Dear Quarantine Diary – Week #19

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covid-19 diary, covid-19 humour, dear diary, groceries, humour, writing

Dear Diary – My phone alarm saved me. I’ve been reluctant to use it. And then I was annoyed by it when I couldn’t make it stop chirping. This morning, I was writing to you when it chirped. I had a chiro appointment in 15 minutes. I wasn’t dressed. I hadn’t showered. I hadn’t brushed my teeth. My hair looked like a bird was nesting in it. In 5 minutes, I was out the door. I was dressed and masked, and still sporting a bird’s nest but I made it in time.

My chiropractor is awesome. She’s a very understanding woman, willing to overlook my leggings and hair. I love her.

We all need people in our life who will pick us up when we fall, after they stop laughing.

Dear Diary – Groceries continue to be an arduous undertaking. This week, the website had odd pricing on2 items I normally purchase. For example, the store brand club pack of chicken thighs was listed at $8.80/kg, but the estimated total cost was $92. Drumsticks weren’t much better at $79. Those must be Sumo-sized chickens, or they’re plated in gold.

So I called the main customer service line, but the operator had no idea. Shocking! She transferred me to another department. That operator agreed they must be extraordinary chickens! She promised to get answers and call me back. Sure, they probably weigh the package and charge accordingly, but with my luck, I’ll be overcharged and spend the next 6 weeks fighting for reimbursement. I’d rather make the call now!

She did call back. It was an error. It couldn’t be fixed. I should place my order and check my bill at pick up time. The whole point up picking up is so I don’t have to get out of the car. Especially in the rain. Which it was… Instead, I cooked a family-sized roast of beef, which we’ve been eating now for 4 days. I think it will last another 4.

Still, I’m thankful for groceries.

Be thankful for what you have. Your life, no matter how bad you think it is, is someone else’s fairtytale.

Wale Ayeni

Dear Diary – I plugged my video game headset in this moring to charge. I wish they had chargers for people too.

On Sunday, Mother’s Day, I was shot at High Noon. Or close to noon – they were running late. The experience was relatively painless. My only frustration was the couples and groups moving through together, after being clearly told to come “alone”. I will never cease to be amazed by stupid people.

But I got my shot! And while lockdown life continues, it feels like a giant leap forward.

The rest of Mother’s Day was lovely. Hubby made waffles for breakfast and I was showered with a few gifts: an ipad cover (because I’m clutzy), pink icing bags (because I still hope to master the craft), a digital thermometer (so I can make brittle without burning…), and some other craft supplies for tie-dying fabric (because I will never cease to play). Supper was frozen pizza and chocolate turds stumps “logs”. I tried to make Prue Leith’s mini chocolate swiss rolls, but the cake was so thin and airy, it was nearly impossible to roll without it all sticking to my fingers. And the chocolate didn’t want to stick to the cake.

Sprinkles covers a multitude of sins

By the end of the day and for most of Monday, I was really tired and slightly lightheaded. I managed to do the essentials: hang out laundry, wash dishes, and cook dinner. I tried to nap, but it started raining on my clothes. I tried reading, but I couldn’t focus on the words. The only other option was to waste time mining ore in Minecraft. It was grand!

By Tuesday, I was back to my normal amount of tired and sore, and I had to hype myself up for my Intro to comedy course.

Those who can laugh at themselves will never cease to be amused.

Dear Diary – I just looked at my grocery bill. I’m missing meat for 2 meals, but my pork tenderloin only cost $0.56 and my 6 loaves of bread cost $2.19. Rarely are mistakes made, in my favour.

Dear Diary – We tackled song writing again in my Intro to Comedy course. We started with writing a parody of an existing song. Mine were:

Before
Time After Time
When Doves Cry
You Make My Dreams Come True
Looking for Comets

This One Goes Out to the One I Love

After
Mime After Mime
When Doves Poop
You Make My Nightmares Come True
Watching for Vomit (have you ever had a pet barf in the night? The terror is real, people)
This One Goes Out to My One-Eyed Love

I have to credit Hubby for ” This One Goes Out to My One-Eyed Love”.

I’m in the midst of writing 3 songs (or poems). One is about being a gamer. Another is inspired by Big Guy, who had a date set up to meet a girl he’d be wooing online…the week lockdowns began. Dating in person during covid (and Canadian winter) was a challenge!

