Just Better Than

When I get one of these ... 

Amie--Managing editor recommended this story--I spent some time mulling it over after reading. It's a great story, well-written, but just not what I'm looking for right now. Submit something else soon if you'd like! 

I need to read this ... 

... to remind myself that almost is better than. Just better than. 

Writing is hard work. Those of us in the throes know that better than. Just better than. No, in this case, better than those who aren’t in the throes. Sure, I’m not cutting or injecting people. I’m not shaping the young minds of future generations or running into buildings swallowed by flames. I’m certainly not putting my ass on the line on a battlefield (unless you think Love is a Battlefield). The truth is, I don’t have the courage to do any of those things. That being admitted, I appreciate those who do do those things. 

So I’m posting this here little post to give a shout out to all the writers out there (wave your hands in the air), because I’m feeling a little under appreciated, and well, goddamn lonely. I suppose most artists would describe their craft as a lonely profession, but because I don’t paint or sculpt or construct or compose or bake or soufflé, I’m categorizing writing as THE Lonely Profession. 

I write, and while there aren’t really days when I wish I didn’t, there are plenty when I wish it was easier. Easier to be great, I mean. Sure, it if was easy I suppose it wouldn’t be worth doing (blah, blah, blah), but no matter how much you want to snuggle up in that silver lining, almost can leave you feeling like compost. (TGINAP: Thank God I’m Not A Poet.) 

Then, just when I’m wallowing—wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am—I’m inspired by somebody like Ira Glass or somebody else I’ve never met whose story just got picked up by _______________________. Or somebody I know really well who had the courage (yes, courage) to tell me about something, anything, they wrote down.  

While I believe it takes at least some raw ability to write, I believe it also takes a fuckload of work. And Ira is right: it’s gonna take a while before the fruits of your work won’t disappoint you. Right now, for two minutes and forty-three seconds, I will let my latest rejection be a reminder that I’m inching that much closer to not being disappointed. 

Remember, My Dearest Writers: We Are Strong. (And No One Can Tell Us We’re Wrong.)

Hello, My Name is GEORGE

It may have been the approaching tenth anniversary of 9/11. It may have been the frustration my husband and I have endured trying to start a family over the last eight years. It may have been realizing my dad’s 66th birthday would soon be here, but he wouldn’t be. It may have been the horror that yes, I graduated high school not one, but two decades ago. 

Whatever it was or wasn’t, I have to admit, I struggled with my high school reunion. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed myself, and it was wonderful to see and talk to people I haven’t (and even have) glimpsed over the last 20 years. Still, I felt a little heavy from something I couldn’t quite single out.  

It’s funny (ha-ha!) how events tied to celebration and joy can evoke sadness. Except for the first holiday season after my father’s death, I don't remember ever having a blue Christmas. Yet I know there are plenty of people whose hearts ache with every twinkling light, every falling snowflake, every fa-la-la  and ho-ho-ho. 

"Huh?"

Though I doubt anyone noticed, I was the 38-year-old clown in street clothes whose heart ached at her 20th reunion. Maybe that’s why I just surrendered and became GEORGE. 

Parchment High School’s 1991 Class Clown (along with Jason Wheeler—who was and is, I’m ecstatic to report, the riot of the party) had to shed the serious by not taking herself serious. 

Welcome to Jackass, section BS of Deflection 101. GEORGE is here to make you chuckle, or at the very, very least, scratch your head and mutter “huh?” If you’re looking for Amie, she promises (really!) to make the 30th. If she can locate her prom dress and coat herself with enough "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" to squeeze into it, she’ll be the one in the "Green With Envy!" Circa 1988. 

We weren't merely freshmen (well, I was). Me and my date, who shall remain nameless for his own safety.

The Waiting

They wait at stops—kids waiting for the bus in Topeka and businessman in monochromatic suits and ties, silver on silver, waiting to grab the EL and head off to another day’s work, both weary and enthusiastic. They wait in traffic jams, on steaming pavement, their bladders busting with coffee or bottled water or Sunny D. They wait in long, tenuous lines at the grocery store, one of those self-serve lanes, the sorority girl in front of them blabbering away to someone invisible, the Bluetooth above her ear an obtrusive hot pink. 

They wait at Denny’s for white plates heaped with scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon and a short stack of pancakes with a glistening mound of butter. 

At hospital bedsides, they wait to find out if their grandmother will survive another day, another hour, transfixed by the life support, a mess of circuitous tubes. They wait for a whirring box fan to seduce them into dream. 

Missing the homerun, they wait for a lukewarm beer in a plastic cup that costs eight bucks. They wait to renew their driver’s licenses, the woman at the counter tapping her fingers, her fake nails coated with gunmetal gray. They wait for the water to boil, for their rigatoni to become al dente. In the morning, they wait for the sun to rise, streaking sherbet across the horizon. 

They wait, pens clutched, for the infomercial to repeat the telephone number.

Holding their breath, drinking from a cup backwards, they wait to subdue their hiccups. They wait for the toast to pop up. They wait for first signs of hair loss, first heart attacks and first wheatgrass smoothies.

They wait to see if there’s a single line or a double line, a plus or a negative, a color that resembles blue. The wind snaps the branches, topples the garbage cans and the wheelbarrows, and they cower in windowless bathrooms, crouched inside bathtubs, waiting the storm out. They wait for the teacher to call on them, their arms shooting up, their sticky hands waving.

They hold the door, waiting for the old man with the driver's cap and the rubber boots to pass them by. They wait for some inspiration, motivation, provocation. They wait under hair dryers that look like the uniforms of astronauts. They wait to hear from the doctor’s office about their CT scans, MRIs, TEEs, EMGs, the LMNOPs of their diagnosis.

