Do you ever have one of those days when you want to write – you really do – but everything that comes out of you is sheer crap? I’m having one of those today.
On a happier note, I handed in what I consider another eight pages of utter drivel for my short story course today. Well, okay, maybe it’s not that bad. I hope it’s not. But I wasn’t allowed to polish it since it had to be a rough draft, so I certainly wasn’t happy with it.
It’ll at least be interesting to see if my professor sees the same things wrong with it as I do.
So unless I get a reprieve from this creative brain fart I’m having today, my NaNo wordcount is going to pot. I am so due for a weekend off – it’s been five weeks.
Maybe after 48 hours of solid sleep this weekend I’ll be back into the swing of things. Back in the saddle.
Back to being creative enough not to keep falling back on proverbs.
Or maybe I’ll feel better after a good night’s rest tonight. After all, tomorrow is another day.
So yesterday I was sitting in an unnamed coffee shop
with my friend John, and we were chatting over lunch. A couple of twentysomethings sat at the table next to us and proceeded to scratch their lottery tickets.
When John and I got up to leave, he commented that he needed his jacket cleaned soon – he works in the automotive-type industry and it is covered in grease. The man at the next table said, simply, “Baby shampoo.” We both looked at him and he explained: “You can get grease off clothes with baby shampoo. Oh and it costs $300 to ship a car from Vancouver to Toronto by train.” The latter was something John and I had been discussing earlier on in the conversation. We both thanked him for the information, like the polite Canadians we are, and left.
Since then I have thought about all the things we could have been talking about, and one conversation I had years ago with my ex sticks out in my memory.
Being a writer, sometimes I talk about my characters as though they’re real people. Just imagine what the eavesdropping couple would have made of this:
Me: So it turns out Helen is fooling around on Frank.
John: That bitch!
Me: I know, right? But I don’t want him to find out.
John: Because…
Me: Well, you know. He’s in jail. There’s just so much a guy can take.
John: True.
Me: So I’ve decided to kill her.
John: Huh. How?
Me: I can’t decide. I was hoping you’d help.
John: I’ll do what I can.
Me: I mean, I’ve thought about drowning her in the bathtub.
John: That’s a good one.
Me: Or I could just drop the hairdryer in with her.
John: And fry her…
Me: I don’t know though. It seems too convenient.
John: How about killing her in a car accident?
Me: She doesn’t drive, so that would mean killing someone else as well.
John: How about Martha!
Me: YES! Great idea.
You’ve got to wonder if the couple at the next table would have been quite as ready to make suggestions…
I’m in a unique, somewhat unenviable position of having a child who enjoys trick-or-treating but doesn’t eat – all of his meals are administered through a tube. So while he’s at school, I must either hide the candy or eat it.
Though I do my best to resist temptation while indulging in my second love (after my kids) of writing, as they say, resistance is futile. After all, what better way to pass the time whilst NaNoing than eat sweets?
Thank goodness for running around the mall doing Christmas shopping in December, eh?
It’s Movember again and time to raise awareness for men’s health issues. Last month we wore pink ribbons for breast cancer.
I find it strange: when I was a kid there were no colourful ribbons, nor were there people shaving or not shaving to make others pay attention to their cause.
Now I’m not knocking anyone who decides to put themselves or their adornments out there to attempt to raise money or simply let everyone know what they’re fighting for; far from it. In fact, it makes me feel bad that I don’t have the resources to help out everyone.
But that’s the thing. It’s because there are so many different causes that foundations have sprung up, that ribbons are being worn, etc. because every one of them wants to be noticed.
Were diseases just not talked about years ago? Was research played down? Or is it that horrible diseases are so prevalent now, disabling and killing off our populations that our governments can’t keep up with the demand, and so the public must find a way to pay for the fix themselves?
The logical, dispassionate side of me wonders if it is the earth’s way of depopulating and renewing itself. The paranoiac side of me wonders at the possibility that the governments have a hand in it… One way or another, it is natural selection – survival of the fittest.
But neither of these scenarios slow us down. We will always fight for what we believe in. Whether we are acting as survivalists or puppets, we can only do what we can to save those we love from the ravages of disease. I’ll be thinking of that, every time I see a ‘tache this month.
Good Saturday morning! I hope everyone is having a nice weekend, particularly those who don’t have to work. If you have a regular 9-5, you shouldn’t be working today, right? Then again…
I was reading the paper (it’s become a habit now, since I did my challenge) and was struck by an article in the entertainment section about Jared Leto and his loss of 30+ pounds for the sake of his role in the upcoming movie, “Dallas Buyers Club.” You can see his picture here. It’s really quite shocking.
Reading this lead me to think about what we do for our jobs. Sure there are some of us who flatly refuse to wander outside our job description, but at some point I think we’ve all been in a position where we’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty for what we do for a living. Some of us do it all the time.
