A Writer Writes, Right?

I understand that writing is an art, and everyone should have the right of complete freedom of expression, but here I am, almost forty, having hoarded all of my writing, and I am now encountering individuals who claim they are writers when asked what they do. Out of interest, I check out his/ her blog and unfailingly it reads something like: "It was sure cold out this morning! Glad I wore my mittens!! Drank some hot cocoa and took a dump!" Well, bravo for an almost ideal start to the day, but does this really constitute 'writing'? Really, isn't it just typing?
I don't want to burst anyone's bubble, but that's like me saying I am an artist and then proudly showing a blob of playdough I squeezed into some sort of animal figure. I guess I could call myself an artist, but wouldn't that be insulting to artists who took the time to lovingly craft their work into something special? Does simply posting a blog, sending an email, or writing down a grocery list constitute writing? If so, then I have been way, way too hard on myself.
I been writing since I was a child and have notebooks full, although many pieces I crumpled up and threw in the waste basket. Terrible. Not good enough. Could be better. In my creative writing class in high school where we had to read our stories aloud to the class on Fridays, I would skip school in order to avoid this dreaded obligation. My teacher finally sat me down for an intervention.
"Dana, you have to come to class on Fridays or you will fail."
"I can't." My heart was hammering, threatening to leap out of my chest.
"I'm sorry. You have to. If you come to class on Fridays, you will most certainly get a good grade. No Fridays, you fail. It's your decision."
I started going to class on Fridays. I remember the first time I read one of my stories out loud (science fiction/ horror, about 40 pages), once I had finished, there was silence. Then, a giant football player who sat in the front row blurted out, "Holy shit! You wrote that?" Yes, I had, but even then, my confidence was not boosted. I could do better, I knew. I just needed more time...
Flash forward more than twenty years later, I am still waiting for that perfect moment, the perfect piece. But as I have found with many other facets of my life, it is never the right time, some things are never good enough. The fact remains that my husband is still the only one who has read most of what I have written. He has been my biggest source of encouragement, though not the first. My teachers encouraged me. My friends encouraged me. One friend in particular actually used a couple of my pieces for submission in her college creative writing course on which she got A's (please dont tell). Apparently, this still was not enough.
At this point in time, I still hold my cards very closely to my chest. The anonymity of the internet helps immensely. I can put my work out there and hope for feedback, good or bad. The good feedback is instant gratification. The bad, or negative feedback gives you the tools and motivation you need to improve, hopefully.
That being said, what qualifies as 'writing'? A word? A sentence? A paragragh? A minimum of 300 pages? It's not the quantity that qualifies a piece as 'writing', it's the quality, the substance. Be it short, long, bitter, sweet, funny, sad, horrifying or uplifting, it should reveal something. This is not to say it has to be profound, just...thoughtful. All writers should have a perspective, and hopefully a fresh new one, not just state the obvious. As in any art form, it's all relative, and it's all in the interpretation. And everyone one of us has a different one. I can't wait to read yours.

Avoid Future Regret and Reduce The Stress Of Everyday Life With The T.P.T.D.

Is there a single piece of technology that has recently transformed your life - for the better?

Ah, so many wonderous technological advancements to explore in this day and age...the rapid rate of progress and change makes it almost impossible to single out only one that has truly reshaped my life and the lives of those around me. Is it the iPhone? The iPod? The Blackberry? The Segway Personal Transporter? The Rascal Mobility Scooter? The iSlice? MicroSoft Windows Vista (snorf)? Jumping Stilts? The Large Hadron Collider? The Big City Slider Station (I almost went with this one)????

No, it's none of these things, and I'll tell you why. Years ago, when my first child was born, I found myself faced with daily challenges I had never seen coming. Finding time to eat, drink, shower, and brush my teeth became a major and mighty coup. The time factor, however, was only part of the problem, the other being doing everything one-handed, as I had a very small and delicate object warmly and perpetually tucked against my right side.

Now, I knew how it felt to have to unwrap a Nutrigrain bar with only one hand in starving desperation; to smash a glass Coke bottle against the counter-top, eagering sucking down the delicious liquid despite the shards of broken glass ravaging my throat; to balance one-half of my body precariously outside of the shower stall, trying to remember which side of my neglected and filthy body was due for a thorough scrubbing; to strategically step one end of the tube of toothpaste to twist off the cap with my one free hand and then squeeze the contents out. I had found clever and industrious ways to accomplish all of the tasks of the day. All but one.

