SURREALITY

Yes, I made up a word. The past two years have been surreal and reality, hence Surreality. You’re welcome. Like most people, my world has been rocked and rolled over the past two years. I work in health care, so I continued to work through the pandemic, although my patient load and hours got cut back for a while. Things are roughly back to normal on the work front, so that’s good news. The home front is decidedly not normal. Over the years, we have enjoyed a relatively healthy existence. 2021 decided that needed to change, so in January, the entire household came down with Covid-19. I don’t think I’ve ever been that sick for that long, but we recovered without any major issues. During my downtime, I decided it was time to find a primary physician and made an appointment with my husband’s doctor. As a healthcare provider I have certain expectations of doctors, and this one didn’t make the cut. I take issue with any doctor who doesn’t ask basic questions regarding my health history, doesn’t address current conditions and concerns, and repeats no less than four times that I need to eat more plant-based foods (without asking about my diet). At least, she did request lab work, a mammogram, and a colon screen (done, done, and done). Now, to find another doctor. All was going along relatively smoothly until I woke up at 3am over Labor Day weekend in atrial fibrillation. Most might say they had heart palpitations. I’d call it an asynchronized kettle drum thumping on the wrong side of my chest. After an early morning trek to the emergency room (via Whataburger because mi esposo needed breakfast), voila–I now have history of a-fib. Fun. Fortunately, my little, ole heart decided to go back to a normal rhythm without further drama, and I went home with a very nice, shiny cardiologist to call my own. Yippee. That was nothing. The next week, mi esposo went in for a cardiac catheterization–nothing was wrong, but his cardiologist wanted to take a look around his heart’s arteries. Mi esposo came away with two stents and a buttload of blood thinners. Nothing wrong, my fanny! You’d think that would be enough, right? Nope. In October, mi esposo, the Mimi, and I took a tiny trip to Georgia to meet our new grandbaby girl (I shall call her Girlie). She’s gorgeous, adorable, magnificent, smart, opinionated, and possesses a set of lungs that lets you know she means Business (That’s my girl!). Anyway, on our last day visiting, mi esposo decided to help Myrtle the Elder put some things away in the attic. He took an ill-advised shortcut out of the attic and landed on the concrete garage floor. Did you know that bones don’t like concrete all that much? Nor do they appreciate 8-foot drops onto said concrete. We also discovered that morphine is not his friend, and neither is the LSD-type concoction that he received in the emergency room to control the pain. So, while mi esposo experienced life in a Georgia hospital and rehab, I had to come home and figure out how I was going to get him back to Texas. After three weeks, Myrtle the Younger and I trekked back to Georgia, sprung mi esposo from jail–I mean rehab, and hauled him home in a four-day, whirlwind trip that I’m still recovering from four months later. He’s healing well but has more therapy and surgery in his future. And we have a new normal. The weirdness of 2020 and 2021 has given me a lot of time and fodder for my writing. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve entered a few more short story/flash fiction contests and done pretty darn well if you’re interested (well, you must be if you’re reading this). A friend is producing an anthology this spring, and I’ve submitted a story for it. Stay tuned for more details. I have finished the first two books of my newest series, The Tess Corona Chronicles. (No, I did not name her after the virus! The name was given two years before the pandemic, and no, I am not changing it. So, there.) I’m querying agents and publishers for the first novel–And They Danced, and I’m working with my critique group on the second–And They Played. Writing of the third book, And They Hid, has commenced. If that isn’t enough, I still have to write the last book of the Spiritual Gifts trilogy, books 3 and 4 of the Daemon series, a non-fiction work, and at least a dozen or so short stories. Did I mention that I work full-time? And that mi esposo can’t do most of the things I need him to do? There aren’t enough hours in the day. T

My Boy

As parents, we met December 2004, with the usual question: “What do you think Santa will bring you for Christmas?” I don’t know what we were thinking, but mi espouso and I were a little shocked when the Myrtles (aged 8 and 6 at the time) unanimously announced that the only thing they wanted was a—you guessed it—a puppy.

Now, mi espouso and I love dogs. We each had one or more growing up. Our only issue was that we were raising two children, finances weren’t the greatest, and we thought we were too busy for a dog. Considering our options, we decided it might be better to try a guinea pig or something caged as a starter animal for the Myrtles to see if they could take care of an animal.

In steps the Mimi.

