To Write or Not to Write

   

"Don't judge me, you judgeroo. Go play your judgeridoo." 

- Linda Belcher

     Even though I write a memoir type blog rather than fiction, it is a creative outlet for me.  I write best when I write about my own thoughts and experiences. The problem is, that I have to be careful about what I write. People actually read my what I post. Perhaps I should clarify and state that people I know read my blog. (I'm not so sure random strangers do.) I would not want to cause anyone I know any embarrassment or discomfort over what I write. This is my conundrum. I want to write about my experiences and sometimes those are not all sunshine and lollipops.  If I write about my daily experiences, then I am going to write about the people in my life, but I feel like I can't because I might get into trouble.

     Let me give you and example.  A few years ago, a situation happened with my son where I felt as his mother I had to advocate for him because at nine years old, he was not being heard or taken seriously. I do not typically stand up to people. I hate conflict. I avoid it at all cost. I will let a situation go on and on before finally having my fill and speaking up for myself. When it came to my son though, who counts on me to protect him, I could not stand idle. He had fallen during gym class and told the coaches his leg was broken. The coaches did not buy it, and after repeatedly attempting to force him to get up and walk to no avail, they called me saying that he was just afraid to try to walk and that he was fine.  I literally ran down to the gym because this did not at all sound like my child. One look at his face told me he was in genuine pain.  Against the coaches' wishes, who continued to tell me, "He's fine," I carried him to the nurse while fighting back tears of anger. Later at the hospital, an x-ray confirmed a fracture of his tibia.

     I was mad before leaving the school. I was livid when I saw the x-ray.  It was not my finest hour when I then vented the situation on social media.  Now I should mention that the majority of my friends on social media are family members and long term friends who do not live near me. I had a few current work acquaintances, but no one else from my surrounding community as I was relatively new here at the time.  I did not name names, or even specifics. I just stated the situation as above and then included a line about how although I was saddened and angry for my son at the situation, I felt a bit proud that I had stood up and advocated for him.

      The problem was that I work at the school where that happened.  I soon learned that there is no such thing as freedom of speech when you work in a school. (I think there might even be a few passages in the employee handbook about it.)  Although the administration never spoke to me about the incident, a few co-workers did. In fact, the co-workers that were so upset about it were ones that I was not even friends with on social media, and had only heard about it second hand. I was ambushed in the hall one day by one such peer who angrily informed me that I needed to be careful of what I write and that I had embarrassed the school in the community. She rhetorically asked, "Did you even think of that?!!" (At least I am assuming it was rhetorical, as she then angrily stalked away from me.)
   
     It was never my intent to embarrass anyone. I wanted to share my heartache with my people; the people who love and care about my son. I regret that I was one of those people who share drama on Facebook, but I have no remorse over what I wrote. As you can imagine, this situation dampened my desire to publish what I write to the internet. Of course I want to write about my day to day life; it's all I know. It is my way to process what I have been through and as an introvert to reach out to those who may be in a similar place. From time to time, I still write, but I rarely publish out of fear of how the judgmentals will react. I am not writing for them though. I write for me and my people, whoever they may be.
   

Rumor Has It

     I have been thinking a lot today about rumors. I know I have heard plenty, shared more than I like to admit, and unfortunately, had a few spread about me. It is one thing if a rumor is actually true; it is quite another when people for whatever reason make up hurtful lies to tell others. 

     In my case, I dated a boy whose ex-girlfriend did not like that he had moved on, even though she had broken up with him some weeks before I met him. She started rumors about my virtue, which did not really seem to take off at first. Then, she found through a mutual friend, a boy that I had flirted with and kissed a year before. He and I had kissed on a few occasions, and there were some hands that brushed over the top of clothing that were swiftly batted away, but that was the extent of our encounters. He told a different story though. 

     My boyfriend at the time knew that the rumors were untrue, as did all of my high school boyfriends thereafter. However, there was one boy, whom I did not even know, had never spoken to, nor had even met, that took the rumors and ran with them. He harassed my boyfriend on a daily basis about them. It got to the point that my boyfriend just could not take it any longer. He changed schools and we broke up. We remained friends for years though. When I had surgery after high school graduation, he visited me every week, all summer long, until I had recuperated. Then he made good on his promise to take me to see a movie at the drive-in once I was better. 

