Okay, so here’s the deal: My ex moved three hours’ drive out of town a couple of years ago. His job requires him to work way too much, and so he can’t see the kids every other weekend like he’s supposed to. Add to this the fact that he doesn’t want to drive 12 hours every weekend that he does have them, so he moves into my house and I have to move out. At my cost. As my mother so eloquently put it, I have to pay to leave my own home. When their dad does take them to his place (actually, only one of them because he doesn’t have room for both) he expects me to drive half way to meet him. At my cost.
From the time he had the kids last, to the time he has them next, I will have had them for 5 weeks (four weekends). My dilemma is this: do I start drinking wine now? And if so, should I try to have any of the 20 bottles I have in my basement left by the time I get another weekend off (at my cost)? Or should I just throw up my hands and drink the lot?
My life seriously fucking sucks sometimes.
Gotta love it when the school calls to say your kid is missing. That apparently the last person to see him, spotted him outside 45 minutes ago in his jacket and with his backpack. And this from an acting temporary principal who, to his credit, sounded legitimately nervous when he apologized for losing my son. He, then, sounded a bit relieved when I told him I could contact the miscreant via cell phone. Which I did. He’s back at school now.
That he’s an Autistic 20 year old makes things difficult in regards to disciplinary actions. But hey, rules are rules. He’s probably facing the consequences as I write this.
Thank god for cell phones.
Are you ever so stunned by the things people do – so taken off-guard – that you don’t say anything?
Yesterday I went to the grocery store to buy some of my favourite pasta and arugula salad from the deli counter. I stood there being ignored for a while by the two ladies behind the counter and was about to give up when a young guy in a baseball cap and t-shirt, with nothing to indicate that he worked there, walked behind the glass-fronted display and asked me if he could help me. Since the ladies didn’t kick him out, I assumed he did in fact work there so I asked for a medium. He scooped my salad into the container with a plastic serving spoon, which was all fine, but then when he saw there were bits of arugula hanging over the side, he shoved them in with his bare hand and put the lid on.
And I didn’t say anything.
Now as I sit here enjoying my questionably diseased salad I feel as though the time has come to get my word in edgewise…
If I turn up dead of the plague, you’ll know who to blame.
A creative writing teacher once told me to be careful about diagnosing my characters. Be sure, she said, that you know exactly what you’re talking about before you do. In that particular case I was writing about a woman with OCD – something I strongly suspect my son to be afflicted with, though he has never been diagnosed.
I can say with every bit of authority that my professor’s advice is valid, having seen an episode of Law and Order: SVU entitled Bullseye, in which they included a character who had “Noonan’s Syndrome.” I was enraged. The show went about explaining the character’s mental retardation by passing it off with a diagnosis the writers quite obviously didn’t research. Yes, some of the people with Noonan’s Syndrome are mentally delayed. My youngest son is one of them. But through the extensive research I did when my son was a baby, in order to find out what his life might be like, I met some fantastic people with university degrees who were inflicted with the same genetic disease, which is most often characterized by its physical symptoms. Not its mental ones.
There are many ways to piss off a reader by not thoroughly researching an element in a work of fiction. The more emotionally driven the subject, the more it will affect the audience.
Have you ever been enraged over an author’s lack of research? I doubt there are many of us who haven’t, at some point or another.
I hate the feeling that my goodwill and compassion is being taken advantage of. Without any word of a lie, as much of the time I spend looking after myself, equal to or more time is spent on looking after everyone else. I’m always the first one to say, “don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.” And so I take on everyone else’s burdens. I have a hard time delegating. Especially when I can do most of the things that need to be done faster and more efficiently than those around me can.
I’m exhausted. Both physically and mentally. My frozen shoulder won’t let me sleep during the 5 hours I night I manage to be in bed. The pain is inhuman. When I am awake I’m being pulled in a thousand directions at once: have you done this for me yet? Have you called this doctor for him? That doctor for her? Can you come with me to this or that appointment? Sorry, I’m too busy to help you. Maybe next month… You want the money I owe you? Fuck you. This is what I listen to every day. And yeah, I allow it. But the truth is, I’m the only one who CAN do three quarters of what I do. It’s why I don’t have a job. Pfft. Like I sit around watching soaps all day.