My family has firm roots in Santa, going back to my brother’s pronouncement that he didn’t believe anymore. Nope, nada, no-how did Santa exist. That is until Christmas Eve. We were at my great-grandmother’s house, and he decided that he was going to sleep in front of the Christmas tree to be a tripping hazard for the Bearded One. Poor Mimi hadn’t planned on Santa gifts because of my brother’s assurances that there was no Santa. Needless to say, after the kids went to bed, there was a late night scramble to put some kind of Santa appearance under the tree.

Fast forward twenty-odd years, and Mimi was a devout Santa’s elf. If the Myrtles demanded a puppy, then a puppy they would get.

The weekend before Christmas loomed, and the Mimi arrived on our doorstep to drive me all over God’s green earth in search of the Perfect Puppy. Now, let us say right now, the Mimi and I have VERY different views on what constitutes a dog. She likes dogs that sit in your lap or prance around like tiny ballerinas. (She prefers girl dogs because boy dogs hike their leg. THE HORROR.) As we went to pet store to pet store to SPCA, she kept picking out teacup-sized puppies that wouldn’t stop yapping, while I handled puppies that had paws the size of dinner plates and were asleep.

Guess who won.

I called mi espouse on our way home, with a lap full of quiet puppy, to let him know that he was no longer the token male in the household (although the newest male was neutered). Thus began the Great Santa Puppy Exchange. With a week to go, we couldn’t let the Myrtles in on the secret before Christmas, so the Myrtles exited the front to go to the Mimi’s while the puppy (and all things puppy) entered from the back. Mi espouse and I spent a childless week acclimating one black lab-mix to the household until Christmas Eve when we reversed the process: dog (and all things dog) out the back door, girls in the front. The puppy reappeared for the scheduled Santa appearance at 5am when mi espouso arrived back with said puppy (and all things puppy) for set-up. The Mimi managed to keep the dog quiet for 2 hours, then kept the Myrtles at bay for another 30 minutes until show time.

It was an engineering feat, I tell you.

And well worth the effort. After multiple name options were considered, the puppy finally chose his own name—Chewie—when he agreed that he did indeed like to chew, giving a high-pitched whining yelp reminiscent of a certain infamous Wookie, thereby making his full title Chewbacca, Sir Chews-a-lot, Prince Mutley, the CHEW-MEISTER (with booming voice-over).

And he’s MY boy.

Fast forward 15 and a half years.

They say labs stay in puppy-hood for most of their life. That’s certainly true in Chewie’s case. His eyes, ears, legs, and bowels don’t work as well as they used to, but this morning he managed to spot a squirrel and chased it for about twenty feet. I don’t think the squirrel was too concerned to have a teetering old man-dog after him. Last week, we discovered a hole in the fence (thanks to some idiot who didn’t realize the alley was closed for destruction and decided to turn around through our fence). Mi espouso put garbage cans around the hole the keep the dogs in, but we didn’t think Chewie would even find the hole, much less escape. He did. Without delay.

Despite the evidence that he can still enjoy an outing, he’s not comfortable. He doesn’t complain, but we know it’s time. He’s given us over 15 years of love, which is several years more than a lab is supposed to give. I’m thankful we’ve had the privilege to love him back.

He’ll always be MY boy.

T

Time to Reflect

Two things have happened this week which make me want to pause for just a moment.

This first came the news that a dear friend had passed away. When I met Darlene Cates over four years ago, I had no idea who she was or what she would come to mean to me. Millions knew her as the mother in What's Eating Gilbert Grape? I had never seen the movie or her other work (a fact she tried to remedy without success). In spite of my extreme introversion (a fact she was truly blind to), she bulldozed her way into my life, worming out every stinking detail of my otherwise dull existence. She invited me to the filming and then the preview of her final movie short, Mother, she attended one of Myrtle the Younger's archery tournaments, she cried over the loss of my mother's cat, and, more importantly, she listened to my insane ideas for a screenplay.

Not only did she listen, Darlene demanded that I write my little story down, after which she helped me to milk every stinking detail of the story out of my pea brain. As that tale developed, other story lines emerged. With each idea, Darlene was there helping me to find and develop the story. She asked thousands of questions. It was the third story which became If You Touch My Mind. It was also the one I dedicated to her honor.

I've continued to work on the first two stories and kept her up-to-date on their progress. At our last tea party, Darlene asked if I would have Healer (my second story) done before she passed. I promised her it would be out within a month. I didn't realize I only had a week.