     The rumors really only got to me for a couple of weeks during my freshman year.  Although I hadn't forgotten about them, they were not something I really thought about.  That was until I was in my early 20's.  I was dating someone else.  We lived in a small town, where even if you met someone new, within moments you could determine that you knew someone in common.  Either you went to school with their sister or cousin, or maybe your older brother did. In the case of my boyfriend, he went over to a friend's house where he met the boy I had kissed when I was in 8th grade.  Mr. 8th grade loser's story about our encounter had grown to epic proportions during the intervening years.  The result caused a monumental argument between us. Even though my boyfriend knew for a fact that the rumor was untrue, he was angry that I would have done anything that could have led to the exaggeration. 

     A few years ago, the rumor mill bit me again. I had a disagreement with a co-worker. I felt that she was taking advantage of me, and truly she was. Not only was she having me drive her daughter to scout meetings after work, but she had me baby sit her daughter when the child had been vomiting and should have stayed at home. She also kept a pet rat that I found repulsive, but still I ended up cleaning the cage and feeding him because he would have lived in filth and died of hunger if I did not. So, for the record, my beef with her was not unfounded and without merit. 

    She and I could have worked this out, and we did, eventually. It took several months, but she and I found a way to get past it and be friends again. What did not help though was that someone decided to stir the pot. Only a handful of people knew about our issues. One of them, I do not know which one, began whispering bilious and incendiary lies to her of things they claimed I had confided to them. Things like how I had said I was too good for my job, that I thought it was beneath me, and that I had always had a problem with authority. I never said that to anyone, nor did I feel that way. Those lies caused an even bigger rift in our relationship. To this day, I do not see what the person gained by their untruths or why they did it. 

     I was talking to a very sweet friend today. She is having trouble where she works because she made a mistake. It was not a huge mistake, but it was a mistake that started tongues wagging. She is embarrassed about it, but to make matters worse, people have taken this one little kernel and have shaken it in a pan over the stove. Now there is steaming bowl of lies swirling around about her.  The rumor mongers have called into question her past, and even worse, they have questioned her fitness as a mother. It is absolutely gut wrenching and awful. Why someone would do that to her and cause her so much pain and stress, I do not know. 

     Why do people do it? I know we live in an age of celebrity gossip constantly bombarding us via social media, but does that somehow make it acceptable to now ruin someone's reputation with rumors? Why blatantly and willfully make up lies? I don't get it. After hearing my friend's story, I felt remorse for every shred of gossip and rumor that I have repeated or shared with others. I have not made any up myself, but I have relayed gossip I have heard second, third, or fifth hand. I thought about how I felt when rumors were spread about me, and I just felt sick. I thought of Sr. Connie, my 10th grade religion teacher who used to tell us, "Before you speak, ask yourself: Is it kind? Is it true? Is it necessary?" 

     We all need to be kinder.  We need to speak the truth and not create hurtful lies. Anything else is just unnecessary. 

Heart Shaped Box

Today I made one of my desperation dinners.  You know, those dinners you make from what you have on hand rather than braving the weather and the crowds of weekend grocery shoppers.

The boy and I had gone to see The Jungle Book, with the intent of hitting the grocery store afterwards. When we left the theater, it was beginning to storm. As we drove past the store, we could see that the parking lot was packed, and cars were lined up against the curb while wet shoppers unloaded their carts. I did not want any part of the Sunday grocery madness. 

As we headed home, I began to mentally check off what ingredients I had on hand and what I could do with them. I finally settled on chicken and dumplings. I had chicken in the freezer and a quart of broth in the pantry.  Sigh of relief! I could avoid the dreaded weekend shopping trip!

While seasoning the broth, I used the last of my jar of thyme. I stared at the jar for a minute. I thought about whether I could reuse it. I wanted to reuse it. I wanted to keep it. I am not a hoarder; I swear I am not, but I have a thing for small containers. Jewelry boxes, small glass jars, decorative boxes, metal tins, like the kind tea, spices, and cocoa powder comes in, I love them all. I would like to keep them all, but I am not a hoarder. 

Let me say this again, I am not a hoarder. I just like little containers. I do throw them out, because like I said, I AM NOT A HOARDER. (I just want to make sure that I make that perfectly clear.) It pains me to throw them out. I feel bad about tossing them in the recycling bin, but I do it. I secretly want to keep them though. 

