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Let me start by saying I love you all, dear readers. Even if this post doesn’t resonate with you or well….pisses some of you off, please know I still love you all.
I’ve been putting off writing this post. It’s been swirling around in the back of my mind and I’ve done my best to tell it to just shut its damn mouth. One of the guidelines I’ve always lived by (and told anyone who would listen) is to never discuss the following: income, weight, age, religion and politics. I know they’re sensitive topics and heretofore I’ve avoided them. I mean really avoided them, like the plague. But, desperate times call for desperate measures, and the world around us right now feels quite heavy. I am not a Democrat or a Republican. I’m not affiliated with any political party. I vote independently based on what the candidates running for office stand for, then align myself to what I feel is right. Well, mostly right anyway. I’ve yet to see a “perfect” candidate. However, I do have a lot of friends and family that fall staunchly into one party or the other. And it’s those toes I’m trying not to step on. But sometimes things need to be said, and the pen being mightier than the sword, compels me to write this month’s blog post. I know many of you tell me there’s a lot of “fake news” out there. And since I’m cynical by nature, I question most of what I hear or read. So, I’m basing this blog on what I, myself, have seen, my very own observations. Here is what I know:
I could go on with more examples, but you get the drift. I never remember a time like this before, a time when politics pull friends and families away from each other, causing rifts in lifelong relationships. A time where it feels like we’re walking on eggshells. I’m seeing the lines between right and wrong being blurred in ways I’ve never seen before, and frankly, it’s terrifying. I can't help thinking of when I learned about Hitler in school. I was shocked that people believed his propaganda, his lies, but still ended up in concentration camps and gas chambers. I remember thinking, “How could people have believed the things he told them?”, “How could they not see how evil one man could be?” I’m feeling a lot of evil out there these days. Seeing it with my own eyes, hearing it with my own ears. It makes me wonder what I can do about it. Hence, the reason for this post. I am a writer. I can at least write about what I’m feeling, what I’m experiencing. I don’t have all the answers. Heck, I don’t think I have any answers. But I can share my thoughts. And remind those I love that we can disagree on issues, but still have each other’s backs. I respect opposite points of view and I keep an open mind. But I can’t ignore or support a bully. What I can do is ask all of you to not let our political climate tear apart your relationships. Don’t let your political allegiance blind you to things you witness with your own eyes; if your gut tells you something feels off or feels wrong, listen to it. Decide whether or not you want to align yourself to those who prey on the less fortunate, the weaker among us, the defenseless. Lastly, I ask for grace. None of us are perfect, we’re all human. My opinions are my own, whether they’re viewed as right or wrong. So, do your best to care for the people in your life, to be there for them, to show up, regardless of their political preferences. Remember, we’re all in this together. Love each other.
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I took a punch to the gut today. Metaphorically took one, but still. Although a physical punch may have been easier to take. The punch was delivered by a literary agent who had requested the full manuscript of my book back in December.
I’ve been on pins and needles since she requested my manuscript, secretly waiting for “the call” with an offer of representation. Which of course, led me to skip ahead to already seeing my book on shelves in stores, maybe even hitting a best seller’s list. But alas, those dreams were dashed today when I received an email from the agent telling me she was going to pass. She loved the premise of my book, believes others will as well, but considering her current client list in my particular genre...blah blah blah. Yada, yada, yada. Bottom line, it was a no. Regardless of how it was sugar-coated. I have high hopes for this book that I’m currently querying for, the third I’ve written. I received rave reviews from my beta readers on it (I don’t think they were just trying not to hurt my feelings). I really thought an agent would quickly snatch it up. I had more confidence querying this book than I did querying the two I wrote before it. I felt confident. Idiot. Getting traditionally published by one of the major publishing houses is a difficult journey. The success rate is dismal. But I’m not one to shy away from a challenge, so I continue to keep the dream alive. I could go to smaller agencies or self-publishing, but I’m going to try to hang on to the traditional publishing dream a bit longer. I’ve convinced myself that for a writer, rejection is an art. If it is, I should be a Picasso by now. I've been sending out queries for this book since March of last year. I’ve queried 111 agents. I’ve received 76 rejections thus far. I’m waiting to hear back from 32 agents, some of which I’m sure will never respond at all. And I’ve had three requests for this book's manuscript (two fulls and one partial), which has now turned into three passes, as of today’s pass. In reality, querying is like stabbing yourself in the heart. Repeatedly. This is the third book I’ve queried for. The first book I queried for, I only sent out a measly 14 queries and had two full requests (requests to send them the full manuscript) that didn’t end up panning out. The second