Sometimes, life takes a little while to sink in.

My husband has been back to working each day, in an office, outside our home, for over a year and a half. It sucks.

See, when we relocated to glorious Santa Barbara five years ago, we both worked from home. We were office mates, lunch buddies, and spent every day together. For three years. It was AWESOME.

But I was worried I wouldn't meet new people, or make any friends, so I joined Meetup.com, and went out to be social most evenings. Now my schedule generally follows that initial pattern. Most evenings I have extra-curriculars...and I hate it. I have turned Me into a flake, because I schedule and then don't go to things. I make excuses about being tired, needing to stay home and cook dinner, or blame it on the dog (who clearly needs a walk with BOTH me and my husband).

But that's not the real story. Thanks to my dreaming mind, I finally understand that I'm extremely resentful of my own tendency to schedule being away from home most evenings.

Like most married people who work, evenings are now the prime hubby-time. We have to talk, laugh, play games, and get things done during evenings and weekends. And if I'm not home, I get no time with him. And I feel disconnected and sad.

So if I have a New Year's Resolution, it is to drag my husband out with me every night.

Psych! No, that's not it. It is actually to try to find balance between home-social and world-social.

As an extrovert, I get plenty of "alone time" (WTF is that?!?) all day as I work alone. But my husband still needs his alone-time on evenings and weekends, and sometimes we disagree about how much he needs. Well. Sometimes how much he needs feels personal, though it isn't. Working on that too, always and forever. 

So I have to maintain some level of world-social, because that translates to his alone-time. And, of course, I don't want to blow off all of the cool friends I have made, give up the exciting groups I'm in, and miss out on the joyful adventures I have become accustomed to.

What's the answer? 

It's going to blow your mind.

Meal Planning.

Seriously. Yup.

Wait, what does the fact that I don't like anything about cooking have to do with this?

Not liking cooking, I suck at it. Prep, doing, clean up, every part of cooking is awful...except the eating. 

Going out in the evenings often involves yummy dinners out. But eating out contributes to less healthy food, portion challenges, and weight gain. As does being sad and eating emotions.

So sitting down each week to plan meals and inform the grocery-shopper (hubby) what is needed, is also a perfect time to plan how many nights will be in versus out.  Deciding who cooks what when, also informs whether ins and outs, social and solo, activity and rest are in balance. 

So there it is: my case for how and why meal planning is the 2016 resolution that will help me put my social calendar back in balance.

Wish me luck!

Angry crushes Sad, Sad cuts Joy, Joy covers Angry

Today, in the women's quarters of Casa de Bessey, is a solo game of Emo Rock Scissors Paper that I now dub Angry Sad Joy. I'm not sure who is playing. My personal angel from the right shoulder, versus my personal devil from the left is what I suspect.

They have been at it now for almost 12 hours. The extreme fatigue in my body when I awoke tells me they kept at it all night. I'm really getting tired of the game. Every time I think one of them is poised to finally win, the other one says, "Best out of 100,000?" And they keep at it. I would think the angel would know better.

I admit that after all of the "how to" articles I read about letting go of anger and practicing compassion I find it weird that breathing and telling yourself "good stuff" over and over and over...I'm happy, I'm happy, I'm Happy, I'm grateful, I'm grateful, I'm Grateful, I'm Safe, I'm safe, I'm safe...DOES NOT WORK.

I also tried to deliver some buddha-style compassionate forgiveness and blessings on the person "hooking" me, and that made me want to vomit. Seriously. I haven't had breakfast. I was feeling too sick at the idea of trying to think good thoughts for a "crappy person." That's in quotes, and has a link because the universe delivered me some fresh strategies by a LinkedIn INfluencer that my Inbox informs me you should be following. 

What the hell. It could have been revelatory. It could have given the angel an edge.
It was not. It did not.