This song is also a work in progress:

verse 1:

The morning started slowly; there was coffee on the stove
The sun was shining brightly, a thing of beauty to behold!
And then I heard a door creak, silence filled the room
A dark creature came forth, a spectre of doom

verse 2:

The figure stumbled toward me. It gave me quite a scare
Its face was white and pasty surrounded by wild hair
Its lips twisted downward. Was it a grimace or a smile?
I knew I’d get an answer if I stayed still awhile.

Chorus:

It was my teeeeen, from the batcave
Awake for his day school.
It was my teeeen from the batcave
I dare not flinch, I am no fool!

Like Stephen King, I scared myself and had to put this away until I could face my fear and start to write again…

Dear Diary – Occasionally I’ll catch a post on FaceBook from my home town. It’s a small, farming community. Little Guy has grown up where every other vehicle is a mercedes or a BMW. I grew up where every other vehicle was a beat-up pick up truck with a broken tail light. Traffic jams were 4 cars stuck behind a tractor. On May 10th around 6 p.m., the police responded to call about a criminal at large, or rather, a large criminal, terrorizing downtown. Actually it was an unmasked brown cow moseying down the street, window-shopping. She’d grown tired of lockdown restrictions and escaped her trailer by kicking down the door. Police corralled her into a new trailer and moo-ved her on. Sometimes I miss the excitement of small town life!

If nobody knows the trouble you’ve seen, you don’t live in a small town.

Unknown

Writing Letters

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faith, family, letters, stamping, writing

It’s true – the art of writing letters is slowly becoming a lost art. Who has the time to put thought on paper (once you find some paper)? Then you have to find an address, a stamp and even a mailbox! Sometimes it is just easier to send a quick text or post a quick message on Facebook. I get that! I’m guilty of doing it too.

But once upon a time, I used to write a lot of letters. Hubby and I started our relationship on paper. He was a poor student in another city and phone calls cost money! I wrote crazy stories with small-town caracatures to a homesick friend studying in the city. When our worlds seemed to be crashing down around us, another friend and I encouraged each other by sharing prayers and scripture. Baring our broken hearts to each other, we helped each other breathe in the darkness, until the sun started shining again.

Though housebound during covid, I once again have time to write and have re-discovered the pleasure in putting pen to paper. And for good reason:

Letters are more personal because they contain my effort, my time, and my handwriting. Those notes are often in or tucked into one of my handmade cards, made or chosen with that person in mind. My hope is that I will lift their spirits, and as I work, mine is lifted as well.

They take more time, which means I am more careful as I consider each word and phrase. I can extinguish inflammatory words before I create firenados. With my emotions in check, I am less likely to discourage, hurt, or offend the reader. And when I share my emotions or concerns, I can be concise, sharing the whole story without interruptions and distractions, and leaving other “cans of worms” unopened.

Letters can be read and re-read by the recipient. It gives them time to consider their response, if one is needed. It limits the number of folks who may feel they have a right to weigh in with their opinion or share their story. But most importantly, it may be something that the reader needs to read again and again, a reminder that they are special and they are loved.

Let us all then leave behind letter of love and friendship, family and devotion, hope and consolation, so that the future generations will know what we valued and believed and achieved.

Marian Wright Edelman

Ch-Ch-Changes

Tags

writing

It snowed again today – nothing serious, just a few wispy flakes floating silently like feathers from a pillow, when there isn’t a pillow fight raging. But it was enough to be noticed, and to cause inward groaning.

We’re ready for a change of season.

Even the die-hards that can’t wait to spend every waking hour on a mountaintop covered in fresh powder.

We’re weary. Or at least I am.

I don’t think it’s just because it’s that crusty, brown season of waiting for greenery to push through the moist earth, or the absence of frolicking squirrels. Maybe it’s my February blahs delayed a few weeks (kind of like Spring seems to be), or maybe it’s just an empty, waiting kind of season in my life. Whatever it is, I”m ready for a change of season too.

I’m ready to take off the mildew-smelling mittens and the heavy coat from around my shoulders. I mean that literally and figuratively. Over the past couple of years, I’ve felt this heavy cloak around me, an impenetrable barrier that keeps the rain away, but doesn’t quite let in the sunshine. It has a musty, Dickensian character to it.

That sounds terribly ominous, doesn’t it? It’s really not that bad, but I can’t help but wonder, when is the next season going to come? When am I going to find that sweet balance between a winter jacket and (heaven forbid), a bathing suit, between heavy winter boots that make lots of noise in the house, to bare feet that hardly shuffle?

I’m ready for it.