book I sent 44 queries out on and received one request for a full that was later rejected. So, if you’re following along, that means I’ve sent out 169 queries for three different books resulting in zero books getting published. Oh, did I mention I’ve been querying since 2017? I’m pretty sure I'm a glutton for punishment. Or delusional. Or maybe a combination of both. Prior to entering the query trenches, I didn’t handle rejection well. Even the tiniest of rejections would send me into a tailspin. Not anymore. I mean, I am truly heartbroken about today’s rejection on my full manuscript, but a normal rejection on a regular query barely phases me anymore. It really is an art, I guess. And if so, I’m killing it. Chalking up those rejections like a gunslinger notching kills on his weapon. With each one I become a tad more resilient. And when I do get the next request for my manuscript from an agent, I’m still going to dance around my living room like a crazy woman, call my family members to share the news, throw salt over my shoulder and keep my fingers perpetually crossed. Because in that moment, I have hope. Hope for a dream I’m not yet ready to give up on. Everything sucks. The optimist in me shivers as I type those words, but damn, enough is enough. Even the most positive people can only take so much. Tragedy, death, destruction, heartache, sickness, it’s a daily thing lately. Bad news on top of bad news. And I know it’s not just me; other people are feeling it too. I feel like I have a little optimist angel on one shoulder, and a pessimistic devil on the other. As I think about all the pieces of the world crumbling around me, the optimist angel is telling me, “It’s not all bad. Think of everything you have to be grateful for.” Meanwhile the pessimist devil is leaning out around my face, holding up its middle finger, telling the optimist angel, “F*ck you!” And I’m left here in the middle, shrugging my shoulders. Yes, I know I am truly blessed and have a ton to be thankful for, and I’m genuinely grateful for all the good. I really am. But dang, the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket. It’s hard to stay positive when there is sadness and bad news around every corner. Is this what getting older feels like? Is it because the circle of people you know grows exponentially as you age, therefore you experience more loss and grief just because of the sheer number of people in your circle? I know life ebbs and flows, delivering both good days and bad days. It’s always felt like a delicate balance. But lately, it’s been a dark tidal wave (think tsunami) of sad that just doesn’t seem to let up. Even though my optimistic angel is saying it isn’t as bad as it seems, that this is just a season that will pass, things will improve soon, my pessimistic devel is telling me they won’t, that this darkness will just hang around, perpetually doling out sadness like dandelion fluff on a windy day. So, dear readers, if you are feeling the sadness too, let’s do our best to work through this together. For every piece of bad news that comes our way, let’s acknowledge it, but then think of good news to balance it out. Even if you must really dig deep to conjure up some good news (e.g. I’m still breathing, I didn’t lose a tooth today, no sharp objects were within my reach, I wasn’t impaled, etc.). I can come up with more bare-minimum things to be thankful for if you run out, just give me a shout. Let’s do our best to take care of each other, lift each other up, show kindness. Let’s smile more, even when it kind of hurts. Hug your people, even if it’s just virtually, whenever they need it. My hope for you all is that you’ll find goodness even on your darkest days and have the strength to bitch slap that pessimist devil right off your shoulder. To brighter days ahead, stay strong my friends.  Apologies in advance to my local friends who ski, snowmobile and ice fish. I know you are loving this winter. Yay, you. However, I’m completely over it. Done. Finished. I’ve heard many of you say, “we’re finally getting a real winter” or “at last we’re getting a winter like we used to”. And you are saying it like it’s a good thing. I just don’t get it. I do understand that I live in the snow belt, and yes, I chose to live here. Technically I didn’t choose, it’s just where I was born, and my family roots are so deep here, moving would be like pulling out a stubborn weed. A poisonous weed that would make your hands break out after you tried to pull it. For my southern friends, a “snow belt” is where Jack Frost consistently lays down a blanket of snow so deep and harsh you permanently hate the color white and consider slitting your wrists. Unless you’re one of the people I mentioned above. In recent years, living here in the snowbelt really hasn’t been that bad. Heck, we’ve even seen actual grass on occasion during our winter seasons due to warmups in between snowfall. We’d get some snow, maybe even a snowstorm, then a couple of days later the temperature would rise above freezing and the snow would melt. It made it more bearable because you could trick yourself into believing spring was coming soon, in between the white stuff coating the ground. However, that fluctuation in temperature is very unpopular for our local ice fishermen (fisherpersons?) because with those conditions the ice doesn’t form solidly enough to be safe to venture out on. This year we haven’t had the warmups, so the ice is solid. Well ice fisher people, I hope you’re happy. Because you can certainly get out on the ice this year with your sleds, shanties and snowmobiles, dig your little holes and catch your fishy dinners. How joyful for you. I will admit the snow is pretty, especially when you get a sparkling dusting on Christmas Eve to deliver the coveted White Christmas. I can