I unload the back of my SUV: stocks for my grandmother, pansies for my mother, snaps for me and a white geranium just because. In the garden, my focus narrows and my senses broaden. The frilly, pink stocks fill my head with a spicy scent that’s somewhere between cloves and cinnamon. My hearing zeros in on individual bird voices as they tease and court. They tell each other it’s spring, but our desert spring is coquettish—flirting one minute and withdrawing the next. Today the sun is warm, the breeze soft, and my backyard birds trust in the moment. I fill their feeder and scrutinize my over-planted garden. It’s going to be tight to find a few spots to squeeze in the newcomers and still have space to tuck in a few zinnia seeds here and there.
My eye catches a grouping of thumbprint pansies that need deadheading. As I reach between the blooms and pinch-off those that are spent, I’m hit with a moment of clarity. It stops me in my tracks. Gardening is the oddest juxtaposition of living in the moment and imagining the future. With every spent bloom deadheaded, I envision the new blooms that will pop out to replace it. Every seed planted is imagined as a full-blown flower or a broad-leafed summer squash plant.
In my garden I accept, without question, the saying "to everything there is a season". I know that deadheading keeps flowering plants strong and vigorous. Pruning results in refreshed rose bushes. Annual are meant to grow and peak, and then fade as the season changes. Seeds won’t germinate until the soil is the right temperature. In our tricky desert spring, trimming off woody stems too soon could mean frost-damaged new growth. Timing can be challenging. Humility soon follows impatience in desert gardening.
So many of our successes and failures in life involve timing. Understanding that love isn’t enough, and a relationship may not work because each person is in a very different point in their life. Knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. Holding on to a friendship that’s outlived its season or no longer brings joy. Recognizing when it’s time to change ideological direction, geographic location, or occupation. Recognizing that “until death do us part” sometimes means saving the marriage but destroying the people. Breaking away from the demands of others that drain our energy and absorb our precious days.
Timing and deadheading. I wonder if I can pinch off and toss away everything I beat myself up over: words both spoken and left unsaid, opportunities missed, a tendency to say yes when I should say no, difficulty standing up for myself and a need for approval I should have outgrown decades ago. Can I learn to deadhead without qualms to encourage vigorous and positive personal growth? Can old dogs learn new tricks? We’ll see. It’s not over ‘till it’s over.
Here we are, not quite a week into the New Year, and both my holiday-inspired energy and my adrenaline surge from seeing my novel in print have receded. I’ve finally crashed from the high and I've flat-lined.This morning I slept late, made myself some scrambled eggs and coffee, and took everything and the dogs back to bed. I wanted just to veg in front of some mindless TV show. Can’t get much more mindless than “Married at First Sight.” Yup. That says it all.
By now my 2020 to-do list should be in place, but it’s not even been started. I can’t remember when I’ve opened a calendar on a new year without a firm set of written goals to guide me. And, yes, I’m one of those annoying people who crosses out goals and accomplishments as each one is met. It gives me a great feeling of satisfaction.
The end of 2019 was a whirlwind. In fact the entire year sped by in a blur. None of the miscellaneous personal projects on my 2019 list ever made it past the planning stages. Another year has gone by without me making an appointment for a general medical checkup. That particular “to do” was an undone leftover from my 2018 calendar. Maybe this will be the year of the checkup. I still hope to create childhood photo albums for each of my nieces. Hope is the keynote word here. And one of these years I truly will get those twenty-year-old kitchen counter-tops replaced. Another unmet goal was to learn how to use my new laptop and Windows 10, but I’ve let that laptop sit untouched for so long, my husband has taken it over. Sigh. We won’t even discuss the fabulous Canon camera he bought me that I have still to master. So much for the tasks left undone.