Despite endless attempts at this specific task, I failed miserably time and time again. Frustration led to fits of crying and screaming, both from me and the baby in my arms. Certainly, he could sense my anger, my frustration, my incompleteness as a mother. But what was the solution? Would I ever find relief?

The answer came quite unexpectedly. My husband and I had ventured down to the condo on lake Oconee for a brief respite. The lake house, being owned by my father, is quite luxurious: marble countertops, plush furniture, indoor plumbing. I fingered everything lovingly as we walked through the place upon arrival. It was magical. We had certainly been here before, but what had changed? As a new parent, I had a renewed appreciation for all things refined. I noticed the small things: the placement of the flower arrangements, the clean floors, the precisely folded towels. Clean sheets on the bed. Streak free mirrors. Full toilet paper holders. Oh, bliss!

One item in particular, though, caught my attention. It stood out from the rest. Certainly, being surrounded by sparkling cleanliness and tasteful decor had its merits, but these were things I was comfortable living without. There was one thing, I realized over the course of the weekend, that would change my life forever. Or at least for the duration that I was carrying a football shaped object under my arm.

I didn't notice it at first. I was using it one-handed with ease, without even noticing. I pulled on the thing and I got what I wanted. I continued on with my work in the kitchen. Tug, tug, release. Tug, tug, release. I found myself doing it over and over again; It was fun! What was this? What was different? How could such a menial task elicit such disproportionate pleasure?

Then, suddenly, I knew. I could finally see the elephant before me, grandly posed atop the gleaming countertop. "Honey!" I screamed. My husband, panicked, came recklessly running in to the kitchen. "What's wrong!?!?" He gasped, seeing that I was clearly uninjured, and, in fact, bursting with joy. "What in the hell is it? You scared me to death!" he snapped."Look," I prodded, tilting my head towards the source of my elation. "Look at what?" he asked, confused. "The paper-towel holder!" I gushed. "What about it. It's a freakin' paper-towel holder. So, what?" His eyes were darting back and forth, desperate to solve the enigma of the relationship between his wife and the paper towel holder. "Yes, but it's a tension paper-towel holder, Honey! I can rip it off one-handed!!!!" He rolled his eyes, but then tried the gadget for himself. "It works!" he proclaimed. "Yes!" I giggled, and fell into his arms.

Life would be better now, we knew. No fits of rage in the middle of the night in the kitchen, formula spilled on the floor and curdled in the morning. No more moments of embarassment when a guest casually asks for a paper towel at lunch. No more fear of soda spilling, baby vomitting, or sink splashing. Our prayers had been answered.

On our way home form the lake, we stopped by Blood-Bath & Beyond and bought our very own tension paper-towel holder, for only $19.99. As other new mothers came to visit in our home, I heard the comment, "Where did you get this?!?!" more and more followed by, "I'm sure it costs a fortune!!" I quickly set my friends' minds at ease. "Wow! I can't believe it's so cheap!" they exclaimed. Soon all of my friends had one of their own. To this day, we are all still enthusiastically spreading the word about this one-handed wonder that drastically improves the life of any new mother, or anyone else for that matter. My husband and his friends get just as excited because now, at least, they don't have to put their sandwich down when in need of a paper towel.

And so, when faced with the quiry "Is there a single piece of technology that has recently transformed your life - for the better?", the answer is a triumphant "Yes!": the Tension Paper-Towel Dispenser. I hope that this small bit of insight will help to ease the stress of everyday life for all who read it. If you do not already have one, avoid future regret by purchasing one for yourself right away!

Upon writing this, I am now eagerly awaiting the invention of the tension toilet-paper holder, which is a whole other story.

It's Too Late, Baby

An employee came into my office this morning and told me she is leaving her husband. Well, actually she didn't tell me she was leaving her husband. Rather, as she raked her hands through her hair repeatedly (so hard, in fact, I expected to see fist-fulls of hair fall to the floor), she repeated the same words over and over again: "Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Um. Okay." That was followed by, "I'm okay. I'm okay. Really, I'm okay." Then, laughter. I wondered if she really was okay but didn't ask. Finally, she was able to actually say the words.

My employees know whenever they come to me about anything, before closing the door of my office behind them, they must precede any conversation with the words, "I'm not quitting." They know all too well after years of conditioning, that if they do not utter this short phrase, they will likely impend heart palpatations upon me and cause me to die, which would be bad for me and messy and uncomfortable for them. So, really, it works out to everyone's benefit.

And, so, after she recited the required password upon entering my office, I felt relieved. For myself, of course; not for her. Selfishly, this automatically takes me off the hook. As long as I don't have to worry about covering for someone else's job or hiring a new employee, I'm a pretty happy camper. Besides the fact that I fucking hate my job, or any job for that matter, but I try to not dwell on that little nugget. Mother fucker.

