It's another snowy day. I am curled up on my living room sofa, nestled into a heating pad, a steaming cup of coffee within reach. My laptop sits on my knees, pressing my butt firmly into the vibrating Homedic mat beneath me. I worry that this is not a great position for my spine, though my physical therapist told me on Tuesday that hammocks are okay and this is pretty much a hammock position. Of course, my therapist also said not to lay in any one position for very long. Yesterday I was here on the sofa for approximately six hours.
How long is too long?
Rachel Ray is in my kitchen, demonstrating how to make a really "Yummo" pasta dish. I can hear her droning on and on, oblivious to the fact that I left the room ten minutes ago.
"You just give those onions a rough chop - nothing fancy - I never worry about the bigger chunks. It'll give your guests something to get their teeth around."
God, she is so cute, don't you think? I'm thrilled she's whipping up stuff from my pantry today 'cause with all this snow I have no intentions of running out to buy her any fancy ingredients. Actually, that's why Rachel is in my kitchen. She's pretty good about working with the stuff I usually have on hand. Giada De Laurentiis, on the other hand, was in my kitchen just before Rachel. I love her too, but she uses a number of items that I never stock. She told me that her refrigerator always has fresh lemons, fresh herbs, and a container of ricotta. She also said there are always bags of berries and shrimp in her freezer. She and The Barefoot Contessa lose me when they start zesting lemons and chopping fresh parsley, rosemary, and thyme. The rest of the stuff I actually do have in my fridge right now, but if I want the food Giada and Ina Garten usually make, I'm going to have to get it out of their refrigerators. I'm cooking for one here, folks. It just doesn't make any sense for me to spend $4 each on a bunch of herbs, only to watch them dissolve into compost in my vegetable bin. I have tarragon in there right now: what a waste. I bought it for one recipe and the remainder of it has been sitting in my fridge since last Thanksgiving.
I did what I could yesterday with the new snow. The first few shovelings (around 9am) were so heavy that it was hard to lift, even though it only looked to be an inch deep. The stuff that was falling later in the afternoon was much lighter and more manageable. It made me really happy that I'd put my energy into getting rid of that first layer of heavy slush so I didn't have to lift them both together. The only problem was that all day long I simply could not face the end of the driveway. In the last few storms I have started at the end and worked my way back to the house... but yesterday it was just too daunting. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak, and a tad bit crotchety.
That delay in shoveling was - of course - a mistake.
Even without doing the end where the street plows had piled up frozen chunks and boulders, I was so tired, so beaten up, that last night it was hard to find a comfortable sleeping position. I didn't fall asleep until well after 1:00AM, having made a trip downstairs for more ibuprofen. If I'd had any whiskey, I would've chugged a shot or two, but my liquor cabinet is practically emptied. I finished the last shot of Sake after the previous day's shoveling. Now I'm down to the things that are meant for sipping. It's hard for me to "shoot" B&B, Sambuca, Baileys, and Crème de menthe. I don't even remember a drink recipe with Crème de menthe. Why did I ever buy Crème de menthe? Who uses Crème de menthe?
I slept okay between 2:00 and 7:00am, but I suddenly woke fully at that point. I watched some news, skipping channel to channel. NBC was doing their regular show from Vancouver, updating us on everything that was happening at the Olympics (enough already - I'm bored with it), but ABC and CBS skipped their National News feed and stayed with the local broadcasts. Obviously they had decided that the snow here in the North East was too big a story to cut away from. I didn't agree. With my nose peeking out from under my duvet into the 55 degree air of my bedroom (the thermostat will turn the heat back up to 66 degrees at 9:00am), I was hoping to hear about something other than snow. I would have appreciated, for instance, a story from Key West. I would have liked to see someone collecting shells and saying how happy they were that they'd moved to Florida.
Why is it that the only time we see pictures of the people in Florida is when they have just been blasted by a hurricane or their strawberry fields are being caked in ice during a freak freeze? There is a reason that people move to Florida. Could we see pictures of that please?