But—and this is big—I did finalize my manuscript for Dancing Between the Beats. One, big, bold cross-off. I’m starting 2020 with a novel in print, and (my mouth to God’s ear) will soon accumulate reviews. Huge! Another biggie was selling my fourteen-year-old Camry in early 2019 and buying a new car! If you haven’t read my December 2018 post entitled Kicking the Tires, give it a look. I tried hollyhocks in my garden last year, and they were spectacular (picture above.) I can also cross “Work with Watercolors” off last-year’s list. Well, sort of. I tentatively slapped some paint down and created a couple of small, starter, watercolor paintings. “Learn To Paint with Watercolors” will be added to 2020’s list. Unfortunately, “Lose Weight” will also shift over to the top of 2020’s to-do list. Without my lists I might just munch chocolates and read books all day.
However, as great as having goals might be, to avoid feeling letdown or unproductive, flexibility is the key. Resolutions, lists, goals etc., are much like the old adage, “rules are only guidelines”. Most of our disappointments are born out of unrealistic expectations. The new revolution around the sun we started on Solstice is a wonderful time to reflect and regroup, but life will always throw us curve balls. It’s up to us whether we lob them back, hit them out of the park, or let them knock us out. Either way, life goes on with us or without us, lists or no lists. Resiliency is the name of the game.
So, while I wish you happiness in the new year, I'll balance that wish with the hope that 2020 offers contentment, opportunities to grow, and enough successes to balance the inevitable disappointments. May we all still be here at the close of 2020 to optimistically wish each other a Happy New Year once again.
To answer the question, "What's it about?", here's a short blurb about the story line of Dancing Between the Beats. A bit more info can be found under the NOVEL tab. The book's narrative unfolds from three main perspectives:
Twenty-four-year old Paige Russell, still grieving the death of her single mother, defines herself as an orphan. Her obsession to find the father she never knew takes her to Tucson, AZ, where she settles in as the newest ballroom instructor at Desert DanceSport. But Paige’s newfound sense of belonging could be short-lived. Swirling under the glamorous surface of Desert DanceSport are rivalries and conflicts that threaten future of the studio, and Paige is hiding a life-changing secret of her own.
Studio owner Katherine Carrington is grappling with complicated cash-flow issues of her own making. As her stress level rises, her demeanor ricochets between controlling and neurotic. Katherine’s identity is defined by her ownership of the studio, and losing it would mean losing herself.
Aging playboy Marcos Stephanos, dance master and studio manager, is too distracted by the disarming new-hire Paige to focus on the warning signs of Katherine’s erratic behavior. Will his nonchalance cost him his career? Top dance instructor Tony Moreno finds flirting with Paige so tantalizing he misses practice sessions with his ambitious, professional partner, Sylvie Goldstein. Instead of burning up the floor with Tony, Sylvie is smoking with resentment against her unwitting rival, Paige.
Will misunderstood intentions and ego-driven altercations force the exposure of secrets and betrayals at the studio so many call home? Who will adapt and who will retreat when expectations clash with reality, and the status quo suddenly shifts?
Laced with humor, Dancing Between the Beats offers an insider’s view of the world of ballroom dance, along with a smattering of off-beat insights about relationships.
I grew up part of a small, somewhat dysfunctional family—parents, paternal grandmother, one sister. By the time I was into my sixteenth year, we’d lived in two cities and four neighborhoods in Canada, and had made the big move from Canada to Arizona. After I married at nineteen, my family’s moving and shifting continued.
But home to me—the place I grew up—will always be the redbrick house on Harris Place in the suburbs of Ottawa. The neighborhood was so new, old farmhouses and fields of sheep were interspersed with tracts of new homes. As neighbors began move in—many Air Force (RCAF) like my Dad—everyone seemed anxious to get settled and establish friendships. Families intermingled, and both kids and adults were in and out of each other’s backyards and homes on a daily basis. My Godparents moved close by when I was ten, quickly becoming part of our family. Our six years in City View were the closest I’ve ever experienced to being part of a large, extended family. (Remember this extended family thing.)