The advice the article gives for dealing with crappy people is to ignore them. Pretend they don't exist. It doesn't seem like BAD advice; It just doesn't apply to my situation. You have to trust me that the crappy people in my life are not ignore-able for the long-term. They will come back around until I'm dead, or they are. That's my definition of "family."

In particular, the person I had dealings with yesterday does a great job of evoking My Critic from My Writing Team, which I blogged about awhile back. She might be the devil in my Angry Sad Joy game, and the poor angel really has no hope of winning.

My Critic (sorry if you read the prior post) is my defense lawyer. She is motivated by two things: joy of winning and fear of losing. When she is on, whether she is writing contracts or merely shuffling CYA paperwork, she has to be fed. And today, I found out that she doesn't only eat compliments and kindnesses, she really, REALLY likes insults.

Go ahead. Insult me. My Critic will build a case to take you down. She has access to all of my memories and she will find what she needs faster that Google search. She is a list compiler. Every bad decision, every crappy thing you've ever done is right at her fingertips, documented, with video, audio, and reliable witnesses. I know, because she makes me watch them.

There's a problem: She has no place to take her case too. If she was the angel, I guess she could make a case to God that person A, B, or C should be wiped from the face of the planet, Bambi meets Godzilla style...but she's the devil.

Who does the devil go to?
Whoever she thinks is desperate enough to sell a soul.
All she can do is make me feel bad...try to make me DO bad things to elevate awareness of the bad things someone else does, until she has an actual court to put her case in front of.
Case in front of society: BOOM!
Case in front of a custody judge: BOOM!

It isn't enough to accept the betrayal, hurt and abuse WE have undergone at the hands of Crappy Person as a part of the past, not the present. Not enough for her to finish her job once she has criticized and judged the behaviors and actions of Crappy Person, and be satisfied. She really wants to call down Godzilla.

The angel just wants the Crappy Person to change (So Easy!) into a Happy Person so we can stay out of it.

So I went for a bike ride with the dog.

I am estimating the anger levels and trauma flashbacks now reduced by 20%. I still feel 80% bad and want nothing more than to go back to bed with a fantasy novel...which evokes My Critic all over again. She thinks she's there to help me live my life, which means get-shit-done, not sleep-all-day.

The reality is that the situation I am in is Sad. There's nothing I can do to fix it, but the Angry crushes the Sad. The Angry makes it impossible to just have a good cry, be Sad and move on. The Angry is the emotional blocker, the energetic powerhouse, My Critic, My Devil.

Writing helps a little. Writing is a Joy...but I deeply fear that like the original game idea, Joy only covers Anger. It is momentary - It isn't a final win. The Anger is still there.

NaNoWriMo for the Midlife Crisis

Below is the complete version of "NaNoWriMo for the Midlife Crisis" with the graphics laid out correctly. Written for and first published in Issue 151 of Science Fiction/San Francisco April 2014.

NaNoWriMo for the Midlife Crisis

My “midlife crisis” 40^th year culminated with the decision to write a novel.

I wrote 50,453 words in 30 days, and at the end of the experience, I not only felt good, I described myself as rejuvenated, proud, and a better person.

So when comparing the stereotypical midlife crisis (sports cars, infidelity) to mine (writing every day for a month), I’m going to go for all-out pompous and say:

“My Way is Better.”

These days it’s hard to know when to have your midlife crisis. I don’t know if I’ll live to be 50, like my maternal grandmother; 80, like my paternal grandmother; or if I will surpass them both and make it to centenarian. Like most other appointments in my life, at 40 I was either late or early to the midlife crisis game, depending on which way you were betting.

Early, late, or punctual, it was a shock to find myself 40 years old.

It felt like other people’s lives were ending and I was anxious about where mine was going.  And, while some might say I was two years early, “What is the meaning of Life the Universe, and Everything,” came up on a regular basis.

Because of the number of transitions I was going through, I allowed life at 40 to “catch up” with me in a new way.

