Art and Sunset
Tag: postaday2011
Leave Me Alone! I Am Writing!
I cannot get a thing done around here. Just since I started this blog post, I got:
Child 1: Mom, where is the blank paper for the printer? In this box of office supplies.
Child 2: Mom, where’s your credit card? I need to update my XBox name. You really need to? How much? $10. Here, Mom, I will pay for it myself. Here’s the money. (He hands me $10.) Okay. Now where’s the credit card? Here, take my credit card.
Child 3: Mom, I can’t find my Spanish text book. Where is it? I will help you look. (We cant’ find it. She’s upset.)
Husband: Mary Beth, how come Google is telling me I’m timed out? What does that even mean? All right, I’ll sign you out, now you have to sign back in.
Seriously? I cannot buy a freakin’ vowel around here.
But to cope with the demands, I did what I had to do. I plugged in some headphones (thanks for the tip, queenbeetf) and began writing.
I visited Dr. Wicked’s Write or Die site. There, you set a goal — mine is usually 500 words in 10 minutes, which I’ve yet to achieve. You must keep writing for the committed time, because if you lift your fingers, even for a few seconds, lights will flash, car horns will start honking, and I don’t know what else happens, because I start moving my fingers on the keyboard so that Dr. Wicked will not yell at me ever again. (Fear=motivator.)
So with the prodding from Dr. Wicked, I have broken the halfway mark on my NaNoWriMo novel. I have written 25,012 in 20 days. I have 10 days left to hit 50,000. My NaNoWriMo stats page informs me that I must write 2,272 words per day to hit my mark.
If I hit 400 words in 10-minute increments, five times a day, I should be able to finish. All I need is one extra hour every day.
I want to keep writing. The novel has taken a dark turn, following our crazy (or is she?) mother of three into the subway where she finally gets some relief from her parenting responsibilities sleeping in a secret room under the subway. But when she sleeps, she enter another world where a Corporation is trying to take over souls, forcing happiness on everyone. Our protagonist knows happiness is overrated. Hardship is necessary. Well, that was the plot from today. Who knows what will happen tomorrow? Not me.
The month will be over in a week and a half. I’ll get back to my regularly scheduled life. So until then, people, leave me alone, I’m writing!
Wait, this just in — Child 3 just found her Spanish book (it was on her desk, of all places!). So, there you go. This story ends like most good ones with a happily ever after.
What We Value
Our family values the arts and to have dinner together and we also like to support each other in our ventures for example if one of us Jonesys wants to go hiking the next day we will have climbed mountains and we will complain and sulk and kick but we will have climbed the mountain and we will rise on top undefeated. Joneseys:1 Mountain: 0.
This morning, these words were open in my daughter’s binder. This was Cat’s answer to the question, “What are your values?” If you can get beyond the lack of punctuation and the run-on quality of the sentence, and I can, I think it’s a wonderful and inspiring piece of writing. (I know, I know, I’m not unbiased).
I love the struggle and the victory over that struggle to climb the mountain.
The other day Cat asked me, “Why do we climb so many mountains?” I don’t know. The view is so beautiful from on top. The air is clear. We are all off our hand-held devices.
Why do we struggle? Why do we take on more struggle? Why am I doing NaNoWriMo this month? Why do I blog, plan parties, work my full time job, parent, cook, clean, care for my kids (two of them have been on antibiotics this week), be supportive of my husband (despite the reality that, due to his Parkinson’s, he drives me totally crazy), teach one night and take a non-fiction writing class another? Why do all that?
I guess I do it so that the next day I can say I did it. I have climbed a mountain. I have risen on top undefeated. MaryBeth: 1 Mountain: 0.
Pilates
My fitness app says an hour of Pilates burns 336 calories. I find that hard to believe. It doesn’t seem like I’m doing that much.
Yesterday, at our lunch time work out Jenn said, “You all seem so down, like I’m torturing you,” when we were doing the hundred.
Hey, who has a smile on their face on Monday at noon, trying to hold the plank position? I said, “On Thursday, we’ll be less downcast.”
Also, it cracks me up that we work out in a small conference room right next to the cafeteria kitchen. Constantly in class, we hear the servers and the cooks yelling directives at each other, usually they say, “I need more waffle fries. More fried chicken.” But yesterday, I heard, “I need more broccoli.”
During exercise class, I am often thinking about lunch and so, always open to suggestion, I thought, “Yes, I need more broccoli too.”
Even though I’m not always happy during exercise class, I am always happy when I’m done with exercise class. Then I can eat guilt-free, (broccoli not waffle fries).
I especially like when I am done with yoga class. That’s when we bow to each other and say, “Namaste.”
Modern Warfare 3
I hung my head, ashamed. I was not alone. Every parent at the Upper West Side Game Stop store was embarrassed to be there, ashamed to be buying the new Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3.
