Recently on Facebook, I wrote this:

 

I was on a deadline.

My bangs were too long and driving me crazy.

I cut them myself.

Remind me not to do that again.

 

These are the other things I’ve done while on a story deadline. It is not a complete list:

 

1.  Chugged chocolate chip cookies as if God would take them away tomorrow FOREVER.

2.  Stayed in pajamas ’til 3:00 in the afternoon. On the bottom half I wore my reindeer pajamas, top half black and pink flowers. I looked scrumptious.

3.  Talked out loud to myself. Okay. I do that all the time, especially when I’m running. Don’t interrupt me if we meet on a run. I’m in a deep and bizarre conversation with myself.

4.  Left my hair unwashed for three days. That’s gross.

5.  Fought with my twitching face. Left side only. I thought I might be having a stroke as I’d been sleepless. I decided I would address the stroke as soon as I finished my edits that night.

6.  Fuzzed my eyes all up from too much computer time and thought I was going blind.

7)  Talked to my bird.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

8)  Meowed at my cat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

9)  Indulged a very slight problem with hypochondria and thought I had:

a) A tumor in my stomach. (Had to be there because I was getting so fat).

b) Paralysis coming on like a speeding train. (There was not another explanation, of course. My right leg was trembling, therefore, I would soon be paralyzed and unable to walk to the pantry to get the aforementioned chocolate chip cookies that God was taking away. I later realized my leg had gone to sleep).

c) A deadly cough (Which signals any number of dread diseases, of which I had to look up and study on the internet for hours to make sure I didn’t have one of them. These diseases could be found here or in Africa, a few in Thailand, a couple in India, and all diseases had to be studied and fretted about).

d) A breaking brain (Thoughts were scrambled, non-sensical, ridiculous. Perhaps it was a mental breakdown? If I have a mental breakdown who will remember to get the bird fresh water? Who will meow at my cat?)

10) Lived off five hours of sleep for several nights in a row making me edgy and bratty to be around.

 

When I’m not writing, or on a deadline, I play. Sort of. I finish a book, send it off, sleep, and I tell myself that I’m going to take a couple weeks off and go to lunch with my friends, be a nature freak, head to the beach by myself, read all day, journal for fun, etc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In about four days, I’m bored.

Bored, bored, bored.

I have no idea what to do with myself. I’ve worked since I was a teenager. I usually work until 2 in the morning. What am I supposed to do until 2 in the morning? There are only so many Dr. Phil’s I can watch and The Bachelor is over. (What a wimpy Bachelor. Can we get a real man next time?)

Innocent Husband does not appreciate it when I wake him up to chat about my current problems, a weird dress with asymmetrical patterns I saw on TV, my analysis of the presidential election, or hormonal swings.

I sent a book off on Saturday. I’m already plotting the next one.

But first I’m going to get my bangs fixed. This ragged, razor cut across the front and the weird wisps of hair on the side make me look like a middle aged, delusional robot whose springs have popped right out of her head.

 

Have a kid who wants to be a writer?

My parents did, too.

What did they do to encourage, support and give me room to write?

In no particular order…

 

 

 

 

1. They put me outside all the time to play.  I spent my first ten years in California and my brother, sisters and I lived outside. I chased butterflies, played hide and seek, climbed trees, and tried to run my brother over on my bike. (No kidding. We have it on film). Kids need to be outdoors making up stories and games and running around with other kids. It fosters a creative, inquisitive spirit and early insight into people and relationships…and that helps grow a writer.

2. My mother bought me tons of books. This was at a time when she had three dresses. Three. Total. That’s what she could afford when she had four young children.  My parents were very frugal. Their parents had lived through the Depression and they were taught to save money. Save more. Save again. Their motto: A disaster could happen at any time, and probably will, so be prepared!

We did not get a lot of clothes and if we wanted more as teenagers, we were told to get out there and get a job, which we did. But books…well, that was another thing. You cannot become a writer without being a reader. Go to the library with your kids, buy them books. The world opens up to young minds as soon as books are open on their laps.

3. They spent a lot of time with my siblings and I. My parents were always there. Years ago I kept hearing the saying, “It’s not the quantity of time you spend with your kids, it’s the quality.” That was bull then, and it’s still bull. Of course quality time is good, but kids need their parents around all the time, even if they’re upstairs on facebook or have just slammed the door in your face.

Be there for your kid, listen to them and their stories, buy them journals to write in and neat pens, read the same book together, talk about favorite writers. Discuss why some books are so catchy, so interesting, and others are boring. Discuss the author’s voice, word choice, how the book ended, the overall theme. What’s the lesson here? What did they learn? It gets them thinking about writing – and how to write compelling stories.

People will says that some of Americas best writers had tragic childhoods. I don’t recommend this at all for your kid.

4. They valued God first, family second, and hard work and academics third. That’s the framework I grew up with and my parents never strayed from that framework. Kids need structure and tons of love to walk the walk they need to. Structure and love is a breeding ground for imagination and creativity. When you feel safe, you can daydream. When you feel loved, you can build, sing, write poetry, and star in your own show in the backyard.