Introspection is everything. It doesn’t always take an analyst’s couch to recognize the past events that shape us, and acknowledge how they complicate our emotional base even decades down the road. I remember one Sunday afternoon picnic in particular, prior to our move to Ottawa. There we sat, our small, well-mannered nuclear family, sipping tea out of thermoses, eating sausage rolls and sandwiches with the crusts cut off, while my parents did their best to ignore the rowdier, usually Italian, families nearby. I behaved as expected, but so wanted to be part of those animated groups: everyone shouting and gesturing, kids one notch below out of control, squirming against the hugging and laughing that accompanied their being scolded. At seven-years old, I quietly I decided I would marry an Italian. I didn’t.
Which wraps around, in a very convoluted way, to my point, that tricky tenth commandment—ENVY—the most recent rock in the road tripping me up on my journey to self-actualization. I’ve always been proud (pride, another trip-up) that being envious was simply not part of my nature. And when it comes to material things, I still believe that to be true. I’ll never envy your spacious home, sports car, or four-caret diamond, but I’m not as unburdened by jealously as I’d like to think. But more background is needed for context.
My parents immigrated to Canada from England after WWII. My father’s parents followed six months later, but the rest of their very large family remained in Britain. Considering the state of England after the war, I’m sure my parent’s decision to start over in Canada was a good one, but there were unforeseen ramifications to their choice. Moving so far away from home meant that their future children would never experience the support of extended family. We’d grow up without cousins, aunts, uncles, our other set of grandparents, and we’d never recognize behaviors and characteristics in the context of DNA. Jetting back and forth across the Atlantic simply wasn’t done back then. Thirty-one years would pass before my mother would see her own mother again.
So what does this autobiographical ramble have to do with the sin of envy? As I recently followed Facebook posts about family celebrations, past and planned, reading cousins’ posts about their shared childhoods, memories of weddings, funerals, and even their everyday lives, I felt that unbecoming shade of green creeping over me. The upside of Facebook is having a window into everyone’s world, but the downside is feeling like I’m always on the outside looking in. That sure sounds a lot like envy to me. Yup. Hard to admit. Not pretty, is it?
So shaking myself off, I’ve decided that when all the human homing pigeons start posting about taking off to join relatives for big traditional holiday gatherings or milestone birthdays, where they will be surrounded by a dynasty of children, grandchildren and loving lifetime friends, I will make every effort to turn the color wheel from green to rosy pink. I will count my own blessings, which are plentiful. I will remind myself that every large family isn’t The Waltons and, as my mother used to say about close friends, “The fewer people who know your business, the fewer there are to gossip about you.” Maybe she had a point. There’s always an upside.
The publication process of Dancing Between the Beats is underway. The book’s cover art is the first piece of many pieces to fall into place. It was important to me for the cover to suggest movement, and I couldn’t be more pleased with what the designer came up with. Thankfully, with this publisher, Wheatmark Inc., it’s acceptable for me to offer my opinion on everything from cover design to book layout. I’m guessing that those of you who’ve been exposed up-close-and-personal to my Type A personality understand that anything else would drive me crazy.
This brings me to why I chose to publish with a hybrid publisher rather than waiting for an agent to sell my novel to one of New York’s big five. The publishing marketplace underwent a drastic change around 2008. These days, unless you’re a celebrity or a proven best-selling author, with a built-in audience, your chances of landing a publishing deal are in the two-percent range. Publishers are no longer willing to incur all the costs and risks related to publishing an unknown writer. Hence the birth of hybrid publishing (not the same as self-publishing.) So let’s define hybrid: a publishing house that operates with a different revenue model than traditional publishing, while keeping the rest of the practices of publishing the same. Basically, the author takes on the risk and puts their own money on the line for all or part of the process.
In the world of traditional publishing, the first step is finding an agent. Entire websites and issues of writing magazines are dedicated to the cat-and-mouse game of agent acquisition. It can take months or even years. Once an agent takes you one, it’s their job is to sell your manuscript to a publisher. When the rights to an author’s work are sold to a publisher, the author loses control over all aspects of the publishing process. The book may be re-edited to fit the marketplace; the book’s title will almost certainly change; there is almost no chance that the author will have any say in the cover design of their book.
