He’s Not A French Model But…

Adventures / Childhood fantasies / Family & Relationships / Motorcycles & me

I did meet him on the Internet.

Yup, it’s true. I’m head over heels, madly, truly, deeply in love with a man that, less than a year ago, I’d never met in person. Today, we live together. Maybe that doesn’t seem so dramatic in this day and age, but it’s the back story that’s cool.

We met in a little place called Second Life where anything and everything you can possibly imagine and quite a few things you can’t – or maybe didn’t want to – have been brought to the surface. It can be a very scary place. Everyone looks good in Second Life. We’re all young and slim and rich. We can be pirates in the 1700s one day, Native Americans in the 1800s the next then hop over and be modern day kick-ass bikers once we’re tired of being shot at by outlaws. Not to mention all the vampires and fae that seem to crop up everywhere. It’s crazy and I love it.

A Facebook friend introduced me to SL in the fall of 2010. For that first year I was a vampire on an estate called Legacies 1891. Sadly, Legos, as it is so affectionately known, closed down a while ago. I moved around a lot after that and eventually gave up the whole vampire thing in favor of the American Wild West in a place called Amiville. Had a lot of fun playing the boarding house owner but eventually that didn’t much hold my attention. I moved on to join the Native American population and that, dear friends, is where our Love Story begins.

I was a wandering Indian maiden without a tribe. He was a Cherokee. As I was about to log off for the night, I got a notice that they were having a story hour in the Cherokee village. I almost didn’t go but the Fates had other ideas. By the end of the night, my little Indian girl was madly in love with the handsome brave who had sat across from her at the fire circle. In less than a month, on Feb. 17, 2012 they were married in a traditional Cherokee wedding ceremony.

Four months later, he would drive over 1600 miles from Central TX to Upstate NY to spend a week with me. Like that virtual first night, the sparks flew as we held each other for the first time. Swear to God, I thought he was going to snap me in half. Seven months after that, I would make my first trip to the Southwest since my family had moved away in the Summer of 1966. You see – one of the odd things that we have in common is, we were both White Sands Missile Range Kids. I was born there. He was there during his high school years. Had we lived there at the same time, we would have lived less than a mile apart.

I bought a one-way plane ticket to Austin, TX. Yes, one way. You see, at the end of my ten day visit, we packed up everything we could into the smallest U-Haul that we could and drove back, half way across the country, so we could be together. In less than a week, we’ll be celebrating the one year anniversary of our first face-to-face meeting!

So far, so good. Since January 18th, 2013 we have not spent more than half a day apart. We’re still head over heels, madly, truly, deeply in love and grow more so as time goes by. He’s not a French model (nor a crazy ax murdered) but then, neither am I, but we did meet on the Internet and I’d not change that for the world.

Published by: 2

When I Grow Up I Want To Be An Undertaker!

Childhood fantasies / Just Plain Random Weirdness

These probably aren’t the words most parents want to hear coming from their child, but mine heard them and I was… yes, dead serious.

Rewind to the late 1970s. Disco was hot. Hair bands were everywhere. Anne Rice and Stephen King were on the upswing and thanks to my grandmother, I’d gotten a Ouija board for my 13th birthday instead of the stack of horror books I’d picked out. No joke, kids. Gramma had told me to go pick out whatever I wanted in the store for my birthday present. I picked books. Gramma said, and I quote, “Oh, you don’t want those scary things. Let me show you what you should get.” and she marched me right back to the games aisle and picked up good old William Fuld’s Ouija Board. I really wanted the books more but who’s gonna argue with Gramma?  We got the board out that night, Grampa sat nearby shaking his head and rolling his eyes at the foolishness of it all.

I don’t remember what, if any, results we got but from that point on my interest in such things grew even more serious and intense. This was the same Gramma who told me my first remembered true ghost story from her personal experience and the same Gramma that ignored those No Tresspassing signs and found a place for me to sneak into an abandoned house (or two) and unlock the door from the inside so she could get in, too and the one who dragged me from one cemetery to the other. And my parents thought all Gramma and I ever did together was go to yard sales! BAH!  Is it any wonder I am the way I am?? Not that that’s a bad thing, mind you!

So, here I am 13 or so, heading into High School and of course, they want you to start thinking about your future. What do you want to do with your life? College? Work? Trade School? Hm? Make up your mind. No rush, you have four years before you graduate. You all know the drill. I was under pressure man and being as I had all this experience with spooky stuff, thanks to Gramma, I got the notion in my head to become a funeral director. How hard could it possibly be? Cemeteries didn’t bother me. Dead people weren’t any big deal, right?