When you have people who care about you and like your artwork and stories, you start to believe in yourself. You start to believe you can do it. You start to love words, and to be a writer, that is crucial.

5. They allowed me to be myself. My mother’s mother was a southern belle with a tragic past who gave my mother, via DNA, that same southern belle personality. My mother was an English teacher, kind, polite, absolutely lovely and hospitable…a magnolia with one of those spines filled with iron. I was a rebel. I had a mouth, I had a temper, I did things I should not have done, and I had a wild streak. My parents still loved me, and I knew it. They tried to trim the edges, smooth the feathers, teach the lessons…but they never squashed my spirit. That’s key. A squashed spirit will produce a squashed voice. A squashed voice will never write.

6. They did not try to mold me into their vision of what they wanted a daughter to look like or be.  You would be hard pressed to find a more homely looking girl than me. No kidding. I hardly remember brushing my hair until I was in middle school. I was a tall, gangly, frizzy haired kid who had about as much style as an elephant.

My mother bought me the clothes I wanted to wear. My sister wore the same purple pants and purple sweatshirt every day for a year.  I had a fondess for my low-rider butterfly pants. My brother didn’t stay clean for five minutes so it didn’t matter what he wore.

The point is this: Allow your kid to grow up organically. Let them choose how they want to look. Follow them in their interests. Support their talents and natural skills. If it’s not a big deal, don’t make it one. Kids never work well when they fill boxed in.

And remember: Writers, and kids who want to be writers, hate boxes.

7. They did not spoil me, or any of my siblings.  As teenagers, we worked. We did not expect our parents to fly in with anything fancy, in fact, it never occurred to us that they would. They let me take my knocks. Sulky behavior got me nowhere. Whining got me less. Sharp words were used when I was obnoxious. You do your child no favor by allowing them to become a brat. I saw this when I was a teacher.

Grown up brats don’t listen, they don’t take constructive criticism,  they can’t see beyond themselves, they’re selfish, they lie, they lack compassion, empathy and understanding, emotionally they’re out of control. In their heads: They are the world. All lousy qualities for becoming a writer.

8. My parents ultimate goal was to build character in their kids. My parents praised accomplishments fairly lightly, because they didn’t want me to ever think their love was based on outside accolades.  They concentrated on building my character and helping me to see the skills and good qualities within myself, not liking myself ONLY IF the world thought I was worthy.

You need relentless determination, focus, a willingness to work hard, and a clear view of how to chase down your writing goals if you are going to survive in the literary world. All those characteristics come from within.

9. They encouraged my writing and believed in me, but they made sure I went to college and got a degree.  I received two degrees in education, Go Ducks, and became a teacher so that I could support myself until I became a full time writer.

Do not allow your child to spend an outrageous amount of money in college to get a writing degree, unless she is double majoring or minoring in writing. She may think she will get that writing degree and become an overnight success.  99.99% of the time, she is dead wrong.

Your child needs to be able to support herself while becoming a writer, hard work will build her character. Have her major in something practical, take tons of writing classes, and be employable. There is little that is more dream-killing than being buried in college loan debt, with no employment, living in your parents’ basement. This is not an atmosphere a writer will thrive in.

10. They encouraged travel. I paid for three trips to Europe before I was 24 by working summer jobs and by working every term in college except the first one. That was why I was always broke. My first trip was for seven weeks with my sister hiking around with backpacks living in hostels. Writers need food for their heads. Traveling is one of the best ways to get that food.

 

I wish my mother had lived to see my first book published.  I know she would have been delighted, but not because my name was on a book.  Again, outside accolades didn’t mean much. She would have been happy because of the personal  characteristics that got me to that place, she would have been happy because I was happy and not a sappy mess anymore, getting beat down by rejections. She would have been happy because I had a goal and I made it to that goal. (Okay, there were a lot of tears and head banging along the way).

To be quite honest, one of the reasons my father was so happy I published was because I didn’t break one of his most important, adamant rules: Never quit, Cathy. Never quit.

Tell your kids that, too. Never quit.

Now go raise a writer.

 

I go to a lot of book groups/give speeches and I am often asked about advice I would give to people who want to become writers.

Here are a few thoughts, some of them quite blunt. Blame it on my being up until 430 in the morning working so I am feeling particularly edgy.

First off, ask yourself if you REALLY want to be a writer. This is important. If you simply like to write, you like your journals, scribbling out scenes or characters or starting stories and you have some vague and whispy notion that it would be fun to be a published writer some day with a cool writing cottage on an island, you will – and yes, scream at me now –  probably never publish.

Why?  Because you have to work your you – know – what – off to be a published writer. You always have to work hard and the competition is unbelievably stiff.  Agents and publishing houses are buried in manuscripts. Buried. Many feet high. And there are many talented writers who are in the midst of that stack.

Even published writers lose contracts every single day. You have to come up with something new that publishers believe will sell. It’s a business and they need to make money off your work or they have no business.

Dig deep. Are you willing and able at this time to work hard? Are you willing to sweat this whole thing out? Are you truly willing to commit?

