zebu

Butting Heads

/ Tracy Abell

Zippy and I are back home after helping Wildebeest get settled in his place. He’d sublet for a couple years to some friends who, while nice young men, are not the tidiest people. To be clear, Wildebeest is not all that tidy, either. However, he was disgusted by some of the mess his friends left behind. But the key word here is “some.” All sorts of stuff that elicited an eew from me didn’t trouble Wildebeest all that much. Or Zippy, for that matter.

My son and my mate have a much higher grime tolerance than me. On the Tidiness Spectrum, I’m closer to one end and the menfolk in my life are nearer the other. So for the last few days I tried hard to reconcile their places on the spectrum with my own. Was I always gracious and tolerant of our different outlooks? No. Did I maintain my cool and refrain from shrieking things like “How do you not see that this bathroom tile is in serious need of scrubbing?!” Um, no. Did we get angry with each other? Yes.

Head-butting did ensue.file000627435113

There were moments when it felt as if Wildebeest and I were reenacting scenes from his childhood. He and I have always triggered reactions in each other, and this week we fell back into some of those patterns. But. There was progress. This time around I disengaged and put down the sponge. Literally. I did very little cleaning and instead focused on the basic tasks I’d offered: painting and steam-cleaning. And then Zippy and I packed up, told Wildebeest we loved him, and drove home.

Where we arrived to find Zebu contentedly sitting ankle-deep in the dog and cat hair that had accumulated while we were gone.

 

 

How can you keep on moving

/ Tracy Abell

I spent the morning packing and repacking duffel bags for Wildebeest who has moved to a faraway part of Colorado. He couldn’t take everything with him when he left so Zippy and I are heading his way to deliver the rest of his stuff. Wildebeest had it all packed up and ready for us, and our plan was to fit everything inside the truck we borrowed from my brother. HAHAHAHAHA. *wipes away tears of mirth*

We needed a Plan B. So we pondered and debated the position of the roof rack and the dimensionsn of our 20+ year-old XCargo carrier:

Like this, except with more dead insects and blood from where the effing top repeatedly dropped on our heads over the years.

Like this, except with more dead insects and blood from where the effing top has repeatedly dropped on and bloodied our heads over the years.

We weren’t confident we could securely attach the carrier so then I did some research on the intertubes. And just as you’d suspect, people are very clever when it comes to hauling stuff on top of vehicles. Alas, none of those DIY ideas suited our specifications.

Then I remembered our enormous duffel bags.

Last June, Zebu flew back from Bellingham, WA, where he’d attended school. We’d moved him out there via a rented Impala (biggest trunk EVER, yo!), but didn’t want to make that trip again. Which meant he had to fly back with lots of carry-on items. Enter much online research for the largest duffel bags available that did not exceed airline limitations.

So. All that backstory is my long-winded way of explaining how very very glad I am to be getting some use out of those ginormous bags again.
Duffel bags

We’re going to put them alongside Wildebeest’s snowboard on the truck’s roof and secure everything with ratcheting straps. Hopefully, there will be enough room in the interior for the rest of his worldly possessions.

I enjoy organizing stuff and figuring out how to pack things efficiently, so it’s been kind of fun. But all morning, in the back of my mind, was the knowledge that in just a few short weeks Zippy and I will truly be empty nesters. We’ve always had at least one son living in the vicinity, but now Wildebeest is a long ways away. And in a few more weeks, Zebu will be living a really, really long ways away as an exchange student in Sweden.

It’s easy being happy for them because they’re both very excited by the changes they’ve put in motion. I’m thrilled by their happiness and passionate outlooks, because it hasn’t always been this way. So right now I’m embracing the Ry Cooder song playing in my head:

How can you keep on moving unless you migrate too
They tell ya to keep on moving but migrate, you must not do
The only reason for moving and the reason why I roam
To move to a new location and find myself a home
~  (lyrics by Agnes “Sis” Cunningham)

 

 

How much do I hate clothes shopping?