The decision to leave one's spouse, I realize, is not taken lightly. She assured me that since early on in their marriage she had tried to convince him to seek counseling with her, and he had consistently refused. When I first met her and she spoke of her husband, the first thought that popped into my head was, "they won't last." (Wow, I know. Not very nice or optimistic, but I call 'em like I see 'em.) This is partially because I am psycho, I mean psychic, and partially because of things she said about her husband. "He really needs to go back to school and get his masters. He doesn't make very much money." "He still smokes cigarettes when he's with his friends and tries to hide it from me." "I really don't want to go to a football party. I'd rather go out with my girlfriends." Now, I get the whole football party thing; a sports obsession alone of any kind to me is grounds for divorce.

In all fairness, it was not so much what she said but how she said it. Sure, I talk a lot of smack about my guy, but it's said in a sincere and loving way, for the sake of improving our relationship and letting off some steam. "He's bartending tonight. On fucking MLK day. What the fuck is he thinking? He should be at home with me - it's a fucking holiday, for chrissakes." "No, he's not taking me out. He has band practice on his fucking night off. Fucking bastard." While she has several fundamental problems with their marriage including financial issues, lifestyle choices, and lack of things in common, it is obvious that I simply would like to spend more quality time with my husband. How sweet is that?


So, really, the fact that she was leaving her husband was no shock to me. She is beautiful and young and motivated, and he doesn't seem to have any aspirations to do much of anything. Not that I am one to judge. But I do. Clearly, they are missing the one thing that holds my marriage together; an everlasting bond of unconditional love perpetuated by prolonged periods of absence, mostly due to the fact that we are busy working, taking care of the children, or in brief, fleeting periods, sleeping. The secret to our happy marriage is that we don't spend a whole lot of time together. Therefore, during the time we spend apart, we pine away for each other. When we are together, we look forward to being apart again. It keeps life interesting.

She told me that she had consulted her parents about her decision and they had given her their blessing. She also said her husband had finally consented to counseling, though she felt at this point it was too little, too late. He was simply stating what he thought she wanted to hear, but she was smart enough to not believe him. I can relate to this all too well.


My son, who is almost 7 years old, is a master of negotiating in moments of panic. I find myself falling for his pleas for mercy over and over again. He will promise almost anything when faced with punishment. As his parent, it is my job not to believe him. "Tough Shit" I think they call it. No, "Tough Love". If you push it too far, it's called 'neglect', so you gotta walk a fine line with this.

Yesterday morning, as we were trying to hurriedly get him ready for Sunday school, he announced, "I have a stomache ache!!" I believed him, knowing that he had eaten a second and unnecessary bowl of cereal. I told him to take it easy for a minute and we would see how he felt. The next thing I know, my husband is yelling, "Then I am taking you to the doctor!! Right now!! Dammit." Apparently, my husband had found our son rolling on the floor in the hallway clutching his stomach. No, he was not seriously ill, but he was, in fact, trying to get out of going to Sunday school. It worked. I told him that if he did not feel good, he could stay home. I also told him that if he did not go to Sunday school he could not go to his friend's birthday party later that day. His lips quivered and eyes began to water, "But...that's not fair!" Being the sado-masochistic person that I am, I said that we would discuss it later and left it at that.

Within about fifteen minutes (though too late to make it to Sunday school), he had a miraculous recovery. He proceeded to read and draw, play games and watch T.V., until he noticed the time. "It's three o'clock! Only on more hour until the party!!" "Um, no," I replied. "You can't go to the party. You had a tummy ache." "WHAT?!" he screeched at the very top of his little lungs. His face melted into a pool of watery grimaces, shifting and changing within seconds. "I told you that this morning, when you decided you could not go to Sunday school," I said. "No, you didn't! You did not tell me that!" he screeched. "I did and you need to know that anytime you miss school, you give up any parties or special activities for the day because you need to rest, and if you're not well enough to go to school, you're not well enough to go to a party."


Considering even the tiniest tummy ache, the prospect of pizza, birthday cake, and jumping around for two hours did not seem like a good idea. But really I was trying to make a point. The party was being held at Pump It Up, which is bascially a warehouse that contains a series of what used to be called 'moonwalks', although I believe now the correct technical term is 'jumpy-jump'. If you have never been to one, then you are in for a real treat if you never go to one. Basically, imagine being trapped inside the engine of a 747 with unseen children screaming and crying and blood and teeth flying everywhere. I dare you to walk out without a migraine. "Yeah, but the kids love it!!" people say. I think my children will love it more if their mother does not end up in the nut house. The first time we accompanied my son to one, I vowed we would never go back. We were there the four following weekends for birthday parties. Once I stopped the blood from seeping out of my tear ducts, I felt better about it.

