Tired

Hello if anyone is still checking in. Hopefully I will be back soon. My life is exhausting with work and life, so it's easy to isolate myself from the world. But I'm starting to come out of my hole and will be back.......

Happy Holidays!

3WW Balance.Dictate.Wander

I've wandered from my social life, letting my work dictate my thoughts. Now time for balance.

Blog Holiday

I've been on a bit of a blog holiday. My new summer schedule... well, sucks. I wake up at 5:30 am to get to the hospital, rush home to pick up the kids since there is either no or very expensive aftercare from camp, all the activities a 6 & 7 year old need to flourish and then hurriedly get to bed, wake up and do the same thing the next morning. Until the weekend, when I get to see private patients, and start the week all over again.

It's nice having longer hours in the afternoon & especially being with my kids without homework and annoying uniforms. But alas, it's put a bend in my creative endeavors and blog escape. So I will see you all in the occasional moments this summer, but otherwise, have a nice cool glass of lemonade for me. :-)

XOXO, me

Queen of the Road

One of our very own, & fellow shrink (only with a "D" instead of my "A" after the "M", ahem..), Doreen Orion had her book debut this month. I've had the privilege to not only interview her, but read her book and offer up a review.

I hope you all check it out! It's a great book to bring on summer vacation or a trip to the beach.

Writer Kat aka Reader Mom Amazon Review:
"I'm a Mom with no chance for vacation. So picking up this book was like a vicarious escape, complete with a martini & husband who does the dishes. Doreen Orion, in her book - Queen of the Road has captured the wild adventure of living on a bus and wrapped it up in page after page of laughs. She uses her flaws and foibles openly to draw in the reader, making it seem as though we are right there with her. Bus Butt and all. As the story unfolds, she shifts from self proclaimed Princess and shoe worshipper to someone who appreciates a night sky and no-TV dinners, reminding us that there is more to life than this crazy game we live in."

Interview with Doreen Orion

WK: You say that your husband suggested this year-long road trip but you’re the one who wrote the story. At what point in the journey did you realize there was a book in all of it?

DO: I actually thought there would be a story before we even left, although I had no idea how life-changing the trip would end up being. I assumed I would just write a humorous travel memoir. I hope I've done that, but also included the transformational aspects of the trip - all of us changed for the better during our journey - Tim, me, even the pets. I hope this ends up being inspirational for readers, as well. As the dedication of the book reads, "To anyone searching for his or her inner bus. You don't need your own driver (but it doesn't hurt)."

I was very lucky to have started blogging at the start of our trip, not to mention take all the notes I did throughout it. When I quote conversations in the book, I'm not relying on memory; whenever Tim and I had a funny exchange, I wrote it right down (much to his chagrin at times). I even took notes on what various tour guides said. (One even asked if he needed a lawyer.)

WK: Queen of the Road is your second book. Your first was about a very troubling situation. What was it like writing this book? Was one easier to write than the other?

DO: QUEEN OF THE ROAD was much easier to write than I KNOW YOU REALLY LOVE ME. The latter was about my being stalked for years by a former patient. It was a very difficult situation. The "bus thing" on the other hand was pure joy to experience (punctuated by terror, since I did develop a bus phobia) once I got over my initial, shall we say, "reluctance": Tim came home one day and completely out of the blue announced he wanted to "chuck it all" and travel around the country in a converted bus for a year. I demanded, "Why can't you be like a normal husband in a midlife crisis and have an affair or buy a Corvette?" Then informed him, "I will never, ever, EVER live on a bus." Even though we're both psychiatrists, he's obviously the better one.

WK: What came first, the chicken or the egg? Have you always wanted to write or did your adventures lead you to write?

DO: Growing up in Great Neck, NY (as my husband says, a “princess from the Island of Long”), I loved to write and could always be counted on to take creative license where none was called for. (To whit, the Ode to Geometry I foisted on my eighth grade math teacher.) It just never occurred to me to try to make a living at it. So, what was a Jewish only child to do? Why, go to medical school, of course.I didn’t write for years (thus sparing my medical school classmates and instructors Ode to Diseases of the Bowel). Then, the OJ trial hit and I heard an "expert" say, "Well, just because he stalked Nichole, doesn't mean he killed her." At that point, I had been stalked for six years and it occured to me that there was an incredible dearth of knowledge about stalking. So, I decided to write a book about my experience and use it as a jumping off point to discuss various aspects of stalking - the laws, what victims can do, the psychology of stalkers. I loved the experience of writing the book and I was hooked.

WK: Any thoughts on your next project?

DO: Yes. But, all I can say is that I doubt it will involve a bus, or shoes, or martini recipes (unfortunately in each case).

WK: What words of advice do you have for aspiring authors?

DO: Make sure you love to write. Don't do it for fame, glory and especially not money. Because I get this question so often, I have some tips for aspirting writers on my website, www.queenoftheroadthebook.com

3WW - writer prompt - dizzy.change.key

Come take a gander at Bone's 3WW XC

I'm ashamed to say I don't know what the hell number XC is in Roman Numeral, but I do know that 40 is XL, which I am reminded that so is my age and clothes.

Hub:
TBA

Me:
The merger was complete. The employees on the 9th floor of 2nd & Hyde could feel the change that had been slithering through the halls for days. It now coiled in corners of the conference room like snakes with fangs outstretched. They breathed in the fear, dizzy with anticipation of the fatal bite. Any moment the new CEO would walk in with a list of those facing financial ruin. What was so sure a year ago, was so surely not now. Just when the humid sweat of the room was reaching unbearable, they heard the turn of a key. The thick maple door opened to reveal the black suited giant. The air conditioner snapped on, blowing the door closed with a resounding boom.

Someone's turning 50!

It's Stephen Parrish!



Bash Stephen's Party

Men born in 1958 have a life expectancy of 67
Women have a life expectancy of 73.

Here's to 17 more years! (I'm rooting for many, many more, let the data be damned!)

There once was a guy named Stephen
Who knew politics, books and even...
His brain was so nifty
No one knew he was fifty
Until his memory went treason

Happy Birthday to Stephen!
I hope you have a great year. It's your Jubilee!

Hugs from Writer - Poli - Kat!

Politics - How much do you know?

Here's a cute test. I got a 4, apparently I have a lot to learn.

How much do you know?

Haiku

I've always been a lover of great Haiku. In days of old (ie when I had more than 2 minutes of silent & uninterrupted mind time), I would actually write some.

The first Haiku that ever spoke to me was this:

I am nothing
A red, sinking autumn sun
Took my name away

I have thought about what that means for 25 years.

Of course Pete is the best modern day Haiku'er I've read besides my favorite book "Office Haiku". I wish I could find that book now to share some of those, to make corporate life just slightly more bearable. (When you're bored, email all your work friends and write haikus about your job. It's very therapeutic.)

I just found the Haiku SmackDown. Love the name. Check it out.

Here's my entries (I think you have to see the pictures for the full monty - hopefully I'll get better so that you won't be required to view what I'm talking about. ;-)

The caution tape is
To protect further murder
By the skirted man.

Enough of pirates
Then to add a skeleton -
Party is over.

While his skirt is long,
Please don’t underestimate
His tight green clover.

It is not prom night
Put Madonna dress away
And get comfortable.

3WW - writer prompt - deny.smile.uncomfortable

3WW - Check it out. Thanks to Bone for another great week..

Note - these 2 entries have nothing to do with each other.

Hub:
I try to resist her, but her smile is too much for me. She has eyes that know me and can see right through me — I knew I was a
Goner. It wasn’t uncomfortable at all... It was that the longer I was around her, I lost all ability to resist her So, I never tried to deny it. On the contrary, I let myself fall into the deep end of the pool.

Me:
As she stepped onto the stage, she would reveal nothing but her smile. She had planned to win, and lost by a margin. Still, it was uncomfortable, the heart breaking defeat that she now had to face in her supporter's eyes. No one could deny her hard work or commitment to the job, but obviously, it was not enough.

MIA and various musings

I have been missing in action - I'm working a lot and exhausted at the end of the day. So I miss everyone & hope to be back...

Right now I feel very depressed about Hillary conceding. I really wanted her to win. I'm serious. I want to curl up in a ball and cry. The last time I seriously felt this way regarding the news was when OJ was acquitted. What the hell is that about??? Damn... Anyone else have strong feelings about the democratic primary coming to a close? Good or bad?

I have laryngitis today and am realizing how helpful it is to have a voice. It's a tad embarrassing having to shove myself up to someone else's ear just so they can hear me. Not to mention some people have rather hairy ears! And the condition is not particularly helpful in my job. I guess I'll have a few days of peace off, a nice break.

My writing time has been crappy, it's been on the back burner and I need to start prioritizing again. It's so hard with loads of laundry staring me in the face with their evil eyes insinuating that I've abandoned my home duties. And with my obsession with bleach white shirts, it's hard to keep up.

