The random beeping of a hearing aid.

Does it become like music eventually? It must, as the older gentleman wearing the hearing aid didn’t even seem to notice the sound. But I kept thinking, how on earth does he stand it? It would drive me crazy, and might explain why people are reticent to get a hearing aid to begin with.

Soooo, I did a little sleuthing to learn more about this problem and came to find it is rather common and can be caused by a number of different reasons; not the least of which is wax in the ear.

Really???? This seems hilarious to me. So, not only is the hearing aid beeping at you, but people around you also know you don’t clean your ears very well. Lovely!

The good news is that, like everything, hearing aids are going digital. This, for some reason, alleviates many of the causes of feedback ringing/whining. I am glad to say I am not an expert on hearing aids, yet, but it is nice to know that technology is improving in this area along with many others.

It makes me wonder what else the digital age could do for us….
 - Speaking of whining… is there a digital solution for a child’s incessant complaining?
 - And, how about exercise… couldn’t we find a digital solution to the treadmill?
 - Oh, and as I watch the snow fall I wonder, what about bulky clothing… what if we replaced it with a digital jacket of some form.
 - Best of all, though, wouldn’t it be great to digitize fights? As soon as we got into the same old loops something would turn on and it would have the argument for us; and then we could just walk away and go on a fun date or something. 
 
(I am clearly wasting my time writing romance when it is obvious I should be writing science fiction.)

Until any of these great inventions are created, however, I will simply have to put on my ear phones to block out the whining (of either the hearing aid or my daughter) and hope that my ipod isn’t sending feedback too. I’d hate for those around me to wonder about my showering habits.

“It is soft; it is white; it is light.”

We spent the day, Saturday, at the World Forestry Museum here in Portland and as I waited in line for my daughter to get face paint (it was a special offering as part of girl day at the museum) I read about an experiment conducted in Italy. They wanted to compare the language used by pre-school age children with that of artists. 

I was intrigued by this experiment and its findings. What I took away was that language is formed by use and then becomes directed primarily toward that purpose. So that, when we describe tissue for example, we say it is for blowing our nose. But when children or an artist describe tissue they see how light travels through it, how it floats in the air, how it moves when twisted. 

Poetic language is therefore both helpful and distracting in fiction writing. We have all read passages that immediately paint a picture using very few words. Instinctively I believe we still, for example, react to tissue paper on this gut level. Our senses know that it is soft and light and white, at the very same time as we are pulling it from the box to simply blow our nose. If we slow down our writing by describing everything in these terms we can take away from the story itself. For example –

The tissue she pulled from the square, harsh, Kleenex box felt like it would blow away at any moment. Could it really catch the ocean of warm, salty tears flowing from her eyes?

On the other hand, sometimes we can use an image to quickly express an idea so that it actually speeds up our
writing:

It was as if her mother had just pulled the dress from a Kleenex box.

I have remarked before that I frequently get so caught up in everyday life that I forget to observe what is happening around me. Now I see that I need to take it even one step further when I do pay attention. It is not enough for me to observe someone pulling a tissue out to wipe a tear or blow their nose, now I need to hone in on what that object
looks like as it comes from their purse or pocket. Yikes!

But then again, no one said writing was easy. So I suppose I will just have to wipe
my nose and get back to work.

“I’m listening to her and I realize I have no idea what she’s saying.” 

It was cute in its very rarity, two older gentlemen were comparing notes on what it was like to speak with their wives. They went on to say that so much of the conversation seemed to take place within their spouse’s head that it was difficult to follow when they made leaps to other topics. 
 
I imagine my husband could relate to this. At points in time he will ask me what my thought process was that led to an, apparently, out of the blue subject change or question. It is quite funny to go back and track it: “Well…. We were discussing vacation, and I thought of the bats in Tahoe. That reminded me of the zoo, which reminded me of summer camps which reminded me of Girl Scouts which reminded me that I was in charge this weekend which reminded me of the work I still needed to do on my computer which reminded me that it was running slowly. So…. Can we call someone to fix it or not?”