begrudgingly say it’s still somewhat pretty during one or two snowfalls a year. I’m tolerant like that. But this winter has been a perpetual snowstorm. It. Just. Won’t. Stop. It’s not pretty to me anymore. It reminds me of the winters of my childhood where we’d stick our feet in plastic bread wrappers before shoving them into our snow boots, bundle up and head outdoors to “bank” the house with snow as instructed by our father. For those of you unfamiliar with banking snow, you shovel snow around the base of a house to help insulate it. Especially when you grew up in a 100-year-old house that wasn’t well insulated. I think banking the house was sold to us as a “fun” chance to get outside in the snow. Spoiler alert, it wasn’t fun. At all. But those winters of my childhood were like this winter. I should be hardy. I should be used to it. I was raised here, for crying out loud. I even lived through the blizzard of ‘66. Although I was just a toddler during that storm, I’ve seen pictures of myself bundled up in my pink snowsuit on top of a snowbank that towered over our house. I looked happy. Lord knows why. I’m not a child now. I’m old and cranky. I can’t even tell you how many feet of snow we’ve had this winter. I just know it’s been way too many feet. The blast we had the night before last left us with another fresh foot of snow. That’s fun to wake up to. Thank God our son keeps our driveway plowed out, especially since we’re more than 700 feet from the road. But even with that, there’s still snow blowing and shoveling to be done. The snowplow can’t get it all, there’s still sidewalks and door entrances that must be cleared. If there was just a small amount of snow to be dealt with on those walkways and entrances, it wouldn’t really be bad. We’d just take that in stride. However, this year we’ve also had to worry about snow load. When several feet of snow fall, you must worry about your buildings caving in. Yes, that beautiful light fluffy stuff can cause havoc when it adds up. That means this year we’ve had to shovel our back deck off at least a half-dozen times. I know I’m not tall, but when it’s up to my waist out there on the deck...well, that’s still a lot to shovel. Then there’s the roofs. Roof shoveling, again for my southern friends, is a hellish chore. First, you must get up on the roof. So, in our case, step off our porch, sink up to your waist, try to figure out how to move your legs through the snow to make it to the ladder. Then climb up the ladder that’s leaning against the porch roof, and do it with a snow shovel in one hand. Oh, and do it without dying. Because a fall, even with snow on the ground, would not end well. I’ll dare say roof shoveling is an art. Our roofs are steel, (yes, for the snow load, but not this much of a snow load), so you must leave a fine layer of snow to cover the steel so that you don’t accidently slide down the roof like a pair of satin pajamas flying down a laundry chute. And I’ll tell you, roof shoveling is hard work. My roof shoveling stints usually end with me sitting on my butt up on the roof, surrounded by snow, trying to get my heart from beating out of my chest. The cherry on top of shoveling the roof? The fact that you then must move the snow you’ve shoveled off the roof when it lands on sidewalks and decks. Yeah, good times. The unbearably cold temperatures have also added to the joy that is this winter. You know it’s cold when you walk out the door and it’s actually painful. That cold blast of air hits you in the face, stinging your skin and freezing your nostrils shut as you navigate what looks like the frozen hedge maze from The Shining to reach your car. Knowing this, you try to dress for it. Heavy winter jacket, knit hat, gloves/mittens, maybe a scarf. Then you get to your car and attempt to drive it, bundled up like the Michelin man. The struggle is real. I mean, you could take off all the winter clothing when you get to your car to make it more comfortable to drive, if you want to shiver your teeth right out of your skull waiting for the heater to kick out enough heat to keep you warm. And yes, before you ask, I do have a car starter. But the signal doesn’t reach my car which is parked in our steel-walled steel-roofed pole barn/garage. And yes, I must park my car in there to eliminate one more obstacle so our driveway can be plowed. I’m longing for the days when I can shove my feet in a pair of flipflops and leave the house without an extra layer of clothing and comfortably walk from house to vehicle. Right now, that seems like a pipe dream. For now, I’ll sit in our cozy cabin, in front of a warm fire, and watch the snow come down outside, knowing tomorrow will bring another day of snow removal. In the meantime, I’ll be scrolling through weather reports trying to find the one I like the best, the one with the least amount of snow predicted. Once I find it, I’ll light some candles and throw salt over my shoulder in hopes that forecast is the right one. Stay warm, my friends. And to all those dealing with this winter, try not to throw your back out or have a heart attack shoveling the white stuff, and may your vehicles stay on the roads and out of the snowbanks.  Back deck once again filled with snow. Trigger warning – if you are a man, you might want to scroll on by this post, especially if discussing the female anatomy makes you uncomfortable. Because, my friends, we’re going to talk about some things that aren’t talked about nearly enough. Things that are hushed away, glossed over and generally shoved into a “you shouldn’t talk about this” bucket. Well, buckle up, buttercups, because we’re going to tip that bucket on its head. For those of you still reading, we’re going to talk about the difficulty of being a woman, and all the lousy physiological stuff that goes along with it.
