Here a Goat, There a Goat...

Welcome to my world...

And, welcome to the newest members of the family:

Josie (aka Leah) and Betty.

If you've been following my blog for any length of time, you know that the house that we bought almost a year ago wasn't kept up.  We've been doing a LOT of work with the weed-eater, however upkeep is now becoming a full time job.  So, we got goats.


We'll have to see how this furry duo earn their keep... however, they are so cute to look at, I am sure they'll have no problem finding their place in the growing menagerie. 

The Truth About Blogging

I love to write.  I've kept a journal since I was seven or eight, and I read "Little House on the Prairie" for the first time.  Laura wrote to an imaginary friend and so did I.  "Kitty" was that imaginary friend.  I told her everything.  School drama, family trips, first crushes.  As, I grew older, I told her about teen angst, how much I hated my mom, high school drama.

I kept a journal while I was in college.  Mostly to remember some event or feeling I had at the time.  Journal-writing turned to short story writing, led to poetry writing, led to... a degree in journalism.  Then I went back to school and became a doctor.

I still have the journals and notebooks I kept while in medical school and in training.  One of my poems was published when I was a senior in medical school.  These journals were filled with expectations, hopes, dreams, failures and frustrations.

In 2005, I started blogging on AOL Journals.  It was a whole new format.  Suddenly, I wasn't just writing for Kitty anymore.  I was writing and sharing with a brand new anonymous audience.  I didn't think much about what other people thought about.  I just needed a platform on which to post my feelings and ideas.

Then Facebook arrived.  I could post what I was thinking, when I was thinking it and who I was thinking it with.  I started Facebook at about the time I got married, so I was easily able to share wedding photos with friends and family across the country.  And, Facebook had a "like" button and a "comment" box.  Suddenly, I knew what people liked, what they thought about what I thought.  

It became a bit like a drug.  I felt like I was writing with a slight lean toward getting approval.  Add in my blog posts linked to Facebook, and I had reached a whole new level of positive reinforcement.  I write, you like, I write more.

So, when I started NaBloPoMo this month with the idea of posting some creative writing, there was a part of me that was doing it as a mental exercise in getting the cobwebs out of my brain, but I found that another part of me really wanted to see what other people thought about what I wrote... fictionally.  

Needless to say I crashed and burned.  No one seemed to care.  I asked for comments.  I cross-posted on both BlogHer and Blogspot and even my usual commentators were suddenly silenced.  I linked to Facebook and didn't even get one "like" during the two weeks I posted.  Suddenly, it wasn't fun any more.  I know people were reading because I could follow the stats.  Just, no one said anything.

My exercise in creativity and my belief in my own abilities suddenly hit a very nasty realization.  I wasn't writing for me anymore.  It was mattering more to me what others thought and getting their approval than what the actual exercise has always intended to be for... me... and Kitty... That anonymous unknown to whom I could tell anything without being worried about judgment or reproach.  And, so, I stopped posting my writings.  I stopped blogging.  I rarely posted on Facebook.

But, now I am back.  Because I love to write.  Because I want to record and remember the events of my life and my view on them in that moment.  But, I return with a new perspective.  I'm going to accept my postings just like that line in "To Wong Fu..." by Miss Vida Boheme, "... approval neither desired nor required."

Writer's Toolbox Exercise #6B

What I am doing this month...

The game:  You are given a protagonist "Bill the paleoclimatologist," a goal "to be the strongest," an obstacle "the barista at Starbucks," and an action "get married."  Make the story.)




The story so far... Click here


Bill found himself speechless.  For a moment he didn't know where to look next.  Her hair had the sheen of newly-minted pennies.  Her eyes were a shade of green that could only be found in the Caribbean.  Her lips... wow, what could he say about her lips?  Wait, they were moving... Bill needed to focus.


"Are you ok?  Can I start a drink for you?" the moist brightly pink pair were saying to him.


Bill regained his composure enough to say, "What do you recommend?"  He didn't care if she said, "Well, sir, today we're offering bull sweat mixed with camel milk and pig drool..." so long as she continued talking and making those luscious lips move the way they did.


She was asking him what size, and Bill realized that he had been nodding to whatever she had offered.  Better make it a Tall or else he'd be awake all night.  "I'll have a Tall, thanks," he was finally able to get out.  She smiled as she wrote his order on the side of the clear cup.


"And, can I get a name..?"


Bill had already moved toward the register.  Suddenly embarrassed, but in a moment of bravado, he said, "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."


