Category: Uncategorized

Favorite Things

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Inspired by Tammy’s post, here are my top five things I’d bring to a Favorite Things Party to share around a fire.

Archer and Olive notebooks. I even researched paper weight on the quest for the perfect notebook. Trying different brands, this one is my favorite. Size B5, but currently working in an A5 and A6. Definitely a splurge, but worth it.

Sanders Dark Chocolate Sea Salt Caramels. My kids claim to dislike dark chocolate. I bought a tub at Costco several years ago, not worried they’d eat them. Of course, on the occasion I wanted one, I found the jar more than halfway empty. When I buy them, I take them to work. There’s a cabinet in my office for teachers where I keep a stash of chocolate for them. Non-dark chocolate eaters have converted to the dark (chocolate) side. I imagine these will make delicious adult-level s’mores to pair with a nice glass of red wine.

Corral boots. I’m a native Texan and I only got my first pair of boots two years ago on a trip to Ft. Worth. These are comfortable enough to wear all day. Surprisingly, they don’t make my legs or feet sweat when I wear them through hot summer days. I like wearing them with shorts or dresses. Sugar skulls are a bonus.

Palmer’s lip balm. I have it everywhere: my purse, work bag, nightstand, desk drawer. It’s oval shaped and slides on well with no stickiness.

Stickers! I’m a child of the 80s and had a sticker collection. I bought a kids sticker subscription from Pipsticks for my daughter’s tenth birthday. I promised a full year. When the year ended, I kept it for myself. I plan to cancel, but I get fun snail mail once a month in shiny holographic envelopes. What’s not to love? I re-purposed the envelopes and used the stickers to make buttons I give away to kids at school. You can have your sticker and wear it, too. Anyone want to trade?

Memory Holding Spaces

I’m sitting under twinkle lights in the backyard. Night’s warmth removed its cloak and a slightly chilly breeze reminds me we’re in the sweet spot of transition. That time where winter dodges spring and spring is more than ready for its turn to play.

I love the cozy mood of twinkle lights. We put some up several years ago. One strand draped from one tree and around the patio’s perimeter. A few weeks later, I found the cord dangling in more than one place. One strand, several cords dangling. On closer inspection, they were gnawed. Could the puppy jump high enough to get them?

No, it wasn’t the puppy. Too small.

Squirrels.

We replaced them with a longer strand with a thicker cord. Chew proof. We liked them so much, we measured from patio to tree, to second tree, to third tree, and pack to the patio. They hung low enough to cast a cozy glow over the entire backyard any time of year, even in the hot, sticky, throes of summer, cicadas dizzying us with their clatter as we sip drinks that don’t stay cold long, sweaty glasses holding sweet sips we sometimes press up to our foreheads for relief.

I’m sitting under the twinkle lights, around an empty fire pit that keeps us warm those fall evenings when we go out to roast marshmallows after we’ve holed ourselves up inside, protecting us from summer nights—still, in October—with sweaty glasses holding watered down drinks. We’ve grown tired of it and mosquito bites, and thick, suffocating air, and those cicadas. Their songs are on repeat, can they please stop?

I sit under the twinkle lights where 21 years ago we hung Ethan’s first birthday piñata, where parents helped their littles pull a string and candy sprinkled the yard. Kids bent over to pick some up and life was ripe with good expectations of the unknown parenting trek we all joined.

I sit under the twinkle lights where Sophia’s trampoline once stood. We sat on it. Jumped on it. Squealed. Laughed. It squeaked rhythmically, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again. We held hands and jumped in circles.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie! I chanted, making up a new word.

“Again, Mammy-Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

On I went, jumping so hard my thighs burned and inevitably my calf muscles started cramping.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

Miss Bonnie next door waves from her patio. Water drips from hanging baskets holding her geraniums. “You’re going to get lots of jumping out of that trampoline. You be sure to jump with her as much as you can. I can tell you’re having fun.”

I sit under the twinkle lights where my husband set up the new adirondak chairs for my 50th birthday party. The trampoline came down. My own piñata hung over the same tree Ethan’s did years ago. This time, mini bottles of rum and tequila with candy for the teens sprinkled the yard.

The bottles are for the adults!

The next morning, Sophia asks about the trampoline. The last time she used it was on her eleventh birthday two years earlier, sprinkler underneath, gangly pre-teens jumping and vying for space. “That’s my trampoline and I want it back,” she huffs.

Here I sit, under the twinkle lights. Four empty chairs join me in a circle. Paint chips off them in bits since we didn’t do anything to protect them from the elements. The trampoline’s circle is still here, but it’s been replaced with mulch, the fire pit, and five chairs, our new outdoor gathering space.