The devastation of hoping to visit a cousin, but learning via Facebook that she had died days before didn’t fade away quickly. Owning my own business seemed like a bet I was riding the rest of my life on. Yoga twice a week could not re-mold my middle aged, pudgy midriff. Crying a lot after attending what felt like a barrage of funerals didn’t release me back to my old self.

Big things needed to happen.

I dyed my hair purple.

I trained physically to ride my bicycle 545 miles in 7 days, from SF to LA.

I raised over $8500.00 for AIDS Lifecycle.

But it wasn’t enough to do things to ride out the crisis, or just to get all introspective ‘n shit…I decided to write it out.

I was inspired by a convention panel at Westercon 66 to try National Novel Writing Month: NaNoWriMo for short…NaNo for even shorter. The convention I attended was in July, weeks after my bicycle trip through California. After listening to the panel of writers discuss how productive they were in just one month, I decided I would do NaNoWriMo…some year when I had a story idea.

Not having an idea didn’t stop me from wanting the recommended text, so thanks to hotel WiFi and The Power of The Internets, before I left the panel I had already downloaded a copy of No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty. Baty was one of the founding “WriMos.” Just so that you don’t get lost, a WriMo is someone who participates in NaNo. All the words have to be very short because anyone participating will have to say them at least 5 times a day.

No Plot? No Problem! is an inspiring and funny read.  It includes the history behind how and why Baty and friends began the noveling craze in 1999, but more importantly it contains crucial guidance about why you will have to explain NaNo so often.

Yes, part of belonging to the group of 437,920 people around the world who participate is having a secret set of code words no one else understands. WriMo doing NaNo is a fun way to identify those IN and OUT of the community.

Code words are also great for making people ask, “Rye-What? Nan-Who?” And you get to tell them: “I’m writing a novel this month – Want to hear about it?”

You might be surprised by how many people say YES.

And how much fun it is to tell your whole world you’re doing something crazy.

That is a big part of Baty’s theory of writing a novel: it should be FUN. I really got behind content like, “No matter what your talent level, novel writing is a low-stress, high-rewards hobby.” And took it to heart when Baty said, “To really…understand the books you love…it helps to write one yourself.”

In July I thought, “some year when I have a story idea.”

The story idea showed up in September.

With Baty’s book in my Kindle app, I embraced the fact that I had only the very vaguest idea. I wanted to write about a character my age, dealing with some of what I had dealt with, but also tackling WAY more. I thought that would make me feel much better about the numerous big and small crises during my 40^th year. I thought writing might soothe my anxiety when I found myself asking, “What does it all mean?” 

Noveling was a clear way to let my “why” and “what now” questions really sink in instead of ignoring them. When a character and an idea presented themselves, I decided I could “fictionally” answer my questions by sitting down and participating in NaNoWriMo. I wrote a novel that included all of my chaos by giving it away: I gave the questions to a character…then suddenly, two different characters. I came up with an imagined scenario, a setting, and added themes that I was struggling with. 

Instead of getting into a fancy new car or cheating on my husband, I wrote an average of 1,681 words per day.

I learned all about “pantsing” – writing by the seat of your pants. At first, I did not believe it was possible to write when you have nothing to write about. SPOILER ALERT: You CAN write tens of thousands of great, fun, words with absolutely no idea where you’re going.

Writing can be as fun as a game of free-association. Just shout “PANTS!” to yourself, and write whatever comes next. What pants do you like? How about pants your character likes? Hates? What pants would she wear out on a Saturday night date? Any word, any phrase can become a starting place for MORE WORDS. And that is all NaNo is: WORDS.

Only 1,667 a day will get you to 50,000 total, if you want to ‘Win.’

And No One Ever Reads Them.

They PROMISE.

The idea was so freeing! The words were JUST FOR ME!

I started my novel with an idea and a list of 10 things that I thought might be in the book. That didn’t get me very far. The rest was pantsing. During NaNo it is not just acceptable to write words freely and freely and freely (and even repeat them, if you run out of ideas), it is ENCOURAGED! And ENCOURAGED is in caps because no WriMo is alone. There is a website. There is online support and regional, topical, neighborhood, local, genre…groups of all kinds. Groups of people writing like crazy, with 437,920 reasons to be doing it.