/ Tracy Abell

Let me count the ways:

  1. I just got home from the grocery store after buying one item: a 3-pack of cotton undies. It wasn’t until about a month ago that I discovered King Soopers sold women’s underwear. I was waiting for my dog’s prescription to be filled, and went to my favorite aisle to pass the time. After perusing the school/office supplies (notebooks! pens! sticky notes!), I walked farther down the aisle where I noticed the women’s underwear. It was 100% cotton and inexpensive, and I needed new ones, so decided to test drive a pack. And guess what? They’re great. So today I went back to buy more, getting in and out of the store in about five minutes.
  2. On any given day I might be wearing 1-2 pieces of clothing that once belonged to Zebu. I’m 5′ 10″ and he’s now 6′ 3″, but not too long ago his legs weren’t quite as long and so the jeans he outgrew fit me length-wise. As for the waists being too big, I just cinch ’em with a belt. Also, his arms are longer and he’s outgrown some shirts that are, again, pretty roomy on me but still wearable. The driving factor in all this is that I didn’t have to step foot in a store to buy any of it.

    A morguefile.com image that doesn't quite do justice to the agony of standing before fitting room mirrors.

    A morguefile.com image that hints at the agony of standing before fitting room mirrors.

  3. I buy jeans on eBay. I guessed the correct size based on how Zebu’s jeans fit me and now have some very inexpensive jeans that actually fit right. All without having to enter a triple-mirror-fitting-room / little-room-of-horrors to try them on.
  4. Years ago I went to LandsEnd online and found two shirts I liked, one long-sleeve and the other short, and bought them in four different colors. Today I’m wearing the gray one that, to be honest, probably belongs in the cleaning rag box.
  5. A couple weeks ago I bought a new sports bra for the first time in six years or so.
  6. This morning I ran in shorts I’ve owned for at least 12 years.
  7. I wear shoes that I bought when I lived in Anchorage . . . 20+ years ago.

I’d love to look a little more hip. But so far no fashion consultants/designated shoppers have come knocking. Guess I’ll stick with the Pearl Jam look.

Friday Five: The Marcel Edition

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments
  1. This is Marcel.
    Marcel jpeg
    He looks like the typical cat who sleeps 18 hours per day, right?
  2. I will admit he sleeps a fair amount. In fact, he’s napping downstairs as I write this. But I’ve never lived with a cat who was better at entertaining himself. Marcel especially loves elastics, twist ties, and pipe cleaners (also my sweaty socks, but that’s a whole other blog post).
  3. The other morning as I did yoga, Marcel showed up with a purple pipe cleaner. I tried to maintain my yogic** concentration as he batted it around then snuck up on it to pounce. A few minutes later, Marcel showed up with a white pipe cleaner. After that, it was a black pipe cleaner.
    Pipe cleaners

    The white pipe cleaner is MIA, but these two remain on the floor as toys.

    If you look closely you can see Marcel’s white hairs on the pipe cleaners, (and if you have really good vision, the kind that sees across the miles and through walls, you’d see white hairs on my shirts, shoes, futons, hardwood floors, bathroom vanity, . . .)

  4. That third pipe cleaner prompted me to investigate and, sure enough, I found the source. Marcel had gone down to the drawers that Wildebeest and Zebu used way back when for storing their craft items. Marcel had opened the drawer holding the pipe cleaners.
    Craft drawer
  5. Marcel is a nappy cat, a food-obsessed cat, and also a pretty damned smart cat.

    Marcel woke up when I came down to photograph the scene of the crime.

    Marcel woke up when I came down to photograph the scene of the crime.

**Confession: I thought I’d made up a word but then looked it up and discovered I was inadvertently legit.

No Regrets

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

On Saturday we held a life celebration for my father-in-law.

I’d written something to be shared, printing it out in a large font to make it easier for the family friend who was facilitating the event to read: (Memory to share at Stu’s celebration)

I was teary as soon as I walked into the meeting hall, so when the facilitator asked if I wanted him to read my piece or if I preferred to do it myself, I hesitated. I didn’t want to regret not speaking, but I also did not want to fall apart in front of a roomful of people. We agreed to hold off on that decision until the time came.

The ceremony began and I had already accumulated a pile of damp tissues when my nine-year-old niece came up to the podium. Her father brought over a chair for her to stand on so she could reach the microphone, and then she took a deep breath before proceeding to read the thank-you letter she and her two sisters had written for their grandfather. The words she spoke were beautiful and funny and heartfelt, and I cried some more (as did Wildebeest, Zebu, and Zippy).

