We as humans tend to ask useless questions. Probably the most common one is “How are you?”
The recipient’s knee-jerk response is usually a generic “I’m fine.” This answer might or might not be followed with the same question asked back, and we repeat a circle of lies. Sometimes the conversation is left at that, which is fine, but if two friends are meeting, they might delve into the muck underlying the answer to get to the juicier bits. (Yes, this was my lunch yesterday with a friend I hadn’t seen in 6 months. Had a great time catching up!)
Some questions are asked with true intent, but are equally useless in getting a response. The one which I especially abhor (yes, abhor) is “What do you want… (for your birthday/Christmas, to eat, to go/do, etc)?”
My answer to that question is a resounding blinking cursor. I don’t care what is being asked, but those words in any way, shape, or form are asked of me, my little brain wipes clean. As a whistle.
I can tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want anything slimy on my pizza. I don’t want jelly beans or anything gummy. I don’t want to watch reality as entertainment (if you tell me I would love a certain movie or book, I probably won’t). I don’t want to be in a large crowd of people I don’t know.
As a result, I typically don’t answer the want question with anything serious which frustrates my family to no end. My typical answer for what kind of gift to get me includes a winning lottery ticket and a best-selling novel (mine). Two years ago, that was my answer and mi espouso presented me with a scratch-off worth $2 and The Fault in Our Stars. Yes, it was a winning lotto ticket, and yes, it was a best-selling novel (not mine). He’s so funny and thoughtful.
I made him return the book (because a book/movie about two cancer patients is too close to reality for me) and use that money to win a bigger lottery prize. (He didn’t win.)
I have found a better question to ask: What do you need?
It’s easier to consider what is needed than what is wanted. Maybe I am simply a here-&-now type person, but a need is something I can identify. Something that is tangible in my little mind that is easy to verbalize: I need an umbrella today (too bad it’s sitting in the car, prepared to do its job when I need it to get to the car), I need to finish Daemon book 3 and Spiritual Gifts book 2 (yes, they are in to works; no, I don’t have a publish date yet), and I need new socks.
What a person wants, while it may be tangible like wanting red boots (ooh, maybe I need), tends to be more of a pipe dream. Mostly, I think “wants” equate to esoteric or unrealistic dreams. I want a small house, on a beach or in the mountains, with a housekeeper/cook and no bills or maintenance. I want huge royalty checks. I want everyone who has ever read my books, to write a review or share their thoughts with me.
Like I said, unrealistic.
I did something today I haven’t done in my adult life: went shopping with friends. And they had no idea what a big deal that was.
Those who know me well (the Mimi, mi espouso, the Myrtles) know that shopping is torture for all involved. My mother is saintly(-ish). She usually takes me shopping for my birthday and buys anything and everything that fits. She learned a very long time ago to shove me into a dressing room and bring anything in the store that remotely resembles my size. Sometimes we make it out of the store a couple of tops and, maybe, just maybe, a pair of pants. There is usually frustration, yelling, and maybe a few tears involved. (For some reason, the sales clerks think we are hilarious.)
We are talking about a pseudo-phobia here. My shopping experiences are akin to the scene in Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts goes into a store and the clerk says, “I don’t think we have your size.” (or something to that effect, don’t quote me on quotes, but you get the idea) Don’t even ask about online shopping. (Really? So not happening in my lifetime.)
The curious-minded might ask why? Why indeed. Why can I not walk into a store, find a pair of jeans, pay for them, and walk out? Because I only look normal.
You heard me.
I am tall. Not overly tall (IMHO), but enough for people to notice. No one believes me when I tell them my height. Arguments ensue when I say I’m anywhere between 5’10-6′ (I do not claim 6′, in spite of my mother’s insistence). Not that it matters…except when buying pants (and shirts and anything else). The average inseam for women’s pants runs up to about 30″. I can get by with 33″ but preferably I look for longer. Do they measure women’s pant length by inseam?
Why no. No, they don’t. We lucky women get to guess if we are petite, regular, or tall/long. Long usually works. (I say usually because the past few years have seen fashion designers make pants to include a heel, which I don’t need.) Regular length might work if I add a ruffle.
Unfortunately, the powers that design clothing think tall/long equals toothpick. I am NOT a toothpick. ‘Nuf said.
