Author: auntygreens

Grrr! I HATE it when people make assumptions.

Why does everything have to come down to gender and or race?

BLARG!

I care about people but I am really getting tired of dealing with other people’s sensitive natures while my own cares and concerns are just… trampled on. I know, I know. I say it alot.

I was really offended by the selfishness of someone I know who just… expects that all his needs will be served on a platter. He had resources given to him that others don’t have enough of and he complained about not having more. And when I spoke about it, as inappropriate that this person came at ME about it, (not to me.  AT me.) when I have nothing to do with it, it was taken as “crap, this is going to be a woman screaming about sexual harassment.”

Oh, just BULL. I am a grown woman. Not a child. How about getting to know someone before you start putting words in their mouth? It was about SELFISHNESS.

Don’t ask for equality and expect special treatment. It applies to me just as much as the next person.

I am really offended that a bunch of “males” feel they have to apologize for accidentally swearing in front of me. They’ve been TRAINED to think like that. That they can’t be human or themselves, just because I happen to be in the room. And I am aware that not all males swear. Just… no one asked me. No one got to know me. Just assumptions everywhere on who I am and what I’m about.

And if you have to ask, try a bit of an experiment. If you are around someone who drops the F-bomb a lot, mentally substitute the word “smurf” for it. Say those same phrases back. You’ll crack up laughing and will never be the same again.

I got real problems to deal with here. Real ones that are the same as everyone else’s. How to survive, how to find work, how to grow my business, and the sheer NUMBER of doors that get closed on me every damned day. I don’t sit here and scream about it because of my age, gender, or yeah, my race. I was raised different. Love and violence. I am klutzy, so I get treated like a child half the time. As though I am not paying enough attention to my limbs when it’s a genetic condition or severe scar tissue from childhood, which I won’t write about the reasons on that, but you can hazard a guess.

I want to be happy. Being pissed all the time is a waste of my life. It makes about as much sense as spending money on heat in the winter with an open window.  I know this. And this stupid crap is eating at my brain again. Even with the return to meditation and my knitting. Which, by the way, I’ve gotten the other sleeve 99% done. I was an inch short when I pulled it off the loom and now I have to figure on how to fix that. But, hey. Part of the process, right? I’ve started on one of the front panels.

I guess part of me is really irritated by all of this because I sense a possible budding friendship. Maybe. And it’s been impacted. By assumptions. Those damned assumptions that mess everything up and you never get that back.

Every time assumptions get made, everyone involved gets cheated.  Sighs.  People read into stuff that gets said or they overhear half a sentence and think they know what’s going on, when really?  It’s none of their business in the first place.

I have to remind myself that I am not in control of the world and I actually prefer it that way.  Because that very statement is the reason I actually wound up writing the Novo series.  I had a character, Eloise, in my cop series that I wanted to kill off because I made her so nasty.  I used every trick to show why someone would attack her.  Personality traits that grate on the nerves.  Like overly nosy neighbors or people who think they are “caring” but really, just are trying to correct you to only their way of thinking or style of dress.

I know this has really gotten under my skin.  Someone I love very much is gone from my life at the moment.  He complains about being forced into the Jones-lifestyle by his family.  But he just chose it for himself.  I don’t know if he realizes it or not.  It isn’t my place.  But, with everything this person knows about me and what was done to me, and we actually intimately understand these issues in each other’s pasts, he basically just asked me to sit there and keep my mouth shut.  Asked me to be something I am not until basically, I explode into “being me.”  He thinks it’s funny.  I miss this person so much but he really isn’t being the person I love at the moment.  It’s his choice.  I won’t make it for him.  But I can’t be around someone who says he loves me for who I am and then… asks me, in that pleading way, not to be that.

I think it basically comes down to grief and loss.  Again.  I feel the void in my life, keenly.  And, sensing another budding friendship of someone who might understand me, accept me for who I am, which is very rare for anyone, seeing it get messed up because of a third party’s assumptions and misunderstandings is more than I care to deal with at the moment.

SMURF.

SMURF SMURF.

smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf. smurf.

Maybe I will kill Eloise off afterall…

I had something wonderful happen today.

After the “I don’t know how to deal with this nastiness” that I wrote about yesterday, my co-worker made up for it in spades today. This co-worker is my polar opposite. He said “thank you for helping me.” It wasn’t gratitude, which makes me grit my teeth like I’ve chewed on tin foil. It was a genuine, heartfelt “thanks.” Because he knows how hard his time at work would be without the help. He didn’t exactly have the skills he needed and unless you are specifically in this particular office, someone outside of it wouldn’t know that.

I said thank you back. This person helped restore some of my faith in humanity. That there are people out there that DO care about their jobs. He is one of them. Even tho we are complete polar opposites. I see how he puts aside anything that he is doing to help- help any employee that comes through the door. Even if what he does is a colossal whatever. I like that about this person. We talk about what decisions and I show him easier, better, faster ways of getting the task done without causing more work for everyone involved. He gets frustrated, because he doesn’t see it at first. But he always listens. Applies most of what I show him. And he is having an easier time, each and every day. More time to get up and do other stuff and help others. He has to learn Excel. Which I am advanced at and he is just beginning. He said thanks for many things. Including how I write out instructions and how I do, do, do, then make him do, do do.