She laughed brightly.  Could her teeth possibly be any more white?  And those dimples.  We would have beautiful children.  So engrossed was he in his short fantasy that he completely missed her name, and only realized he had when he heard her say, "...now you have to tell me yours."


Somewhat crestfallen, he mumbled out, "Bill" as he managed to give his card to the cashier and moved toward the end of the counter to wait for his drink.  He was so frazzled by the events that he avoided eye contact with anyone and rushed out the door as soon as he got his drink.  He inhaled most of it as he angrily walked home recalling the events of the evening.  How could he have been such a dweeb?


So frustrated was he by his actions, he sucked down the last of the strawberry and cream frappucino and was in the process of tossing it into the trash basket by his apartment door when he noticed a lot of writing on the clear surface of the cup.  He held the cup up to the streetlight and could just make out a name... "MACY" with the words "CALL ME" underneath.  But, no phone number.  With a smile crossing his face, Bill knew that he'd be having a harder time than ever staying away from Starbucks.

Writer's Toolbox Exercise #6 - Redo

What I am doing this month...

The game:  You are given a protagonist "Bill the paleoclimatologist," a goal "to be the strongest," an obstacle "the barista at Starbucks," and an action "get married."  Make the story.)

Geeky scientist by day, world class athlete by night.  That's how Bill saw himself.  He only taught classes twice a week at Northwestern, so he was able to work out most days.  Which was great because he had set a goal to do the Iron Man 70.3 next spring.  Of course, winter in Chicago would not be conducive to a lot of outdoor training.


So, he had to go to the gym.  He didn't mind the gym so much.  It was the Starbuck's next door which really was his weakness.  He loved Caramel Macchiatos.  Since he'd decided to compete in the Iron Man, though, he'd limited himself to just one a week.  And, then, only if he had reached a certain goal:  swim 25 laps in the pool without stopping, run 10 miles on the treadmill on speed 6.5, or cycling for an hour straight.


This week, Bill had somehow managed to get those last 5 laps in without feeling as though his lungs were going to explode, and he quickly showered and dressed.  Grabbing his work-out bag, he could almost taste the smooth sugary frothiness.  Heading out one door and then making an almost U-turn through the second door, Bill entered caffeine Nirvana.


There was a short line, as always.  Tables spotted here and there with students on computers, other gym folk enjoying something warm before heading home, and the random coffee house bohemian who sat in the corner with their book and a large mug of coffee.  Bill looked absentmindedly at the pastry display, wondered how many calories one of the new cherry pie things had, and waited to step up to the register.


"What can we get started for you?" someone asked over the top of the display counter.  Bill was about to answer with his usual "venti soy decaf caramel macchiato" when the bright blue color of the attendant's skirt caught his attention through the glass, and he looked up and made eye contact with the most lovely girl he had ever seen.  He knew then that it was going to be much more difficult staying away from Starbucks.

Writer's Toolbox Exercise #6

What I am doing this month...

(Warning in case you don't remember what happened last time, this post may lead to a diarrhea of ideas several posts long.  The game:  You are given a protagonist "Bill the paleoclimatologist," a goal "to be the strongest," an obstacle "the barista at Starbucks," and an action "get married."  Make the story.)

Geeky scientist by day, world class athlete by night.  That's how Bill saw himself.

And, that's all I've got after a harrowing three days of work.  Day off tomorrow, so there will be more to come since I can really get my head clear of all the drama in and out of the Emergency Department.

Oh, and warning:  if you're going to stick your hand in the lawnmower, make sure the blade isn't turning at the time... that's how I spent the last hour of my shift putting someone's hand back together, and let's just say I had a few pieces left over by the time I was done.

Writer's Toolbox Exercise #5

What I am doing in case you haven't been following my blog this month...

These are the Sixth Sense cards I pulled tonight... hmmm...

I don't like to be judged when I am just trying to work out, but I knew I was in for trouble when during my "downward dog" I suddenly noticed the toenails of the yoga girl at the top of my vision.  She had them painted in that French Kiss style that is becoming very popular amoungst the Mani-Pedi set.  You know, the slightly curved pink sparkly accent at the tips of her nearly perfect toes covered in a shiny gloss.  


I hated her feet.  She didn't have my ugly short stumpy toes.  She had nice, just-the-right-length toes that didn't  look like monkey toes.  No hairs on those well-groomed toes either.  They looked sleek and tanned as though she had just stepped inside from a walk on the beach.


