Let’s play hearts, he suggests. But not yours, mine.
He threw that jokers wild from the blue, never before having tipped his hand.
I would love to know what your heart says, she replies, calling his bluff.
My heart says you’re all mine, he reveals, going all in.
That’s beautiful, she muses, but is there a part that says YOU are all MINE?
I could definitely say that, he smiles.
And she folds.
We are having unexpected January temperatures in the beginning of December and my mood is that much poorer for it. We have barely made it above freezing for the past 10 days and we are expected to hit a balmy 5 degrees on Sunday. I could feel myself slipping when I started replacing my water for hot cocoa and my daily workout with doomscrolling in my recliner. I hung on to happy-go-lucky D! with my fingernails, as if I were scratching out the demons’ eyes who were ready to overtake me with one skipped breath, one exaggerated sigh too many. And then like they did when they announced their presence on the ultrasound 17 years ago, Ez gave me hope.
Our car rides can range from dead silence, as they lose themselves in their headphones and Spotify, to full on philosophical discussions that are only halted by my pulling into the driveway. The other day, they were feeling philosophical.
“If you were a mouse and you could only eat three cheeses for the rest of your life (keeping in mind a mouse’s life is only 4-5 years) what three cheeses would you choose?” It took me a minute, but I finally chose Camembert, honey goat Gouda, and Muenster for everyday snacking. They responded with Colby jack for every day snacking, pepper jack for when they were feeling spicy, and Bella vitano for the fancier times. We agreed that I have a wider breadth of cheese knowledge than they do, but they classed it up with the Bella vitano choice.
We then talked about making positive changes in our lives, with Ez taking steps to get healthier through exercise and more water, fruits, and veggies. Once they started talking they opened up about how they are feeling better, losing weight, and feeling the mental benefits of regular exercise. I knew they were right and that’s half the reason I started to tumble into the weeds of depression that ensnare me in winter. I eat just fine, with The Mayor carefully curating a meal plan that is both healthy and delicious. But exercise is my bugaboo. I had finally found something that seemed to work for me, lifting weights and doing my walking and step ups every other day through autumn, but since The Mayor quit his job before Thanksgiving, I bumped and rolled right off that wagon and into the mud of “I just don’t feel like it.”
But something about seeing Ez get excited about their walks around the lake and packing their lunch for work instead of the regular Crunch Wrap Supreme on the way home gave me the spark of hope that I needed. I made it a point that afternoon to do my step ups and lift my weights that had been untouched for 10 days. Feeling the natural high of my blood pumping through my arteries and my synapses firing on all cylinders, I vowed to get some form of exercise every day, even if it’s a simple walk around Meijer or Fresh Market. It is so easy for me to slowly descend into slothfulness and inactivity with my commute literally being 22 steps from the bedroom to the recliner, but I legitimately feel better if I give myself that endorphin rush.
From the moment I knew they were growing inside my belly, Ez has been a source of hope for me. I remember half-joking during my baby shower that I hoped they weren’t a dud, since I had already been blessed with two kiddos who were perfect in their own unique snowflake kind of way. Ez has been anything but a dud. They continue to inspire me with their words and art, and they give me hope that I can pull myself up when I see them making positive choices that will affect their future. I don’t think there is anything more you can ask from a 17 year old on the cusp of adulthood.
I love you all, some more than others.💜🌻
It’s winter time, which means I have plenty of dark days to ponder such somber thoughts as what kind of legacy I will leave behind when my time comes to become stardust in the universe. As I collect past writings and journal entries into a collective published piece, I am reminded of the Latin phrase Verba volant, scripta manent, which translates to “spoken words fly away, written words remain.” I live and die by the pen, so this resonates particularly strongly with me.
Between Facebook and my blog, I am pretty much an open book. This has enabled me to nurture and develop relationships with people from all walks of my life all over the world, and with some whom I have never met. Just this week, I have been messaged by three different people of varying degrees of familiarity who said they thought of me because of something I had written.
My friend, Nick, from my study abroad year in England, messaged that something came across his feed about people who can make jokes about grammar are the cleverest of the lot and he thought of me. My bff’s mom, Linda, texted that she thought of me because she got an entire bag of “foldy” chips with her dinner and she knew that bag should’ve been mine. And then my own daughter, J, has texted me at the exact same time numerous times, indicating that we are never far from each other’s minds.
