On this Rainy Day in...not May.

February 21, 2014

After this short announcement, enjoy my latest story. It's true, my blog died a quick painless death. But I think I have found a way to do what I intended from the start in the post called My Life is a Map, or something like that. Regardless, while trying to maintain my composure as I "cooked" breakfast at five something in the afternoon (tried to warm ham and cheese on an english muffin in the toaster oven and burned attempt one) a story flashed into my mind from ?where. It's unedited but I need to feel productive after showering and dressing for no particular reason so late in the day when my dirty pj's that I don't sleep in, would have done just fine for another week...yup, my heads all messed up, so here you go!

The Rain

I love the rain! It’s why I ultimately chose this place for us. I adore the sound of the drops or droves against the tin roof. By this time next week Aidan will be living here full time. We have only his couch left to move in and the small antique Victorian table that I teased him about so much. It was affectionate teasing. It had been his grandmother’s and he swore to me in a declaration of love the first night we made love, that until me, she had been the love of his life. I smiled thinking of that night. I always would.

But before I got lost in my thoughts of that night, again, I stretched and thought about my day. Aida was probably getting up just about now also, thinking him self lucky to be away from me. He knows if he were here, I would be tickling him, telling him we had time to go out and play in the rain before work. And if that didn’t work, I would entice him to shower with me so I could pretend and we could kill two birds with one stone.

But he had spent his final night in his apartment. I’d had girl’s night on this side of town last night, a year’s long tradition with three college roommates, and he had an interview around the corner from his soon to be old rental, this morning.

“I know!” When he’s not here I talk out loud to myself an awful lot, I thought. “I’ll take him coffee and walk him to the interview. He is always prompt. I can at least sneak in a good morning kiss if I time it right. And he will love the surprise. He knows I am working at home today, so he will never expect it.”

I hopped in the shower and really wished he were here to soap up with, but that would surely make him late for the interview. I just could not get enough of him lately. I found it hard to keep my hands off him, anywhere we went. Given my choice, I would have stayed in bed with him for a week, for his amazing radiating heat, his warm and loving caresses and the sex… “Oh, don’t think about the sex Rainey, you’ll make yourself late!”

I speed dressed, put on make-up and realized it was one of those uncannily lucky good- hair days. He would be so happy to see me. And a kiss would sustain me. After the interview he would go to work. He wasn’t even considering changing jobs, he just felt it was good job security for your boss to know you always had a fall back plan.

I grabbed the one train uptown, grabbed two coffees at his favorite corner Café and stepped out the door just in time to see him walking far down the next block, right towards me. He was wearing a coat with a hood. My hair was curly and looked great wet. He would tell me I was going to catch cold.

Wow, he was really head-down, lost in his thoughts, but I could swear I could see the blond highlights in his light brown hair. And I knew his blue-green eyes, with those impossibly long lashes, better than my own. I loved the high cheeked structure of his soft face. And suddenly I couldn’t wait to kiss him.

I turned to look at the light realizing he would cross to right where I was standing so I just stepped towards the walk sign and watched. He looked over at the little boy crossing a few yards ahead of him, pulling on his Mom’s arm splashing in the puddles. And as they started to cross, the little boys hand slipped from his Mom and he fell in the street.

The truck moving the same way through the intersection overcompensated and braked so hard he moved out of his lane and swung into the side street behind them to avoid hitting the little boy. Aidan and I locked eyes, I know both thinking how close of a call that had just been. He smiled at me and then the cab behind the truck decided if the truck could turn it must be all clear. It wasn’t.

Aidan never knew what hit him. By the time I made the five steps into the street to reach him he was gone. Nothing. No pulse, no “help me Rainey, it hurts!” Nothing. Just a dead still body. His beautiful alive face and body. My beautiful Aiden. But the doctor was telling me otherwise. He had crossed right behind Aidan, and only missed being hit by inches. “Sweetheart, he’s gone.” There was no pulse but I kept feeling for it, and made the doctor do compressions while I tried to breathe life into the love of my life.

I was sitting in a puddle of coffee, street muck, and rain pooling towards the gutter. The doctor kept telling me to let him help me to the curb. EMS was on the way. “Why?” I didn’t understand. Aidan had just smiled at me. I wanted my kiss good morning. Suddenly I realized I was laying draped across Aidan, our coffee a puddle under his head on one side, and my right hand, on his other side running through his beautiful warm blood, mixing with the rain and the filth of the street, before trickling down the storm drain.

I don’t like the rain anymore.

Counting words.

My self esteem might never be considered my strong suit! It eats away at me constantly. I want to be a confident woman. It is fun and healthy; it does your heart good. Confidence is sexy. I’m not always so sexy.

I do have areas of my life in which I am more secure, and I do try to utilize them well. Earlier this week, I had a moment of self-assuredness while I was perusing my Facebook news feed.

A multi-published author, someone I follow, but haven't read yet, was using her word count goals and progress as her status. She wasn’t bragging, she challenged herself and reported back on her accomplishments. Oh, wow, look, Monica posted her word count, too. Whoa, the disparity between their goals makes my head spin! One writer aimed for 10,000 words, another 2,000. I immediately needed to know who was right and who was wrong? I was raised Catholic. There are only two choices. No grey areas are encouraged.

I was on a mission. I set out to determine which author was doing a better job. I considered that I was completely unaware of my own personal word count production. When writing, I have always been able to produce, often more than time allows. As yet, I have been a complete stranger to writer’s block. I couldn't imagine that ‘my numbers’ would be consistent. I did suspect that my daily word counts were healthy, robust even.

In my quest to learn more, as I am focused on the ultimate goal of publication, I decided I was just going to have to talk to someone about this. I quickly opened a chat with my friend. She was the one with, what I believed was a very conservative goal. “How’s the writing? Small goal for today?”

