This Is the New Year

I just popped in on my blog site for the first time this year, and I was dismayed to discover that I only wrote four blog posts last year. Four, that’s four days out of 365. Not quite a prolific year, huh? How did a whole year go by without more to say?

As disappointed as I am in my lack of words and posts, I am even more disappointed in my lack of stories to share. What can I tell you: 2017 was not the best year. What made it subpar? I wish I could sum it up in a word, a phrase, or even a sentence, but the reality is that it was more of a mood, and it wasn’t positive.

I started the year feeling motivated and proactive, much like some of my friends who were also out of sorts after the 2016 election. I went to the Women’s March in D.C. with two of my favorite people. I came home ready to fight, but no amount of book clubs and post card parties and meditation apps could make up for the relentless news stories that seemed to affect many things that matter to me. Everyday felt like another step backward, another liberty lost, and I couldn’t stop watching because I thought it was my civic duty to bear witness. The more I paid attention, the more outrage I felt, which in turn chipped away at my ability to find joy in the everyday.

I definitely made happy memories in 2017, but in between those bright moments was that sense of disappointment. I took one day at a time, whether it meant focusing on work, helping my family, or whatever other tasks I had. I filled my days with busyness to tamp down the disappointment, but at night, when I would sit down, it was still there, ready to color my mood gray.

How do I sum up the year? I smiled less. I stayed home more. I wrote fewer words. I ate more chocolate. I dealt with my husband’s stress, my children’s stress, and my country’s stress, all while denying my own. Turns out, my lack of a strategy didn’t work so well. As the months passed, so did my motivation. Every time I tried to change my attitude, I found myself giving into the disappointment because it felt safer, like staying under the covers on a rainy morning.

And then the year ended, with yet another loss, this time of a dear friend, an unexpected heartbreaking tragedy that was the symbolic culmination of everything about life that isn’t fair. I stumbled through the last two weeks of the year thinking about my friend who passed away, about what a positive person she was, even as she too had to work hard to stay that way, each day of her life. She loved her husband, her daughters, her pets, but she really loved herself. Hers was a life well lived, and her memory will be for a blessing, but for now, many people who knew her, including me, are still in shock.

Fast forward to today, January 2, 2018. It’s a new year, but can I make a new me? I’m no soothsayer, but I still have my words and I’m going to try. I don’t need to stay silent; it doesn’t serve me to keep a low profile. I’ve spent a year trying to ignore or suppress how I feel, and all it got me was twenty extra pounds and an increase in my medication.

I am not a big believer in resolutions because they never really pan out for most people. A few years ago, I tried to simplify my goals to make them realistic. Read four books every month. Meditate for ten minutes every day. Lose one pound a week. Nothing stuck past February, and then I would just feel worse about myself because I could add failure to the list of things that hadn’t changed.

What’s going to be different about this year? Hopefully a lot. For starters, I am going to write it down. It isn’t enough to bear witness; I need a tangible record and a sense of accountability. I need to give up excuses and just do things. I need to take chances and trust more. I need to stop eating so much chocolate and take more walks. I need to say no, but I also need to say yes. I need to honor my friend by loving myself.

So, here’s my resolution: once a week, at a minimum, I am going to write, here, for me. One thing I know is that writing makes me feel better, and when I stopped, so did the feeling better. It’s time to make a change because what’s happening now isn’t working.

You can read it if you would like, but you don’t have to; you do you, and I’ll do me. Yes, I still want to lose some weight, and read more, and be mindful. No, I don’t want to see our world suffer more injustices and setbacks. Maybe I’ll write about it, and just maybe, it will help.

A Little Bit of Pixie Dust

I haven’t written a blog in almost two months, and my silence is weighing heavily on my mind. It’s not that I haven’t had stories to tell, because there is always a story. It’s really a combination of things. They fit together like a puzzle that disappoints when you place that last piece, when you don’t have a sense of accomplishment, just the realization you have wasted your time.

The primary reason I haven’t blogged is my freelance work producing web content. I spend most of my days writing, just not writing anything fun. Now, if you are interested in the benefits of metal roofing or storage units or replacing your windows, then I’ve got you covered.

I do have to be creative to make boring topics semi-interesting, and I have to do it on strict deadlines and formats and word counts. I am writing more than ever, but none of it makes me feel very good, and it barely adds loose change to my pocket. The few cents a word helps to cover the occasional dinner out or birthday gift or shoe splurge, and I am gaining what I hope will be valuable experience, and so I persist.

