Where I've Run Off To

Before anyone corrects my grammar, my title is a Southern colloquialism. “Where’d you go off to?” is a way of asking why you haven’t been around. It’s usually followed by “how’s ya mama?” The response to the later is, “old.” The former unfortunately can’t be answered so succinctly. Oh, before I forget, I’m not even stressing over grammar and punkchooashun in this one.

How I feel most of the time.

When I began my blog, I never thought anyone would actually read it. I hoped, but I wasn’t counting on it. But, I’ll be dipped, I thew out some scraps out and now I can’t shoo you away. Bless your hearts. (Which is Southern for many things but in this instance it means you must be a little nuts. Wow, I stink of country today.) It means a lot to me though, you hanging around on my porch like you do. That  in mind, you asked and I feel like I oughta answer. Where’d I go? Well, crazy town. And, to be honest, I’m still there. It’s not bad. More crowded than I expected.

I don’t talk about my personal life much to anyone. I am mindful that when I speak about me personally, I am speaking about those in my life by default: my husband, my kids. The second of those I guard closely. And my absence has been because of one of them. 

My son is on the autism spectrum. It wasn’t obvious at first, at least not to us. He was our normal. He has always been very bright and introverted. However, with age, that intelligence and introversion changed. Slowly, bit by bit, a toothbrush and single sock at a time, Aspergers syndrome interloped into our home and we didn’t have a clue what it was until it was hanging out on the couch making a real mess of things.

If you don’t know what Aspergers or autism is, join the club. Even those of us who are hip deep have trouble describing the thing. Best I can do is it’s a brain condition that hinders people in navigating the world mentally and physically. It doesn’t make it impossible, it just makes it hard. Like swimming through oatmeal hard. (For the record, I’ve never done that. As far as you know …)

Folks with Aspergers, in particular, are great people. I love being around them. My next post, if I can birth another - yes, this one feels a bit like birth. I’m grunting and breathing hard as I type. I’m also in a hospital gown and on tons of pain medication but that’s just because it’s Thursday. Tomorrow I will wear long johns and talk like a pirate. You know, the normal Friday thing. Anyway, if I can get another post written, it will be about the awesomeness of Aspergers.

Awesome though it is, it has difficulties, especially heading into puberty. Once the frontal lobe of the brain develops more, many of the struggles lessen. I keep saying that to myself, clinging to the day when our lives calm down. For now, we are, wow, how to describe it… Well to quote the

Cheshire cat: “We’re all mad here. I’m mad, your mad. We’re all quite mad.”

People with Autism are very sensitive to the world around them. They see, hear, smell, feel, taste everything. It overwhelms them and often to protect themselves they do one of two things: they go inside themselves and quietly ignore the outside world, maybe patting themselves, humming or rocking. Or, they have a meltdown, a very loud meltdown that looks like a tantrum. If it happens publicly that is what folks will think it is and they will make everything better by looking at you with heaping loads of judgement. (That’s sarcasm. It doesn’t make it better. At all.)

Sometimes we see the meltdown coming. Other times it’s like the stomach flu when one minute you’re fine, the next it all gets very real, very loud and painfully destructive. Either way, we live not knowing, for the most part, when it will all fall apart. And as his mother, I walk around sick with anxiety. I hold it together pretty well most of the time. Then, just like the stomach flu, the anxiety just comes out with an explosive shock except it’s tears not vomit and diarrhea. I am thankful for that, I have to admit. Although, I think if it were the later, folks would understand more. They wouldn’t question my absence or aloofness. They would smile, wave from a distance and say, “no, no, it’s ok, really. We don’t want you to volunteer/call back/attend/participate/act normal…no, really! Stay away! We will love you from way over here.”

Having anxiety is walking around too close to a ledge. Your stomach is sick, your legs feel weird, you tremble, feel off balance and use all of your energy to simply stay upright. But, nobody sees your ledge. They don’t even see you teetering. You look fine to them and you don’t want to tell them about it any more than they want to tell you they talk to themselves when they are alone. And, they do. We ALL do. But, we don’t want to talk about it. Too embarrassing. Too close to crazy. Same with anxiety. It’s totally normal to feel anxiety just like its totally normal to talk to yourself, dress up like Diana Ross

Diana Ross dog

and sing into a banana like it’s a microphone. Ok, forget that last part. Anxiety is normal. And, I feel it. I’m drowning in it.