“Not for me. Two thousand is double my norm!”

“Really? I think I tend to write more. Do you limit yourself or is this what feels right for you?”

So much of context can get lost typing, but I had confidence in our online friendship. I was sure she would understand that I was asking from a place of genuine curiosity, not judgment. After all, who am I to judge? She is published, many times over, and she knows I admire her work, with an awe, that defies definition.

I throw another few lines in before she responds. I had wanted to talk to her earlier but got distracted.

“Oh, BTW Monica, I just finished ‘Pax’, I liked it even more than the ‘Priest’. Will I like ‘Prince’ as much?”

Between reading Monica’s books, I require a pause. I need to stew on them, try to imagine where in her wildest dreams she cooks up her stories. If you consider reading Monica, all of her books are available on e-format, http://www.amazon.com/Monica-La-Porta/e/B007DZFP8W. They are a new age bargain. I sometimes miss the smell of new pages, but nothing else is absent from these stories, so I forget quickly. I momentarily consider the merits of e-publishing, but perhaps that is another blog…and another area of Monica’s seemingly endless expertise (My confidence takes a tiny hit, but I must press on.)

While I await a response about her daily word counts, I open another window and go to Amazon to open her children’s book, The Prince’s Day Out. I loved this story the moment I first saw it. It tackles what could be seen as a disability but explores the beauty of supposed limitations. I was and remain, infatuated with the sweet characters.

           

But the drawings…I am obsessed with Monica’s original art! I laugh to myself wondering if she knows that I am serious, when I tell her I would like to purchase originals of the color plates, to hang in a future dream kitchen. And then the art gets me. It clobbers me over the head with my greatest fear. I was absent the day God handed out artistic talents. I also fear my parochial schooling may have stunted my own creative growth potential. But I was saved by a response.

“I struggle for every word. I labor over my words. So glad you are enjoying the series. I hope you will love Prince. I think it is my favorite so far.” I laugh again, remembering my original confusion between the third book in her dystopian trilogy (in four parts…ask her, don’t shoot the messenger!) and the children’s book. Both feature a character named Prince.

I am encouraged that I have good reading for the weekend ahead, but I am stuck on this word count thing, so return to it. I think I understand her concept of laboring over words. Writing, something publishable, is a responsibility. It’s like having a baby and raising the child well. You can’t simply rejoice in the birth. You need to bring your baby gracefully along into each phase of their life.

I reassure myself that she is secure in my opinion of her. She is brilliant. We have spoken of my fascination at her creativity, many times before. Her writing stands on its own, but she also draws, paints, sculpts, and cooks…just to make a short list. I wither thinking of how small I am next to her seemingly boundless creativity.

But...I was shocked by her reply. Really? She struggles, and takes time with every word? Okay, this was not helping. Monica is bi-lingual, not writing in her native language. She should get credit for that, which would, clearly double her word count! It made me think, which is always good for me. Idle hands (or minds) are the devils tools.

I am lost in thought, for much of the night. Writers, authors, do clearly place a premium on their daily word count. It is part of the discipline of writing…to be honorable in your craft. “Write every day!” It’s advice given time and time again by successful authors.

And yet, my Facebook friends’ varying word counts haunt me. I’ve procrastinated on this, long enough. I am forced to analyze my own writing. I start crunching numbers. Is that possible? I write between ten and twenty thousand words a day! I check my math. I type well, by touch. I’m not a professional typist, but I can crank it out! And I have stamina (though sometimes my ankles swell after hours in the computer chair.)

I pace the floor computing in my head. Thirty words per minute times sixty minutes per hour equals eighteen hundred words. I can cram in as much as twelve hours a day, some days. But that would include stretch breaks, potty breaks, and getting up for drinks and an occasional yogurt. I don’t eat much when I am into a story. So let’s say eighteen hundred times ten hours. That would equal eighteen thousand words a day.

Huh! I do a quick check. I have a story just about that length. I did indeed crank it out in one writing session, albeit a very full day. Okay! I write fast! Cool. The next day, I log on and re-open the chat.

“Morning, Monica. Did you make your word count yesterday? And hey, are you editing as you write?”

I was re-thinking my methodology. I do what I call brain-dumping. An idea starts and I let it take me where it will. I tend to sit in one main character and interact with the other. Sometimes I surprise myself. I am not my character for long. She always manages to establish a mind of her own. And the others, the ones I am not residing in…they take flight and carry me along, an innocent observer.

I worry. If I stop, before a story is done, will my characters fade? I rush to put their journey on the page as it is evolving in my brain. It makes for high word counts. It also makes for a messy house, a decided lack of meals, and a lazy dog. While I write, Shadow sleeps. And the quality of my story? Well, the bones are there.

Ah, but my editing…now that is another story. A long painful one!

This week I spent as many hours a day as possible taking a short story I had written weeks ago, and trying to cut it down to under 2000 words. It remains at 3600+ words. Of course, complete self editing is futile and unwise. But it is a part of the process, one I have yet to master, apparently.

The need to absorb myself in my current, work in progress, grips me. (That would be my WIP! Yup, Picked that up on Facebook, too!) So, while my friend exerts a tremendous effort to bring perfect words to the page, to honor her characters and the integrity of her story, I reconsider the “accomplishment” of a hefty daily word count. I had almost been proud of myself, confident for a moment. It never lasts. 

NOTE: Haven't gotten enough of Monica? Check out her blog to brighten your day. It is full of art, musings, interviews, and, if you really dig, some incredible recipes. http://monicalaporta.com/. Enjoy!

Oatmeal and other culinary challenges!

I write as steel cut oats are simmering on the stove. I need a healthy start after a slight step off the path to nutritional nirvana last night. It was a holiday, the first my son planned and implemented in our house. I had to participate. I had issued the challenge for him to make Father’s Day perfect. So he capped off the night with Cold Stone Ice Cream for all, and an episode of Doctor Who, for Dad’s entertainment and my enjoyment.