Just the idea that I crossed these friends’ minds and made them smile for a moment fills my love bucket to the brim. I am not one for long conversations, always a better listener than I am contributor, but I can collect my thoughts into an essay with relative ease. I think this has allowed me to be precisely in the moment soaking it all in, and then write about it later. While I hope to make an impact on people in real life connections, the reality of our virtual world is we have so many of those interactions online. We are who we are because of our words, and our written words are even more pertinent and meaningful today.
It brings me joy and a sense of fulfillment that I can elicit a smile through my actions, but especially my words. My writings are an expression of my love for this journey we are on together, and that Love will remain in others whom I have touched after I am ashes. Hopefully I have plenty of years left to continue to make an impression in others who enter my sphere. At the very least, I will have left a library for my children and future grandchildren so that they will always know I love them. After all, scripta manent, amor manet.
I love you all, some more than others 💜🌻
It was the day before my 10th birthday. Double digits this year. The stores were already decorating for Thanksgiving, with hints of Christmas peeking out of the aisles.
“We’re here just for necessities,” my mom said, leading me toward the cake mixes. I loved this tradition of picking out my cake flavor. Mom made my cake every year and she always used a Duncan Hines cake mix as a base, but then added her extra secret ingredients to make it taste better. And homemade frosting. Always homemade frosting. Because the cake mix itself didn’t matter so much, but the canned frosting didn’t hold a candle to her homemade icing. I looked over the options, mulling a carrot cake versus devil’s food cake. And, oh, there’s the German chocolate cake too, but that icing meant getting pecans and coconut as well, and mom made it clear that her paycheck was late so I tried to be mindful of the extra expense. Finally I settled on devil’s food cake and asked for chocolate chip buttercream icing. Mom added the red and yellow box to the basket and said, “we need more eggs, too. I only have one left at home.”
We made our way to the dairy, saying hello to the lobsters in the seafood case on the way. In front of the egg cooler, there was an end cap with individual butter sculptures carved like turkeys. Mom paused and gasped when she saw them. “Aren’t these just the most extravagant thing ever?” She ran her fingers over the box, as if she wanted to poke at the waddle of the butter turkey to see if it would gobble. She lingered a little longer, sighing that it was an unnecessary expense, but boy wouldn’t that be cool on the Thanksgiving table, before turning to the egg cooler and retrieving a dozen large. The way my mom said “extravagant” with a hint of longing, a smidgen of preposterousness, and a touch of regret made me want to experience that butter sculpture. I wondered if it would taste different, being carved up to look like a turkey. Surely it had to, if rich people were buying it. I determined right then and there that I would get one of those butter turkey sculptures on our Thanksgiving table somehow.
Mom made my birthday cake while I was at school the next day, and I opened my presents when I got home after I blew out my candles. I hadn’t stopped thinking about that butter sculpture we had seen, so when I opened my card from Papa and there was a crisp $20 bill with a note that said, “Buy yourself something extravagant…” I knew what I had to do.
That Saturday, I asked mom if I could walk down to Kroger by myself; now that I was 10 I felt I was old enough. She agreed, but insisted on following me down and back in the car. I felt so free and grown walking down the big hill and in through the double doors. I thought to myself, “ten is old enough to walk to the grocery store by myself. It’s also old enough to start contributing to the house.”
I quickly weaved my way to the back corner of the store, praying the whole way that nobody had bought all the turkeys, and was rewarded with a whole selection of butter sculptures in the dairy. I picked one up, purchased it, and went back outside to let mom know I had made it out okay. I handed her the bag with the butter turkey in it and said, “I bought this for Thanksgiving because I wanted you to have something special.” Mom immediately started crying when she looked in the bag and said I shouldn’t have, but that it would look perfect on our Thanksgiving table. She’s always good about being grateful for gifts, even if she thinks I wasted my money. I asked if she would drive me up the big hill so I didn’t have to walk it by myself and she said of course.