Anyway, I hope I don't sound like Debbie Downer. Life is good otherwise. I hope you all are exceedingly well.

:-)

3WW - writer prompt - edge.focus.delayed

Check out Bone's 3WW for the week - try your hand! It's fun.

Hub:
I stepped off the edge of the porch into the pouring summer rain, and turned my face upwards, eyes closed. It had been way too long since I had felt free enough to do something like this. So I just let go, gradually relaxed into my breathing and noticed how the warm rain washed away what must have been a lifetime of tears. Finally, my thinking mind had taken a back seat – finally it was delayed long enough so that my sense of being alive came back into sharp focus.


Me:
There are times in life when you feel you have reached the edge and are almost suspended in mid-air. You feel like time is delayed. What matters starts to come into focus. Choices ask you to free-fall into the unknown, or to step slowly backwards to safety. Listen to the space around you, you will feel the answer as sure as the gentle breeze that circles you.

New Digs

Check out my new psychotherapy website - if you please. I've been sharing with my hub rent free but thought I need to branch out. Any suggestions are most welcome!

Anne's Website

Four-Ohhh Yeah

Well, Today's the day. Goodbye 30's.

There's been a lot of learning in two scores. Most importantly, I've learned that life is wasted by hiding out. I was shy for a significant portion of my life, afraid to look people in the eye, let alone face life head on. I now realize that confidence breeds confidence. The more honest I am in my failures, foibles and successes, the less I have to lose, and everything to gain. Honesty helps me risk since there's nothing left to fear.

I've finally figured out that I've got a pretty good life and it's worth telling people about it. What people think about it matters somewhat but not enough to stop me. There's too much time to lose thinking about negative things. There's so much to do, so many people to love and care for, I can't waste the moments of my life in self pity or regret. Life is a blessing, a great thing and it's my job to live to the fullest of my potential.

My favorite validation is "Everything I need is inside myself. Perfect wisdom is in my heart." I hope to use my wisdom in the next 40 years to move beyond my comfort zone and take the path of adventure. Now that I'm on solid footing, I'm ready to take it to the next level.

Blogging has been a great experience in openness and honesty. I've met so many great people and learned from each one of you. I appreciate all your wisdom and support.

Cheers!

3WW - writer prompt - scratch.neck.average

Writer's Prompt for the week by Bone - if you haven't tried your hand at 3WW, I recommend you give it a shot. You'd be surprised what you come up with. It's fun!

Hub:
On his way to Big Sur so who knows if he'll participate. Poor guy. The sacrifices he makes for work. ;-)

Me:
An average morning for Luke, turning on his side to wake his wife for a back scratch. But years of disrupted sleep and narcissist requests, Melva had lost her patience. She sat up and swung her fist hitting him through the neck to his vocal cords. From that day, there was silence in the house and Melva found herself sleeping quite soundly late through the morning hours.

Whether we can Weather the storms

It’s so tempting for me to bury my head in the sand with all the recent weather reports around the globe. Deaths by the thousands from earthquakes, cyclones, tornadoes – the predictions made by global warming educators are coming true. We can blame these “natural disasters” on a lot of things – random, religious, realities of life. But the argument of global warming seems more and more the reality of what is going on. It's hard to admit, but we did this to ourselves. To our world. Until we take personal responsibility for our own actions, and advocate to our governments to take action as well, ultimately, we have no one to blame but ourselves.

I go through phases of changing behaviors, conscientious about recycling, water preservation, reducing unnecessary purchases, limiting my unnecessary driving, using the air conditioner less. But then apathy sets in, the feeling of helplessness, does it really make a difference?

We are in a crisis. Every little bit helps, one action leads to another action. I hope that recycling one can makes a difference. Taking a shorter shower helps. Washing clothes in cold water reduces energy. Using cloth grocery bags. In my best moments, I believe it does. But hearing all the latest death tolls and devastation, it reminds me that we all have to work together on this or we aren’t going to make it.

For me, I have to keep hearing the stories of what is going on in order to stay focused on my own behavior for change. I can't slip into complacence. One action times one action leads to managing the monster that is growing in force by the day.

"Our World Needs Us"
Global Warming

Hil, time to give up the Hill

Time to let go I think. We fought a good fight. Now let's win one for the Donkeys....

3WW - writer prompt - human.cautious.maybe

Check out 3WW for this week's writer prompt. Thanks to Bone for another great week!

Hub:
I could never speak up to him — towering over me with his crashing fists. Maybe I am a coward. Or maybe it was simply human to be so cautious.

Me:
Clouds couldn’t help but be cautious, she just a kitten from the wild, him a huge big thing called human. Maybe he could hurt her, or maybe he would offer her a saucer of milk and a place to snuggle. It was too hard to tell. In the end, she fell asleep on the grass, and woke up to find herself in a warm place and soft arms that became home.

Poop & Writing

I guess I am destined for poop literature. My first story (picture book ms) to hit the streets was a boy who was afraid to poop. I thought it was a pretty good story, but 12 rejections later, the poop was pooped. It now sits in the drainage of my computer, composted by my energy to submit new and poopless stories. It was my first try in getting out there. It was when I started this strange journey to publication. So, out of poop, good things can happen.

I'm not there yet, but hell, I wrote another poop story, about a doctor and a moose. (Don't fret now, this one is not going the submission route.) But still, check it out on Doreen Orion. Which as a matter of fact, is a very cool website with monthly contests and shoe obsessions. Doreen is soon to release her book "Queen of the Road". Just following the June 3rd release, you can come on over here to read all about it, and hear the truth of the truth of life on a bus. As it is, above is a valuable picture of her thumb, and the pooping moose I will soon own.

Thank you Doreen for the moose, contest, winnings... et al. You're the best!

I will keep you posted on any other poop-inspired stories. Don't we do things in threes?

Bush gets on my nerves

Has anyone heard this news? It talks about Bush's appeal for us to spend 770 million feeding other nations. I understand we should help others in need, but this is coming off all the talk of rising food costs and gas in our own nation, and how our own people can't afford to eat. Wouldn't that money be well spent taking care of our own, moderating prices so that the working poor can make ends meet? This article says that America has always been in the lead of helping others and we should remain. Is this a contest of who does the most world wide. Is it not enough we are spending billions and lives on war in other countries? Not to mention we are in debt to many countries since we are borrowing so much money. Where's the money we have to give?

I must seem like a cold hearted person, but when I see homeless people and mentally ill people getting benefits cut, not to mention families in economic crisis that don't fall in the lines of getting government assistance, it seems pretty unbalanced that we can't take care of our own.

3WW - writer prompt - empty.highway.ignored

Another Great week of 3WW -

3WW by Bone and occasionally Pia - Check it out!

Hub:
Even though it was the dead of winter, drifting up the empty coastal highway was easier than he thought it would be. Big Sur has has a lot of magical power, including how easily it makes rest of the world seem small and far away. Taking in the plunging mountainsides and and crashing waves 400 feet below the cliffside road grabbed him by his collar. He slowly pulled off to the gravel on the side of the road and rolled down his window, inviting in the swirling fog that was lapping up the cliff and rolling across the highway. The scent of the damp redwoods and torrey pines filled the car. This was not a feast to be ignored, so he opened the door and stepped out towards the edge.

Me:
The highway is a relief, a place to empty my mind as I drive through the winding canyon back home. My pleas ignored by corporate logic, I know the real life is waiting for me at my front door.

Politics Shmolotics

Am I the only one whose getting sick of this presidential race for the D. Ticket? It's somewhat fascinating but more getting really old. Even I, as Hill's supporter, am starting to wonder if we should just throw in the old towel. Desperate does not wear well on a woman. Let the fight continue when Chelsea's old enough.... What y'all thinking?

WriterKat Prompt: Show me the Love

I recently encouraged my newly divorced friend to hook up with Match.com. For once, someone listened to me & she came over to finalize her bio. It was most interesting to peruse her bio & tag line, as well as the bait & competition. I would have thought there would be way more women then men. However, for 2 pages of women, there were about 12 pages of men. Is that possible? Where are the girls???

Anyway, it was really hard to write a tag line & bio, so I thought it'd be a great exercise.

So, if you dare, if you were trying to hook up with M'Right, what would your true or fiction tag line be (10 words or less)? If you really want a dare, write a very interesting and creative FICTIONALIZED bio (100 words or less).

3WW - writer prompt - picture.stop.reflected

Check out Bone's 3WW this week & try your hand...

Hub:
It was that fleeting moment of the day that cinematographers call “the magic hour.” The setting sun stretched out the shadows and the warm, hazy glow reflected off the wet streets. The fiery orange and pink sky glowed on the picture perfect horizon like a wake-up call capable of snapping you out of the relentless rushing in your mind. It was the kind of sunset that could stop you in your tracks, and if you were lucky, it would do exactly that. Finally, being alive in this present moment — and knowing it.