I took a few more ibuprofen, turned off the TV, and drifted back off to sleep. When I awoke it was 11:35am. I'd been in bed for nearly twelve hours. I wonder what my physical therapist would say about that? I probably would have stayed asleep if the sun hadn't come out and, reflecting off the snow covering every horizontal surface, including tree branches, my bedroom lit up like opening night on Broadway. I took it as a 'sign'. Without brushing my teeth or hair, I pulled on yesterday's clothes, grabbed my snow shovel and headed straight out. Little Gia was wagging close behind, though the drift against my storm door made her backstep a bit. But in minutes I'd worked a clean path from the front door to the lawn where Missy G could do her doggy business. Feeling totally refreshed, I cleared the path out to the drive, alongside the car, in front of the car, out to... the pile of icy boulders at the end of the driveway. What had been loose chunks of plowed ice yesterday had congealed into a solid glacial wall.
It seemed like that would have been a good time to go back inside to make myself a pot of coffee, but I pushed through knowing I had concert tickets for tonight. At one point it seemed like I wasn't going to be able to finish the job. My arms and shoulders ached each time my shovel was stopped short in the rock-ice. Many of the chunks were too heavy to lift and I'd break them up by swinging my shovel like an ax. Eventually I got it done, sort of, though I am hoping I can get up enough speed to blast my car through the parts I simply couldn't break apart. It was a gruesome task, reminding me why all winter long I had always started at the end first.
By then the eye of the storm had passed. The brilliant blue sky I was initially working under had clouded over, and the snow was beginning to fall again. It's supposed to snow right on through tonight... but the earlier sun had shined so bright that my street is melted completely down to macadam, and even my sidewalk is practically dry. I feel accomplished; sore and possibly bruised, but satisfied and proud.
When Rachel Ray is done in my kitchen (she only takes thirty minutes to make a whole damn meal) Ina will start her thing. That will be a good time to get up to refill my coffee cup and turn off the TV so I can get focused on my writing. Oh...no...wait... I hear Rachel. She's making me a drink to go with her Piz-sagna. She's using the leftover coffee in my pot - perfect - plus some of that Sambuca in my liquor cabinet - excellent - and now she's heading to the pantry to get the chocolate covered espresso beans...
What? Rachel - I don't have those in my pantry. Rachel... you are ruining it for me.
Okay, so maybe now is a good time to go and turn off the TV. It's probably also a good time for all of us Nor'easterners to fill our afternoon wine glasses and pass the ibuprofen.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Erotica
Last week in one of my writing groups, I created a piece that fell into the erotica category. It's not my usual genre.
We meet every Wednesday in a local bookstore. It's a women-only group and since it meets at 10:00AM most of us are not employed. Thankfully our group is somewhat eclectic across race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status. The diversity enriches every one's experience. We span the generations, from gals who come on canes or walkers, to teenagers who hope to gain wisdom, and perhaps accolades, from our seasoned audience. We have a few preschool children each week too, quietly tagging along with their moms. It's a great lesson for them, I think, to know that their mothers are multi-faceted. No one comes every single week. Though some of us are more consistent than others, we all have lives that take precedence over writing.
Our styles vary as widely as our backgrounds, though you cannot tell what or how we write by looking at each of us. In fact, our looks can totally mislead. One gal in the group is a traditional Greek grandma, 5'2" and fully coiffed, who dresses as conservatively as her station implies. It's been over a month since I saw her at our meeting, though she may have been there on a week when I missed. It never fails to shock us all that she is the most consistently erotic writer of the group, delving onto subject matter that makes us younger gals blush. After we write, we always read our pieces aloud. Sitting in our comfy lounge, which is located adjacent to the children's book area, her writing can make us squirm deep into our chairs as we hope that little ears will not take note.
She wasn't there this past week, but she was with me in spirit. I was writing about a lover I'd had: an eight-month affair that took me, sexually, to places I'd never been. It was easy enough to write, but a little less easy to read aloud. I found myself curled over my notebook, attempting to simultaneously project my voice while also keeping it within the confines of our gathering. I could feel the other women leaning forward in their chairs, as much to hear me as to enclose my voice in our circle. In all the right places, they giggled, gasped, and guffawed. We shared a lovely moment. It felt good to have done so.
Afterward several gals pulled me aside to sheepishly congratulate me on my writing. Three of them asked for a copy of the piece. No one in this group has ever asked me for my writing before. After all, we're writing into our notebooks, not onto a laptop. To share a piece requires either transcription or photocopying. It just doesn't seem to make much sense.