In addition to not having as much time or as many creative sparks, I am struggling to find humor in the every day. This is a tough one for me, because laughing is my favorite. But ever since November 8, things just don’t seem so laughable anymore. Now, every day brings another brick of sadness and hurt. My disillusionment has become the existence of so many like-minded people, when every day I want to see what’s happening in our country and the world, and we sink lower than the day before. It’s a pretty hopeless feeling, and I can’t shake it.

Part of it is that what used to amuse me seems so trivial now, as if I am wasting time on frivolity that could be better spent bearing witness to the shit show into which our political system and government has devolved. Also, things seem personal now, and hurtful, and laughing at weird news feels cruel and sadistic. We have real problems to address, but now, we cannot rely on those in charge to weigh things like facts and reason and logic before making decisions. I feel a responsibility to pay attention even if I am powerless to do anything, and all that paying attention is exhausting.

I grew up in a less than happy home. My main coping mechanism was humor. It helped me survive a pretty rough childhood, and it’s been there like a touchstone throughout my adult life. Now, I feel deserted, and alone, and scared, and at a loss. I don’t know how to cope without an ability to find comedy in tragedy. Without the humor, it’s just pain.

I have been feeling like this for weeks, and I have hesitated to express it. I don’t want to sound melodramatic and fragile. I live a pretty nice life now. I am fortunate. The social issues that matter to me do not necessarily affect me directly, and I know I am lucky. People like me who are not in survival mode are exactly the ones who need to stand up for people who can’t for whatever reason do it for themselves. Maybe it’s the reform Jew in me, or the intellectual, or just the sensitive soul I am, but the compassion I wanted for myself when I was a child is what I now share with others in whatever small way I can. I am disheartened because it doesn’t feel like it’s enough to make a difference for anyone.

I am writing this now, at the beginning of December, when I normally try to write and post 12 blogs, my annual Twelve Blogs of Christmas. I have been trying to meet this goal I set for myself every year at a time when we are all feeling both the joy and stress of the holidays. This time of year is especially busy in my home. From October to January, it’s one celebration after another. Halloween, my older daughter’s birthday, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Christmas, New Year’s, and my younger daughter’s birthday. Throw in a good football season, and we have the makings of a mental breakdown’s worth of to-do lists and preparations. That’s a fuckton of work to be done, my friends.

In a good month, I may post two or three blogs, which as of late has dwindled to none. And now, at the start of December, I want to meet my goal. I want to take twelve moments out of my life or out of my mind, where I do most of my living anyway, and write them all down and share them with you. I can’t promise they are all going to be funny, but hopefully, they will be relatable. Who knows, maybe together, we can find a reason to get up every day and keep going in a pretty hopeless time. For me, it will be writing. For you, I have no idea, but maybe, just maybe, it will be reading.

For what it’s worth, this counts as number one. Eleven more to go. I would say game on, but I really hate that expression. Instead, I’ll leave you with this…HERE WE GO! Please read that in Peter Pan’s voice, because that’s how it sounds in my head.

Say It Ain't So

Now that my girls are back in school and one of them is driving, I have found myself with more time on my hands. I am still doing all of the things, the cooking and errand running and laundry and appointments and so on, but my afternoon commute has been reduced on most days to a five minute drop off or pick up. On Mondays, I am the only one home until dinner time. I haven’t been alone in the afternoon in over fifteen years.

Rather than slip into a daytime television or vodka habit or allow myself to just sit and do nothing as if that were even an option, I decided to look into doing more freelance writing. I’ve been writing on a freelance basis for a long time, really, but most of the time the work found me. It’s very different when you are looking for the work.

I’ve spent a number of hours researching and applying on various websites, and I have to say, the prospects are pretty dismal. While fast food workers in more progressive cities are demanding and getting up to $15 an hour, a lot of freelance writers are looking at significantly less than that. The standards for these two lines of work are pretty different. I’m not saying that fast food workers shouldn’t make a living wage. I am just concerned when unskilled work is valued more than an education and years of experience in allegedly desirable communication skills.

But I digress. I polished up my resume a bit and attempted to put myself out there. Looking for work online is considerably less fun than watching porn or cat videos. It’s tedious; it’s time consuming; and it’s also disheartening. Even if you find a website that looks reputable, you can’t count on the job postings also being legitimate. The amount of legwork, er, sitting on my ass on my laptop work, well, it’s just like looking for any other job. Which means it sucks.