Whether it be shirts (short-waisted, narrow-shouldered, let’s not discuss the girls), pants (see above), or shoes (did I mention my left foot is larger than my right)…anyway, I do not have a size. In all my years of shopping (aka torture), I have found I have many sizes for each body part. I have come to a conclusion–one size fits none.
So…back to my morning excursion. Here I am, shoe-shopping, with two friends who are smart, savvy, and more fashionably aware than me. I watch them try on some adorable, and slightly wild, shoes while wandering around, hunting for my usual fare (comfortable, multi-purpose, but with style/interest. Cheap is good, too.)
Imagine my surprise to find a pair of brown ankle boots with embroidered red flowers. They fit. They are comfortable. They were on clearance. I had a coupon. My friends said to get them.
So I did.
I’m on a roll. I might go shopping again.
As a writer/author/manipulator of verbiage, I consider myself an experienced newbie. Yes, I’ve published 3 books and 2 short stories. Yes, I’ve blogged for the past 4 years or so. That said, there’s a lot I don’t know. I’ve mentioned before (I am cursed) that I only look like I know what I am doing.
As with any other field, I have to keep learning. Writing is no different. This weekend was spent meeting other writers, discussing various and sundry issues related to writing, and researching. And, of course, I dragged the spouse and Myrtle the Younger along for the ride (because they need to know this stuff ’cause I said so).
Writer’s Organizations ‘Round Dallas (W.O.R.D.–clever) was created by all manner of writers to give each other a chance to cuss and discuss. We’re talking screenwriting, play writing, novels, non-fiction, poetry, short stories, and everything else are accounted for, which means they have absolutely brilliant ideas.
Take this weekend: WORDfest 2.0 was an event designed by writers, for writers. All of the member organizations got to strut their stuff and we writers had the opportunity to meet and learn together. They also host a weekend hand’s on retreat for writers in which you get to handle stuff like armor, weapons, guns, pick a lock, court dancing, and wine tasting (you can guess which ones I signed up for).
Up next for a weekend of writing research included a jaunt to the Lone Star Knife Expo, which just happened to be inside a gun show. Who knew?
Why a knife show? Because there are sharp, pointy things there and I must write about sharp pointy things. You know…RESEARCH.
So, Mi Espouso and I trek to Dallas Market Hall in search of books and peoples willing to discuss daggers, swords, battle axes, and the ilk, only to find pocket knives, straight blade razors, and fishing knives.
Now one might think that these might be the run-of-the-mill Swiss Army knives and the like. One would be incorrect. These were hand-crafted knives made by people who LOVE their craft. In other words, my kind of people.
There were some gorgeous knives for sale. Most had traditional blade forms and handles made of high-quality rock (crazy lace agate–nice) or wood (you name it), but others…whoa…alligator gar skin! Cactus! Pinecone! (I bought that one, it be pretty!)
While I didn’t find any reference materials about Viking era blades and practices, I came away with my very 1st handmade knife, one birthday gift, and…
TA DA! Meet Hugo: a Lego-compatible Viking figure, complete with a period battle axe and shield. (This is his happy face. I can turn his head around to have a grumpy Hugo.)
I guess you could say that I have found my writing inspiration and partner. Yea me!
Apparently, author-hood means being the proud owner of an insatiable curiosity for the oddities of life. I find I am no exception.
A fellow writer posted this on their page:
While these are not MY searches, I’m now curious enough about Canadian police procedures regarding werewolves to do a little side research. Who knows where that yellow brick road will lead.
However, if one happened to be curious about what my searches consist of, one only has to look at my Pinterest page. In the lovely world of suggestions based on previous searches and pins, Pinterest thinks I’m in desperate need of Wiccan spells, materials, and clothing. Just because I research a lot of mythology,astrology, cemeteries, history, art, weaponry, and medicinal herbs and oils (to name a few) does in NO way mean I want to cast a few spells (although the one for invisibility is intriguing, I’ve always wanted that to be my superpower).
A certain big name (who shall remain unnamed) bookstore puts suggestions for future purchases on their receipts. Today I left said big name bookstore with reference books about angels, ancient healing practices, and an illustrated history of pistols. My receipt suggested I might have missed out on the excitement of tarot cards, a book about angel therapy, and oracle cards (I have no idea what oracle cards are, but I will be looking them up as soon as I’m finished here).
Now, if you will excuse me, I must resume my study of demonology.