I met two or three times a week with a core of 3-4 other writers. We all sat around my house, staring at our laptops and listening to each other type.  We didn’t speak much. Sometimes we wore headphones. We typed into what was no longer fearful, anticipatory, I CAN NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH silence. That soft sound of keys popping up and down became one of the most comforting noises I know. It became a symbol of the fact that I do not struggle alone to find the words…we all do it alone, together.

In addition to the in-person fun and side effects of communal tea, cheese, and cookies, I became a NaNo twitter feed addict. That sounds bad, but seriously, for a creative writer, it is heaven. WriMos getting together on twitter to “Word Sprint” on outlandish prompts, taking advantage of the affinity with 437,920 people who participate. Never done a word sprint, here’s an example:

GO!

And then you can post how many words you got written in that 5, 10, 20, 30, 60 minutes. You can be encouraged by the range of words, typing skills, and creative successes flowing across the Twitters. Writing becomes a collective sport. And when you are assimilated into the collective it feels GREAT.

Support for WriMos is fantastic. Live web videos, hangouts, and chats. A staff member available to answer questions and respond to crises, either fictional or reality based. Regional leaders who help people get together for competitive “Write-Offs,” or just to facilitate supportive discussions on how everyone is doing. There is cheering. A LOT of cheering.

But the most fun element of NaNo for me was experiencing characters doing their own thing. There was a moment when I was writing as fast and furiously as I could and realized all I was doing was trying to catch up. My characters had left the building. They had an agenda they didn’t bother to share with me, and they walked off and did the most incredible things.

I had been told, but I did not believe until about one week into writing, my main character suddenly chewed out someone who had come to help her. WHOA! Instead of a guide into uncharted territory, that character now had nothing. And she did that to herself. I would never have been so mean – I sent the guide in the first place - but the character couldn’t accept it. The tension went up a notch, the stakes were raised, and all I could do as an author was say, “Well, if that’s how you want it to be…” and keep on following her.

Noveling became an effort in trailing my character like a private detective, seeing what she saw, listening to what she said, and interpreting how she felt without being seen myself. It was an unbelievable journey for me to suddenly be so immersed in my own imagination that it took control.

The way to arrive at the ultimate creative high that I am describing for you is to “…leave your Inner Editor here with me at the fully licensed, board-certified No Plot? No Problem! Inner Editor Kennel,” according to Baty. Seems easy enough, but as one of the fantastic Westercon 66 panelists had pointed out way back in July, it can take 20,000 or 30,000 words before that critic on your shoulder will Just. Fuck. Off.

Instead of cursing at a part of yourself, you can learn in a supportive environment how to kennel your editor during NaNoWriMo. And the skill you need for sending your critic on a long vacation will be critical in the throes of a midlife crisis. Because really it’s that critic who is behind all the angst of whatever “big decade” birthday you are facing.

So I mean it when I say participating in National Novel Writing Month will make you a better person. It can help you gracefully through a midlife crisis. You should practice sending that inner editor out for a long succession of three martini lunches. Because while you are plagued with a critic, it is impossible to live your life. That editor wants to know, “Where are we going next?” “How are we getting there?” and “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

But with encouragement like, “There’s a book in you that only you can write,” Baty - and every person who has ever been a part of NaNoWriMo - will help you with whatever comes. During and after your NaNo experience you will learn to tell yourself with confidence, in as many words as it takes, “I have no idea what will happen - and that’s okay, because in life, having no plot is no problem. I just show up and the words will come.”

Here Comes the Rain Again: A Post About Orange Juice and Rain

Hand-squeezed OJ, with separation

I woke up 'naturally' today (meaning no alarm), at a reasonable time for feeding animals, having breakfast myself, and getting to work on time. This is pretty surprising, given that I was up past midnight, listening to what the weather forecasters called "gale-force" winds and rain.