I sometimes struggle to catch my breath, for no reason at all. That causes me to panic on occasion. Panic is the glass shard filled cherry on top of the anxiety milkshake. Just makes it all that much more interesting. It hits me a lot in BJJ. (Brazilian Jiujitsu) Can’t imagine why being tied in a knot brings it out in me (again, sarcasm). But, sometimes it does. I sit out and watch for a while, which kinda makes it worse. Then I cry. Folks at the gym are great. I love that place so much. They either don’t notice me crying, do and are too nice to ask or they just hug me. One girl assumed it was because I had been rolling so bad. I thought, wait, what? I’m rolling that bad! Anyway, the crying, yeah, I cry all the time. I should be a paid mourner, the hard core, Middle Eastern sort who tear their clothes and bang their chest. That would be awesome. I wonder how much they get paid. Maybe it would be enough for me to get private BJJ lessons so maybe folks wouldn’t assume I’m crying because of my crummy skillz!

Every now and then, anxiety creeps back just enough to let the warm blanket of depression slip over my head. It’s a fun filled cycle and I do try to laugh at it as much as I can. I just throw my head back and cackle like a crazy person because after all, I’m a citizen of said city. I already told you that.

I have been told to see a therapist/psychiatrist/therapy group. I’m not against that at all. I’m just against what that would require and that’s talking about it. To talk about it, I have to think about it. I have to put skin on it and I just can’t do that right now. It’s my son: my heart, walking around outside my chest. To describe what he’s going through is more than I can bear. Also, the thought of being in a therapy group listening to other people talk about their personal misery sounds about as inviting as a gasoline enema. (Is that a thing?) And, I’m pretty sure I would get irritated at some point and demand that everyone who didn’t seem to have it all that bad quit whining and put away all the folding chairs. Also, I would punish them by making them bring the snacks for the next meeting that I would attend only long enough to eat.

Living in Crazy-town is great for some creative types. Poe did

You gotta love this guy.

very, very well here. But, the raven on my door isn’t doing much for me. I can’t write. This is the first I have written in months. And, honestly, what I have written over the past year hasn’t been stellar. I brought the creative drought issue to a writer friend of mine for advice, I wanted to get out of it, at least turn on a sprinkler or something. He’s actually more than a writer. He’s an editor, publisher and writer. In short, a big deal. I knew whatever he said would be golden. Also, he knows about autism, what I’m experiencing with my son. He told me to give writing a break. The stress was draining my creative juices dry. I needed to focus on just staying sane, being good to myself. Oh, it was music to my ears.

So, I haven’t been writing. I haven’t had it in me. I even went to a writing conference and hoped it would pull me out of this. Nope, I cried while I was there. I made a professional appointment with that same friend (He had one on one appointments with writers at the conference, helping them with their manuscripts, giving them writing advice etc) and I cried. I’m sure the other writers were watching me from a distance and thinking, “wow, her manuscript must be awful!”

But, here’s the good side, and, yes, there is one, which is another reason I’ve written this. There’s 3 reasons, this is number 2: I’ve gotten to a place where I’ve accepted that this is what God has planned for me. As Beth Moore said in her book, Get Out of that Pit, “you think you’re being picked on, but you’ve been picked out.” God chose me for this. He took a look at Crazy Town and said, “oh yeah, that house is super cute. She needs to be in there for a while.” 

Why has He chosen our family for this? I don’t know. And, I don’t have to know. I trust Him. Doesn’t make any of it easier. But, it reminds me that my spot here is just a lease. I won’t be a Crazy-ite (Crazilian?) forever. And, when my lease is up, I’ll be stronger. Tougher. As I say about fight training: tougher the training is to take, the harder you’ll be to break. I feel that way about faith as well. God’s got something brewing here. No clue what but I know I can count on it. (Unlike my Keurig that has the brewing dependability of the coffee pot in my daughter’s Barbie RV. Seriously, I got up at 5:45AM, stood in front of the Keurig and it just spat at me like a coffee

This llama is so committed
to this spit!

llama. Pretty sure it’s got something to do with ISIS.)

Now, before anyone of you offer the condolence that God won’t give anyone more than they can take, I have to tell you that isn’t in the Bible. It’s not scriptural. If it were, John the Baptist would have been buried with his head and Joan of Arc wouldn’t have a syndrome named after her. So far, I’m creaking under the pressure, but have yet to explode. I’ve rubbed my arms raw, gotten a tic or two but I haven’t exploded. And, I’m keeping perspective. It could be worse. I pray it never is but I understand it can be. When I jumped on the Jesus train as a pre-teen, I had no idea how hard it would be and I warn all of you, if you think loving the Lord will make your life easy, you will be quickly disappointed. God doesn’t make wimps of us. I have long since learned the truth of it: God is tough on those He loves. And thus far, He has loved me to the brink. I praise Him for not loving me over the edge! He’s pulled the rug out from under me and in the fall I have learned He alone is in charge and who among my loved ones is willing to hang out on the floor with me. In some ways, this very difficult time has been a blessing.