But they asked... and I said I would make them a copy... and afterwards I felt so proud - so pleased with myself - so complimented.
Later as I thought about it, I realized that these women had all experienced the lover that I had described. Not the exact same man of course, but a man who had deeply satisfied their sexual desires. Like me, they looked back on the experience with great appreciation bordering on reverence. My writing had rekindled a memory, and they wanted a copy of my piece to help them keep that flame burning. How lovely is that?
Maybe I should post the piece here, so it is accessible to them online?
No, that's not what this blog is about. It's about the process. If you want to read the piece, I guess you'll have to ask me for a copy.
We meet every Wednesday in a local bookstore. It's a women-only group and since it meets at 10:00AM most of us are not employed. Thankfully our group is somewhat eclectic across race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status. The diversity enriches every one's experience. We span the generations, from gals who come on canes or walkers, to teenagers who hope to gain wisdom, and perhaps accolades, from our seasoned audience. We have a few preschool children each week too, quietly tagging along with their moms. It's a great lesson for them, I think, to know that their mothers are multi-faceted. No one comes every single week. Though some of us are more consistent than others, we all have lives that take precedence over writing.
Our styles vary as widely as our backgrounds, though you cannot tell what or how we write by looking at each of us. In fact, our looks can totally mislead. One gal in the group is a traditional Greek grandma, 5'2" and fully coiffed, who dresses as conservatively as her station implies. It's been over a month since I saw her at our meeting, though she may have been there on a week when I missed. It never fails to shock us all that she is the most consistently erotic writer of the group, delving onto subject matter that makes us younger gals blush. After we write, we always read our pieces aloud. Sitting in our comfy lounge, which is located adjacent to the children's book area, her writing can make us squirm deep into our chairs as we hope that little ears will not take note.
She wasn't there this past week, but she was with me in spirit. I was writing about a lover I'd had: an eight-month affair that took me, sexually, to places I'd never been. It was easy enough to write, but a little less easy to read aloud. I found myself curled over my notebook, attempting to simultaneously project my voice while also keeping it within the confines of our gathering. I could feel the other women leaning forward in their chairs, as much to hear me as to enclose my voice in our circle. In all the right places, they giggled, gasped, and guffawed. We shared a lovely moment. It felt good to have done so.
Afterward several gals pulled me aside to sheepishly congratulate me on my writing. Three of them asked for a copy of the piece. No one in this group has ever asked me for my writing before. After all, we're writing into our notebooks, not onto a laptop. To share a piece requires either transcription or photocopying. It just doesn't seem to make much sense.
But they asked... and I said I would make them a copy... and afterwards I felt so proud - so pleased with myself - so complimented.
Later as I thought about it, I realized that these women had all experienced the lover that I had described. Not the exact same man of course, but a man who had deeply satisfied their sexual desires. Like me, they looked back on the experience with great appreciation bordering on reverence. My writing had rekindled a memory, and they wanted a copy of my piece to help them keep that flame burning. How lovely is that?
Maybe I should post the piece here, so it is accessible to them online?
No, that's not what this blog is about. It's about the process. If you want to read the piece, I guess you'll have to ask me for a copy.
Monday, February 8, 2010
What is happening to me? As if all the procrastination and self-distraction that I typically do wasn't deleterious enough, now I'm finding it impossible to tear myself away from a new video game! I'd tell you what the game is called, but the dang thing is free online: telling you would be like dragging you under the water with me. There's no reason we should all drown... the honorable thing for me to do is to die alone!
Maybe it is, as Wendy says, something about these snowy frigid days of February that freeze my brain and frost my creativity. I think that it's more likely the increasingly longer and sunnier daylight hours, that get me to thinking of daffodils poking up through the snow (I've already seen them!) and the dream of summer days spent at my seashore home. Then again, it also may be the terrible realization that I've just passed the fifth anniversary of my husband's death. I don't think I ever planned out this far ahead. After he died I set my sights on getting though another day; then on getting beyond that brutal third month; then I longed to reach the allegedly transformational 1-year anniversary which was supposed to have been the conclusion of my grief. Imagine my surprise when I looked back from the second anniversary and discovered that a year prior I had been lying to myself: I hadn't been done grieving back then at all - but NOW I was done grieving!