The time frame from querying agents to book publication is, at best, anywhere from a very optimistic eighteen months to three years. If at any time during that process the publisher decides the market for a particular book has changed, they will shelve the whole project. The author is now back to square one, querying agents and hoping another publisher will take the bait. Now, for young authors who have long careers as novelists ahead of them, the traditional route may still be the best way to go. Agent and publisher relationships will be established for future work. But for those of us who jumped into the game later in life, it’s important to get that first book into readers’ hands while we are still capable of lifting a glass of champagne at a launch party.
Speaking of which, as we get closer to the book-release date, stay tuned for invites to events to help me celebrate this accomplishment. The acknowledgments page in the book is quite long; I have so many wonderful people to thank for their support and input. Launch parties will provide the opportunity to thank everyone in person. Rather than closing with my usual flippancy, I just want to wax serious for a moment and tell each one of you how much I appreciate your support. It truly does take a village.
Below: Storyboarding towards the end of the final draft.
After years of writing, revising, editing, and refining, my novel is a wrap. I recently signed a contract with a publishing company. Depending on how quickly the gristmill grinds, Dancing Between the Beats will be a hold-in-your-hands, honest-to-God book (and an e-book) by the end of 2019, or possibly early 2020.
It was eight years ago, just after my mother passed, that I wrote the first rough draft of DBTB. Eight years is one hell of a long gestation period; elephants, move over. Trust me when I say that my book launch party will involve popping multiple corks on multiple bottles of champagne. And cake. There must always be cake.
I’m thrilled to pieces about entering the publication phase, but I find myself in an unexpected emotional lull. I miss my characters. I almost feel abandoned. For years their thoughts, interactions, incessant chattering, and complicated personal situations consumed a huge part of my daily life and led to many nights of insomnia. I’m a bit lost without my fictional family.
But as retrospection replaced feeling aimless, my melancholy train of thought soon jumped the tracks and headed in a more positive direction. I started thinking about how and when I rediscovered creative writing. I’d left my position as a technical editor and was actively taking care of aging and ailing parents. Writing alleviated stress and provided an avenue to work through emotional issues. Writing from home eventually became a dream job, replete with autonomy and without the hassles of multiple bosses, snippy co-workers, an alarm clock ringing at ungodly hours, and a steering-wheel-gripping commute.
Writing is a solitary a pastime, perfect for us introverts, but you can’t develop breadth and hone your craft in a vacuum. So, with more of a shove than a nudge from a writer friend, I signed on for an advanced, special projects class at Pima Community College. The class was geared towards those writing fictional novels, nonfiction books or memoirs. I was then invited to join a writer’s group where I began to develop the belief that I actually could take my third novel from rough draft to finished manuscript. Along the way I took another PCC class—an intense, literary magazine workshop— where I could use the editing and writing skills I’d left at the office. My writing journey has been one of self-realization; a process I hope will continue. Looking back, my personal gestation period has been longer than that of birthing a novel.
The next few months will include revisiting my characters as my book is published and promoted. But for now I have to let my DBTB friends go and hope they find their way into other hands and hearts. It’s time to rummage through my “bits and pieces” file of unfinished ideas, and litter my way-too-clean writing desk with signs of work in progress. Writers have to write, not wallow.
The only southern Arizonans out and about in midsummer are the bright-eyed, early-morning people, of which I am not one. Summer is when I hermit (yes, in my world, hermit is a verb ) Venturing out in the pounding heat, when the interior temperature of a parked car can reach 150 I-can’t-breathe-degrees, is right up there on my “No Bloody Way” scale with driving through a desert monsoon storm. I concede that the dramatic skies and bolts of lightning are spectacular, but. . . . No. Can’t deal with zero visibility, rain too heavy for the windshield wipers to keep up, and the stress of navigating flooded streets and all the detours caused by overflowing, gushing washes. Am I a wimp? Absolutely. I own up to it unembarrassed and unperturbed by negative comments, so don’t try to shame me. I’m impervious.