When she stepped down to a spontaneous round of applause, the facilitator turned to me. Without hesitation I stood, telling him that if my niece could be brave, so could I.

I’d like to say that I read my words in a clear, steady voice and that I maintained eye contact with the audience. I’d also like to say that all the family members caught my inside jokes and laughed. But that’s not how it went. However, I didn’t melt into a complete puddle and I did make it through what I intended to say. Thanks to a petite nine-year-old girl who showed me the way.

Life’s too short for regrets.
Zinnia for Stu

His Name Wasn’t Stu

/ Tracy Abell / 5 Comments

But that’s what I called him.

The name change started about the time he and my mother-in-law traveled to Alaska to visit Zippy and me. I mentioned in conversation that he didn’t seem like a Steve, but more of a Stu. So later on when we were in a gift shop in Fairbanks and I discovered a STU coffee mug, it was a done deal. My father-in-law was forevermore Stu.

Yesterday, the family honored his wishes and let Stu die. The nurses did everything to keep him comfortable, and in the hours before letting go, Stu was surrounded by his wife and four children, two daughters-in-law and one son-in-law. The last thing he said after opening his eyes and seeing us all there was “My chickadees.”

Stu had accepted, once and for all, how much his brood loved him. Following a surgery in early December, his last three months were mostly spent in hospitals and two different rehab facilities, with only a handful of days at home. His health had declined on several fronts and it was incredibly difficult for him. But the gift of those months was that Stu spent time with his family and had conversations he’d never had before. Emotionally honest conversations. Pre-surgery, there’d been a standing joke that Stu’s favorite children were the three different West Highland White Terriers he had over the years. Stu didn’t do emotions. Stu stiffly accepted hugs, but never initiated them. Stu was a rock.

Except, the evidence said otherwise.

From the start, Stu made me feel welcome in the family. Despite our vastly different social and political outlooks. Despite our vastly different dietary habits. Despite coming from such different backgrounds that we were practically aliens to one another, Stu and I had a bond.

Yes, Stu was a rock. Except for that time vacationing in Puerta Vallarta with a six-month-old Wildebeest, when Stu and my mother-in-law babysat so Zippy and I could have a quiet dinner alone. Wildebeest of the mighty lungs wailed the entire time we were gone, and Stu patiently held him and walked round and round the hotel pool, ignoring the other guests’ groans of “Here they come again.”

Stu was a rock, except when we were in Hawaii when I was pregnant with Zebu and the twisty-turny road up to the volcano made me sick and he pulled over to let me throw up in the ditch and then allowed me to drive the rest of the way, even though Stu always, always was the driver.

Stu was a rock, except when putting in hours in his woodshop making toys for his grandchildren.

Stu was a rock, except the time I overheard him telling a nurse about his wonderful family consisting of one wife, four children, seven grandchildren, and one great-grandchild, and ending it by saying he felt very bad for people who didn’t have family.

Stu was a rock, except when he confided that the one good thing to come out of his lengthy hospital stays was that he and I had become better friends.

Stu was a rock, except when he asked the physical therapist to call him Stu rather than Steve.

Stu was a rock, except when I got to his bedside yesterday and he reached out his hand for mine.

I’m so grateful I got to be one of Stu’s chickadees. When I sat down to write this, I caught a flash of movement in the pine tree outside the window. I looked closer and wasn’t at all surprised to see a Black-capped Chickadee hopping around the branches.

Not this morning's visitor, but another Black-capped Chickadee.

A relative of this morning’s visitor.

 

 

Clean Windows, Gloria Swanson, and Me

/ Tracy Abell

I’ve come to the startling realization that when life gets particularly difficult, I sometimes cope by washing windows. (Full disclosure: I also cope via cookies, beer, and Netflix.) I just spent the last few hours washing interior and exterior windows plus screens, and I actually enjoyed it. Just me, a clean rag, a bowl of vinegar-water, and a stack of newspaper.

Big deal, right?

