Yeah, I'm Here...

I haven't been here in a while but I think that I still know my way around. I've missed blogging but the internet has had to take a back seat for many moons now. You know... life and whatnot.

I haven't been able to follow my favorite blogs (which I miss terribly) and I haven't been able to write, not even for my fiction blog, Streak O Lean. I haven't written anything, not even a thank you note. Why do I go through these times? Why is it that sometimes it's so hard to get words down on paper? Now my mind hasn't been a great big blank all of these months, but having the words in my head and stopping to write them can be such an ordeal. The truth of the matter is that my life moves far too fast. I just can't seem to catch up.

What I wonder, however, is what would happen if I did "catch up"? What does "caught up" look like? Has anyone ever actually done it (Martha Stewart, you can lower your hand... sigh!)? I really tend to beat myself up for not having reached the "caught up" status, but paradoxically, I know that it doesn't exist really. So why do I insist on keeping it on the horizon? I think it's because it's a convenient excuse. It's the reason I give to others, and most importantly, to myself for not being the best that I can be. It's an excuse with which just about any wife, mother, sister, friend can identify. "I am just too busy!" "I'll do that when I have time." "I wish there were more hours in the day." "Not now! Mommy's really busy."

Just reading those phrases makes me feel tired and worn out.

So "catching up" must be a state of mind. I suppose if I just let go of the notion that there is no end to the things that need to be done in life, I might relax. If I would just accept that life is one cycle after another, maybe those phantom finish lines in my head would vanish. Perhaps I wouldn't go straight from mundane task to mundane task trying to keep everyone happy. Maybe.. just maybe.. in the mayhem, I could carve out time to write, read, quilt, and play with my kids; to be at the helm of my own ship instead of playing first mate.

Well there you have it, my blogging friends, another destination! Another course on which to set sail. I just hope that I remember that the world is round.

New Post Over at Streak-O-Lean!

Come read it...please...Do it for the children!

Streak-O-Lean has Moved

Hi All!

Just a note to let you know that I moved my short story, Streak O Lean, to its own blog. So if you are reading it (...both of you) you can find it here. All of the posts are there from the beginning, and I posted a new one yesterday that will not be posted here. You can always access it through this site. The link is in the upper right-hand corner. Thanks to all who read it! I just wanna hug yo' neck!

Stacie

A Moment in the Life of a Comic Book Artist's Wife

Play Nice!


Quite often my mothering skills have to bleed over into the comic book world. Perhaps some would call this micro managing. I call it necessary. My husband is one-of-a-kind and you know that these posts are usually written to poke fun at him and comic books in general. But know, if you are a fan reading this post, that I appreciate you. You make my family's life possible. You pay the bills, you take us to the movies on family day, you make our world go 'round so to speak. So, thank you.



***Warning: This post will have some foul language so please be warned and if this offends you, then please don't read this. ***



Here is a list of some of the things that Mama Bird has had to say to both my husband and the comic book world this week:



1. Tony, you are funny, big-mouthed, a great artist, and generally an all around good guy. HOWEVER, words like (deep breath) "fucker", "cocksucker", "shithook", and the like are probably to be used minimally on twitter, Sweetie. Those that know you or follow your twitter know that you have your rants will probably not be offended. More than likely, they will think you are hilarious. But there's always that one reader who will be offended. Yes, I know they can stop reading, but play nice, okay?



2. You're giving your editor anxiety attacks, ulcers, and other stress-related illnesses. Finish the book or you'll go to bed without supper!



3. (This to all those who are on Twitter, Facebook, Message Boards, etc.) Teenagers have commited suicide over internet bullying. Adults should know better.



4. Just because it's a pee diaper doesn't make it less toxic than a poo diaper, and putting it on a comic book you don't like does not equal putting it in the trash. Yes, I do agree that comic book is trash, but still!



5. Perhaps it's the Italian-American in me or just plain being a mom, but if you eff with my family, you eff with me. Those who know me know that is a bad thing.



6. Klingons suck!



7. Tony, calm down! If I told you that I like long hair on men, would that make you feel better?



8. Tony? Where are you? I can't see you... Maybe it's time to shave, Blackbeard, or I'm gonna tie some canon fuses to that tangled mess myself!



9. Did I mention Klingons suck?



10. Egos run high with celebrity. Is Tony Harris a celebrity? Not in my house! But he is very popular.

Just to Blog or Blah Blah Blah

This is a total sort of stream of thought blog (or consciousness for all of you literary types). Now I am no James Joyce by any stretch, and I actually always found it difficult to read his literature, even the annotated versions; but I want to blog without giving what I have to say the usual extra attention of being organized, etc., and yet give the stuff on my mind an opportunity to "get out".

