Indelibly "Inked"

The title of this post is the same as a quote in my book. It is my own quote, by the way. It is the idea of making your mark on somebody, good and bad.
For those of you who follow my blog, you are on my journey with me. Thanks for tagging along. Those of you who have decided to call me names, you can kiss my big, fat, stretched marked *ss! Oooh, see I am not so nice that I feel the need to take any of your "anonymous" crap.
So here is what happened: Here I was, blissfully unaware of any toe stomping I have done with my writing, when along comes an anonymous, who decided that I was unworthy of being treated like a human being. The tenor of the email was vicious. Anonymous called me a "stupid bitch", "liberal pig", and other such lovely things. It railed on and on about how I not worth the air I breathe.
Usually, I don't care about what others think to any real degree, because it is a slippery slope. If you believe the compliments all the time, when the criticisms come, and they always do, you end up ingesting those too. For me it is better to listen to the people who actually know me, weigh out what they think, and take it from there.
I write to the best of my ability. I really don't need a page by page list of all the errors in my book. I know there are those of you who think you are helping in some weird way, as if I can pull all the books off their shelves, off the net and fire my editor, but in reality, it is useless. My editor, Emily, was brilliant in helping me get the book out. I had a deadline, as did she. I had a word count to take in consideration. After seeing the words for so long, you go blind to some of the mistakes. Much like a conversation, errors happen.
It is said you can't judge a book by it's cover, but mine I think you probably can. I designed that too, so if it offends you, tough! There is not one thing I would change about my book, because I can't. It is done. It is out there. That is the thing about finishing a project; you have to live with the results. My only hope now is to become a better writer than I was when I put my first book out. I keep writing trying to hone my skills.
The truth about some "constructive criticism" is unless you are an editor, literary agent, writer or book critic, what exactly are you bringing to the table? Is what you write to me, really something you would find worthy of putting a stamp on and mailing? Are you really angry with me or are you just a little sad, pathetic and in need of venting? Which if you qualify it first, I will be more than happy to listen to your problem and give my best shot at helping you find a resolution. BUT, if you think it is acceptable to insult somebody just because you can do it without attaching a name or face, then it is best if you keep your "comments" to yourself. They are from an unreliable, incredible source.
I was hurt at first, then angry and then just sad. I went through my Kubler-Ross stages of grief. I took the time to weigh out any merit of what was said. But the thing is it didn't come from a human, it came from a ranting keyboard run amok.
I have been told after some have read my book, they should write a book. The inference was if I could do it, then anybody could. Here is the good news on that front; you are right, all of you who think you can do it better. Please, by all means, write the book, do it so it's better, tell me about it, and I will buy it, and read it. You are not my competition, and I am not yours. I am only competing with myself. The only books that matter to me, as far as mistakes, content and critique, are my own. I read for the enjoyment of it, not so I can rip it to shreds. Every book has mistakes. Having been written by a mere mortal, there will always be areas that could use improvement.
Snookie wrote a book, only a year after she read her first book. She is now on the New York Times best seller list at #27. What this tells me is, yes, anybody can write a book. She is living proof that it doesn't take a savant to produce a work in writing. I am neither encouraged nor discouraged from that revelation. It, in fact, has nothing to do with me. In a given year, thousands of books will get published and printed. Some will be good, some great, some will be crap, according to the opinion of which reader is involved with it, at the time. My favorite author put out a book I read on vacation. I didn't care for it at all. I was disappointed that I didn't like it, but I didn't write him, calling him names, refusing to read his future work. He tried something different and I didn't like it, no harm, no foul. When he puts out his next book I will be the first in line to see what it is.
I was having a bit of writers block. My family's schedule and living arrangements have changed, throwing me off. I sat down to write and nothing showed up. It happens, this lack of creativity for my own process. What I decided to do instead was focus on something else. I got 3 very smart men together so they could produce a column. OMG what if their column takes off and mine doesn't? Won't I be pissed that I did this to myself? NO! That is the thing; their success is born of my idea, so I am part of it. It isn't about credit or pay, it's about creation. I got to collaborate with a friend in order to produce what I am sure will be a very good column and hopefully, full media concept. I didn't waste my time feeling sorry for myself, being stuck and trapped in my own head.
So, I am indelibly "inked" to my 3 guys. The hater is indelibly "inked" to me as a mean spirited fool. Make your mark in the world. It is your right, your chance, your self created opportunity. But if you want to do it by sending it to me, play nice or be blocked!
(In case anyone finds mistakes here: I only proof read these blogs twice and then move on, lest I be stuck here all day making corrections.)

