These are the things that comfort me, make me laugh, move me, & open my soul. I am a mom of 3, a wife, a daughter, a friend....I write, knit, cook, love, work, & just try to make it through. My writing blog is wordsontheceiling.tumblr.com if you'd like to check it out. Thanks for hanging out in my head space!
What do you listen to when you feel broken? What Pandora channel do you choose when you need to be reminded of who you are?
I wrote a post back in the fall about what home smells like and how sometimes the strangest things comfort us. So here’s a confession: One of my secret loves is late seventies-early eighties country music.
I can close my eyes and be in my grandmother’s kitchen with it coming out of the radio on the table, or, depending on the song, I’m on the slick leather backseat of an old Cadillac, watching the world roll by, or sometimes I’m dancing in the living room near the Christmas tree as the sounds roll out of the console radio with the eight-track player.
It’s doubtful that many people I know find solace in Jerry Reed or early Alabama. Most of the people I spend my time with would look at me like I had two heads if I said I did. But just like the smell of a musty bowling alley, or the sight of an old pickup truck, or weather-worn and faded Navy tattoos on tanned arms, these things are home. These are my people.
I’m not sure my husband understands. We had very different upbringings and sometimes he looks at me with confusion when I smile over something that doesn’t say “home” to him at all. My family wasn’t the Cleavers, though, and I did try to forget it all for a long time. But I’ve spent my life running from who I am. I don’t want to do it anymore.
No, I don’t want to live exactly like my family did. I’d like to let my kids grow up without asthmatic lungs from a steady diet of secondhand smoke and perhaps not have them see half the family hammered by the time the Christmas ham hits the table. But there is no shame in where I come from.
On my worst day I can whine about my abandonment complex or the million issues I have with my mother, but the fact is, I didn’t really have it that bad. I wasn’t physically abused. Money was tight or even non-existent at some points, but we didn’t starve. My parents had a lot of issues, but there was a lot of good in my life, too. First and foremost, I had two sets of grandparents that loved me with everything they had and did their best to do right by me, as they say. They are what this is about.
Those people worked hard. Yes, they played just as hard, but dammit, they LIVED. Every second of every day, absolutely to the fullest. No, they weren’t wealthy. But they sucked every drop out of life while they had the chance, and made no apologies for it.
Perhaps from the outside it looks like nothing more than a legacy of twangy music and drunks and chain smoking and people that worked too hard for too little. But that’s not half the story. Not by a long shot.
I know the love. The stories, the heartaches, the songs when we had family “pickin’ time”, the harmonies from my aunt and grandmother as they sang old hymns and bluegrass standards. I know the laughter, the hugs, the late nights over the card table when I felt like I belonged somewhere for once. I know the smells of the kitchen, the meals on the “good plates”, the hiss of the pressure canner as we were shooed out of the way. I know the sweet smell of sleeping on sheets dried on the clothesline and the feeling of the world beneath my bare feet for the entire summer. Amazing people. Simple. No pretense.
So if I get teary-eyed from an old Conway Twitty song, you’ll just have to ignore me. I’m just missing home.
Do you ever feel like your life is something out of The Adjustment Bureau? Like somehow, every once in a while, you get a sense of déjà vu, or have an odd feeling, and you wonder if you’re glimpsing part of your alternate path, the one you would have been on had you made different choices? Not that the other path was better, it’s just….weird. No? Just me? Ok then….
I simultaneously love and hate when the urge to write strikes. Long before I even start typing, my brain becomes distracted and I start forgetting simple things, spacing out, the laundry piles up… It’s impossible to explain to anyone around me that it’s because my brain is occupied with a creative process. Not that a “creative process” gets dinner on the table or clothes washed…I’m pretty sure the family doesn’t care if I’m mentally sculpting a pivotal scene or something tragically fantastic. They just want clean clothes and warm food.
It is horrible when you are faced with a decision that could affect a family member’s health forever and it comes down to a matter of finances. Sometimes I wish Canada wasn’t so cold and far away. Don’t y’all have really good healthcare?
My husband bought me a clothes steamer and I LOVE it. I find it really weird that it excited me so much. I could de-wrinkle a Shar-Pei if you gave me half a chance. This thing is awesome.