The danger, as a writer though, is that this can easily happen in my writing as well. It is clear, at least in my head, why my character does something. But, unless the reader somehow has psychic access to those personal thoughts it can appear to be a random , or worse, out of character, action to them.

Editing my own work does not really help with this (unless it is years later and even I can’t remember how I reached a certain place). What can help, though, is having an objective third party review my work. When I hear questions like, “but why did she xyx?” I know I have made a leap that my readers won’t be able to follow. 
 
Sadly, these leaps happen more frequently than I like, both in my writing and in real life.  I believe it is the problem with being creative… our imagination never shuts down, even when our husbands are telling us something they think is critical. Somehow, I will still end up thinking about the airplane, then the weather, then the cold, then the jacket then the….. 

… Come on, Honey, keep up.

“Some nasty things are being said about you….”

I should have known better; and in fact, my first instinct, I am grateful to say, was who would want to say nasty things about me? But then that little voice (and my creativity) kicked in and I came up with all sorts of answers. So, of course, I went to look at the supposed site where these statements were coming from….

And guess what?  I got scammed. The response from my Twitter friends was very supportive. Although they were sent a similar mass email from my account, they all reassured me that it happens all the time on Twitter. It is sad, but true, our world is filled with people who use the most obnoxious means to inject themselves into our lives. 
 
But, while these people might be obnoxious, they are also very clever; because they have used the psychological phrase most likely to get click-throughs…. Even by people who know better. The idea that people could be saying mean things about us hits on many different levels. At the top layer, is the obvious desire to be liked… to be held in high esteem by others. But even more fundamental, this idea threatens our need for belonging (if friends believe these thing they won’t be our friend anymore) and on an even deeper level threatens our need for personal safety (if my readers believe this they won’t want to buy my books anymore). 

It is a solid offense designed specifically to get our instant reaction. Now, if a salesperson used it on us, we might, at first, react as they wanted… check out the car or the house or the time-share they are selling; but I imagine once we knew it was only a ploy, our response to that person would be swift and negative and they would not get our  business.

Ah… but here is where the internet is so useful… because, I have no idea where this phishing scam originated, nor how to stop it.  Twitter, the company, knows it exists, but they are unable to catch-up with the perpetrators. And there is no one to confront and call foul! 

So, we change our password, we apologize to those affected, and
we go back to business as usual, thinking all the while, but what if…. Part of
my psyche now holds the idea that floating out there is someone who wishes me
harm; whether in the form of nasty statements or access to my twitter list.



The good news, though, is that either way the damage is offset by
the community of supporters who reaffirm those needs that were threatened. They
reassure us that although nasty stuff happens, we need not feel
alone.

 Pre-quel to the Squirrel-whispered post

The scratch-scratch of squirrel feet running across the attic to avoid the kritter-control dude.

Ohhhh, that waskely wabbit. Why do I suddenly feel like Elmer Fudd? It seems like every year these dang squirrels take their winter holiday at our house. It must be like Palm Beach or something to them, because I swear they get a deal on Orbitz and arrive with fully packed bags and squirrelettes in tow.

As you can probably tell, I am not a fan of rodents visiting my house. I can’t think of many people who are. But I have reached a new level of disgust with squirrels in general. Let’s review the facts: 
-Even though they are already fat, they steal the birdseed out of the birdfeeder for the lovely, helpful birds that roam my garden. 
-They run along the fence and taunt my poor dog with their annoying chatter.
- They gnaw through my eaves and into my house so they can wake me up in the middle of the night with their little squirrel fiestas.

Is it any wonder that I went out and did a happy dance the day I heard one of them fall two stories through one of the internal walls of my house. I was thrilled…. Two seconds later, I’m not kidding, I hear a squirrel yelling furiously at the house from a low branch on a nearby tree. Now, I can’t know for sure that it was the same squirrel, but when I went outside to see… it didn’t run away and in fact seemed too dazed to move.  I’m still trying to figure out how it
made it outside so quickly.