Diary of a Dullard

2 AM-wake up from falling asleep on the couch due to swamp like hot flashes. Made a cup of tea, went outside, heard insane howling, went back in locking the door behind me, as if that would stop a Werewolf from breaking in and killing me and the useless sleeping dogs who are supposed to be protecting me.
3 AM back on the couch believing naively that the couch and a 24 hour news channel is what keeps my hot flashes at bay. I spend the next hour pulling the blanket on and pushing the blanket off, while simultaneously freezing and sweating.
4 AM trying to fall back to sleep, but riveted to the TV as the infomercial assures me I can lose 35 pounds in a week and a half. I sip my tea, only to realize I chose the wrong one and I am drinking a caffeinated beverage. I spend the next 45 minutes calling myself an idiot.
5 AM I lay on the couch eyes wide open while the rest of my body falls asleep, tingling madly. I stand trying to desperately fill my limbs with blood to get the tingling to stop, while wondering why people pay good money for ointments to promote this uncomfortable feeling. I turn on the computer, thinking I will write something brilliant, but end up on facebook,making comments on walls of people I haven't seen in 30 years.
6 AM Back on the couch exhausted, I watch the headlines and Bloomberg channel to verify that the country is going to hell in a hand basket. I close my eyes to the TV in the background buzzing that the economy will be in the crapper for another 4 years. I doze off thinking I will fight the cats to the death for their food if necessary.
8 AM wake up to the husband trying to find one of the kids. "Have you seen him?" the husband asks. "No, I was sleeping, or I thought I was sleeping.Did you call him?" I then blurry eyed, stumble into the kitchen for an IV drip of coffee directly from the pot. We find the boy, properly chastise him for his lack of communication and I head for the back patio, in search of the sun. It's gray and raining, as I mope about moving twelve hundred miles away from gloomy weather only to have it follow us here.
9 AM Feeling slightly awake I listen to the family as they grocery list their activities for the day. I map out travels required for my car, then go in search of something to read. I sit blankly staring at a magazine for the next two hours.
11 AM I watch Mike get ready for work, put laundry in the washer, after throwing some kids laundry into the dryer while cursing the entire time. I sit at the computer trying to get into my writing, but end up on twitter, tweeting about Edgar Allan Poe's birthday.
1 PM I realize I haven't eaten, reducing my metabolism to that of a slug. I juice some veggies, finishing with macaroni and cheese. Feeling guilty about all the carbs I start to get on the treadmill when I remember the laundry. Once again I profanely throw someone's laundry into a basket, switching my own from washer to dryer. I sort the rest of my clothes and find my missing lipstick. I look into the mirror to apply some when I get distracted by the dirty sinks. I inadvertently drop the lipstick back in my laundry only to discover it in the dyer, all over my clothes several hours later.
3 PM I am bored, restless, want to go for a walk and see it is still raining. I curse the weather, again, and head for the treadmill. The dogs race to the door to be let out. They have me trained so I let them out waiting by the door as I am certain they will only last five minutes. They are back to be let in at four and half minutes.
4 PM I watch Oprah in Australia, as she lives her exciting life. I make popcorn, eating a few handfuls before I start to feel nauseous, remembering I don't really like popcorn.
5:30 PM I fix dinner for me and whoever may or may not show up. Mike is at work, so I am unmotivated to cook. I use leftovers to concoct some experimental food, that only Tom will eat, which he promptly does and disappears.
8 PM I sit down to watch TV only to discover there are 5000 channels and nothing that interests me is on. I channel flip for the next hour willing scintillating entertainment to the television. Nothing happens, so I turn the news back on.
9 PM I remember I was supposed to go on the treadmill. Feeling it's too late for that I spend the next hour in failed depression.
10 PM I fall asleep. I dream of kitchen cupboards. I dream that I have gutted my kitchen without a plan or money to fix anything. In the dream dishes are lying around the floor, the dogs are helping themselves to all of our food, and I cannot find our table.
2 AM I wake up drenched in sweat. I search for my rubber gloves in case things got weird last night while I was sleeping. I make tea and head for the front porch. I sit sipping my tea, while listening to the distant howl of coyotes, or werewolves.