I suppose it is one of those leftovers from childhood. Compared to today's children who have a plethora of plastic playthings cluttering up the playroom floor, I had a nominal amount. We were not poor by any means, but kids in the 70's just did not have the number of toys that today's kids possess. My mom would often give me ordinary objects to use as toys.  I would get the plastic egg from her hose, or the cardboard insert from inside of a dress shirt to use for drawing. My favorite though, was any type of container because YOU COULD PUT STUFF IN IT! I know it seems silly, but I loved having a place to store my treasures. 

As an adult, my treasures are not the type of things that will fit inside a small box. They are kept close in my heart. My kids, my family, our home and pets, are what I hold dear. To me, nothing else matters. People may come and go throughout our lives. Our jobs and the house we live in may change, but what is housed in my heart will remain the same. 

Because...God

     One of my favorite movies of all time is When Harry Met Sally.  In one of the early scenes, Harry questions Sally about how her last relationship ended. She confided that it was all because of her days of the week underwear. Her boyfriend wanted to know why she did not have Sunday, where was Sunday, and when she told him, he didn't believe her. Harry was incredulous as well, to which Sally responded, "They don't make Sunday, because of God." 

     Lately I can't help but notice that many things are the way they are because of God, or more specifically, because of people's beliefs. For example, I can't work out at my local Y until 1 PM on Sundays, nor can I visit the library before that hour. When I did my weekly grocery shopping last week on a Sunday morning, the bottle of wine in my cart was confiscated, because of God. 

    I grew up in a somewhat devout Catholic household.  Going to mass Sunday mornings was not optional. I attended Catholic school for 12 years, made all of the required sacraments, and even sent my own children to Catholic school for awhile. Despite all of that, I never really bought into organized religion myself. 

     As a child, I refused to speak aloud during mass. I would not utter any of the expected responses, and I certainly would not sing. This did not sit well at all with my father. It became a battle of wills. He could not force me to pray or sing, and he knew that, so we came to a compromise. I did not have to actually speak or sing, but I agreed to mouth the words and music. Essentially, I would lip sync in church. 

     This was not just a temporary phase, but lasted for years.  I don't think I knew why I was digging my heels in on this issue when I was a kid.  I just knew I did not want to say those words out loud. Looking back as an adult, I can only surmise that I felt as though I would be lying. I really could not understand the point of any of it, and quite honestly, I still don't. I tried going to a non-denominational Christian church for awhile once I was an adult.  I thought that was even more ridiculous. All the allegedly spontaneous prayers sounded the same to me, and it seemed that the people there just bent the scripture any way they wanted to fall in line with their own agenda.  

     I've come to the conclusion that organized religion is just not for me. God is often used as an excuse for people to treat each other badly. People use God to condemn others for who they are and who they love. People use God as an excuse to oppress women, start wars, and perform terrorist acts that harm and kill innocents.  I want no part of it. 

     I struggle with how such a benevolent creator can allow horrible acts to be completed in his name. Why would an omnipotent being allow innocent people to suffer? It does not make sense to me, so I gave up on religion.  I would not exactly say that I am an atheist, as I do believe miracles that defy science have happened. I think that there have been honest, devout, holy people who have led exemplary lives, but I don't think any one religion has it right. I don't think there is one all powerful entity responsible for all of creation, and if there is, I think he has some explaining to do when it comes to unnecessary human suffering. 

     So yes, I am resentful that in this day of 24/7 service and availability, that I live in a red state and can not go to the places I want to go, do the things I want to do, or buy the products I want when I want them, because of God. 

Writer Woes

     I have not written in my blog in for nearly two years.  It isn't for lack of ideas. I always have a few of those ruminating, but I suppose I lack the courage and commitment to actually type them. I struggled with finding my voice. I wanted my writing to be informative, a little sarcastic, and above all, upbeat and funny. I just could not seem to always find that balance. I also grew disheartened when readers would take offense at what I had written. My intent was not to call anyone out, but just to share my experiences and perspective.  

    There were times when I wanted to write, but I was worried what people would think, and how they would react.  I really wanted to write an entry after my cat, Maisy, died. I've had plenty of pets pass before, and although it is never easy, this one hit me particularly hard. I had a need to share my story, but I feared that readers would think I was a crazy cat lady and laugh derisively at my sorrow over a cat.  Fear keeps me from doing a lot of things in my life; it shouldn't keep me from writing though. 