So now the third reason I wrote this… A lot people are having a hard time in life. That’s how life is. And, I’m afraid sometimes we get drunk with the delusion we’re the only ones hurting. We scroll through Facebook and all the nauseatingly perfect, posed and color corrected posts and assume that’s life. We assume that the cleverness of the memes are directly correlated to the perfection of the person who posted it. (Woah, check that alliteration Eminem. Bam!) That’s just not the case. No matter how great somebody’s life seems, they too are human. It’s like the baboons, (I know it’s a leap, work with me) one may be the Alpha with the best leaf bed, but in the end they all have weird looking butts. That’s how I see it. Everyone hurts, everyone has problems. Some are just really, really good at hiding it. Maybe if we didn’t hide it so much, maybe if we just all turned around and showed that our butts were as weird as the next baboon, it

The least offensive baboon butt pic available.

would be a little easier to navigate the savanna.

In summary: 1. Where’d I go? Crazy. And, that’s ok. It’s just as normal as talking to yourself which we all do. I’m doing it now actually. 2. At the end of the day, God is in His heaven and does as He pleases. I don’t have to understand Him. I just have to trust Him and I am. I will keep on keeping on. I will embrace my crazy until sanity slips back in place. (Although, if you know me, you will know my sanity has never been terribly sane. Lucidity is often highly over-rated.) And, finally, 3, we’re all struggling. I’m no different than any other baboon. I just had the nerve to show my butt. Join me, won’t you? (That’s not literal. I do not, under any circumstances, want to see your butt. I know what it looks like, in theory. That’s enough.)

DON'T Mind the Gap

The fam and I went to see a movie today at one of those movie and a meal gigs. I love those. Nothing like chowing down on food you can’t see.

At this particular theater, there’s a long counter sort of deal in front of you, then a small walkway for the waitstaff, then another row of seats and a counter, walkway etc., etc. Under the counter is a gap and on more than one occasion, because I have a bladder the size of a walnut, I have ducked through that gap into the waitstaff

See that gap under the tables? It's sizable, but you
have to get down low to get into it and if you are on
a riser, you have to step down from it onto the
walkway. It's kind of a tricky maneuver.

walkway to make my way to the facilities. It keeps me from having to walk by people in the American fashion and by that I mean, with my rump to folks’ snouts. I know in other countries they turn about face but I’m not sure how that is less offensive. I’ll take a bum in my face over what lies on the other side of that coin, if you know what I mean.

Today, the woman next to me had the same idea. She was going to duck under the counter and through the gap. However, unlike me, the poor gal had yet to put the idea to the test and, I got to be honest, I’m glad she hadn’t because that made me privy to her maiden voyage.

Now, if you don’t know me, I’m about the size and build of a strapping fourth grade boy. It’s the truth, I have embraced it. At 42, I’ve accepted this is all there’s gonna be and as such, I just make the most of it. One of the ways I do that is the duck under move I mentioned earlier. It’s my go-to escape at this theater when a retreat the restroom is required. However, even at my pre-pubescent proportions, the maneuver can be precarious. 

The gal next to me was not of my particular dimensions. She was an actual woman and hers was a size that did not seem fitting for the scenario.  She, however, was not of the same opinion. I heard her say she was going to the restroom and apparently, she looked at that little space, felt it doable and made her move. Into the gap she went. 

Well, she got deep into the process of it all and, although the lighting was scant, I saw her face the moment she realized she had made a grave miscalculation of not only the size of the gap, but herself as well. Her expression was one of shock, confusion and a third look I have not personally made as I would imagine it is one that can only come from this exact predicament. 

She froze, because, really, she had no other choice. She had one leg through the gap to the walkway and her arms outstretched still clutching her seat and I mean she was hanging onto that seat like it was the landing skid of a helicopter and she was a mile up in the air. The rest of her was all pulled together in a wad. It’s what I imagine is going on inside a turtle’s shell when it disengages. 