Here comes the rain again

When I opened my refrigerator on this rainy, final day of February, I saw this unusual - but welcome - pitcher of fresh squeezed OJ.

I don't drink OJ in the morning because it gives me an upset stomach. This OJ has been in the fridge since a friend brought over 2 bags of oranges sometime last week. I realized that if I didn't use it soon it might go to waste.

My desire to have some orange juice thus determined my breakfast: half of a banana, cup of tea, half of a bagel with cream cheese, second cup of tea. All things that would counteract the effects of orange juice.

I don't usually have bagels and cream cheese in my house either. One of my own nicknames in my head is "Bagel Whore." I become a raging crazy person when it comes to bagels - I *LOVE* them. I will break laws for a good bagel (though no one has ever before known to use this temptation to bend me to their will). In this case, bagels were on a list of foods my niece liked to eat for breakfast. Somehow there were two bagels left after her stay with us. Maybe I'm getting better.

The banana was eaten as I fed Jeremy-the-Bird and Olieo Dog. Tea was poured, and the bagel was toasting, so I got out my pretty little gilt edged glasses for juice.

Left: Stirred and shaken  Right: Poured off the top

I had several thoughts that I don't ever remember having before as I opened the drawer to extract a long handled wooden spoon for stirring the OJ: 

What if I DON'T stir it?
What will it taste like?
Does juice at the top taste different from juice at the bottom?
Is pulp the only difference?

Seriously if you've already done this experiment, I can't do anything but apologize for wasting your time reading this blog post.
I decided not to stir.


It felt reckless.
I had known my whole life that you MUST stir the orange juice before pouring it out.
Now, suddenly I was considering a taboo act.
The rebel heretic every one who knows me, knows that I am, was going to drink unstirred OJ.

I am gonna try the thin, colorless, unshaken orange juice.

Falling on my head like a memory

I have no memory of ever tasting OJ, but I know what I like.
(Don't I?)

Tasting orange juice isn't exactly like tasting fine wines, or tasting different types of honey. Although the liquid in the two glasses looks quite different, the flavor is more the same than different.

ASIDE: Okay, in THAT way it IS like tasting fine wines. Good wines all taste more like grapes than OJ. But when comparing fine wines to two-buck-chuck I've found myself thinking, Is this even made from grapes?  Some bargain barrel bottles I've tasted do not really resemble wine.

The pale juice with almost no orange color had a consistency like whiskey. Slightly thick. Very silky on my tongue. Huge flavor. I wasn't expecting THAT! It was Taaaaasty! The natural sugar was creating the thin but still syrupy texture. There was a bite of acid, and a HUGE flavor of orange. Tart, but with no bitterness.

In hindsight, I think I assumed the separated top liquid would be tart, bitter, acidic - nasty. Stirring was obviously the way to get a sweet, balanced OJ. Turns out, Noooooooo.

In comparison, the richly colored, "orange" orange juice, with LOTS of pulp (the way I have always THOUGHT I liked it) tastes like an altogether different substance. The heavy pulp content seems to confuse my poor tongue: Ack! Do I swallow or chew?! The chunky liquid is much more bitter, I now assume due to the inclusion of pulp and the higher levels of bitter pith.

Colorless, no-pulp OJ is THE BOMB.

Falling on my head like a new emotion

At 41, I feel like I understand a little secret about orange juice that I've never known. It may be an inconsequential thrill, but it is a thrill, and that thrill is mine!

No one has ever told me this information. Maybe not many other people know either. But you know now. Go forth. Squeeze fresh OJ. Drink the good bit, the pale, clear, not-orange juice. Use the rest for baking or marinating.

And while you are at it, let anything in your life - a wonderful, seasonal rain storm - encourage you to ask questions about anything you've 'always done.' Be that rebel heretic with me, against the most minute of daily practices. Maybe you will see, feel, taste, smell or hear something beautiful, wonderful and special in your day, even if it is just drinking a glass of orange juice.