Do you want to be a writer more than you, professionally, want to be anything else? Will you feel unfufilled and unsuccessful if you don’t become a writer? If yes, then carry on. If no…well, I think you have some more thinking to do about your plans. “Wanting to be a writer,” and “working to be a writer,” are two totally different things. There is nothing wrong with writing all the time for pleasure, for laughter, as a creative outlet, and for self growth.  Nothing. It’s a gift, in fact.

I personally would rather lose my left leg than not be a writer. I have felt like that since I was sixteen years old. That’s how bad I have always wanted to write. I lived off 6 – 6.5 hours of sleep for many, many years. In fact, it’s really only since the END of 2011 that I have started sleeping more like a normal person on a regular basis. I wrote late, late at night,  after jobs and kids, that’s when I had the time.

If you believe you want to be a writer more than anything but you use the excuse, “I don’t have time to write,” you are essentially saying that you don’t want to become a writer that bad. And that’s perfectly fine. I’m not critcizing it. I’m simply saying that that excuse doesn’t work.

There are tons of true stories of doctors, lawyers, and mothers with many children who found the time in their insanely busy schedules to write books.  There are people working full time jobs, with children, who write and publish. Eke out time in the morning, at lunch, late at night.  Plot when you’re driving a car pool. Edit when you sneak fifteen minutes away from work. Those who truly want to become a writer will find the time. Again, ask yourself, how bad do you want this? What are you willing to sacrifice?

You must set goals and keep them. My goals when I’m writing the first draft of a book is to write 2000 words a day, 10,000 a week or I don’t go to bed on Saturday night. When I’m editing I count out a certain amount of pages I must edit that day. I can’t tell you how often I have wanted to cry, or have cried, meeting those goals. It is sometimes so frustrating I want to pull my own hair.

But you have to do it. Goal set and come hell or high water, meet the goals. I guarantee you that hell will come, and so will high water.

During every single book I have ever written something haywire has gone wrong with my life.  Every book. I stayed with it. Some of that stuff has been very bad – as in, people I have loved have sickened and died and I thought the grief was going to kill me. When your life goes sideways you must be willing to continue writing, even if you’re crying over the damn keyboard.

Get this one to your core: Rejections are a part of this business. Can you handle them and move forward? Rejections are brutal. You create something, write something you like and believe in and you think it’s really good, and no agent, no publishing house wants it. I get it. I’ve been there. You want to bang your head against a redwood tree.

But if you are not willing to take the rejections on, read them, learn from then, then kick some butt and pound out something else on your lap top, or revise what you have, save yourself the pain of trying to publish. If you get bent out of shape by criticism or refuse to learn from it, if you’re blinded by your own self-perceived brilliance, you are not going to learn about what you need to improve or change.

When you are a published writer, criticism comes hard, fast, and public. It will often sound harshly personal. If you do not have a thick skin, if you do not believe in yourself , if you do not have a pretty healthy confidence level, if your panties get in a twist when someone doesn’t like something you produce, this career is not for you. I love learning from constructive criticism. The rest of it I flip over my shoulder and don’t think about.

Know when to change genres.  I tried writing category romance for years. No go.  I should have quit years before I did.  I didn’t want to be a quitter, that was not in my DNA. I kept getting closer and closer to publishing, the editors kept asking for more and more of my work and then…rejection. Pick a genre you love.  Write like a fiend and edit the heck out of it. Send out your work to agents or, if it’s category romance, to the publishers.

But don’t be like me. If you keep getting rejected, try another genre completely. Read and study in that genre. Had I stuck with trying to get published with Harlequin Mills and Boon in London I never would have published. Never.

It is not quitting to try a different genre, it’s being realistic about your skills. I sucked at writing category romance for Mills and Boon. I should have recognized that sooner. I was an idiot.

Go to writing classes. You’ll probably like the teacher and meet new, cool people who have the same goal as you – publishing. I’ve never been to a writing conference, but they sound like fun. Go if it interests you. Read motivating and fun writing books on how to write by Stephen King, Annie Lamott, Julia Cameron, Natalie Goldberg and Jessica Morrell. Read about writers and hear their journeys. Buy writers magazines. Buy journals. It all helps to keep the enthusiasm up.

This next statement will not be popular. A woman wrote a story she told me about recently. She said she gave it to her family and friends, six of them, and they all LOVED it. She asked what I thought of that.

I told her I thought zero of it. I know, I am so mean.

It’s the truth, though. Your friends and family may love what you write. You MAY have a bestseller on your hands. However, they may not like it, but they tell you it’s great, and they are lying through their teeth so they don’t hurt your tender feelings. Or, they may love you so much they would love it if you wrote a story about how you watched dandelions grow.

Get real advice and input about your work from a professional editor that you hire who doesn’t love or like or dislike you and she’ll tell you the truth.

I hired the writer/editor Jessica Morrell years ago. She shredded my work to bits. I am still thankful to her for it. I would never have gotten better without her constructive/brutal criticism.

You should be writing all the time. You should be reading all the time. Immerse yourself in reading excellent books and writing regularly. Do not read crap.

