musings in mayhem

writer, mom, tutor, superwoman

Archive for the month “March, 2010”

Living up to intentions

Yesterday I said,

So today, my goal, and it’s a small one, because I never have time to myself at home, my editing is going to happen for the thirty minutes I sit outside Mr. Cynic’s bass lesson. In the car. Blissfully alone with my manuscript and a purple pen.

And I did it.  I edited right up to the big scene I still need to write.  Guess what’s next?  After tomorrow’s special person birthday, and the weekends’ festivities, of course…

I may even squeeze a little writing in on Friday morning before the half-day of school lets out, during Toots’s Sesame Street session.

Wish me luck!

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Not feeling very chatty lately, how unusual.

I’ve noticed I have short posts lately.  I really want to be editing my manuscript, and haven’t had a whole lot to say, anyway.  I mean around here is the usual mayhem, but I’m feeling quieter about it apparently. 

Although, this morning, Toots proclaimed , “Oh Sh*t!” repeatedly as Honey headed off to work today, which has been rather stressful of late. Developmental milestone met in a very appropriate manner, even if it wasn’t an appropriate thing for her to say.  Still she was very cute about it.  Even when she’s tantruming, this kid is adorable.  Makes it difficult to ever feel particularly disciplinary re: her.

And now I feel I must apologize to Mr. Cynic for his early years…jeez, no wonder the kid has such a ‘tude.  (kidding!)

So today, my goal, and it’s a small one, because I never have time to myself at home,  my editing is going to happen for the thirty minutes I sit outside Mr. Cynic’s bass lesson.  In the car.  Blissfully alone with my manuscript and a purple pen. 

But in the hours between now and then, I shall regale you with the following tale of the weekend.

Grandma noticed some mysterious broken glass on the deck, and swept it up.  We thought, we inquired, and among three adults and three kids, no one admitted culpability for the mysterious broken glass appearance upon our deck. 

Deductive reasoning concluded it must have been Captain Comic, but how?  and why? and what were the origins of the broken glass?

In search of the truth of the matter and in an attempt to solve this mystery, I called the young likely perpetrator to me.  He declined any knowledge of broken glass, even when I asked for the truth, the whole truth, so help you…and even after stick a needle in your eye.  He maintained his innocence – even after being sent to his room until such time as he was ready to speak the truth, which included the inevitable lost viewing of AFV.

I confronted him again later in an attempt to allow him to come clean. 

“Kiddo, C’mon.  Who else can it be? The evidence laid two floors below your bedroom window.  If you broke something by accident, it’s okay.  Lying is not okay.”

“Bu-“

“No buts.  Tell me the really real truth.”

Captain Comic heaved a sigh of guilt brought about under duress.  He caved. “Okay.  Here’s the deal.  It was an accident I swear. And I was afraid I’d get in trouble if I told the truth.”

“The truth shall set you free.  Lies are always a bad idea and get you into more trouble, right?”

“I guess so.”  He was contrite.  His eyes pleaded innocence for the accident.

“So what happened?”

“I swear, I was just trying to turn the ceiling light on, and when I jumped up to pull the chain, my finger hit it, and it flew, I mean flew…and hit the glass globe on the ceiling fan and broke a hole in the glass.”

“Now why did you throw it out the window onto the deck?  That broken glass is dangerous for any of us, you know, especially Toots.”

“I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

“Next time, just be honest, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And remember, if you try to get rid of evidence by throwing it out your window, it just lands on the deck where we’ll all see it.  If we don’t hear the crash.”  I laughed.  He laughed, realizing how dumb that decision actually was. 

I mean, at least when I threw the evidence out my bedroom window when I was a kid, it was on the side of the house we rarely walked around…

A good week

Last week, I did not live up to my writing intentions. 

This week, I just might.  I really want to.

This week also has a few other good things to offer:

1. I will be able to watch my beloved Boston Red Sox on my local sports station, playing against the Washington Nationals.  I don’t get every game they play in this neck of the beach, because I can’t get NESN, the home station in Boston.  And I am not going to get dish tv or whatever, or join mlb.com computer viewing, etc… if I’m going to pay, I’d rather be at the game…But yay!  Saturday!  Red Sox!  I mean it’s not like I’m a crazy fan, I just love them. 

2. Somebody special has a birthday coming up on April Fool’s Day.  You can read about this then…tune in Thursday!

3. The Easter Bunny is coming on Sunday!  Jelly beans!  Chocolate!  And Italian cream pies!  Grandma’s annual specialty…I like the chocolate cream pie the best…

4.  Friday, April 2nd is World Autism Awareness Day.

Today is all about the boom-boom rumbling thunder all night long, the pummelling rain, the late school bus and one soaking wet kid sent to school. I really want to get a few things done, but I may be joining Toots for a goood relaxation on the sofa with PBS kids…gotta love what a low pressure system does for motivation…

If only this were mine!

Jacqui Robbins’s proscratination tactics are so much more productive and creative than mine. 

At least she got a poem out of it.  And what a wonderful one for me to hear.  Yes, I need to put all else aside to write.  I need to tell the world I am working. Mostly, I need to tell that to myself.

