This is the second of twoquickposts in a row, neither of them are worth any more of your time than what I’ve put into them…which totals mere minutes…but today is a day I’d like to mark despite having to steal the time do it, and you never know, maybe you have a few minutes to spare.
I started my blog on March 30, 2012. So far, I am enjoying it immensely and as of today, I have organically grown exactly 400 hundred followers. I am not including facebook or twitter peeps – simply the people that I have, post byWordPresspost, managed to entice into my lair as magically as the Pied Piper. Okay – there’s been nothing magical about it. It’s all been blood,sweat and tears, nevertheless, I maintain that I’ve performed a miraculous miracle. At least, it feels that way to me.
So, to mark the occasion and include you in what I feel is something to celebrate, I’d like to send the very first person to bothlikeandcomment on this post, a book that USA Today refers to as; “A fascinating look at the evolution and redemption of one of the hardest-working storytellers today.”
Take it and….GO!
Relatives and employees of Hazy Shades of Me prohibited from winning. ;0)
It’s bucketing. If you can’t hear it, you should get your ears checked. I love the rain and sufficiently so, reside in a city where it rains…just a smidge. (sarcasm button gets a nudge here)
I find it inspiring in a “Hey – stay home, it’s dry” kind of way. The drizzling’s akin to the crack of a fire or the snap of fatty bacon and it spits, “Yeah – don’t go out, it’s wet.”
It tells me to ditch the dust and draw the drapes. The smatterings of spatterings spur me to instead open a book or clack those creative keys. It suggests I simmer a pot of steamy broth or a hearty stew. It begs, “create.”
But tonight, I head downtown into the wet and wild wonder.
I’ve hit a wall, so to speak and I don’t think it has anything to do with what I was trying to write about the other day. If I ever get it finished, you’ll see what I mean.
I started out formulating my usual post in my usual style, but then decided to try and get all fancy and metaphorical. Come to think of it, that’s supposed to be another one of my fortes, isn’t it?
It was about some daunting task I’d set out to tackle and had eventually achieved with great (and surprising) success. Boring, right? No wonder I couldn’t finish the post. I’m sure it’s why I haven’t written anything since. My attempts at bedazzling it fell short and I, in turn, fell silent.
The benefit of fancying yourself a writer is the freedom to turn mundane into miraculous. You’re empowered, enslaved and hopefully efficient in your craft but if you happen to be having a day where you’re wondering what the bejeezus happened to your superpowers, just enjoy the silence.
I rarely sleep through the night. I wake up every few hours and despite my mother living just two blocks away, she’s hardly willing to run over and lull me back to sleep. (She’ll say she is.)
This insomnia of sorts has been weaving its way in gently and gingerly over the past long while. So stealthily in fact, that when a friend asked me if I ever have trouble sleeping, my answer was this; “Oh definitely not! I sleep like a…Oh wait – yes actually, come to think of it, I do have trouble sleeping nowadays.”
Why I wake is hard to say. Too hot? Too cold? A pea under the mattress? Thirsty? Perhaps I’m an unknowing fan of unyielding yawns and lead-laden lids? Or maybe it’s simply the obvious – that cover-stealing, log-sawing, sheet-thrashing fellow sleeping next to me. Nah, that couldn’t be it. A merciful muddlement to those exacerbating eccentrics was gratefully gifted upon me years ago.
Enter, stage left. We’ve face-lifted a dining room, overhauled a bathroom, and are currently primping a parlor. (Okay, I don’t often use the word parlor, but I’ve already said room twice, so to divert the dreary, in this instance it shall be a parlor.)
And all that is very exciting indeed. I love change. I am forever painting a room, swapping the drapes or rearranging furniture on a continuous quest for fresh and foreign.
But lately…
Change means more than glossy paint and a snazzy new rug. Change is bringing growth and ungrasping, independence and fear, wings and unwrapping, freedom and tears.
Did it really happen? And, was it only yesterday? It already seems such a distant memory. But yes, it happened and, although it does seem many moons ago, it was, somehow, only the day before today.
The mission: to transport five children, one of them being my daughter, to a trail for a school fieldtrip. Our destination: a route approximately 34 kilometers, or 21 miles, away from my house. Their plan: to hike from 10 ‘til 2. My goal: to throw them from the moving vehicle.
Oh, I kid, I kid.
Of course I stopped the car first. I even made sure they were supervised before I sped off. You see? Solid parenting, folks. You saw it here.