If I followed family tradition, I would be a pilot, gardener, musician and visual artist to name a few. Despite many opportunities and attempts over the years, my genetics are suspiciously absent when it comes to some important aspects to my family history. Or maybe I’m just a late bloomer.
I should be a 4th generation pilot. I think my grandfather ruined that for me when I was 3 weeks old and decided to get the noisiest plane he could find to transport my mother and me from Lubbock to Killeen for the holidays. I paid them dearly for that effort; I screamed the entire way. When my grandmother (an FAA inspector) was teaching my brother to fly, she took me up “just to see” if I had any interest. My response? You guessed it. Poor woman never let me live it down.
Gardening? How simple is that? Anyone can make a simple garden. Ha! I kill cactus, people.Literally but not intentionally. Despite coming from generations of gardening experts, including my father’s relatively recent Master Gardener designation, I can’t keep anything alive. I’ve tried (and I do mean try) herbs, terrariums, pots, succulents with nary an ounce of luck. If they do survive longer than a month or two, the poor plants are decidedly unhealthy and do all sorts of weird stuff like leak sap all over the place.
Music and Art? My lack of talent is not from lack of opportunity or encouragement. My mother and her brother are professional musicians. Both grandmothers, a great-grandmother, my uncle and brother are/were fantastic painters. I even married a creative and had 2 artistically/musically-inclined daughters. After studying piano and singing for most of my life, I can read the notes and have a good ear, but I can’t keep a rhythm to save my life. Tagging along to painting sessions and attending art lessons did not teach me how to draw a stick figure. Harrumph!
For some mysterious reason, I feel the tides changing. For better or worse remains to be seen. Last night, my cousin arranged a painting class for us to celebrate our grandmother’s 105th birthday. Luckily we had wine and the instructor was good enough to say, “Put a square here.” I could do that! Hallelujah!
So after two hours of step-by-step instruction, here is the my interpretation of Cezanne:
Yeah, me! I might actually try this again. Please don’t send me a plant as congratulations, though. I’ve committed enough herbal and floral homicide as it is.
SXSW, better know as South by Southwest Music and Film Festival is an international event held in Austin, Texas. This year I had the opportunity to go for the sole purpose of watching my daughter (and cover artist) and her high school animation team screen their animation short, Out of Reach. Their’s was one of 24 short films (of which 3 were animated) chosen out of who-knows-how-many to be screened and juried. A second team from her high school was also selected for their animated short, Goin’ Nuts. We will find out a winner on Tuesday evening.
High school students can come up with interesting (and dark) material to compete with anything a twisted adult can dream up. Maybe more so. Most of the shorts involved disturbing subject matter: cutting, shooting, throats cut, child abuse, kidnapping, torture, to mention a few off the top of my head. Weird, blood-letting videos aside, there were several redeeming and “pretty” films that I understood and enjoyed. There was one music rap video which I actually understood enough to enjoy. A few shorts were PSA or documentary material including one amazing video by an autistic boy on what it is like to be autistic (He said his mother made him do it. Go Mom!). I happened to sit directly in front of the 3 jurors and overhear some of their comments. The only comments I paid attention to were regarding our 2 teams.
Out of Reach earned several laughs and giggles from the audience and jurors, with a final collective comment of “Wow” from the judges. Goin’ Nuts got a resounding “That was nice” from one juror with agreement from the other 2. (YES!!)
Now, I do not care if either team wins the prize, in fact it is unlikely when compared to some of the live action shorts presented. I understand and do not envy the jurors decision-making to choose an overall winner. The fact that these 2 talented teams were selected for this prestigious event is a fine addition to a respectable portfolio or resume any day.
A mama was never more proud of her baby. I can’t wait to see what Myrtle Sue comes up with next.
This is a(nother) new venture for me. Over the past 3 years or so, I have started to write again, and am proud of the successful completion of my first novel, If You Touch My Mind. I self-published in August of 2015 and have been having a wonderful time sharing my efforts with others.
A little about me. I am a native Texan, married with two beautiful daughters (commonly referred to as The Myrtles: Ann and Sue). Myrtle Ann is the eldest, heading in the general career path of nursing and is engaged to a newly-bereted army ranger. Myrtle Sue is in an exciting chapter of life as a high school senior and budding animator. When I am not writing, I work as an occupational therapist, treating adults with a variety of conditions. I specialize in treating the lymphatic system, health and wellness challenges of all types.
It’s raining and bed is calling my name, so that’s all for now. Here’s to new ventures.