The third year anniversary I looked back on the second and laughed at what a fool I'd been.
But really it was only a 2 1/2 year bereavement process and I think that was pretty good (considering how my entire future had been predicated on things "Joe and I" would do).
Reorganizing your future in your fifties isn't an easy thing. Moreover, once you realize how absolutely nothing in your life can be relied upon, then building a future and making plans feels a lot like building a house on a foundation of loose sand. You know it's all going to fall apart eventually. You know it's going to crumble. You know... but the fact is that you don't "know" anything. No one can. That's the mind-boggling, earth-rattling, plan-stealing problem I face. Do I put my energy, my heart and soul, into plans that may, or may not, ever come to fruition? How can I be writing a book - how can I dare to dream of finishing it - when the last big plan I had for my future went up in smoke?
I have to forgive myself for not making more progress with the goals I've set and the expectations I had for myself and my writing. The exact same thing happened to me last spring, and I survived. I also need to accept that I have some trouble facing the end of anything (even a box of cereal). The closer I get to it, the more I want to pull away.
But maybe it's okay to hit a wall now and then? Walls challenge us and make us choose: Do I go right, or shall I turn left? If I get really creative, I think beyond my box when I hit walls: I could climb over or maybe even dig under?
Or maybe I will just go straight through that f-ing wall.
"Yeah, WALL, what do you say to THAT?"
Maybe it is, as Wendy says, something about these snowy frigid days of February that freeze my brain and frost my creativity. I think that it's more likely the increasingly longer and sunnier daylight hours, that get me to thinking of daffodils poking up through the snow (I've already seen them!) and the dream of summer days spent at my seashore home. Then again, it also may be the terrible realization that I've just passed the fifth anniversary of my husband's death. I don't think I ever planned out this far ahead. After he died I set my sights on getting though another day; then on getting beyond that brutal third month; then I longed to reach the allegedly transformational 1-year anniversary which was supposed to have been the conclusion of my grief. Imagine my surprise when I looked back from the second anniversary and discovered that a year prior I had been lying to myself: I hadn't been done grieving back then at all - but NOW I was done grieving!
The third year anniversary I looked back on the second and laughed at what a fool I'd been.
But really it was only a 2 1/2 year bereavement process and I think that was pretty good (considering how my entire future had been predicated on things "Joe and I" would do).
Reorganizing your future in your fifties isn't an easy thing. Moreover, once you realize how absolutely nothing in your life can be relied upon, then building a future and making plans feels a lot like building a house on a foundation of loose sand. You know it's all going to fall apart eventually. You know it's going to crumble. You know... but the fact is that you don't "know" anything. No one can. That's the mind-boggling, earth-rattling, plan-stealing problem I face. Do I put my energy, my heart and soul, into plans that may, or may not, ever come to fruition? How can I be writing a book - how can I dare to dream of finishing it - when the last big plan I had for my future went up in smoke?
I have to forgive myself for not making more progress with the goals I've set and the expectations I had for myself and my writing. The exact same thing happened to me last spring, and I survived. I also need to accept that I have some trouble facing the end of anything (even a box of cereal). The closer I get to it, the more I want to pull away.
But maybe it's okay to hit a wall now and then? Walls challenge us and make us choose: Do I go right, or shall I turn left? If I get really creative, I think beyond my box when I hit walls: I could climb over or maybe even dig under?
Or maybe I will just go straight through that f-ing wall.
"Yeah, WALL, what do you say to THAT?"
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Snow Deep
2/6/2010: I watched and waited, peering out the living room window to the streetlight. The snow didn't start falling 'till well after 10pm last night, but once it started it remained steady, albeit light, for the next 15 hours. I shoveled the accumulated 1" at 2am before retiring to my bed. When I woke at 4am, there wasn't enough there to get me excited. But after I sprayed my shovel with cooking spray this morning and went to work, I was surprised at how much snow there actually was. I scraped more than 10 inches of it off the pan of bird seed I'd placed out yesterday - and that had been somewhat shielded under the cover of the porch's arbor.
My puppy was resistant to her morning walk so my first order of business was clearing a place for her on the front lawn. After that I set to work on the path to the driveway. I broke for coffee and returned later to clear the driveway and the mound at the end that the plows had created. It's best to get to it sooner than later, lest it congeal into ice chunks. All in all the work was much easier than our last snowfall, or perhaps I am simply getting stronger with the workouts.