Be at peace, my friend.

The second event occurred overnight. My church participates in a program called Family Promise. This is a collaborative effort of churches to provide shelter for temporarily homeless families. Each church hosts these families for one week while they look for work or get back on their feet. I volunteered to be an overnight host and last night was my first opportunity.

I met the three families as they finished dinner and we had a lovely time chatting about kids, college football (I had to forgive one couple for being OU fans-they kindly forgave me for my UT affiliation), One mom was new while the other couple had experienced the program for several weeks. The mentoring, friendship and love which these families displayed for each other and those of us who volunteered to help them was astounding and humbling. It was well worth the aches and pains of camping out at church on an air mattress all night.

Blessings,
T.

Getting There

I thought I was ready. I've always been ready. For the first step. For the first day of kindergarten. For high school graduation. All those firsts you envision for your child, I was ready and cheering the girls on to success.

Yeah, I was the mom whose child crawled into the nursery like she owned it (she actually thought she did; it was the church nursery and she called it "my school"). I was the mom proudly watching my daughter walk into kindergarten while the mom next to me sobbed. I turned to the poor woman and said, "They're okay, let's go grab the donuts." (The school was kind enough to offer breakfast and reassurances for grieving parental units.)

There was something exciting about watching the girls move forward in life, meeting goals (required and desired), figuring out who they are and what they want to do. Sure there were things that could have gone better, mistakes were made. We got through and learned from each experience. I couldn't wait to see what was next.

I will admit to not being ready for the hardest part: letting go.

Friday morning, Myrtle the eldest, with a car stuffed the rafters, left for Georgia to follow her dreams. Georgia. As in a long freaking way away from Texas. Sure I sent the girls on mission trips, choir tours, band trips, and let them travel  God's green earth with family and friends. In fact, both girls have been places I have never been and don't expect to see in my lifetime. That was my plan: allow the girls to think of the world as their backyard. For some reason in my preparations for my children growing up, I never really considered them LEAVING Texas. The backyard is a great place to visit, but I don't want my kids to live there.

I guess this is payback for my lack of sympathy for the kindergarten mom.

Myrtle says she'll be back. Eventually. But it will be different. She'll be married and working as a nurse by then, maybe even have a baby or two, and Myrtle the Younger will be moving on with her life. That's hard to think about right now.

I'll get there. Eventually.
T.

Any Good Parent...

I know, I know...2 posts in 1 week. I just had a startling realization and thought I'd share. The world might just not know what to do with this information. I sure don't know what to do with it, except attempt to rectify the situation ASAP.

There we sat, in the restaurant for Mi Espouso's 50th birthday, having a lovely conversation over dessert with his father and my mother and Myrtle the Younger (Myrtle the Elder is on a friggin' boat to the Bahamas with Uncle KB and his family), when I have the sudden awful realization that I have failed miserably as a parent.

A parent's sole obligation is to teach/share/impart unto their children all the important necessities of life. Correct? I have tried to educate the Myrtles with the essentials and I even thought I had made a decent 'To Do' list: addition, subtraction, basic hygiene, etc. The list included both good and not-so-good life references including learning the words to Bohemian Rhapsody (to be sung off-key at the top of your lungs while Mom is driving) as sung by Queen or the Muppets, memorizing Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and listening to Rock Me Amadeus by Falco. (Hey, I knew the girls would eventually need counseling. I just wanted to ensure they had sufficient reason to fork out good $$ for psychiatric care.)

Alas, I have made the discovery that I left out an important piece of Americana...Beetlejuice (GASP!). Somewhere between Star Wars and Speed Racer, Mi Espouso and I forgot to introduce the girls to that classic piece of bizarreness. What is even more tragic is that Myrtle the Younger actually stated that the main character never appealed to her. (WHAT?!!?)

So there we sit, at the table, reciting scenes and dialogue from Beetlejuice. (No one was looking at us like we were insane, but the waiter returned in record time with the check.) MTY just sat there, wondering why we are her parents. (Because we are the only 2 people on the planet who get the portrait of the green and orange skinned girl with pink hair on the paper tablecloth that MTY drew while eating her pasta, that's why.)

Now I am certain this is not my only omission to the Myrtles education, and, as previously stated, I shall be rectifying the situation ASAP. In the meantime, I am racking my brain for any other errors.

T.

A Little Behind...