I assume that’s what we, these pairs of parents and sons, were buying. The updated game was just released last week. How do I know this? I have no idea. It has simply seeped into our family culture.The posters with the dystopian world in the background and the gun-slinging hero in the foreground.
We, parents, have to be there to buy the game because it’s rated M for Mature. My 14-year old could not buy it without me, and he cuddled me as if he were a toddler, while we wanted in line for the purchase.
The cashier handed the mother in a business suit ahead of me the DVD X-Box game in the plastic bag.
“This is not mine,” she took the bag, like it was a dead mouse.
“It’s all yours,” she passed the bag to her son. He could barely suppress a smile. These teens and preteens get their way and they know it.
Why do I do this? I wondered. I am basically a pacifist. Maybe I let him have this game, because I want him to be happy, popular and a part of pop culture (UGH! I did just write that!). My son runs track, gets good grades, has the money ($65) to pay me back. Yet I am enabling an addictive activity. And I know it.
Yesterday he had three friends over and they had a great day. They played all day. They stopped to eat at Shake Shack; played a brief game of Apples to Apples; and watched Saturday Night Live; but otherwise, they were glued to the game.
The boys believe war gaming is useful because, my son tells me, “It develops hand-eye coordination and teaches about guns and modern-day battles.” Hmmmm. Doubtful.
My son’s friend’s dad, Daniel, told me he believes the boys talk about important things besides slaughtering one another while playing MW3. He said he’s overheard them talking about school, girls, and the Yankees. I don’t know. I only hear, “I need another kill” kind of thing.
If I didn’t have a 14-year old son, I would think parents, like me, who buy this kind of game for their sons are irresponsible. Wait, I still think that.
I want to write more on this, but I have to pry the boys off the XBox game (yes, one of the boys spent the night so they could play more) and get them ready for church. It’s a beautiful day in New York City and I don’t want them to miss it. There is a time for everything, a time for peace and a time for modern day warfare?
Small Victories
I like the gold star, I like the big win.
I like wearing a fancy dress and getting my hair blown out for the awards night where I finally might be recognized for all my hard work. For example, I totally had a blast at the UMAC (United Methodist Association of Communicators) awards dinner in Albuquerque last month. And yes, my name was on a few certificates and awards.
Recently, I’ve been published in some awesome venues. And last month, I did a reading of a couple of funny essays at a hip East Village club — Felt so good, like I was coming home. These were home runs for me and my writing — big wins in a lifetime of convincing myself to be content with small victories.
But I had one recent victory that I keep dwelling on. See, I started this creative writing workshop at lunch time. And I’m not very good at promoting it, so I’m sorry if you didn’t know about it. We meet on Wednesdays.
While I’ve led many of the sessions, (I am an unstoppable teacher), most of the time we rotate leadership. Last week, one of the shyest and most consistent members of the group, J.C., led our group of five people.
J.C. offered a simple suggestion for our time writing together: Make a list of five things you are grateful for. Then write about one or two. We wrote for 20 minutes. And then we read out loud. J.C. read hers, and it floored me. My jaw dropped open.
J.C. wrote that she was grateful for me and for our creative writing workshop. And she noted the exact date the workshops started, March 16, 2011.
Wow, it made me feel as if my life’s efforts — these little things I do, especially the ones that I take on when no one asks me to — mean something to someone. And my whole messy life makes sense. It feels great. Small victories? Small wins? I don’t know. Maybe the seemingly small victories are the biggest deals of all.
Foggy
This morning, I felt I lived in San Francisco as I walked in Riverside Park. The fog made everything quiet.
The muted fall colors and the sun somewhere behind the fog made me feel so good. So peaceful.
There is something sad, inevitable, beautiful about autumn in New York.
Maybe the bittersweet beauty is the reason writers write songs about New York this time of year. 
Soccer Mom vs. Theater Mom
Yesterday, chilly, I was on the sidelines for CoCo’s 8 am soccer game. I was rewarded for this parental duty by seeing her score two goals. WTG! FTW!
I got thinking — being a spectator at a soccer game is not as much fun as being an audience member at a school play, as I was last weekend.
It’s better to be a theater mom (than a soccer mom):
1. The hours are more reasonable. (Theater would never start at 8 am.)
2. The seats are more comfortable. (There are no seats on the soccer sidelines.)
3. The show is indoors. (No need to wear mittens!)
4. The cast party has better food. (Last weekend, after the play, we had finger foods and oodles of fancy cupcakes. After the soccer game, we shared a box of Entenmann’s.)
5. The players are a bit more dramatic and entertaining. (There is drama and comedy — before, during and after the show. But before the soccer game, we hunted for the uniform; during the game, we cheered and tried to stay warm; after the game, we tried to stay warm.)
After the play, we lingered, carrying flowers for the performer, waiting for her to make her entrance. Of course, theater mothers have bad reps as stage mothers, controlling divas, whereas soccer moms are wooed by politicians, trawling for votes.
