Waxing poetic in pj's

“Agnes, quiet already,” I said brushing her aside.  “I realize you’re hungry, but give me a break. I didn’t go to bed until 2AM, and it’s only 7:15.”

With a low groan, I push myself into a sitting position and that's when my other babies wander into my bedroom.  Freya, my husband's Rottweiler, paws at my chest with her big mitts, while the other felines start their cat-a-walling. 

“All right all ready, I’m coming, but you’re not starving.  Each one of you is fat except for Alvin.”

I throw the coverlet aside and stand up.  With arms over head,  I stretch the aches and pains from my body and turn my attention to calming the masses.  The cats run a close second into the computer room where I open the closet door and retrieve their hard food. 

“Here you go guys. Have at it,” I said.

The smell of dunkin donuts coffee floats on the air. 

"Thank goodness I didn't forget to set the timer. Just what the doctor ordered.  Caffeine.”

Pouring a cup of coffee, it hits me. Today is going to be my first day as a writer in PJ’s.   I had just interviewed two equestrian athletes over the last few days, and acquired the necessary material to write each of the articles due by Friday, when I suddenly found myself in a state of shock. I never thought this could happen.  I love to write but am undisciplined, only writing when the mood suits me or when a photo or piece of music lends it's inspiration. 

A special friend of mine told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to take my writing seriously, but being my own worst critic, I thought she had lost her mind.  That opinion soon changed when I received a call from the editor of a new and up and coming magazine in Charlotte.  “Would you like to write for us,” he asked? “You’d be freelance but can help with proofing as well.  As of right now the job doesn’t pay anything, but if you stick it out and the direction of the magazine goes the way we hope, that could change.” Needless to say, I was speechless, and for those who know me that’s difficult.   I’m 54, for god's sake. Not too old for something new, but…

I accepted the position and with 3 articles under my belt, two magazines later, event summaries, and a butt load of proofing I can honestly say, I love what I do and find it to be the most fun.

That leads me to waxing poetic.  What a great phrase.  With my morning chores completed, and Josiah busy with schoolwork, I sat down in front of the computer and toyed with my next blog idea...a writer in PJ’s…

When you tell people you work from home, you get this quizzical look and a nod of the head.  Too polite to question you, they say, “That’s nice.” But, deep down they're thinking, "Sure you are.  You're really only screwing off, eating bon-bons and watching the newest reality TV show."  I’ve finally figured these folks out after a really close friend of mine asked me with a snort, “You’re doing what, writing? When did this happen? And, why didn’t you tell me?”   I’m guessing I don’t have to elaborate on my response, but it’s typical for others to judge when they aren’t happy and unwilling to try something new.  I mean hell, what did I have to lose.  The answer was absolutely nothing!

I now sit at my computer wearing fluffy pink slippers, blue fleece bottoms with cats jumping over moons, and an old SF tee-shirt of Russell’s.  My face is washed, and teeth are brushed but I’ve got outrageous bed head.  I’ve been told this look is the “hot at home” look. I don’t know how “hot” it is, but I can attest to it being very comfortable.  I feel a bit wild.  No heels, no stockings, no bra, and no suits.  The only pressure being what I put on myself.

With a bottle of water, bagel and cream cheese, a cup of coffee, writing tablet or keyboard, I’m ready to start.  Most people don’t understand a writer’s world.  It’s very different.  For a writer, real time is based on calendar days—deadlines--rather than the ticking down of a clock from 9 to 5.  The scary part is when you find yourself staring at the monitor, your fingers poised on the keyboard—ASDFJKL;--but nothing happens. The screen in your mind's eye is as blank as the computer’s.  That’s when being a writer in PJ’s has it perks.  You can get up, stretch, pet the cat, take a walk, get some fresh air, turn the music on really loud and dance until you're ready to drop; by changing your focus, thoughts become more concise.

When I separate myself from my writing, I mull over each and every aspect of the research, and soon, as if by a miracle, the words come in one-act scenes.  My fingers slide across the keys; faster and faster the words multiply. It’s definitely not a lifestyle for everyone, but for me it's exhilarating similar to standing atop a cliff, the wind whipping through my hair, the sound of waves 500 feet below breaking against the shore and the sound of sea gulls crying for their morning catch.