Study what you read. Ask yourself why you like the book or why you don’t. Ask yourself how the author created such an outstanding voice. Break apart the pacing. Why was it just perfect or…too slow?  Why did you love the characters? Why did you relate to them? What about the setting? How did that help the story? What kept you reading?

You should not give up on your work when things get hard. One woman said to me recently that when things got hard for her in her story, she’d quit and start writing another story. That is an excellent way to spin your wheels your whole life and not ever get published.

I hit that hard point with my writing every single day. Every single day I run into a problem. I work it through. I write it through. I swear and get pissed. It’s how it is. Work through the swearing and being pissed off.

Again, how bad do you want to be a writer?

There’s a whole bunch more I could write here, but it’s late at night, again, and I bought chocolate chip cookies today and I’m going to eat them now.

 

 

Hello all,

I am on a deadline and working madly. As in: I am a Mad Woman.

I will write a new blog soon.

This column entry is from my book “The First Day Of The Rest Of My Life.”    

Back to my scribbling…

And you! Go and get that Pap Smear!

 

 

A Life Coach Tells You How to Live it

By Madeline O’Shea

Pap smears

 

On Friday I got my pap smear.

To say that I don’t like getting pap smears is like I saying I don’t like hanging upside down from my heels in an underground dungeon in Saudi Arabia being whipped because my hair showed in public. Not to equate the two, but you get the gist.

There are a myriad of reasons for my almost pathological distaste for this particular medical infringement, but I do it anyway.

Why? For my health.

In my doctor’s office, I slip into the blue and white cotton sheath thing. The back opens so my bottom is out and about, wriggling on its own, my boobs unfettered by a bra.  I read the gossip magazines while perched up on that brown padded table, something I never do because it is a waste of time and because the women look eerily, intimidatingly perfect. They are not perfect. Anyone with an army of professionally trained stylists, the exact lighting, and a photo shop crew can look wowza, trust me on this one. Still. The magazine women make other women feel ugly.

My doctor looks a bit like a crane. He is a benevolent crane, tall and lanky, with eyes like a giraffe, if a giraffe had blue eyes. Dr. Crane ambles in on spindly legs and we chit chat, but it is not long before he is asking me to lie back, spread ‘em, and put my feet in cold, silver stirrups. One day those stirrups will come to life and grab the feet of many a startled woman, I kid you not.

“You’re going to have to slide to the edge of the table,” Dr. Crane says, and he laughs. I imagine his crane wings spreading out behind him.

“No.” I am laying down, but I don’t yet feel like hanging my bare butt over the edge of a table so my lotus flower can be explored with cold metal salad tongs and pokey things.

He laughs. “Come on, Madeline, this won’t hurt.” He snaps on gloves.

I am sweating.

The nurse and the doctor wriggle me on down. The nurse has muscles.

“Let’s put your feet in the stirrups now, Madeline,” Dr. Crane says, like a cheerleader. “You can do it!”

“Let’s stab forks into my body first,” I tell him. “That sounds more relaxing.”

He laughs, he lifts my knees, I bring them, down, he brings them up, and puts my heels in the  stirrups. I squeeze my knees together, tight, like a clamp. A vagina clamp.

Dr. Crane laughs. Then he and the smiling nurse start using the pap language. “Pass me the spatula,” he says cheerily.

The spatula? I think of something that flips pancakes.

He asks for some other tool, too. It sounds like he’s asking for An Inserter. He shows me this groovy long thing that is going to do the job. He’s so excited about his new vaginal toy. It is plasticky and definitely doesn’t belong in me. Maybe you. But not me. I slam my knees shut again.

“I don’t think I need a pap,” I tell him, and try to get up.

Dr. Crane thinks I’m so funny! “Aw, come on now, it’s not so bad!”

The nurse smiles and pushes me down again.

“If someone wanted to look up your thingie with a spatula, you wouldn’t like it, either, buddy.”

Dr. Crane laughs again.

My knees are shaking. I stare up at the ceiling. Please tell me why doctors have not gotten smart enough to create a “woman’s ceiling,” where there are pictures of Jimmy Smits, so that you can gaze at him when a doctor is using a spatula and salad tongs on your lotus flower.  Surely this would be more relaxing than counting ceiling holes?

“I need Jimmy Smits,” I whisper.

Dr. Crane laughs.

“Me, too!” the chipper nurse chips out.

“No, I’m serious. I need Jimmy Smits.”

“I’ll warm things up!” Dr. Crane says, still so cheerful even though he spends much of his day peering up women’s woo – woos. “No one wants them cold! No one wants anything icy there!”

The salad tongs do their job, up and up, until I think they’ll poke out my nose.

The doctor is using a mini flashlight to peer up my lotus flower. “It looks splendid  in there!”

For heaven’s sakes.

Next it is time for test tube like things and cotton swabs and, drum roll, my favorite: The pelvic exam! Think: Gloves!

You might wonder what my pap smear has to do with my telling you how to get your act together. Ladies, your health is your business. Your health is your top priority. If you’re not healthy everything falls apart: Your body, your mental outlook, your attitude, your job, your marriage, your relationship with kids and family. Your sex life. Save your sex life at all costs.