I haven’t had the energy to do much, to go anywhere, and quite frankly, I’m not inspired to do so. I think that’s saddest part. To desire inspiration, but not know where or how to be inspired. I’ve hardly taken my camera out, and I want to write, but the words just seem to get lost somewhere between my head and my fingers.

My mouth, however, hasn’t seem to lost it’s ability to function on its own.  Isn’t that just the way!?! 🙂

So I’m doing this. I’m just writing what I feel. I’m setting aside my expectation of producing something of quality or something humorous. Instead of forging ahead with a  ‘git ‘er done” attitude, I’m diverting from the usual Wednesday routine. Maybe by just acknowledging what’s already inside, I will find inspiration from the place that matters most – my own heart.

Do you see it? I think something green just broke through…

 

“The problem is acceptance, which is something we’re taught not to do. We’re taught to improve uncomfortable situations, to change things, alleviate unpleasant feelings. But if you accept the reality that you have been given- that you are not in a productive creative period- you free yourself to begin filling up again.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

OH…S#^$7!

Tags

humour, language, life lessons, writing

It was 1990-something when I started working at the law firm downtown. I was a naive , small town “miss goody-2-shoes” fresh out of college. Ann* worked in the cubicle behind me. She worked hard but she also swore hard – the kind that made paint peel and hardened criminals blush. And that was when she wasn’t stressed out or angry!

I never said a word about it.

Talking to a co- worker a few weeks later, I found out that Ann had noticed I didn’t swear…and when she found out I went to church, well…apparently she responded with a new string of expletives!

The thing is, while I didn’t swear, I also didn’t judge others. I have always believed more in building relationships and accepting a person for who they are and where they are, than in insisting they meet me where I am. I may not always agree with their behaviour, their language or their choices, but I don’t have to…Sure, I may wince a little inside from time to time, but I want language to be a bridge to relationship and not a barrier. And I’m going to trust that they will do likewise. Besides, I’m hardly the bar to set standards by!

“Language  does not always have to wear a tie and lace-up shoes” – Stephen King

I swear more than I used to…and I don`t like it. I recently read an article, “Foulmouthed and Faithful” by Patricia Paddey, and I’ve started taking a closer look at myself. With thousands of words in the English language, surely there are plenty of options for expressing myself (how did 1 word become a noun, a verb, an adjective and an adverb)?  Plus, the words themselves are less a concern than the impact they can have on those to whom I am speaking.

Choice phrases usually come with a sense of entitlement or a “screw you” attitude. The words don’t communicate respect to others (or to ourselves). When a society becomes absorbed with its own self-importance, it loses empathy and forgets to stand up for the weak and vulnerable. Am I glossing over someone’s need or being disrespectful?

Profanity is usually intended to be harsh, to pack a punch, to shock the listener. But life is already harsh. We all experience more than our share of vulnerabilities, insecurities, and wounds in the day to day. We are all in need of a little tenderness, compassion and gentleness. Am I causing more pain?

Richard Beck wrote “profanity functions as a psychological assault”(Journal of Psychology and Theology, 2009). And the more we’re exposed to it, the more tolerant we become of it. As a result, we can become more tolerant when the intent is to assault, demean or oppress a person or group of people, until the assault silently grows into more than just an assault on our sensibilities. Am I part of a bigger problem, and if so, how can I be part of a solution?

“As our language becomes more careless or sloppy, our thinking also grows sloppy” – Patricia Paddey

I’m a middle-aged Mom -I can’t afford to be careless or sloppy. My body is already breaking down and some days I worry about my mental state. I can’t be too sure how many years I have left before my kids put me in a home for the bewildered where I will make tissue roses and sing kum-bya. In the meantime, I have a responsibility as an adult and parent, still being of sound-ish body and mind, to lead by example. My kids already know I am far from perfect but I owe it to them to do better.  I owe it to others to do better. And I think I owe it to myself too. One carefully chosen word at a time!

As mentioned 500 words ago (sorry), I want words to build relationships. It’s not my job to judge others and I’m trusting I’ll be treated the same way.

I worked with Ann for over 2 years and we got to be pretty good friends…her language never improved…but we got to be pretty good friends.

***

This was supposed to be a 10 minute Monday post where I write for 10 minutes without editing … I confess I needed a bit more time… 🙂   And of course Ann* is a pseudonym.