Resolutions, Why Bother?

I see where folks say they never write resolutions anymore. I get why they don't. I get why change is hard, making resolutions seems like a paved way to failure. But, when I personally don't make them, I find myself stuck in the same rut I had the year before, so I feel like I need to write things down. Mike and I laugh at each other as we try and remember the grocery list, let alone when we try and make big changes in our life, remembering which path to take to get there. I find myself at the end of a year looking back at what worked, and what didn't. My resolution list has some things I find myself putting on every year. Every year I write those things down, and every year I find myself no further along than the year before. I am good at failure, having practiced so much for so many years. My failures usually have to do with me more than anything professionally or with my family. I have many resolutions that are for all intent and purpose, done. Even as I write the long list of all the things I would like to accomplish, I find myself putting me at the bottom of the list. Every year I shake my head, wondering how I got so far off track. The truth is, there are always legitimate reasons to wait on taking care of me. There is never enough time in a day, or money in the account to do all the things I need to do for me, let alone take care of the "want" part of my life.
Last year, I felt myself change in a negative way physically. Ultimately, I began to see the change too. I was becoming someone I didn't recognize; I was beginning to be hunched over, gray haired, wrinkled and pasty. My weight was creeping up and my body began to make these sounds...these horrible cracking, popping, creeking sounds never before heard from a human being (well, actually, I have friends who have admitted to making these sounds, as well, but it was a first for me). I had literally let myself go. I had given up on squeezing me into my own life. This I believe is the plight of most women. I am sure some men have the same ordeal to face, but I connect in a visceral way to other women who go through this.
So, now I am left with being a bottom-runger. I got exactly what I gave to me.
Before I ever even considered writing my first book, I had put my intention in writing, going so far as to create a picture of a book with my title and author name. I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted something tangible I could reference that would remind me that I was more than the dishes I washed, the laundry I did, or the dogs I walked.
I have a folder I keep adding to as my wants and wishes get satisfied or completed. Some people use a an actual board to see all they hope to accomplish. A vision board, something I wrote about in my book, is an important tool for me. It's a way for me to see things already done. As simplistic as it may seem, it allows me to think of things completed with only the path to get there left for me to figure out. I had my folder open one day and had to laugh, even my hopes and dreams were contained in something left over by our kids. It was if being a living left-over wasn't enough, I needed to reiterate that point by not allowing myself to buy a board to do this. Pathetic, that is what immediately came to mind, I am pathetic. I am not worth three dollars worth of poster board?
Maybe now you can see why I need to have resolutions. If I can't even pony up a few bucks for myself in order to become a better person, than it really is time for an overhaul.
My resolutions have always had more to do with how I am with others, than how I treat myself. This year, I want to flip the script and start thinking about what I want. What it is I really want. Here is the hard part, I want to do it without thinking first how it effects anybody else. I want to put me first. Not in all the years I have been a grown up have I asked myself what it is I really want. One day when Mike asked me, I sat stunned because I had no answer. Did you hear me? I didn't talk. That got your attention, didn't it? I sat frozen to my chair, mute and unable to comprehend what it was he was asking me to do. You would have thought he had just asked me to explain String Theory.
"Kellie, what do you want out of all of this?" Michael poses the question I have yet to answer. My response was simply, "I have no earthly idea."
My first resolution of the new year is to figure out what I really want for me, and then for him, and for us. The logistics have been easy, where to live, how we are with each other, what lifestyle we want, but where I am as an individual remains to be seen. I know I want to be kind. I know I want to remain grateful, happy, child like, joyful, helpful. What I don't know is what I want to look like, how much success do I want, what I want for me. Having always thought in terms of the greater good for the children, who are now grown, and the husband, who now wants me to think about me, I find myself stumped by a simple question.
So there it is, resolution number one, figure out how to answer the burning question,"What do I want?"
Resolution two through forty-five have more to do with work, weight loss, and connecting with others. The long, long list of improvements that need to be made could go on forever on my resolution list. I always want to be a nicer version of who I was. I always want to consider others feelings in everything I do.
I guess, some habits are just too hard to break.