And then everyone wonders why I go away on vacation alone.
I need a vacation. Again.
My A-Z Challenge this year contains posts about writing adult content in fiction – you will not find any adult fiction within the parameters of the challenge, except for illustration purposes.
People are going to hate me for this, but I gotta say it. The “controversy” all started with the “iconic” scene in 50 Shades of Grey where *gasp* Christian Grey removed a tampon from Ana’s down there before he mounted her. And women all over the world tittered or threw up. What. The. Fuck.
Oh but it’s so sickening! they cry. To remove a foreign object from the place a man is going to stick his dick -so what?! Is your blood diseased? Are you not clean down there? If not you might want to reconsider those tampons in the first place, ‘coz it ain’t getting any better! And guys – feeling uneasy about the idea of fucking her during her period? Consider this: get her pregnant and your kid’s comin’ outta that same hole with even MORE blood — head-first! Is that sick or what? If you can’t handle the anatomy, get the hell out of the twat!
And grow the fuck up already!
The Daily Post asks us to write about ” Food for the Soul (and the Stomach)”.
I have a love/hate relationship with food. I love it, it hates me. Or so it seems. Conditioned from an early age that it’s of the utmost importance to have an eighteen inch waist (thanks Mom) I’ve been struggling with my waistline since I was a teenager. I would eat all the time if I could. But I can’t. My low metabolism doesn’t do me any favours either. As far as I’m concerned, food bites.
Nah, food for my soul is language. Words. They float through my mind, calorie free and I breathe them back out onto the page. Yes, okay, sometimes they resemble vomit more than the whisper of a breath, but that’s what polishing is for, right?
Tell us about your favorite meal, either to eat or to prepare. Does it just taste great, or does it have other associations? – the daily post
Though I’m also very fond of Japanese, my favourite meal is English. British English, in particular. (You may notice my spelling of the word “favourite.”) I like to prepare it in the form of fiction; the longer it takes to make, the better. For me there’s nothing better than the smorgasbord of a novel, laid out on a vast table of white and just waiting to be devoured. In one sitting, if it’s delicious enough. I strive to be a master chef, though there are a few masters to whose work I shall never live up.
Words satisfy my hunger for knowledge and for passion; they fill the tastebuds of my emotions with joy.
Oh, and wine is good too.
The Daily Post asks: Have you got a code you live by? What are the principles or set of values you actively apply in your life?
You get out of life what you put into it. Effort equals reward, right? Yeah, sometimes. Sometimes we put in a whole lot of effort and get fuck all back. But you live and you learn. It’s by making mistakes that we learn our biggest lessons.
It’s an adage kind of night, obviously.
I need wine.
Sometimes it’s just nice not to walk a line – at least not a straight one.
I want to write away my frustrations – put them down on the screen so I can erase them again. But that doesn’t work, does it? Because until I let them loose send them away on the wind, out into the universe where they can get lost in other people’s thoughts–where they can mingle and be part of something else–they keep coming back. My frustrated writings are like boomerangs that I can only catch with my forehead, or like a cuff around the ear. Ever been hit by a frustrated boomerang? I think they twirl faster than regular ones.
So mingle away, frustrations!
I feel better already.
The Daily Prompt asks: ‘Write about a time you had a Goldilocks experience, exploring different choices and finally arriving at “just right.”’
Exploring choices is all well and good but what about when you have to make a snap decision? It takes seconds to utter a sentence. Before you do, you choose to do it. But what if you are prone to saying the wrong thing?
For some of us it happens once in a blue moon – for others it’s a daily occurrence. One way or another we’ve all been in the situation where the moment something comes out of our mouths we’ve smacked our lips shut wishing we could go back in time and have not said it. Sometimes it’s so bad we wish the ground could swallow us up.
I have to wonder how beyond our control these things are. I think it’s bullshit to say we have no control at all – things don’t just accidentally fall out of our mouths unless we’re chewing and talking at the same time. I think there’s simply something inside us that chooses to ignore our better judgment.
Is it possible to be unaware of what we’re thinking? Seems like a contradiction in terms to me.