So, from me, the meanest life coach in the world, get your “health – act” together. Get you together. You can’t plan for your future, focus on a promotion, get creative ideas, or start a new business if your health is in shambles. Exercise that bod. Eat healthy stuff. Get your pap smear.

And if you can get Jimmy Smits to come with you and hang from the ceiling while smiling, all the better. If not, bring a picture of his face and hold it above your head when the doctor is using a flashlight and a pancake flipper on your lotus flower.

Printed in The Oregonian many moons ago…

 

My book is due in fourteen days.

I have already been given an extension because I begged like a banshee and now I’m doomed. Get the book in or perish in a burst of literary flames.

The last six weeks before a deadline are always ugly for me. I write until I am a pale – puke color and muttering to myself. I sporadically wash my hair. I eat my standard fare of two Haagen – Dazs bars and a mocha for lunch and during bored moments, laptop in my lap, I watch my stomach grow.

I do very little housework. Only enough to keep the rats out. This is not a bad thing, as I detest housework. This is my mantra: If the dust doesn’t rise up and bite me, let it be.

But still.

I hope to remember to feed the birds so they don’t die. During the day they are the only ones who talk to me. My cat never talks to me in English. She is silent. Sometimes I sense her laughing at me in a snarky way.

I also hope to remember to feed the children zipping about my home who claim to be my offspring, but they know where the popcorn is, so what’s the problem?

Because of this deadly deadline, the three sisters and the brother in my book are now constantly talking and shrieking in my head, and I have to deal with them directly on a non – stop basis. I am only slightly alarmed to find myself arguing out loud with them or yelling, “Back off, freak.”

They do strange things and I have to edit their strangeness. Cecilia decides to stick a hose into her ex-husband’s Corvette to water it and ignites her wedding dress in a bonfire during the hokey pokey.

Janie wants to hide in her houseboat but I won’t let her. She has got to get a life and a spine. Her weakness drives me crazy, and why does she always wear the same beige, dull bra? Why not pink? Red with lace? Why does she embroider when she’s nervous?

Janie is odd. Cecilia is vengeful. Cecilia and I do not always get along.

Isabelle has been a difficult character to manipulate during this entire book. She is a rebel. She is a free – thinker. She is tough. I make something bad happen to her so I can get her under control so she will change her wily ways by the end of the book. She doesn’t like that part.

Isabelle also wants a boyfriend,  but I will not give her one because she is a head case.

I get the head case part. I have lived through my own head – case problems, but I secretly want Isabelle  to have a boyfriend because then the suburban mommy in me could live vicariously through her and her hot romance.

I would like her to have Keanu Reeves as her boyfriend, but I do not give in to her desires. Maybe I will call Keanu Reeves on the phone for real. I am sure he wants to converse with me and my birds. But not with the cat. That snarky, laughing cat doesn’t talk.

I cry over what I had to do to Isabelle because I am a mess. I cry when Janie takes a breath and dares to dare. I cry over Cecilia’s anger because I get that. The anger. I get it. And I cry over all that blood and their loneliness.

I cry because I want to and I laugh when Cecilia’s young, screwy brained daughter insists on dressing like a nun and says to everyone, “Peace be with you.”

So I cackle and I snuffle while writing and sucking down Haagen Dazs, and that is not counting all the times I cackle with semi-hysteria and believe my work sucks and I am a pajama clad loser and should go back to teaching fourth graders about the Oregon Trail.

I remind myself that I must edit the heck out of the ending because it is too pretty, so I must throw in sadness even though I really like a Cinderella ending. I like to pretend the world is soft and pink, and things work out.

There is zero indication of this Cinderella stuff in my own personal life, and in my deepest understanding, I know that Cinderella was a closet alcoholic (who can blame her?) and married a prince who had a fetish for small feet (and high heels), but I still search for the pretty.

I also remind myself to change out of my pajamas before the twins get home from school. It is pathetic to see Mom still in pajamas at 4 p.m. and I endeavor not to be pathetic. I remind myself to quit swearing at my characters when real-life humans are around and about, and can hear me.

But here is one more problem: Who is this man wandering around my house wondering if we have anything for dinner? You want to eat dinner? I hiss at him. Go and gnaw on your toes in some corner. Eat bird food. Stop bugging me or you will die a painful death.

Go away. Leave my house. Out. In fact, everybody out. Even the chatting birds.

Take the snarky laughing cat who won’t talk to my boyfriend, Keanu.

I’m writing.

I’m panicked.

I have 14 days.

I am dead meat.

 

 

Tonight I went to yoga with Innocent Husband.

You could call it a Date Night.

I work nights.

I write and scribble late into the dark and silent morning, then crawl into bed about two or three. I try not to work weekends, but I do usually end up working some on Saturday, and for sure late Sunday night I’m writing again, working through the story that is laid out like a movie in my head.

Hence, we don’t have a lot of time together in the late evenings.

So, when Innocent Husband asked me to go to yoga with him, which I have only been to one time before, I went. I wanted to be a sport.