Me:
The clock seemed to stop so many years ago when Rose was just a girl. She was fifteen when her father died. They had posed for a street vendor on the boardwalk that last summer, and bought the snapshot for just a quarter. Today, she held the picture in her wrinkled hand, it still reflected everything she was then and knew herself to be now. The waves of time had softened her, but the sparkle was still there.

Boy Scouts and Camping

I'm marshmallowed out, so that's where I am right now. Probably I'll resurface for 3WW. Until then, think ghost stories, drunk parents, relentless hikes & lots of sugar..... Why didn't I earn a badge, not even a glow necklace? And I had a kick-ass scare story too. No fair.

It's all about... MeMe

I’ve been memefied by fellow shrink, Robin. It’s pretty hard to top her hilarious stories, and I’m not sure what the rules are but I guess I’ll just write.

The lamest thing about me: I’m horrible at telling jokes. I get flummoxed on the words. I tell the punch-line first. I forget what joke I’m telling in the middle of the sentence. Occasionally, I can pull off a dry comment that is quite funny, but it’s usually when I don’t try that the best comes out of me. Probably true for writing as well.

The most determined thing about me: I always knew I would be a therapist since about 5 years old. My parents adopted 2 older children when I was five and they were very difficult kids. My parents almost backed out but according to family history, I made them keep the kids. “If you don’t take them in, who will?” Lil W-Kat said. And so they stayed. With therapists. I observed, and my occupation was born.

The weirdest thing that ever happened to me: was several years ago when I woke up to my husband and 2 police men looking over me. Apparently while boiling Easter Eggs and talking to my Dad on the phone, I had a seizure. My husband came back from the store at about the same time as the police – Dad had called them after I dropped the phone. He could hear the kids in the background but no Anne. I have no history of seizures although it came out that my grandmother had one in her lifetime too. I have the kind that makes me look drunk – so I guess I walked over to the couch and laid down. The kids were too young to communicate their observations. I lost my driver’s license for 6 months, walked more miles in 100 degree weather than I ever had. Surprisingly, it was probably the only 6 months in my life where it was not inconvenient, so I coped pretty well. But no way that’s happening again. It’s me & a pill 4-ever.

The random-est thing that I can think of: After reading Robin’s bathroom story, I remembered once that an acquaintance had been in a city 2 hours from me and went to a restaurant bathroom. My business card was laying on the floor next to the toilet. Certainly an odd marketing for a shrink.

The most obsessive thing about me: is that my house is what my friend calls “Whimsical Clutter”, not the neatest place around, but when I send my kids to school, they have to be the bleachest clean, the whitest of white uniform shirts. The only self analysis that I can come to is that I want my kids to be perfect, house be damned. Other interpretations most welcome.

The writing-est thing about me: I've written about 5 picture book manuscripts which are out getting rejected as we speak; I have a list of great first chapters with no plot line; I've published 2 professional articles about things I don't really care about but know very well - try reading "managed care and you" before nite-nite; I've got 25,000 words down on my pre-novel practice activity; I'm planning for full throttle publication mode at age 60, so I've got 20 years to perfect the craft. :-)

That’s me in a nutshell. I’ll be back to meme some other folks….

3WW - writer prompt - visible.touching.stage

Check out this week's 3WW by Bone & Pia. Give it a try...

hub:

Her diagnosis came out of the blue. It stunned us, turning our world upside down in a second, touching every aspect of our lives. Diane absolutely had no visible symptoms. So when her doctor broke the news to us that she had stage 4-B ovarian cancer, we were at a loss. I just sat there speechless while tears streamed down Diane’s face.


me:

a note to suicide

Joker is wild
touching death
by the show of hand,
only visible
in mortality.
The soul remaining
in eternal stage.
You got me -
And what was your point?

What Color is Your Aura?

I'm in the company of Martha Stewart and Anthony Robbins. Who knew?

Here's my career choices: Guru, CEO, Talk Show Host
Unfortunately, Kept Woman is not one of my options, although it's a dream. The others seem far too much work.

What's your Aura?

The 39 Apartments of Ludwig van Beethoven

After reading "The 39 Apartments of Ludwig van Beethoven", I feel compelled to share this fantastic picture book. Published in 2006 by Schwartz & Wade, author Jonah Winters purposefully weaves Fact and Fiction to tell Beethoven's story through underhanded humor and contemporary language. For example, "In the diary of one Anselm Schwarz, we find the following, translated here into modern English: "After this move, I'm out of here. That dude is WHACKED in the head! Yow....My back is, like, REALLY messed up!"

The illustrator, Barry Blitt perfectly parallels the story in both full and minute illustrations. My kids (6 & 7) and I were enthralled through the book. This is the way good picture books should be written. If you get a chance, check it out.

Who’s the Boss? (No men were harmed in the writing of this post)

The kids bought my husband a mug last Father’s Day that says “Daddy’s the Boss”. If you turn it around, it says “Right, Mommy?”

My son loves to remind everyone that Dad’s in charge of the family & therefore he is too, as little Squire. My daughter and I yawn, and occasionally remind him that “G.R.B.D. “ To translate, “Girls Rule, Boys Drool.” No need to fight about it, the proof is in the pudding.

The more I live this existence in middle-class, married-with-kids suburbia, the answer seems to always coming up G.R. For one thing, you can’t call a married couple’s house and get the guy to make the decision. It’s always “I have to go ask my wife.” For a second thing, when the guy does make the decision, the woman changes it. And it’s usually changed because it’s a better plan (as far as any woman can judge).

Now if women would side-step their way out of the business would that help? Probably for the man, but then things wouldn’t be done the way the woman wants them, and the question becomes, is that good enough? Take for instance, Boy Scouts. It’s messy, it’s wild, it’s hot dogs and chips. Girl Scouts are orderly, crafty and snacks cover a minimum of 4 food groups.

Either way, it’s all in good fun and they all grow up as healthy as the other. (Although…less veggies could be tied to the symptom of B.D.)

I don’t know who decided the way things are supposed to be, but it certainly seems that whether posed or self-imposed, women are the ones running the operation. No wonder the cave men went to hunt, they had to get out from under the control and forge their own leadership skills.

But yet most of them, as is today, came back for further direction. And the women were there, waiting patiently to provide orders.

3WW - writer prompt - funny.remember.theatre

Thanks to Bone for the Awesome choice of 3WW this week.. Give it a go!

Alright, another relationship one. But hey, I'm a shrink..what do you expect? Feelings, nothing more than feelings....

Hub:
Joe: “Those were good times alright!”
Sue: “They sure were. Do you remember how we got drunk and went to see that funny Jim Carey movie at the Silver Lake Theatre?”

Me:
It’s funny how we remember the firsts after a break up. Like the black cashmere sweater on that first winter day. The first date - sitting in the dark theatre holding hands. The place we kissed, on the balcony of the Sun House Café. The first time we said “I love you” on the phone, cities away from each other. The first time you called me "Mrs." The first time we held our son and looked into each other’s eyes. If only we could remember the firsts before we create our lasts, and begin just one more time. Today. I love you for the first time this hour. And let's stay that way forever.

Disease of Alcoholism

One of my favorite place in my work is to be in the system of the alcoholic. The disease is so horrible and fascinating at the same time. It ruins lives. Like second hand smoke, the drink of one man, alters the people around him in such destruction that carries through for generations. Yet it is so powerful and out there, ready to touch, to get to know, to understand. A person in an alcohol crisis is a person on the cusp of transformation.

The hope and excruciating suspense is if the alcoholic is willing to take the chance and face themselves to start that process. So easy the first step and so, so hard. The choice is in each person’s hand. I wish so much I could make it for them but it’s not a decision I, or anyone else can make. It’s the alcoholic’s right and plight to make that decision alone.

I get incensed working within an alcoholic’s denial. It’s hard to keep straight the disease from the person. It is so frustrating to see things clearly from the outside, watching someone destroy themselves and alienate any hope for change. I want to jump up and down, scream, pull them by the collar and say “Don’t you get it? Don’t you see what you are doing to yourself? Don’t you matter? Can’t you see that people care about you?? I care!” But no matter what I say, no matter what the friends and family say, the alcoholic is not able to listen until she is able to listen.

I often wonder what makes one alcoholic a forever-alcoholic and what makes another a recovered one. Is it grace? Is it luck? Is it grades of dysfunction? One CADAC I work with says that “Some will die so others can live.” Often, it is by seeing the devastation of one that sobers another. But to get to the breaking point where one says, this is it, this is the end, how does a person get there? The well known “bottom.” Although an alcoholic doesn’t know the bottom until he’s way past it. I hear the chronic relapse stories of the bottom of the bottom of the…. And for some, it hasn’t been far enough.