At Thanksgiving, I helped set the table and put the butter turkey on a little plate in the center of the table next to mom’s yeast rolls. We said grace and loaded our plates. It was just the two of us so when we went to butter our rolls, we looked at the turkey sculpture and then at each other. It seemed a shame to cut into something so beautiful, we didn’t even know where to start. Finally mom said, “aw hell, I’m just gonna go for it” and cut that butter turkey’s head clean off and smeared it in the roll’s crevice. I started laughing at the headless butter carcass that remained and said, “I’m going to go for its butt” and took the tail feathers right off. Mom giggled and watched me as I took a bite of the roll with the fancy butter. I felt the creaminess and saltiness of the butter on my tongue and lips and pressed the excess to the roof of my mouth. I wanted to taste the indulgence that wealthy people thought nothing of and let my whole body feel its richness. Mom smiled at me and said, “I’m so thankful for you, turkey butt. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, mama. Happy Thanksgiving” and we devoured our dinners with the headless, buttless butter turkey between us, both of us realizing that the ultimate extravagance was spending the holiday together with a home cooked meal.
I am sitting here at the Say Yes to Jess studio for Ez’s senior portrait session and Jess has supplied Ez’s favorite snacks of cool ranch Doritos, Dr. Pepper, and Sour Patch Kids. A playlist that Jess curated of Ez’s favorite bands is over the loudspeaker and I am on the couch in the adjacent lounge area letting Jess do her thing with Ez, only jumping in to help light my child on fire for a pic. It was surreal, but the pic came out amazing.
Since this is the last senior portraits that I’ll have to attend, I find myself looking back through all the pictures of Ez over the years and I am oddly happy. There aren’t any tears because this is a season of joy. Their whole life is in front of them and they have eight short months before they’ll be a graduate. I am pretty much done with the raising part of parenthood, except for teaching them to drive. Soon I’ll be in the role of who they turn to for advice instead of shunning the pearls of wisdom I try to drop in the car on the way home from Leaves.
I had a hot chocolate date with my friend Tracie the other day at this new cocoa lounge in Loveland. We are the same age, but she started her parenting journey about 10 years after I did. Her daughter is in 3rd grade now and Tracie was telling me she can’t believe how fast it has gone so far and soon enough she’ll have a graduate like Ezra. She mused that she would be a mess when her daughter graduates and asked if I find myself emotional at times with the reality of the coming year. I wonder if it’s weird that I am not.
Ez has grown so much over the past few years, and especially over the past summer. As they prepare for college next fall, make the step toward getting their license, and wind down their high school career, they will mature so much more that who I am describing now will only be a shadow of who they will become. You would think this would make me sad, but I can’t wait to watch them spread their wings.
My bff likes to quote a line attributed to Dr Seuss, “Don’t cry that it’s over, smile because it happened.” I live by that quote and try and remember all the beautiful, funny, poignant, and difficult moments that have led to this point. I embrace the changes in my role as a mom and am proud of the people my children have become. Ez may be the last, but they are making their mark in their own way. This season is ending but with comes the dawn of a new season and I am blessed to be able to experience the changes. And I’m smiling because I have been lucky enough to have watched it happen.
As the seasons change from summer to fall and then again from winter to spring, I tend to get a little manic. Not full-blown, Destiny! of yesteryear psychotic manic, but my mind goes a little fast and I have to battle some demons that are resurrected at that time of year. I thought I handled this season’s change marvelously, deftly telling the demons to quiet themselves, and allowing my brain to create a flurry of thoughts to be used as future essays, blog posts, book ideas, or just facebook anecdotes. I have a lot to work on this winter. I also realized that I might not be completely through this season of mania, as evidenced by an internet interaction I had today.
This morning during a break from editing physics, I opened my facebook to find a notification that someone had commented on a comment I had posted on a public page 3 days ago. My comment, which was in response to a news article, said simply “Pritzker is going to take the president to the United States Supreme Court and after that, The Hague,” received several likes and had honestly been forgotten because the days just replace each other when they consist of carpool, editing physics, engineering, and law, and maintaining a relationship with The Mayor. I clicked on what would then consume me for the next hour. Some random woman whom I do not know posted, “You all need to step away from the Pringles” under my comment. I was aghast. What the hell was this attack about? I thought, do I handle this with grace and say, “Jesus loves you, even if no one else does…”? But she attacked not only me but my kids. So I responded quickly and said, “Is this supposed to be a fat joke? Because I can lose weight. You unfortunately can do nothing about that face, those teeth, and that ugly personality.” That’ll show her, I thought. Ugly is as ugly does.