Any writers out there need to hear it, too?  Please click on the linkipoo around her name.  It’s worth the extra one and a half minute distraction.

Trust me.

Procrastination station

I really had good intentions when I set out earlier this week to work on my children’s novel in progress’s current draft. 

Really I did.

Then I had a variety of appointments for myself and for Toots, and bass lessons for Mr. Cynic, and, oh nope, I pulled Captain Comic from Taekwando for my convalescence months of February and March, so no excuse there.  And then the sun came out, and I had a book to finish reading, and with family in one car mode, I was driving Honey to work, and then I putzed around getting rid of the Lucy in the snow picture above, and then I had to get a new spring photo up, which meant I had to go take spring photos and the sun came out and the urge to garden became overwhelming and… aw forget it. 

I didn’t really dig into the manuscript as intended.

When Toots naps today, I will.  Promise.  I mean, it’s only Thursday, right? I can make up the hours I skipped earlier in the week before the week ends, right? 

Knock, knock?  Anybody there? 

Spring is in the air.

A plethora of blooming trees are currently exploding with color in these here parts which brings one solid question to my mind, anyway.

Where are the Boston Red Sox? I need a good view of a ball hanging high in the air just inside Pesky’s Pole before sailing off into the stands…Or bouncing off the Green Monster…

on TV of course.  I live considerably further than a block away these days.  It seems my interest in the Red Sox is in direct proportion to how far I live from Fenway Park.

Gone Writing

You may not see much of me here for a while.  I may pop in now and then, but mostly, I will be working on the hole in the novel and the character merge in the coming weeks.

I’ve got a good start for both problems.  Wish me luck!

Highs and Lows

High: Cherry Blossoms!
Low: Mourning a beloved character I had to write out of my manuscript and began to do so yesterday.  I didn’t think a made-up someone could be so important to me.  I love him, and yet I wrote him out of existence. Some of my favorite writing I have ever done involved him, but in the end, didn’t serve  the children’s book as well as he should have.

Goodbye, Uncle Joe.  You are missed.

It’s officially more than official.

Mr. Cynic turns fifteen at the end of next month.  If I previously doubted I had a teen (I really haven’t doubted since he was like four, really, but who’s counting), a few things occurred within about twenty-four hours which proves this fact beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Sunday morning, I co-led the teen group at church, in which it was pointed out that as a teen and parent go, we get along better than most.  Then I dropped him off at his girlfriend’s house for the afternoon. Yes her parents were there.

He came home about six hours later and the energy in the room significantly changed.

So I asked, “Did you finally kiss her?”

“Why yes.  Yes I did.”

“Was is everything it was cracked up to be?”

“Why yes.  Yes it was.”

I inquired further and immediately regretted having as open a relationship as I do with my son, so promptly ended the question and answer portion of our program.  However he was flying high for the duration of the evening.  Note to self: revisit discussions of not rushing into things you’re not ready for even if it feels like you’re ready for it in the moment.

Monday afternoon, he came home from school, and emphatically stated a reply of no to everthing I asked, though he did walk the dog without a reminder.  Eventually he unloaded the dishwasher, nearly breaking every dish as well as slamming every cabinet in the process.  But it took Toots and an army of cuteness to get him to refill her empty cup as he was occupying the kitchen as if defending with troops and refusing to do so when I asked.

And to think he blamed his Geometry teacher’s not clarifying the lesson when he so clearly raised his hand and called her name like fifty times to say he didn’t understand it for this mood he wrought upon me.

So I thought, rather than get into it with him, it was better to let him roam and kvetch to his friends in the neighborhood rather than endure another moment of his angst.

Oy, next Fall he starts Driver’s Ed. I’m not so sure we’ll make it that far.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day

The Irish soul is partially mine, and I believe of any of the influences of my character, the Irish part leads.  Of any of the Irish Ballads, this one may explain the Irish character best.

Dark humor abounds in the Irish heart.

I have  mixed emotions re: St. Patrick’s Day.  My family is very proud of our Irish heritage, though we have been in the United States since the first migration waves of the 17th-18th centuries, which was largely Irish protestants.  I am also not too keen on celebrating the man who ‘drove the snakes out of Ireland’  which means he actually drove the indigenous people’s religion out of the land. 

But all of the world’s Irish diaspora is proud of coming from the harsh and green fertile land surrounded by cold sea, dank and dark, and small.  The history is longer than it is written, and it hangs in all our hearts with a pride of survivalists of a homeland under almost constant seige since the time of the Vikings.

So regardless of religion, regardless of red hair, blond or black, Protestant, Catholic or Pagan, where we live in the world or how we got there, by religious persecution or famine or an eye on prosperity to be had elsewhere, we are Irish through and through.   St. Patrick’s Day is our day to celebrate the land which gave birth to our grandfathers and grandmothers, and therefore ourselves.

In the words of Edna O’Brien:

When anyone asks me about the Irish character, I say look at the trees. Maimed, stark and misshapen, but ferociously tenacious.

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