I think this is helping me step away from all that nastiness from before. It may be baby steps, but it’s part of why I said, thank you, back to him. Because he is open and so caring. It’s been a little teeth gritting, of my own, in this place, but most of the people I have had to assist in getting things back on track took offense at first, and have, slowly, come to understand that they aren’t being yelled at. That we are raising some awareness and helping everyone along the way. Some even come to joke with me about it, as annoying as it is. I can see there is an easing of tension. I like that, too. It’s what should have happened at the last place, but the people involved there had NO desire to stop running on the squeaky mouse wheel, refused to make decisions, made a lot of fuss over things that really didn’t need fussing about, made mountains out of nothing on a frequent, daily basis, and didn’t really appreciate anyone around them. I remember, more than once, being yelled at for saying “thank you for getting me that information.”

So, I think part of how I am going to deal with Ms. Know-It-All-Nasty-Who-Knew-Me-For-All-Of-15-Hours is to say thank you, correct my own behavior that may mirror hers, but not beat myself up. I’m allowed to have flaws and I’m allowed to be angry that I was dumped on so badly, being held to a higher standard no one else was and doing the work of 6 people while others got to just walk out of the office for the day whenever they felt like it. Yeah. I’m allowed to be pissed about that. And if Ms. K-blah-blah can’t see that, shouldering that burden on myself is just… stupid. Not saying it doesn’t hurt on some level or that I shouldn’t feel anything. I’m not a rock, after all.

I will just have to be more clear that patience, kindness, caring, and a willingness to help does NOT mean I am a doormat. If some third party, I should say fourth, since Blah-blah is already a 3rd party, listens to that garbage, well, I really don’t want to be around that person anyway.

It was very, very nice to have someone say “Thank you” today.

And I am halfway done with my sweater’s second sleeve…

I wish, in some ways, I could stop starting these as “It’s been an interesting week.”  But, as always, it has been.

My sister and I made some headbands for masks for our dear friend who is a nurse at a nursing home.  I wanted to share.

We deliberately chose white fabric, so it could be bleached.  (That was my sister’s idea.  Not mine.)  I chose the 4 buttons.  Every design I have seen is with 2 buttons, but that doesn’t really do what I wanted, which was to avoid ear chaffing completely, not just the backs.  We came up with 2 designs to start.  One- just a flat bar with 2 buttons, because there could be a lot of headgear and putting a headband in on top of that wouldn’t do well.  Also, for people with shorter hair.  Two is about 15 inches, with a  7 inch elastic band,  with 2 buttons on each side of the head.  That way, the elastic would go above and below the ear, hopefully completely.  I’m coming up with a design that goes around a pony tail or bun.  We also deliberately picked non-stretchy fabric.  Those fall apart or loose their elasticity in harsher detergents;  we wanted something a little more durable that could stand up to daily bleaching and washing.

Sighs… I had a massive scare at a local store.  I am allergic to cleaners.  Severely allergic.  Especially to bleach.  With our new laws here, go in one door and out another, everyone is forced to walk in a pattern.  The store was using a hand pressure washer to spray their carts clean.  Indoors and right next to (within a foot) the aisle to exit the building.  I barely made it outside without hacking my brains out.  Every other store around here has been carefully washing with cleaner and paper towels.  I have been assured by the store that there is an alternate exit, and they will consider putting up signage for people like me.  Woot.

I have been dealing with a personal issue that I can’t seem to let go of.  The nastiness of a person who replaced me at a position I was at.  I won’t say when or where.  VERY judgemental person, who took a lot of things personal because I wouldn’t kiss her feet.  As though she is the only person in the world who knows what asbergers is or has had to deal with it.  There was a lot more along that line, such as talking down to people like she is the “only person” who has ever taken in other people.  As I was training this person, I was trying to let her know there wouldn’t be a lot of assistance with more than half of the position, because it was a system I designed to deal with a massload of inconsistencies and requirements.  No one else would know it.  She took it solely as me touting my horn.  While I am proud of what I designed, she completely missed the point.  That she would have no assistance and no one would be able to answer her questions.  On top of that, she thinks I am cruel because I recommended that a new employee be let go.  For his own sake.  He didn’t have enough skills needed to do the job correctly and he felt like such a failure.  Every day.  It was a critical role for the business, and while he did have some very exceptional skills and was an absolute sweetheart to customers, the rest of his lack of ability crippled the entire facility.  I was, apparently, the bad guy, because this new person couldn’t learn the basics of the software he needed to do his position, not didn’t want to- couldn’t,  and because I didn’t sit with him all day, every day, I was being mean.  I had spoken with this trainee, many times.  I felt bad that he did feel like such a failure and I was helpless to stop that from happening.  But, again, I am mean for wanting the suffering of all involved to end.  No one should feel that way at work and I knew his situation wouldn’t change.  Unfortunately, I do believe this nasty replacement person, who knew me for all of 15 hours, total, has had a negative public impact on my life.  I’m not sure what I should do about that because I have no desire to sink to her level.