Yes, I could’ve hiked. Yes, I could’ve helped, but I also could’ve snuck off to write away the hours in a cozy bistro with a caffeinated cappuccino. I’m sure you understand my inner war…that would be the one I’m simulating. In reality, there was no battle.
Writing outside of the house is a very different experience for me than writing at home. Take all the of the still available distractions such as, ahem, the Internet, and add to that the opportunity to people watch, one of my favorite addictions pastimes, and I still find myself more focused, not to mention less guilty. I don’t feel like I should be paying bills, vacuuming, doing laundry or participating in any of the usual time-suckers.
Minus the spell I spent being awesomely responsible, I had a decadent three hours to write a short story that I consider fairly contest worthy. And alright, I admit to a pinch of peeping.
I couldn’t help myself. It was amazing to see these people file in one after another, cramming the at first empty bistro in that sleepy village of 3400, not to mention how many of them had a touch more than a glass of wine with their soup de jour.
I know what you’re thinking. This blog is nebulous no more. It’s hastily becoming crystal clear that Hazy is hog-tied by the harrows of her habitat. She seems to be engulfed in the epic endeavors that go along with, well, existing.
You’re only half right. Yes, it’s true. I have found comfort in crafting cunning (at least I think so) tales of ballsy baristas, bereaved bowsers and bursting brains, but I’ve also been writing. Not dysentery dribble, but writing, making things up out of thin air, fabricating fairy tales, staging stories…working my Wonder Woman.
And, I have proof. The other day, after reading through a bunch my past blogs and realizing that most things I write are…for lack of a softer adjective…shite, I received an email telling me that I’ve made it through the first round of judging in another writing contest.
Sometimes I do believe in that higher power. The one that looks out to the turbulent waters, sees you’re drowning and tosses you a floatie in the form of a new follower, a generous comment or sometimes, a glimmer of those very specific affirmations we writers inadvertently crave ~ conspicuous creds.
While I’d love to share the black and white of it all, certain contests forbid submission of works that have been published in any way, including via personal blogs. Makes a blogger feel important, doesn’t it?
So, in the meantime, let’s talk about how much cream cheese I found when cleaning out my far-too-long forgotten fridge.
As I navigated the aisles “The Things We Do For Love” played in my head; a screechy record I’d have given anything to snap in half.
You see I had an intense headache all day yesterday. Wait, that’s a lie. It wasn’t all day. It did presto into a massive migraine for several hours or so just to mix things up a little.
But, as us mum’s do, I trudged on, driving the boys to school, continuing the laundry I’d started the day before, cleaning one of the bathrooms that just couldn’t wait another second, sorting and tidying a pile of wayward clothes that were, admittedly, mostly mine, cleaning the fish-y bowl and running up and down the stairs five hundred times or so fetching this and that for my daughter who was, to top it all off, home sick with the flu.
So yes, I hopped around like a good little bunny mummy until it finally took me out. Around four o’clock I had no choice but to surrender.
With one last swoop of my sponge, the pain grabbed hold and dragged me to my room, roughly shoving me onto the bed. “Lie down,” it jeered. “And stay down, or you’ll be sorry.”
Its grip tightened.
It was showing me who was boss and I knew better than to cross it. It pressed with all its might. It squeezed until I thought my skull would open and seep onto the pillow. I lay in frozen fear with no intention of disobeying its very clear command.
That is, until I realized with horror, that I’d forgotten about dinner.
“Who’s going to make dinner?” My panicked whisper pierced through the delirium and my throbbing brain.
“Not you,” hissed the pain. “I told you you’re not going anywhere.”
There was a moment I’d felt defeated. A moment where I thought I had to listen. A moment when I believed I couldn’t win.
And then there was the moment where I (gingerly) sat up, (stiffly) stood up and (somewhat sheepishly) spoke up; “Screw you,” I exclaimed. “My family needs to eat!”
That folks, is how I found myself staggering through the Safeway aisles, and I can literally use the word painfully here, picking out the ingredients to create a robust Spaghetti.
I almost made it too.
Standing in line, waiting to pay, reality kicked in. Still in front of me, was getting this stuff home, organizing it, cooking it, serving it and cleaning it all up and I have to say, it all just seemed a tad undoable.
As I leaned on the cart and discreetly dialed the number to our favourite restaurant, the record played on, only a little louder and little less screechy and it made me realize that when you do things for love, you never lose.