On one website, which requires you to bid for jobs against other desperately underpaid people who rather work on the couch in sweats, I received an invitation to apply for a one-time assignment. The pay was, seriously, $10, but there was a chance it would lead to more work. What the hell, I thought.

Here’s the funny part: it was for voice-over work. Some firm based out of Canada was looking for native North Americans/United States citizens to do voice work on a short-term project. I filled out the online proposal expressing my interest and skills and blah blah blah.

Honestly, I never considered doing voice work before. I had one of those pesky speech impediments when I was a kid, one that required school speech therapy for a brief and traumatic period of time. I still have a handful of words that I never seemed to master. I cannot distinguish between warm and worm. According to my children, I also pronounce doll and pants in a way that makes them pee a little because they laugh so hard. That is all in addition to the fact that I speak through my nose in a sort of nasally whiny way. But ten bucks is ten bucks, am I right?

Two days later, I received a message that I had been selected for the next stage of interview. I had another form to complete, and then I needed to submit a voice sample. I was pleasantly surprised because I figured they must have received thousands of bids from people who want to earn $10 for doing nothing.

The form was pretty standard, lines for my name, phone number, email, the usual questions. The next question had to do with the region of country where I either was born or had lived for a significant period of time. It listed specific states, Nebraska up to Minnesota, not more than seven or eight places I would never live. I was a bit concerned because I live in the Southeast, but I don’t have much of an accent. I thought maybe they too found Midwestern accents irritating and wanted to make sure no candidate was from that area.

The voice recording involved me stating my name, my continent of origin, and reciting a nursery rhyme. I practiced it a few times, trying to go slowly and enunciate clearly.  Peter. Piper. Picked. A. Peck. Of. Pickled. Peppers. I was concerned I would say pimpled peckers, which is generally how I say it in my head. Bravely, I recorded it on my laptop and submitted my interview form.

Secretly, I was a little excited.

Two days later, I got my rejection letter. It wasn’t anything personal. They just wanted people from those seven states with the bad Midwestern accents. They wanted only people who sounded like Frances McDormand in Fargo.

What I still don’t understand is why they didn’t make that part of the criteria? Why not emphasize on the initial job posting, hey, we are looking for people who for some ungodly reason reside in the middle of the country?

They didn’t, though, and now I’m mildly sad because rejection never feels good. Also, I’m mildly sad that I’m sad over a ten dollar job that over five hundred people also wanted. Who have I become?

Alas, this is what freelance really looks like. I don’t know who these people are who earn $25 to $50 an hour, but that average must include Stephen King’s hourly rate. The rest of us are duking it out over less than a venti pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks, which, incidentally, also pays more an hour.

Half as Much but not Half Enough

Yesterday was my half birthday. I am forty five and a half years old. Remember when it was your half birthday when you were a kid? It seemed like the kind of thing that should call for at least half of a celebration. Maybe a cupcake, or an extra hug or at least someone remembering it was your half birthday (Happy half birthday to my sister LM, whose half birthday was a mere four days ago). I’m not the only one who feels that way; if you don’t believe me, mosey on over to Pinterest. Now that I’m, well, more middle-aged, maybe it’s the sort of thing I don’t need to announce to the world, even if I am writing about it now and thus, essentially, announcing it to the world.

Instead, this half birthday of mine will be used to sort of reflect on the past half year, to check in with myself and see how I’m doing. After all, this is my twelfth of the twelve blogs of Christmas, and a little recap isn’t such a bad thing.

For the past few years, I have set myself a goal of writing twelve blog posts for the holidays, allowing myself from the beginning of December until roughly Epiphany, January 6, to complete this task. It isn’t as easy as it sounds, if it does sound easy, and if it does, you are either extremely prolific or extremely misinformed. I generally write 1000 words or so per post, so twelve posts is 12,000 words, because math. 12,000 words is roughly a children’s chapter book or a good chunk of a slim novel, so it isn’t a small amount of writing. It’s no month in the life of a James Patterson or a Stephen King, mind you, but chances are the likes of them aren’t in charge of all the holiday preparations in their house. Just a wild guess, but I bet I’m right.