We had a school assignment to investigate what we’d need to do to pursue a possible career path, this included interviewing people already in that occupation. This lead to the call to the funeral home. I dare say they’d never gotten a phone call like mine before then and probably not after. I could be wrong. The funeral director, let’s call him Dave – because – well, that’s his name – was happy to oblige. We set up an appointment and folks, I got the behind the scenes tour, embalming room and all. Yep… that was special, but even then I was not deterred. Nay! I would not be swayed by any of what he showed me… until…

“What sort of schooling do you have to have to do this?”

Science? What do you mean science? Human anatomy? Practically a doctorate! Gonna need some math in there too so you know how much fluid the body is going to need. Plus a two year apprenticeship. I don’t want to be a doctor, man. I just wanna take care of dead bodies. Can’t I just dress in black and hang around corpses and caskets and console people and that sorta stuff? Apparently not. Ah well, at least I got a good grade on the paper and I’ll betcha my teacher never got another one quite like it!

And so ended my career dreams as an undertaker. Knowing Funeral Director Dave would come in real handy a few years down the line when he kindly furnished the limo that was used when I was married for the first time in 1989 – free of charge!

I did manage to portray the wife of a 19th century – US Civil War – undertaker for several years while I was a reenactor. That was fun. Grossing people out as we described putting needles in people’s necks and inner thighs and draining off the blood to make room for the fluid (not formaldehyde – cuz that wasn’t invented until after the War). We met very few others of our kind on the battlefield. And this time I did get to dress in black and hang out around a coffin and pretend at least to write consoling letters to the bereaved.

Now, I find myself writing about undertakers a lot. My current book, ‘That’s What Shadows Are Made Of” features a murdered undertaker. And, I should add, I made another call to that same funeral director with some research question on it. The novel just released in February has a funeral home scene and the forth-coming ghost story features both! I don’t want to be an undertaker when I grow up anymore – I’ll just write weird stuff about them instead. It’s probably a lot more fun and I’ve never had to use algebra to do it!

Published by: 3

Once Upon A Time There Was A Witch Named Tannev.

Witches & witchcraft

She wasn’t born a witch, few are, but for some twenty-five years she proudly considered herself one.  Others thought of her as one, too.

Tannev was quite happy with her chosen Pagan path and had many friends of like mind she met with, celebrated with and even cried with. It was a happy, peaceful life for the most part and not one Tannev left behind entirely of her own free will.  It was more a fading away as one might witness a person walking into a misty, gray fog.  There would be only two that the Witch would remain close to, two delicate links in a fragile chain.  Though she wanted to go back, time and circumstances kept her from those Tannev had for so long thought of as her lost family and home for ten years.  It had taken her a long time to find them but losing them had proven far too easy, slipping her away.  One year, the two diminished to one, filling Tannev with much sadness. It always made her a little nostalgic and melancholy to think of those bygone days even though she knew she could never really walk down that spiritual path with the belief she’d once had.

Tannev forged ahead, the Hermit, wandering alone again. It was, she figured, the way it was meant to be for her.

One dreary, moonless night, Tannev met a man who was one of true Darkness and one might say, Evil.  He called himself T’so.  Tannev grew to admire and even to love T’so despite his wicked and deceptive ways but even he could not convert her as he would have liked. She’d walked that Path once, too and knew the dangers and he could not turn her towards it again.  Tannev valued goodness, honesty and love about all other things.  T’so was none of those things. She would not bow to his wishes and he soon tossed her aside. Ironically, in his efforts to sway her, T’so pointed Tannev to a series of manuscripts that would brighten her Path instead of darkening it.

Within these ancient manuscripts Tannev learned of a God above God and, more important than that, of the Divinity Within.  Tannev’s eyes opened.  This Gnosis, this Knowing, became her new Path and she was a Witch no more.

Though Tannev may appear to still be walking alone even to this day, she knows otherwise.  She’s never alone for her Heart is always with her and within that Heart dwells that Spark of Spirit that is her personal Divinity.

GTh. 77:2-3

“Split a piece of wood – I am there.  Lift the stone, and you will find me there.”

Published by: 1

Honoring The Dead

Cemetery Crawls / Family & Relationships

I won’t be visiting any cemeteries today despite it being Memorial Day.  I understand it’s a the symbolic thing to do. I understand the comfort that can be gained by sitting at a graveside and talking to whomever is buried there. I know what it is to be there and sob and remember and miss someone so deeply you wonder how you’ve made it this far without them. I’ve nothing against those that chose to place the flowers and mementos. I’ve done it myself countless time and probably will do it again. I even think it’s an important thing to do as part of the whole mourning process.

What I don’t agree with is only doing this once a year or doing it out of some sort of family obligation and peer pressure. Doing it for those reasons, as far as I’m concerned, has no meaning. Furthermore, I have my doubts about all the Spirits getting together to show up at these cemeteries to check out the superficial trinkets so many chose to leave for them. “It’s a nice gesture,” you might say. “It shows I care about and remember that person.” Well, so does a pictures on a wall or keeping something special that same person gave you while alive. So does re-telling the stories those that have left prior have told you and adding the stories of your time with them. Share who that person was while they were living. Make your memories the memories of another.