My own job, as a stay-at-home mom is 24/7. You might say being on call all the time IS part of my job description, and it is. But at the same time, I didn’t go into it with the expectation that I was going to be in it alone.
His Majesty, for whom I slave night and day
And speaking of my ex, over the last ten years he has been working at a few different retail chains as manager. Budgets in these places always seem to be a concern, according to him, and he is constantly having to work overtime so as not to tax the budget by having to pay employees – he is on salary.
I’d be interested to hear what you do that is ‘above and beyond.’ Come on, toot your own horn. After all, it’s rare that we get any appreciation from all we do, isn’t it?
I had no idea that it was a ‘thing,’ but apparently, with senile dementia comes paranoia. As my mother ages I’m thinking more and more that I need to research the stages, before she goes through them.
Last night she told be that she had been talking to her sister, six years her senior, on the phone and that her sister is losing her mind. My mother loves to complain about anything, but when it comes to her siblings, nothing has ever been more delightful to her than being superior to them. Being an only child I can only assume that this is a result of early childhood bullying, or simply being told what to do, since my mother is the youngest of five.
Anyway, she was gleefully informing me about how her sister had related the same thing story times in the space of five minutes, and then the subject of my mother’s apartment came up. To backtrack a bit, before my mom moved to town, I lived in her apartment since I hadn’t found a place of my own. Her apartment came available on the market, so I bought it. Then when her old house sold, she bought my house and I moved out of her apartment the day she moved in. Confused yet? Just keep going.
She forgets that she came to visit me when I lived in her apartment. She swears up and down that she never saw the place before the day she moved in. When I tried to remind her last night, she not only denied it, she told me that I was the one who was losing my mind, not her – she’s obviously worried about it even if she won’t admit it.
What really got under my skin, and is worrying me, is that she accused me of saying she saw her apartment before she moved in just to make her think she is going crazy – like I’m doing it maliciously.
I’m getting close to the point where I’m going to have to move her into a place where she can have assisted living. Not a nursing home, necessarily, but a retirement home at least. She wants to move in with me, but I just can’t handle it. My children have to come first, as well as my own health. She is just too much work.
I’m just afraid if I wait too much longer, she’ll think I hate her. This paranoia thing is really scary.
The article in yesterday’s newspaper that caught my eye was about a community group which takes disabled adults (over age 16) on outings. The sentence in the article that sparked my interest in particular said, “Without our programs, some of these individuals would be staying at home so it helps reduce the risk of isolation for the parents and caregivers as well as the participants.” That got me thinking.
The first thing that comes to my mind when someone mentions ‘caregiver’s isolation’ is simply the fact that when they’re stuck at home caring for someone who is disabled, they just don’t go out. But it goes so far beyond that.
As a parent of disabled children I find it hard to have discussions with parents of “normal” children, because we have so little in common. Even people who aren’t parents of kids the same age as mine (for instance, if they’re grown up and moved out) have a hard time relating to me. Whether they assume because my kids aren’t like theirs, they can’t possibly have any of the same tendencies, or whether they’re afraid of being told that their problems can’t possibly be as bad as mine, I”m not sure. Maybe it’s both. Therefore, I try not to talk about myself much. When they are kind enough to ask me about myself, no matter how nonchalant I am about the way I live, telling anyone about my kids is a slow death towards being a conversation stopper. Occasionally they’ll mention a niece, or a neighbour who has a similar circumstance, or they’ll ask me questions about the health of my children, but when I’ve said all there is to say, if I don’t quickly find something other than the weather to talk about, (and it’s always up to me to find something, because no one knows quite where to go after being told about my kids) then it’s game over. In fact, come to think of it, it shuts people up about as fast as telling a stranger I’m writing a novel. Think about that for a while.
Having said all that, I’ve been invited out tonight with my next door neighbour and six of her closest friends for dinner, none of whom I have met before. As long as I can keep the conversation away from my kids, I should be fine. But of course someone is bound to ask me what I do for a living…
My point is, the isolation parents and caregivers of the disabled experience isn’t necessarily as clear-cut as it sounds. So next time you come across a single, stay-at-home mom of disabled children, or a novelist for that matter, don’t be afraid to look beyond what’s apparent.
Okay. I’m going to describe what happened to me today as best I can. I drew a diagram to help out.
So yesterday – I have to start there – I was on my paper route, waiting for cars to pass so I could cross the street. (That’s me, the stick figure. In real life I wear clothes when I deliver the paper.) To my right (near the red box) the mailman, who I rarely see, was waiting as well, to go back to his van (the poorly drawn grey thing with yellow windows and black wheels.) He waved and I waved back. So I got across and came down the adjacent street and met one of my customers who was getting into his (orange) car. We spoke for a moment – weather’s getting colder, that sort of thing. Before I could cross the street again, I had to wait for the blue pickup truck to pull into the driveway (as shown. Yes, that is supposed to be a pickup truck. I never claimed to be an artist.) I then proceeded on my merry way.