It is kind of a big deal. See, when I was growing up it seemed I was always washing windows (and lemon-oiling the paneling and vacuuming the basement stairs and . . .) The combination of a slightly obsessive-compulsive mother and a house full of windows made for many, many hours scrubbing at fingerprints and smudges and whatever else my brothers stuck on the glass, and I resented the chore. The Wisconsin humidity made it impossible for the windows to dry correctly and I was forever battling streaks so that window washing was more often a rage-inducer than a coping strategy.

Now I’m an adult living in oh-so-dry Colorado, and washing windows is almost a zen activity. The windows dry quickly and mostly streak-free! It’s me deciding when to wash windows, not my mother! Plus, clean windows make bird and squirrel watching so much more enjoyable!

Also? These days I don’t have to worry about anyone mistaking a clean sliding glass door for an open sliding glass door. When my sons were little, Wildebeest chased Zebu through the house right after I’d washed windows and poor Zebu hit that glass door so hard he bounced back several feet as blood poured from his nose. I heard the impact all the way down in the basement. (Full disclosure: at that point in my life I probably used the incident as an excuse for letting the windows stay dirty for a good long while.)

But I’ve since adopted a new attitude. And for the time being (at least until the cats and dogs smudge them), I have clean windows and a calmer spirit.

Gloria Swanson by Edward Steichen

Gloria Swanson by Edward Steichen

” My mother and I could always look out the same window without ever seeing the same thing.”  ~ Gloria Swanson

There’s Clutter and Then There’s This

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

Earlier this week I took a Decluttering class. It was a two-part class and for the second session we were supposed to bring a cluttered drawer, box, or bin to work on during class. It was so very hard to choose just one clutter-filled receptacle from my home, but I ended up taking a drawer that’d been underneath our air hockey table for the past five (at least) years. I ended up dumping/donating 90% of the clutter, and also found this (click to enlarge):
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 014

I’m not entirely sure what it’s called, but this is a game Wildebeest and Zebu created many years ago. Complete with Maps
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 011Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 010

Tokens
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 004

 

 

 

 

 

Currency
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 006

 

 

 

 

 

and Power Cards
Fletcher and Harlan homemade game 003

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m holding onto this game. I know, I know. But would you be able to part with The God of All Ninjas? I thought not.

Friday Five: The Next Chapter

/ Tracy Abell

(1) Zippy and Zebu were at the tail-ends of their colds when I got sick two days before we had to start our drive to Washington. Of course. We left on Thursday morning with a big box of ultra-soft tissue and the rental car trunk loaded with Zebu’s stuff. We’d chosen a chevy impala trunkChevy Impala for its impressive trunk capacity and ended up getting one equipped with satellite radio. We drove many of our 1600 miles laughing at comedy routines and only once did I fear for our safety when Lewis Black had Zebu and me (behind the wheel) in tears. I highly recommend comedy for road trips.

 

(2) Zippy and I are now officially empty nesters (if you discount the two dogs and two cats), and I’m handling the transition pretty well. We arrived back home late Sunday night and while I did wash my face and brush my teeth on Monday, I spent the day in my jammies on the couch, watching flawless movie stillmovies (Party Girl with Parker Posey and Flawless with Philip Seymour Hoffman, pictured here with Robert DeNiro), some television (The Mindy Project and Californication), and staring into space. I’ve since roused myself, put on real clothes, and rejoined society.

(3) Now that we have Zebu settled at college, I can no longer put off finishing my YA. I thought my slow progress was solely due to feelings of trepidation regarding what happens when a manuscript is polished Daggerand ready to go (something that feels like the equivalent of putting my heart on a platter so that others can stab it over and over again), but a couple days ago I had an epiphany about my slow progress. I haven’t just been procrastinating in an act of self-preservation, but have been writing slowly because I was headed in the wrong direction. I thought I knew the ending, but I did not. Rather, I knew the final scene but had a few key details wrong. I believe my middle-office mind knew that and was patiently waiting for me to wake up to the truth of the story.

(4) I applied to and was accepted into the Rutgers One-On-One Plus Conference held next month, which is another motivator for finishing my manuscript. Yikes.