On a happier note, I have started an indoor veggie garden.  I have 15 pots of seeds started, two trees, and two new bushes.  My greenhouse project from last summer failed abysmally.  I also learned that I can, indeed, fix a sewing machine.  Said project above was put on hold, and we thought indefinitely, but it turns out, only a couple of hours.  I have 5 quilts that have been on hold for years because I never had the money to fix the machine correctly.  I may… may… at some point, buy a serger, too.  We’ll see.  But at the very least, I can get restarted on a beautiful double wedding ring, once spring chores are done.

Even better news, the city where I live will let me have a beehive.  They laxed on it, because there are enough people who want to do it.  Including my neighbor, whose grandfather taught him beekeeping, the old fashioned way.  Happy dance!  I have my first hive, that I will be putting together this weekend.  Once the land on the top of my hill is cleared out, I will be putting the hive up.  JOY!!!

And, I’ve edited a total of 63 pages out of Willow.  It’s been a painstaking process, but I am so much happier with the results.

It’s been… odd. I’ve been editing Willow for a couple of months now.

1) I can’t believe it’s taking me this long.
2) I can’t believe how bad my writing got while I was “Away From Writing As an Author” and why the hell I thought it was good enough to publish last October.

I’ve reread parts of Beth and Ash. Laughed my butt silly, especially with what’s been going on. Then… Willow. I wanted to turn the Novo series a little more serious, but damn. And long. Twice as long as Beth. I still need to trim 200 pages out. It’s been very slow going. I keep getting sucked into the book, which is good. But not. Very boring in parts. And I know I shouldn’t say that, being you know, the author and having a need to promote, not demote, my books.

Yesterday, I trimmed out 11 pages. Two or three words from sentences at a time. Brain dead by the time I was done.

I’m liking the changes, slow as they’ve been. Much more graphic about life in Taliville. Willow’s life. Coming up with more phrases used in the city. Tying in to both the first four books and the next four. I don’t want to slap Willow silly anymore. Not like I did when I went to publish in November.

I’m liking the change in direction for Ridge Lake. The war zone’s taking shape. I’m setting up for Hawthorne, next book, which is more than half written and very, very graphic. Tightening this novel up, I am rediscovering my sense of humor. Getting back in touch with actively defining. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s basically being scrupulously honest with the self. More than “hey, I want chocolate for dinner.”

I love my mother. Period. She and I didn’t agree on many aspects of life. It’s part of my story with Willow. There was a point, before Mom passed, that she began to understand. It did, unfortunately, come too late. I am grateful for the little bit she was able to come, to meet me halfway. That there was a glimmer of understanding that allowed her to accept massive differences in our personalities for the first time. Through all our difficulties, I never stopped loving her. Hated her, at times. But I always understood there were things about me that she could never understand because she hadn’t lived my life. I never walked away from her, not even when I had every reason in the world to do so. Because I love my mother. Period. And that was worth the hurt, anger, disappointment, and grief. By being honest with myself, understanding those decisions I made, it left the door open. When that day finally came, I remember standing in our kitchen, both of us bawling our eyes out, and I finally, finally felt like I had my mother back. It was one of the greatest gifts she ever gave me. It had nothing to do with her cancer. It had nothing to do with her dying, because we both knew her chance of survival was small. It had every thing to do with her love for me and my love for her. Period.

While many of you are having a hard time with what is going on right now, and this is not a snub, many have had to deal with these issues for years. There comes a point where you decide: this is not how I want to live. This is.

Kinda like how you don’t really want to piss off a 60 year old waitress from a 24-7 truck stop. She’s seen it all and has little tolerance for bs, but she’s still, somewhere deep inside, got a heart of gold.

It’s the same message I say every day. Live. Love. Breathe. Decide. Because living your life like you’re waiting to die isn’t living. Going balls out in the last week, sure, you’ve hit your bucket list. Because you know it’s the bucket list. Why not live life that way, before the bucket even has a chance to be seen? Love like you’ve got every dream still left in your heart. Dream as though you are fourteen, not eighty-seven. Tell the people you love that you love. Not from a disease or an ending. As a daily gift of pure energy. Connect. Wear the clothes you want. Go after the knowledge and education and profession you want. Because living like you’re waiting to die isn’t living.

So, today, among all the craziness going on, I had something very, very odd happen today. Someone I met online, not on FB, I had enough in common with, funny wise, to prefer the chat system in FB instead of where we were. This was months ago. I told him what I was about, what I was looking for in meeting/chatting with people, and that my FB page was for my writing/business. I wanted someone to share puns with. He wound up dumping about his life and ex. He did not appreciate the insight I gave, even though he asked for advice.

Today, after MONTHS of not hearing from this person, I get basically, a crank and run message about how we are different people and he didn’t like what I said when he dumped his issues basically in my lap, and wouldn’t buy his game, when I never asked him to do the same and then unfriended.

K. Whatever. I’d like to say just whatever, but that really irritated me.

So confused and I have enough other stuff to worry about. I think we all do. It scares me that this came out of nowhere. I mean, literally, NO WHERE. Weeks of silence and then… WTF?