I know, I know...I'm a little behind on writing. In my defense, it's been a busy month. I'll make this quick:

Myrtle the Elder graduated with her associates degree in May. Later this summer she plans to move to Georgia and go to nursing school. Why Georgia, you ask? That be where the fiance be. Assuming the army keeps him there. We have no idea. Stay tuned.

The wedding?  Inquiring minds want to know. That's on hold for a year or two. Yea! Maybe by then I'll have lost a few more pounds and can rock the Mother of the Bride dress. I really don't want to look like a Mother of the Bride. That would be bad.

Myrtle the Younger graduated high school last week, along with 1542 of her nearest and dearest friends. The ceremony took nearly 3 hours. Yes, my butt was numb. The things we do for our children.

Family trekked in to sit through the event so we had a lovely weekend. Mi espouso took The Nephew fishing at the local hole. The fishing kid caught about a 1/2 pound bass. The rest caught a variety of perch and sunfish. No one got sunburned. Yea!

Last, but not least, I revealed the title, cover and blurb for book 2. Myrtle the Younger did the cover art again. Here they be:

Mitch Monzingo thought he made all the right decisions: leave small town Texas for the bright lights of Los Angeles, answer the seductive lure of Hollywood, and support his family back home. Stunning success should be enough to make everyone proud, including the girl he reluctantly left behind.

Abandoned by her high school crush and best friend following one perfect night, Dora Therrell fought to make her dreams come true. After years of hardship and secrets, with a best-selling novel, she has finally achieved the success which leads to security.

A desire to please confronts the need to protect when a chance encounter thrusts Mitch and Dora together again. It is up to self-proclaimed matchmaker, Faye Santiago, and respected psychologist, Annabelle Joshua, to tackle the secrets and demons which separate Mitch and Dora from true happiness.

Anyway, back to editing. The next post will probably announce the publication of KYEOM. Stay tuned.

T.

New Career Path?

First off, allow me to state that I am not currently in my most lucid state of consciousness. Sans mind-altering substances. It happens.

I would also like to state in my defense that I make every attempt to be a model parent. And I am pleased to humbly report that The Myrtles assure me (without much bribery on my part) that I am successful to a degree of minimal standards established by someone, somewhere and somewhen (I know it's not a word but see sentence #1).

By my definition of model parent, I have endeavored to be involved in The Myrtles activities as warranted. My philosophy is/was that if my children wanted to participate in an activity, then I should step up and help make it happen. Need a field trip chaperone? I can take a day or two off work. Children's Choir leader? Ok. Destination Imagination Manager or judge? Count me in. Need a female youth counselor? Sure. Blackjack dealer? Okie dokie.

Wait! What? You heard correctly. (Hence the reason for sentence #1.)

In case you haven't realized, Myrtle the Younger is a senior in high school this year and is having the time of her life and has been plotting and planning one of the biggest events of the year for several months. Yes, Folks, we are talking about Prom.



Ain't she pretty? (Those are the Hot Mess Shoes, by the way, so dubbed by the color and the height of the heel. Apparently they remained on her feet until she got inside the door of the event center. Why did we bother?)

Anyway...Our high school has what is known as After Prom. At some point in time, some parents got together and decided they didn't want their precious darlings going to parties for the usual, questionable, after prom activities with equally questionable supervision. So they came up with After Prom. Rumor has it that the kids look forward to After Prom as much, if not more than, Prom itself. Why, you ask? Inflatables! Door prizes! Games! Running amok with friends all freaking night! And the piece de la resistance (sorry, I don't know how to make the accents happen)-Dun-dun-dun!-the Casino! Yes friends, Let's teach our budding adults how to gamble in the sacred halls of public academia. Who says schools aren't teaching real-life, practical skills?

As with most children's activities, volunteers are necessary to make the night successful. That's where I come in. As with Myrtle the Elder's prom, I got roped into being a Blackjack dealer again. It's wasn't a bad gig 2 years ago. I sat at my little table all night, chatting with the lovelies while pretending to be able to count to 21, before leaving to crash in my little bed.

That be what I expected for last night. I be so very wrong.



Here was my "office" from 11 pm until after 4 am this morning. Notice something? Anything? Yeah. No stool. This THERAPIST stood on her feet for 5 solid hours with no break, dealing blackjack, then helped tear down, before finally getting home around 5:30 am. Needless to say my neck, back, arms, legs and other parts of my carcass are back-talking LOUDLY. To add insult to injury, my FitBit thingie only registered about 500 steps for the whole night. (#%$%&&*&*!!!!!!)

