I wouldn't describe myself as funny. I don't think anybody would. I can be funny, but FUNNY is not the first adjective you think of when you think of me. Short, loud, assertive - maybe even cute - but not funny. I don't think if you asked Ed why he fell in love with me that he'd say, "She makes me laugh" or "She's funny." I don't know if anyone would say I make them laugh - except maybe Cindy.
I know funny women and I am not one of them. I am glad to personally know funny women. Erin Kane: she's funny. Everyone thinks she's funny. My parents think she's funny. My college friends think she's funny. She's an incredible storyteller and it's why she's a great writer. Even an e-mail from Erin is funny.
Jackie-Jack is funny. She's always made me laugh. Whether we're on the phone or in person she gives me steady giggles. Colleen makes me laugh. Her take on life, love and the pursuit of happiness inspire and tickle my funny bone. Conversations with Cousin Adrienne leave my face hurting because I've smiled and laughed the whole time. Cindy: she makes me sweat and my mascara run. That girl is funny! These are the funniest women I know. And y'all know I love Ellen Degeneres!
I feel like I "know" this about myself. So it struck me odd one Friday night when over dinner with Ed I mentioned a text-volley I had with my very funny friend, Cindy. I didn't get into the whole back and forth, but I mentioned that in the text I had to explain myself to her, and I finished the text with "This is why Ed doesn't think I'm funny!" I was still giggling about the texts when he looked at me and asked, "Is that what you tell people about me? That I don't think you're funny?" I was taken aback. Our conversation was about a text-volley that almost had me running to the bathroom. (It sucks to get old, but that's a subject for another time.) I had had a good laugh with a friend and wanted to share a little bit of it. It seemed even funnier to me because my attempt at funny had to be explained to her. I thought that was funny. He proved my point because he got up and left the table and never came back. Later I found him asleep on top of the covers, still in his suit pants. I'm not sure if I hurt his feelings or if he was just embarrassed that I would reveal his "secret" to a friend. He told me he was just exhausted. I don't think my husband thought I was being funny. I just exhaust him.
I do crack myself up sometimes with my own train of thought. I find humor in places it shouldn't be and puns keep me giggling long after the moment is over. I get that from my parents. My dad and mom are the king and queen of puns. And they will do what they can not to outdo each other, but to keep it going. Their back and forth is more about joining each other in a not-so-alone-or-intimate exchange that keeps them completely alone and gives them intimacy. In the middle of a room with family and friends they will quip and quote, play on their words and innuendo themselves into laughter and snickers. Around them we are an audience, visitors to watch the match in session, fans of the game. And they usually end in a draw. With smiles, they are both the victor. Again, it's not about outdoing, but about playing together nicely. It's what people do who have been married for 45 years.
I may not be the character or the card that other people are, but somehow I do offer humor to those around me, ironically mostly to my husband. Because he knows me the best. Because he lives with me. Because he sees, hears, witnesses, and lives with my quirks every day. As much as I have to explain my own jokes to people, he gets a kick out of watching me sort through life and the jokes around me until I've gotten it. That makes him laugh. He is one of the funnies people I know with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. Like "The Family Guy" and David Chappelle, no one and no subject are off limits to him. That includes his wife. I think if I admit to anymore misunderstood song lyrics from our childhood he'll have an "accident." (Now that would be funny.)
Ed spends as much time poking fun at me as he does laughing at what is me. And I love that he includes me in that part of life that is so him. He is a gentleman: kind and chivalrous. He is both family provider and protector. He is smart - smarter than I am, despite his mantra: "You didn't marry a smart man." Oh, but I did. Street smart, people wise, and an unmatched political and economical sense - these are traits of Ed. Yet, I smile to think about the beginning. Because I did fall in love with him because he is funny. He does make me laugh.
I will continue to make jokes that need to be explained. I will continue to follow in my parents' footsteps en route to the best puns, travelling a road paved lightly with sarcasm. And at the end, my husband just might think I'm a little bit funny.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Cheating?
On a test? Don't remember a specific test, but I don't have the gall to think that I never did it at some point, so - yes.
On my husband? Never.
On a boyfriend? Yes. (But it was "only" a kiss.)
At games? Yes. But not as an adult.
On my writing? I think so, but I'm not sure.