Breaking Up the Band

I have written about the band of brothers my husband, Mike, works with. They are the people we hang with, the people we count on, the ones we call friends. Since moving to Houston we found ourselves making new friends in his department, socializing, depending on, what we would do with any of our friends. His company has always provided us with our social life as well as his way to provide for our family.
For six years these folks and us have been tied to each other. We love them, and we are lucky enough to have them love us. When something great happens they are the ones who celebrate with us. When tragedy strikes, like when they lost Joe, we are the ones who cluster together in mourning.
Today is Mike's last day in that department. Having been faced with some very hard choices, Mike came home and told me about a job he was thinking about applying to. The job was with the company he has been loyal to for most of his adult life, the company that recently merged with another carrier. We talked ad nauseum about the pros and cons of him moving to another department and ultimately moving to Chicago.
The company sent out the message that his current department would be moving and the department he was thinking about applying to would be moving, but what we didn't know was how all of it would pan out for him, for us as a family.
We sat and talked for hours about making the change, and how it would effect us all in the end. Ultimately we decided it was best to protect his investment and for him to apply for the new job. It has been gut wrenching. At no point has any of this been easy. The idea of him going to the same building for now, without the comfort of our friends has left us feeling a little insecure and more than a little heart broken.
Since the merger, everyone has had to make hard choices. We have friends who feel forced into retirement in order to keep their home here in Houston. We have watched as others scrambled to go back to school in order to take different jobs. Still others have had to put their resumes on line, trying to get jobs that would allow them to stay here. Here is home for us, all of us. Most of us have family, children entrenched in the Houston lifestyle. Most of us have homes, friends, churches, clubs and entire lives here. Here is most definitely home. It has been a defining moment in our all lives.
Mike got the new job and starts tomorrow. Much like his current position, his responsibilities are fierce and the pressure is only going to increase. I know how smart, capable, solid in work ethic and reliable he is. My hope is they are kind to him and recognize what the rest of us already know.
Last night as we huddled together, my darling husband I, we talked about his last day with our friends. I saw the sadness in his eyes. We try and stay positive about all the changes his company is going through, but there is definitely doubt.
Michael is one his kind. He is unique in his want to learn more, do more, be more. He is the best of men, in work and home. I watch his face cloud over as he talks of not seeing his friends at work anymore. I promise him we will make the effort to stay in touch with all of them, so we don't lose our precious friendships. He nods and smiles at me, even as his heart breaks a little. "I have you," he says sweetly. I laugh at him and respond, "You really have to get out more!" And then we laugh.
We remain grateful that he has a job. I can't help but feel that so many of us are reduced to just being grateful for being employed. It doesn't seem like the stellar American way, this sad gratitude that we are somewhat forced to feel. But Mike and I have been through enough things to know that this very well could be the best thing to happen for us, even if we can't see it right now.
If/when he moves to Chicago, I will remain in our beloved retirement home, here in Houston. I feel sick inside thinking about my life without him on a daily basis. He will commute the 1200 miles back to me when he can, but the nightly ritual of having him home will no longer exist. I will put on my big girl panties and do what is necessary for my man friend. Other women have done it, so I am sure I can too.

It is all so uncertain, the outcome of what will happen next. For now, we want our friends, our band of brothers to know how much we love them. We want them to be certain that we are here for them, and should they ever need us we will gladly show up. It has been our honor, our privilege knowing them, sharing their lives and friendship. The company can make all the decisions they want about what is best for them, but the ties we have to our friends will last forever.