Ok, so, here's this poor woman, looking like she was being sucked into another dimension and her only hope for salvation is me and her teenaged son. And, let me assure you, that boy, he wasn’t making a move, so it was left to me and I got to be honest, I was confused as to what my responsibility was exactly. If I were to help, it might add to her already very depreciating circumstance. 

Thankfully, the woman started laughing signaling that she was still able to breathe - I had my doubts for a moment. The laughter altered her positioning and she began the process of freeing herself. Seeing her safe, I did what any lady would do, I turned my head toward my children and covered my face to silence my laughter. I’m not proud of it, but again, even sitting here clear-headed, I’m not sure what the protocol is when a person next to you in a dark theater just throws physics to the wind like that.

People, I’m all about taking a chance, doing a thing you aren’t entirely sure you can do. You don't know something until you know it. And, personally, I’d rather try something and get stuck than just sit and wonder if I’m gonna wet my pants.

Dare yourself today, readers. Don’t be mindful of the gap! It is not nearly as important as what is beyond it. Just wedge yourself straight into that sucker. If it works out, hey, you won, you beat the gap. If not, laugh it off and live to wedge again another day.  

Why All The Dinosaurs Are Dead

I love dinosaurs. There, I’ve said it. So, sue me. If there’s a

NatGeo thing on about them, I’m gonna watch it. Especially if said thing is theoretically pitting them against one another or showing them in uber real CGI. Yes, please. More. Of that. And Jurassic Park, the movie? Are you kidding me? I LOVE IT! I know every scene and the music playing in it. (Dotson, we’ve got Dotson here!) I’ve seen the others as well. Not as a big a fan of those but that hasn’t stopped me from seeing them each multiple times. 

I’m so excited about Jurassic World coming out that I’m giddy. I’m even taking my 9 year old twins who are as big a fans of dinosaurs as I. My daughter can identify them by shadow alone. Yes, I know the movie is PG13 and violent. But, as my son said, “mom, they’re dinosaurs. That’s how they are.” I agree. Also, my parents took me to see Jaws in the theater. Yes. Jaws. I was in elementary school and, just to sweeten the psychological damage, we lived near the Gulf of

Wrong. Not photoshopped.

Mexico. But, see? I turned out relatively ok, despite the trauma. For those of you who are too young to know, there was no PG13 back then. Yes, Jaws (one of the best movies ever made - we need a bigger boat) was PG. So, that’s how I’m seeing this. It’s only PG13 because it’s coming out in 2015 and not the 70s. 

Ok, so I have established how excited I am. And, of course, somebody is going to try to ruin it. On this occasion, it is the PC police. The PC poe poe are trying to say the movie is sexist because of how Bryce Dallas Howard’s character changes from an icy business woman into a more “feminine” motherly character. Then there’s some gobbildy gook about how “femininity is a social construct blah blah blah.” Look, I have g/b twins. They were raised in the same room with all the same toys. They each gravitated toward a certain type of toy which just happened to coincide with their gender. I didn’t make them do it. (BTW, PC poe poe, women’s aggressive instinct is driven by estrogen and tends to create a befriend and defend response. A woman with a child near her - even when it is not her own - is deadlier than a woman alone. So, of course BDH’s character is different when put in a perilous situation with children nearby. She’s deadlier. It’s called science. Look it up.)

But, I digress. This entire post is about my finally understanding why the dinosaurs died out. Here is how things would go now if the thunder lizards were still among us: (ehem - the scene opens on two TRexes spying a group of people in the jungle)

TRex1: Let's eat the fat one! 

TRex2: You have no right to single him out because of his size. 

TRex1: But, he's slower. 

TRex2: He can't help that. 

TRex1: But, he's white... 

TRex2: He's of European descent and that's racist! 

TRex1: But, his color makes him easier to see here in the jungle. Never mind. Ok, How about the one with the long hair beside him. She has a juicy round belly. 

TRex2: She's pregnant, you sexist jerk. And, yes, she's a doctor too if you would look past her belly to the symbol on her shirt. She can be a doctor and pregnant. A woman can have a career and be a mother too. 

TRex1: What’s a symbol? Oh, that red thing on those big lumps? 

TRex2: Quit looking at her breasts! 

TRex1: What are breasts? Oh, look, there’s a brown one!

TRex2: He’s Native American. Don’t even think about it.

 TRex1: But, I’m hungry.

TRex2: Eat some vegetation.

TRex1: Our teeth aren’t really made for that.

TRex2: Quit thinking about yourself. Think about what’s best for the planet.

TRex1: What’s a planet? Never mind, I don’t care. I’m hungry and I’ve got babies to feed.