 

10 Minute Monday: Rejection

Tags

blogs, family, humour, writing

My mother introduced me as her daughter, and then tacked on “the writer”. I was already anxious about an evening of “niceties” with people whose names I couldn’t recollect (while I stood in heels sucking my gut in). I’m sure the undertaker noticed my plastic grimace and my eyes shifting to bore holes in the back of my mother’s head. My immediate thoughts were:

• I’m not sure “writer” is the word you were looking for
• Why would you tag that on to the introduction – he didn’t ask
• This is really awkward. I feel like she’s trying to set us up…and we’re both married
• I met him at the last 2 funerals we had here, in the last 4 years. Same room, same décor, same awkward grin
• He just said “I’ll have to check it out”…but he never asked where he should go to “check it out”

On Friday I read a post entitled “If you’re a writer without a rejection letter, you’re doing something wrong”. If this hypothesis is true then either (a) I’m not a writer, or (b) I must be doing something wrong. Or (c) both.

I don’t have any rejection letters. But if I’m being honest, it’s probably because I haven’t sent out my writing. I did receive hate mail once from an anonymous stranger who kindly assumed I got knocked up and manipulated Hubby into taking me as his wife. That’s the short version of a very long, neatly-typed letter. I kept it because it was just so bizarre…but that has nothing to do with my writing.

I might have been rejected by my college newspaper. I submitted poetry under a pseudonym, which they incomprehensibly published. Once, they put in a note asking “Amadeus” to “stop by the office some time”. I was really excited…until my Mom piped up that they probably just wanted me to seek professional help. I’m sure she was joking, but it spooked me, and I never stopped by. I’m not even sure I submitted any more poetry. So I could have been rejected.

As far as blogging goes, I receive the rarest smattering of comments. The likes I receive in a day rarely go beyond 4. May I point out that none of those “likes” are my mother. My most popular posts relate to mid-life crisis jokes I pulled off the internet…and toilets. These topics, thankfully, are not related. And my busiest days are my contributions to the weekly photo challenges, with thoughtful quotes…written by real writers. (My first few Mud Hero posts were popular too but mostly because people were looking for my death announcement).

It’s the same story on FaceBook. I’m “friends” on FaceBook with a guy from high school. He just had surgery and wrote something cute about lying on the couch, watching t.v. while his amazing wife took care of him. After I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, I noticed he had 386 likes. I’m happy for him, but I personally don’t know 386 people, even if I were to draw up a list of names of friends, family members, co-workers, team members, and congregation members who know me by more than the title “the girl who sometimes plays the piano”.

What’s my point? I don’t know any more. I just starting typing and this is where we ended up. I’d love to say that the overwhelming evidence (or in this case, the lack of it) was never discouraging. To blow it off with an “I don’t give a crap” attitude. To write an inspiring speech for all the aspiring writers about following your dreams and climbing every mountain.

But that wouldn’t be me.

Am I going to stop writing unless or until someone pats me on the head and tells me I’m a “good” girl? No. Would I reject the odd “pity comment”? No. Do I have rejection letters? No. Can I call myself a writer? My mom has called me a lot of things in the past 40 years, (some of them not fit for publication; most of them spot on!), so if she wants to call me a “writer”, I guess I’d better just suck up the awkward and be thankful! She could call me much worse!

Happy Monday!

***

This has been a “10 Minute Monday” post (where I write about whatever I want for a minimum 10 minutes, no editing – mayhem, memories, maudlin mumblings, or  “mwa ha ha” moments.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Alphabet

Tags

black and white photography, black&white Photography, DP Challenge, Photo Challenge, photography, Weekly Photo Challenge, writing

Winter has (finally) arrived, bringing with it snow and arctic temperatures. OK, not quite, but with such a balmy start to the season, I’m spoiled, and the thought of venturing out with my camera when it’s almost -20 (with the wind chill) just makes me want to burrow under the covers even more. So I had to tackle this week’s photo challenge with stuff around the house.

“Let us never underestimate the power of a well-written letter.” – Jane Austen, Persuasion

To see more “Alphabets”, click here.

Ray Bradbury Writing Challenge 2

Tags

Fiction, Ray Bradbury, writing

Ray Bradbury, author of 11 novels, busted his writer’s block by creating lists of nouns — the basic building blocks of sentences, paragraphs, short stories, novels, flash fiction, memoir, and poems. I haven’t been writing as much lately – just busy with work and family. Earlier this week, I decided to give this a try again. I made my list of nouns and wrote this short fictional piece that included at least 5 of them.

***

The snow had melted and the green grass had grown up thick and lush, the kind that you want to pad around on in your bare feet. But the earth was still scarred where life had once been. It was as if it didn’t quite have the strength to grow, or it simply didn’t remember what it was doing before it had been rudely torn apart by man.