I Love Rap

God help me, I love me some rap. So many my age don't listen to it or like it. I get that, I do, but I love words. I love to listen to what the rappers have to say. I find myself engulfed in the fire of their passion, the rhyme of their words, their need to push out the hate, torment, the undeniable feelings of oppression. When I listen to rap, I am enthralled by their experiences, their freedom of expression. Much like jazz, or the blues I find myself going with their flow.
Being a writer takes real bravery. Some see it as a way of expressing self importance, but great writers throw their life and life's experiences out for all to see, judge and ultimately twist into whatever they want through the perspective of their own lens. Writers don't get to pick and choose what the readers, or in this case listeners, take away from their work. They are merely outside observers to their own work. Great writers don't sensor themselves; they write the raw feelings, thoughts and images they are carrying around in their minds. I picture writing like pushing pasta through a pasta machine. We all have the same raw materials, but depending on the percentages of influence is what the dough looks like. Once the initial dough is made, it is then pushed out through whatever shape the writer intends, leaving the outcome to how the readers decide to cook it, in thoughtful process. Look, I have made a lot of spaghetti in my day, so this is why I see it like this. It isn't as much profound as it is an easy way for me to process my own skills.
I am not a fan of all rap. Some I find gratuitous, insipid, sort of like reality TV. I listen to it once and if it doesn't hit me, provoke me, make me think, then I am out. For me that is how all music leads to making my list of hits and misses. It can be as complex as Eminem's "Love the Way You Lie", a brilliant song in story telling about a toxic relationship where both parties are equally guilty in destroying each other, to as simple as Neyo's "Closer" which for me has a good beat and is easy to dance to, leading me to throw my own dance party in my house.
I got Eminem's latest CD for Christmas. He is not for the faint of heart. His lyrics will reach in and rip your guts out. He has the ability to say things most only think and spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. He is fearless, writing and rapping words that can disembowel. His latest CD has me completely engaged, enraptured, and appalled. I love this idea of listening to something that talks about his life and transposes itself into my own life, shaking me to my core. For me this what music, or art of any kind should do. It should make you feel something, whether happy, energetic, sad or angry. It should suck you into it's vortex making you rethink what you had been certain you knew.
Whenever I hear misogynistic lyrics or songs with the "N" word, I bristle. Nothing for me makes the "N" word OK. I am a product of the 60's where I saw first hand racism at it's most despicable. The beauty of someone like Jay-Z using that word is the difference in the way he views it, his experiences, his take on what is acceptable. He is in fact a poet, saying things that stop us in our tracks getting us to see things in a new way. That is why I believe he is a genius. The "bitches and ho's" thing also makes my blood run cold. Women are still fighting to be equal all of the world, including this country. It is offensive to me to hear women referenced as things rather than equals. But, I listen to the lyrics, the anger that comes from some of these young men and the point of the rap is the infuriated broken heart they are left with due to love gone wrong. I relate to that, the fury of being deceived, used up, left behind. I get the bravery it takes to express oneself in a way not politically correct, but authentic to the speaker, and their background. These are stories of the great un-washed, un-sterilized feelings of men who have been hurt. I dig that.
I don't think every expression is a good thing. I like being governed by laws that protect me from being harmed because someone else felt the need to express their anger with dangerous actions. I don't think every rapper should be listened to by minds that are too young to distinguish the difference between self expression and public action. However, I think the history of rap, it's influence of art from the places left too often without a voice is an important one to recognize and respect. Rap has lessened the racial divide in our young. It has opened up the world for ever race to come together as a community, experiencing the artist together. That is no small matter.
Eminem got called out for his song about domestic violence, the video showing the graphic nature of a love grown poisonous. For me, it is obvious they didn't listen to the lyrics. Trying to listen to Em, catching the lyrics is a little like trying to catch bullets from a machine gun. But if you keep at it, make the effort, you can see why the critics were wrong. At no time in the song does he ever point out the merits of being in a toxic relationship, but all the critics saw were the imagery of the video, the artistic license taken in film.
What I would like to see is everyone who dismisses rap as if it were not a viable art form to stop, open their mind and have another listen. I would love for them to view it like abstract art, where they don't have to fall in love with the imagery, but appreciate the story it is trying to convey. If more people my age could that, I think it would move us all one step closer toward closing the generation gap.