TRex2: Oh, so you are more important because you have babies? You’re more important because you procreate? What about the gay dinosaur couples? I guess they don’t get to eat because they can’t have little ones!

TRex1: What is gay? 

TRex2: You’re a pig.

TRex1: No, I’m a TRex.

TRex2: And so what does that mean? That you just get to kill indiscriminately? Go around terrorizing and eating anything smaller than you?

TRex1: Yeah, I think so.

TRex2: Fine. Go ahead. Eat one of them, if you think you can live with yourself.

TRex1: I have to eat one of them to live at all.

TRex2: You’re know, you’re part of the problem. You see race and gender and size and things that make anyone or anything different in any way and just exploit it for your own gain.

TRex1: I just see food. 

TRex2: You would.

TRex1: How about I just go lay in a tar pit and die. (walks away)

TRex2: Oh sure, just walk away. Go lay down in a tar pit and ruin the eco system.

(And scene. This is why there are no more dinosaurs. The Lord knew they wouldn't survive our political correctness. Yes, I said the Lord, as in the Father of Jesus Christ, my savior. Now...let the tirades begin!)

Skating Lessons

My kids are at the age where party invites have slowly gravitated toward a skating rink theme. I couldn’t be more pleased. If I have to go to another pizza and video game deal with a creepy mechanical

His shirt reads, "zip"! Am I the
only one that finds that
hilarious. Normally I find simians
on wheels kinda terrifying. (see below)

animal band again, I will set my face on fire. (I had a business name here but my husband made me take it out for fear of a defamation lawsuit. I told him its only defamation if it’s not true and I really might set my face on fire and two, everybody who reads my blog knows most of what I say is tongue-in-cheek. Except in this case. I really hate that restaurant. But…I digress.)

Recently I went skating with both kiddos for the first time and here are some things I learned:

1. A supposition I have long held was solidly reinforced: my kids think I am physically retarded. Whenever I show any

   

   I had a pair JUST LIKE this.
   They never fit well and I never
   took them to the rink. I needs my
   ankle support.

   manner of coordination, they act like they are witnessing nothing short of a miracle. So, to see me moving upright on eight wheels held the same sway as me levitating or raising the dead. My son said, “how can a 42 year old skate so well?” After I mentally digested then spit him up like a hair ball, I told him that’s what my generation did when we were his age.
2. The rink still has the staples: a disco ball, flashing lights, crummy food and bathroom tile that is more difficult to traverse than The Grand Canyon. 
3. There are still girls skating in shorts just long enough to fit the definition. There are exactly two and they are friends.
4. The rink refs still flirt with said girls in short shorts.

   

   You know what that is in blue? It's a baboon on roller
   skates and the protagonist of my next nightmare!

5. The DJ still thinks he wields the power of Thor. I can only assume they are all on, and always have been on, just enough pharmaceuticals to keep them from obsessively throwing their hands up and laughing maniacally. I say just enough because you can still hear the threat of such actions in their tone. In the 70’s, they didn’t take said medication and yes, every rink DJ did at some point throw his hands up and laughed like a crazy person. Usually during an AC/DC song. Or Funky Town. The later I think out of frustration.
6. The glass ceiling of female skating rink DJs has yet to be broken. I pray the Susan B Anthony of Skating Rink DJ-ery soon rolls forward.
7. The cool, low rise, speed skates have been overtaken by

   

   Note all the in-line skaters. It's a real problem,
   I tell ya!

   inline skates and my feelings toward the in-liners are the same as skiers toward snow boarders: they are all bastards. They are ruining the purity of the sport and turning it into some filthy, hootchie-cootchie display. (And, I wish I were one.)
8. They’ve come up with this PVC pipe deal that looks like a cruel joke for elderly little people. It’s basically a walker on wheels that fledgling skaters can use to help them skate. I see these contraptions as just another way we as a society are coddling our children. Kids should ride on the handlebars of their friend’s bikes (standing when possible), slide down a metal slide that holds the heat of a thousand suns and bust their rumps while skating. Yeah, sometimes you end up breaking a few bones, busting a few heads, irreparably damaging a growth plate or three. That’s life! These rolling walkers make the kids lean

   

   Imagine trying to pass a half dozen of these
   at once. It's an exercise in terror.

   forward and does not teach them balance at all. To learn to skate you have to hold somebody’s hand, preferably two - one on either side - toddle around like you're coming off a hallucinogenic, then bust it and take everyone down with you. Sure, the walkers let the younger kids and random awkward adults have fun while learning. But it creates a gauntlet of horror for everyone who can skate and prolongs the learning process which keeps the darn things on the floor. (These things cost a pretty penny to rent. So, basically, modern skating rinks are in the business of keeping you not skating so you will continue renting the contraptions. Wake up people! It's the US health care system with neon shoe laces!) 
9. Kids still wear 80s clothes.  
10. There are still a couple creepy adults with mustaches on the floor that can’t seem to let go of their childhood. (Last week, that was me.)