There is something amazing about an alcoholic. In systems theory, the alcoholic holds the pain of the family system. The system’s dysfunction is placed on to a certain person, the scapegoat, so that the system can maintain homeostasis, an even keel. Without the scapegoat, the family would have to look at the pain, and that is too uncomfortable for whatever reason. It’s why when someone sobers up, the family will all of a sudden find a new problem person, or (unconsciously) push the alcoholic to relapse. The alcoholic is often the one with the most feeling, and unfortunately has placed that feeling into the wrong place, a bottle that will never satisfy.

When I see someone in recovery, I am amazed by their strength. Their strength feeds me. It keeps my hope alive. I see the amazing person behind the disease. I see that the lies, spider webs, spirals and denial are just part of the disease and not the true nature of the person. I see the hurt that underlies the addiction, and I have compassion to want to be with that hurt, to listen and help figure things out. It’s when the work begins. Often, it’s where the family work begins as well.

That work is so hard for people to go through. It often feels easier take a swig than face the person in front of us. It's scary facing the fears. But we are such amazing creatures. We have so much potential, so much to offer. With all our hurt, past, destruction, we are forever recreating and beginning again. I will for my clients to keep going at it, to keep the strength, because I’ve seen so many people do the work, get past the pain, into healthy, wonderful and productive lives. It feels so good to be on the other side. It’s just believing that there is another side. And there is.

And so I remind myself day after day, it is a disease, it’s just a disease. I hope by through grace, my clients will believe in themselves and come out to the sunshine to play, live and love once again. And especially, believe in themselves again.

Quote of the day

So says my 6 yr old daughter on the way to Starbucks.."Mom, in the olden days before they had coffee, they just splashed water on their faces to wake up. You should try that." Well, it is a good point and certainly cheaper, but not so warm or tasty. What did we do without Starbucks?

3WW - writer prompt - parallel.mysterious.bounce

Thanks to 3WW compliments of Bone and today's host Pia for the Awesome choice of 3WW this week.. If you haven't checked out the prompt challenge, give it a try..

Hub: TBA

Me:
If Only to Feel

The martinis were nothing more than parallel communication, a forced effort to keep a dying relationship alive. Hers with olive, his without. Marilyn looked into her glass and wondered for the millionth time what was left of her marriage with Gordon. After forty years, there was nothing left to say. When they met, they would sit in smoky coffee houses and bounce ideas to each other, back and forth, It was electric. There wasn’t enough time to say it all. Life was so mysterious.

But year after year, the mysteries became answered, the problems solved and then there was nothing new to say. Somehow the lattes had turned to wine, the talks into long stretches of silence, until they became so numb to each other they even lost themselves.

I don’t even know who I am anymore, Marilyn thought and instantly felt the crush of her realization. A tear welled up in her eye, breaking the stand-off. It had been years since she had cried, or even felt something, anything. It felt good. She lifted her head just slightly and looked into Gordon’s face. His eyes were glassy with gin and his gaze diverted. His once soft skin and shaggy blond hair was now weathered and gray.

“Look at me. Look at you,” she spoke, voice clear, cutting into the fog between them. Gordon jerked slightly in surprise and then horror as she crushed her martini in hand. Marilyn felt the warm blood mixed with lukewarm gin ooze down her arm before she felt the sting of the cuts. The blood was electric. Maybe she was alive after all.

Kids and Dogs

The thing about kids and dogs are that they don't need a hell of a lot to be entertained. I've always thought that if I bought a simple dog-rope toy, my kids would be happier than if I bought them an expensive widget with all the bells and whistles. Case in point - we bought 2 big sponges at Home Depot when my kids were 2 & 3. They were stocking stuffers. Out of all our toys that we've bought in the last 4 years, we still have and still play with those (now nasty) sponges. Crazy.

Such is the same for vacations. We could have spent hundreds of dollars on musical tickets, museums, roller coasters. But the cheap stuff always ends up being more fun.

There were many highlights to my recent vacation, but the best memories were the cheapest. It had been in the 20's and 30's through the week, but sunny and clear. Of course, the last day, I had to make a 2 hour trek by car, and it had to rain. On the way, rain turned to snow flurries which turned to hail. No matter that nothing stuck to the ground, my kids were in heaven. Growing up without snowstorms, they have no idea what one is. Windows open on the highway, feeling flakes falling on their hands as we drove, and then hard little pellets, getting wet all over... it was so fun to be with them. When we got to my dad's house they sloshed and slushed and had the time of their lives.

The rain/snow/hail melted off to sunlight and we headed for the rails. One thing I miss most about Bean Town is the Subway. My kids are now in love. For $5 in tickets we spent THREE hours riding one line to another to another, stopping at the two major train stations to check out the various trains & Dunkin Donuts, and then scrambling back to the tunnels. They weren't bored for a second, and neither was I. We went to bed thinking the house was swaying back and forth, just like the T.

April Fool's

Okay Peeps, lay some jokes on me... There's nothing like April Fools to entertain a 6 & 7 year old. Here's my menu for tomorrow:

1.) While they are sleeping tonight, change off their PJ's, bed sheets & spreads so boy is in girl's and girl is in boy's. This was smooth going last year and they had a good crack up about it, so we'll try it again.

2.) Instead of their breakfast "yogurt", they'll be presented with frozen chocolate yogurt. Still working on something gross like green toast or something scary.

3.) Gummy worms in their lunch sandwiches.

That's all I have so far. Anyone have some good pranks to play on their kids or spouse? What's on your April Fool's Menu??

Mental Health Parity

Mind - Body Politics - NYT article
Check out the above article for the truth of the matter.

In the state of California, there has been the law of parity between medical and behavioral health care since about 2003 or 2004 - I can't remember. There are other versions in most states, and this month, the issue has been brought to a federal level. Basically, it means that behavioral issues should be parity to medical issues - insurance companies are no longer able to put a cap to psychiatry & psychotherapy treatment the same way they can't to a medical problem such as diabetes or cancer.

The question that underlies Mental Health Parity Act is "Is there a mind body connection?" Well, puhlease! I think we all know that there is. Do you get a headache when you're anxious? Does your pulse race when you're upset? But yet it has to again and again be demonstrated scientifically. Too bad for insurance companies, because there's now a lot of data to prove the point.

When parity first came out in CA, I was working at an insurance company as a case manager. There was a huge panic about it, if we couldn't capitate people's benefits, how could we control the utilization of care. Would everyone want to be in long term therapy? Well, the answer to behavioral health parity, as with medical insurance, is "medical necessity". One can have a problem, but does it need ongoing or intensive treatment?

Just because someone has a heart problem, it doesn't mean they can electively choose to undergo heart surgery and have the insurance pay for it unless it's medically necessary for their survival. Only it's pretty hard to develop uniformity of treatment protocols when the current measurements of mental health distress cannot be captured by a CAT scan or EEG.

What comes to my mind when I hear "Medically Necessary" is the alternative to what I call "Quality of Life". Meaning, should my medical insurance pay for non-necessary plastic surgery? Can I live without the Double D's? versus, of course the chemotherapy is needed to save my life. Other scenario - Can I function normally (holding a job, maintaining safety and self care) without psychoanalysis of my Oedipus complex or am I about to go hurt myself or someone else because of it?

I worked at the insurance company while my kids were young. It was a perfect fit, I worked from home, I had flexible hours and full benefits. Then it started to get on my nerves. Even being back in the office, I felt like I was going in daily to my own coffin. Who was I helping? Did it even matter? I felt like I was playing a game of monopoly. My productivity was measured on # of calls I took and how much I produced without having an attitude. My clinical skills floated in cyber space.

I learned so much from that job - I did a lot of growing up on that job. I'm glad I'm out of there. Now being back to hospital work, "medical necessity" takes on a fuller meaning. It's easy to distance myself when I'm drinking a cup of coffee at the computer, taking a call from someone I don't know. It's a different ball game to see blood, scars, stitches, icky things (Note: There's a reason I'm not a nurse.) I've seen staples sticking of a self imposed slash to the neck. Hundreds of overdoses. Slit wrists. Attempted electrocution. Near gunshot wounds. Confusion. People who were found by the side of a bridge or cliff, contemplating jumping off. People who've maimed other people due to hearing voices and psychosis.

People don't do these things because they had a bad childhood. Hey, if they did, we'd all be in the shrink ward... There is some kind of brain chemistry that affects judgement and impulsivity that cannot be fully understood by talk therapy. These are medical conditions whether the insurance company wants to admit it or not.

So Kudos to American Government for allowing the issue to present in their courts. It's a step in the right direction.

3WW - writer prompt -glass.question.token

Check out Bone's Awesome Writer prompt 3WordWednesday....(on my blog roll - I can't figure out how to link on my mom's computer..did I mention I hate windows? <---Mac Lover)

I'm still out of town, but here's my entry. I'll have to check out everyone's when I get back...