In addition to trying to write 12,000 words in a month, I also plan celebrations for both Hanukkah and Christmas. That means I do all the planning, shopping, cooking, wrapping, and giving for two big holidays that occur roughly at the same time. If you think the holidays are overwhelming on their own, try coming up with twelve different topics describe and share at the same time. Nobody asks me do this, and even sadder, nobody pays me to do this. I put this on myself. I am the one who turns a fun little hobby into a stressor.

This year was different, though. This year, in addition to the two big holidays, and the relatively minor New Year’s celebration (because, let’s face it, I am not twenty five and in love, so who cares about New Year’s Eve, I just want to get some rest for fuck’s sake), I also planned and hosted my younger daughter’s bat mitzvah and mourned the loss of my mother in law. That is a whole lot on one plate. Shit, a platter couldn’t hold that buffet of stress, both happy and sad.

So, I am reflecting on all of this, right now, more for me than for you. Maybe you would like to reflect too. Just pretend it’s your half birthday, and join me.

·         I am pretty good at what I do. I don’t have a job outside of my house. I do, however, have almost all the jobs inside the house, except for the home repairs. I tackle these jobs regularly and repeatedly. They are mostly thankless, but honestly, if I didn’t do them seamlessly, everyone would notice. I run a tight ship, whatever the hell that means. I don’t know much about sailing, but I do know what is for dinner tonight and how much milk we have and whether we have enough food for the cats and the hamster. I know when the last load of laundry was completed and when the next will be started. I know who hasn’t done the homework, and I also know that we have plenty of white poster boards, paint, and glue sticks in case we have an emergency project. I know all the things in the house. If you can’t find it, come to me. I know exactly where it is, even if I haven’t seen it in two years.

·         All of the family’s health needs are current. No one needs any prescriptions. All the doctor’s visits have been either completed or scheduled. If there are runny noses, I have plenty of Sudafed, Mucinex, and Kleenex to cover them. I maintain a complete pharmacy at all times, and almost none of it is expired.

·         My daughter’s bat mitzvah was a beautiful thing. She was amazing, and her day was amazing. She had exactly what she wanted. I did not exceed my budget. I loved all my guests for attending, and I understood those who couldn’t be there. I enjoyed the day, no matter how stressful the days leading up to it.

·         I am glad my mother in law is at peace. I have been making dinner for my father in law several days a week since she has passed, and he has been joining us at our table. He gets out of his house, even if I don’t really like him driving. I love to have him over. He sees us as we are, discussing politics, history, whatever odd topic comes up at the dinner table. I am giving my children a gift in this time with their grandfather. We put down our cell phones, we turn off the television, and we are a family, like an old fashioned one, only without the pearls and post dinner cigar, and yes, with the occasional F word. My younger daughter burped last night in front of him, my southern father in law. He is part of the family, and she is comfortable to be a person, and he laughed and was okay with all of it.

·         I need to learn to stop setting crazy ass goals for myself like writing 12,000 words in a month and a half. Seriously, why did I even come up with that in the first place? Why not the 8 blogs of Hanukkah? Isn’t that good enough? Isn’t any of it good enough? Writing is not my career. It is something I do that makes me happy, when I have or make time for my happiness. I shouldn’t allow it to become a chore, unless I start to do it for money, in which case let me add it to the to-do list. It is very difficult to know when to set big goals, and when to give yourself a break. I need to work on that.

Don’t worry about me. I have plenty to keep me busy now that the holidays and the bat mitzvah are over. Don’t feel like you need to give me a call and ask me to do anything else, no matter how small or how much I like you. I don’t want to do more. My new goal is to do the right amount, and hopefully I will figure out what that is.

Writer's Block

I want to write but it’s been so long since I’ve recorded a thought that I don’t even know where to begin.

I am starting by glancing out the window every time I hear a loud truck noise just in case it’s the UPS man. I don’t even think I am expecting a package, but I have a very Pavlovian response to the sound of a UPS truck. Maybe whatever I forgot I ordered is finally here, or maybe someone thought of me and sent me a little treat. Usually, it’s neither of those, nor is the UPS truck for me. More likely, it’s for the neighbor across the street. I’m convinced something illegal is going on over there, based on the frequency of the UPS truck stopping in front of their house. The UPS man isn’t even hot; I am really in it for what’s in the truck.

After that, I inspect the front yard for colorful birds. Today, it’s just a female cardinal, and not even male cardinals can get excited about that fugly bitch of the animal kingdom. Dukey brown boring bird. If I were a male cardinal, I’d be gay.