 

Writer's Blah

I've got a major case of writer's blah. Not block, mind you. Blah.

The words are there. I'm just blah about it. I've been working on a book a couple years now. Yes, years. Don't judge me. I'm on the third rewrite. Once I finish this one, it will be editing run throughs. I could be done by the end of the summer. Unfortunately, I don't care. I've taken so long in writing it that I kinda want to sneak up behind all my characters and push them off a cliff starting with my protagonist.

   Her body buckled, pushed by some unseen force. She fell. The rocks echoed her final shriek. 
   She clawed at the surrounding rush of wind. The red locks on her head waved like fire in its slipstream as her body tumbled headlong. Her limbs twisted and whipped like a knotted rag until her flesh met the ground with a slap. The life left within her exploded upward in a shock of crimson.
   The writer smiled. It was done. She was free, free at last. Free to walk unfettered, unburdened, and guiltless, taking as long as she wanted in Target.


I'm well aware there are writers out there far busier than me writing more than a thousand words a day. They get up early. They stay up late. They sign contract after contract and wear the name writer well. They are legit. Too legit to quit.

Then there's me. I kinda write. I've finished the one book - that I seriously need to pull from circulation and revisit. I write for a local magazine all along. I blog. These aren't terribly impressive credentials. Oh yeah, I'm in an anthology of short stories too. Forgot that one. And, I interview writers monthly on a blog radio show but I'm pretty sure that doesn't make me a writer any more than sitting on my couch makes me a furniture model. 

I have ideas. Funny ones. Good ones. So funny and good in fact that I will not mention them here for fear they will be stolen. And, they would be, I feel certain. Probably by ISIS. That would be their most ingenious and devious plot: distract the West with literary entertainment and sneak up on us unawares.

"Mr. President, how did you not see this invasion coming?" "Well, I had this book, see, and (insert POTUS chuckle) it's really, really good..."

But, as it is, I am still slogging through this one book, the first of a series of three mind you, and I'm so sick of it. Oh man, I can't even begin to tell you. I don't have a contract on it which is actually good because I'm not under a deadline. And,  yet, I have people waiting on it, agents and publishers who like me, who have let me rush through the publication process. There's normally this whole long dance of sending a query, then sending a synopsis, then sending the manuscript...  I got to skip some of that and I'm thankful. 

I have the time to finish the thing, I'm just not. I'm cleaning, taking care of my family, doing Brazilian Jiujitsu (hereafter referred to as BJJ, an abbreviation which, at first glance, gives pause) and Muay Thai style kickboxing. (Although, our instructor is Mexican so maybe it's Muy Thai - that's not racist 'cause it's not negative and I used to teach Spanish. So, yeah.) Those last two, I wish I could do more of without feeling guilty, (the first two I wish I could do less of without feeling guilty) without knowing I need to get home and write. It's like an albatross around my neck. But worse. If you have a huge, 25lb, dead bird around your neck, nobody will wonder why you haven't finished writing your book. Obviously, you can't, what with the dead bird and all. 

If I wanted it done, darn it, I'd finish it. I guess, I just don't care. Why don't I care any more? Why have I lost my mojo? These aren't rhetorical questions, I really want  you to tell me. And, after you do, please tell me what to do to get it back. Tell me how to want to finish this thing. I've been told to take a break from it. But, all I'm doing is breaking from it. Seriously, I write maybe 3000 words a week. That is pittance, people. Pittance! Tosca Lee? You know her? The NYT best selling author? I know this woman. She's an actual, carbon based life-form (for the record, I've yet to see the medical documentation on that) who eats and sleeps and she can write 10k words in a day and not just because she's Asian and has an inborn, radioactive drive to succeed! (That's not racist 'cause it's positive. Is it racist to say a group of people is awesome? No, it's not.) But, she's only half Asian! The rest of her is as white bread as me so, obviously, I could be writing more. At least 5k a day! (I'll give her the extra 5k because she is, after all, half Korean. Again, not racist, 'cause, it's positive and Korean food is my favorite.)