Tonight, I spent a lovely evening in deep meditation. While that may seem boring to some, my heart is lifted.

I don’t share what I meditate about very often. The details have meaning for me. I know they wouldn’t necessarily make sense to someone else.

I feel a genuine need to help what is going on in our world today. Not to go out and combat the virus, like I have a shield and sword. I’m not a doctor, either.

What I can do is hope that this will change lives for the betterment of all mankind, worldkind, actually. It probably won’t. I write apocalyptic, so… yeah. Probably not. And this isn’t a plug for my books or games. I do know that it will change the lives for some.

It will make some people more selfish. It will make some people more aware of their surroundings. It will make some people connect in more loving ways to those oh so important connections.  It will make some people get divorced.  Others, married.

One of the questions I always ask with these things, whether its disease for many or cancer for one, check please, is: Is this the life you want to end your days with? How you’ve been living?

I don’t mean money or riches.

I mean everything else.

Is it that crucial that you put pressure on your co-workers or employees to perform above threshhold? Are you doing the same tasks, repeatedly, and getting no where? Are all the metrix running and compiling really that important to actually managing your business, or is it simply habit reinforcing reaction, instead of keeping an eye out for day-to-day as well as new opportunity? Do you even know how much time and effort you are wasting doing all that extra? If you throttle back, just a scooch, would your employees be happier and in return, give your customers a better experience? Would you keep employees longer? Is there more room for personalities to find an evening point, instead of a breaking point?

That may sound preachy. Shrugs. In some ways, it is. In others, not. I don’t mean lower expectations. I actually mean change and raise them.

Here’s another one.

Do you love someone but really can’t stand them? Are you spending your days biting your tongue? Is it better for you both to get distance? To allow each party to be who they are, because neither is going to change, and stop fighting and bickering? Is it more disloyal, if you do love that person, actually love them and want the best for them, to stay and beat each other’s brains with words of hurt and humiliation?

Is it that important that people remain silent? (Don’t get ahead of me here.) I found there are some personality types I don’t get along well with. Mostly those who are arrogant instead of self-confident. The other main: those who are full of denial of others. The two in combination are enough to make my head fly off. One of my current co-workers is body-loud. He drives me insane. Constant movement, mouth-clicking, sighing, tapping pencils and feet, and generally getting underfoot because I have to use his workstation to complete my work for the day due to the software on it. It doesn’t mean I am there to train him. I can deal with this personality type on a short term basis. Not long term. I find myself wanting to shout. He has been rather rude to me on more than one occasion. Patience and politeness count a lot with me. Some wouldn’t see that or agree with that statement. It’s the kind of patience and the kind of politeness I am talking about. There’s more than one of each.

If I had to work with this person long term, I would have to have a frank conversation with him, and our boss, and find some sort of solution. Because I can’t work in that environment and I am just as important. It’s not that I want to hurt anyone. For now, I deliberately wear headphones and listen to music that basically drowns him out. I changed my focus onto something more pleasant.  A simple conversation would, hopefully, make his life easier, as well as my own.  Because he is bored and doesn’t have enough to hold his attention.  It isn’t really my place to find him something to do.  I may have to start that, soon, even with the short term.  He doesn’t realize how rude he is being, by distracting me from being able to do the very things that buy him time for retraining, or the comments he makes that his wife is a very naggy person.  Is it really important to focus on that?  No.  Not for “end of days.”  But it is for day-to-day.  Because I am making mistakes at work because of it and I need to improve.

I’m reminded that there were days I was forced to sit in silence, smile benignly, bored out of my skull, just to be “polite” and respectful. It’s the wrong kind of polite. How is that respectful? It certainly isn’t to me. And, in a lot of ways, rather rude to the other person.

Do you scream at your teenager to get him to do chores for you? Or force him or her to come to the living area because your friend happen to drop by and dance attendance on you both?  Why is it so important that he or she is dragged out of their day, other than a quick hi, for your sake.  And, if he did that, instead of getting homework done, you’d probably be pissed.

If your spouse did that to you, when you had an afternoon of plans, maybe not fully set in stone, or your boss forced you to cancel dinner, how would you feel? Respected? Cherished? Cared about?

Is that really how you want to be living?

I had a conversation recently, one I’ve mentioned in this blog, that I finally do have a comfort zone. I was told to get out of it. Because of how I choose to live my life and how that person, while important to me, is struggling with trying to fit what he’s been told to want in with who he is. Those two things don’t fit nicely together.  I don’t see what’s wrong with having a comfort zone if it makes life better?  I don’t mean hiding out somewhere in fear or being stubborn about not leaving the house, ever.  I mean, being happy and comfortable, where you are.  I’m not robbing a liquor store.  I’m not playing beat ’em up with a street full of mailboxes.  It may be boring, but the stuff surrounding this virus?  Shrugs.  That’s part of what I study.  Herbalism.  How to take care of myself.  How to do some pretty neat things with basic chemistry, and I don’t mean making meth or extacy in my basement.