(5)  I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing, but as a result of all the preparations and then the emotional aftermath of getting Zebu off to school, I’ve largely ignored the fear-mongering and bloodlust dominating the airwaves. May I just say, for the record, that I am so very tired of the U.S. government thinking it can end fundamentalist ideology by bombing it out of existence? It hasn’t worked before and it won’t work now. Also? Not only is it stupid, this latest bombing is illegal. But, hey, we’re Team USA! However, . . .

file0001704817445

On ‘Boyhood’ and My Boy

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

I knew from the moment I read about Richard Linklater‘s latest film, Boyhood, that I had to watch it on the big screen. I was intrigued by the fact that he made the film with the same people over a 12-year span, and I couldn’t wait to see it. One of the reviews said it was a movie composed of universal childhood moments and emotions, moments and emotions recognizable to anyone in the world who’d experienced childhood. Hey, that’s me! I’m a former child.

boyhood movie poster 3

Yesterday as Zebu, Zippy, and I walked into the theater, I was prepared for what I was about to see. Or so I thought. In reality, I’d overlooked some pertinent facts:

  • ‘Boyhood’ isn’t only a story of childhood and growing up, but also what it means to be a parent.
  • Filming began in 2002, when the main character, played by Ellar Coltrane, was seven. In 2002, my son Zebu was six.
  • The movie ends with the main character arriving at his college dorm.
  • In two days, Zippy, Zebu, and I begin our drive to Zebu’s college where he will move into a dorm.
  • In five days, Zippy and I will fly home to our “empty nest.”

No, I didn’t bawl throughout the movie. Yes, I did tear up near the end with Zebu sitting between his father and me. Mostly, I was gobsmacked by how it felt as if our lives were playing out on the big screen. And that’s where those universal moments and emotions come into play. Because while our family dynamics have not followed anything like the film family’s trajectory, it all rang true because every single one of us on this planet is either a child or a former child. And if you’ve had parents and/or are a parent yourself, the film conjures up an additional whammy of recognition.

I’m grateful to ‘Boyhood’ for capturing the moments my family experienced over the past twelve years. While the faces and haircuts aren’t exactly the same, the feelings are spot-on.

Ellar Coltrane as Mason Evans, Jr.

Ellar Coltrane as Mason Evans, Jr.

 

Cliche of the Day

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

“They grow up so fast.”

DCP_1696

That’s Zebu on the left, playing with a neighbor-friend, a bunch of years ago.

On Sunday, Zebu flew out of state to attend his freshman orientation and registration at the college he’ll begin attending next month. On this trip, he took his first solo taxi ride, stayed at a motel by himself, jumped through the many hoops necessary for registration, and secured one of two remaining spots in a chemistry class. Whew. We’re picking him up at the airport tonight.

He’s about three feet taller than he was in that photo, but Zebu has the same spunk and determination exhibited there. (Warning! Cliche #2 alert): Some things never change.

Ties That Bind (Up Your Mind)

/ Tracy Abell

At the end of May, Zebu graduated from high school and was one of the speakers. The ceremony was held at Red Rocks Amphitheater (coolest place ever!), but we were seated halfway up the venue so had to rely on the Jumbotron. (Aside: It was a thrill seeing Zebu and friends on the big screen.)

My older brother and his girlfriend also attended, sitting even farther from the stage. Later on, he told me he couldn’t see a whole lot of details but did notice Zebu’s red tie beneath his black gown. I reminded my bro he’d given Zebu that tie for Christmas one year (along with white gym socks), thinking that was a cool factoid. NOT. Rather than feeling warm and nostalgic, my brother panicked a bit because he had no memory of that and went into a short tailspin about getting old and forgetful. I eventually helped the silly codger to a chair and handed him a glass of milk to calm his nerves, and we laughed it off.

Fast forward to today. I just found photographic proof of the tie AND gym socks. Behold, Christmas eve 2005:

l-r: Wildebeest, Zoey, Tracy, Coco, Zebu, and Uncle Pizza.

l-r: Wildebeest, Zoey, Tracy, Coco, Zebu, and Uncle Pizza.

I’m thrilled with this evidence, but am not sure whether it will soothe or further agitate my brother’s mind . . .