I can't take a break from writing as a whole. I have to keep at it for the sake of skill. Use it or lose it sort of thing. So, do I work on other stuff, blog, text with abandon? What? Tell me! Tell me, I say! And, "quit worrying over it," ain't an option. That's like telling a cat to quit being self absorbed. 

I'm waiting...

Ok, well, until you, reader - who may not be a writer, chances are you aren't - until you solve my writing issues, I'm just

Added this because it's just my favorite
picture ever.

going to fly in a holding pattern. I'll write here and there.  Again, this isn't an issue of being discouraged. I'm pretty good with pumping myself up on things. It's a matter of pure old apathy which, I think, is far more corrosive than discouragement. And, I'm not reading much either if that's a symptom of note. 

Maybe I'm just burnt out. I'm not even wild to do BJJ (made you pause, didn't it) or kb. Ugh. And, it's the end of the school year. My kids are about to be home everyday. All day. Swarming and eating everything in sight like locusts. I love them. But, I also want to pack a sandwich and a pair of clean underwear in a Ziploc bag (same bag 'cause the underwear are clean) and run away. 

So, I leave it in your hands, folks. Fix me.

Apathetically yours...I guess...

Pantsless Robot Dr

Firstly, (that is a word, right?) I know I need to do a wrap up on the Lent posts. I will. Give me time. You’re not the boss of me.

I’m sick. Started last night, felt like strep. Strange considering I don't have tonsils. I don't have tonsils because I used to get strep so much. (By the way, I asked for them to be put in a jar so I could keep them. Didn't happen.)

I schlep to the Minute Clinic outside my neighborhood, looking like the Outbreak monkey. Get in there just after it opens and there’s already a line. 

Great.

I wait patiently, trying not to look at the sickies around me: patients zero, one and two. After about 30 minutes, I’m called in…to the medical closet. That’s about how big it is. The gal looks too young to be a doctor, but that seems to be how it is these days. Also, she has on scrubs, so I figure I can trust her. She points me to the exam table. I look at it.
There’s a wrinkle in this paper. How can there be a wrinkle on clean paper? Did she not change it after the last patient? Oh, I’m changing this, that guy looks way worse than me. He made the Outbreak monkey sick.

She walks in while I’m changing it, gives me a look, then closes the door. 
        I don't know why you are looking at me. There was a wrinkle in the paper!

I'm asked all the usual questions, my responses are put into the computer. Then, she smiles too big a smile, stops typing, and asks me if perchance I would like to see the virtual doctor? 
Virtual doctor? Wait, what? What are you? You have on scrubs!

She waves her hand out to the side -  like it’s the 50s and she’s showing me the newest Edsel - toward a TV on a cart. It has a camera on it and other techy stuff.
A robot? Is she asking me if I want to see a robot doctor? Is that what's happening? What is this? Who am I? Jane Jetson? Where is the doctor!

“There is a doctor there that you will see on the screen.” 
This is actually happening! She’s asking if I want to see a robot doctor! 

“A lot of folks do it.” 
A lot of folks do it? This is her hook? I don’t think she is old enough to remember Jonestown. 

“There’s a camera that you will put in your ears, nose and throat to be examined.”
Woah, woah, woah, right there, missy. 1. I didn’t go to medical school, ok? I don’t have scrubs. And, I’m pretty sure I’m not qualified to put a camera in my head holes for medical purposes. 2. I’m not at all comfortable being virtually examined by somebody who may or may not have on actual pants. 

“But,” I say, giving the robot doctor a skeptical look.  “I’m pretty sure I have strep.”  

“Oh, I will give you a strep test.”
YOU are going to give me strep test? What are you?

“I’d like to see a human doctor.”

She smiles at me like I’m visiting from the past, then gets the thingy to swab my throat. 
          Are you qualified to do this? Is that even a real scrub suit? You can get them at halloween. Did you get it at halloween? I've seen them for sale at Walmart but I figured that was just for people who wanted to look like doctors. Oh my word, is that what's happened here...?

       The swab hurts, adding insult to injury. 

I go to the little medical closet next door presumably to see a doctor. She's dressed like one.
Oh, a lab coat! Now we’re talking! She too looks too young to be a doctor, but she’s wearing a lab coat so…

“How are you?” she asks with a smile.

“Um, crummy?” Why do doctors ask that?

“Ok, Mrs. Carla, you do have strep. So, we will give you some antibiotics. You know, I’ve never had strep. My kids get it. Me? Never had it. My whole life. I just don’t. Funniest thing.” She giggles.

