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Life, bulleted.

- Why do countless near strangers think - nay, insist - that I must do drugs? It happens All. The. Time. I blame the inherited black markings that encircle my eyes like some sort of pair of cheap sunglasses. Perhaps it’s my short hair or the fact I’m inclined toward black clothes and dark makeup? Who knows, but it bothers me. Endlessly. Once at work, on a casual Friday, I was so excited to wear my new “Lake Girl” hoodie. New Hampshire Lakes Region - representin’! A rando stranger in my huuuuuge office building stopped me to inquire “Which lake?” After I told him, he retorted, “Oh, do they dump all the good drugs in that lake?” Huh? 

I had an officer pull me over for an expired registration and then ask “Are you on any medications?” (Is that question even legal??) When I asked why she wanted to know, she replied, ”Because your eyes look hazy and....off.” Honey, it’s called “makeup free.” No, I didn’t feel like caking on some sort of putty-like synthetic skin under my eyes to save you from having to look at the eggplants firmly hanging under my eyes. Tough shit, lady. 

Or, tonight I got my hair cut. My stylist inquired about my unemployment, like the Torquemada of unemployment that she is, and I proudly told her I just took a drug test for a potential position. “You’re not going to pass it, are you?” she asked, incredulous. “Of course I am.” “Um, you won’t pass if you smoke weed, honey!” :/ What the what? I’m insulted.

Whenever these interactions occur, I find myself convincing the interrogator that, really, I don’t. “I’m like the most boring person earth,” I insist, trying to convince them,  which is a huge lie. Because I'm sure as hell not boring! I’m at least in the top 200,000 LEAST boring people on earth, and here I am trying to convince some rube pothead that I’m a lame prude. Baaaah! Also, if people ask why you don’t smoke weed, never reply “Because I’m better than you.” They won’t like it.

- While walking amongst the amazing sculptures of Hamilton, New Jerseys Grounds for Sculpture, I overheard a conversation between a father and his teenage daughter:

“Dad, remember that one time you used your Kindle to read a book? How did you do that? Can I do that?” 

HA! Oh, Kindle. I have a love-hate relationship with you. I’m not sure if you know, but I’m a big, fat, raving Luddite. I HATE technology, so when this Kindle nonsense came about, as a bibliophile I must admit I  was intrigued, but from a distance. My beloved Martha was first to reveal its existence to me. This was back when a Kindle was JUST. FOR. READING. Books. Still, I scoffed at the unnecessary technology. “Nothing can replace the smell of books! The feel of the page. The texture of the paper. The dogears that mark my thoughts and favorite passages.” I felt arrogantly justified when, inevitably, Kindles (and Nooks) turned, effectively, into tablet computers. I could see THAT coming a mile away. 

My younger sister, a voracious lover of tech and anti-Luddite, sat me down one day on the beach to convince me that I would appreciate a Kindle. We debated back and forth, and I conceded that I could understand the lure of the e-ink iterations only - but staunchly stood by my bile-filled hatred of those glorified tablets. An e-reader would ease packing during travel; I could stick it in my purse and whip it out whenever I found myself waiting in a public place; e-books are less expensive; I could buy the next installment in a riveting series in the middle of the night without laying prostrate, mercy to the hours of the book store. Next year, under the Christmas tree, my very own Kindle awaited me. 

I definitely Love. This. Thing. It’s an e-ink job - no internet surfing for me!  Conversely, my father was gifted a Nook - but the ‘disguised computer tablet’ kind. Do you think he reads on this thing? No. He watches endless episodes of Sopranos. His plight illustrates my most basic objection of e-readers: If a person were inclined to read, but they had to wade through the mire of the internet and endless streaming of entertainment to do so, they’d never read. Thus, my father.

But, we’re not talking about my father. We’re talking about the teenager at the sculpture garden and her father. I just found her inquiry so hilarious. She’s asking her father how to do the one thing that Kindle was originally meant for. She was amazed this thing could be a book! Her father was most likely using it solely as a digital-media consuming device. Did he even read once on it? The whole scenario was simply hearbreaking.

It also made me glad we don’t have children in this age. I would have no clue how to manage invasive, constant, persistent technology as they grow up. I don't think exposing a child to constant technology is beneficial. Where does one draw the line? One must teach their children how to use technology if they want their child to be of value in the work place, but how early is too early? A friend was pondering if age two was too young to give her son a mini-DVD player. Or should he wait until he's three? This managing and fettering is an impossible task I leave for all the mothers and fathers out there - good luck and God speed.