 

Friday Five: The TracyWorld Edition

/ Tracy Abell

1) While much of Bob Dylan’s HIGHWAY 61 REVISITED is good music to run to, Ballad of a Thin Man is not a song that will put pep in your step.

2) Zebu is binge-watching all six seasons of LOST (and luring me in from time to time), and what pops into my head at least once per viewing is How are none of these people badly burned and peeling?! Yo, Dharma Initiative, you remembered the lima beans but forgot the sunblock!

3) I want to live in a world in which cookies and beer have no caloric consequences.

4) I have SO. MANY. PHOTOS on my computer that haven’t seen the light of day, so here’s a random selection (capture of a Red-Tailed Hawk eyass from the Cornell Labs cam a couple years ago):Capture

5) I recently read T.C. Boyle’s WATER MUSIC and Zadie Smith’s ON BEAUTY (part of this effort), and am trying hard to be inspired by their prowess for description rather than allowing their mad skills to intimidate me so much I take a match to my manuscript.

Running Wild, Running Free

/ Tracy Abell / 7 Comments

The last time I went for a run was 81 days ago. Today, with the full blessing of my physical therapist, I ran again.

It’s been a hard bunch of months around here as I went from being someone who did yoga almost every morning plus ran a couple times per week plus lifted weights three times per week plus sneaking in a hooping session or two, to a woman who couldn’t do much of anything.

How did that happen? It was the strangest thing but apparently my old gluteal muscle aka left butt cheek issue didn’t like how I ignored it and let it get tighter and tighter, and so triggered other tight points in my body which culminated in my back getting so tight and painful that it hurt to move. I literally went from being able to put my palms flat on the floor to the next day not being able to reach much past my knees. It was bizarre.

Depression ensued. As did loss of muscle and weight gain. Many tears were shed as I wallowed in what I was afraid would be a permanent condition. I went on my first job interview in about twenty years (with the hope I’d be better by the time the job started) and was hired to work at the library, but ended up having to tell them I couldn’t take the position due to my physical limitations. I never, ever would’ve guessed I’d have to turn down a job for that reason, and it was humbling.

But my physical therapist and I persevered, and then I started getting massages from a genius therapist who focused on trigger points which then allowed me to do more of the stretching and strengthening exercises without pain. We saw light at the end of the tunnel.

Today I came out of that tunnel. I walked for ten minutes then ran (slowly) for fifteen minutes then walked another ten, ran another fifteen, and walked ten more minutes for a whopping total of 60 minutes of exercise! All I’ve done over the last several months was walk for about thirty minutes at a time, and when I walked home this afternoon I wept tears of gratitude and happiness and oh-my-goddess-I’ve-missed-running-so-very-much-tears.

I’d left a note for Zebu letting him know when I took off and when to expect me home, asking him to drive up the street to find me if I hadn’t returned by then. Just as I walked into the driveway, the garage door went up. There was my son, the one who’s been so sad on my behalf as I struggled to regain my mobility, getting ready to come haul his sad mama home. He smiled when he saw me there and his smile got bigger when I told him I felt great.

Here I am, fresh out of the shower, so very happy to be back:Tracy after run on April 9 2014 (for blog post)

 

Judging a Jury of My Peers

/ Tracy Abell / 5 Comments

This morning I reported for jury duty at the county courthouse. I had mixed feelings about being there (because selection would mean I’d have to reschedule an appointment set for tomorrow), but was mostly focused on doing my civic duty.

from "holder" at MorgueFile.com

image from MorgueFile.com

I was pulled from the larger pool into a group of 36 potential jurors for a criminal trial of a man charged with doing $1000 – $25,000 in property damages (this was the summary given by judge before jury selection; basically, a vandalism trial). Twenty-two names were drawn from a box (twelve in jury box and ten seated in front as alternates; I was not one of them) and those people were interviewed by the judge. After that, the prosecutor and defense attorney each had thirty minutes to ask those potential jurors questions that would help them determine who was and who was not a good fit for that jury.

Holy crap. I’m paraphrasing, but it went like this:

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. If someone is charged, it usually means they’re guilty.”

“In Italy, where I’m from, a person is presumed guilty until proved innocent.” (Paging Amanda Knox!)