“Well, if I have to cook, I am going to multi-task. Should I work on my next blog?” Of course I asked out loud! How else would Shadow know what I was thinking?

I also answered out loud, announcing my decision to take just a short writing sprint, while the oats cooked. “Really Peg? A short writing session? Isn’t that one of those phrases like “sort of pregnant” or “a little dead”? No response.

Needless to say, a blog is done, but I have burned my steel cut oats. As I stand trying to scrape the crunchy bits off my husbands prized Calphalon sauce pot, I wonder if I have sunk to the ultimate culinary low. No, I remember. I feel better. I have a proud tradition to uphold.

My mother was hospitalized. Another one of those girly surgeries, looming ahead…you know, the ones that made her unable to conceive, according to her doctor. To that doctor’s sheer mortification, and delight, Dad was now home with five hungry kids.

“Oatmeal. No one can ruin oatmeal.” He declared to our delight. “Simple. Five kids, five cups of water and oats.” My dad was a renaissance man, but he had not yet dipped his toe in the culinary pond. He was ‘the provider’ still at this point. He brought home plenty of bacon, but he had yet to ‘fry it up in a pan.’ The water came to a boil.

“Wow, I have this down. Why does Whiz complain about cooking all the time? This is so easy.” I guess talking to myself is a genetic trait! He stirred in the oats, slowly, because it was five cups and he only found the one cup measure.

“Huh, looks a little thick. More water?” This time he was genuinely asking. He was asking children ranged age one (me) to age 9.

Georgie, and Mary's Ann, Louise,
Elizabeth and Margaret...

We shrugged our shoulders. We were weak with hunger and couldn’t speak! So he added water. And naturally, a little water did nothing for five cups of oats. He continued to add more water. After a torturous half hour he was still adjusting the quantities. And to think the box read 'instant oats'! No one pointed that out.

The pot was full. Dad was confident, and intent on producing a worthy meal for his son and first four daughters.

“Oops, we need a bigger pot!”

He switched up one size. Not quite a spaghetti sauce size, but bigger than the first. It didn’t work. The oatmeal continued to thicken.

“Perfect, just one more switch and we are good.” 

Our eyes rolled back in our heads. Nothing was. Perfect. We were not even good. He was not good. That third pot, the big one…the one you only used for sauce, was brimming. He got another pot and did a half and half arrangement. This is where he gets credit for effort. It was a slight improvement, and that was when Dad had a stroke of genius.

He had observed that if you thin the oatmeal and turn off the heat very quickly (he couldn’t leave the first pot boiling while he was getting the second pot, or third or now fourth), it will stop drying out.He adjusted the portions one last time...too much thinning caused him to add a few more dry oats. The battle continued until the perfect consistency was achieved.

His moment had arrived. He felt he had it just right; he turned off both large pots. He left them on the hot burners, which proceeded to crust up the pots for later cleaning, but that was much later. Such a small issue compared to feeding us.

           

We were all served an oatmeal-y-glue-like bowl of something that resembled Mom’s oats, but not really. It was a suitable breakfast. And there were leftovers…a lot of leftovers. It was still good that day for lunch, and a dinner. The next day, breakfast was quick and easy. Add a glob of food to a hot pot, thin it out.

“Oatmeal, “vee o lah”! (Note: I only learned last year the word was voilà! Dad never said it right. The voice and hand gestures were decidedly French, though, surely enhancing the taste of the meal.)

Peg (Mary Margaret), weak with
hunger in her baby chair~

By lunch the second day, oatmeal was getting old, even for me, still sleeping in a now deemed illegal rolling baby seat. At least I had a dry diaper, thanks to my 9, 7, 6, and 4 year old siblings. They taught Dad to do a passable job. Men just did not change diapers back then. Dad was a ground breaker in the male populated domestic arena for sure.

By day five, Mom was doing fine. But the oatmeal had run its course. Oh no, we weren’t out of it! It was just starting to accumulate a rather pretty green fuzz Dad had to peel back every time he needed to dig into the well of plenty.

Someone had the good sense to complain. I’m guessing Louie. It was growing harder and harder to thin the stuff. And we were all operating with baby teeth. We were now enjoying Owen’s Oatmeal Nuggets. I’ll bet good money that Ray Kroc would have paid even better money for that patent!

By dinner, there was a solid mass. Undeterred, never defeated, my father the eternal optimist was once again struck with an idea of epic significance. He over turned the pot onto a plate. It was a serving platter, rectangular.

           

I think there may have been a few dishes left to put away. Dad knew how to do dishes and so did George, Annie and Louie. Mom ran a tight ship. Her kids were not slackers. So the oatmeal, now ensconced on its platter settled into…a shape…a rectangle, to be precise.

And thus, Oatmeal Loaf was born. Dad sliced us all a healthy portion and we decorated it with maple syrup faces. It was so much better this way! NOT. But it was more fun, and we were temporarily distracted. We looked forward to lunch, and Dad, emboldened by his success was tackling spaghetti for dinner. Make that spaghetti, with a monkey dish of oatmeal as an appetizer.

           

When dinner arrived, the oatmeal starter was stirred around and ignored. Looking the other way, Dad presented, with the smile of a Cheshire Cat, Owen’s Spaghetti Dome. His audience of five looked on, curious. I blame Annie and George for forgetting to tell him about the salt, the oil in the water, and how quickly pasta dries, like a fish out of water.

           

Pie slice of “dome”, defrosted sauce, Parmesan, and a big round of grace were had for dinner. We had so much to be thankful for…Mom was coming home tomorrow.

"So honestly, Peg…it’s only one little pot of oats with a little crust on the bottom!" 