Wow - I've cheated a lot. And although I am not proud of any of my unethical ways, I am most bothered by the last question. Is it cheating to call your writing creative if the details are largely taken from your life? It seems logical that a character, scene, scenario, plot or dialogue would have its origin in the real world. It is somehow born from people and places that have already been, and are. Yet, do I deserve "credit" (if I can be so bold as to assume there would be any) if I haven't truly created something? I've only transcribed it. Re-iterated it. Maybe re-worked it. Have I cheated on the creative process? Have I cheated my readers out of something new?
The blase response would be that it is all new to you. The justification would be that art imitates life. The cowardly answer would be to deny it. Maybe it's a little of all 3.
But hopefully it's mostly that that's what writers do: they write what they know. Although I'm sure that Stephen King didn't have a half-dead cat stalking him at some point in his life, there are sure to be details in Pet Sematary that are taken directly from his life in Maine. At least one character in Forks, Washington is reminiscent of a college or high school friend of Stephenie Meyer - even if those details don't include that he or she was a vampire or a werewolf.
I take my feelings, my experiences, and my dreams and I put them into a new thought process. Much of what inspires me to write is finding myself saying, "I wonder what I would do if..."
What would I do if my husband died or left me?
What would I do if I found out I was adopted?
What would I do if I discovered that I have breast cancer?
What would I do if I won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay?
What would I do if...
I ride the concerned fence between wanting to get the story in my head out there, and not wanting to let someone - anyone - see what I'm thinking. "Will it be liked?" is honestly the least terrifying question. It is much more scary to wonder what people will think of you for your creativity. Are you sick? Twisted? Morbid? Unsympathetic to someone who has actually dealt with what I am storytelling about? Sinking that scary feeling further into me is the assumption that what I write is somehow not just from me, but was a part of me. Will I be revealing too much of me in developing a character or a story line? And what if you don't like me? We can't all be Sally Field.
My writing is from me, not just from my mind and hand, but it is from what I have lived every day of my life. I only need look up near the top of this screen to be reminded that I gave myself this "out." But it is not a cop-out: it is what it is. I will write what I know. Sometimes the scenario will be actual and the details will be borrowed. Other times the details are original and the theme a re-visited one. In any case, they are all from me. And since I know that not everyone can put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard and even re-tell a good joke, I hope that there is something in me that tells it like no one else can. Regurgitated information or brand-new piece, if I tell it the best than that is creative.
The more I blog, the more I want to blog. The more I write, the more I want to write. The more I read, the more I want to read. And the more I read and write, the more I want to truly create.
It's What I Know.
On my husband? Never.
On a boyfriend? Yes. (But it was "only" a kiss.)
At games? Yes. But not as an adult.
On my writing? I think so, but I'm not sure.
Wow - I've cheated a lot. And although I am not proud of any of my unethical ways, I am most bothered by the last question. Is it cheating to call your writing creative if the details are largely taken from your life? It seems logical that a character, scene, scenario, plot or dialogue would have its origin in the real world. It is somehow born from people and places that have already been, and are. Yet, do I deserve "credit" (if I can be so bold as to assume there would be any) if I haven't truly created something? I've only transcribed it. Re-iterated it. Maybe re-worked it. Have I cheated on the creative process? Have I cheated my readers out of something new?
The blase response would be that it is all new to you. The justification would be that art imitates life. The cowardly answer would be to deny it. Maybe it's a little of all 3.
But hopefully it's mostly that that's what writers do: they write what they know. Although I'm sure that Stephen King didn't have a half-dead cat stalking him at some point in his life, there are sure to be details in Pet Sematary that are taken directly from his life in Maine. At least one character in Forks, Washington is reminiscent of a college or high school friend of Stephenie Meyer - even if those details don't include that he or she was a vampire or a werewolf.
I take my feelings, my experiences, and my dreams and I put them into a new thought process. Much of what inspires me to write is finding myself saying, "I wonder what I would do if..."
What would I do if my husband died or left me?
What would I do if I found out I was adopted?
What would I do if I discovered that I have breast cancer?
What would I do if I won the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay?
What would I do if...
I ride the concerned fence between wanting to get the story in my head out there, and not wanting to let someone - anyone - see what I'm thinking. "Will it be liked?" is honestly the least terrifying question. It is much more scary to wonder what people will think of you for your creativity. Are you sick? Twisted? Morbid? Unsympathetic to someone who has actually dealt with what I am storytelling about? Sinking that scary feeling further into me is the assumption that what I write is somehow not just from me, but was a part of me. Will I be revealing too much of me in developing a character or a story line? And what if you don't like me? We can't all be Sally Field.