His pockets were close to empty and his hands covered in grease. But on the way home from a hard day's work, he saw the glass ring in a window shop. It was on sale, and close to the right price. He bought it on impulse, carefully wrapping it in a box. He'd clean himself up on Sunday, wear his suit maybe and take her for a meal. Not just the local diner but a nice place - Howard Johnson's where she could order pepper steak.

Pride kept him from asking her the question that burned in his heart. When things were better and he had a real diamond to present, he would do it then. For now, the ring was a token, if not a promise for the future.

I'm off!

See you all soon - I'm off to Boston early in the morning. It's my 2nd trip since the big "D" - my parents decided to dissolve their marriage just when I had settled into mine. Go figure. Now Dad's remarried, Mom's bitter. They're not speaking to each other. This after 40 years of marriage. Try telling 2 kids they can't mention the other grandparent's name in their presence. Now I am figuring out how to stay out of it and divide the time without guilt (that word again!)

Other than that, we can't wait to see the place, see our loved ones and visit my old haunts.

Happy Spring!

3WW - Husband's Version: money.tangled.understood

No one in my family was ever allowed to speak about what our dad did to make money. It was simply understood that there would be hell to pay for bringing it up. But eventually, the confusing secrets and non-stop lies became so tangled with the truth that we just gave up trying to understand any of it.

Packing

WriterKat's going on a trip to Bean Town this weekend. When I prepare for a trip, I write out everything I need to pack, right down to the socks. But this time struck me as funny since here's the top items on my list.

Cell Phone
Cell Phone plug
Lap Top
I-Pod
Camera
Video Camera

Jeez. I hope I don't get mugged. There's a lot of $$ in that suitcase. But I can't figure out what not to take.

I'm not going to list the full suitcase of winter-wear. I'm too depressed to be losing my 70 degree weather - Sun & I had just reunited and now I'm abandoning her for someone in their 20's. Brrr.

3WW - writer prompt - money.tangled.understood

Check out Bone's awesome 3WW

Hub:
TBA

Me:
When Jack and Sadie shattered glass under the Chuppah, they had no idea how tangled their marriage would become. Their love for each other, put on the back burner with the addition of children, the unending quest for money and success would spin them around until there was no forward or backward. If they fully understood what was before them, would they have taken the plunge?

In their tiny apartment on the tenth floor of Sunrise Assisted Living, Jack went to his bureau and took out a small wooden box, full of glass shards from long ago. Dusting off the box, he placed it inside Sadie’s folded hands and waited for the ambulance to come for her body. As Jack looked into his wife’s eyes for the last time, he knew without a doubt that they most certainly would have, again and again, without a question.

Mommy War

I always wanted to be a mom, so it surprised me how thankful I was and am for my career, if nothing else to escape from the relentless demands of being exactly that. As the kids get older, I find that I want to spend more time with them and be part of their activities. I like being part of a crowd called “Mom” and talking about the most mundane things like summer camp and how many confetti eggs I filled last year. Nevertheless, it surprises me as a career person how things like finding a Tupperware that holds 36 cupcakes and spending 4 hours on my feet guarding the dessert bar at the Spaghetti dinner can be so exciting and fun, wishing I was the one who got to sell the raffle tickets, wishing I was the girl scout leader, wishing I was serving hot lunch.

There’s this thing in me that to be a career person and a mom…oooh, not good. But if I’m a mom without a career…oooh really not good. I straddle the fence , as if I can’t be both or more like I can’t like being both. If I like being a mom, it means I’m unprofessional. If I like being professional, I can’t be a mom. There’s these huge waves of guilt on either side of not doing enough, not being enough, not being there enough.

People talk about the “Mommy Wars” and no matter who says that being a working mom is harder than stay-at-home or stay-at-home is harder than working, we all have our view points, and there’s judgment slung either way , if not directly, at the school waiting bench or across phone lines on your afternoon commute. I don’t think it’s an issue that ever or maybe even needs to be resolved. It must have to be resolved inside of yourself, aka, myself. Which is something I haven’t been able to do yet.

By the time I will be fully comfortable being a working mom, my kids will be old enough not to care, and I will still be left with the guilt of not being there for them 100% the early years of their life. (And now I have to justify myself to say that I was only working part time the first 5, that my money contributes to the nice things we have, that, that, that, to save myself from feeling judged to the full extent of my guilt.) In the end, is justifying needed? Do our kids excel or do we screw up our kids either way?

I don’t think I will ever be satisfied until someone says “Yes, you are a bad, bad mommy for not being with your kids when they needed you.” Because that is the voice I hear in my head when the lights turn black at night. Yet every morning, when the sun shines, I wake up saying “Thank God I am what I am,” and pray the bergezzers that it will all turn out allright.


And by the way, if you want totally cool bake sale tupperware, here's your puppy: http://tinyurl.com/yw5jnv

Married, Burried...

Ever hear that song? I can't remember who sings it but it's a good one..
Here's a funny email I received today, had a chuckle. (Sorry it's small, I couldn't download it any larger).

3WW - writer prompt - apartment.began.numb

3WW

Hub:
I woke up to another day that never ends. I’m completely dead inside. And on a good day, I’m just numb. The day began like it always does: realizing my eyes have opened and I’m just staring at the broken ceiling fan. My whole apartment is sagging under the weight of broken things.

Me:
The apartment was supposed to be her second chance at life. A lot had been destroyed in the last ten months. Her memories were the only thing left intact. She could hear the crash of metal and a baby’s scream. She could smell the stench of her breath and burned rubber. Her legs were numb but her mind, haunted.

She wheeled herself up the ramp and entered her new home. She began to hyperventilate as she faced stark living room. The walls were freshly painted, and everything was in the right place. It was too much to take in. Shaking, she rolled into the kitchen – the only place where she felt safe. Her hand relaxed when she found her bottle. She poured the vodka over ice and took a long swallow.

Shakey's: A tribute to America

We went to a local pizza joint that we've lived near for 18 years and never set foot until last month. It's a dumbed-down Chuckie Cheese without any sort of gaming to the games. It's strictly kiddie gambling - throw the money in and get x # of tickets. Totally addicting.

We went since my DH is going out of town, and it was our goodbye dinner. Of course, I work days, he works nights, so he is only able to spend 15 minutes with us before he's off to teach. An expensive goodbye dinner for someone who is hardly there to say goodbye to.

I go to the counter and ask to have change for a $20. The very nice young man said "Would you like (5) 4's?"
"Uh, Yes." I said afraid to correct and then confuse him. (Plus if he actually had 5 $4 bills, I'd be in fat city.)

After spending our (5) 4's, we are ready to cash out. My daughter's saving hers for a bigger toy (smart girl.) My son's got his eye on about 10 things, and I'm carefully subtracting each prize on scrap paper. Meanwhile, a not-so-bright doped-up helper stands looking at me with glazed eyes. Finally, he starts calculating and comes up with better numbers than I did. I ask him for a remaining receipt so son can use the rest later. He just looks at me and says "Here, just take this back," and hands me the original tickets receipt. So we got about $20 worth of "free" stuff (which amounts to about 1 paper glider, 1 super ball, 1 smiley bank and assorted candies.)

What this says about America:
1.) We'd rather gamble than read to our kids.
2.) Family time is best spent when we're hardly together.
3.) Our kids are great gamblers but know carp about math.
4.) We thieve against "the man" and have hardly a speck of remorse.

Despite my third eye over the night, it was great fun and we'll go back soon. A few more trips, we'll have enough for the plastic lava lamp. Now that's something to take pride in!

As a side note, my son is designating his new smiley bank as his "mission bank" so he can "buy people in other countries rice and books." Now that's my little man. Gambling for God. The American Way.

Hillary-Obama Obama-Hillary

Hillary's made 2 statements that I've heard about sharing the ticket with Obama. To my knowledge, I haven't heard it from Obama. On excite.com, a quote: "Clinton said: 'I've had people say, 'Well, I wish I could vote for both of you.' Well, that might be possible some day. But first I need your vote on Tuesday.' "

What is this about? Serious consideration? I doubt they could get along together, who ever is on top. An invitation to Obama while she's succeeding, knowing she's probably going to lose, so that he'll consider her? Or a ploy to invite people on the fence to swing to her side? Hmmmm...

What do you think?

3WW - writer prompt - sidewalk.twice.rest

3WW

Hub:
They were just going way too fast for me. I couldn’t breathe. Twice, I felt like I was going to pass out – once, I actually thought “I am going to die!” So in front of everybody, I simply had to sit down, right there on the sidewalk, just to rest and catch my breath.

Me:
Not once, not twice, but three times now, I have fallen onto the sidewalk this year. Today was the latest. Head first, bag everywhere, cell phone sliding into the street. Strange faces looking at me and driving by. Either I need new shoes or I’m going too fast and need to take a day off to rest. Maybe both.