Girls and boys start out on fairly equal footing. But for females, everything goes to hell in a handbasket when you’re about twelve-years-old. Society spins that change as something wonderful. Freaking liars. I can remember having the “talk” in school. I’m pretty sure when my 5th grade female classmates and I were all herded into the locker-room of our school gymnasium to learn about the “thing that must not be talked about in public”, we were sold on the beautiful change that was soon to occur in our lives. I think there was a filmstrip or movie with butterflies and flowers blossoming. I believe the booklet we were given was called “Growing Up and Liking It”, or something along those lines (former classmates who may have sat alongside me on those hard wooden benches where the air smelled like sweat and dirty socks, please correct me if my memory fails me on the title). Along with the booklet we were gifted with a little goody bag of supplies we would need when we reached the glorious point of womanhood. Glorious my ass. The average age of menstruation is twelve years old. For crying out, you’re still practically a baby and you must deal with that shit. You don’t even get a choice! Your hormones are all out of whack, you laugh, then you cry, sometimes at the same time, and you have no idea why you’re doing either. Your shirts start fitting differently and your mother introduces you to the torture device known as a bra. It might seem a little exciting at first, until you realize you’re expected to wear that chest tourniquet every single day for the rest of your life. Every. Single. Day. Then, while waiting for the anticipated red flood, your abdomen begins cramping like a pair of jaguars are trapped in your innards. How is this fair? And you don’t usually realize in those early days that you’re going to have to deal with that nonsense for the next four decades or so. When that realization hits, you hate your genes, your parents, yourself and anyone else who dares cross your path. All this monthly torture exists to set the stage for bearing children. Our female bodies made to procreate. Without us, humans will cease to exist. No pressure on us or anything. And once one of those little swimmers reaches your homeland, you get to wait for your tiny bundle of joy. You anticipate how great it will be to go nine whole months without your monthly visitor. That is, until you swell up like a water buffalo, constantly have to pee (God forbid you laugh or sneeze), can no longer tie your shoes or find a position that is comfortable. None of your clothes fit, you think your ankles are swelling but you can’t be sure because you can no longer see them, and you get kicked, punched and pummeled by the beast....er precious baby inside. Then after what feels like a two-year pregnancy it’s finally time to deliver. The grand finale in which you try to push a watermelon through the eye of a needle. The contractions you experience to push that little angel out leave you begging for a bullet to end your misery while your nether regions are saying, “ain’t no way that oversize beach ball is gonna fit down this narrow hallway”. But alas, not to worry. Because before you know it, the littles you birthed will be all grown and you’ll be dealing with perimenopause. That idyllic time in your late 30s/early 40s where your body starts preparing for the “big” change. This one isn’t a quick change as this phase can last two to eight years, with the average duration of four years. Four long years of being blessed with hot flashes, weight gain, anxiety, insomnia, headaches, difficulty concentrating, mood swings, memory issues, and so on. The gift of being a woman, the gift that keeps on giving. And this is one of the phases that no one talks about. It’s like the best kept secret. Even most medical professionals don’t discuss it unless you demand answers for why your body is betraying you in this way, and it usually takes several office visits and phone calls to get answers. All the recognition about this time of your life is sitting in that damn “things we don’t talk about” bucket. That really needs to change. We need to have good healthy discussions about it, and we need our doctors to find ways to help us through it. Because on the heels of perimenopause, comes menopause and post-menopause. The latter hanging with you till you die. What a cruel joke. Things don’t improve when perimenopause turns into menopause other than your periods start becoming less frequent. Nor do they change when you move into post-menopause. You still have all the horrible symptoms from perimenopause with the added joys of urinary incontinence, bone loss and libido issues. You feel like an old dried-up cow just waiting to die. (Okay, that may be a tad dramatic). But we should be talking about this, supporting each other, demanding help from the medical field, tipping those damn buckets over. We need physical and mental support to navigate this betrayal of our bodies. So, my dear friends, if you need a shoulder to lean on, or an ear to bend, or