I had scraped off the pan of bird seed before I'd set to work, and I was surprised to see that the birdies must have already visited while I was working in the driveway. With the snow still falling, the pan was disappearing once again, so I moved it farther under the overhang, hoping that the blowing snow wouldn't reach it there. Once inside, the coffee and my guilt gave me enough energy to fill and rehang the largest of the feeders. It has a metal roof that protects the perches to the feeding station and, once hung, it remained a beacon of renewed hope to those who'd come to rely on my handouts.
Satisfied with my efforts, I curled up on the sofa with Gia and gazed out across my white yard watching the last minutes of falling snow dust my gray walk and driveway. Little Gia seemed oblivious, though I know she is not. When it is time for her afternoon walk I will need to carry her nine pounds outside to get her to go. Once there she will be quick, racing me back to the front door and whining until I get there to let her in. We have done this before. It is a routine in the repertoire that I've come to relish. She's been with me five short years, joining us just four weeks before my husband, Joe, died.
Some of us are care takers; some of us are care givers. There is a subtle difference but no one ever notices it. Those of us who do the work, however, prefer the latter title. It's more in tune with the concept.
I was a care giver before I met Joe and, even though Joe is gone, I am a care giver still. My empty nest leaves me giving to a smaller crew, but the work is only a little less satisfying. I help the birds; I care for my pooch; I reach out when I see someone in need. And I wait and hope for a day when there is more than that to take care of.
With that thought I hear a burst of wind whistling down the street, and I look out my window to watch branches shake and hunks of snow explode into the air, in a blizzard that wafts across my yard and beyond. My heart accepts the current winter chill, but secretly craves the promise of a reawakened spring.
My puppy was resistant to her morning walk so my first order of business was clearing a place for her on the front lawn. After that I set to work on the path to the driveway. I broke for coffee and returned later to clear the driveway and the mound at the end that the plows had created. It's best to get to it sooner than later, lest it congeal into ice chunks. All in all the work was much easier than our last snowfall, or perhaps I am simply getting stronger with the workouts.
I had scraped off the pan of bird seed before I'd set to work, and I was surprised to see that the birdies must have already visited while I was working in the driveway. With the snow still falling, the pan was disappearing once again, so I moved it farther under the overhang, hoping that the blowing snow wouldn't reach it there. Once inside, the coffee and my guilt gave me enough energy to fill and rehang the largest of the feeders. It has a metal roof that protects the perches to the feeding station and, once hung, it remained a beacon of renewed hope to those who'd come to rely on my handouts.
Satisfied with my efforts, I curled up on the sofa with Gia and gazed out across my white yard watching the last minutes of falling snow dust my gray walk and driveway. Little Gia seemed oblivious, though I know she is not. When it is time for her afternoon walk I will need to carry her nine pounds outside to get her to go. Once there she will be quick, racing me back to the front door and whining until I get there to let her in. We have done this before. It is a routine in the repertoire that I've come to relish. She's been with me five short years, joining us just four weeks before my husband, Joe, died.
Some of us are care takers; some of us are care givers. There is a subtle difference but no one ever notices it. Those of us who do the work, however, prefer the latter title. It's more in tune with the concept.
I was a care giver before I met Joe and, even though Joe is gone, I am a care giver still. My empty nest leaves me giving to a smaller crew, but the work is only a little less satisfying. I help the birds; I care for my pooch; I reach out when I see someone in need. And I wait and hope for a day when there is more than that to take care of.
With that thought I hear a burst of wind whistling down the street, and I look out my window to watch branches shake and hunks of snow explode into the air, in a blizzard that wafts across my yard and beyond. My heart accepts the current winter chill, but secretly craves the promise of a reawakened spring.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The First Blog: The Feeding Station
Day 1: The "blogging" begins! Since I am a writer and participate in several writing groups, I knew it was time to get on board with the blogging rage. Even so, the weight of responsibility for creating something worth reading is huge to me and it has, quite frankly, deterred me. But as a good friend recently told me, it is time for me to "GET OVER IT!". She also added that "No one is ever going to see it anyway, let alone read it".