"But I never get to go to Pump It Up!!! They are going to have cake!! They have a goodie bag for me!!!" At this point, my heart broke. How could I withhold such tiny pleasures from my child? Had he really done anything wrong? Wouldn't it be okay to just let him go? Would he be joyous and grateful to have such a wonderful and forgiving mom? Would I be able to quit my job? Will my husband buy me a diamond ring? I knew the answer to all of these questions was 'no', but I was slipping.

"Can't we just let him go? He's fine now." Now, I was the one begging. I knew I was potentailly in for hours and hours of crying and screaming, and that the mommy guilt alone might kill me. "You have got to stand your ground," my husband said. "He is never going to learn if you don't stick to your guns. There has to be a direct consequence for his actions." I stared at my husband, blinking and thinking, until I said, "okay." I didn't know what else to say.


Any good negotiator knows when faced with demands, you say nothing, and this is what I did with my son. For the rest of the afternoon, I listened to my son rant and rave. And the rest of the afternoon, I did nothing. I hugged him and told him I love him, but I did not give in. Eventually, the time of the party came and went and things settled down.


Until later, when my husband decided my son needed some fresh air and wanted to take him to the park. This brought on another knock-down, drag-out fight. "I don't want to go to the park!! I want to stay here!!" he screamed as I dragged him out to the car. As my husband was lifting him into the car, he said, "but I want to give mom a hug!" at which point my husband put him down, and my son dashed right past us back into the house. I chased him back into his bedroom where he was trying to crawl under the bed. I grabbed his ankle and dragged him back out. He grabbed ahold of his miniature piano and would not let go. I yanked his leg, which toppled the piano over with everthing on it. I didn't care. I lifted him up and he immediately became a limp noodle, impossible to hold on to, but I managed to get him down the hallway.


In this moment of truth, he began panicking. "I'll change! I'll do whatever you want!! I promise!! You have to believe me!!" I did not believe him. I had heard it too many times before: empty promises and nothing changes. If I budge, things go back to the way they were before. He needed to learn that no matter what he said to me, this time I would stand my ground.

For the good of both of us, I hugged him tightly and said, "it's too late, baby."

Barnyard

I went to a dinner party with my husband last weekend at a friend's house. Everyone brought several bottles of wine with them, more than enough for twice as many people, but really, you never can be too careful. For God's sake, what if we ran out?? So as we plowed our way through them during the course of the evening, I enjoyed the mutiple tastes and finishes as each bottle was different, though all red.

I am no wine snob, mind you. I don't ever try to be something I am not, and I am decidedly uncouth. I am a Bud girl, and proud of it. Therefore, although I regularly drink and enjoy wine, I am not particularly knowledgeable on the subject. That being said, I know what I like. My one requirement out of my wine is that it be GOOD. I realize taste in wine is wholly subjective. I also realize that what I like someone else with more knowledge and experience may think tastes like dishwater (this most often applies to my taste in beer; see above).

At some point later in the evening after many bottles of red wine had been consumed and enjoyed, I poured myself a glass of a notably French wine. I did, in fact, read the label but do not remember the name of the wine. I do remember as I lifted the glass to my nose and took a deep whiff (which is always the most satisfying part of wine drinking to me - save for the taste and intoxication part), there was a deep and unwavering stench of...poo. Really, poop. Manure to be exact. I quickly glanced across the table at those who had already poured a glass of this wine for themselves and were proceeding to sip away. I waited for mouthfuls to be spat across the table, wine glasses flung into the wall, exclamations of expletives to dispell henceforth. But, instead, nothing. I took another sip. This time without smelling it first, and again, the unforgiving odor and taste of poop. I sat for a moment and made the decision to take a stand and pour the putrid stuff down the sink, damn it. I stood up as nonchalantly as possible, turned around and quickly and quietly dumped the malodorous waste into the sink drain. I actually felt bad for the sink.

I rinsed my glass out and returned to my seat. As I poured another glass of wine from a different bottle, it took me a few moments to collect my thoughts. I was still watching the others, my friends as they sat and drank something that so obviously tasted of poo. Were my taste buds so damaged from smoking two cigarettes throughout the course of the evening that it was causing a side-effect of poo-mouth? Did my breath stink from a dinner of butternut squash soup and garlicky sopranos spaghetti (both delicious)? If that were the case wouldn't the others have suffered the same ill-effects? Why just me?

