes for a single outfit. I love all the colors, heel sizes, strappy versus non-strappy, open toed versus closed toe, and patent leather versus mat. If I buy a dress, you can bet your bottom dollar the shoes are not far behind. I confess, I have never bought a single dress without knowing I would also be shopping for the perfect shoes.
Having admitted this, which is the first step toward recovery, I must also tell you, I have made several huge shoe faux pas while traveling. Of course, I packed the appropriate shoes for the trip, only to find myself in a predicament where my feet became massive causalities in unforeseen adventures. One example was back in 2002 when we went on a family vacation to San Francisco. Michael has never let me forget how ridiculous I looked without my proper foot attire. Michael decided we would walk everywhere we could not take public transportation. I had packed my favorite very comfortable sandles. This normally would have been fine if we had been anywhere except the hill capital of the world. We walked for three solid days up hills and down hills. I hadn't packed a single pair of socks or tennis shoes. It never occurred to me that the excessive climbing would effect my feet the way it did. After day two, my feet were basically bloody stumps. Desperate for some relief, I borrowed a pair of my daughter's socks, yes, oh dear God, to wear with my sandles, since I had no other shoes. The other issue which added to my nightmarish fashion was I had no idea how cold it was out west in August. I took shorts with only a single pair of cropped pants. I was freezing, crippled and quickly losing my pleasing personality. When I walked out of our hotel room, I was sporting these horrifying loose cropped pants and socks with sandles. Did I mention the many cameras I had hanging around my neck? As you can imagine, no one in my family stood anywhere me. We went to China town for lunch and the family doubled over laughing at me and my crazy clothes. Insert a thousand jokes of your choice.
Last fall I once again fell into the shoe trap, but I still, to this day, contend it was not my fault. I had the proper shoe attire for the activity, carefully planning so as not to repeat the San Francisco disaster of 2002. I had on a pair of hiking shoes I bought specifically for climbing hills, mountains and the like. Mike and I have been together long enough for me to know not to wear anything on my feet that is remotely attractive when we are outside. We were hiking on our first day in Arkansas, when without cell phones or any kind of map, we got lost on the side of the mountain. What started off as a leisurely hike, ended up with us hiking for hours trying to get our bearings from the position of the sun. With most of the day gone, we finally found our way back to the path that would lead to the car. My feet were once again bloody, blistered, unrecognizable gnarled stumps.
Michael has instilled in me the need to pack light. For a shoe girl this makes for some interesting choices. It is pure hell for me to pack what I need instead of what I want. But since he is adamant, I do my best to keep my shoes to a minimum. Since my feet would no longer fit in my hiking shoes due to the overwhelming swelling, I needed to go to the nearest super store and buy what I can only describe as granny tennies, befitting someone who eats at four o'clock, and wears track suits. I got these hideous white shoes, with Velcro closures, flat soles in extra wide. I wore them for days until the swelling in my feet subsided. I wore them with everything. My large, discolored feet would not squeeze into anything that even remotely looked like MY shoes. I finally got to wear my own shoes again on the next to last day of a two week trip.
Today, I purposely bought the most ugly shoes I have ever seen in my life. I needed tennis shoes and was putting off the purchase until I could get the ugliest shoes which boasted they would work out your legs and butt while you walk. Normally, I would be put completely off buying something like this just because of the amount of ugly, but I am trying to reshape my body, battling nature and gravity. I will gladly take all the help I can get. I already walk several miles a day, so if I can increase the amount of exercise I get, then sign me up. I was looking down at my orthopedic monsters. As I was sweating profusely, all I could think of was, "This better be worth it!" My new shoes look like corrective shoes rather than the usual fun and fashionable footwear I love putting on. In my head I kept saying, "Run, Forest, run!"
I am consoling myself with the idea that not many will see me in my klunky butt building shoes. I walk when most people are at work, so few if anybody will even know I have them, except for this blog of course, which is international, crossing over into countries I have only dreamed of. I figure if they read this, they too are may be considering the ugly shoes in order to cheat the system.
I can say at least this time I am wearing the abject ugly on purpose in the privacy of my own neighborhood, instead of hundreds or thousands of miles away from home. I know for certain I will once again sport some ludicrous clothes or shoes due to a packing failure. I know that Michael who never has such comic moments or ever looks out of place will have the laugh of a lifetime at my expense. Being the reigning queen of Dorkdom, this will remain my lot in life. All I am really hoping for at this point is that my newest uglies will help at least my body to look OK while I am sporting my crown.
For the record there is no photographic proof of the San Fran debacle, I checked just in case. This is why I am the one who takes most of the pictures on our trips.