Sticking with..

I'm working on completing a 52,000 word manuscript by 12/31/08 and I am at 20,000 words today. It feels very good. The interesting part is although it is mostly crap and 97% will probably be flushed down the tubes, I don't really care since my main reason for forging through is to actually complete a project. It's my 40th birthday present to myself. Next year, I will look at the mess and hopefully take a few gems to start over and make something out of it.

I could start again now, but in my years as a 'motivated' writer, I've been doing nothing but starting over. I'm great at titles. And first paragraphs. Fairly good at ideas. But crappy at sticking with. So it feels like I'm breaking through by pushing forward and letting that inner critic sit and wait for 2009. It can go to town Jan 1, but not today, not this year.

Busy

I've been busier than a one-armed paper hanger. How I hate that statement. It's right along with my mother's other fav, "Always something to keep the rabbit's tail short." Which leads my thoughts to how she woke me up every morning singing in her quasi-opera voice "Morning has broken like the first morning; Blackbird has spoken like the first bird. Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning! Praise for them springing fresh from the Word!" (a religious Gaelic diddy). (You can't begin to imagine how totally annoying this was).

Oh well, when I'm busy, I go straight to bitterness of my mother, as if it is her fault. Sorry Mom. I seriously hope my children aren't irked and blaming of me, but most likely........

Anyway, that's why I haven't been around visiting too much. But hopefully I'll have a day off soon and can be bloggy again.

Addendum:
I just googled this song, if Cat Stevens had woken me up, it might have been much gentler: Cat

3WW - writer prompt - apology.consider.distant

3WW - Separate entries

Hub:
Dearest, I know that I have been distant lately. Please consider this note as my sincere apology. Love, T

Me:
Despite a dozen roses and an apology on her bureau, she felt distant. It wasn’t her tears running down her face. It wasn’t him that she had been fighting with. Her thoughts would race on and on into the night. She would sit alone, paralyzed, shivering by her bed and she would consider picking up the phone to call him. But always, her mind would think better of it. It was time to move on.

I'm contemplating Murder

I can't say no to my kids, so when my little girl walked by the fish game at the carnival last year, I agreed, we won the fish and I let her keep it. I went out and spent $50 on a 2.5 gallon tank and accessories. I cleaned out the filter and put it in. The next day, I washed the filter again, and didn't realize that some of the carbon leaked out, and that it is a bad thing. So I get a call at work saying the fish is dangling in the plastic plant. We bury it.

Stupid me buys a new one. A very little one. I didn't think it'd grow or that the recommended tank size is 10 gallons. Now the thing is huge, it's swimming but not much place to go. Pretty soon it will be busting out. I don't want to buy another tank. We don't have enough house for a bigger tank. My marriage won't survive another tank.

So, I'm contemplating murder. I obviously have learned the method that works. My friend tells me to have a prayer by the toilet and give it the old flush, but that seems too brutal. Just a slip of carbon... It's just a feeder fish. 12 cents. The kids have made it through our cat's death, what's one more? Get the trauma over all at once.

Conscience. It's killing me. How can I kill a living thing? What will I do with this gigantic growing goldfish? Blub Blub Blub. HELP!

Writing and Asses

WriterKat is not in a writing mood. It's been a long week and I just spent a butt load on a daisy GS uniform (Tiger Scouts only cost about $10, why are girls so much more money??) Plus a writer friend is coming to stay over tonight so I have to clean the house.

Another friend just sent me this forward, I thought I'd share 'cause it's cute and I didn't write it. But no offense to anyone. In general, asses are lovely things...

Women's Ass Size Study
There is a new study just released by the American Psychiatric Association about women and how they feel about their asses. The results are pretty shocking:

1. Only 5% of women surveyed feel their ass is too big.
2. 10% of women surveyed feel their ass is too small.
3. The remaining 85% say they don't care; they love him; he's a good man and they would have married him anyway.

Blog Things

Blogging is like driving on a country road, you take a turn which leads to another turn which leads to..... Some real treasures on the scenic route. Today my travels in blog land in reading the weekly entries of 3 Word Wednesday, I happened upon Judy who in addition to a great read, links to Blog Things which asks what spice are you. As I'm feeling a little spicy (could be the thai curry I ate 2 hours ago), I took the quiz and came out basil. I have to ask my husband but I'm thinking he comes up cayenne pepper. (Sounds like a good pair & I won't even mention that the first google recipe for both spices comes up as "Stuffed Vegetarian Peppers" - that says a lot right there....)

So if you're game, what spice are you?

You Are Basil

You are quite popular and loved by post people. You have a mild temperament, but your style is definitely distinctive. You are sweet, attractive, and you often smell good.

What Spice Are You?

You Are Cayenne Pepper

You are very over the top and a bit overwhelming. You have a fiery personality, and you can give anyone a good jolt. You can easily take things up a couple notches, no matter what crowd you're running with.

What Spice Are You?

3WW - writer prompt - t-shirt.punch.unraveled

Hub:
Startled by the loud challenge, I turned around just in time to see to see Glen throw the first punch that knocked that bastard biker clean off his bar stool. In a flash, even before motor boy's head cracked on the floor, everything began to unravel. The mayhem was instantaneous – fists and bottles were flying everywhere, and the last thing I remember before I woke up here in the E.R. was the warm surge of my own blood drenching my t-shirt dark red.

Me:
It was New Years and predictably, my scrawny little Uncle showed up, greasy haired with his same old joke, “How about a Hawaiian Punch?” Followed by a swift hit on my arm. Usually, I’d respond with artificial laughter. But this time I felt my patience unravel. I yanked him by the t-shirt, and told him one more time, I’d beat the living crap out of him. It wasn’t until Memorial Day that he asked that question again.

Composting

I wrote this in 1999 on retreat at Esalen, Big Sur. I post it in memory of Nutmeg, my first "baby", my 12 year old cat who died today.

There is a cluster of Buddhist Monks who create sand mandalas as part of their practice. They will spend hours creating a room-sized mandala with intricate parts determined by individual colors of sand. For five days, they will weave together this circle. As the mandala is realized, there is the final task of removing it by a ritualized sweeping process in which the entire mandala is fused together and transferred off the table, no longer for us to see.

This process has confused me for several years. It has been so hard for me to let go of “the mandala”. If the mandala is destroyed, who will see it? A beautiful work of art lost in a fraction of time.

There is a tendency in our culture to want others to see us. To live in a way that others notice. To show others our pain, show off our accomplishments; entitlements to be and act how we please. The idea of privacy can be disparaging to us as we become caught up in “media frenzy” and “one-upness”. We seek to hold onto moments, justifying ourselves by living in the past, holding on to our perception of reality as if we would be lost with out. We ignore what is before us, unable to let go.

On retreat in Big Sur, I watched the gardeners planting seeds and tending the garden. I saw baskets of vegetables delivered to the kitchen. I saw beautiful savory dishes laid out for all to eat. I saw people gathering, communing and eating these plants. I saw the garbage labeled “compost” where people scraped the remainder of food off the plates. And finally, I saw gardeners using the compost to tend to their gardens.

No moment is wasted, no grain of sand destroyed. We are each moment composting moments for later fruition. We may think that every moment that isn’t seen by others is seemingly unworthy or needing to be told to others of its story. We may somehow fear the moments will be forfeited, that they are lost, and more so, that we, ourselves, are lost.

Like the Monks, like the gardeners, our task is to do our own work moment by moment. We can know that as each moment ends, we can let go of it. Because the part we need will become a seedling again and grow into what it needs to be. Grains of sand, working towards a circle of art, being swept away when no longer of service to be used for compost again. That our labor, our experiences will find us, even when we feel most lost.

Political Kat on the Loose

I'm sort of a quasi-intellectual air-head (is that an oxymoron?) I read a lot but don't feel completely confident in my worldly and political stance. This saying that I welcome my guest's input because you are likely to know far more than I.

Anyway... There's a lot of blogging lately on the future & status of this country, most recently, Stephen Parrish & pjd . Makes for some great reading. I need to let out some political Bush piss-me-off's and formulate my take on the world.

The latest piss-me-off is the whole economic stimulation package. Why is it that people who have not even contributed to taxes this year are getting a refund? What is being refunded? How is this going to help the economy? The way I figure it, there's going to be a lot of big screen T.V.'s bought, money in the millieu for a week, and then we're back to the old news. I believe Bush tried this a few years ago? $300 or something? Did it help? No, it most likely created more debt. For me, it doesn't mean a hell of a lot. It's going towards my next year's quarterlies - hopefully it'll knock off a few hundred, but that's probably optimistic. Who knows if I'll even see anything at this rate.