As I dipped into my fresh new glass of beautiful red wine, I suddenly didn't care. I simply made a mental note to steer clear of that particular bottle. And so, having survived an isolated incident with the poop wine, I filed it away as a fluke, an anomoly, something that I would never have to suffer again. I felt a sense of grand relief in that from this point forward, no matter how putrid, how terrible, how vinegary a wine tasted, it mattered none. I had been to the depths of wine-hell, and nothing would ever taste as bad, in comparison. Or so I thought.

A few nights later, I decided to accompany a friend to a wine tasting. I had been to one with her previously and enjoyed learning about the different wines, and really, just getting a nice buzz for a nice price, thank you. The collection of people was small, and it was nice to have such an intimate group gathered around the table. The sommelier first served up a deliciously light and fizzy champagne, of which I can't remember the name. (My memory is for shit. I try to commit information to memory and I inevitably forget. My husband remembers more about my childhood than I do, and he wasn't even there.)

Next, we tried a rose, and upon the first sip, I blurted out, "I taste grapefruit!!!!!" It was almost like a first orgasm, a joyful, knee-jerk reaction. I really, truly did taste grapefruit. I fully realize I came off as a complete redneck, but I could not stop myself. I was assured by those around me saying, "Yes, yes, I taste it, too! You are right," much like someone would acknowledge a child who has gone pee-pee in the potty. Coming off of the deliciously grapfruity wine, I anxiously awaited the next pour. As I eagerly raised the glass to my lips, however, the corners of my mouth quickly fell and my nose impulsively crinkled. "Ugh! Poo! I smell it!! This is the poop wine!! I've had this poo-wine! It's terrible! It tastes like poop!!!!"

I had gleefully announced early in the evening that I would not be needing the dump bucket. My friend and I assured everyone around us that if they did not care for a particular wine, dump it in our glasses! We would be the dump bucket! After all, why waste a perfectly good glass of wine? What were they afraid of? Getting drunk? Wasn't that the point?

My announcement, I now knew, had been made prematurely. "Where's the damn dump bucket?" I snarled. After dumping the contents of my glass, I grabbed the bottle of poop-wine and took it over to the table where my friends sat. Their mouths were agape. They had heard my tirade from across the room.

"Here. Smell this. It's the poop wine I told you about. Try it," I snapped. My friends stared at me with wide eyes blinking, clearly thinking why in the world they should try a wine that tastes like poop. I think they were willing to take my word for it, but I was determined to see if they would smell and taste it the same as I had, when my friends at the dinner party had seemed so oblivious, like those who were in approval of the emporer's new clothes.

"Give me that bottle," one of my brave friends huffed as she yanked the bottle out of my hand. She poured a splash for herself and smelled it. "It smells like poop!" she proclaimed to me, eyebrows raised, lips curled in disgust. She took a sip. "It tastes like poop, too!!" The others at the table too took tiny whiffs and tastes. "Oh, that IS terrible." Everyone agreed. I felt fully vindicated.

One of the sommeliers who is also a friend approached the table. "Actually, it's called a 'barnyard' wine. Grapes absorb the essence in the soil, and these are grown in the soil near a farm. What you are tasting is actually manure. I like it. I find it very earthy."

Earthy? Are you fucking kidding me? There is a distinct difference between earth and fucking manure. I know this for a fact because I have eaten dirt, and though as a child I distinctly remember hoping that it would taste like it looked, like rich dark chocolate, and it did not, it did taste clean, and sweet, and earthy, but it most definitely did not taste like shit!

My friend, the sommelier, continued sipping the poo-swill as we all watched, aghast.

"Some people like it. I guess it's an acquired taste. I like it." I was not convinced. I will consume most anything. I love to eat, drink, and cook. I will eat almost anything that is prepared and put in front of me, as I know and appreciate the hard work that goes into the preparation, even if it's just a can of beans, I appreciate not having to open the damn can myself. I'm actually the only person in existence who enjoys airplane and hospital food. I will not, however, eat fois gras. I find it disgusting. I don't get the allure. That was the only thing on my list of dislikes. Until now. I am adding poop wine to my list.

Call me uncouth. Call me sheltered. Call me unwordly. Call me low-class. But do not call me the next time you are going to some fancy-pants wine-tasting where they serve wine that tastes like shit on purpose. I was not raised in a barn, nor would I like to taste one, thank you very much.