My writing is from me, not just from my mind and hand, but it is from what I have lived every day of my life. I only need look up near the top of this screen to be reminded that I gave myself this "out." But it is not a cop-out: it is what it is. I will write what I know. Sometimes the scenario will be actual and the details will be borrowed. Other times the details are original and the theme a re-visited one. In any case, they are all from me. And since I know that not everyone can put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard and even re-tell a good joke, I hope that there is something in me that tells it like no one else can. Regurgitated information or brand-new piece, if I tell it the best than that is creative.
The more I blog, the more I want to blog. The more I write, the more I want to write. The more I read, the more I want to read. And the more I read and write, the more I want to truly create.
It's What I Know.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A Middle of Something
Many times I write about something and I have no idea what it will be connected to or whether it will develop into something more. This is one of those pieces. This is a middle with no beginning or end, yet. Maybe time and this blog will help develop it. Ironically, since the first time I scrawled it into my journal, to the re-write on my external hard-drive, to this second draft/re-write, I've realized that this could be the beginning or the end. It might be something other than what I originally thought it was. Only time will tell...
"CRISP SHEETS"
I sought comfort. Not companionship. Not pity. Not sympathy. Comfort.
I wanted to feel at ease at home - able to take a breath and not let it shudder back out. I wanted it to be simple and easy. To come to me - to not have to look for it. I needed to slide into it like on a night when there are clean sheets on the bed.
The feel of clean, crisp sheets on my bed always warms me and makes me feel relaxed. Maybe because I know it's only a matter of time before my body will raise the 63 degree temperature of the sheets to a very toasty 98.6. But ironically, even when I'm cold - I'm comforted by the cool cotton against my skin. It lulls me and soothes me. It signals the onset of sleep and drifting away from the frazzle and hurried pace of my day. Even when I am sick, I long for the cool and crisp of clean sheets. It reminds me that warm is coming. The cool linens take the bite out of my body. They are a king-sized compress for my 120 pound boo-boo.
Clean sheets are also a new beginning - a fresh start. They are a threshold for new dreams - new hope, when the sun rises. Stripping the bed releases the bad and old energy of my restless days and sleepless nights. Throwing them into the laundry to be doused in detergent, hot water and bleach washes away all the troubles of that week and gives me a chance to make it all right the next time they are stretched over the four corners of my bed. And for me, only traditional cotton will do. "T-Shirt" cotton is not nearly as good. The cool is not contained throughout the fibers the same way. T-shirt cotton is comfortable - but it is not fresh comfort.
And a made bed is still not as good as a freshly made bed. No matter how much I smoothe and pull to make the sheets flat, taught - crisp - they don't stand at attention the way the clean ones do. Once you've slid into them they take your heat and they hold it in - relaxing their fibers, softening, making a cushy place to lay the next time. They mean well - to be inviting, warm and protective. But it's not the same. Even with 15-18 hours of emptiness, they can not return to clean and crisp. They somehow hold some little bit of residual warmth. They are never as cool as the first time they were placed. And that warmth builds with each night of sleep until it almost feels like I'm slipping into a second skin and there is no change in how I feel. There is no release - no sense of letting go. The warmth is stifling.
I wasn't chilled and didn't need automatic warmth. And with the cool I knew, without a doubt, that the warmth was coming. It always does. And it doesn't take long. There's no impatient wonder as to how long, it just comes. The cool is the warmth.
I needed clean sheets.
I hurried my pace just a little, but was careful not to rush. My quickened, deliberate pace was more about clearly understanding my need and not about avoiding it. I took the stairs two at a time, but with a concerted, gentle step, not with a bound.
I entered the room and for only a moment I paused at the doorway. The bed was, of course, already made. I moved to the wicker hamper where we kept the spare sets of sheets and lifted the lid. I knew what I was looking for before it was up all the way, and swept my hand inside, grabbing the only set that made sense: the deep rust, 550-thread count set we had selected together on a cold February morning less than a year ago. Our taste in bedding was much like our taste in furniture and paint: completely different. He loved deep, rich colors and antique-inspired styles. I was more light, airy and contemporary. When we found ourselves stuck on the Home Shopping channel rewinding with the DVR option to make sure that we were clear on what they were offering, we were surprised that we were both interested. We both actually liked the bedroom set "in a bag" that would convert our whole room to earthen-colored decadence, from sheets to comforter, to window treatments. We agreed on a decorating scheme! We had ordered on the spot.