The yoga instructor is tiny. She is so small I could probably put her in my pocket. Next to her I am the jolly green giant.

She is perky and chipper as she tells us to do this type of thing:

Down dog.   She says this repeatedly during the whole class. Down dog.

Honestly, why on earth would a yoga master think of this term? Down dog? I used to say that to our naughty dogs when I was a kid. As in, “Down, dog! Down Frisky! Why did you have to bite that kid on the bike?”

Or, to our dog, Alphy, who attacked every other dog within eye sight, “Down Alphy! Let go of his neck!”

Why don’t they call it The Spritzer? Or Daffodil petal? Or wind blowing? But down dog?

She later tells me to do the “cat” and the “cow.”

When she tells me to do “the cat,” I feel like meowing. When she says to do “the cow,” I feel like a cow. Everyone in yoga is  skinny, so I curse them.

Then perky yoga teacher talks about the “angry cat.” Ah. Now I can relate to angry cat. I am an angry Cat – hy sometimes. I look at Innocent Husband. He is about to crack up at the “angry cat,” comment. He knows exactly why. I glare at him.

I am told to stand on one leg in a lunge, then the other, and put an ankle over a knee for long periods with my hands in the prayer position.

The instructor keeps telling me to get my body into a triangle. She even wanders over to show me exactly how to do that. Honestly, God did not build me with angles. How am I supposed to get myself into a triangle? Why would I want to?

I am told to breathe. To listen to my breathing.

I am told to be “in the quiet.”

I am told to relax my face, my breathing, my body.

I am irritated.

I am supposed to listen to my breathing? What the heck for? As long as I am upright, there isn’t a problem. I am told to feel my breathing. Again, what for? If I can fog a mirror I’m still alive. Why feel it?

I am lost.

Currently I am in a gym. When I am in a gym I want sweat to drip off my body. I want to lift weights. I want to be up and down off a step with dumbells.  I want to exercise until I can’t move. I want my muscles to quiver and I want to kick some butt.

That’s just me.

Yoga is not like that. My heart rate does not rise. I do not sweat.

Now I am going to say something very unpopular: I don’t like yoga.

Trying to be quiet, settle down, turn off my thoughts, and sit with my palms up is not for me. I do not like to relax unless I’m going to sleep or drinking coffee. Other than that, let’s get a move on with life.

But I did it for Innocent Husband.

He gives me a hug later, at home, and says, “You don’t like yoga.”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks for going, Cathy.”

“You’re welcome.”

He smiles at me. He has a nice smile.

See, I tell myself? The yoga twisting was worth it.

Innocent Husband and I needed a date night. We had one. He smiled at me.

Next time, I’m choosing the venue for date night and it’s not going to involve any down dogs, angry cats, or twisting my body into a triangle.

It’s going to involve pretty food that I don’t cook and candles.

And I’m not going to listen to my breathing and no one can force me to, so there.

 

I want to be on the next Bachelor TV show.

Yes, I am past my twenties by a wee bit and, yes, I am long married and have teenagers, but I still want to be on the show.

Here’s why:

I want to travel.  During this Bachelor season the gang has flown all over the place: Costa Rica, Utah, Switzerland, Belize. I want to visit the world, too. Costco is getting boring for me as a vacation destination.

I want new evening gowns. I have never had an evening gown. I want one. I want a long, slinky, strapless dress that will come with a girdle and an in-built push up bra to help the girls stand at attention and my stomach to stand down.

I want cool high heels. I have brown and black heels, nothing special, just functioning. I want fancy red shoes. Faux leopard skin. Gold sparkly things.

I want a stylist to do my hair and make up.  I want a free hair cut and highlight. I want someone to help me figure out how to put on eye shadow without it smearing or creating a third eye on my eye lids. I want a lipstick that shines like the dickens.

I want to have adventures, like jumping off boats into clear emerald – colored water, swimming in lagoons, and snorkeling with bright colored fish and snappy turtles.

I want to be able to sleep in when the other girls are out on their dates, or use the pool to play dolphin and the hot tub to soak my bones.

Yes, I want to be on The Bachelor.

I don’t want the man. I got me a man.

I don’t even want to talk to The Bachelor. The other ladies can talk to him about piddly topics. I just want the free, artful gourmet food and the free time to read and daydream.

Besides, I am still waiting for the producers to put up a bachelor who is intelligent, thoughtful, introspective, engaged in life, funny, and not a dull idiot with a brain the size of an ant’s buttocks.

Ben, the current bachelor, has one of the flattest personalities I have ever seen on any man.  I understand there are cameras pointed at him, I get it. That’s tough and smothering.

But I don’t think anything of depth or interest has ever popped out of that man’s mouth.

I am waiting for a sense of humor, for wittiness, for an ability to connect on any level at all. I am waiting for manly man characteristics, romantic characteristics, captivating characteristics.  I am waiting for emotion, and I see none.

None – ola.

Everything he utters appears to be part of a script that the director has told him to say and he can barely remember his lines, but is struggling real hard to do so.  (Can you imagine? I thought these reality shows were based in truth, not scripts!)