I was writing. I got distracted. Which is a good thing, as the self-proclaimed queen of all things household would say! Now I have lunch, and breakfast for tomorrow. But tonight, I have a hankering for something else for dinner. It's beginning to look a lot like Spaghetti Dome.

My life is a map.

          I was brainstorming marketing ideas with an author friend this weekend, at another friends, book signing event (see links below)! And I realized that for me, the ultimate marketing appeal of my published works is location. (Okay, so they are published only in my mind, but they are doing quite well there and on my imaginary NYTimes, best seller list, as well!) I have been alot of places, and each has left an indelible imprint on my heart (some on my body!).  These places have become the core of me.
          So while I was admittedly slacking off from writing this weekend, when I was determined to be blogging, I made a decision. I already knew my current blogs were too long. So this one is short and sweet, like me (HA! Might want to check that sweet part via the people who live with me).
          A map to follow...the map of my heart, my life, my mind. In the mean time, read something that is not in my mind if you like!

http://www.readsuki.com/
or anything and everything at:
http://www.javierrobayoauthor.com/home.html

Coming out of my shell.

            “So, Sully, what should I blog about this week?”

            “Well, what is your Blog about, Mom?” Ouch. Damn this kid just can’t throw me a bone. 
            “Good question?” I make a childish face at him, he doesn’t bother to look up to see. 

            “You don’t even know? Fine. From what I have read, I think anything in your life is fair game.” 
            “Okay, then, Brilliant, what aspect of my stunning life should I blog about?” My life? Really? He knows that is too broad. And I know there are a lot of things he would prefer I not put in print. I may have him, here. 
            “I don’t know.” He looks up realizing it's in his best interest to indulge me, for half a second. “Your furry little friends…Shadow, Fuzzy.”

            He was multitasking. My son is the great multi-tasker of life! I asked this of him, while he was watching TV, “playing” Minecraft on PC, pondering his summer plans, actively avoiding a few chores, addressing incoming texts…wow, he is good. Was I ever that efficient? Yes. But it was oh so long ago. Now-a-days…I tend to hide out in my own shell.

            “Fuzzy isn’t one of my furry friends!” I realize out loud, while considering his recommendation.

            “Fine. But you love him anyway.” He smiles.

            True. I love my inherited Russian tortoise. And so does Sully. And so does Paul. Though Paul will go to his grave insisting that ‘the turtle’ is cute, but he does NOT love him. Whatever! No! Not whatever…sorry, you don’t get off that easy, my sweet husband. “So, why did you save the beet tops for him, Paul?”

            “He needs to eat.”

            “But romaine is fine. Why did you decide we needed to have rainbow chard this week?”

            “I like greens. They are healthy!”

            “Okay, but really, dude? You are cultivating dandelions in the back yard. The rest of the neighborhood, and ten generations before them, are battling them like a major pandemic!”

            He just shrugs. No answer.

 BEWARE: He's not your childhood 'tortoise and the hare!'

            Okay, fine. Paul does not love our turtle! And as long as no one puts weed killer on the lawn this summer we should all be fine. And that looks hopeful, since, as you can see, we have yet to tame the weeds! Fuzzy loves his dandelions…and the invasive morning glory that seems to complete the greening of our much neglected back yard.    

            So, while I will accept it, I still don’t understand how Paul can fail to love him. Who could resist his adorable personality? He is kind of a cool pet! And I will go on the record, proudly. I love Fuzzy.

            He is so low maintenance. In fact, if it weren’t for having to occasionally clean his habitat, he would truly be a perfect ‘Care Free’ companion! But is food and water every other day or so, really much of a task? I think not. Especially since the housecleaning really can wait until the smell bothers us…which is a long time considering we are all ‘all stuffed up’. Probably allergic to the dog…but Shadow deserves her own blog!

             Even providing for Fuzzy in our will, because he will probably outlive all three of us, really doesn’t seem like such a big task anymore. Particularly now, that there is an heir apparent. Yeah, all pressure of having the turtle to care for, is off! This has worried me, since the day we found out he might live well into a second century. 

A tortoise's dilemma. Eat or play the hokey pokey!

                                                       

          But how did we come to have a turtle and who in their right mind names a turtle Fuzzy? Well, the guy who did that…will have ample time to explain it to his newly minted son, and Fuzzy’s eventual caregiver, Brooklyn. Let this serve as notice. It is written in our will, and here on my blog, therefore, it is true.

*******

     
       I was greeted with a smile and a hug, as I dropped my son off to an acting class. “Did you see him…” Sully’s coach/mentor excitedly asked?” Marc was grinning ear to ear. This was not just his normal high energy, conjured up for dealing with ten or twelve pre-teen girls and my son. He looked like he had just solved world peace, or provided food for a third world country...for all eternity.

            “Yeah, he is sweet, once you get past the smell of some funky looking bodily fluids soaking the newspaper. What are you going to do with him?” I asked raising my brows in an attempt to appear maternal, and slightly pejorative.

            “Take him home and clean him up?” Marc answered as if nothing else made sense. He knew I was demanding a solid answer.

            “Sorry, dude. You live in an apartment. You have to take the train home. You are never home for long. How about if we take him, rehabilitate him (he had tar stuck on his back foot and seemed a little dazed), and you can come with us to set him loose, back into the wild?”

            “Really? Great! His name is Fuzzy.”

            That was just the way things were with Marc! Who was I to question? He was a breath of fresh air, all young and hopeful, full of passion and chomping at the bit to be a part of the next international revolution. He was irresistible.