I also like to listen for the carpenter bees systematically dismantling my downstairs window. I am waiting for the glass to just fall out. Maybe the bee will shout “timber!” when it happens, and it is going to happen soon. It’s the worst sound, too; that bee’s chewing through wood sounds like children with loose teeth eating corn on the cob.

I next inspect my three flowering hydrangeas outside my office window. My husband planted them for me last year, and wonder of wonders, they have lived to see another season. Not only that, but they grew and have actual flowers actually blooming on them. Unfortunately, the heat of summer is making them all sad and droopy. I’m tempted to water them, but I’m also tempted to stay inside the temperature controlled house all day. I wouldn’t want to look like my hydrangeas.

In the other room, my teenager, E, is downloading music to her new iPod. Her last one died about a week ago, and in a fit of generosity, I offered to replace it. She’s especially bummed because whatever version she had contained a camera, which the new one does not. No more selfies that no one will ever see. I even spent an hour trying to find a refurbished Nano of that generation for her, but to my amazement, it must be some sort of geek collectible because it costs about fifty bucks more than a brand new one.

So I ordered her a new one. Did I mention it has an 8-pin thingy instead of a 30-pin thingy? This means about as much to you as it does to me, but the important part to understand is that it means none of the chargers, cords, cables, or speaker docks that we currently own will work with the new iPod. Brilliance on the part of Apple, as they continue to enslave all of the music and phone call making people of the world along with the Chinese child laborers who actually make their products.

She has the new iPod and is downloading music, one song at a time, which requires her shouting out the name of the band or singer, then playing it, then singing along with it, before finally downloading it to the damn thing. She is two hours into the process and is only on the D’s. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate when Teen Grandmaster Jazzy Fresh Princess is mixing her favorite one thousand songs within earshot? Maybe I should rethink the no computers in the children's bedrooms rule.

I have a cat tail on my keyboard, which also makes writing difficult. The minute I sit down to open my laptop, in walks one of my cats, who likes to sit next to me while I work. He thinks he is my  muse, but his incessant purring is very distracting, as is the way he tries to fit between the desk drawer and my lap. After he gives up on fitting his 14 pound cat body into a one inch space, he plops down on top of the desk and flicks his tail on the keys, while simultaneously getting his head stuck in the blinds and launching buckets full of unattached cat hairs in my general direction. There is a fine blanket of stray fur stuck on my monitor, enough to make a tiny sweater for, say, a chipmunk.

Writing isn’t easy.

Son of the Twelve Blogs of Christmas

It’s that time of year again, when I treat myself to an extra helping of stress. Some of you are busy fretting over planning the perfect Christmas, or at least a passable Hanukah.  Some of you are just now recovering from your Thanksgiving overindulgence, and some of you are still working your way through Halloween candy.  A few of you might even care about making New Year’s Eve plans. That’s four or five holidays all packed together in just a matter of a few short months. What were those pagans and early Judeo-Christian types thinking??  In my house, we like to sandwich the holidays with birthdays in November and January, just to add to the nonstop party rock in the house. Whee!

I’m no Martha Stewart; in fact, I’ve never built an empire on doing everything better than you and then going to prison. But I do like to outdo myself in some arenas. I take pride in baking. I excel at gift giving. I make my daughters’ birthdays a holiday to celebrate their births, much like Christmas is for Jesus. And I will challenge you to a snowflake cut a thon any day of the week.

I might make it look easy, but truth be told, it’s a lot of work. I have been known to wake up at five in the morning to think about the best place to find junior pajama bottoms in tall sizes. I have a mental list on loop in my head that includes chocolate chips and shirt boxes.  I organize my present receipts by date and cross reference them by recipient. There’s not a lot of rest and relaxation going on.

In addition to trying to do everything, which we all know is impossible yet can’t stop ourselves from trying, I want to write too. Normally, I find time on a monthly basis to knock out about four essays. The holiday season is all about excess, though, so why not aim high?

Thus, I present to you, the reader, the Third Annual Twelve Blogs of Christmas.  Between sometime near the beginning of December and the arbitrary date of Epiphany, like that means anything to me, I will attempt to find twelve blog worthy topics and write about them. Will they all be fascinating? No. Will they all make you laugh? Not necessarily. I can’t promise you entertainment, joy, poignancy, or insight. I’m only promising twelve.

 It’s my gift to you, because I care. And it's free.