Newspapers hiding their faces, they wait for the waitress to pour them a refill. They wait for the final act, the final answer, the final seconds in regulation, the final episode, the final walk through, the final chapter and the glittering ball’s sluggish decline for the final countdown.  

They wait for the inevitable waiting, what that rock and roll singer said is the hardest part. 

Whatever Floats Your Tube

Instead of stopping to smell the roses, make time to float a river in a tube. Seriously. We should all spend more time floating instead of flying through life. 

Nothing brings people together or cleanses the soul like canned beer and slightly moist, mostly salty snacks. Today, I’m thankful for friends who are willing, year after year, hurricane after hurricane, to plop their asses in inner tubes and float beside me. 

Friends, here are some vital lessons (in no particular order) I’ve learned from tubing: 

1. The river is a great place to talk—not argue—politics.
2. Judging is a four-letter word. 
3. If you have a lesson on anatomy, by all means, bestow it. Don’t be shy. (See #2.)
4. Tubes should be named (and christened) appropriately.
5. Nostalgia should be embraced with a bear hug.
6. It’s mandatory to laugh, and it’s also perfectly acceptable to cry.
7. She may make you pee, guide you into sharp debris and write bad poetry, but the river will ALWAYS provide.
8. Beware of The Mateo and raccoons with laser-beam eyes.
9. We really, really should have commemorative t-shirts. 
10. Why can’t someone just invent a floating fire pit? 
11. If anyone is on the verge of capsizing, save the cooler. 
12. Rapids ahead. Asses up. 
13. Sure, a tent will protect you from lightning and gale-force winds. 
14. Taquito hunting is a sport. 
15. If you buy a pair of croakies for $11.95 at a gas station for yourself, and yourself only, well, that’s just short-sighted. 
16. Nearly naked is not naked. 
17. If you touch a frozen donut, you buy a frozen donut. 

Seventeen is enough. For now. If you’re feeling this vibe, feel free to drop some knowledge of your own. Just don’t drop a deuce. In the river. 

I'm the pretty one in the purple tube.

Check One, Two, Three, Four, Niner

Dear All One of You Who is Faithfully (or Not-so Faithfully) Following Me:

[Scene: The sound of a woman clearing her throat, followed by a pause, followed by the sound of someone passing gas (because face it, that's always funny), followed by the woman asking, “Is this thing even on?”] 

I need to read something dramatically genuine. A dear friend of mine and I are going to once again enter The Missouri Review’s audio contest (check out: missourireview.com). Last year we got our shit together way too late and felt fortunate just to submit something.

This year we have the freedom of more time before the deadline (typically in March), but I’m still fretting about my voice. Does anyone like the sound of their own voice? Keep in mind, I’m talking about reading, not singing. Because my singing voice is like a songbird. (Imagine the screech of a one-winged seagull circling a landfill.) 

Maybe I’m over-thinking it, but if you happen to have a flair for the dramatic, and have any advice, please go ahead and belt it out from your shower now. Trust me, I’m listening. 

In the meantime, I’ll get back to doing what my dear friend suggested: gargling whiskey. I mean, practicing. 

Yours,

The Notecracker 

I only want to sound (and dress) like her in the shower.

Lost & Hoping to Find

Dear Story,

I feel like you’re lost, and while I know I have to make myself write to find you, could you pretty please give me a hint on your whereabouts? My subconscious? My basement? Behind the veggies in the crisper? 

I remember what you were last wearing: an ascot of cinnamon heather and an overcoat of sandy beige. (No, it isn't called orange. It’s all in the details, sweetheart.) 

By the way, I refuse to utter the words Writer’s Block because that's Whiner's Bullshit. (Excuses, excuses. For now, let's just go with WB, for short.) Still, I’m feeling a little tapped out these days. I need some inspiration. A muse. Or amusement. Maybe it’s work. Maybe it’s too much revising and not enough creating. Maybe it’s too much Bravo TV? 

I know. You’re right. It’s probably all three.(Okay, maybe not the Bravo.) Just remember, you don’t even have to text or send an e-mail or facebook me first. You can just show up. Unannounced. Out of that wide blue canopy we call a summer sky in Michigan. Go ahead, stalk away. You know where I live.

I’ll be waiting here with open arms or bated breath or some other cliché that I'll just have to delete later.  

Yours,

A Humble Storyteller 

Isn't this free stock photo of broccoli adorable? 

I Really, Really Love My Pets and Am Not Ashamed to Admit It

I picked up my cat’s ashes last Friday. As I waited to pay, all the "kids" at the front desk kept eyeballing me, eyeballing the box of ashes on the counter, eyeballing me. I think they expected to witness a meltdown. I’m a veteran though. I’ve been through the drill before, which isn’t to say, I didn’t sob about it earlier in the week or won’t sob about it again. I miss the daily presence of my cat in my home. He was part of our family for over 14 years. I still miss Ruby, the Black Lab we lost over three years ago.  

I don’t judge people for making the choice to not have pets. Just as I don’t judge people for making the choice to not have children. That being said, I know I’ve been judged for loving and grieving the loss of my pets. I know I’ve been viewed as The Crazy Cat or The Crazy Dog Lady. I spent hundreds on medical care related to our cat, Ben. (I spent thousands, yes thousands, trying to save our Ruby.) I don’t have children, so I can’t say what I would or wouldn’t do to save a pet if I did. 

Then again, should love have a hierarchy? 

I don’t think so. And I’m glad I’ve reached the point where I don’t give a shit if people think I'm The Crazy Cat or The Crazy Dog Lady. I refuse to feel bad about giving my heart to anyone: feline, canine or human. Nobody is going to convince me the price tag I put on love is too high. 

RIP, Ben. (I don't know why "they" put your name in quotes.)