a heating pad delivered, don’t hesitate to reach out. And I encourage you all to talk about the “things we’re not supposed to talk about” and demand the support you deserve. If you’re a man and you’re still reading this, please love on the females in your life. Support them, demand answers from the medical field for them, and lastly...thank your lucky stars you were born without a uterus. The holidays have left me exhausted. There is always so much peopling, and peopling just sucks my energy, drains my battery. The analytic side of my brain wants to know why this is. All those dang personality tests I took over my career told me I’m an extrovert, but those tests leaned heavily on how you interact at work. So perhaps I was an introvert coping as an extrovert to fit the professional slot I had pegged myself into, maybe some fake persona I developed instead of my authentic self. So, I could just be a person who needs alone time to recharge her batteries because I’m an introvert and introverts need to recharge after social interaction.
Or maybe it’s because I’m an empath. What is an empath, you ask? I asked too, because people I’m closest to have called me one. In fact, I had to research it just to understand the term, which is actually not an official psychological term, by the way. Instead, it’s someone who is highly attuned to the emotions of others. Merriam-Webster defines it as one who experiences the emotions of others. That seems to resonate with me. If a family member has a headache, I might feel a dull tug in my head. If someone has a stomachache, I feel discomfort in my belly. So maybe being around people drains my battery as I can feel their emotions, their pain, in some cases, experience them myself to some degree. This would explain why being in crowds is sometimes difficult for me, why I need alone time after socializing. Research says that empaths pick up on clues that others might overlook, they’ll notice if someone is sad, or uncomfortable, without that person voicing their feelings. I pick up on even the most subtle clues in people, I don’t need them to verbalize them. I also have complete strangers openly share their struggles with me. Side note, my daughter has this same affliction. Perhaps it’s genetic. Poor girl. For a long time, I thought it was something about my face, or my physical expressions. Like somehow my face says, “hey, tell me what’s wrong, let me share your pain.” For example, back when I was working as a hairdresser (yes, I was a hairdresser prior to my 40+ years working in corporate America), I had a customer who I could tell was struggling. I didn’t pry, I didn’t ask questions, I just wanted to do her hair and move on. But she wasn’t having it. Instead, she proceeded to tell me about her husband filling their bathtub with lobster and champagne, just to have him tell her later that evening he wanted a divorce. Before I finished her hair, I was passing her tissues and blowing my own damn nose. Then there’s the lady who, while cashing me out at the Dollar Store, tells me she suspects she has an ear infection, that she has left a voicemail for her boss in hopes of getting out early to go to the doctor, and that it really hurts. I find myself listening about all the symptoms she had leading up to the ear pain, and I try to help her find solutions that might help her until her boss calls her back. And what about the lady at Starbucks who asked me to watch her bags because she had to go to the bathroom “really bad”. I mean there was a store full of people, and I was clearly getting ready to leave. Why me? I mean, of course I did it. In fact, while waiting for her to return I clutched her bags in a death grip, protecting this stranger’s purchases as if my life depended on it. I could go on and on with examples like this. Things like this happen almost every time I go in public. “Can you watch my cart while I run and grab some eyedrops?” (That one happened just this week while I was waiting in line at the pharmacy). “Could you hold my place in line while I....(insert anything here, I’ve heard it all).” I don’t know how many times a complete stranger has shared personal information with me, and they almost always end up saying, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this”. I don’t know either, dear stranger, but I hope you feel better after. Of course, I don’t say that out loud. Nor do I tell them this type of thing happens to me all the time. These are just strangers, it’s way worse when something is going on with family and friends. If you’re going through a breakup and you’re devastated, I feel like I need to breathe into a paper bag to keep from hyperventilating. I’ll cry with you and ask, "Why this had to happen to us?"