When my daughter was young we had an ongoing story about the squirrels in our backyard. The were named, (don’t ask me why) Samantha, Sam and Magpie. They each had very unique personalities…. Sam was always hiding, and
  then losing, his food; Samantha would help by coming up with outrageous ideas for finding it and Magpie would ultimately come in and save the day. It was very amusing, and probably my own, passive aggressive way of making fun of the ridiculous creatures.

The problem is, my daughter now considers squirrels part of our family: sort of like a backyard pet. And, in any case, I really can’t fight her on this. The little squatters move in every winter as if indeed, it is their  home also. The pest guy has assured me that the one way door will get rid of
them. Ha!


The good news is they’re totally quiet today… the bad news is
that I figure they’re coming up with their five point plan for how to circumvent
that door.

“Maybe they all snuck away on a secret guy trip together.”

We actually first began talking about this on Tuesday during the Valentine’ s Day party at school. Four of the moms there had husbands who were traveling all week… missing Valentine’s Day in the process. This didn’t really concern any of us, though. We’d all had enough VD’s with our significant others that it had lost its luster a while ago.

But… a week of single parenting can wear on you, and by last night three of the four of us had decided that it may have been an evil plan to escape together. In truth, we weren’t all that suspicious really. The husbands know each other in passing, but not enough to mastermind this kind of scheme. Besides this, I had gotten enough pictures of Tokyo to see that, indeed, my husband was thousands of miles and a day apart from me.

Fortunately, these types of weeks don’t happen very often; certainly not as frequently as they do for others. (Two of the other women had their husbands turning around for another trip next week!) And, in some ways, a trip for a week is almost easier than a day trip…. We get into a rhythm, and plow through as opposed to the fits and starts of having my husband gone, then home, then gone, then home.

Still, single parenting is never easy…. and is even more difficult for those who have multiple children. Trying to figure out how to get them all where they need to go, take care of the pets, take care of the house, not to mention get our own work done, absolutely makes me, at least, appreciate all that my husband does to keep our lives running
smoothly.


And perhaps this is why a long trip, even for fun, every now and
then is a good idea. It is easy to take for granted the hard work of our
  spouses; and there is no better time than Valentine’s Day to gain a new
  perspective on why we are still in love after all these
years.

“Do you have a ‘porta-potty’ in the car?”

I remember those days as if they were a… well, something between a dream and a nightmare. The girl I overheard and her husband were meeting with a realtor to look at homes in our neighborhood. It was very cute… that freshness of starting out and having such big changes ahead of them.

What a joy pregnancy is, huh? I mean, I know for some people it is… for example the girl in my labor class who didn’t want to stop being so connected to her ‘little buddy’. But for most of us I think it is more like fighting through a wind and rain and ice storm but knowing there is hot chocolate on the other end.  Of course the hot chocolate turns out to be so hot it scalds out mouths… but while we are in the midst of the freezing storm that is not what we are thinking about. All we can hold onto is the thought that at some point we will, again, be warm.

Mine wasn’t the worst pregnancy ever. I can acknowledge, even bow down to, the poor women who carry twins… or are sick the entire time…or end up in preterm labor and struggle to hold onto the baby. These, obviously, are the
most difficult situations. But I, like I think most women, had the normal amount of angst; all-day sickness (who ever thought to call is morning, anyway?), aching hips and back, sleepless nights, swollen feet and hands… and they wonder why we want birth control? It is an exercise in acceptance and mindfulness; a chance to practice the very skills that we will need as moms!

And the thing is… it does end, and for the most part we forget the really awful parts and remember the way the baby kicked, or the first time we find out the gender or hear their little heart beating on the ultrasound, or find the perfect nursery set and watch our husband set up the crib knowing this is a right of passage along the lines of a tribal first hunt.

 We forget, that is, until we get the stomach flu and think, oh yeah… I remember why I am not going there again; or until we overhear a young girl, waddling through Starbucks, drinking her green tea while longing for coffee, and hoping she doesn’t pee in the back seat of her realtor’s car.

“Just checking in to see how your squirrel problem is doing. Give me a call to let me know if you’ve heard any more from them. BEEP.”