I went back to physics and finished my article; before switching to engineering, I took a peek at my facebook again (what can I say, it is a ridiculous addiction). Another notification. This time she said, “Aww, so you guys choose to be fat.” Well, she can just eat a satchel of richards. Lady, you do not want to fuck with a wordsmith. So I unleashed a tirade that would make any venomous teenage girl cringe. “Oh you poor thing…And you choose to be hateful. I’m sorry your kids hate you and your parents are disappointed in you. I hope my name flashes through your mind when your doctor gives you your diagnosis. Bless your precious heart.” Was I proud of this outburst? Admittedly, a little. Fuck with me and my kids, I will fuck with you so hard mentally that you won’t know what hit you. I pushed post and waited… Soon I was rewarded with a little red bubble. “Who is hateful now?” So I quickly replied, “You come after me unprovoked and when I bite back, you are offended. Go cry in a pillow.” Another quick notification with a simple, “You are crazy.” Your goddamn right I am, tell me something I don’t know. So I sealed our interaction with a kiss and simply replied, “Oh dear. Did someone learn the hard way not to pick fights with strangers on the internet? Have a “blessed” day. I’m sure you will.” A southern lady threat, how I learned growing up.
I rode this little high into thrifting with Ez and relayed my interaction to them, which they agreed she deserved it, even if I did cross the line with my threat of a “blessed” day and an unknown diagnosis. As the day wore on, I expected the little guilt pangs that normally come from one of my outbursts, but they never came. I might still be a little manic, but more astutely, I am pissed. I am so pissed that they (and they know who they are) can spew hatred from their mouths and when they get the first inkling of a pushback, they play victim. I am so pissed that our country takes an already marginalized community that constitutes 1% of our population and villainizes them from their positions of power. I am so pissed that truth no longer has a place in our media.
After dinner, I was finishing up an engineering article and Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” came on Spotify. I heard the lyric “You keep me searching for a heart of gold…” and I wondered if it was my angels saying they were disappointed in me today. Should I have responded to that stranger with love? Maybe. Did I tarnish my heart a bit with my tirade? Perhaps. But gold is malleable and soft. I am not. I will fight for my kids rights. I will fight for the rights of marginalized communities. I will fight for truth. And if Stephen King has taught us anything, you best not come after a wordsmith, because we will decimate you. A heart of gold, perhaps not. But a living, beating heart filled with blood that bleeds my truth. You’re goddamn right.
I take a deep breath in and exhale to the count of eight. The forces of the Universe wash over me and I find myself pulled in infinite directions at once. Before panic sets in, I immediately center myself and take another deep breath, holding it and mentally repeating my goal for this meditation session in as few words as possible. This world needs more love, more kindness, more compassion. From everyone. I feel the energy around my heart open up and I relax into it. I breathe through the waves and use my chest to push them out to the earth that needs such healing and positive energy now more than ever.
The pirates of the multiverse start to voice their objections, and I find myself beginning to split. I have to quiet them lest they negate the love with their hate, but it is a constant battle. I hush them, and take a sip of water, my meditation broken but not without, I believe, some benefit to the metaverse.
A few hours later, the chime of the door opening dings and I say “hey dere” and hear the familiar “hey dere” back. He greets Leia, our calico who waits for him at the top of the stairs when she sees him pull in the driveway. He puts his water bottle on the kitchen table then immediately retreats to the bedroom to change out of his shirt and tie so as not to sully them with the cat hair that is persistent. Ten minutes before he got home, I filled his water glass with ice and fresh water and placed it on his side table next to his recliner. I also took the opportunity to fill his bowl, so he has a freshie to smoke as he unwinds and relaxes from the stresses of his job.
He sits down next to me and I wait until he is ready to talk before I pause my physics editing to give him my full attention.
“Three trucks today, and Sam scheduled off so Abby and I had to unload and restock ourselves.” He has taken a part time job as the dairy man at a local specialty market to help pad our savings as we contemplate an interstate move in the near future. It’s hard on his body and it is not without its frustrations, but the hours are good and we are taking full advantage of the employee discount. Until something better comes along, he is making it work. I am deeply appreciative of the extra income, as it makes us that much closer to making our dreams a reality.
Spotify plays in the background and Coldplay’s “Something Just Like This” takes its turn in the shuffle.
“I had to return an octopus to the seafood department that somebody dumped in the dairy today. That was a new one.” I love when he tells me what he finds people have ditched. It makes me wonder what sparked the sudden divorce from a great dinner idea to dropping it all by the time they get to the other end of the store.