Dear Kellie - Monday, January 03, 2011 - Copyright 2007 Ourtribune.com

Dear Kellie - Monday, January 03, 2011 - Copyright 2007 Ourtribune.com

My dream becomes a reality! Thanks everybody for helping me make it happen. Nothing really great comes without a little help from my friends!

Our Adopted Man/Child

Our "adopted" man/child moved out yesterday. I felt sad.
We have had this young man in our lives because of his friendship with our son. He is a wonderful person, smart, clever, funny, easy going. He is the kind of person I gravitate to. He is well read, and speaks his mind in sarcasm, not the mean spirited sarcasm that hurts others, but rather using humor to diffuse even the worst situations, and he should know, he has seen many really bad circumstances in his young life.
I met him while he was in high school. He came from a single mother household. He was part and founder of the Dead Dad Club. It was a makeshift group of teens who had lost their fathers. He is one of the original members of The Circle of Trust. This boy/man is 21 now and has lived through a crisis that took the home he shared with his mother. Their house lost to foreclosure, like so many who find themselves homeless with nowhere to go, pushed him out. When Mike and I heard what was going on we decided he should live with us. His mother has suffered greatly during this whole ordeal, losing much of what they owned, trying desperately to make ends meet for herself, in order to bring her family back together. As I watched this, my heart broke for them. I am cognizant that "by the grace of God go I..."
The abject cruelty of losing everything you have worked for is galling to say the least. I have watched many homes in our area go into foreclosure, with all the sadness, unfairness, and hardship of starting life over, much the time while people are in the middle of their life expectancy. Watching the numbers on the news of the unemployed, foreclosures, and homeless is often times hard enough for me, but to see it first hand, well, I felt altered.
We were living in Apartmentistan when the news first hit that he and his mom would have to find somewhere to live. They had to pack boxes full of their lives entirety with no idea of where they were going and if there was room for any of it. The frantic nature of emptying out a house full of one's lifetime of memories and belongings is tough to go through. That much I had recent experience with, but having nowhere to go, nowhere to feel safe, to live as a family, well, I had no experience in that.
We knew when we got our "adopted" son, he was rental. He was on loan until his family could figure something out that was best for them. He signed up for college, an idea I pushed hard for to insure his future. He recently finished his first semester. He floated in and out of the house as if he were one of us, because to us, he was. All the while he was living here, he also tried to help his mom. She had found temporary housing in deplorable conditions, working as much as she could. She found herself being taken advantage of once more and being robbed of the few material things they had left. I watched our boy, hers and mine, heartbreak and worry in his eyes, peddle as fast as he could, helping in any way possible.
Recently, his family was able to find a home to live together, taking care of each other. He came to me and told me he was moving out. I teased him, smiling and said, "I can't be upset that your mom wants you back." I was lucky to have him as long as I did. I felt having him with us was a gift.
Yesterday, he packed up what would fit for now in their new place and came to find me. I looked at this man, this handsome, bright, caring young man and tried to keep the tears from filling my eyes. The last thing he needed was any sort of guilty mom thing from me. We hugged and I told him I loved him. It makes him uncomfortable to hear that, so I usually text it rather than say it, but this day I blurted it out. He and I have an understanding that he never has to say it back to me. I have no need to hear it since I feel it so much from him.
After he left the house, I prayed to his father that he might guide and protect our boy and his mom. I had prayed to Danny for years to help watch over our children. I believe heart and soul, he does what he can. This time I carefully introduced myself in my prayer to the man I had never met, asking now that he be with his son, seeing him through the next chapter of his life.
Single tears fell as the man/child drove away. He knows we are here if he ever needs us, but he is needed elsewhere now. The day he told me he was moving out, he told me he felt loved here. That is more than any "adopted" mom could ever ask for.