3 Doors Down When I'm Gone - Tribute to the Troops

Adele-Love Song (The Cure cover)

The new year cusp...

It's been three months since I said I'd be back writing and laughing.  But sadly, I was unable to keep my word.  As I grow older, I realize that the push and pull of everyday life takes it's toll and hinders.  An excuse to some, but a disappointing realism.

A husband's work abroad; a daughter's awakening to marriage and motherhood; a son-in-law to fatherhood and duty station change, and sons--one still in school dreaming of finishing and the other daring to succeed with honors in a flagging economy. Add to the mix parents who drive me crazy and a mother-in-law who decides to move back --if you can believe it--to snow bunny hell Pennsylvania from warm, sunny North Carolina.  Pulling up the rear is my own demon, the dreaded six month cancer reassessments.

Now in my third year since being diagnosed, treated, and told I'm cured, there is only but a shadow of peace.  Anxiety rears it's ugly head like hurricane force winds threatening the Cape Hatteras coast.   I don't think it's possible to ever be truly free.  The urge to look over my shoulder is too great, and then there is that dreaded conversation ...

"Hey, that lymph node feels funny." 

"No it doesn't.  It's fine."

"But, I'm not sleeping well, and my energy level sucks."

"That's because you're lazy.  Yoga's not enough. You got to get back on that bike dumb ass."

"Do you think the cancer's back?"

"No, you ninny. You're just paranoid." 

But what is true even with the anxiety and the dreaded conversation playing over-and-over again in my head, is that I wouldn't change a thing, not even the cancer because it's what made me who I am today. Being told you might die gives you the opportunity to breath deep the life you have left. I find myself searching out people who make me laugh--my spouse, my children, my friends--the special ones near and far, and even strangers.  Conversations and repartee; quirky smiles and silent signals; humor gives us the voice needed to fight what life throws at us and so, I will continue living, loving, and laughing while making the best damn lemonade from life's all to frequent lemons.

Life takes its toll every once in a while

Been gone the entire month of August dealing with life.  You know that thing we do everyday--morning, noon, and night--that causes so much stress; so much negativity, that your best cure is to slam the door, pull down the shades, and crawl under the covers sleeping the blues away. Well, since that was unrealistic, I just did what I always do.  I dealt with it and tightened my belt.  But, I'm back and as my good friend Natasha says, "I'm ready to play."  September blogging, here I com.

Breakfast at Annie's Part 3

 When Bertie and Sophie walked through the front door, Annie was having a heart-to-heart conversation with her register. 

“Damn machine, Charlie promised me you’d be easy to work. Should have known better; an old woman like myself investing in a new cash register, what a foolish idea!”

“Having problems Annie,” asked Bertie. 

“Yeah, you could say that.  I can’t get this thing to work. There are too many buttons.  I’ve had it.” 

Frustrated, Annie stood back from the register and grabbed the kitchen towel from the counter.  Imagining it was the computer she was strangling, Annie twisted and pulled the towel until her hands were sweaty.  Tossing the towel back on the counter she said, “I’m calling Charlie and have him pick this monstrosity up before I drop kick it across the street.  I want my old machine back.”

“Want us to help,” said Sophie. 

“Would you? That would be great. I’ve been keeping written accounts since last night and don’t see the point of continuing when my old machine is in the back closet.  Let me show you where it is.  You know, I should never have allowed Charlie to poke his nose in my business.  I’m too old for this nonsense.”

“You’re not old Annie, just wise beyond your years,” said Sophie with a twinkle in her eye.  “I hate computers too.  Ask Bertie. If our computer at the bookstore goes nuts, I can’t do a thing with it.”

“She’s right Annie.  Sophie’s hopeless when it comes to computers.  She’s 30 years old and only knows how to turn it on. But that’s not surprising; she can’t work her T.V. remote either.”

“Shut up Bertie.”

With a quick twist of her torso, Sophie turned and flipped Bertie off.

“I saw that,” said Annie smiling.

Annie watched as the two girls worked to rid her of the new register.   Close since high school, Sophie and Bertie were more like sisters than best friends.  Without each other Bertie wouldn’t have made it through her mother’s passing, and now with Sophie in remission for cancer, the two were perfectly matched. 