TONIGHT’S DINNER – made with love and only slightly less agony
Well, we’ve finally become those people. We’re increasing my life insurance payout, but rather than freaking, I’m stoked. Why? Because I’m pretty sure it’s my husband’s Hallmark way of saying; “Hey babe, I realize that although no amount of money could possibly replace you, I’m willing to bet you’re worth at least half a mil dead.” Aww, shucks honey.
We’re also upping our…shudder…RESP contributions. It turns out that fifteen years of socking it away is barely enough to cover one child’s university tenure, let alone three and that whoop it up, I’m here for anything but the books college lifestyle isn’t even in the equation. Every hard-squeezed dime has to go towards education. Those campus capers and naughty nights will have to be subsidized by the part-time job my poor kids won’t have an ounce of spare time for.
Sigh.
These are my children though. The little humans that I grew from teeny seeds. For years, I’ve watered, fed and fertilized them and despite my lack of talent for gardening, I’ve (miraculously) managed to keep this one lush and vibrant to date. I want to give these sprouts the sun, the rain and the shade they need and I don’t need to tell you I want nothing but optimum growing conditions to sustain their roots. But wanting the best for something puts you in the position of having to understand what that really means. What exactly is this elusive best?
Will the palatial gardens I’ve been tending turn desertous if they have to feed and water themselves? I, of course, realize an actualgardenwould eventually become dull and desperate if it had to rely on itself for nourishment, but we are talking about kids here, right? They have arms, legs and mouths after all, moving partsfor heaven’s sake, that can be surprisingly helpful when it comes to wielding a hose, directing a nozzle and taking a sip.
I admit I’m not sure at exactly what point we’re supposed to know when it’s time to shut the tap, but in the meanwhile, I’ll keep providing and pruning. After all, they’re only just beginning to bloom.
Like a droid, I walked into Starbucks and it wasn’t until I opened my mouth to order that I realized I didn’t actually want a coffee.
What am I doing here? I wondered.
If you’ve ever been to Starbucks, you’ll know there’s a language. You need to be able to order your grande, non-fat, half-sweet, extra hot, double shot, no whip macchiato in 5 seconds flat. No stumbling. No stuttering.
So, to be standing in front of this high-haired, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed barista and not have a clue what to say was, well, awkward.
“Something cold?” She offered, unable to conceal the hopeful gleam that I wouldn’t hold up her line much longer.
Something cold, I puzzled. Something cold? But, but I always got coffee. Hot coffee. Extra hot coffee. Something cold?!
Her eyes fluttered and a Colgate crescent fastened itself into place just below her sweet, petite, pierced nose.
“We have these things,” she informed me in a voice that sounded like a long, twirling question mark. “They’re like, cold with ice and berries, you know? They’re good.” She shrugged.
“Alright,” I conceded. “I guess I’ll try one of those.”
It felt odd to watch her write my name on the foreign, clear plastic cup, the comfort of my usual white, smooth familiarity gone with my snap decision. But I only had a moment to feel uneasy about my impromptu choice. In a flash, spontaneity was set in front of me, beads of water diluting the black lines of my freshly Sharpied H, A, Z and Y.
As I walked out into the sunshine, I paused, the fear that my gamble would disappoint, halting me.
Finally, caution was thrown to wind and I whet my whistle.
Sometimes it just takes a ballsy barista to bust your blahs and quench what has been a long-standing thirst.
A post in an hour? My God, unheard of, I tell myself. But it’s Friday, I argue. Yes, yes, you should definitely post while it’s still Friday…even though you’ve only had an hour to yourself all day…all week…it’s still totally possible.
Oh, wo-ez me, right? I mean, first world problems or what?!
It’s been back-to-school week here in the Hazy household. The same for many, I’m sure and in between cutting hair, tweezing eyebrows, cleaning rooms, buying supplies organizing finances (take that with a grain of salt) and spending a fortune on a selection of clothing items I can count on one hand, I have come to realize that no kids, no dog and less (astonishingly vast amounts of) shedded, a creatively engineered word, hair do not in fact equal more time.
So, I literally have one hour here. Okay, I’ll admit to pinning something a while back that alluded to the fact that I hate when people misuse the word literally. Thus, I must eat that particular word and restock it with…loosely. I have to pick my daughter up in 49 minutes and I only have 37 percent battery left on my laptop (heaven forbid I’d have to run upstairs and get the charger) so really, there’s nothing literal about me having one full hour to write this post. It is literally a loose hour at the very most.
This weekend will involve spending, driving, eating, playing, watching, cheering and finally, celebrating the ability and opportunity we have to do all of these things. Something that shouldn’t be overlooked.
Hazy Shades of Me 