That if I wasn’t allergic to wool, wearing a wool sweater would help keep me healthier because it’s got natural antimicrobials.  How cool is that?  It may be boring to some, but hey, I have been looking into other yarns for my sweaters just on that fact alone.  And if you think that doesn’t mean much, you go ask a fashion-ficionado their opinion on Merino wool versus angora or cashmere.  I may not be a girly-girl or a shop-a-holic but I can get into some sweater factoids that might just change my mind on which skein of yarn I pick up next.  And that may make some of the local businesses around here happy.  Economy, chemistry, health.  All from a sweater.  You may not find that all that and a bag of chips, but I’m of the mind that’s pretty damn cool.  Or, er, warm.  So to speak.  All from taking control of my life.  And I get a funky, personal sweater out of that, too.  How many of you out there are some sort of yarn-crafter?  Oh, just maybe one or two.

With all the fear going on right now, the best thing I can say is to take control and re-create your comfort zone. Find out what makes you happy. If you can’t be happy, what makes you happier? You can’t control the chaos. Nor should you try. You can only control yourself, and sometimes, not even then.

We live in a world where Paris was bombed and set on fire. NYC and 9/11. A war in the middle east that seems to go on forever. H1N1.  All the shootings in our schools and churches and mosques and synagogues.  Economic depression like the 29 stock market crash and the 1930’s afterwards.

For those of us old enough to remember the 60’s or stories about the 60’s, we don’t have folk music like that anymore. We have music about 9/11. I see there is a generation out there, now, no longer willing to tolerate bullying behavior.

Our world is changing.

Don’t you think it’s worth learning the lesson we in the U.S. learned on 9/11, about the phone calls from the people on the planes, to give voice to love? To choose to call the people closest to us? To educate ourselves on how we affect others? To know what it’s like to be isolated and how to continue to reach out? We still have our phones, our email, skype, and if we are very careful, we can go back to writing hard letters.

It’s enough to control our own fears, not let them get the better of us, and just reach out and say to the person next to us: you are not alone. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.

To take this time where we need to be more conscious of all, possibly be alone for a while, and get to know ourselves again? To appreciate what is around us, people, laughter, stories, our pets and gardens. To know there was history before us that survived these things. Not everyone did. We, as a people, have learned from that history. We can tap into that knowledge, from handwashing to taking probiotics to improve our immune systems to how we treat others.

I take comfort that I can still meditate. That I am growing and healing beyond yesterday. That, even with such a pandemic going on, I am still on course with my own heart and the journey I need to be on.  That I am aware of current day and it is neither more or less important than the other aspects of my life. That I can feel peace. That I am not willing to be hurt and forced into the life I used to live, not by anyone, no matter what they mean to me. That I can look up into the sky and find beauty. That I can use the pain of my youth to get me through this current health concern we all share, and leave supplies I can live without to those who can’t. That I am listening to the same songs that lift my heart into joy.

Bless you all.  May you find peace and a quiet space to launch into a better tomorrow.

I have to laugh right now.

I’ve been home from work for… oh, about an hour. I’m working on a new game called Survival: Geese. Yes, you read that correctly.

This is day 5 of design.  The rules are done, except for final play testing.  It’s the board and packaging I am… well… you’ll see.

If you’ve seen Survival: Heaps or Survival: Chili, then you know my drawing skills aren’t, say, even the worms under Jana’s sneakers. That’s okay. When you are putting together survivalist games, I don’t think neatness counts. Or, perhaps, straight lines or perspectives.

This game came to me one morning as I was waking. It hits me like that, sometimes. Okay, most times. I know. The whole fireworks goin’ off sort of thing.

I have the movie Aristocats going through my head. The part where the geese, and kittens, are walking down a dirt trail. If you have no idea what I am talking about, here’s the clip. It’s the music that goes with the high step that is on auto-loop. In my mind. And it’s not making it any easier to draw. I’m laughing too much.

I don’t have too many more images to complete. About six. But I’ve had to redo the geese several times. When I first had a concept for the game package, it was to have three geese sort of in a Charlie’s Angels pose. And now, I have the Goose Butt High Step Swing added to it.

Oh, my.

I really worry about myself sometimes…

Ok.  That peace of mind didn’t last, but it was a wonderful vaca.

My sister laughed at me because I couldn’t write about murder, death, and mayhem. She suggested that I use the peace to think like a serial killer.

I laughed my butt off, but she was sort of right. They really don’t think like normal people. And, surprisingly, I did get some work done over the past three days.

Not enough, however. Drama hit. I don’t know which I dislike more: people who use their titles like clubs, people who don’t listen to years of experience, people who change half-laid plans when they aren’t being clear themselves and then wonder why there’s an issue, or politics. I’m just glad there wasn’t any name dropping to go with all that unnecessary fluff.

Why, oh why, do I stop listening to my instincts? I’ve had negative experiences with ___ in the past. Quite rude, in fact, and I gave up completely. A person from ___ reached out to me last year, was friendly, and I thought, why not give it another chance? At the moment, I regret not listening to my gut. And I’m stuck. Well, not really, but it feels that way. I’ve put out politics myself and more than once. But damn. I regret.