So I sit back and watch this ridiculous show, inhaling my chocolate chip cookies, and wonder why on Earth these young women, many of whom seem smart, fun, sincere, and funny (okay, there are a couple of crazy- ass gals, too), would be interested in this guy. What is there that attracts them?

Or, do they simply want to stay on the show longer for more moon – lit trips to fantastic destinations, more sleek evening gowns with push up bras, more snorkeling with snappy turtles and free food?

I get it, ladies, I get it! I’d love to go to the snowy alps in Switzerland, too. You go, girls!

I wonder why I watch the show. What is wrong with me? Don’t I have a life?

Maybe I don’t.

But back to my Bachelor application:

Here is what qualifies me:

I was once in my twenties.

I am female.

Tune in to see me next season!

 

 

 

 

Recently Michelle Duggar, the mother on the “19 Kids And Counting” show, gave women advice on how to be good wives.

I found it very entertaining.

And suffocating, and sort of sad, and I’m concerned for her daughters who may want something else out of life, but that is not my business.

I have watched the show a few times and I must say that Michelle seems very kind and clearly loves her children.

I do not raise my children as she does.  In particular I am not raising my girls to be submissive to husbands or to suspend thinking when married, or to smother their own voices and lives.

I am raising them to pursue their dreams, educations and ambitions as much as I encourage that in my son, and if they choose to marry, I hope they marry people who will love them like crazy for the independent and wonderful people they are.

There are other enormous children-raising/being a wife differences between Michelle and I, but do I like her?

Yes. She seems very pleasant.

But after reading her advice on how to be a good wife, I thought I’d talk to Innocent Husband to see what he thinks of  it. We have been married almost 19 years and we discussed Michelle and Jim Bob’s 19 kids, which Innocent Husband thought was, “quite a few.”

He is eating ice cream, which he calls “frozen protein,” that he needs to eat every night for “nutrition.”

Starting with Michelle’s advice…

 

Michelle: A husband needs a wife who accepts him as a leader

Innocent Husband:  I think both husband and wife can be leaders. You’re a leader.  It’s a shared responsibility.

 

Michelle: Husbands are commanded to govern their wives.

Innocent Husband: They’re commanded?  (He laughs).  I missed that commandment.

Cathy, moi: How do you think that commandment would go over between you and I?

Innocent Husband: Not very well. (He frowns).  If I tried to govern you there would be an immediate rebellion.  Life would be miserable for all.

I think for that commandment statement to be true husbands need wives who want to be commanded or governed.  I don’t know too many women who want that.

Cathy: Do you know any women who want to be commanded and governed?

Innocent Husband: I’m trying to think. (He seems confounded, confused. We are surrounded by strong minded, smart women, including our free thinking daughters, so he has to sift through all the women we know).

I know they’re out there. (He taps his spoon on his ice cream bowl) I don’t know where. (His brow furrows). They’re out there, though.  Maybe.  Could be. They’re out their commanding their husbands to govern them. (He eats more ice cream) How does the commanding work?

 

Michelle: The more a wife trusts her husband, the more careful he will be in giving her direction.

Cathy: Do you think I would take direction well?

Innocent Husband: (He snorts) No.

 

Michelle: Never ask others for counsel without your husband’s approval.

Brad: (He stabs his spoon in the air and sounds irritated) Why would she even say that? What if the wife needs advice on sewing?

Cathy: Just for fun. Do you know anything about sewing?

Innocent Husband: I can stick a thread through a needle. (He nods. He’s proud of himself I can tell) Like a cross stitch. Why would you ask me if you wanted advice on how to handle your hot flashes?

There’s girlfriend stuff that is girlfriend stuff, why would you ask your husband if you can go and talk girlfriend stuff with your girlfriends?

(He swirls his ice cream and shakes his head) I’ve had two bowls of ice cream and now all these Ritz crackers. This is nothing but fat.

 

Michelle: Ask yourself how can you become more of the wife of your husband’s dreams.

Cathy: How can I be more the wife of your dreams?

Innocent Husband: Abide by all the rules above. (Laughs hard, he thinks he’s funny)  Be submissive to my governments. (Laughs harder)  

You are the wife of my dreams.

 

Michelle:  Discover and conform to your husband’s real wishes.

Cathy: What are your real wishes?

Innocent Husband: That you discover and conform to them.

Cathy: But what are your real wishes?

Innocent Husband: I wish I was fishing.

Cathy:  Michelle thinks it’s important to have hair that looks soft and submissive. I don’t know how to make my hair submissive. There is not a single bone in my body that knows how to be submissive, but my hair is completely rebellious. I mean, look at it.

What do you think of my hair?

Innocent Husband: It’s curly.

Cathy: Is it submissive?

Innocent Husband: No. It’s pretty.

 

Michelle: Ask your husband to tell you when you have a resistant spirit.

Cathy: Do you want to tell me when I have a resistant spirit?

Innocent Husband: (He sighs) We would be at odds 24 – 7  if I told you when you have a resistant spirit.

Cathy: What is a resistant spirit?

Innocent Husband: I don’t know but you’re going to start seeing mine if you keep bugging me.