I’m back to hating the fact that I work again. Still love what do, just hate that I have to do it for the sake of the budget. I’d much rather be part time or registry. But as seen by point #3 above, there is little choice at the moment. So I keep showing up and clocking in. It could be worse… I could hate my job. Even with the occasional asshole doctor and stupid gossipy nurses, I still like it on most days. At least there’s that.
That’s it for now. Hope your Friday has been stellar. :)
….reading so much fan-fic over the years that you need to re-watch an entire series to separate what’s just in your head and actual canon.
I’ll be hanging out with the Sunnydale kids for a while, trying to realign my brain. Also, 90’s fashions are fantastic and I miss them.
I’ve had several new followers recently and feel a need to do a little introductory “what’s-what”. Hello and welcome aboard!
Things you will find here:
*Stories about kids and poop and laundry
*Frustrations and trials of mommy-hood and work and whatever else that’s making me want to scream
*Me trying to sort out my own head
*Whatever I find funny
*A lot of sarcasm
*Yarn and all it’s wonderful related crafts
*Occasional reblogs of things I think are cool (I don’t go overboard, though)
*Complaints and struggles of a wannabe-writer.
*A link and shameless self-promotion to my writing blog. (It’s wordsontheceiling.tumblr.com . So go and check it out. Pleeeeeeeaaaase!)
Things you won’t find here:
*My face (at least for now)
*Nakedness or anything remotely qualifying as an SST
*Personal details or pictures of my family
*Political or religious diatribe (every now and again my faith gets a mention, but it’s not ever meant to be divisive.)
*Anon ask capability (I’ll answer most things, but you’d better have the balls to ask with your name attached)
Okay! So that’s the deal. I truly appreciate all of you following me for whatever reason. I try my best to go and check out everyone’s blog, but if I don’t follow back, please don’t take offense. It just might not be something I need on my dash every day. It doesn’t mean I won’t periodically visit your page and heart a bunch of your posts. And if you’ve read all of this and think “Eh, that’s not really what I thought I was signing up for”, then no hard feelings for the unfollow. It’s okay.
So now that bit of housecleaning is out of the way…. On with the madness! Woo hoo!
I have thrown out three pair of shoes in two weeks. It feels like sacrilege.
I’m not a particularly girly-girl, but I like my shoes. There are a lot that aren’t über feminine, but some are. Lots of casual shoes, boots, sandals…. plus several pair of rarely worn, ultra-hot heels. In my previous career I dressed much differently, and although I’ve gotten rid of the majority of the clothes I wore for the business world, I kept some of the shoes. But that was a decade ago, and those that are left are falling apart.
I don’t know why three pair decided to give up the ghost all at once. Their leather was cracked, heels worn down, sides peeling back in places…. It’s possible that they’ve looked like this for a long time and I’ve just opened my eyes enough to see it and realize they had to go. I guess it’s easier to hang on to them and keep shoving them in the back of the closet than to put them in the trash. Why in the world do I have such an attachment to things that not only are worn out and ugly, but they simply don’t have a place or use in my life anymore?
Suddenly I don’t feel like I’m talking about shoes. Hmm…..
*sound of the lightbulb flickering on*
The news of Harold Ramis’s death makes me a little sad. I’ve always felt a particular nerd-kinship with Dr. Egon Spengler, especially since lab tech school where I discovered my fascination with Mycology. Plus, he was one of my husband’s favorites and I really hate to see him bummed out.Sunshine and warm temps did me and the family a world of good this weekend. Yard work and outside play time are better than any anti-depressant. It will be cold again by tomorrow, but I’ll take even a few days of the break.
I can’t stand to see the people I care about struggling emotionally. It makes me want to take a bat and go all crazy-spider-monkey on the people that are causing the distress. Does it say something bad about me if I want to make people bleed? Yeah, probably.
What is it about getting one area of your life somewhat straightened out that makes everything else go kerflooey? Is it the Devil on my back? Murphy’s law? Whatever it is, it sucks.
It’s almost March, y’all. This polar vortex nightmare crap can’t last forever. Hang in….
Julia Sugarbaker - “Designing Women” (via spinningthelazysusan)