What was cool, this week, though, when I did have an issue, with a different ___, someone did reach out and gave me very clear info that allowed me to fix a massive problem. It may have seemed like a nothing thing to the other person at the time, but it meant the world to me.

I am using the one to cool the burn of the other and I dislike that even more. I’ve often said that using a positive to fill the hole of a negative is no where near as good as using a positive to boost a positive.

I’m finding that I love to knit. I do miss quilting and will maybe go back to it long enough to finish up some projects. Right now, I am looking at my murder boards, planning out the crimes, changing details based on evidence research, watching cop shows, and working on the sleeve to my sweater.

The comment about the calmness of serial killers keeps coming back to me. Some memories. Unpleasant, when my detachment slips a bit, but hey, I’d be more worried if they weren’t.

When I started writing the Novo series, Eli was “the bad guy.”  He still is. Now that I am about to publish book 5, I think simply viewing him from Ridge Lake eyes isn’t quite enough. I have spent some time in his head, how he sees the world at large.  How he thinks.  What motivates the character.  It isn’t fame.  It isn’t money, even though he has a lot of it.  It is simply his joy of power.

The point of Novo, was, believe it or not, that in any horrific situation, people can still find love. It may seem cheesecakey.  It was written that way on purpose. But with all the horrific things I’ve lived through, and see the scars on my own skin, the ghosts of broken bones and black eyes, I still love. I still have a sense of humor. It’s those “what if’s” that mean so much to me. Even if it does come across as silly.

To be honest, right now, after the unpleasant taste in my mouth from dealing with ____ (and I feel like telling the entire lot that I am backing out due to their snobbery and rudeness), I think it’s important that I continue to hang on to those “what if’s.” You haven’t fully met the characters in Hawthorne yet. And you haven’t fully seen what I do to poor Duncan LaBrelle. But what if you met the love of your life after he has been shot multiple times, or has the issues Neal does, or feel like Myles does and he’s just waiting around to die because the love of a daughter is great but feels like there’s nothing else left?

I love kids. Don’t get me wrong. But where is it written, anywhere, that says that we give up or have to give up being ourselves simply for offspring?  That we stop being simply because there is a birth.  My mom gave up things most people wouldn’t. Believe me, I am grateful in ways for that, that isn’t even funny. It would make your hair stand on end, just from my earliest memory alone of watching someone put a gun to her head.

I also remember getting angry at her on more than one occasion. She stopped trying. She stopped seeing herself as a human being. She made everything into her kids. Her clothes, food, her very existence.  Everything. And in some very bad ways, conveyed to everyone around her that she was unimportant.  I had to clean up that mess, time after time after time.  And before anyone comes at me about “not being a parent,” my kids have passed and I have taken care of more than a hundred people, including two teenagers with jackasses for biological parents.

After Mom passed, one of her former coworkers found out there wasn’t a funeral. “Typical,” he had snorted. “She remained aloof, right until the end.” Fortunately, Mom’s best friend was there to put a stop to it and explained that Mom didn’t want my father finding out and causing problems. Shut the co-worker’s mouth pretty fast. It was that every thing became about us, my sisters and I. We weren’t allowed to love Mom, in a lot of ways. She wanted us to survive without her. It will forever hurt.

There’s people I know, right now, facing the empty nest problem and are replacing their children with other children, just so they don’t have to feel alone and empty. It sickens me. I can even hear the words now: “No, I am expanding my family.” When I see the oldest, the one about to leave the nest, being repeatedly ignored and dismissed.

Hurts to see it.  Being blown off by your parents, for any reason, sucks.  Especially when they stop listening.  I don’t care how old or young those involved are.  It sucks.

It’s not my drama but I got sucked into it as an unwitting participant. Just like I got sucked into business politics by not listening to my instincts. I feel helpless by both.  I have to snort, too, because dealing with that stuff or getting dragged into it shouldn’t be anyone’s “comfort zone,” and it was mine for years.  Now that I’ve stepped back, I find it vomitous.

So I am sitting at my murder boards, and knitting. Just one more form of meditation. In the end, I will have 2 new stories and an awesome sweater.

I think, if I were to die tomorrow, is this really what I would have wanted my last week on earth to be like?  I have asked myself that question numerous times.  Because I’ve nearly died numerous times.  Enough that I am comfortable with that thought.  The answer is: no.  I can’t help but feel sorry for people who have to live by a title or what their child is doing.  Because they don’t see what they can be.  And I don’t mean those Eli’s of the world.

I want more out of life than a sweater.  At the same time, I don’t.  ‘Cause I think it’s cool for anyone to make a sweater.  I don’t want it to be a refuge.  It’s occasionally turned into one.  As sick as this may sound, taken out of context, I don’t want my murder boards to turn into a refuge, either.  I want to be able to write and knit and quilt for the joy of doing so.  Not for a title.  I don’t want to be used to settle someone else’s political internal issues.  Not to keep a sick relationship in check and not in someone else’s work-business.  That’s not why I’m here and I certainly don’t find it fun.  I want to be able to turn around and say, WTF?  How did I get that sweater made, or be completely overwhelmed by having five books in hard copy, or see the awesome new cover Jana’s made, or watch my jealous cat blink twice that I’ve actually handed him my cell phone with a brand new app moving a fish that he can paw at, or sit with my sister giggling over children’s books.  THAT is life.  My life.