Rainy Courtyard

Blooming Succulent

There's Always Someone Worse Off

Here's a fitness tip: You should really stop whatever you are doing, and rest, and take care of yourself if you feel like you are going to cry. Same goes for puking. Just STOP.  Not stop FOREVER...just stop for now.

Whatever physical activity you are TRYING to do, you are not getting enough air to do it. As my amazing yoga teacher says, "back off the intensity, and find your breath."

The training ride I planned for today made my workout buddy overtired, vulnerable, and about 3 miles from the end of my planned ride, weepy.  She called her partner to be picked up and taken home. Ooops. I was quite happy and supportive of her decision to stop.  I was SO grateful that she didn't try to "tough it out."  I have zero interest in dealing with an injured or collapsed team mate. WHEW.

The situation was only hilarious because of all the time I worried over a route that would add mileage and some small hills to make it "hard enough" -  to make it worth her while.  Again with the Oops.

I've been riding my big heavy bike (nicknamed affectionately by my ALC team members "The Tank") to and from yoga class. I've been riding it up and down from the beachfront.  I've been riding a LOT compared to her (apparently). So, even though she she can go twice (if not three times) as fast as me on her road bike with her clip pedals...she's just not as ready for hills.

So today was a reminder that when you take on any new challenge, beware assumptions. I assumed she was more fit and more prepared than me. Not so much. I assumed that because she had been "a cyclist" that she was mentally prepared as well. Now I know what being stretched a little too thin looks like for her.

Damn am I glad she was with me, and let me help her. How unbearable would it have been to be in that physically and emotionally beat-down state all alone? 

I'm also very grateful - as horrible as it sounds - to have the reminder that there's always someone worse off than me. I may have a terrible time keeping off and losing weight; I may have a big, clunker of a bike; I may not be able to get to the top of a big hill without some slow, resting, catch-my-breath time...but I am surprisingly healthy. Fit. And getting fitter as each week goes by.

Low Energy Safety Crisis

This title is 100% drama queen. Who the hell am I kidding...this BLOG is 100% drama queen. harumph. I often wonder if it would be a better use of my time to read "real" blogs by "real" writers instead of just blabbing out my own crud.

Naw. At least equally as useful as someone else's crud blabbing.

So, why am I so low energy, upset, downtrodden, depressed, sad, angry and scared wobbly? Packages (as far as I can tell, 3 to date) are dissappearing from my house. Amazon seems to confirm that the UPS guy is leaving them, but they are NOT getting to me.

Now, I should not be surprised, and I should be able to think about this clearly - after all 2 out of 3 of my neighbors have had their homes broken into and robbed. Why shouldn't the thieves casing my neighborhood notice that the UPS guy drops off around 1PM, and no one comes home until after 5PM?

The eerie part is that the stuff is SO LAME. Not worth stealing. Funny pictures of my husband and I dressed as clowns from a Halloween Sears photo shoot. A book about trivia intended as a gift for a friend, for Christmas. Lame. Not even sellable for drug money. But someone else has them. That creeps me out. Maybe they are putting them into my photo album (which they also stole).

I'm angry, and upset...not because I don't have "my stuff" (someday when I'm good and belligerant I'll find receipts, call up vendors and complain bitterly, and probably get my stuff replaced -though not in time for Christmas, I'm sure) but because I feel like a VICTIM.

Now I've BEEN a victim. I was molested as a child by a sometime caregiver-adult, and it is NOT GOOD to be at the mercy of someone else and feel like you have no control.

My denial coping mechanisms are pretty awesome...I even manage to forget for weeks at a time that I live in an evidenced, unsafe neighborhood. But each time something criminal happens, my brand new car being robbed in my driveway, the neighbor's kids having their toys stolen, etc., I get this horrible freak-out emotional saddness and overload and I feel sick.

My husband says I'm "panicky," but you know, I think it is perfectly NORMAL.