(Side note: I just put quotes inside of a period. Now I know that is a no-no in dialogue but what about in the situation I just encountered where I am using a phrase say, in slang. Hmmm. Guess I will be looking that up.)

No, generally, stream of consciousness is not my bag. I am just a straight shooter. Must come from my engineering background. Having a profound need for things to be logical has made a lot of wonderful literature a struggle for me. Don't get me wrong. I do like metaphors and allusions (did I use that word correctly?) but I also like to know what the hell is going on. I have a rule of thumb and that is, if I have no clue what is going on by page 40 and any reliable source from the internet doesn't help my understanding of plot or characters, the book goes away. Sometimes I keep it and give it another go, but most often not. With that said, I haven't had to "put down" (How's that for a pun?) many books. Probably because I know the genres I like and just stick to those. So much for branching out though, huh? I do sometimes and find that I am quite happy about following a different genre for awhile, but I always return to my fantasy, sci-fi stuff, or the classics.

Case in point: Poetry. Hated, hated, HATED poetry in high school and the smidgen of English Lit I was required to take by the Engineering curriculum. Bearable were Shakespeare's sonnets, The Canterbury Tales, (boy I love those Brits, huh?), and Shel Silverstein. This was all true until I had to teach poetry to my son during homeschool. I chose Robert Frost, please don't ask me why. Probably because his name comes up when anyone discusses great American poets (and watching The Dead Poet's Society helped a little). So we started, and by God, I just loved it! I've read my little paperback compilation of Robert Frost's poems so much that the back has fallen off. I found an illustrated copy for children of Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. The poem's short but I just love it. I can feel the chill of the winter, but I also feel the need to stop and look at the beauty of the quiet snow. And I can't read Birches enough. Somewhere on the internet there is a place where you can hear Robert Frost read his own works. There is magic there. There is magic when any author reads their own work (provided it's good work).

No magic in this blog today, just blah blah blah. I'd love to stay and chat longer....

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Streak-O-Lean

* Disclaimer: I do not pretend to have excellent grammer, superb spelling, or wonderful editing skills. If errors in these areas upset you then you will most assuredly despise my writing and I suggest you stop now unless you couldn't read this to begin with because it is far too small and I am too proud to make it any larger. I love a good run on sentence!

Part 8: Country Ham and Decaf Coffee TO GO!


May showed up to work the next day hair coiffed perfectly, accented delicately with a small rhinestone barrette. As she approached the automatic doors she envisioned them slamming shut over and over again on Curtis' head. Oh she wanted to blame Twila as well but she knew in her heart of hearts that women will woo and married men should say "I woo not!" That being said, Twila's head was not excused from May's violent visions. So, with brief case in one hand and a purse large enough to carry a country ham in the other, May lifted her tiny chin and proceeded through the sliding doors. She stopped at the gumball machines, popped a quarter into a slot, turned the knob, and scooped up a large bright orange gumball. Orange. Her favorite color. Maybe today wouldn't be so bad after all.


She rounded the wood paneled, glass topped, cubical she called an office and stopped at the small swinging door. Someone had replaced Paper Snowman, gingerly taping the paper frozen vegetables back on to his mittened hand. May stood there for a moment briefly replaying in slow motion the events of last Friday in her head. With all that had happened in that explosive episode, she remembered having at the time the involuntary urge to stop and stick Paper Snowman back onto her swinging door. He was after all an innocent bystander. And now seeing Paper Snowman returned to his proper place, she hoped someone had been as good to Paper Santa as well.


The store was quiet that Monday morning, but Mondays were generally pretty quiet. The Pig's circulars were usually in Thursday's paper, so most people shopped Thursday through Saturday, except of course on Wednesday's when the Senior Citizens would arrive for their discounts. The lack of activity was usually welcomed as it allowed May to concentrate and get down to the numbers she had to crunch, and the forms she had to fill out, and the payroll she would have to finish. But the low buzz of Muzak and the clacking from someone pushing that cart made work very difficult. She grabbed the carafe from her coffee maker to fill it with water when she realized that unless it was decaf, she wasn't having any coffee. Shit! Shit! Shit! Stupid Pregnancy! She thought to herself. She stopped, put the carafe down, and pushed through the swinging door to the floor of the store, precisely where she had hoped not to have to go that day. Let's see, coffee is aisle 8, she remembered. May picked out the best decaf coffee the store sold and went to the check out lane where Dotti was working.



"Hey Dotti. How you doin'?" May managed a smile.



"I'm fine, Sweetie. You okay? You need anything? A margarita? What about a shot gun?" Dottie was one of May's most favorite people in Carrington. Dotti could be the one hanging from the cross, but she'd make sure everyone had a hammer and nails.



"I'm okay. I'm glad you didn't have to see it. You were off, weren't you?" May wrinkled her nose in embarrassment.