It’s not fancy or glamorous.  It’s sweet and fulfilling, even if I am surrounded by evidence boards and crimes and plot points.  It’s my sweater, my sister, my cats, my books…

Ok. I am not sure I have ever run into this particular problem before.

I am too at peace to write about murder.

Scratches head.

At the end of the most violent time in my life, I used to sit on the edge of my best friend’s torn up, twin sized bed, with his sheet half off the mattress, just listening to him play guitar.

There was peace, joy, harmony, and intimacy in those moments. It was there that I first found that there are others like me- those who speak without talking. Believe it or not, with being a writer.

He knew what I had been through. Not the particulars. He knew some, because he had been through similar. Not all. And he made sure to tell me that. That there were experiences that he would never understand. He couldn’t.

In those moments, something deep inside me was touched. A light that I have carried and sheltered, no matter where I have been, no matter what has been happening, no matter how depressed or bitter I have become. That nameless place has always been and I feel resonance when that light comes to join me in the world.

The love of my life has been gone for a long time. He is another that touched that light.  Aidrian brought that light to my surface and set my world on fire. Since his passing, there have been brief moments of this feeling, but none have lasted longer than a day. Until about four years ago.

It has been a very painful re-awakening. That is what I learned from Aidrian, all those years ago. That love is painful. To be aware of the world. To feel.  It is not, however, anything to be afraid of.  It is to be embraced and cherished.

Very recently, due to encountering someone so similar to my ex, I decided to spend the majority of my time in deep meditation. No, not medication. Meditation.

In doing so, I have found a sort of acceptance and comfort. This has outted  different from other times when I have delved deep. I thought, at first, it would be the same: a simple refuge from pain and misery that would be waiting for when I was strong enough to pick it up again.

Instead, this time, I have found answers. The capacity to let go. A step beyond forgiveness or resignedness or closure. I know this feeling will fade. It should. Very few people can feel this all the time. A part, though, a part will always remain with me now, like those moments perched on my friend’s bed or listening to Aidrian sing me to sleep.

There is a point in meditation where you feel connected to all and feel healthy, green, glowing energy rushing through every pore, skin and soul. Some call this kundalini. It can come from a variety of sources. It has happened for me a time or two, over the years, and I have been drained by its flash of appearance and exhalation.

When it happened this time… again, I was not expecting it. It was not what I was searching for. In its wake, however, I feel the same peace I did when sitting on my friend’s bed. Not tired, like a well-used balloon. Peace. I have answers to doubts and questions that have sat inside me for nearly two decades. Not complete. Complete enough. Complete enough that my ex’s vicious words about my lacks are a distant memory and will stay that way. I have some of my old confidence back and not as ego. As that shelf over the black pit; as that silent voice that says “this is me.”  This is me.  This is me.  This IS ME.  I have no need to shrink or second guess.  I have no need to make myself into a mouse when I know myself to be a lion, simply because another feels the need to tame, cut, slay, and defeat another in order to feel superior.  I have no need to even voice those phrases.  It is simply: This is ME.

I have been listening to Chris Klafford’s rendition of John Lennon’s Imagine, over and over, with other riffs of music that echo that light further into my current awareness, the ones that make my hair stand on end.

How can I possibly write about murder, death, mayhem, assault, starvation, and greed, when faced with the awesome power of peace and connectiveness?

I will enjoy this, for however long it lasts, not grateful because even that would destroy this delicious sense of harmony, but standing inside the fifth note of soul…

I started Smashed Potatoes as a book, actually. It was originally called Living with Terminal Cancer. My surviving my mother and her disease. It got me thinking about a lot. This blog, for one.

If you research on how to deal with grief, loneliness, and sadness online, you will find generic self-help. The same tips that just about everyone gives. I know, because, even with my psychology-driven family and years of intensive therapy, I was looking for something “different.”

My faith is, well, mine. It belongs to me. I add to it as I see what makes sense. I can’t say to anyone: Go find God. Pray to an Angel. Take peyote and go on a spirit quest. Read the Koran. It’s up to the person to start that journey, or restart it, and that isn’t for me to make that first step for someone else. It won’t mean the same.

My immediate family is spiritual, of a sort. But not what I would call “religious.” Philosophy, yes. I have had an extensive exposure to it. I can’t say that is any more pleasant or palatable than dealing with my Roman Catholic, Vatican I, Grandmother who was raised in a time and culture to which very few could relate.

She had her own maid as a child. Her Gods, to be blunt, were her faith (which I don’t deny anyone, actually, as long as it isn’t shoved down my throat), Society, and Fashion. And she sacrificed a lot to those gods. Well, the second two more than the first. Acceptance of others was not her wheelhouse and thought that critiquing someone with diabetes on their weight by saying “you would be such a pretty girl if you just lost a hundred pounds” was being charitable.

A lot of people have asked me over the years how I survived what I have.