Annie looked at the girls and said, “You two never plan on growing up, do you?”

“Nope,” said Bertie

“Never,” chimed Sophie.

“Hey Annie,” said Bertie as nonchalant as possible, “that guy who came in here earlier, what’s his story?” 

“Why, what’s it to you,” said Annie. 

Bertie and Sophie surprised by Annie’s response stuttered, “We were just wondering that's all.”

They turned around and focused on setting up Annie’s cash register when she said, “Just kidding girls.  A good looking man like that rolls into town, I’d ask too.  Well, I don’t know much but he’s renting my spare apartment upstairs.  He doesn’t talk about himself, and I do know he owns a dog.  Other than that, I think he mentioned opening some sort of security business.  I’m figuring he has a military background because he acts like my Arthur did--God rest his soul--when he came home from the Korean War and was stationed at Ft. Bragg.”

“Oh, well that’s something to go on. Do you mind if I ask one more question,” said Bertie.

“No, of course not my dear, just spit it out.”

“His name, what is it?”

Annie let the question hang in the air for a few seconds before responding and then said, “His name is Jack Ferguson.”

Breakfast at Annie's Part 2

“What the hell?  It’s too early to be making so much noise,” said Bertie.   You know I need quiet in the morning.”

“Just ignore it.  It’s probably just some obnoxious kid blasting through town.”

 

Bertie turned her head to see what the commotion was when Sophie heard her say, “Woe, who is that?”

Sophie saw a tall, well-built man in sexy, black leather sitting astride a Honda motorcycle.  “I don’t know, never seen him before, said Sophie.

“Well that body speaks for itself.  I wonder what’s hiding under that helmet,” said Bertie. 

“You’re such a dog Bertie.  Stop that before you embarrass yourself,” said Sophie.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re not a little bit curious.”

“No, I’m not,” Sophie said gruffly.

“Well girl you’ve just proven what I’ve thought all along.”

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“That you are numb from the neck down,” countered Bertie.

Sophie went back to her coffee choosing not to engage in their friendly repartee while Bertie changed the angle of her chair to get a better look at the stranger’s unveiling.  If anything, Bertie appreciated a good-looking man.

Sensing he was being watched, he stepped off his bike and put the kick stand in place.  Reaching for his chin strap, he unhooked his helmet and grabbed a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket.  Nodding at Sophie and Bertie, he walked into Annie’s Coffee Shop.

“Hello Gorgeous,” said Bertie.

Trying very hard to ignore Bertie, Sophie reverted to their previous conversation.  “So, other than the Mc Murphy book club is there anything else going on this week that we need to discuss?”

“Nothing special, but did you see that chin? Kirk Douglas’s, dimple and all.  And, those broad shoulders.  I wonder what color his eyes are,” said Bertie.

“Can you not let it go?  He’s just somebody passing through town.”

“Well, maybe not, but I’m sure Annie will find out.  You know how she gets people to talk about themselves.  Amazing.  The quietest suddenly spill their guts over a cup of Annie’s coffee and home-made pastry. 

Fifteen minutes later, Gorgeous steps out of Annie’s twirling a key.    Sunglasses resting low on the bridge of his nose, he smiles at Bertie but locks eyes with Sophie as if daring her to speak.  Wearing a mischievous grin, he raises one eyebrow and slowly pushes his sunglasses in place.  Walking towards his motorcycle, he gracefully sits astride, replaces his helmet, starts the engine, and rolls around the corner.

“What was that all about, Sophie? I get a smile, and you get a standoff.  Okay, spit it out.  Do you know that a guy?”

With her hands shaking, Sophie places her coffee cup on the table and begins to breathe again.  “I don’t believe it!  It can’t be. Oh, crap, that’s the guy I told you about last week when I went running. You remember the one with the big ass dog who scared the bejeebers out of me and then when his owner arrived, I couldn’t talk because I was too busy drooling over him like a school girl. ”

Unable to contain herself, Bertie started clapping her hands and laughing so loud that other people started starring.  "You've got to be kidding me.  That was him?  I don't know about  you, but I'm going inside to see what Annie learned and to find out this guy's name.  Come on Sophie, aren't you the tiniest bit interested?"

"Of course; I'd be lying if I said no.  Okay, let's go see what Annie has to say."