Here's my priorities for the November ballet:
1.) International Affairs
2.) Environment

If we can get a start on these, I imagine the economy & the rest will follow. For instance, re-building ourselves as a country that cares about the world, not just ourselves will open up a better system of flow between countries. It'll mean we change priorities to cleaning up the world rather than fighting it. Hopefully, we can work on getting the troops back home. The environment has huge potential for new technologies, products & jobs that can fight global warming and pollution while also increasing the economy and our position in the world.

As for health care, I think it’s important, but I’m glad I’m not the one trying to figure out how to set it all up. As a small business person, I can’t imagine being mandated to cover someone else’s health care costs; but as someone with a medical condition with $400/month medications, I feel very lucky to have a private insurance plan in place or I’d be uninsured as we speak. Something’s got to give.

The way I figure it, Hillary is the one with the most experience and has a handle on what is needed to get done. I’m hoping she can move us forward into the next decade. If she doesn’t get the nomination, I hope someone will be a strong back up for Obama. We’ve got a lot of make-up work to do and not much time to do it in.

Character Description: Smoke Break

Anti-Wife wrote out some great notes and example of character description. I've been having a mind block on one of my characters lately. I'm writing a jumble of experiences (loose and fictional) and trying thread a homeless person in and out of the book. So I thought I'd give her exercise a try -

Assignment - Write the description of 2 characters with potential for conflict, include internal and external traits. (Maximum 250 words each)


1st Character:
Waxie Peters had a home once. In the heart of Watts, it was styled Chicago gray with a flower garden carefully trimmed. Black proud with a husband and two sons. But when Jimmy was killed on the job, most of her died too. Her sons married, she became discarded trash. She wandered to the streets one day and somehow never turned back. Her life became no better than the heroin needles that killed her mother. So much for conquering – she had become the ghosts of her past. She didn’t even know where she was most days let alone find her way back.

Haunted, she was 73 by calendar but emotionally past 80. She had no idea where to find her sons. She was ready to die. Her mind played tricks, she heard voices of her mother telling her what a stupid bitch she was, and of a little girl begging for forgiveness. She couldn’t help talking back - sometimes crazy loud, other times in fits of tears. People offered her quarters. “I’m not one for pride,” she said. She took what she needed.

Yet she had her pride. The first of the month, she’d cash her SSI and painted her nails red. She made sure her bright golden wig was placed on straight. Her rough brown skin was always made up. But she couldn’t hide the jaundice in her eyes and deep wrinkles carved on her face. They told a story that she wouldn’t admit. Of a life alone.

2nd Character:
Berlin Symes was no beginner. Even though her long blond hair and smooth lavendar skin made her look no older than 18, she was actually mid-thirty and been licensed as a Shrink for a good seven years. True she was yet to be a mother, but her maternal instincts were regularly exercised on two cats, a fiancé and a psych ward of patients. Twenty-two patients to be exact. And Berlin was nothing but exact. Deliberate in movement, she stayed in control. Her voice was level, her presence soft, but she’d cross her T’s and dot her I’s before you could notice otherwise. It was her vaccination for the chaos she had lived as a child. There hadn’t been much order in the house of seven and the casserole-baking-no-boundary community she had finally escaped from.

She barely needed glasses to read, but she wore them anyways, covering her hazel eyes. She had a natural beauty, wore just the faintest touch of makeup, modest clothes and her blouse carefully pressed. She could be intimidating – she kept peers at a distance, but opened her heart for her patients. It might have been the shyness she had carried with her since she was 5 - despite her accomplishments, she felt out of place, like no one could really understand her. Maybe that’s why she drove herself so hard.

Any suggestions or critique are most welcome.....

3WW - writer prompt: girlfriend.slight.imagined

1.) My Husband's Entry:

I honestly think my paranoia began as far back as Jenny. Then Julie. Then my boss Dave... And it only got worse with each new girlfriend or boss... Every look they gave me, every single gesture they made, real or imagined, carried with it some subtle insult or slight.


2.) My Entry:

It wasn’t until much later that she admitted the affair. She told me that I imagined her covert glances, her lapses of attention. But the discomfort I felt in my gut, no matter how slight, told me the truth. Knowing couldn’t keep me from her. I loved her too much. She would always be my girlfriend, even in the arms of another.

Baby Bunk Bed

I was cleaning out my email files and came across this picture. It's my cousin's twins (boy & girl) that were born late last year. I have been so done with babies for years now, ever since my two children were born back to back (15 months apart). I was pregnant and/or breast feeding for 2 straight years. My son learned to walk one month before my daughter was born. I figure I'm about the best advertisement around of the necessity for birth control.

But seeing this ultrasound, for a short second, makes me think "oooooh! How cute." Thankfully, these moments are short lived and I go back to reality.

Love lost on Valentine's Day

Wake up at 6:30
Kids off to School
Adults off to Work
Go, Go, Go all day
Get home 6:00 pm
Dinner, Bath, Bed... Oh shit.

Forgot to do the Valentines cards - 35 per class - which were due this morning. (Thank God I bought them on the fly at Ralph's or we'd be in big doo-doo. 1/2 credit that they were there with me picking them out.)

Everybody out of bed.
Yell bloody murder to get at the dining room table and start writing.
For kindergarten, at least they are practicing writing names, so it's personal. ("Who the hell threw out the list??" as I dump out the kitchen trash.)
First grade "Just write friend, we don't want to sort" come the directions from school.
Who cares which Valentine goes with who, just get it done.
No smudging, double stickering, goofing off....... faster, faster... come on, clock's ticking.
Ahhh, Job's done.
Back to bed, covers on, two hours late, it's going to be a bad morning tomorrow.

What happened to the love? the hearts and doillies? kisses? love? love?

Religious Musings #2

When I think about my early religious experiences, I don’t think about God as much as I think about ritual. Like the hat my Grandmother wore to church, a wide black velvet headband with lace circling around and a flowered pin on top. It covered half of her hair. She wore gloves to match and a sturdy wool dress.

And myself, dressed in a butterscotch dress with black plaid, patten leather shoes and knee socks. My hair hanging neatly in two thick braids.

I remember sitting at the breakfast table before church with the ceramic cow pitcher of milk and glasses of orange juice on the table. Puffed Wheat with teaspoons of sugar. This was the table that had been set before bed that night. Bowls turned over backward on their plates, tea cups, two spoons, a fork and a knife set at each place, ready for the morning. And the starch white sheets that I slept in, the open window next to the bed, blowing the lace curtains as I slept.

I remember walking up the aisle at church and kneeling before the altar, waiting for the wafer and sip of wine. The confusing books that we used, I couldn’t follow - maybe I wasn’t able to read, or even when I was, couldn’t figure out what page was which. I remember darkness, an old New England stone church with poor lighting and musk in the air. I don’t remember what was said but I remember leaving, the foyer with large stain glass windows from ceiling to floor, cascading rainbows and sunlight as I walked out the doors, holding Grandma’s hand, and down the steps. We’d go back home and wait for my parents and siblings.

I remember the Sunday dinner, roast beef with mashed potatoes and peas. She sprinkled paprika on top of a butter pad which melted a hole in the mountain before we even sat down. Grandpa would stand at the head of the table with his electric carving knife and proudly pass around plates. If there were a lot of people, we’d sit at the kid’s table. But mostly it was just us, so adding a leaf to the table sufficed. That was a big deal, adding the leaf and taking it off at the end of the meal. One of the many rituals that made up the day.

Then we’d be on our own. Usually I’d be in the office with an old can, faded brown paint and black lettering. There’d be broken crayons and pencils in there. I could sit at the roll top desk and black seat and draw. The seat was wooden, and spiraled, I liked to spin around, make it go up and down. Sometimes my brother would join me, and we’d lay stomach down, on the floor making pictures. Or we’d go to the enclosed porch, painted lime green from head to toe. We’d sit on the metal glider, looking out the screens at the street. I can still hear the squeak as we rocked back and forth.

Sometimes I’d go back through the glass doors into the house and up the steep staircase. In the guest room, I’d look out at the other city houses, connected by clothes lines. In the sewing area, I’d play around in my grandmother’s trinkets. She had dozens of cans, boxes and jars filled up with old buttons and other sewing things. It was fun to just sort or play with.

There was a tiny attic just outside that room, the door was shaped like a triangle and I’d have to hunch down to get inside. We’d hide in there, looking at old boxes, some filled with books and my mother’s toys. No one would come looking for us, and we’d leave when we were ready.

Eventually, we’d go watch television, the large TV in the living room, usually football and toward seven, Lawrence Welk would come on. That’s when we knew we’d be going home soon. That’s when Sunday was over, the long drive through Cambridge and back to our town, religion and ritual tucked in our pockets like my Grandfather’s handkerchief, waiting until next week to bring out again.

E! Award

I received an award from Anti-Wife and am still in shock! Thank you! I am truly honored. I am pretty new to the blog scene, and have found it to be just what I had been looking for. A wonderful way to share my passion of writing with such talented individuals around the globe. My motivation for writing is continually being reinforced by the support and encouragement I have been given.