Really? No one? lol
2/5/10 Journal Entry: The titmice are gathering in the bare branches of the plum tree. I can see them from my comfy living room couch. They are clearly suspicious of the bird seed that I've set out on the front porch. Last night it was too darn cold to stand out there pouring a 20-pound bag of seed into the feeders. Instead I filled a small pan with a few scoops of the mix and placed it onto one of the porch's lounge chairs that has been braving this winter's storms. To entice the birdies to the unusual new feeding platform, I sprinkled two handfuls of seed along the porch railing. Surely the birdies would approve? If they are hungry enough, they'll eat, wont they? But I see now that the titmice are not at all convinced of its safety.
Titmice have pointed head-dressings that look like tiny feathered dunce-caps crowning their diminutive grey and white bodies. I love their look, and their tweet, and I'd like them to visit often (even if that means I need to pay for their lunch). This business of their being suspicious of my offering is a bit upsetting to me, but not upsetting enough to make me go out in the cold air to refill the actual feeders.
Or is it?
There is a big storm coming and I want the birdies to know that they will have food accessible on my porch, even if all their other feeding grounds are buried under the predicted 18 inches of snow.
I tip-toe into the den to peek out onto the porch. If the titmice are all still flitting about in the plum tree, is no one taking part in the feast I set out? Ah-HA! I see a black-capped chickadee zipping out of the rhododendron to the feed pan. He acts like he is stealing, picking seed swiftly after landing and then darting back into the bush. I wonder if even he is suspicious of this new feeding site? As I ponder this a thought hits me hard: the food is a mere 14" off the porch floor and a cat would have easy pickings if these birds are not careful. A moment later, I see a titmouse land to eat. He stays longer than the chickadee, which only makes that dunce cap seem all the more telling. His titmouse buddies are all still up the in the plum branches, tweeting warnings above their empty hungry bellies. I brush a few stray hairs from my face with the back of my hand, the chickadee comes and flits away but the titmouse continues to eat.
If I care about these precious creatures, it is clear that I will have to fill my hanging feeders before the snow begins to fly. Keep them fed, but keep them safe... a job half-done is no job at all.
That rings true for so many things, doesn't it?
Really? No one? lol
2/5/10 Journal Entry: The titmice are gathering in the bare branches of the plum tree. I can see them from my comfy living room couch. They are clearly suspicious of the bird seed that I've set out on the front porch. Last night it was too darn cold to stand out there pouring a 20-pound bag of seed into the feeders. Instead I filled a small pan with a few scoops of the mix and placed it onto one of the porch's lounge chairs that has been braving this winter's storms. To entice the birdies to the unusual new feeding platform, I sprinkled two handfuls of seed along the porch railing. Surely the birdies would approve? If they are hungry enough, they'll eat, wont they? But I see now that the titmice are not at all convinced of its safety.
Titmice have pointed head-dressings that look like tiny feathered dunce-caps crowning their diminutive grey and white bodies. I love their look, and their tweet, and I'd like them to visit often (even if that means I need to pay for their lunch). This business of their being suspicious of my offering is a bit upsetting to me, but not upsetting enough to make me go out in the cold air to refill the actual feeders.
Or is it?
There is a big storm coming and I want the birdies to know that they will have food accessible on my porch, even if all their other feeding grounds are buried under the predicted 18 inches of snow.
I tip-toe into the den to peek out onto the porch. If the titmice are all still flitting about in the plum tree, is no one taking part in the feast I set out? Ah-HA! I see a black-capped chickadee zipping out of the rhododendron to the feed pan. He acts like he is stealing, picking seed swiftly after landing and then darting back into the bush. I wonder if even he is suspicious of this new feeding site? As I ponder this a thought hits me hard: the food is a mere 14" off the porch floor and a cat would have easy pickings if these birds are not careful. A moment later, I see a titmouse land to eat. He stays longer than the chickadee, which only makes that dunce cap seem all the more telling. His titmouse buddies are all still up the in the plum branches, tweeting warnings above their empty hungry bellies. I brush a few stray hairs from my face with the back of my hand, the chickadee comes and flits away but the titmouse continues to eat.
If I care about these precious creatures, it is clear that I will have to fill my hanging feeders before the snow begins to fly. Keep them fed, but keep them safe... a job half-done is no job at all.
That rings true for so many things, doesn't it?
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