....er, I mean you. Need to put your pet down and ask me to go to the vet with you? Bad move, I’m helpless to assist. I’m not the strong shoulder to cry on in this scenario. But, if you want someone who will sob loudly, cry so much their shirt is soaked and their eyes are bloodshot, and be pretty much totally worthless, I’m your girl. And this isn’t a new characteristic for me. I think I’ve always been like this. I can remember the boy in high school whom someone rudely bumped into, causing him to drop all his books, leaving them scattered across the floor. I immediately felt his embarrassment and discomfort as I bent down and helped him pick them up, assuring him it would be okay. Even further back, there was the girl in elementary school who accidentally stapled her finger. I’m pretty sure I cried harder than she did as I helped her get to the nurse’s office, and I’m positive my finger stung too. Whether the empath thing is real and I’m one of them, or it’s because my face says “tell me what’s wrong and let me feel what you’re feeling”, or it’s because I’m really an introvert instead of an extrovert, or it’s just total coincidence, it’s exhausting. But whatever the reason, if a little kindness pours out of me and helps someone else, then so be it. Our entire world could use a lot of kindness, so I’m happy to do my small part to throw some goodness out into the universe. With that, I’ll wrap up this final blog post of 2024. I wish you all a happy, healthy and prosperous new year. Until next time, love each other and graciously hold the bags of the lady who needs to use the restroom. After all, she’s not asking you to give her a kidney or anything. (Note to self, probably just jinxed myself). “Life sucks and then you die.” Anyone heard that line before? I’ve not only heard it, but full disclosure...I’ve said it. Multiple times. Mostly in jest. It’s just so easy to be negative, to focus on the things that aren’t perfect. So, I’m going to turn that thinking on its head and use this month’s blog to reflect on the things I’m thankful for.
First, I woke up again today on the right side of the sod. That feels like a good place to start. Some people weren’t so fortunate. The fact that I’m still here, still breathing, still able to move about this good earth with relative ease, is something to be thankful for. And I’m not here alone. I have the best family in the world. I’m thankful for my parents. Without them, I wouldn’t even be here. I’m thankful they are still alive and well, live close by, and they still love me. Even though I’ve likely been on their very last nerve multiple times over the past six decades. I’m also thankful for my siblings. Without them, I wouldn’t be who I am today. Our childhood together helped shaped the adult I became. They’ve always had my back, as I’ve had theirs. Now that we’re grown-ups (really grown up...like kind of senior citizens...eek!), I’m thankful we still love each other. Some families aren’t so lucky. I’m thankful for my husband. He’s funny, loyal and extremely tolerant of my annoying traits. He has seen the worst of me and chooses to love me anyway. He is the other half of my heart and my best friend. I don’t know how I got so lucky. I’m thankful for my kids. My daughter is the absolute best daughter in the entire universe. I know, without a doubt, that she’d shank a bitch for me in a heartbeat. Luckily, I’ve been able to call her off before that actually happens. (Bail money is hard to come by these days.) But I’m appreciative of her passion in defending her momma and her fierce love of our entire family. She’s feisty, smart and fun. She has amazed me every single day since she took her first breath. I’m thankful for my son, one of the hardest workers on the planet - he certainly followed in his daddy’s footsteps on that one; put the two of them together and they will work harder and accomplish more than ten men. That boy of ours is always there when we need him. I mean, he certainly put us through our paces in his younger days (I wouldn’t relive those days for all the tea in China), but he’s made up for that tenfold. His love for his family has never been in question. He was smart enough to snag a good girl, our beautiful daughter-in-law, and together they created the best granddaughter that’s ever walked the face of the earth. Don’t even try to debate that one with me, she is the best. I’d be willing to throw hands to defend my opinion when it comes to her. She’s loving, caring, funny and strong. I’m so thankful I get to be her grandma. And being thankful for my family doesn’t stop there. There’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, in-laws, and other family not even officially on my family tree, that I’m thankful for. When it comes to family in general, I won the lottery. Not to brag, but I won the friend lottery too. I’m so very thankful for my friends (you know who you are, and I don't know what I would do without you). I’m thankful to have had a long career where I made lifelong friends. I’m thankful I still stay in touch with many of those people, even some I haven’t worked with in decades. I learned so much from those I worked with over the years, and I’m thankful to have had the chance. Now that I’ve retired from my day job (I mean, I think I have retired, but never say never), I’m thankful for the chance to be able to pursue my dream of