“Hmm, how about that. Is it too late for me to see the pantsless robot doctor?"

"The what?"

"Nevermind..."

Gynos and Shock and Awe

This is going to be inappropriate. Consider yourself warned. Seriously.

Recently, I went to a "lady doctor," meaning, specializing in ladies. Although, she also happened to be a lady as well. The office has a no kids policy which I understand, inconvenient thought it is. The last thing you want in the exam room with you while "that" sort of thing is going on is a chatty four year old who is want to repeat such an event over Thanksgiving dinner. "Mommy, that turkey, it's legs and that stuffing and all, it looks like..." (insert your own comment)

So, anyway, I'm sitting in the exam room, completely clothed mind you for the far too curious ilk reading this, and I'm looking around at the decor. I've seen some ridiculous stuff through the years. The worst, and my favorite, by far was the poster of a cat one doctor had posted on the ceiling. The fluffy kitten was hanging from a branch. (It's an old poster. Probably wasn't considered animal abuse when it was made.) The caption read, "hang in there." Hang in there indeed. I assume the poster was for the patient but it might have been for the doctor. Although, if the doctor is looking up at it, I doubt they are terribly efficient. I'd think their job would be a bit like a professional archer in that keeping an eye on the target is key.

This exam room was professionally appointed. It had all the usual educational trappings. For the men out there, here's what seems to be required wall decor: a warning of sexually transmittable diseases (in English and Spanish), advertisement for HPV injection (that's a recent addition) and the old stand-by drawing of a Caucasian (always) female form cut straight down the middle with an intact baby (also Caucasian) in the process of being born. The baby's face is down and smooshed which, although I realize that's how it is, I don't want to see. If God wanted me to see the look of complete and utter humiliation and desconsolation on my baby's face as it emerged from my body, face down, toward my egress flue, I'd be able to see it without the aid of the "deviled egg lady" rendering. (She's cut in half and all the color is in the middle - like a deviled egg!)

This office, however, had another little gem and, I have to be honest, I didn't really know what it was at first. I looked at it, my eyes focusing on one or two of the eight - yes, eight, remember that, ok? - pictures and I tried to put words to it. And, I did. I won't tell you what they are although none are inappropriate in any way. But, once you find out what I was looking at, all the words I assigned become far too descriptive. It would be like me saying something looked like a bowl of mashed raspberries, which is innocuous enough, then me telling you I was looking at a head wound. Yeah, gross.

After a moment, I let my eye meander over the whole of the display and ladies and gentleman, I was looking at before and after pics of rejuvenation surgery for parts of a woman's body that are and always should be shrouded in mystery. It was like a cold slap to the face. My face twisted and my neck went back much like it does when I smell soured milk. I'm not saying I don't have sympathy for the ladies pictured, I have so, so, so very much sympathy for them. (Seriously - insert a moment of silence for those gals.) But, so help me, I need rejuvenation surgery on my face from the damage my expression made while looking at those pics. I didn't want to see that! And, I shouldn't have had to see that. Seriously, that poster should be under a curtain that you are given the option to move aside of your own volition. And, I totally would have...but still! I would be to blame for the images that are now burned into my mind like a horrific daguerreotype. 

Going to the lady doctor isn't the best experience. It's not something you wake up and look forward too while sipping a cup of coffee and trying to remember the last time you shaved your legs. It's something you do because it is healthy and necessary. And, over the years, I have learned a few things about myself, my...uh...construction. The "deviled egg" lady on the wall has taught me much. If I ever see her out and about, hopping down the street on her one leg, I will shake her hand (her one hand) and thank her for her contribution to society. But, I do not appreciate what I learned at my most recent visit. I am forever damaged and my brain looks a bit like those before pics for having seen them. 

Doctors out there, the shock and awe technique is not effective in advertising a service. It is off-putting and damaging to the psyche. How about instead a sign that reads, "Sitting on a wreck? There's help on deck!" Or, "Helping your business, is our business!" But, best perhaps is the simple announcement of said service. "We offer ___." Then beside that statement, "There are pictures under the table in a padlocked box. Here is the combination. It's ok. You can look. We can help. There's nothing to be ashamed of. It's normal. Childbirth is as injurious as it is rewarding. We can't help with your child at this point, but we can help what they did to you with their freakishly huge head." And, in the box, along with the pictures, should be chocolate and antidepressants. And, whatever the Men in Black use to erase people's memory.