I want to express my thanks and appreciation for Anti-Wife. You have been such a great person to know, are full of surprises & such talent. I really appreciate your take on life, buttons, and your ability to make me laugh! Kudos to you!

In return, I am supposed to give this award to 10 others. Here are my picks --
Right back at you, Anti-Wife http://anti-wife.blogspot.com

Christine Eldin (my other twin and unfailing guide)

Word (a very funny lady who is there through thick and thin),

3 Word Wednesday, (my new found inspiration)

Pia (An most eloquent woman with a passionate voice)

Stephen Parrish (A man with so much to say and a big heart in saying it -- not to mention led me to the Kitler Kitty blog of which I thoroughly enjoy.)

Mary Cunningham (A very deserving and talented woman who serves as an inspiration for me to finish the work that I start) http://cynthiasattic.blogspot.com

pjd (A most extraordinary Haiku'ator) http://cornerkick.blogspot.com/

You are all awesome!

PS: I'm a total dork and can't figure out how to create direct links to these blogs. Forgive my failings on the Oscar stage. I'm a horrible presenter. :-) If anyone can enlighten, please oblige.

3WW - writer prompt: bridge.disturbed.still

“Disturbed,” they called her. “Something off kilter in that one,” they whispered when her back was turned. She heard their voices on her walk to the bridge. She’d been there many times before and the water always looked lovely. Sometimes the water meandered slowly and other times, it seemed like a rushing deluge. She imagined her body cold to the touch and just floating away.

Today, the water seemed hard. She could feel the rocks cutting her skin, scarlett bleeding out into the water. She rubbed the eighty-seven scars on her arm. Eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety. The blood would seep down the river, through the veins of the town. No one would see it, but a part of her would be in the water they used to wash their hands. She relaxed at the thought, but her body stayed as still as ice. And then, like a light switch, the voices turned off. She pulled down her sleeve, covering the scars, and walked home.

Ash Wednesday Eve Religious Musing

"You hear the voices, do what they say."

A few months ago, I was driving by a church with this sign on the front (you know, the kind of sign they change from week to week). I have no idea what the intended message this statement has - are they referring to God talking? Saints? Satan? My immediate thought was that a person with auditory hallucinations is going to walk right by this sign, read it, and do something horrible.

I normally would let it go, but you know what I see on inpatient. I decided to immediately call the church instead. I left a message telling them I work with people who hear voices and recommended they remove the sign. I felt like an idiot, but I guess I was doing what my voices were telling me.

Last night on TV, I happened upon some preacher who looked ugly and weird. So of course, I stopped for a moment. He was saying how he had told his parishioners to give over a month's mortgage, and they would have unimaginable blessings. Several months later, a gentleman contacted him and said that after giving the $$ to church, his property skyrocketed. Now he is giving over twice the mortgage on his other house so God can yield even more blessings. Uh, yeah. Sure. Good for this guy (if he exists which I doubt he does). I can imagine a lot of hard working people making and then not being able to overcome that sacrifice, and feeling guilty for not giving more. Why did the preacher have to go with Mortgage? Why not ask for the clothes off our backs?

I'm a Catholic Convert, my kids go to Catholic School. I was raised Born-Again Fanatical Christian, a lot of weird and crossed messages in my house. There's a lot of stories there, believe me. Untapped horizons. I take religion with a grain of salt - take what works, leave the rest. To me, much of it is stories, symbolically giving us direction, and I like the ritual and respect they offer. To give Catholics credit, they pretty much leave you alone - not too much bible thumping.


Sometimes, all I can do is shake my head and say, "What are they thinking?? Do they even know what they are doing?"

Valentine Contest Writer's Prompt

The Society of Children's Writers & Illustrators is hosting a Valentine's Contest. Prizes: Winner to receive 1 year subscription to SCBWI. Runner Up will receive an SCBWI T-Shirt of choice. Entries due Feb 14 for details, check out http://www.scbwi.org/contest.htm

Blind Date: Contest #28 - It was supposed to be the dreamiest Valentine’s Date Ever. And then, you opened the door
and saw… In 50 words or less, set the scene of your Valentine’s Day blind date.

or, if you prefer to draw...

The Anti-Valentine: Contest #25 For some of us, the thought of Valentine’s Day is as appealing as an early morning root canal. The sight of hearts, chocolate and canoodling lovers can be enough to put one in bed for weeks. If only Hallmark had a greeting card to commemorate the Valentine’s Day Scrooge. What would that card look like?

Show us whachagot!

RIP - the Write Way

Rest in Purgatory or Rest in Peace -
Not sure which, but some of my manuscripts are going down. It’s time to clean the old wishing cabinets and put these rejected manuscripts where the sun doesn’t shine. Someone told me at about 12 rejections, one should start thinking it’s the manuscript, not just a fluke. IMO, those twelve submissions would need to be dead on to your target market to be worthy enough to even consider them true rejections. In my case, I’d say most were well chosen enquiries. I’d accept the blanket 12 rejections if it wasn’t for the random happenstance of the one personal letter.

I’ve received three really good personal rejections, each on a separate project. They gave the me (the manuscript) hope to keep on trying. But now I’m starting to think that they were for me (the writer) & not the story itself. So I think it’s time to let go. And keep writing forward............


So let's get serious people. This Kat needs to know... How do you know when a manuscript is ready to RIPeace or RiPergatory?

DH's 3WW Entry

Here's my husband's entry. (I say, Well done!)

My approach was as smooth as always. And it was easy for me. Just keep it all inside, bottle it all up. You know, just put on my game face and go about my business as usual.

3WW - writer prompt: bottle. approach. smooth.

He might as well have approached me with shards of a bottle the way he crushed me with the force of his hand. In his smooth cunning voice I had trusted to him to come near thinking that this time would be different. But instead, into my ear he whispered seething rage. With glass like precision, his nails cut into my skin until sour tears of blood drip down my arm. I tightened my eyes shut as hard as I could until I saw nothing but the black and white bars behind my lids. I was safe behind my prison wall.

Tarasoff

In 1974: Prosinjit Podder, an Indian Graduate student, studying at Berkeley, begins to date Tatiana Tarasoff. They kiss. He feels that she is his intended. He gets upset when she expresses interest in other men. He goes to counseling at the University Health Service. He tells the psychologist, Dr. Moore, that he wants to get a gun and shoot Tarasoff. Dr. Moore sends letter to campus police, they investigate Podder, they think he is not a danger, tell him to avoid Tatiana. When Tatiana returns from Brazil at the end of summer, Podder stalks, stabs her to death.

Tatiana's parents sue the mental health department, saying that the therapist should have warned Tatiana of Podder's threats. The court rules that based on confidentiality, there is no cause of action. The parents appeal and win the case. The outcome: “the therapist bears a duty to use reasonable care to give threatened persons warnings as are essential to avert foreseeable danger.” (i.e. the therapist has to warn the intended victim and the police to be sure that they can take necessary actions for the victim's safety.)


I had to report Tarasoff this week for the second time in one year. The patient had been stalking someone with a loaded weapon in car, waiting for the right time to assault with intent to murder. The Tarasoff report was an involved process taking several interviews from the patient until she agreed to give me contact info of the intended victim. It also involved lengthy track down of a police officer willing to take my call and take the threat seriously. Apparently, not all police officers are familiar with therapists' Tarasoff mandate. And not all people (in general) want to go through the extra steps to get their job done right.

Too add to the mix, I reported the patient as unsafe to her children based on active impulsivity and violent behaviors with current threats and planned out murder threat to another. As I finally get the police officer to work with me, I simultaneously find out that the patient's children have been removed from her custody. So, my efforts resulted in breaking up a family. (I'm reminding myself that this is probably a good thing, but it's hard to know that you separated a mother from her young children and young children from their mother.)

Fortunately, all is protected, the patient is locked up for the moment, we will work on a safe discharge plan. Hopefully getting back on psychiatric medication will help.

In the meantime, I'm skipping the news and going straight to bed. I've had enough listening to violence for one week.

And speaking of lies...

Children are the best faces of truth we have. When I lie to myself, my children are sure to point it out. Case in point:

Anne: Hmmm. My hair looks like hell. I don't have time to color. It's not so bad. No one will notice. I'm so tall no one sees the top of my head.
Kid: "Hey Mom, your hair looks weird. Why's it all black?"
Anne: "You mean up here? You can't even see up here."
Kid: "Yeah, well it's all around your ears and back too."

Kid: "Will you play with me?"
Anne: "Yeah sure, just a minute."
Kid: " That means forever cause you're blogging."

We don't even want to go into the butt conversation. Suffice it to say that the word "Squishy" has become a four letter word in this house!

****
Any lies your children have unveiled?