“I’m a former police officer and I would always believe testimony from the police.”

“People don’t get stopped for no reason.” (I wanted to shout “Do you have any idea how many men get pulled over for Driving While Black?!”)

It was a fascinating peek into the minds of my fellow citizens in mostly-white Jefferson County, Colorado. When the prosecutor asked each person “Do you think you’d be a good juror?” I thought to myself, “Yes, I’d be a good juror.” And then I started thinking about why I would be a good juror, and I decided it was because of my strong sense of justice and fair play. But then he pressed one woman for why she thought she’d be a good juror and she said, “Because I’d want me on my jury,” and my brain went *ping*

That’s it, I thought. The proof that I’d be a good juror is that I know for a fact I’d want me on my jury. Somehow, that epiphany was such a relief!

Except. It turns out that I’m not so unique. A bunch of other potential jurors repeated that same sentiment. And then Zebu confessed to having that same *ping* this afternoon when I repeated that woman’s remark. Which leads me to believe that if we ALL feel that way, maybe it’s not a very compelling argument.

So now I’m broadening my field of inquiry: Would YOU feel better having yourself on your own jury? And, if so, why do you think that is?

Thankful Thursday: The Happiness Edition

/ Tracy Abell / 4 Comments

Yesterday was tough for a variety of reasons, but I didn’t realize how much of a toll it was taking until late last night when I was practically giddy with happiness. What happened?  

I received a follow-up phone call from Wildebeest who earlier in the day had expressed major angst and panic about a college assignment. He called back to explain how he’d managed to turn SS Catastrophe around and emerge victorious. As we talked, Wildebeest’s insights into his earlier behaviors and reactions, and my efforts to disengage from his panic, made me feel as if a heavy weight had been lifted. It was one of those Gold Star Parenting Moments.

Right after that call Zippy and I went to the high school to watch Zebu play his last home basketball game. He’s a senior this year and it’s been a disappointing season for him. He was seriously injured during a pre-season conditioning workout and ended up in the hospital for three days with a lacerated liver, and then couldn’t play for eight weeks. By the time he came back, his confidence was low and he never really hit his stride. But I’ve been mightily impressed with how he’s carried himself throughout those disappointments, and so was especially thrilled for him last night when he played his best game of the year. Talking with a relaxed and happy post-game Zebu felt like an absolute gift.

So that’s how my emotionally difficult day ended on a giddy note. As we got ready for bed, I repeatedly told Zippy how much better I felt; I was like an awestruck little kid taking out a shiny new toy to inspect over and over. I couldn’t stop staring at the Happy.

We all make our own happiness in this life, I can’t create it for my children and they aren’t responsible for mine, but it sure feels good when those positive feelings overlap and we’re all basking in the glow.

Batman session 2 001

 

Twofer Tuesday

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

Confession time:

(1) I did not work on my YA at all today, but instead worked on a non-writing project, using my Front Office Mind, and really hope my Middle Mind was thinking YA-related thoughts in preparation for tomorrow’s writing.

(2) I’ve suffered bed-head all day, proudly embracing Zebu’s assertion that I resemble Woody Woodpecker.

Woody Woodpecker

 

Not Ready to Quit

/ Tracy Abell / 13 Comments

I’ve been at this writing thing for a while, working toward publication. There have been highs and lows throughout the journey, validation followed by rejection. It’s been tough, but I’ve always been tougher. Something inside wouldn’t let me quit. Something inside knew I did not want to give up.

Several weeks ago, I began to seriously consider quitting.

Seriously, as in, I actually said out loud, “I’m thinking about quitting.” And I spoke those words to a new non-writer acquaintance who’d asked about my writing. That was a huge moment, because during all the years of writing in the bleachers during Zebu’s basketball games and being asked by other parents if I was a teacher grading papers, I always said, “No, I’m a writer.” If they asked more questions, I’d let them know I was writing novels for kids and when the inevitable question came, I’d say, “No, I haven’t been published yet.” And it was okay. There was a core of steel in me that allowed me to have those conversations. I knew I’d keep writing until my stories were published. I knew I’d prevail.