             In a mid-forties kind of way, I had a crush on him. Not really on him…though he was v-e-e-r-y handsome, and smart and funny. Okay! Maybe I had a little crush. But it was just because his deodorant was a bit of an aphrodisiac. Seriously, who can resist an Old Spice man, or his youthful exuberance? I was just missing my own, one of each, man and youth. So, being around him…reminded me…of life. And he smelled really great. But maybe I already mentioned that…

            Honestly, how can you not love a guy who names a turtle…a cold blooded reptile, with a hard shell…Fuzzy?

            Fuzzy came home with us. We put him out back in a Tucker Plastic’s Storage Container. It was clear (Which we later found to be a mistake. We have since made all of the mistakes!). We gave him grass, and water and immediately rushed in to ‘Google’ Turtles…We didn’t know he was a Russian Tortoise, yet.

            He was. It was undeniable. As was the fact that he was a male. (Of course we looked under his shell! No, not at that…the male’s tail curls!) But nothing else was discernible. We had no way of knowing how old he was, or what pond he had come from.

             After three days of strawberries, romaine and dandelions we ascertained that he had not, indeed, come from any pond. Russian Tortoises as a breed, hail from the Afghan desert. This cute little specimen, however, clearly came directly from a pet store, and some poor kid was probably missing him right now.

            He responded with voracious turtle gaiety to his food. He almost said thank you with his expressive, beady little eyes. And he got cold and sluggish at night. It was fall.  

            Back to Google, we went. We found out that Russian Tortoises will go into hibernation if left in the cold. This was not necessarily a good thing since in our climate that cycle would come and go, with each erratic weather change. We considered the possibilities. Since this guy was born in captivity, the conventional wisdom expressed that he probably would die from confusion, freezing and thawing, so to speak…the other option, artificial hibernation. 
           That other choice...leave him outdoors in summer, and artificially ‘hibernate him’ in the Salad Crisper over the winter? Oh, no, no, no! Not for our sweet little pet. (Besides our fridge is always crowded. Especially in winter when Fuzzy’s diet comes from purchased greens, rather than yard clippings!)

            Decision made! We go with option three. We devised a system of seasonal habitats. A large, baby pool condo in summer and an under-bed box with UVA/UVB light in the winter. He would be alive 12 months of the year. It works.

Shadow "Do I really have to turtle sit again?"

            This keeps him safe and well, alive. Which always beats the alternative. We learned that these cute little dudes are major escape artists, and far from the myth of 'the tortoise vs. the hare', they are quicker than snot. While changing his water, one day early on in turtle husbandry, Sully left him to roam in the back yard. When it was time to go back in his container, literally five minutes later, he was no where to be found.

            Sully and I literally cried a few tears, Paul was, admittedly, a little bummed. We were growing fond of the little dude. He was cute, the way he popped in and out of his shell at the sound of our voices. He was becoming a part of our family. Shadow even liked him. She would follow him around the back yard, only occasionally putting a 90 lb paw on his back, to let him know he was edging close to danger. Shadow is a herding dog. If only we had known that before Fuzzy got away!

            But as luck would have, about 36 hours later, my distraught kid, went on a mission to ask the neighbors if anyone had seen him. They had. Just an hour before, our next door neighbor, had rescued him from death by SUV a few houses down. He was crossing the road, so they grabbed him and put him in a container. I am forced to wonder if he will need therapy for his multiple container issues.

            Sully brought him home. We were downright jubilant! We treated him to a hibiscus flower. Yes, our house was now his home. He was a pet, a beloved family member, not some nameless pond turtle. I shudder to think what might have happened to him had we released him into the wild. This is a turtle who enjoys condo living, fresh fruits and veggies, and a conversation a day.

            He was used to us, now. We broke the news to Marc. There would be no wildlife release party! 

                                                                             *******

Fuzzy, DOB: 4/10/98, DOD @2113?

            We asked a friend with reptile expertise to take a look at him. “He’s a healthy turtle. I can only tell you he is over five, but my best guess is that he is well into the double digits, probably about twenty something. Russian Tortoises have no inclination towards illness other than ‘the common cold’. So short of a predator killing him, you should plan on having him for a nice long time. As long as his eyes and nose are clear, he is healthy.”

            Well that was simple. We chose April 10^th as his birthday and decided he was 21 years old. We celebrated with some dampened store bought tortoise pellets. He pigged out. He loved the mush. And an hour after ‘the party’ I saw a tortoise vomit for the first time!

            “Oh Fuzzy buddy, I am so sorry. I guess barfing is better than outgrowing your shell.” I patted his back until his little body was through heaving. Poor little thing…all the moisture had been sucked from the pellets and it looked like he was hacking up dry mouthfuls of lucky charms.

            We decided, that assuming he lived through his 22^nd year, we would stick to fresh greens from now on. As I soothed our little birthday boy, my husband pointed out that he probably didn’t hear me, considering that he had no ears.

            I snippily replied “Oh contraire, Mon Ami, he has no external ears! He feels vibrations, which is about all I can say for you or Sully. I think he listens better than either of you.” I was insulted that my nurturing spirit was being questioned. And besides I had picked up a book at Pet Supplies Plus and was now an expert in all things Tortoise.         

*******

            “But really, Peg...Fuzzy?” People still always ask.

            Okay! You may already know this about me…when life fails to make sense, I start making it make sense. I make things up. My daycare kids, and everyone else we talk about our little 'fuzz nugget' with, ask about his name, which they feel does not fit.

            Sort of judgmental, especially for the three year old's, don’t you think? The name works well enough for me. Even though I still have no clue why Marc chose it. Regardless, gifted justifier that I am, I reply confidently. “…because he makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside.”

            And he does. When I pat his shell and he bravely sticks his head out, despite the fact that I could be a cleaver wielding sociopath, I know we have a deeper connection. Fuzzy likes me. He recognizes my voice. He responds to my touch. He instantly awakens when one of us feeds him. 

           Truthfully, his burping and reverse gaseous emissions (we do not say that F word in this house!) are absolutely adorable. Have you ever heard a turtle pass gas?  