writing full-time. Although the agent rejections sting and the road to being traditionally published is long and bumpy, I’m beyond grateful for just having the chance to work toward my dream. Then there’s a lot of other things I’m thankful for besides health, family, opportunity and such. I’m also thankful for the little things. I’m thankful for chai tea, shade on a hot sunny day, good books, great authors (here’s looking at you, Nora Roberts), comfortable shoes, warm blankets, cold pillowcases, frosted sugar cookies, indoor plumbing, golden retrievers, and chocolate. I’m thankful for the adult “M” drinks (Mojitos, Margaritas, Mules), Mexican food, coffee, wine, slot machines and cheese. Not necessarily in that order. Lastly, for those of you still reading, I’m thankful for YOU. I’m thankful to have people who actually take time to read my blogs. And read it all the way to the very end! It’s you, dear readers, that I write for. My most sincere thanks for the opportunity to pour my heart out on the pages and have someone actually read those pages. I promise I will continue to try my best to make what I write worthy of your time. In the meantime, remember that life doesn’t always suck, there is a lot to be thankful for, and let’s enjoy every moment we have while we’re still here. Happy Thanksgiving! To my male readers, this blog post is not a slight. Not at all. The truth is your brains just aren’t wired the same as female brains. It’s not your fault. And you have so many things you’re superior at, like typically having more strength. In fact, according to the American College of Sports Medicine, “Adult males are stronger, more powerful, and faster than females of similar age and training status.” Science shows men are superior in strength, power and speed, but I can unscientifically tell you men are generally unable to find objects directly in front of their face. Even when given clear direction to said object’s location. At my house, it typically goes like this: My Husband: Standing with pantry door open, staring at shelves). I thought you said we had another can of soup. Me: We do. My Husband: Nope, we don’t have any left. I don't see it. I've already looked twice. Me: Third shelf down, right hand side. My Husband: I already looked there. We’re out of soup. Me: Sighs. Walks to pantry. Reaches in and hands husband the can of soup. My Husband: I didn’t see it there. Me: Rolls eyes and mumbles “of course you didn’t” This isn’t a one-time occurrence. It happens all the time. It’s not always soup, of course. It can be any item, in any closet, shelf, drawer, cabinet. Men are just “object-blind”. That isn’t an actual term, I just made it up, but I believe it’s truly a thing. I believe women’s and men’s brains are just wired differently. Actually, I believed it so strongly that while writing this post I went in search of data to back up my beliefs (a/k/a I just googled it). Lo and behold, it’s true. According to the National Geographic website, there was a study by Brooklyn College that put young adults with normal vision through a battery of tests. The study found that men and women physically see things differently. It has something to do with neuron development in the visual cortex being boosted by masculine hormones. Apparently, this difference supports the so-called hunter-gatherer hypothesis, which argues that the sexes evolved distinct psychological abilities to fit their prehistoric roles. Our male predecessors could detect possible predators or prey from afar, making them successful hunters. While our female ancestors were better gatherers with their keen ability to recognize close-at-hand, static objects such as wild berries. Although it seems like a stretch, it would explain why my husband can see a white-tailed buck running along the highway while driving 65 miles an hour but can’t find a flipping can of soup sitting motionless on a shelf in our pantry. For crying out loud, haven’t we evolved enough to move past the whole hunter vs. gatherer thing? I mean, c’mon vertical cortex neurons, get in the game. It’s been a whole lot of years since our hunter/gatherer days. We don’t need you to act this way anymore. Oh well, since I have a better chance of winning the lottery than influencing neurons in the male brain, I guess I’ll just have to deal with it. Besides, there could be worse things than hauling my ass off the couch to point out something right in front of my object-blind better half’s face. So, gals, continue to happily point out the object right in front of your man’s face. Men, appreciate those women in your lives who help you see what you can’t. Until next time, stay strong friends. It’s been one year and nine days since I lost my job. In my September blog post from last year, I wrote about all that I hoped to accomplish while having free time for the first time ever in my adult life. I drafted a plan in my head, secretly hoping I’d nail not only the list, but take on some extra tasks as well. Well, it didn’t happen, and my overachiever self is not one bit happy about it.
