e-volve

So, I'm a couple of weeks into my foray into writing, now, and I have a lot of notes, and a few paragraphs to show for it. I have to say, despite my limited rate of production, I am quite pleased with the process. A good beginning. There seem to be a lot of resources online for writing prompts, and I'm trying to do a couple of exercises a day, independent of any project I've got rolling around in my mind. This is both to get me practicing, and to get me in the habit of daily writing. Slow, but steady.

In other news, it's looking like my stepmother will be having her other hip replaced in September if she can get the orthopedist to agree. That'll be another two months of recovery with her. I can't believe she isn't sick of me being around. Granted, I haven't been over there as frequently of late, but it's been a needed break, I think. I don't know if she feels the same way about it, but we were pushing the upper limit of how much time I want to spend there, and how much gas I can afford to commute to a job I would never ask to be paid for.

I would never bow out prematurely, and I would never let her know about any of my frustration, but I will be approaching this final surgery with a small measure of resignation. It isn't the worst thing I could be spending my time doing, but I do become somewhat resentful toward the end of our time together when it becomes very clear that my personal thoughts/feelings/needs/ideas/ time matter very little to her day after day. It's not that she's purposefully dismissing my needs, but they just don't occur to her, because my whole reason for going day after day is simply to tend to her. It makes sense that everyone (she, my father, my stepsisters) would have that view. The problem is that eventually, being with my family feels like my job, and I both hate and feel incredibly guilty about that. When I go over on the weekends for family gatherings, I am still doing every tiny thing she asks, and the expectations are the same. I have so much guilt for feeling the way I do, and I don't want this to impact our relationship with one another for the long term. But, it's as if every time I begin to heal a little bit from it, we cause the injuries all over again, whether it be because I haven't had a break, or we do another surgery. This is the third bout this year. I don't think I've blogged at all about the downside of caring for her post-op, because I want to keep positive, and I don't want to encourage myself to continue feeling resentful. There is a time to let things like that go. But, it's still fresh, and I must allow myself my feelings about doing it again. And, I love. So I'll do what people who love do. I can't imagine anyone else taking that place, because we do have a good go of it, and anyway, I have become quite the card shark as a result.

I'm going to foster a positive attitude about it, but I think I needed to write this out coherently first. I'm already feeling a little bit better. I'm grateful for my blog, and my make-believe readers.

I've been staying home a lot lately, seeing as how my step mom has gone back to work, and mental health jobs are far and few between, as well as highly competitive. But, though I haven't been incredibly busy by traditional American definitions, I have been keeping myself very occupied. I've been writing lately, and clearly, not in my blog. I've been putting together some ideas, jotting down thoughts about characters and how they meet, but not really coming up with anything concrete, or anything that I'd call a story yet. I've also been considering writing a book on body image, as I suppose I find myself uniquely qualified between having been a fatty all my life, and now being a fatty with two degrees in psychology, and one in mental health counseling, all while being hip to the size acceptance movement. It'd be an interesting subject for me, anyway.

I don't know if I actually think I'd be a success at it, but it feels good to write, and I've got a little bit of time on my hands. My sweet husband is absolutely supportive of the idea, and thinks I'd be good at it, though I have had the thought cross my mind that he might be a wee bit biased. He has been incredible to me through the whole quitting-my-soul-crushing-job issue, encouraging me to do it, even. Not that I'm surprised. He's like that in all respects. I'm very lucky.

But a book? Wow. The thought of being published is intoxicating, as I'm sure it is for all fledgling writers. I know the life is probably not as glamorous as it sounds, probably not as high paying as I'm certain to hope, but if you love the act of writing, and you love waking up in the morning with a cup of tea and a story at your fingertips, it's got to be a good life.

I struggle somewhat with the thought that I went to school for so long, and learned so much, and love counseling people, to just not have that job. I spent so much time, money, blood, sweat, tears, and anxiety on getting through school. I had only imagined one career for myself, and writing wasn't it. I don't even know if I can be good at it. The what-ifs are swirling around in my mind. All I can think is to give it a shot.

I've got nothing to lose.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.

I Love You!

I should blog more.

That is all.

Choose a book already, Bird!


Thanks for reading that last post, by the way. A picture for your trouble. :)

My favorite virtual stomping ground continues to be defunct for the time being. It's okay. It's like an addict being off smack for a few days, no big deal.
I SAID IT WAS NO BIG DEAL! Get off my case, GAWD.

Kidding! Get it? Little withdrawal joke? Heh.

So my stepMom had a hip replacement this week. It's pretty monumental for her, especially considering she's only 50. The surgery itself went relatively well, not counting the immense pain in the gap between the local anesthesia wearing off (Yes, I said *local*) and the pain killers kicking in. That was probably one of the scariest things I've witnessed in a long time. I won't give the vivid description of the experience, but suffice it to say I've had some trouble sleeping since. I'm glad it was me there, and not her biological daughters. I fake calm pretty well in emergencies, and I held it together until it was over, and she was able to rest. I couldn't imagine going through that with my parents, and I wouldn't want her girls to see that. I was so proud of her for bearing the unbearable, and so proud of my Dad for keeping it together for her too. I must get it from him, and though watching his face through the ordeal wasn't as bad as what she had to go through, seeing my Dad so close to breaking down is pretty effing upsetting. They are a pair of absolute soldiers, no doubt about that.

But, that's passed, thankfully. Now we're onto the easy part, the weeks of recovery. I stayed with her every day for a couple months as her daytime caretaker after the back surgery she had earlier this year, and this is like 'Bone Regeneration: The Sequel'. We make a pretty good pair through it all. Though it is not all puppies, kittens, unicorns and carebear stares, we entertain one another, and I keep her in good spirits. She is not pleased with being slowed down, and routinely threatens me with her cane, and we laugh about being bad influences on one another.
It works out.

But with the re-introduction of heavy meds for the next few weeks, we're back to Oprah and Rachael Ray. We'll work up to LOST, when she's feeling more coherent. I wouldn't want to blow her mind just yet.

This is apparently what I do when my favorite message board becomes unaccessible for the evening. I start a blog with half-baked intentions to post regularly, to be witty, to be the writer I fancy myself to be. To be part of things, to chatter to myself, to see who wanders in.

Can I commit to blogging? Historically, no. But, I've got a little time, and a little bit of whimsy... we'll see what comes out of that.

Here, have a photo.



I took this a couple weeks ago from a catwalk 65 stories up in Manhattan. While this shot did not happen to give me vertigo, my camera (and perhaps my physical well-being) would probably thank me to not dangle it the way I had to in order to get such a shot. Eh, all's well. We're both still in one piece.

Same with this photo. Leaned reeeeallly far out for this one. Don't have too many opportunities for this kind of shot, so I took it. Though, one could argue that breaking my camera would defeat the purpose of risking life and limb for such a shot, but it wasn't *that* big of a risk, and my rear was firmly planted on the safe, non-falling side of the railing. Still felt like flying, a little.

Anyway, damn building with it's effing rooftop pool (jealousy!) got in the way of my old-building-mirrored-in-a-new-building shot. It's okay, I'm just bitter that I don't have a rooftop pool in an impossible to get apartment near Times Square.

Ooooh! Shiny...




*wanders off*