Just as the thermometer creeps towards 100-plus degrees, but before the heat numbs my brain and drains my motivation, I begin to plan my summer projects. We’re talking indoor projects, of course. Let’s all be sensible here.
With the air conditioning cranked, I become a whirlwind of productivity. Paper shredding is a top priority: outdated files and manuscripts, miscellaneous flyers and papers, old credit card statements—all the accumulated clutter that buries us. Feeding the shredder offers instant gratification: mess be gone. So from June through early September, in my domestic domain the silver gleams, cupboards empty, closets clear; it’s all very satisfying. This year my to-do list was ready by late May, but summer 2019 took a different turn, leaving my shredding machine idle and quiet.
June opened to record low temperatures, urging me out of the house, into the garden, and off to farmer’s markets. And then I got the best news ever. My bestie had been invited to pet-sit in Tucson for two months. She was arriving from England the end of June, with plans to stay until Labor Day. Jo enjoys being out and about, and I enjoy to hanging out with Jo, so her arrival wiped my project slate clean.
The summer days have flown by like a scene from 1940s movie where pages fly off the calendar. And, as Jo’s visit winds to a close, nothing has been crossed off my projects list. And guess what? Life goes on even though not one of those so very important tasks were done. When the sun sets on August and my calendar opens to Sept, I’ll close my eyes to cluttered cupboards and instead revisit all the photographs from this summer. I’ll face Fall with an unorganized home office, but with a fuller heart because of time spent with Jo and our mutual friends.
There’s an old saying my mother was fond of quoting, which is the basis for my obsessive work ethic: Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today. It has, however, taken on new meaning. Having an orderly house does not deserve to hold a higher priority in one’s life than spending time with friends--with those wonderful souls who make you engage in life and laugh.
And there’s another old adage that can be interpreted in a less sarcastic way than it was originally intended: Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. I did mention that Jo is British, right? Did I also mention both my parents were British? Seems that this summer both friendship and DNA won out, and I survived the midday sun just fine. Or maybe it takes being a bit of a mad dog to learn new tricks. As Jo would say, “Heigh-ho.”
Maybe I just get irritated easily, but I find myself gritting my teeth and forcing a polite smile almost every time I venture out into the public domain. Far too many bland, annoying, contemporary phrases have become acceptable norms for social interaction. For me, most of them are cringe-worthy.
Let’s start the list with one of the worst offenders: Free Gift. These two words together make me want to strangle the marketing pros who came up with this idiotic combination of words. Isn’t a gift, by its very definition, free? How many of you give or receive gifts? Do you expect to be paid or billed for said gifts? Do the Wall Street advertising guys really assume we can’t grasp the concept of gift? Maybe they figure the double whammy of free and gift will work the way low, low, low price is supposed to trick us into believing we’re getting a triple whammy of a deal. Marketing lingo. Pure feel-good manipulation.
Here's number two on my list: Guest. If, when I enter a store, I’m to be considered a guest, I want a cup of tea and decent bit of cake. Guest? Why are they taking my money if I’m an honored guest? To quote the phrase we hear too much in politics these days, please, just please, tell it like it is. I am a customer, or maybe a client, but under no reasonable definition of a commercial exchange am I a guest. Marketing spins. They diminish us.
And while we’re out and about, let’s touch on that most annoying of directives, Have a nice day. For all the smiling clerk knows, the flowers I purchased are for the friend who just lost her mother. Or, I might be buying that bottle of wine because I received a life-changing diagnosis from my doctor. Or maybe I’m just hanging on to life by my toenails, and being told that I must have a nice day is way more pressure than I can handle. Please, stop. A simple thank you for your business is more than sufficient.