Now I will give myself a pat on the back: I did manage to stay sane and friendly throughout the evening (I only had to tell the supervising Pit Boss to get lost once) and I managed to count each hand with relative accuracy (although determining the winning hand between 20 and 21 took a few extra brain cells). I even spoke to the kids at my table and figured out that they might be human after all. Who knew?

After all was said and done, the evening was fun. The question innocently arose if I might consider moon-lighting as a blackjack dealer. (Hysterical giggles and hyperventilation galore.)

Uh. No.

G'Night, all (it's 2pm).

T

Bursting with Pride

SXSW, better know as South by Southwest Music and Film Festival is an international event held in Austin, Texas. This year I had the opportunity to go for the sole purpose of watching my daughter (and cover artist) and her high school animation team screen their animation short, Out of Reach. Their's was one of 24 short films (of which 3 were animated) chosen out of who-knows-how-many to be screened and juried. A second team from her high school was also selected for their animated short, Goin' Nuts. We will find out a winner on Tuesday evening.

High school students can come up with interesting (and dark) material to compete with anything a twisted adult can dream up. Maybe more so. Most of the shorts involved disturbing subject matter: cutting, shooting, throats cut, child abuse, kidnapping, torture, to mention a few off the top of my head. Weird, blood-letting videos aside, there were several redeeming and "pretty" films that I understood and enjoyed. There was one music rap video which I actually understood enough to enjoy. A few shorts were PSA or documentary material including one amazing video by an autistic boy on what it is like to be autistic (He said his mother made him do it. Go Mom!). I happened to sit directly in front of the 3 jurors and overhear some of their comments. The only comments I paid attention to were regarding our 2 teams.

Out of Reach earned several laughs and giggles from the audience and jurors, with a final collective comment of "Wow" from the judges. Goin' Nuts got a resounding "That was nice" from one juror with agreement from the other 2. (YES!!)

Now, I do not care if either team wins the prize, in fact it is unlikely when compared to some of the live action shorts presented. I understand and do not envy the jurors decision-making to choose an overall winner. The fact that these 2 talented teams were selected for this prestigious event is a fine addition to a respectable portfolio or resume any day.

A mama was never more proud of her baby. I can't wait to see what Myrtle Sue comes up with next.

T.

Just a Normal Saturday

Yesterday I spent an exhausting day with brilliant teenagers. It made my brain hurt.

Myrtle the Younger is in her high school's version of gifted and talented coursework, called Phoenix. She adores her Phoenix classes because they allow her to think light years out of the box. (And she is pretty darn good at that. I haven't understood a word that child has said since she was hatched.)

Every year the junior and senior classes spend months putting together a Phoenix simulation day for the sophomores and freshman. (The best part...everyone wears a costume.) The hosting classes have a theme (untamed forces) they work around, each with a theme within the theme (greed, dreams, fear, survival instincts, psychology, etc.). Her class theme was social hierarchy so they chose to create a prison complete with gangs and a tattoo parlor. (Isn't that what you think when you hear the phrase 'social heirarchy'?)

So yesterday I proudly send off my baby prison guard with a cute little bun. All I know was she was thrilled to be a prison guard so she could swat people with a foam noodle. (A mother's pride knows no bounds, despite having little understanding of the baby girl's thought processing.) I was assured that no one was hurt by her swats and she had a blast.

Now because I am the supportive parent, I was volunteered to be a chaperone. And upon arrival, I was informed that I was responsible for NOTHING. Yea! This event was completely run by the kids and my role was that of general adult. I can do that! And in return, I get pizza!

So I dutifully follow the three groups I am assigned to and we see the creative results of ten different Phoenix classes including Greed (a giant Monopoly game with robbers), Psychology (a psych ward where the students got to yell "give me my meds!"), Social Movements (a communist spy/blow up the Berlin Wall simulation), Finances (a stock market crash), Natural Disasters (a tornado clean-up), Failure (Amazing Race), Dreams (from happy rainbows and unicorns to LSD-inspired weird stuff to really bad burrito nightmares), and Survival Instincts (plane crashes into the jungle and now the animals are going to eat you). Yes, I have forgotten two, but that was the middle of the day and my brain was on sensory overload. Be assured they were fun and creative.

I came home and took a nap.

Otherwise it was a normal Saturday for me. How about you?
T