 

Michelle: Dispel a backbiting tongue by silence.

Innocent Husband: I think you should dispel your backbiting tongue. If you just cut it down by 10% things would be great.

Cathy: Do you want more ice cream?

Innocent Husband: Yes.

Cathy: Get it yourself. Bring me some chocolate.

 

Michelle: It’s a problem if the wife is financially independent.

Innocent Husband: I don’t think it’s a problem. A couple’s a team, they can share their financial independence together. It’s freedom. Each member of a relationship can have freedom without being smothered and dictated to by the other party.

Cathy: What’s the plus of a wife making money?

Innocent Husband: Life is easier.

 

Michelle: Whoever controls the money controls the leadership.

Cathy: Do you think you can control me?

Innocent Husband:  (Laughs once again, gets a little teary eyed) No.

Cathy: Do you want to control me?

Innocent Husband: No. Why would I want to control you?

 

Cathy: I give husband a kiss. This is why I’m married to Innocent Husband and Michelle is married to a man named Jim Bob who likes his wife to have submissive hair, nineteen kids, and be under his command.

Later that night I think to myself, how does a woman breathe in a marriage like that?

How does she become her own person?

How can she be happy when she is not thinking for herself but is allowing someone else to think for her?

What about literature and art and culture and traveling and growing mentally and emotionally? Where does that fit in? Does it fit in?

How can a woman stay in love with a man who wants to command her?

How?

I am baffled.

I eat more chocolate ice cream.

I hug Innocent Husband. He is very huggable.

 

 

 

 

I often drive to a Starbucks that’s about twenty five minutes from my home. I need the time to think, listen to music, and talk to the characters in my head before I start writing.

After getting my coffee I stare out the windows and watch people and the weather and wait for wisdom to drop into my head via the ceiling. It often does not drop.

Now and then I see her.

She can’t be more than four feet eight inches tall. Tops.

She has black hair and wears a special, thick black shoe with a lift on her right foot. The other shoe is black, too, with no lift.

She uses two canes to walk, both pink. Pink canes, I like that.

She has a backpack on her back. Since I’ve seen her several times at the same time, I think she’s going to work, or coming home. I don’t know if I’m right.

She struggles to walk. One cane angles out, a wobbly step is taken, then the other cane, and another wobbly step. She does not stop, she does not rest.  Her head is down a bit, I figure she probably needs to watch the sidewalk carefully.

One foot in front of the other.

Her back is bent too, like a stick, her hands clenched tight on top of the canes. Her gait is more of a trudge, like a mountain climber going up a steep hill against a hail of snow, using all muscles to make the simplest step.

I worry about her falling and I so hope she doesn’t.

I watch people who walk around her or walk by her.  Two tall blondes, stylishly dressed, laughing. They pass by, I don’t even know if they see that she’s there.  Perhaps they do, and glance away, forgetting quickly.

Another man goes by with his backpack on, eyes straight ahead. A mother with a stroller keeps strolling.

Her head is down, she wouldn’t notice if anyone looked at her or not but my guess is that she has learned that she doesn’t want to see what’s in their eyes. She doesn’t want to see people staring at her about as much as she doesn’t want to see people pretending that she’s not there.

I don’t know anything about her. Maybe there’s a husband and kids at home. Maybe there’s parents, a cat. Maybe she’s alone.

But what I do know is that living with what she lives with has to be an enormous and difficult challenge every day. Nothing is easy, not walking, not shopping, not errands, not working, not socializing. I can’t imagine that she doesn’t physically hurt at night because her walk is so tight, so hard.

One foot in front of the other.

It strikes me how easy most of us have it. We want to go somewhere? We walk. We want to exercise? We run. We want to hike? We find a forest. That’s not something she can just hop to and go do. There is so much she can’t hop to and go do.

I can’t even imagine how school must have been for her. No running, no sports. You’re different. You stick out. Friends are harder to find because everyone wants to blend in with everyone else and you are not one who blends.  You’re alone a lot. You’re not fitting in. You’re not like the tall blondes who laugh as they walk by her that afternoon.

School can be merciless for many people for a variety of reasons. When you’re wearing shoes with lifts and you can’t jump rope, hit wall balls or even grow to be somewhat normal in height, it’s got to be a nightmare.

As for the rest of life? Tough. Very tough in a myriad of ways.

What I am struck with though, each time I see her, is her strength and courage. It’s a small hill she’s walking up and it’s so hard for her, her steps so small, so unstable.  But she does it, day after day.

I sit and wonder as I down yet another mocha, why her?  Why not me?

I wonder how she sees herself, how she sees others. I wonder what she knows, what she believes. I wonder if she ever thinks, why her? Why not someone else? Or if that question was unanswered long ago and she doesn’t think of it anymore.

I wonder what her name is. I wonder what she likes to do. I wonder who she loves and who loves her.

There she is.

With her backpack. Walking with her angling pink canes, her thick black shoes. She is determined, focused, swaying for balance, she’s going somewhere.

She’s going somewhere, I don’t know where.

One foot in front of the other.

I sure admire her.