I hear a piñata crack. Candy falls and little hands reach for treats. Gone now, Miss Bonnie’s water spray drenches her plants. We hold hands and jump in a circle. Springs squeak, bouncing us up, down, up, and down again.

Wahoo, wahoo, wahoozie!

“Again, Mammy Pa-tammy, launch me up to the sky!”

It’s in the Saying

“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”

Barbara Kingsolver

I (still) don’t have a door to close. I now have a spare room to call my own. My craft room. My “writing” room. Except I’m still perched at the end of the table in the kitchen. My writing cabinet holds the essentials: a caddy full of my favorite writing sticks, my current notebook, a planner, some books on creativity, cookbooks, mixology books, wine, and wine glasses.

I haven’t figured out what I want to say. Yet. I’m opening myself up to whatever story wants to be told as long as I’m brave enough to tell it. Julia Cameron says I need ask for guidance, and I do, but I must be blind to it. I’m a looks-too-hard type of person, making things harder than they need to be. I also like simplicity, so maybe it’s too simple because I thrive on complexity.

However, isn’t simple…complex? I think there’s a depth there few people are able to extract from effectively, a shallow looking pool that somehow becomes an abyss. With no one looking over my shoulder, I let whatever wants to be said, be said. Some days it’s in the saying where the figuring out happens.

Despite some changes to routines, I signed up for year four of this writing challenge. My only expectation is to show up every day. My morning pages have faltered from daily to weekends, but this will bump me back in the right direction. With spring teasing us, I’ve been sitting in the backyard under the twinkle lights, taking my pen and notebook with me, a sweater for the chill that unexpectedly curls itself around my shoulder. Half finished books on writing are opening up again. My mind is opening up again.

I’m also looking at other routines that have seemed to have slipped away. I re-assess. Are these things I need to continue doing? It’s okay to let some go and replace them with something new. Do they need replacing? I’m working on decluttering my space, but I also think decluttering my mind and responsibilities opens me up to welcome whatever comes my way. It’s acceptable to leave space wide open for a while. Why the rush to re-clutter?

This fourth year of slicing, I’ll focus on figuring out what to say. I’ll close the door behind me and enter the backyard in the evenings, before days get too hot and mosquitos feast on me. Pup will chew on mulch while sitting at my feet. I’ll start a cozy fire, careful not to accidentally pick up a lizard dwelling in the pile of wood. I’ll open my notebook and start writing whatever needs to be said.

Did I Ask Too Much?: U2 @ Sphere Las Vegas

Did I disappoint you? Leave a bad taste in your mouth?

Yes, yes you did, but I don’t know who to blame. A bad taste in my mouth is an understatement. I was struck dumb. Numb. Speechless. What happened? I followed all of the directions. When my tickets didn’t load to my app, I contacted the ticket company two days before the event. I didn’t yell at anyone. I didn’t get drunk. I didn’t smoke something I shouldn’t. There was no tattoo I’d later regret. No zip lining in frustration from the Stratosphere.

We walked back to the hotel stopping for a drink along the way, but I didn’t want that either. I began drafting my email to customer service while we waited to order. Later, I got into my pajamas, tossed my sparkly tank over the top of a chair, worn for four concert-less hours. New boots didn’t have time to rub blisters on my feet.

I woke up at my normal Your-Brain-Is-Now-Wide-Awake time of 3:00-ish a.m., confirming it with a groggy one-eyed peek at the red lighted digital clock. I must have slept hard, I felt the morning ready to greet me. Ahh, different time zone, remember? It’s only 1:00. We’d just be getting back had we been there.

I flop back into bed feeling around for my eye pillow. I place it over my eyes and breathe deeply. Its soothing lavender scent is long gone. My brain props itself on an elbow wanting to talk. I need sleep! It presses with questions.

Can I change my flight? Will I get my money back? I mean, I did get tickets. But they didn’t work! Is E available to pick me up from the airport? I can find someone for a ride or just get an Uber. Are there tickets for Friday’s show or are they sold out? It doesn’t hurt to try. I’m too close not to go.

With or without you…

I’m hearing Bono sing. I can’t live, with or without you…

And I can’t live without trying, Bono!

Last year I was number 3,000 something in an online queue to snag a ticket for an interview with Brene Brown after he released his autobiography. I missed that one too. Tickets sold out in less than five minutes at a venue the size of a gnat compared to Sphere.

It could work out. Try it when the world wakes up. I mother myself back to sleep. Shush my brain. Go back to sleep, you can’t do anything until later. It’s fine. Weren’t you okay with not going in the first place?

Well, yeah, but that was before I bought tickets.

You’ve got to get yourself together, you’ve got stuck in a moment and you can’t get out of it…

Shhh…go back to sleep. Try again, later in the morning.