Now I know why the squirrels were running away from the pest person a few weeks ago (see previous blog) … apparently word gets around in the squirrel community that this is the guy to watch out for. He must be like the squirrel whisperer or something because even the ones in the backyard won’t come anywhere near the house anymore.

It is driving our dog crazy. The squirrels now sit on the back fences, staring longingly at the house, and don’t even blink when Summer, our dog, barks at them. I think perhaps they are waiting to see if the pest guy will come back, but it is hard to tell what goes on in the manipulative little mind of squirrels.

As much as they bother our dog, however, I am glad that they have not moved back in next door (we seem to be trading the same squirrel family back and forth, like a cup of sugar). I am glad of this for two reasons….One, because I am a good neighbor and don’t like anyone to have to deal with the little rodents…. But two, because the neighbors seem to play a lot of violent computer games and I don’t want the squirrels getting any ideas. 
 
I am pretty sure, if all our neighborhood squirrels ganged up on us, we’d be toast. The winter has been very mild here and you should see how fat they have become.  They’ve got some serious bulk that we’d have to contend with. 
 
So, I’m off now to return the squirrel whisperer’s phone message. Even though I haven’t heard any scampering around, I think it’s time we made sure that the squirrels knew the pest guy was still on the lookout.

"We're doing all Gershwin right now. It's such fun."

I am in the midst of work overload right now. Betting Jessica is free today on Amazon and I am trying to promote that; my second book is at the stage where I am scared it may never be good enough to publish; and someone just published their own, nicely written (she says sulkily) book using the working title for my second novel… so now I must come up with a new name and cover art (in case it ever is good enough to publish).

Interestingly, though, my overhear at Starbucks yesterday was a wonderful reminder of how different it is to be busy, even stressed, when you love what you do and what you produce. The woman who was talking clearly loved the choral group she was in. You could tell she was passionate about music and singing and wanted to share it with everyone. 
 
In my earlier years, the stress of being overworked almost flattened me. It never seemed like I could get on top of my job or my career. I felt totally overwhelmed, and worried constantly about disappointing my boss or colleagues.  

Now, because I love writing, that stress has turned to energy; that worry to passion. I sincerely want everything I produce to be the best it can be (which is why it is so difficult to publish knowing it will never be perfect).  With some maturity has also come a better understanding that I am still learning as I go. This is the thing that ultimately helps me let go of my work…. Knowing that by putting it out there I am freeing myself to continue to grow as an author.  

And I try very hard not to take any of this for granted. I am very lucky and I appreciate all of the support I get from friends, family and especially my readers.  

So, it’s easy to say: I was doing all right, but now Things are looking up, because, although it Ain’t necessarily so, I’ve got beginners luck and have landed It’s nice work if you can get it. And no matter what… They can’t take that away from me.


Sorry…. I had to:>)

The ringing telephone, early in the morning.

It is never a good thing when the telephone wakes you early….Even worse when you see it is your husband’s parents who are calling, even though he just spoke with them over the weekend. The bad news was somewhat expected, Gram had died. She was 90 years old and had been suffering for a long time, so we know she is in a better place.

But still….

I once wrote a sestina, a certain type of poem, about death…and the part that continues to stand out for me is the line: Framing life is death, a boundary of time. I have found that line repeated in my writing since then…. This idea
that even as we live life we know that our time here is limited. And, as importantly, it cannot be far from our minds that this holds true also for the people we love. If we are lucky, we may share their life for a long time. And these shared experiences help create the depth in our own lives. 
 
I think this is especially true of grandparents. I lost my own grandmother a little over a year ago, and I remember it took me a while to come to terms with the fact that she wouldn’t be part of my life anymore. The memories created over the early years together frequently reach out to me, like a whisper from a close friend. I can be in the midst of doing something, like cooking, and a thought of her will make me smile or sometimes even laugh. 
 
So, although death does frame life, the boundary it creates is more fluid than I realized when I was younger.  And, as I just read on a twitter post today from @rainbowkate:  In the end it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years. - Abraham Lincoln 
 
I think I finally understand what that really means.

    Barbara Jean Sherwood Wilsted
    b. July 30, 1921 - d. Feb 6, 2012
           (you will be missed)