"Glad I didn't have to see it? That put me at least 15 minutes behind on the gossip in this store and you know I hate that!" she said with a wink. "Honey! I wish I had been here, if anything to give you some backup. Curtis may be my boss but he's still that little snot that lived across the street from me for 15 years. He ain't gonna fire me for tellin' him to put his peter back in his pants and fly right! I can still call his momma!"



"Oh! Don't do that, Dottie. I knew, sooner or later..." Tears began to glaze May's thick mascara and Dotti quickly grabbed a brown paper towel so that May could avoid both Raccoon eyes and embarrassment.



"You blame yourself and I'll come 'round this counter and snatch you bald headed!" Dotti scorned. "When you go for lunch? Let's go down to the Red Chic and get us some grease!"



"That sounds really great! Let's go about 11:30? Beat the crowds?" May replied, perking up a bit.



"Meet cha' in the parking lot then, Sweetie. And don't let that bastard see you being upset or nothin'. He don't deserve it or you for that matter!" Dotti dropped the coffee into the bag and handed it to May. "You want me to go and get water for the pot so you don't have to go wanderin' 'round this store? I ain't got no one in line right now."



"That would be a huge relief Dot!" May was thankful for good friends.

Death From a New Perspective

"End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path.

One that we all must take."

--Gandalf, The Lord of the Rings

I was once very afraid of death. In fact, until recently, I would find even the mention of it reason for tremendous anxiety. Needless to say, funerals were out of the question. The brevity of a human life was very frightening to me. Generations before us have lived and they have died. Yet, no matter how large a monument is erected in their honor or what great contribution they may have made to society, the essence of who they were as people is lost as time progresses. The parts of them that made them human- the people they loved, those that loved them back, the true moments of joy in their soul- vanishes within one, perhaps two, generations. Our bodies decay and our life experiences decay with them. Depressing? Not for me anymore, not really.

I have a love story to tell you...

Twenty-two years ago I met a gentleman who was a professor at the college I attended. I overheard that he was inviting his chemistry class to his home for a slide show of his and his wife's recent trip to Paris. That summer, I too had traveled to Paris and fell completely head-over-heels in love with France. Rudely, I introduced myself and asked if I might too come along for the slide show. He enthusiastically agreed and asked that I bring my photos as well. That weekend, I met his wife and many students (some are still good friends of mine). Even though it would be many years before I actually took one of his courses, I was always invited to student gatherings and friendly get-togethers at their home. Within the year, I met their daughter who would become my most dearest friend in the world.

From the beginning I knew that I could learn much from this couple. They had traveled the world and absorbed all that life threw their way. I knew if I shut my mouth and listened that I would learn great things from these wonderful people. One of the most important lessons I learned was how to be married. Beyond being completely in love, these two people had an unspoken protocol on how to conduct themselves in a relationship (something I am sure took work and practice). The respect that they had for each other lingered in the air. The love they had for each other was displayed with the gentlest touch or a tender smile as one brushed by the other.

As the years passed, I became very close to the family. I would house sit for them on vacation, and have them to dinner. As I became closer to their daughter, my relationship with her parents strengthened too. Their generosity to me and my family was unparalleled. Quite often they would refer to me as "their other daughter." While I was overwhelmed and honored by this statement, I always felt them more my friends.

As they grew older, it was my pleasure to go to lunch once a week with the professor's wife. The professor would always thank me for "getting her out of the house" as she wasn't able to drive due to a bad back. I am not sure if he believed me when I told him that our lunches were as important to me as they were to her. She and I were from the same mold, but were cracked in all of the right places! Most would find our wicked sense of humor revolting. When I found out they were moving two hours away to a retirement community closer to my bestfriend, I was devastated. I remember relaying my disappointed to another friend who said, "I know you were close to them, but they really need friends their own age." I think that my ability to hold my tongue reached a new level that day.

I helped my dear friend pack her parents' possessions, possessions I had looked at for 22 years. I had heard many wonderful stories about the objects in their home, how they were acquired, why they were sought, the significance and history behind them. I packed the never-ending china cabinet. As I packed this small cabinet, I found that there was always more to pack, as if the cabinet kept refilling itself as I put items into boxes. It took almost two days to finish packing that damn cabinet. Perhaps, it was because I kept tearing up. You know, all of that dust!

About a week after they moved Professor's wife was diagnosed with lung cancer. The prognosis was not good: 3-6 months. Professor was devastated and anxious (of course!) I would go up every weekend to help my friend take care of her parents. At this point neither of them could drive so I would take Professor out shopping to get what he needed for their apartment. I have never seen two people suffer with such dignity. I was blessed to be a part of this time in their lives.

I lost a very dear friend of mine on February 28, 2010. Two weeks later to the day, I lost another very dear friend of mine- his wife. They are and will be forever missed by me, but how lucky was I to have known them?