Some of what I’d planned to do, I can check off my list. I finished writing my third book and began querying literary agents for representation of it. Check. Some cupboards and closets have been organized and sorted. Check. One of the two chairs I planned to refinish is almost done. The remainder of the items on the list fall into not even started or in progress. Loser. Yep, my hand’s making a big old “L” on my forehead. In all fairness, my plans were disrupted by the unplannable. I didn’t plan on having health issues this year (what the hell, 2024?). So, there was definitely less time than planned to attack my list, but there was also a lack of energy. And honestly, I can’t determine if the lack of energy is completely from the health issues or just part of getting older. Gulp. I can’t believe I’m even considering playing the old card. But damn, there it is. I’m laying it on the table. As a full-time employee, I remember thinking if I just had six months off, what I could accomplish around the house. I’d be a force to be reckoned with, a domestic tornado unleashed within the walls of my home. I was sure six months would buy me time to clean and organize the entire basement, paint all the interior walls and ceilings, and about thirty other lofty cleaning tasks I would accomplish. The truth is, I may have seriously overestimated my ability. I mean it’s been an entire year! My present self is now wondering what in the hell my past self was thinking. I mean, why didn’t I account for life and all the stuff that happens along the way that you can’t possibly imagine? Not without a crystal ball anyway. Oh, fun fact.... you can actually buy crystal balls on Amazon. Yes, I checked. None of them guarantee telling the future though. Go figure. So, what’s next? I think next up is creating a new plan. Perhaps a little less ambitious with some wiggle room for the unexpected life stuff. A plan that falls somewhere between “I will finish everything left undone on the former list” and “will just continue to breathe”. Hopefully the plan will land somewhere closer to the first than the latter. But in the meantime, my recommendation is to do what makes you happy, celebrate what you do accomplish and give yourself some grace. Tomorrow isn’t promised, so enjoy the present even if something on your list isn’t going to get checked off. After all, there likely won’t be a list of your accomplishments etched on your tombstone. So, my friends, stay safe, healthy and enjoy every minute of this life. And if a plan goes to hell, just replan it. p.s. For those of you keeping track, yeah, I almost waited until the last day of the month to publish my blog post again. I’ll try to do better next month...maybe I’ll put it on my list. How can it possibly be the last day of August? I double checked the calendar and alas, it is true. Since I promised one blog post a month and I haven’t published one for August, I’m currently sitting at my desk, hands on keyboard and starting to sweat.
I should probably write a post about why I wait until the very last minute to create my blog posts each month. I mean, it could be therapeutic, if only I knew what the reason was. It could be related to my need for perfection. If I don’t write a post, it can’t be criticized for not being perfect. Or it could be fear of rejection. I mean, I could wallpaper my entire office with the rejections I’ve received the last couple of months as I query literary agents for representation of "The Seaside Crosses" (my third book). Or maybe it’s because I just don’t have anything to say because my life is so boring. (Insert eyeroll here). It’s very strange because I have never been a procrastinator. I was the person who would start working on a homework assignment the day it was given, even if it wasn’t due for a month. Or even a quarter. Oh Tammy, your nerdiness is showing. There’s also some good old guilt in play here, because shouldn’t I be writing about meaty important topics each month? Shouldn’t my blog posts be tackling serious world issues (like finding a cure for cancer, ending homelessness, finding world peace, stopping world hunger, etc.)? If the pen is mightier than the sword, shouldn’t I use my forum for something huge? I probably could, but at the end of the day, I’m just little old me. A girl who likes to write, mostly for entertainment. I don’t have the expertise for highly complicated topics. Or maybe I kind of do for some topics, but I’d rather write something that makes someone smile, or laugh out loud, or gives someone all the feels; mainly I want my posts to allow people to walk away (scroll away?) being glad they took the time to read it. Well, I’m almost at the size of a normal post, and all I’ve done is talk about my waiting until the very last day of the month to write and the potential reasons for it. I could have written about the exciting time we had planning and holding my daughter’s 40th birthday party this month. Or I could write about how absolutely wonderful my husband is (his suggestion for this month’s blog post). Or I could do what I’ve just done, basically Seinfelded it, wrote an entire post about absolutely nothing. But at the end of the day, maybe this was somewhat therapeutic. Or maybe I accomplished my mission and made someone somewhere glad they took the time to read about absolutely nothing in particular. Until next time.....(and hopefully next time isn’t the very last day of September), stay safe, healthy and happy, my friends. |
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February 2025
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