            Fuzzy entertains me. I don’t require much. And neither does he.

            And WE love him. (Just say yes, Paul). And as for me, he is just another reason I have to get out of bed in the morning. He depends on me to be fed, watered and exposed to UVA/UVB light. Nothing more, nothing less. So...on those days, and there are many, when I feel like burying my head in the sand, or holing up inside my own head...Fuzzy forces me to come out of my shell. 

*******Dear Anat and Marc, Congratulations on the arrival of Brooklyn, your beautiful little boy, the Fuzzy tortoise heir. Much love, Aunt Peg.

...in the end.

Warning: Long Bumpy Road Ahead. (This usually happens when I have gone missing from life for a period of time!)

            The good news…I am fine. The bad news…I am old (though a very young old). A little shoulder issue popped back up, and off I ran to my little corner of the universe. It’s true, there are times when I live my life in a social vacuum. This is not worrisome to anyone who knows me well. I am, in fact, nearly famous for being my own, favorite, best friend. I have always liked to spend time alone. It does both my body and mind good.

            But in some ways, it furthers my tendency to put my head in the sand. It certainly is not happenstance that my recent withdraw from the world, coincides with the Boston Marathon bombings. I don’t talk news, the way others don’t talk politics or religion. For me, it is a survival instinct, for my own emotional well being. I am too easily overwhelmed with others pain.

            When I realized this fully, a few years back, I decided the simple answer was to not expose myself to others pain, within reason. I stopped watching TV news, altogether. I noticed an immediate lightening of my heart. I cut out reading the daily paper. My days were less frenetic. I started just skimming the online news and not listening to the radio as much. My friendships blossomed.

            And although I am still aware of the cataclysmic events that occur in life, I don’t internalize them as much. Not as easy to do when the hurts are more personal and the people you care about hurt. Sometimes, putting your head in the sand…it works. Other times, not so much.

            I think that is what I want to talk about today. I suddenly see my actions, not so much as social irresponsibility, but as personal choice…part of the crap shoot of life. As a result of my behaviors, I have learned a little about my own personal limits. Repeated exposure to domestic and international wrongdoings, shortcomings and intentional offenses make me weak. Skimming the surface keeps me whole. And it gives me more energy to deal with things that hurt on a more personal level, the things I won’t shut out.

           

            As I am thinking this, I am trying to find some inspiration for a friend who I am sure would treasure the luxury of putting his head in the sand. He can’t. And although he is a brilliant man, talented and fun, and generous beyond belief, life is taking a major dump in his steel cut oats (Wheaties are so yesterday!).

            I am hoping he will see the humor in my understatement, because, honestly, laughter is all that is left sometimes. Laughter and hope…

            Realistically, life is being actively cruel to my friend, and that is not funny. This is a man who takes responsibility for where he comes up short. But he didn’t come up short in this case. Life did. Events beyond his control shook his core, and on a personal level, (and so many other levels) left him feeling more than defeated. How does anyone deal with that?

            I can imagine that the way he is feeling is not completely unlike the way I have felt at times in my life. For me, those big catastrophes just help me keep my own crap in perspective. It helps me look at my life as if I were on the outside, looking in.

            The big things appear impossible to fathom, unthinkable even, to believe that some single event can happen and turn a person’s life on a dime. It carries profound sadness, and incredibly, sometimes an overly punishing self examination. It is overwhelming and all consuming. It hurts…it quiets your laughter and squashes your hope.

           

            Personal stuff, small in terms of the universe, but tremendous in our daily life, works the same way. And I think the only way to balance this and push forward is to remember, there are even larger scale calamities than your own. Pain and suffering are everywhere. But despite life’s cruelty, there is hope. It is fleeting, irregular and difficult to grasp. And it is cyclical, but that is the greatest source of hope, for me, in a convoluted, sort of “And this too shall pass…” way.

            When life is falling apart, sometimes some good things sneak in anyway. I think the universe allows that to help us maintain a certain equilibrium.

            Knowing of the little things that sneak in, and the passage of time, mixed with the phase you feel stuck in, helps you to remember to have hope. Even if it is the hope that while the bad will become good at some point, unfortunately, the opposite is also true.     But once you know it, you can ride those waves, without going under every single time. I want my friend to visualize the hope lying out there, trying to make its way to shore. It is slow in coming, but it does eventually get there…just like that white cap you set your eyes on, and watch, slowly, almost painfully, wash up to shore, but only if you are very  patient. ‘Cause it is always further out than you initially realize.

            Yes, you need to participate to make things better in your life. But you also need great patience and hope. And laughter always helps, even if the laugh is a half-hearted chuckle, or a sardonic giggle.

           

            If I could I would give my friend a hug, and distract him with a pep talk. I would say “My friend, times will become good again! I believe it with all my heart. And I know it from experience. I have years beyond you, that have proven it to me, over and over again. And I happen to know, that too many people care, to ever let you fall beyond your ability to get up.”

            I would reassure him. I would show him what I see. “You work hard. You have already conquered seemingly insurmountable tasks. Life knows you can take it even though inside you have doubts and simply pray for a reprieve. You will handle all that this incredibly mysterious life throws at you. Yu have done it before and you will do it this time, too.”

            I would breath. I would remind him to breath. And I would continue.

            “Though on a daily basis, you may be focused on the insufficient balance in your checkbook, your mind is always working, and one day, you will find a way to tip the balance. All your struggles have not been in vain. Life is cyclical. Your cycle will return to a positive place, regardless of your beliefs.”

            If he hasn’t killed me yet, for being too Pollyanna-ish, I would load on more platitudes…because I believe them. “All you have worked for and accomplished in life, will one day be apparent to you, again. I know this much to be true, from my own very ego centric life, and from the world.”