I piled the pillows on the hamper and threw back the heavy comforter, laying it to rest on the floor at the foot of the bed. Tugging at the sheets and the blanket simultaneously I finally understood his annoyance at my perfect hospital corners: they did not give up easily. More force was required than I wanted to exert, so I slowed my pace and carefully untucked each corner and peeled back the sheets. I had waited long-enough and wasn't going to enter this moment aggitated.
The "dirty" pile of sheets were slumped up against the wall as I unfolded the clean fitted sheet. Grasping the sheet half-way down it's side I gripped hard and snapped the sheet hard into the air. It fluffed up quickly and then seemed to hang in the air for just a second before falling down onto the bed with just enough air in the middle that for a moment, I was reminded of middle school gym classes with parachute fun. I actually found myself snickering at the thought of scootching under the sheet before it came to a rest on the bed, but there was no time. The sheet was down and I had work to do.
I started at the head corner on my side of the bed, where I always started. I moved on to the foot corner on my side, across the end of the bed to the opposite side, pulling the sheet tight as I went. By the time I got to the opposite head corner, the sheet was flat and almost perfect. I pulled the side of the sheet towards me and down and finally tucked the last corner over the edge. Instictively I swept my left hand and then my right over the sheet, pushing the few wrinkles in the fabric to the edges and they miraculously disappeared. It was just like what I watched my grandmother do when she taught me to make a bed over 30 years ago. It was flawless.
Stepping carefully back to the other side I continued to make the bed, top sheet first, then the blanket, and of course, hospital corners finished the job. I pulled the comforter back up, and after smoothing it of all its wrinkles, I slowly folded it back and made one final straightening motion that evened the sides to the height of the bed frame.
Standing there staring at the bed, I wanted to jump in - but I also wanted to turn and leave the room. Leaving wasn't an option, so I carefully slid into the bed, fully clothed. Again, I found myself almost snickering. Afterall, "street clothes" were not supposed to be worn in bed. Bad habits for other people meant smoking, drinking too much or swearing. In our house you were committing the ultimate dirty deed by wearing to bed what you had worn out and about. But at this moment it didn't matter because I wasn't going to be sleeping. Traditional rules did not apply.
I lay down and immediately felt the cool on my left cheek. As my eyes closed I curled my left arm under my head, feeling the cool all along my arm from the back of my hand to my elbow, and into my shoulder. My t-shirt was not keeping the cool from me. I stretched my right hand out and lay it gently, flat on the bed next to me. Reaching out to "his" spot I could just feel the dent of the pillow-top below the sheet and I traced the outline with my fingers. Like so many times before, I heard myself say, "I love you, with all my heart...Wherever you - " and that's where I caught myself. For I knew exactly where he was this time.
And for the first time since he'd been gone -
I wept.
"CRISP SHEETS"
I sought comfort. Not companionship. Not pity. Not sympathy. Comfort.
I wanted to feel at ease at home - able to take a breath and not let it shudder back out. I wanted it to be simple and easy. To come to me - to not have to look for it. I needed to slide into it like on a night when there are clean sheets on the bed.
The feel of clean, crisp sheets on my bed always warms me and makes me feel relaxed. Maybe because I know it's only a matter of time before my body will raise the 63 degree temperature of the sheets to a very toasty 98.6. But ironically, even when I'm cold - I'm comforted by the cool cotton against my skin. It lulls me and soothes me. It signals the onset of sleep and drifting away from the frazzle and hurried pace of my day. Even when I am sick, I long for the cool and crisp of clean sheets. It reminds me that warm is coming. The cool linens take the bite out of my body. They are a king-sized compress for my 120 pound boo-boo.
Clean sheets are also a new beginning - a fresh start. They are a threshold for new dreams - new hope, when the sun rises. Stripping the bed releases the bad and old energy of my restless days and sleepless nights. Throwing them into the laundry to be doused in detergent, hot water and bleach washes away all the troubles of that week and gives me a chance to make it all right the next time they are stretched over the four corners of my bed. And for me, only traditional cotton will do. "T-Shirt" cotton is not nearly as good. The cool is not contained throughout the fibers the same way. T-shirt cotton is comfortable - but it is not fresh comfort.