- At each October's dusk and dawn, the birds come a-tittering. It’s a strictly fall phenomenon, and I’m enchanted. Flocks fill the sky like swarms of gnats on a June afternoon. Dark, undulating waves of endless flapping wings and chirping beaks. These tiny birds alight in the endless cover and branches that adorn the landscape. Tiny speckled brown cuties, with domed heads and prominent beaks. I believe in the birding world, they’re referred to as “Little Brown Jobbers.” Sparrows? Finches? No matter, for these couple of months they rule the roost in these parts. The catbirds have flown and the Cardinals have gone quiet, but hundreds of these little nondescript beasties fill the bushes, clog the air! Every bush, shrub and blade of grass is alive with the skittish movement of brown and the chorus of repetitive tweeting. I know they’re there - I hear them. I see swarms of them disappear into the hedge. But they instantly become invisible once inside the confines of the bramble. I vigorously shook a bush once to see if I could coax them out - I wanted to better examine exactly what type of bird this was. There was movement - hundreds of batting wings and scurried movements. But they never fully emerged for their cover. Secretive little bastards.

When the windows are open on those perfect, temperate fall nights, their chatter wakes me at dawn. They irritate me at dusk calling for the end of the day. Of what do they tweet? Success of their day's journey south? Fatigue? Perhaps it’s a “Supper Time!” or “Breakfast!” call. As I lay in bed, awakened at 6:00 a.m. by their racket, I am reminded of my family getting ready for our annual journey north to the lake on an early summer's morn, waking the neighborhood with racket of our own: “Did someone get the donuts? I want a Boston Creme! Give me a donut!” "Boston Creme!" they shout. "Crueller with sprinkles! "

Perhaps they’re calling for the rest of the flock, like a beacon announcing a safe harbor. Perhaps they’re just cheery, vocal beasties, singing while they have the chance on their journey.

I settled on the John today and delved into a gardening article in the October Martha Stewart Living magazine I found tucked lovingly aside the toilet: “Marie Lincoln bought her first chocolate cosmos, thinking their cocoa scent and maroon flowers might entice children to her garden.”

“Yikes!” I thought. Why is this woman trying to "entice children" to her garden with chocolatey scented flowers? Sounds like the green-thumbed version of the Hansel and Gretel Witch to me.

Turns out, my recently fever-addled mind misread “entice her children to garden” as “entice children to her garden.” I found this entirely too amusing.

In fact, I find my entire bathroom literary canon entirely too amusing. I live in my bathroom library. There is no greater place when one craves solitude than the bathroom. Especially one graced with an old, rickety bathroom fan. Fart fans drown out intrusions from the outside world, and for one second, one can imagine they are entirely, blissfully, alone on this earth. I fear the day our 1980s fart fan breaks, what with these newfangled ones aspiring to be, inexplicably, whisper-quiet. Why? Don’t manufacturers know the number one purpose of such a device is to muffle, uh, noises, as opposed to its secondary purpose of increasing circulation? 

Anyway...my bathroom literary cannon. An entire Pier 1 basket full of glossy rags! I delight in it, especially this time of year when it’s finally seasonally appropriate to dig out my stash of archived Martha Stewart Living and sundry Halloween issues and gleefully pore over those glossy pages. I always look forward to adding to my stash, but I’m thoroughly disappointed in this year’s offering. Family Circle and Good Housekeeping seem like contenders, but they're jokes when it comes to Halloween fodder. They’ll have an enticing enough cover, to be sure, but the content inside proves watery. Or worse, it focuses solely on CHILDREN’S decorations, parties, costumes and treats. Don’t they know Halloween is no holiday for children!?!

And Martha, my beloved Martha, stopped producing her Halloween magazines a few years ago. (Although she now produces a special Halloween section attached to her normal October Living issue.) I used to LIVE for Martha’s separate - all on its own! - Halloween special. The creativity, care, research and love that went into it was a sight to behold. The photography - stark and hued with grey and blue filters - was evocative. Conversely, the photographers somehow also captured the feels, warmth and smells of a chill October dusk in the neighborhood. I was an avid purchaser, but noticed toward the end Living began recycling up to 60 percent of its content! Printing previous years' feature' and dressing them up as new!? But aren't there endless Halloween ideas and odes and celebrations to write about? I was insulted. Soon after this misstep, the magazine shut down presses for an independent Halloween issue entirely. Matthew Mead then became my new "The New Martha!" However, this year remains bereft of his publication and his website is shuttered up. I’m heartbroken. I long for the days of thorough, enchanting, meaty Halloween publications! When will those halcyon days return? Are we over it all? Have our imaginations dried up into bits of dust to be carried off by the October wind? Are we too jaded to delight in simple pleasures of beautiful-colored leaves, the crispness of the air and a good, simple scare? Autumn is when the trees are at their most imaginative. Why can’t we be too?