Here’s where it gets freaky.
Today, I’m standing in the exact same place, waiting to cross the street when the mailman pulls up and gets out of his van. I wave, he waves back. We sign (he’s Deaf) about the coincidence of having met in the same place two days in a row. That was weird, I think to myself. So I go down the next street and there’s my customer is getting out of his car. We exchange pleasantries – it’s even colder today than yesterday, etc. etc. I cross the street and guess who is backing out of his driveway… the guy in the blue pickup. I go along my merry way, thinking, what the hell?
What is it, opposite day today? I’m sorta glad I didn’t win the lottery yesterday…
Ah, the innocent narcissism of a child. Not to be confused with the pathological sickness found in some adults, we are born with a strong sense of self-preservation, and it’s not until we grow that we realize our own needs aren’t all there are. I wonder where we cross over. Is it the first time we see our own mother cry? Somewhere, somehow, compassion becomes a part of our psyche, and that’s where the narcissism of childhood ends.
However, on days like today nothing matters to my son, Alex, except Alex. My baby turns thirteen years old today and he’s extremely proud of himself. It’s delightful to me to see him bask in his own glow. It was beyond my wildest dreams when he was born that he’d ever reach this milestone, and so I’m happy to make his every wish come true.
Alex ‘n’ Me
Four foot two, and sixty pounds, he’s a dynamo of enthusiasm and love for everyone around him. In his mind he is as small as his frail physique; as much as his physical age is telling him he needs independence, he still comes to mom for cuddles when something hurts. He retains that childish innocence – that me me me mindset, and yet he’ll pat me lovingly on the cheek if I say I have a headache.
I have no idea how long his childishness will last… I have no idea what to expect of tomorrow, but I do know one thing: Today, nothing matters but my baby.
My local newspaper – the one I deliver – isn’t published on Sundays, so I instead get the Toronto Sun. I had a hard time finding anything that inspired me until I came across an actual writing prompt, so I figured what the hell.
The prompt encourages people to enter onto the Sun’s facebook page the story of a memorable hotel stay. I couldn’t decide which one I should write about, so I’ll do them all. Considering how many rooms I’ve stayed in, there aren’t that many that are worth mentioning. After all, how memorable is one room over another in most cases?
There was my weekend with my ex – a rare ‘escape-the-kids’ weekend – when we got a theme room at the Fireside Inn in Kingston, Ontario. The theme itself wasn’t the best part however. What really tickled my fancy was the shower for two, complete with two shower heads, each with its own temperature control. I wish I could say I need one of those at home, but alas… the ex is still an ex.
The only really bad experience I can remember was in Kurashiki, Japan. Since I was headed out to a concert the night I was there, I decided not to rent a lamp… So I went back to the room with my corner-store bought spaghetti dinner and ate in the dark. The next morning when I took a shower, I found the bathtub to be so creaky I hurried as fast as I could through my shower. It would have been a short but embarrassing trip from room 305 to room 205 in that state of undress.
At the Grand Prince Hotel in Hiroshima, on the other hand, I was quite impressed with the bathroom in my room. Not only was the ceramic floor heated, but there was some sort of heating system behind the mirror as well, so there was a spot at just my height (I’m short and stereotypically so are Japanese people) that stayed clear from the steam of the shower. Very impressive. The view from my room was also out of this world.
Sunrise, Hiroshima
The last and second most impressive stay I’ve had in a hotel was at the Chateau Montebello in Montebello, Quebec. (Click the link.) It was really just up the street from where I lived at the time, and I needed a weekend away. My ex agreed to look after the kids so I took the cheapest room in the place, just for myself, for two nights. I was surprised to find a note from the management on the second day to say they’d made a mistake and double booked my room so they were moving me out. Paint a picture of yourself of an outraged, overworked mother, wearing the cheapest of clothing, carrying her luggage half in plastic shopping bags, standing at the front desk of a resort hotel that has entertained Prime Ministers and Presidents, (G-7 Summit) practically jumping up and down at the unfairness of it all. Got that? Okay. Now paint for yourself a picture of a woman luxuriating in the Pierre Elliot Trudeau suite (see the Deluxe River View Room) sitting back on a king sized bed gazing out the window at exquisitely manicured gardens, and beyond, a gorgeous view of the Ottawa River, and you’ve got my wonderful stay in a room for which I paid only a fraction of the price it was worth.
So, there you have it. I encourage you to click the links. The only one I don’t have a link for is the one in Kurashiki – I don’t remember the name of the place, but I’m sure I’d recognize it if I ever go back. The town itself is beautiful, so I would encourage anyone to visit. Just check to make sure you don’t have to rent a lamp when you stay there and you should be safe.
lindaghill.com 