           

            He would probably think I am full of S$*t. But something might stick or click, or remind him that hope has helped in the past.

            It’s Mother’s Day. My son is home from college. The dog and turtle happily exist seemingly for my pleasure, and my boys (father and son) are sleeping in. I have a hot cup of coffee, and plenty to read and write today. All is right in my world. Of course I have some worries, but I can push them aside today. But it was not always this way.

           

            I think back to when I was struggling, as a thirty something, single, pregnant woman. So many people helped me through, at that time. I honestly am never sure I would have made it without the daily help from my oldest sister and brother in law. Together with their kids, my first niece and nephew, they emotionally “took me in”. And that is a gross understatement. They also gave me hope and joy and tons of laughter.

            My brother and his family, helped as well. His wife, who can appear aloof at times, was her very warmest then. Their kids distracted me from myself with more fun and joy, a preview into my future. So they made me laugh in measured spurts.

            Between them all, they made sure I ate right, took care of the details of my life (not always well), planned for the baby, simplified my expectations and helped me stay the scary course of being single, pregnant, and worried. I foolishly never worried about my baby. I knew I would move heaven and earth to make his life good. But I did wonder, endlessly, about how I would accomplish that.

            I stumbled a lot. I repeatedly made bad choices…due to lack of self confidence or simply being overwhelmed? It didn’t matter. I hit road blocks, and although what I wanted was within my grasp, sometimes I didn’t stretch far enough. And in more moments than I care to remember, I faltered by devaluing my own self worth. It was a huge miscalculation. But it was my reality at that time.

            Luckily I had another sister (three more actually, and though the other two offered less tangible support, it was all support!). But the third sister also had a child. She stepped in, and in one fell swoop, outfitted my son for the first seven years of life. She handed me down her son’s furniture, clothing, carriers, even bottles and dishes.

            None of the things she gave me were new, though much of it looked as if it were, because she took great care with her son’s things. Still, amidst all my other worries, I wondered if I was cheating my son, by giving him a life of hand me downs. I knew what that felt like as the fifth of six kids.

            Luckily, I realized that “handed down” had history. And I began to see it as good karma. My nephew was healthy and happy. Those good vibes were attached to everything he had used before my son. And that suggested to me that my son would share his cousin’s good karma.

           

            After all, there are worse things in life than hand me downs. I lived through my Barbie dolls having lost limbs before I got them handed down from Annie, Louie and Beth. And I think Joni, benefited from the tube tops and mini-skirts I knitted for them, since their cloths were long since gone.

            I don’t suffer from having used naked, broken crayons (whose paper covers told the real name); it made me use my imagination to match them names from the color words I knew. I wrapped them in white paper and labeled them myself.

            It wasn’t all great. I hated hand me down uniform blouses, with their sweet, girlie peter pan collars and yellow “pitted out” underarms, from repetitive use. But I learned that the first one up was the best one dressed. I set my alarm early enough to try to score a pair of green knee socks that would stay up around my knees. (Were those few minutes of sleep sacrificed worth the freedom, to not have to put rubber bands around the socks, cutting off my circulation for at lease eight hours? Yes, I still laugh when I think about how I learned of the myriad trade offs life requires.)

            Sometimes my patience was stretched farther than the rubber bands, but it was a character building exercise. And in the overall scheme of my life, those memories are relegated to reminiscing about surviving a large family. I might (read definitely) have done better as an only child, but I lived through what life handed me, and I have good memories of us all bickering. I can hear Mom telling us to ‘simmer down’, or she was going to come up with the dreaded paint paddle!

            Yes, my parents beat us horribly. Someone call Dr. Spock and CPS, immediately! Oops, too late…and somehow I have lived to tell the tale. And actually, I don’t ever remember actually getting ‘the stick’. Someone always managed to crack Mom or Dad up (dramatic much, Beth?) until they were laughing so hard they couldn’t follow through on the threat to paddle our rumps! And we spent endless hour when they were out of the house, finding places to hide it.

            So, with these realizations that I survived my own childhood, I headed into my son’s life thinking we might make it. I had my family behind me, and the incredible warmth and generosity of friends…how could we fail? It wouldn’t be easy, but yeah, my little boy and I were off to a good start! And then I blinked…and now he is a young man.

            So much happened while I was blinking. My little Sully and I fell in love with an incredible man, Paul. We married and became a family…legal in every way…real in every way. And loving each other is never an issue.

            But it wasn’t always that way. I had a lot of doubts. Early on, I tried my damnedest to chase Paul away. When I look back, I realize that being a single mother was challenging, but I kinda liked it!

            Did I really want a traditional (sort of) family? Was I willing to share my son? Did I really think I could hack the whole monogamy thing? Loving Paul was easy. But was loving only him, even going to be possible? And I already had a big family…did I really want to make it bigger? A father or husband was not mandatory in my little universe.

            Sure he was handsome and smarter than crap…Okay, he was fun, funny, and he and my kid became the next best thing to salmon and lox. Really? My Mom and Dad love him…and my siblings are fascinated with him! And his family…his parent’s, they’re like hitting the in-law jackpot! And he cooks.

            Well that made me stop and think. He cooks really well. And I did always want to marry a bi-lingual man, ‘if I did ever get married’. He speaks Long Island! So, it’s just a variation on English…but it’s better than nothing!

            Yup. We married him. We are completely and totally in love with him. He is a wonderful father, an amazing provider. He brings us joy, and hope and so much laughter. And life is perfect.

            REWIND! Did I really just say that? Clearly that was a mistake. Our life is full of struggles. And we disagree about a lot of things. And he is good at things that I am not so good at. And that pisses me off. And I have a few qualities up my sleeve that get his goat. We’re really kind of out of control most of the time.