And folks, I really dislike the word, folks. I immediately envision ladies in aprons canning beans in an overheated cabin with a dirt floor. Unless you are referring to your parents, folks is a term designed to make us all one, to pull us in and embrace us with bland commonality, to simplify our complexity. Nope. Not for me. People, citizens, constituents, peeps, friends, members of the community, fellow Americans, fellow parishioners—there are many excellent word choices besides “folks.”
And gentlemen, please, for the love of God stop saying “We’re pregnant.” You cannot, absolutely cannot steal the limelight all the time, especially this time. You are NOT carrying that baby. When you start puking every morning, getting stretch marks, and have to push a bowling ball out of your privates, then maybe you get to say “we.” Until then, let your wife enjoy the glow and the glory, and step back out of the spot light for once!
By the way, just for the record, when you say whatever in response to a statement, I assume you know, that I know, that you are being rudely dismissive. Why not just own it and say “fuck off.” You might just pull it off if you say it with a smile.
And with that, I’ll step off the soap box, put it away, and blame everything I’ve said on the heat. Walking away to crank up the A/C. Have a nice day!
Maybe the heat of summer is addling my brain, but trying to settle on what to share is like looking at a garden full of butterflies. As soon as I focus on one idea, it waggles its wings and flits to another flower. I need a butterfly net of sorts: a fine-mesh cerebral strainer. I could toss everything in, run water, and see which thoughts dribble away and which settle to the bottom of the basket. Or maybe I just have undiagnosed ADHD? (D votes for that one.)
I thought about discussing the absurdity of summing someone up on the basis of their age or the size of their home, rather than their intelligence or the size of their heart. Or we could compare notes on how hurtful it is to be shut out by a “friend” because of one miss-speak or misjudgment. That line of thought started the wheels turning to the emotional drain of trying to live up to everyone’s image of whom they expect you to be. If the paint on the picture of expectation shows even one smudge, judgmental faces darken to unforgiving disenchantment. These unforgiving types are often the same people who demand unconditional acceptance from you.
My thoughts skimmed the surface of life with dogs, specifically travelling with dogs. Their uninhibited joy when they realize they’re being included makes any related inconvenience inconsequential. Which led to the black cat who got left at home. I have endless anecdotes about said much-adored cat. At the moment he’s hanging out on my desk, rubbing his head against the monitor and batting at loose pens. And of course, you know that a discussion about whether animals have souls and feelings is a non-issue for me. I see more depth of feeling in the eyes of most dogs and cats than I do in the eyes of far too many people. Like my father used to say, “If dogs aren’t allowed in heaven, I’m not going.”
I considered sharing my passion for books/stories based on Asian culture, especially that of China. There are some great titles in my collection. My fascination began with a book of my mother’s by Pearl S Buck. I was about fourteen when I read it. My own books include nonfiction, but there is nothing like good fiction--well-researched fiction—to broaden one’s awareness of human nature\, and to deepen one’s understanding of cultures and different time periods. When someone declares that they read only nonfiction, it makes me flinch. I see this as intellectual snobbery: not an attractive quality.
That got me thinking about those individuals—we’ve all met at least one--whose entire identity revolves around their PhD. They’re the ones who won’t waste their conversational breathe on anyone with less than a Master’s degree. Their loss. A little Life-101 WD40-chat might be exactly what’s needed to spring open those creaky door hinges in their pretentious brains. How can they not know that everyone has a story, and be curious?
Our connection to nature is always a running theme for me. We all benefit from a little garden soil under our fingernails. What can be more awe-inspiring than the wonder of little seeds popping through the soil, soon to become the plants that treat us to the astonishing beauty of their blossoms or bounty of their fruits. Nothing we humans can create compares.
But instead of writing about any of this, here I am, post-wine rambling and talking about nothing of any consequence, much like an episode of Seinfeld. Sadly, my maze-like rambles won’t justify themselves by bringing in mega $$$. Maybe we could just all hang out, musing about life, over a couple of minty Mojitos. Enough Mojitos, and none of this matters anyway. So, who’s buying?