Nothing specific happened in the past month or so to shake my convictions, but somehow I felt I’d reached my limit. As in, maybe it was time to quit putting my work out there to be judged because maybe, just maybe, it was unhealthy to continue making myself vulnerable to others’ opinions. Sending out a manuscript is like offering my heart on a plate so that it can be stabbed, sometimes repeatedly.

So I gave myself a little break. A break from writing and a break from decision-making about writing for publication. I kept reading, though. One of the books I read was a YA from an author who’d written one of the best books I’d read in 2013, an author who sells gazillions of books and seems to be an awesome person. The YA I read was a huge disappointment. Weak, weak, weak. I was flabbergasted. And slightly annoyed. I knew better than to write a protagonist who doesn’t change and secondary characters who serve as placeholders and plot lines that go nowhere, fizzling out into big nothings. Why do I know that? Because I know how to write.

And just like that I knew I wasn’t ready to quit writing for publication. Not because I have any delusions about knocking that author off the best-seller list. And not because I’m angry with the publishing world that has, thus far, excluded me from the club. I’ve gone back to work on my YA because I want to continue doing what I know how to do, and to continue learning how to do that even better.

I am a writer. And no, I haven’t yet been published. Whatever.

Image from MorgueFile.com by Alvimann

Image from MorgueFile.com by Alvimann

Z-Mobile

/ Tracy Abell

I really like Zebu’s physics class work-in-progress, but the kitchen probably isn’t the most sensible place to create a mobile.Harlan's mobile 001However, we’re all adapting.

Zippy made a delicious pot of soup despite the influence of those stinky shoes, and Loki seems content to stroll beneath the teetering creation. So I guess it’s my issue if I smack my head on one of the poles.

Bonding with Wildebeest

/ Tracy Abell / 6 Comments

Wildebeest moved out almost exactly one year ago, but for the past week we’ve spent lots of time together. In the ER two nights and then the hospital after his appendix was removed. And back here at home after one post-op night in his apartment during which time he realized he needed more help due to the painkillers and nasty antibiotics.

Today he finally feels like himself again and he’s headed back to his apartment and beloved cat, Bernice. But first, he asked if I’d cut his hair. Even during his tumultuous teens we declared cease-fires over many a (bad) haircut, and today as I cut off his ponytail I said, “Thank you so much for doing this with me. Zebu won’t let me touch a hair on his head.”

Fletcher's ponytail after cut 003

Wildebeest said it was how he liked getting haircuts. I shook my head in amazement and fired up the clippers. We shared conversation and laughter while I did my amateur shearing and then I made the inevitable mistake: a divot above his right ear. I yelped in panic, but Wildebeest only laughed and said, “This is how it goes. There’s always a mess-up.” As I fussed and apologized, he said, “Don’t you remember, Mom? You always get like this by the end of a haircut. The panic is payback for the Susie Derkins cut you gave me in grade school.”

Ah, yes. The day I chopped his bangs waaaay too high on his forehead and he just laughed.

Wildebeest and I have had more than our share of clashes, but to his credit, he’s never, ever given me grief for any hair errors. He’s got a big heart, that boy.

Fletcher's ponytail after cut 011 original

 

Friday Five: The Pain Management Edition

/ Tracy Abell / 2 Comments

1) Coco’s acute back pain troubles have greatly improved, but it’s a fine balance between managing her pain and keeping her from feeling so good that she does dumb things like jump from the back of the car before I can stop her. Right after a massage session.

2) Due to lifting Coco and the stress of her ongoing health issues, I’m now experiencing back pain that isn’t alleviated by yoga but is improved by treadmill running.  Hooray?

3) We’re gathering estimates for a roof replacement and already feel enormous pain in our bank account that is further exacerbated by the fact that the roofing materials we can afford are bad for the planet. Asphalt shingles = nasty.

4) This morning while removing Zebu’s bread from toaster oven, the slice fell onto the heating element and burst into flames. Ouch.

5) Okay, that last one was just silly. It’s not as if I burned my hand or stabbed myself with the knife I used to remove the flaming bread. Who am I trying to kid?!

And on that note, here’s a dapper little House Finch on this late-February Friday:Bird shots 025

Wishing everyone a wonderful, pain-free weekend!