It’s just a moment, this time will pass…

Stuck in a Moment: U2 @ Sphere-Las Vegas

I’ve waited most of my life to see my favorite band. I’ve never been much of a concert go-er, but this one topped my list of things to do for a fulfilling life. My funcle lives in Las Vegas, no need to hunt down hotel bargains. However, once concert ticket x 3 is out of our budget since we also want a summer vacation. Plus meals, plus airline tickets…a solo trip is easier. A little.

I downloaded several ticket apps. Checked prices, sections, looked at videos people posted, how can I not make this happen? It’s Sphere, a planet-building emerging from the desert, with U2 inside. Ticket prices seemed to drop the day of the concert. If I get there, wait until the day of the concert, maybe…

My husband and 14 year old gave me a “meh,” when I asked if they wanted to go. I didn’t need much convincing to go without them. I booked a flight, made arrangements to hang out with my uncle, who is more like my older brother, and decided to wait on the ticket. People resell tickets all the time. If I don’t make it, there are plenty of other places and events to see.

…but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

I arrived in Vegas on Tuesday, December 6th to attend the concert on Wednesday. I scheduled my return flight for Friday. I figured a mid-week concert ticket would be a easier to snag than one happening over the weekend. This was before I knew they extended their residency through the first weekend in March. And so goes the world of not being up to par with concerts.

Not being much of a risk-taker, and certainly not one who gambles, I gambled anyway and bought two tickets four days early. My uncle would go with me. Who goes to a concert alone? Worse, what if they’re sold out? My youngest brother is also a fan, and I kept him and my sisters updated on this trip since I booked my flight in October. We contemplated a sibling outing so we could rock out together. It didn’t work. Like taking family pictures, it’s hard to get everyone in the same frame at the same time.

My OOTD

I kept them posted on everything in real time, but told them I’d enjoy the concert once we were there. I prioritized presence, but everything leading up to it didn’t count.

It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away…

The Portal

A beautiful night, anyway. We hike to the venue and figure out where to enter. I don’t know where to look. Do we take pictures in front of the massive orb or get in line and wait until after the concert? We decide to get in line. My heart wants to jump out of my body and I’m sixteen year old giddy. So many people! We’re in a portal about to board a mother ship to take (us) out of this place.

Tickets are ready and an usher directs us to another line even though it isn’t our assigned section. Scan. Scan. Scan. Scan. Small talk with people around us.

“We’ve waited for…”

“This is our second time…”

“We came all the way from…”

My barcodes are ready and I hold my phone up to the reader. The usher asks me to scan the second one. We try again.

ACCESS DENIED

“A lot of people are having this issue. Go to the service desk and they’ll get you in.” The usher continues scanning everyone else. Smiling at our line mates, we head to the desk to wait in another line. There’s more small talk with a guy who flew in a few hours earlier form Monterrey, Mexico. People are getting scanned or their tickets are getting printed.

Sleight of hand and twist of fate

Two young ladies make their way to the counter. “Are there tickets left?” The person helping us informs them it’s sold out. The lines have thinned. The deep U2 instrumental tones welcoming everyone have become louder as people found their seats. It starts soon.

My phone has stopped pinging.

I ping my sisters even though they’re probably already in bed.

I’m at a place called vertigo…it’s everything I wish I didn’t know…

Tuesday, February 20, 2024

I’m Okay

“I’m okay.”

That usually means something else isn’t. It always means something else isn’t okay.

E. called twice on Saturday. S. hollered through the bathroom door, over running water from the shower. “E needs for you to call as soon as you’re done! He already called twice.” We’d been messaging back and forth. He probably wants to pick something up on the way here. Ice cream, or maybe my favorite coffee.

I finished without rushing and returned his call.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay…what happened?”

“Yeah, you know that yield sign where you have to crank your head all the way back and it’s a stupid traffic flow design? The brand-new Mini-Cooper in front of me didn’t go when it was clear. We’re exchanging information now, I’ll be there in a bit.”

He sounded calm. That’s what made me nervous. When he got home, I took a look. License plate was bent. Otherwise, no major damage. Fender bender minus the bent fender. I looked at the pictures of the other car, walked into the house, and discussed the next steps, grateful it wasn’t worse.

Tuesday, April 4, 2023

Where to now?

Year three. Day thirty-two. (I also posted on Tuesday, February 28th.) I knew I’d hit the inevitable wall, writer’s block is real. It’s ugly. It’s really ugly. But I got past it. So where do I go now?

I’ll take a little break (at least until Tuesday) and go back and read more posts. I remind myself it’s okay to return to past posts and comment. They’re new to me if I haven’t read them. There’s so much good writing out there.