“So what’s she on about now?”
Well, if you must ask, packaging, and let’s not forget, warning labels: my pet peeves of our modern world. Our government’s attempt to protect us from ourselves, and to protect manufacturers from law suits, has far exceeded an acceptable level of ludicrous government bureaucracy.
Let’s start with shrink wrap. Take the 11 x 14 frame I just bought. It was so tightly wrapped in impervious layers of plastic, I couldn’t fit the tip of my pointiest knife under the wrap to make a hole big enough to fit the working end of a pair of scissors. Said knife, however, had no problem jamming its sharp self into the palm of my hand. Once I finally cut a small rip in the wrap, the wood was scarred. Maybe I can pass it off as distressed? I sure as hell know I was by the time I freed the frame. Who needs this kind of aggravation?
See that little item pictured on the upper left. You might think it’s an old-fashioned nut cracker—maybe—but at my house it’s the Super Tool of the century. This handy-dandy gadget saves our landfills from piles of discarded, impossible-to-open, newly purchased bottles of beverages. When ordinary human strength fails, just capture the cap of the bottle in the teeth of this superior device and, you'll twist open bottles of sparking water that even the braggiest muscle man can’t budge.
Moving on to the layer of graphene-like strength, plastic molding jammed around every little bottle and jar of something I really want (like industrial strength face cream). The person who develops a tool to break through this stuff gets nominated for the next Noble Prize. Next up, industrial strength staples, the kind used to keep the wood framing of a couch together. And where do these delights show up? Try the kitchen utensil aisle at your favorite big box retail store. You’ll find them attaching that new kitchen serving spoon you’ll never use to its section of display cardboard. And why will you never use said spoon? ‘Cause you ain’t never gonna get that puppy cut loose, but you sure as hell might end up in Urgent Care trying.
So my point here is, if fear of shoplifting is an issue, then let’s go back to catalogue show rooms where you point to an item and the retail worker has it sent out on a conveyor belt, loose, free, and available. And as far as safety goes, if one has to be told not to eat the oven cleaner, or warned not to stick a drinking straw in their eye, maybe we should drop the protections and just let the national IQ rise, as those blessed with an overabundance of stupidity fall by the wayside.
If you’re still hanging in there with me, the following poem is a version of one that arose from the ashes of my frustration a few years ago. A contest judge gave it a “Commendable”, not because it was well-written, but because it provided needed comic relief during his day of judging serious poetry. Here it is
Push Down and Twist
There’s a tamper-proof top, on the jar I just I bought.
I sigh and I glare, then slash, hack, and tear.
But buyer beware, it’s no worse for wear.
I push down while I twist, nearly spraining my wrist.
It slips from my hand, only to land with a crash.
Now the glass is all smashed.
So I clean up the mess, feeling rather distressed.
It can’t just be me, who can’t seem to free,
things that are trapped, in protective shrink wrap,
which teases and taunts, flaunting stuff that I want.
A new movie might soothe, get me back in the groove.
But my new DVD’s sealed in plastic, I see.
I grab something sharp, to rip packaging apart,
but I stab my own hand, drop the knife, and it lands
sticking into my toe. And, what do you know?
The DVD is now bent, and my energy’s spent.
My head starts to ache, must find aspirin to take.
The new bottle is sealed. This is too damn surreal.
So I prod, poke, and pry. No matter how hard I try.
I can’t open the top, can’t get the seal off.
I twist and I turn, until fingertips burn.
The wrapping’s too tight. It puts up quite a fight
&the pills are still sealed. Wait! A hammer I’ll wield!
Damn--I just broke my thumb, and my hand’s getting numb.
Does my blood pressure count, when irritation mounts?
Or will that just be spurned as a safety concern?
Will no one agree, to please listen to my plea,
And stop protecting me to this unreasonable degree?
Lynn Nicholas - AUTHOR oF Dancing Between The Beats
My blog is a window into my world. My rambling posts tend to be slice-of-life narratives, inspired by