The answer is: I just did. And it was a lot worse than I will ever describe to anyone. Because the little bit that I did made my own therapist, who had extensive background in my sorts of issues, puke. Literally puke.

There are choices in life that I should never have been put in the position to make, but I am not grieved by making them. Learning how to make those decisions is probably the most important thing I’ve ever accomplished because it’s helped me deal with more grief and loss than I realize. If you see that as a negative, well, it isn’t meant as one. It certainly sounds like a negative.

What I find frustrating is that, when I meet people who have been in a similar situation as myself, the anger expressed is so broad, so vicious, its actually shocking to me. Women who have been raped by men “hate all men.” Men who have been beaten or emotionally emasculated by women “hate all women.”

I can’t live that way. Because hate wins and the disease wins. I can hate specific people. Hate specific actions. But not as a broad category. To me, that’s like saying: I hate all brunettes or I hate all people who eat bagels.

When you look into that abyss in someone else, that yuck that makes a sicko do deplorable things to another, at least when I did, I saw a difference. Between me and the disease. Right as it was happening. Most people can’t and the horror assumes them. I’m not saying I wasn’t horrified. I was. A part, though, as those awful things were happening, stayed silent and observant. That *I* am not those awful things.

I lost a lot of friends when I refused to buy into their hatred of another gender. I can’t. I don’t believe in gangbangs. Sexual or emotional. I don’t believe in humiliation. I don’t have a sense or need to control the world anymore.

I believe in being direct. Good or bad. If I love someone, that love goes directly TO that person. If I have a problem with someone, that discussion goes directly TO that person. I do believe in leveling the playing field, and I haven’t been so kind to myself on that matter. I also have no need to dissect the ways and means of why I like pancakes.

There is no magic pill. I got where I am because of determination and a spine. And telling my psychology-driven family to basically stick it. You can buy into theory, you can read all the self-help books you want. Spend a lifetime in therapy. I’m not actually knocking those things. Those are part of seeking a better place in life. It’s that people forget that the very “thing” that helped you survive “awful” in the first place is the same thing that will keep your disease going or will, eventually, help you become human again.

There will always be things from my past that I see now. There is no pill that will stop that. There is no refuge from when that internal nightmare comes back and bites me.

That’s the point of Smashed Potatoes. There is no “normal.”

I am a very private person. Very.  I am an introvert, and these days, that is tantamount to saying “I am a serial killer.” And while I do get the joke that I write murder mysteries and pretend I am a serial killer, I know, from therapy, that I am not.

I decided to put Smashed Potatoes out there so that people who have social anxiety or have been through the horrid things I have can see that someone is willing to break that silence.

Show, on a day-to-day basis, even tho I don’t put out a daily, that there is NO NORMAL. There will be what others call “set backs.” There will be days where getting out of bed is a gigantic effort and days where seeing what’s been accomplished all to the good will send you back to bed. There will be days where the world awes you and days where you feel like you can take on a task list that would knock other people to the ground.

It’s what you choose. I could choose to live my entire life based around the abuse. Some reading these blogs would say I do, and I would, in some cases, agree with that. I don’t hate men or women. What my day to day consists of is remaining human. Not a machine. Not “logic” math. Not placid. Human. I decided that there were aspects of personality I didn’t care for and to steer clear of those. Because we make driving rules for the squirrels in the road. We make driving rules for the deer in the road. But we shouldn’t make driving rules for the elephants in the road, just because they are huge and seemingly unmovable. We shouldn’t make squirrels and deer into elephants.

This is how I cope.  How I choose to live.  I am seeking the same thing I did years ago.  Laughter.  Love.  A few things I won’t put out in public.

My ex has his own horror stories about me.  We wouldn’t be “Ex’s” to each other, otherwise.  He did admit, at the end, that he had deliberately chased away my friends, had done some of the things he had because they didn’t reflect well on him, damaged many of my things on purpose for the same reason, and that he had blamed me for many things I had nothing to do with.  Including his hatred of women, which was, not surprisingly, generated by his sisters and mother.  While I had understood those things throughout our relationship, again, I should never have been put in the place to fix them for him, as though he deserved the magic wand and I, for some reason, didn’t.

My own family, who lived with my ex and I, rarely ever saw what he was doing.  I was blamed by my family for most of it.  That I should be grateful that someone at least loved me, with all my faults and flaws.  It was nearly 11 years before the eyes opened.  And when that happened, the understanding that came forth  was … almost a slap in the face.  A quiet “I see.”  Not even an “I’m sorry for treating you so badly when you were trying to talk to me about how to get help or get out.”  The rest was slow in coming, but there was support for a while.

Spine.  Decision.  Acceptance.  Acceptance of my Self and hanging on, tooth and nail, to knowing the emotional bruises were, in fact, quite real.  And letting go of those, as I can, when I can.  To not deny that I have that knowledge.  To not judge everyone by that same stick, but not to excuse those who are, either. 

Today, I chose to write this out.  And to take the grey out of my hair.  Just because.  For no other reason that I used to put a skunk stripe on one side, years ago, and wore a dog collar and high heels and comfy jeans and leotards.  I think I’ll have pancakes for breakfast.