     Does it matter if people laugh?  If they are people that I know, and they laugh because I was sentimental over a beloved pet, are they really someone I want in my life? If they are someone I don't know, why should I care what they think? These are the questions that have dogged me the past few months. I have decided though, I'm just going to write, and really, who cares what anyone thinks.  
     

Facebook or Soapbox?

Have you recently found religion or abandoned it altogether?  Have you watched a movie or read a book that has changed your life and your way of thinking? Do you have a social or political cause that riles you? I think it is amazing that you have found something that incites passion in you. I really do, but pardon me if I ignore your attempts to proselytize. It's not you, it's me. I like you; I just have no interest in jumping on your bandwagon, especially if you use fear mongering or insinuate that those who don't ascribe to your beliefs are either close minded, ignorant, or going to burn in hell.  

Last year I wrote an entry about Facebook, my dirty lover whom I love to hate.  That still hasn't changed.  Although I rarely post myself, I do scroll through my feed usually once or twice a day, (more if I am stuck in the purgatory of a waiting room).  I love being in some kind of contact with friends and family that I would have otherwise not been able to maintain without the advent of social media. It is an odd form of communication though. There is not the typical personal give and take like there is in conversation. You are apprised of brief moments in a person's life, where they have been, who they were with, what they find funny, what interests them, and what makes them upset, but it is not the same as actually talking to a person. When you talk to someone, if they broach a subject which you find either offensive, or just plain not interesting, you can artfully steer the conversation to more neutral ground. On Facebook, you do not have that opportunity.  

I have a few Facebook friends that feel very strongly about topics near and dear to their heart and they want everyone they know to hear about it and perhaps change their wicked ways, opinions or beliefs. I'm all for free speech, but just because I respect your right to share your thoughts doesn't mean I want to listen to them.  If you post pictures of aborted fetuses to support your pro-life stance, videos of abused animals to further your animal cruelty cause or in support of your new found veganism, memes that incite fear with their false and specious facts, espouse far right wing conspiracy theories, if your criticism of our president crosses the line into racist name calling, if you warn that everyone who doesn't believe as you do will suffer the flames of hell fire for eternity, or conversely, insinuate that anyone who is not an atheist such as yourself is feeble minded, I have every right to ignore your diatribe by hiding your statuses from my feed.  Look, I'm sure you and I could find some common ground, you know when you're not acting all holier than thou, but for now, until this insufferable phase of yours passes, I'm going to remain blissfully ignorant of your harangues. Good luck in your attempts to convert the masses, I won't be one of them, and good job on already having so many devoted followers who endorse and encourage your rantings, I mean convictions.

What's For Dinner?

It starts shortly after my kids leave school in the afternoon.  After the pleasantries of, "How was your day?" are out of the way, it begins. First with the boy, whose school day ends shortly before my paid work day ends. It continues with the girl a mere 30 minutes later. The next words out of their mouths after the small talk is out of the way are always about what I am going to make to put in those same mouths in a few short hours. 

 "What's for dinner, Mom?" 

Soon the man will send a text, if it is one of the nights he doesn't have pool, and ask what I am planning for dinner. 

 I don't know. I rarely know. I stopped making weekly menus years ago about the time it stopped being fun and started being drudgery. I like to cook. It used to bring me joy to be able to create something for my family that not only pleased them, but nourished them as well. Over time, that satisfying sense of pride has diminished until it is just another chore like laundry. 

I have one diner that is extremely picky and really only wants to eat things found on any children's menu, like nuggets, grilled cheese, pizza, pasta with butter, macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, or hamburgers.  I have another eater that doesn't like cheese, and is not a big meat eater. The other mouth to feed doesn't eat sugars of any kind, flour, grains, or carbohydrates. 

I often end up making at least two separate meals a night, and sometimes three. I eat either whatever someone else is having, or a combination of the meals. I resort to making scrambled eggs for dinner at least two to three times a month as it is the one thing they all will eat although I am not a fan of eggs myself. 

When there are limits to what you can do with your creativity, it stops being fun. It starts being work. I don't have the time or energy to locate recipes that tick all the boxes of my family's likes, wants, and needs. I wish I was June Jetson and could enter the meal choices into a computer, only to have them promptly delivered by a robotic arm to my waiting family around the dinner table. 

Ugh.  Here they come again. 

"Mom, did you decide what we are having for dinner?"  

Looks like I am ordering one cheese free pizza, one cheese pizza, and pulling a steak out of the freezer.