Writing about this — about being a supportive spectator at a play or game — reminds me of how I had to shift my attitude about my own importance once I had a baby. Suddenly, no one was that interested in me unless I brought along the baby. If I showed up empty-handed, people would ask, “Where’s the baby?”
I was no longer the star of my own show, I was a bit player with a walk-on part. Or maybe I was the dresser, making the star look good, staying backstage. At least now, with my kids as teens, preteens and tweens, I’ve moved from “back of house” to the “front of house.”
On the sporting event’s sidelines or in the audience, I want my kids to do well, look good and, God, I hate to admit this, but I also want them to, ever so occasionally, share the spotlight (with me).
Running on Marathon Weekend
I don’t want to make anyone feel bad, especially those sinew-y runner types getting all psyched up for Sunday’s marathon, but I ran today and I ran at a pace of 12:15 a mile. That’s right, beat that, suckers!
I am definitely in the slow lane. I don’t want to make excuses *much. But I have a foot problem… And I have other problems, but I can’t remember what they are at the moment, because I’m so dang exhausted and hungry for chocolate. But hey, I did it. I did something! I pushed myself away from the computer.
I ran with my friend, Liz, at a secret indoor track near work. And I’m not telling you where it is ’cause then it wouldn’t be secret.
Liz and I agreed that it’s way more fun to run with a friend and we wouldn’t have run without each other.
And I do LOVE going out with friends for breakfast, lunch, dinner, happy hour, etc., I also LOVE running and working out with friends. So anyone want to join me running someday? Then after our two and a half miles, you can sprint ahead of me like Liz did. That’s right. When you’re in the slow lane, you’re just happy to be in any lane at all.
All those people passing me? I celebrate them! I do! Especially all those runners I’ll see on Sunday afternoon, wearing silver blankets, looking fabulous and exhausted. I salute you!
Now, excuse me, I have to go and hunt for some Halloween chocolate. I think my kids still have some hidden somewhere.
Ten Thousand Waves
I always receive some cool insight whenever I get a massage, about once every six months.
“Oh, come on,” my inner child says, “Can’t we do it more? Every week? Every month?” I wish. I cope with my crazy life by writing, working out, going out with friends, traveling, and occasionally indulging in a massage.
Once, in Akumal, Mexico, I had a view of the Mayan Riviera from the massage table in this flimsy white tent set up one floor above the cinnamon rolls in the bakery. Imagine — Cinnamon. Massage. Bakery. Ocean. Bliss. The masseur told me, with Spanish accent, after he’d kneaded me into a pulp, “You have a beautiful soul.” Wow.
I’ve gained several meaningful insights from masseuses and messeurs. Right after I’d moved out of my first marriage, in the early 1990s, Britt at the 10th Street Baths, rubbed my belly, realigning my internal organs. I began to cry. I have no idea why.
Britt said, “Look, if you’ve been with someone for eight years, it will take you eight years to get over them. Don’t rush your grief.” Deep.
A couple of Sundays ago when I went to Ten Thousand Waves, I told the masseuse, R., “I had plantar fisciitis in my feet so they were always sore. And I’m a writer so I carry a lot of tension in my head and neck.”
After the message, R. whispered in my ear, “I will leave so you can integrate yourself. Don’t get up until I leave.” So I stretched and yawned. And integrated. And when R. came back she told me to swing my legs to the side and to lean into her and she swung me up like a baby, lifting me from laying to sitting. I was totally integrated.
“Thank you,” I said, “Being a writer, I live in my head. And you have just placed me back in my body.”
“What kind of writing do you do?” R. asked.
“All kinds,” I said. “I write short poems, long novels, news articles, funny essays, blog entries.” I felt my neck tensing. I breathed. I got back to the deep relaxation I’d felt while getting the massage. “I really needed that massage.”
“Well you dropped in really beautifully. I had a good time too,” R. said.
Masseuses have a good time too? It shows that all kinds of work, even the hands-on healing kind, can be pleasurable.
Another time I’d gotten a massage in New Mexico, I think we were at Ten Thousand Waves, the guy whispered in my ear, “You live in New York? You should try Argentinian Tango. Very sensual.” What the heck! Do I look like someone who need to tango? Wow. Well, okay. Someday, yes.
I want to take this moment to thank every masseuse and masseur who’s ever laid their hands on me.
Ten Thousand Waves is a Japanese-style, many-layered spa, nestled in the cool mountains outside of Santa Fe. We soaked before our massages in the women’s tub, skinny dipping, and then after massages, we soaked, wearing bathing suits, in the co-ed tub in the dark.
I jumped in another tiny tub for a cold plunge. The air was probably 50 and the cold dunk was way colder, but I then lay in the co-ed sauna. Hot and cold. In the hot tub and in the cool night air.
Integrating body and mind. And putting them back into soul.
100 Days of Poems and Pics 