And a made bed is still not as good as a freshly made bed. No matter how much I smoothe and pull to make the sheets flat, taught - crisp - they don't stand at attention the way the clean ones do. Once you've slid into them they take your heat and they hold it in - relaxing their fibers, softening, making a cushy place to lay the next time. They mean well - to be inviting, warm and protective. But it's not the same. Even with 15-18 hours of emptiness, they can not return to clean and crisp. They somehow hold some little bit of residual warmth. They are never as cool as the first time they were placed. And that warmth builds with each night of sleep until it almost feels like I'm slipping into a second skin and there is no change in how I feel. There is no release - no sense of letting go. The warmth is stifling.
I wasn't chilled and didn't need automatic warmth. And with the cool I knew, without a doubt, that the warmth was coming. It always does. And it doesn't take long. There's no impatient wonder as to how long, it just comes. The cool is the warmth.
I needed clean sheets.
I hurried my pace just a little, but was careful not to rush. My quickened, deliberate pace was more about clearly understanding my need and not about avoiding it. I took the stairs two at a time, but with a concerted, gentle step, not with a bound.
I entered the room and for only a moment I paused at the doorway. The bed was, of course, already made. I moved to the wicker hamper where we kept the spare sets of sheets and lifted the lid. I knew what I was looking for before it was up all the way, and swept my hand inside, grabbing the only set that made sense: the deep rust, 550-thread count set we had selected together on a cold February morning less than a year ago. Our taste in bedding was much like our taste in furniture and paint: completely different. He loved deep, rich colors and antique-inspired styles. I was more light, airy and contemporary. When we found ourselves stuck on the Home Shopping channel rewinding with the DVR option to make sure that we were clear on what they were offering, we were surprised that we were both interested. We both actually liked the bedroom set "in a bag" that would convert our whole room to earthen-colored decadence, from sheets to comforter, to window treatments. We agreed on a decorating scheme! We had ordered on the spot.
I piled the pillows on the hamper and threw back the heavy comforter, laying it to rest on the floor at the foot of the bed. Tugging at the sheets and the blanket simultaneously I finally understood his annoyance at my perfect hospital corners: they did not give up easily. More force was required than I wanted to exert, so I slowed my pace and carefully untucked each corner and peeled back the sheets. I had waited long-enough and wasn't going to enter this moment aggitated.
The "dirty" pile of sheets were slumped up against the wall as I unfolded the clean fitted sheet. Grasping the sheet half-way down it's side I gripped hard and snapped the sheet hard into the air. It fluffed up quickly and then seemed to hang in the air for just a second before falling down onto the bed with just enough air in the middle that for a moment, I was reminded of middle school gym classes with parachute fun. I actually found myself snickering at the thought of scootching under the sheet before it came to a rest on the bed, but there was no time. The sheet was down and I had work to do.
I started at the head corner on my side of the bed, where I always started. I moved on to the foot corner on my side, across the end of the bed to the opposite side, pulling the sheet tight as I went. By the time I got to the opposite head corner, the sheet was flat and almost perfect. I pulled the side of the sheet towards me and down and finally tucked the last corner over the edge. Instictively I swept my left hand and then my right over the sheet, pushing the few wrinkles in the fabric to the edges and they miraculously disappeared. It was just like what I watched my grandmother do when she taught me to make a bed over 30 years ago. It was flawless.
Stepping carefully back to the other side I continued to make the bed, top sheet first, then the blanket, and of course, hospital corners finished the job. I pulled the comforter back up, and after smoothing it of all its wrinkles, I slowly folded it back and made one final straightening motion that evened the sides to the height of the bed frame.
Standing there staring at the bed, I wanted to jump in - but I also wanted to turn and leave the room. Leaving wasn't an option, so I carefully slid into the bed, fully clothed. Again, I found myself almost snickering. Afterall, "street clothes" were not supposed to be worn in bed. Bad habits for other people meant smoking, drinking too much or swearing. In our house you were committing the ultimate dirty deed by wearing to bed what you had worn out and about. But at this moment it didn't matter because I wasn't going to be sleeping. Traditional rules did not apply.
I lay down and immediately felt the cool on my left cheek. As my eyes closed I curled my left arm under my head, feeling the cool all along my arm from the back of my hand to my elbow, and into my shoulder. My t-shirt was not keeping the cool from me. I stretched my right hand out and lay it gently, flat on the bed next to me. Reaching out to "his" spot I could just feel the dent of the pillow-top below the sheet and I traced the outline with my fingers. Like so many times before, I heard myself say, "I love you, with all my heart...Wherever you - " and that's where I caught myself. For I knew exactly where he was this time.
And for the first time since he'd been gone -
I wept.
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