I have some posts saved as mentor texts, suggestions for writing structures, techniques people used, stories that stayed with me. I make a plan, more of a mental note, to stretch myself during National Poetry month. There’s more than just free-verse, but I like to take the easy way out. I found one I’m eager to try and many more I’ve never encountered. It’s time I play a little harder.

Do I join a writer’s group? Create my own? Might as well give it a try. I’m a bit nervous about that since I was a member of a book club years ago, The Book Club With No Name. If that’s any indication of how that turned out, my hesitation is warranted.

Year three, you’ve been good to me. Thank you to everyone here, TWT for creating this amazing space, and to Chris Margocs of Horizon 51, who brought me along for my first ride three years ago.

I stocked my Writing Pantry with mini-bottles of bubbly. They’ve been chilling in the fridge. Summer’s flirting around here, so off I go, a toast to many more Slices!

Friday, March 31, 2023

SOLSC Glossary of Terms

Thursday, March 30, 2023

Blurking: looking for new blogs to follow, often by looking at lists of blogs other people follow, especially when posting comments on a Slice

EMS: early morning Slicer

Mindbloggling: those great writers who use crazy awesome techniques and make you think about deep issues. These posts require several readings.

PMS: post-morning Slicer

Seasoned Slicer: Slicers with more than five years of Slicing experience. They are excellent mentors, lead workshops, suggest new structures, are members of other writing groups, suggest resources, encourage us all, and are great writers

Slicer Butt: numb sensation in the glutes from sitting for long periods of time (especially on weekends and spring break) writing, reading, and commenting every day for a full month

Slicerism: terms Slicers use such as Slice, SOL, and “Oops, I accidentally put two spaces between the period at the end of my teaser and my permalink, my bad!”

Writerly Craftivity: the ability to seamlessly weave artsy projects into writing such as quilting, bird watching, knitting, dancing, music, art, gardening, opening a bottle of vodka…

Writertude: looking on the bright side of choosing random topics for writing such as allergies, pickles, or rats. Often helpful when hitting the wall (or an empty Writing Pantry)

Writing Pantry: where you go in your mind’s eye to pull techniques, tips, structures, words, images, for a new piece of writing

Non-Road Trip

It was a good day for a road trip. I didn’t take one, but it was a good day for one. Where would I go? Another book shop? A hike. An hour long drive on a hilly, winding road, dotted with bluebonnets to get to Sweet Berry Farms for strawberry picking and homemade ice cream? Around here, summer already flirts with spring and it’s only been a week. Would I go to a new to me barbecue joint, those that make the best-of lists I tend to ignore? Do I go north or south or east or west?

Instead, I stay put because it’s Sunday. I clean out one corner of the garage, emptying out a box of old books I’m finally able to part with, except for a yearbook. I thumb through it. Do I keep it? The clock reminds me it’s time to pick up my teen from our neighborhood pool. “Can you give K a ride home?”

I take the short drive to drop of the friend. Pull into a tidier garage, shut the door behind me, and get on with my Sunday, because there isn’t much of it left. It was a good day for a road trip if Monday didn’t hover nearby.

Sunday, March 26, 2023

Bench Warmer

Saturday, March 25, 2023

I figured out I was a bench warmer as a third grader, before I knew there was a term for it. My parents allowed me to join Little Dribblers, our local kid’s basketball organization. All my friends joined, and they were the cool kids. I don’t remember how I ever got to the practices, I probably walked to most of them, but my parents weren’t always in the stands cheering me on. Usually, they dropped me off, picked me up, and that was that. Typical 80’s kid doing her own thing. Their work schedules often conflicted with extracurricular activities and there were two other younger kids at home. Later it would become three.

During practice I tried to keep up, watching the others with envy as their basketballs obeyed and bounced back to their fingertips for another forceful tap. I spent most of my time chasing my basketball. If a coach intercepted it and passed it back to me, I moved out of the way so it wouldn’t hit me in the head. I like to think I have a metal plate in my head that attracts moving objects. It’s still there and it still works. I was never good at catching.

My dad watched some games, but I rarely played. I learned that you have to be good to play, otherwise you sit and wait for the team to win. Or lose. Sometimes I’d go in and it seemed that just as I got warmed up, a buzzer went off or a whistle blew and there was a switcharoo. Back to the bench. Cheer the team from there.

The following year, the sign up form went home again. I looked at it, but I knew better. I wouldn’t bother. We didn’t have a smooth driveway with a basketball goal for me to practice. I didn’t get any better. I wanted to play because my friend played, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as they did. I preferred to spend my time in different ways. After all, if I was going to sit on a bench, I’d rather sit there reading a book, not wishing to dribble basketball.