I'm "A Writer"

     I recently read What I've Learned as a Writer by Leon Babauta. Internet Confession Time: I'm a writer. Consequently, most of Babauta's items elicited lightly applied face-palms accompanied by several sarcastic "D'uh's." I already KNOW that Writers read, write, establish routines, etc. However, one of Babauta's suggestion did jump up and poke me in the eyes, Three-Stooges style. "Create a blog." Ahhh, the seductive lure of the Internet temptress, The Blog. In actuality, I've already accepted that Writers should keep blogs. Over the years I've started, and abandoned, many. Every year or so I suffer an urge to blog - to get my words out there or to forge a presence that will bully me into writing more often. Sometimes, I even feel guilted into blogging, knowing I can't be "A Writer" without one. So, I'll create one and get momentarily inspired and giddy as I ponder cutesy names and what the best platform may be. I upload  a few pictures, post a few entries, and within months, I abandon it like that ill-advised perennial "Give up Vodka" New Year's Resolution. And, the muses only know, perhaps this very endeavor will become the next faded link in my daisy-chain of beautifully failed and abandoned blogs. But until that day, I will take Babauta's experience-laden advice.

    I suppose you've met several people in your lifetime answering your query of "What do you do?" with "I am 'A Writer'" "Writers" fill the world like unfettered rats in the subway tunnel. When I meet these self-assured folks, this very proclamation of being "A Writer" makes me wilt, makes me ashamed. I have earned money writing. I spent six years writing for the business world. I should be able to count myself amongst those "Writers!" But I don't write. Yet, it's evident that it is this very act of committing the act of writing often that solely qualifies one as "A writer." And I don't. Holy Hell, why must we be so complex and paradoxical? But, if keeping a blog will make me a legit "Writer," so be it.

    I have high hopes of cultivating some interesting reads and writing often on this here blog. In fact, on this journey of becoming a more dedicated, verifiable writer, I've recently taken up Morning Pages as well.  Morning Pages sure have bolstered my Writer's confidence because I made a goal, curated a routine and a habit, and I'm now breezily writing every day. BUT...this blog exercise is definitely leveling up. Writing privately is child's play. Knowing that no one will ever read those words makes it less like "writing" and more like journaling. Easy Peasy. The floodgates open when I know no eyes will intrude upon my words, judge my thoughts, my craftsmanship or my effort. Also, if those words aren't "out there," they are impossible to compare to the words of a "Real Writer-" and comparison is an aspiring writer's worst foe. (In fact, comparison should be EVERYBODY's arch foe. It's the worst, people!!) All this doubt and insecurity is another huge obstacle in anyone becoming "A Real Writer." It's well-known that writers flounder in tempests of doubt, insecurity and negative thinking. These blasted feels are ugly ones to face, so - brilliant idea here - if I  procrastinate and never actually write, I don't need to face 'em! Bwaa haaa haaa! This logic, of course, tosses me cleanly back into the "Not a Real Writer" corral. As such, I need a higher power breathing down my neck, forcing me to battle these writer demons and just write, dammit. I'm a people pleaser and I love gold stars, so if the Internet acts as my boss, I'll trudge through insecurity and doubt - hell even the the Bog of Eternal Stench - so I can get it done and get that gold star! (BTW, any other people-pleasers terrified of getting fired? Cause I am. Like All. The. Time. For years on end.)



    As a programming note, I don't know what the focus of this blog will be - or if there will ever be a focus. Writers write what they know.  Every "How to be a Freelancer!" article states to write your specialty - what you know. Problem is, I'm more of a Renaissance Woman than a specialist. I will soak up and luxuriate in information on ANY inane topic the universe has to offer. Jack of All Trades and Master of None, and all. So, I warn the Internet, these first few posts will be...rough and aimless until I start hewing this stone and finding a form. But, I do imagine I'll eventually tackle topics including: movie reviews, product reviews, Halloween, tattoos, gardening, history, reenactment, cats, gothy stuff, and the classics.

    So, away we go! Here's to putting myself out there in hopes to form and ingrain another habit - easily creating  published words! A crafty step in my nefarious quest to publish a work of fiction! And, jumpin' jeebus, writing good fiction is really hard too!! But, without hard work, there are no "Writers." Once Upon A Midnight Cheery, I dedicate you as a half-assed  full-assed tool to legitimize my feeble claim at dinner parties and first day of classes that, I am, in fact, "A Writer."