              

            But I wondered…was Paul the good, peeking through the bad? Or was he just going to be a source of more trails and struggles. It didn’t matter. Life just evolved. Once I fell in love with him, it was sort of written.

            So, I was doing things backwards! No one really seemed to care…except me. Feeling a need to make order of my chaotic life, I used to tell my son “First God gave me Kvichak (my puppy) to teach me how to care for another living being. And when I was good at that, he sent you to me, so you could teach me how to love and take care of a person. And you did teach me! So God gave us Daddy.”

            It seemed contrived, yet it made a lot of sense to me and my sweet three year old. Sometimes I just need to have things make sense. So I make them up, and a lot of the time, it works.

           

            How does any of this relate to my friend? It’s just evidence that in my experience, life is all ups and downs…this crazy life we are all negotiating. Some of it is of our own doing, some of it isn’t. But in the end, it is all ours to deal with. And it is important at the most trying times to appreciate that even though things suck…there is still something good going on, to hold on to…And if you can’t see it, you can just hope for it, soak in the little joys, and laugh your way through it.

           

            At one point, just shortly before Paul came into our lives, when my son was still very young, I was talking to my parents about the struggles I was going through. I asked them how they had managed. They were younger when they started their family, and they had six of us. They smiled at each other and laughed.
            “Oh, Peg. It is easy for you to forget. We had it easy. You kids just seemed to understand our limits.”

            “But it never felt like there were any, Mom? We had good food, a really nice home…there were always incredible presents…”

            “We’re glad you see it that way, and although you guys were a joy, life was not always one. A lot of tears were shed.” Mom looked at Dad. “O (short for Owen), remember how we used to pay the bills?”

            He smiled and took over the story. “Every month, we sat down together and went through the bills, and wrote out every check as if we had the intention of paying. The only problem was we didn’t have the money to pay them all when they were due.”

            I stared at my Dad, in disbelief. This was the man who had taught me to live without debt, to save, to pay myself first, to budget…

            “So, when we were done, we took the stack, prioritized absolute necessities, then took what was leftover, and wrapped it in a loose rubber band.”

            Mom jumped in. “We took the banded envelopes with their payments included, to the bottom of the full flight of steps, in the house in West Chester. We took turns in alternate months, throwing the stack to the top. What landed up top became our first priority. What landed on the steps below…we sold our souls to pay off, slowly.”

            “Peg,” Dad added, “we knew there would be interest, and penalties, but we called every vendor or provider and told them ‘we can’t pay this month, but have full intention of honoring our debt.’ It wasn’t fun. It was more than humbling. But eventually, we made it.”

            “How?” I was dumbfounded.

            “We laughed a lot. We loved a lot. And we worked hard. And eventually we learned that we needed to save, even if we couldn’t afford it, because without that, we would never get ahead. We educated ourselves about finances. Before money came into the house, we made sure a portion was deducted to be saved, to insure our future. And the economy changed for the better for a time, and we became more confident, and we learned to live within our means. It’s never one thing, honey…Peg, sometimes you have to get creative!”

            “I knew we weren’t wealthy, but I never knew you struggled.”

            “We did!” Dad threw his arm around my shoulder. “And Slugger, it was worth every bit of scrimping and angst. And now…we look back and laugh. Well, we never stopped laughing, though sometimes it was through our tears. And there were disagreements and moods, but in the end, laughter always prevailed. We had six beautiful healthy children. That was a miracle. We were so exponentially blessed. What did we have to feel sad about?”

            I was awestruck. I assumed they would judge every mistake I had made. I assumed they had naturally, always been successful, and never made an unplanned move. I thought this was true of everyone except me. I was wrong.

            “No one goes through life unscathed, sweetie.” Mom smiled.

            ‘Unscathed’ had been Mom’s final crossword puzzle answer that morning. It was the word where she was forced to borrow Dad’s eraser.  When she went to pick it up, she couldn’t find it! They always shared one eraser, even though we had thousands in the house. One area we were never “poor” in was office supplies! (Another blog for another time!) So they were sharing a short squat little eraser top from a mechanical pencil, as always. “O, where is the eraser?”

            “I put it right in front of you, Whiz (Louise)!”

            They looked down at the spot where the eraser should have been…and there sat the pill Mom thought she had just swallowed. She spit the words out through gasps of laughter. “Oh, well, it’ll all work out in the end.”

            And like so many other days, some sad, some hopeful, a lot troubled, a few ultimately thankful, they laughed. Mom was a nurse. She had raised six children of her own. After all of that, a little pencil eraser wasn’t going to throw her. “Guess I won’t take any Metamucil today…” she giggled. “Metal and rubber have got to be high fiber.”

           

            So…I guess what I am trying to say, is, I learned that no matter how daunting life seems at any given moment, there is always hope. My parents were a study in hope. First they hoped for children. Second they hoped to be able to afford us. Their list of hopes went on.

            They hoped to protect us from the cruelties of life and they hoped to raise us to become strong, independent adults. They hoped we would have our own hope, to help in the trying times of our lives, when we would no doubt, face struggles similar to theirs. They always hoped, that they would continue to find hope.

            Hope and laughter…And by the time each of them left this earth, most, though by no means all, of their struggles were far behind them. Struggle is a constant in life. It is a sign that you are alive. And despite their hopes for their six kids, we have all had our own struggles. But none of us has given up hope.

            Mom and Dad never forgot their struggles. They taught us to be mindful. And they gave us hope...Hope and laughter, heavy on the laughter. Dad did so despite his worries. Mom was a little more laid back on the surface. She always reminded us, “It will all work out in the end.”

Thanks Mom. Happy Mother’s Day!

Thanks Sully, for making me a Mom.

Thanks Paul, for making me always strive to be a better Mom!

Happy Anniversary to all of us.

And now, its time to go laugh, and love, and live. And I hope…well, I hope a lot of things!