I tried not to flinch as she guided my shoulders square, pushed my back flatter, and opened up my leg stance, all the while quietly giving the class reassurance and guidance into the next yoga pose.  Just when I thought I wouldn't be able to hold the pose a second long, she then called out "child pose" as she stalked away with cat-like stealth to bend another person to her will.


---


Lying on my back in my living room, I tried to stretch out the muscles that seemed to be on the verge of spasm after my class.  My cat looked down at me from the sofa as I rolled from one side to the other.  She meowed questioningly, and I rolled to face her.  Lord, did I need some new furniture.  My sofa had definitely seen better days.


The brown checkered fabric was tattering at the edges on the bottom, with multiple small threads hanging just above the floor.  The upholstery was ripped along the side where the sofa had tangled with the banister at the bottom of the stairs when I first tried to bring my newly-found treasure home.  You could see the bright red thread where I had attempted a quick fix.  Even that seemed to be fraying at the edges.  The seat cushions were almost flat where I sat every evening to watch "Jeopardy."  Sigh, I really needed a new sofa.

Just as I was about to get up off the floor and get some dinner, I noticed a piece of paper stuck on the bottom of the sofa.  I pulled at the corner thinking it was a Post-it note that had somehow made it's way under the sofa.  It seemed caught.  I got closer and found that the paper was thicker than I had imagined.  I reached under the sofa and pulled hard.


It was an envelope with barely legible writing and a foreign stamp.  I couldn't make out the writing, so I pulled the letter out.  The script was light and feathery across the page.  At a glance I knew it wasn't English, but I couldn't discern the language.  Maybe something Norwegian?  I caressed the sheer satiny slightly brown paper for a moment;  feeling something from another time.

As I slid the letter back into the envelope, I began to imagine that it was an old letter from Amsterdam.  Maybe a love letter that had to be suddenly hidden in my sofa so that a spouse wouldn't see it as they suddenly entered a room.  Maybe the person had never been able to retrieve the letter, or maybe they had just forgotten about it.  Then the sofa had been sold, left behind, tossed out onto the street, found by me and brought upstairs.


Putting the letter up on the shelf while I concentrated on more mundane things like feeding myself and my cat for another night, I allowed myself to daydream.  For a few minutes I could be in a different world where my toes were perfect and brightly painted, lying on a new plump sofa, reading a letter from my lover.  If only life could be that perfect.

Writer's Toolbox Exercise #4

What I'm doing...

My only defense was to write down every word they said.  I knew that they were on to me.  Only, I had to not let them know that I knew they were on to me.  And, sitting in the back of the diner, trying to listen to a conversation using one of those voice amplifiers which you find only by watching late-night TV and that looks like a Walkman, I had to appear like just another customer.  Not like the "other woman."  Which I was.  Which I was finding out they already knew.

I guess it all started to go downhill when she found a diamond bracelet in the back of the car;  my diamond bracelet.  Which I had lost during one of those slap and tickle episodes which became more and more commonplace as talking at work led to slight flirting, which led to a touch on the arm, which led to my losing a bracelet and her finding it.  Damn.

Even the plausible explanation of losing it while sitting in the back seat while he drove a group of us out to lunch had led to suspicions.  I guess maybe he already had a reason not to be trusted.  Or maybe I didn't.  Or maybe she was just the suspicious type.

He originally told me that he didn't like the way she made tea.  He said that after 10 years of marriage, nothing drove him more crazy than her daily routine of "tea time."  And to top it off, he told me, she wasn't even English.  Yet, somehow she insisted that every day at 4 p.m., they had to dress nicely and sit in the "parlour" otherwise known as their living room and drink tea.

She would spend at least an hour prior making the finger sandwiches (cold sloppy cream cheese with cucumbers and the sides cut off) and arranging vanilla wafer cookies on plates.  She would brew a pot of tea and pour it into tiny china cups.  And, the gloves.  She insisted on wearing gloves.  He somehow managed not to make it home for tea most days, but she didn't seem to mind.  However, he couldn't escape the weekends, and that seemed to make it all the worse.

So, here I was listening to her talking to some detective about following her husband.  How did I know about the detective and their meeting?  Because he was my husband.  About to set out on the trail of a buxomy brunette who may or may not work with the husband.  She was pretty sure my name was Eva.   Myra actually, but he would find out soon enough.  Or, maybe not.  Maybe I could continue to control the situation.  It had worked in the past, why wouldn't it work again...?