My heart felt the same way. There was life and growth in it still, but also this bare patch of nothingness where it had been rudely torn apart.

I watched the blades of grass being swept over by a strong wind but the earth itself lay still and silent. Waiting. Waiting but not in expectation of anything. It simply did not feel.

I did not feel. The starkness of that realization stung me. I did not feel.

And then I did feel. I felt a hot wind sweep through my soul, engulfing me, a wind of rebellion against not feeling. This is not who I am. I have always been compassionate, easily moved to tears. I have always embraced joy and vitality, breathing it in like the sweet fragrance of Spring. And I made a decision. Somehow I would plant something in the soil of my soul, and I would help it learn to grow.

Writing 201: Nana’s Hands

Tags

aging, blogging U, DP, DP Challenge, family, Grandparent, loss, poetry, writing

So still. Resting gently on the starched, white bed sheets. Her hands, almost blue, the skin paper thin and translucent, barely stretched across bone and ligament. Her hands, finger tips once nicked by sewing needles deftly weaving stitches in colourful patchwork wonders to swathe a newborn or shroud an invalid. Her hands, once calloused, fingernails caked with mud, tending vegetables in a patchwork of soil, or coated with sugar and flour and butter, a patchwork of dishes served to family and neighbours. Her hands, red and chapped from washing soiled bedding and soothing fevered brows, gently caring for aging relatives and growing children. Her hands, scarred but strong, competently filling heavy responsibilities on a farm, in a home. Her hands, young and supple, stroking the hands of her beautiful babies, marvelling at their size, reaching to caress the hand of the man she loves. Her hands, small and smooth reaching to move the checker across the game board, reaching for her doll in the night. Her hands, so small, fingernails like little pearls, resting gently on the starched, white bed sheets. So still.

***

The assignment today was to write a poem about fingers in a prose format.

The pen is mightier…

Tags

random thoughts, writing

“The pen is mightier than the sword”.

The expression may have been coined by English author Edward Bulwer-Lytton in 1839 for his play Richelieu, and it may be considered a “metonymic adage indicating that communication, or in some interpretations, administrative power, is a more effective tool than direct violence”. But can’t the written word itself be used as a weapon, not for change, but against one another?.

It’s been a long time since I received “hate mail”. In 1997, I received a letter in the mail with no return address and no signature. It was at least a year after my wedding announced was in the newspaper. The author simply wanted to express their condolences to Hubby on our marriage. They assumed I got married because I was pregnant and I will “never learn”. They concluded with an odd question – “Do I get married because I’m I love? – What’s love?”…

This time, it was an email. I suppose I could be justified in being outraged, but I am not. It may be because I know the author of the email, as opposed to a blank handwritten letter sent anonymously in the mail. (I have my suspicions as to who sent that letter but I prefer not to waste energy on casting assumptions or making aspersions). Instead, I feel sorry for the writers of these letters. I am sorry that this person feels I have wounded them so deeply. I’d like to make the relationship right, but I’m pretty sure that even if I apologized, it wouldn’t make a difference. The damage, real or imagined, has already been done.

I didn’t keep the email but I did keep the letter. Not because I want to be reminded of how horrible it made me feel, or angry that someone would assume Hubby only married me because I had somehow seduced him (now that part is hilarious!). I want the reminder that my pen, my keyboard, my mouth can all be a dangerous weapons. Our words can create noise and suffering. They can cause deep wounds and lasting scars. We need to think before we start swinging a sword.

I got “Verbified”!

Tags

blogs, humour, writing

It has finally happened – that humbling, joy-inducing affirmation that I don’t completely suck at writing another writer (a good writer) likes my scribbling enough to trust me to “write in her space”.  I am a guest blogger. And not just in any space – I’m hanging out today in “Mommyverb’s” space!

I love MommyVerbs! She writes humorous, “action-packed” and thought-provoking posts about turning being 40, and fabulous, family adventures, and life lessons! She strongly believes in intentionally and joyfully “engaging each day…one action word at a time”. She challenges me to reflect and ponder and wonder…Sometimes she has moved me to tears – tears of laughter or tears of sorrow. I’ve even sung Starship with her in the shower…well, figuratively. I appreciate her honesty and introspection on the “mountain-top days” and the “that could have gone better days” because she is committed to figuring it out one day a time! Isn’t that pretty much what we’re all trying to do?

So head over there and hang out (and check me hanging out in her space too)! Happy Wednesday!