After meditating in the morning, my day at home was spent editing physics, engineering, and law. Sometimes I have a tidbit to share that I have picked up from an article, but mostly I just say “work was good. I have to finish up after dinner. What’s for dinner again?” I could’ve looked it up on our menu app before he got home, but he sometimes has lightning strikes of inspiration and will switch things around at the last minute. Tonight we are having honey garlic cod with Parmesan couscous and maple glazed carrots for the side. The last chorus of Coldplay fades and the words repeat in my head,
Where’d you wanna go?
How much you wanna risk?
I’m not lookin’ for somebody
With some superhuman gifts
Some superhero
Some fairy-tale bliss
Just something I can turn to
Somebody I can kiss
I want something just like this
His immediate presence calms me as he is my touchstone on this earthly plane. At a time when I explore dimensions in my brain through mindful meditation sessions, he reminds me that in this place and time there is only this one dimension that matters. I have a deep abiding love for the man who doesn’t have superhuman gifts, but who helps ground me so that I can explore the possibility of my own.
He raises himself out of the recliner and goes to the kitchen to start dinner. I hear him hum as the fish sizzles in the iron skillet. A slow smile settles across my lips. Turns out, I want something just like this.
What happens when you find your true love at 36 and he just happens to be a movie critic? All that you thought you knew about movies goes by the wayside and a new world opens up to you. I thought I was pretty well versed in the film universe, but as The Mayor pointed out to me, I had some major gaps. He got the brilliant idea for each of us to come up with five films that the other had not seen and we would learn more about each other through our choices. I was ready at the get go for this challenge…the only stipulation was he couldn’t make me sit through a horror film. Thankfully none of those ranked on his list of five, so off we went. (For his review of my five movies, and you know you want to know what I picked, click here…) Continue reading
I’ve been gone. For 9 long months. You’d think I could have done something productive with such an extended period of time away…something like conceiving and growing and eventually producing an infant—but I’ve done that before. Maybe writing a full-length screenplay, or finally shopping my children’s books that need a publishing home? Nope. Sad to say I was simply uninspired. I had plenty going on to write about, including the beginning and end of another relationship, watching each of my children jump a year in age, the beginning of what I am hoping will be my final intimate relationship, as I have found someone who inspires my soul yet keeps me grounded…. Oh, yes, there was plenty of fodder on which to write. But I lost my way in editing land and am only recently finding my way out.
It’s time. My friends say it’s time. My love says it’s time. My doctor even told me to write for ten minutes each morning in order to get my rhythm back. So I figured the best way to use my 10 minutes is to start with the tried and true Seven Sentences for Sunday.
Seven Sentences for Sunday: The Terror Strikes Again Edition
1. When it has been a while, forming an idea for a post is a bit like sex with a new love. All it takes is a bit of a connection, a raised eyebrow, or a half-smile, and suddenly the emotion takes over. You find yourself immersed in the experience, grasping at threads, and excited about the possibilities.
2. There’s also the terror that comes from the dichotomous struggle of worrying that you won’t be able to replicate the experience, or that you’ll fall so head over heels in love that you can’t possibly imagine your life without your lover or your writing. Both are equally terrifying.
3. Once I have written something….no matter how small…I begin to find inspiration in everything. I think this is true whenever you are doing something positive for the world—acts of kindness, peace, love, and yes, creativity, beget the same.
4. I have two writing challenges, one from my boyfriend and one from my sister, that have been set before me. I think I write best when a challenge is presented.
5. I had forgotten how seemingly easy but practically difficult it is to write 7 coherent sentences….maybe that’s a reason I stayed away so long.
6. And yet, I have already begun to think about next Sunday’s SSFS. I’m an enigma.
7. I hate horror movies. I steer far clear of haunted houses. However, when it comes to matters of the heart, I go for the thrill. I put my writing out there in the awareness that criticism could tear it to shreds. I hand the essence of my being over to my love, trusting him to hold it dear, but with the niggling fear that he has the power to crush it. That, I believe, is scarier than any John Carpenter or Wes Craven flick out there.
I love you all, some more than others.
A few weeks ago when I was visiting my sister in L.A., I visited her MOPS group. Along with their monthly teaching, they also did a craft project where they decorated mugs with things that they were thankful for that you might not necessarily be thankful for in the moment. With that in mind, here is my list of my oddly thankful things.
I love you all, some more than others.
Destiny! Manifested 