Someone once told me that the only Spirit that ever dies is the one that is forgotten. I keep the Spirits of my ancestors and friends alive by honoring them in my heart, by putting them into my stories, by sharing and remembering.

So, no, you won’t see me at any cemeteries today placing flowers on graves. I’ll go another day with my camera. I’ll take my time and wander around, remembering the times I spent in such places with my grandmothers, my father, my friends and my children. Maybe someone else will be with me and in that case, I’ll share with them why I love these places so much. I’ll hope that in doing so my stories will be passed down and honored after I am dead and gone.

Published by: 2

Head Space For Rent

Family & Relationships / Mental health / Writing

Been wracking my brain all day about what to put into this weeks Blargh. As I was skimming through Facebook I saw a post by Danielle Colby (from American Pickers) and one of the bits of wisdom she had to offer struck me as noteworthy.

She wrote:  “Be careful who you decide to rent space in your head to, that’s prime real estate! Important beautiful things could be dwelling in that space where you are allowing darkness and hate to squat.”

In the past few years I have kicked out a few of my head space rentals as in people I thought were my friends, people I thought cared about me as much as I did them, people I deeply and truly trusted with a part of my Self. Finding out how little I meant to them after so many years has left a very deep and lasting scar on my soul. When I love, I don’t love half way. I don’t make half promises. I don’t lie about my feelings. Foolish, I suppose, for me to believe everyone else does the same thing for clearly they don’t.

Sadly, this has made me very gun shy about making new friends and getting involved in new relationships of any kind – be those romantic or platonic. I have accepted that in all the previous cases of relationships gone bad, I will never understand why these people did and do what they do. I am still working on letting that all go, still working on getting the ghosts of these things out of that rental space in my head and filling those rooms with new and positive people, experiences, ideas and dreams. There are moments when I have sudden and overwhelming feelings of insecurity about myself and my worth to others. When you have been used and abused (on both a mental and sexual level) it makes you look at everyone and everything in a way that someone who has not survived that situation will never understand.

Logically, I know I am worthy and lovable and a good person. I know I probably tolerate the inconsiderate behavior of others more than I should simply because I don’t want to be rejected. Feeling unwanted and unappreciated still take up way too big of an apartment in my head. The tiniest gestures of kindness and love go a long way with me, maybe they go too far. I don’t know. Maybe my wants and needs are too simple.

Back to those I have kicked out – more or less – a couple of them might still have a bit of closet head space rented – in all cases it was a complete, out of the blue shock! Years and years of lies. Years and years of being told one thing while the opposite was true. Even gifts were all only given to benefit them, not because they cared in any way. The thought behind the gift was more along the lines of “What will I get in return’ instead of ‘I hope she really likes this because I care about her and want her to enjoy it’. They say that it’s the thought that counts when gift-giving. Guess I got a whole lot of nothing from these people. Of course, this all only leads to making my self-doubt seed deeper. Why didn’t I see any of this? Am I really that blind? You’d think that in the nearly 10 years I was with my last ‘beau’ that fact that he told me twice, MAYBE three times that I looked nice would have been some sort of clue!

It’s hard work keeping those ghost of the past out of my head. I’ve been writing a lot more which is a great help. I’ve been in what I still call a new relationship even though we’ve been together almost a year and a half now. So far he’s not shown any signs of being just one more ‘abuser’ in the long line that has preceded him. Do I look for those signs? I’d be a liar if I said no. Of course I do. I can’t help it. I’ve been programmed to not trust as easy as I used to. He is making it easier though day by day and night by night.

But, as Danielle so wisely reminded me today, if I continue to let darkness and hate, bitterness and doubt dwell in that prime real estate in my head, I am preventing important beautiful things from dwelling there instead. I have already witnessed how getting rid of the negative makes room for the positive. Each time I have taken an important step in letting go of some one or some thing that makes me sad or makes me just feel bad or uncomfortable, something new and wonderful has stepped in to take its place. That is what I need to continue to remind myself. Remember what good came of something instead of all the bad that came before it. But then, without the bad, I could never really appreciate all the good that I have now – like the man who so easily stepped into my heart the last time I refused to be taken advantage of.

Spring is in Full Bloom. Warm winds are blowing through the house, taking away the cobwebs and stagnation of rooms left closed for too long. The doors are left wide open to let the fresh air in, the scent of flowers and rain. That’s what I want. Even the closet doors need to be opened, everything hauled out, sorted and without a doubt, at least half of what’s in there can be gotten rid of. It’s time to perform a couple of exorcisms because those former friends have made it clear they don’t want any part of who I am so why the hell should I hold onto any part of them anymore? If anyone is unworthy it’s them, not me.

Squatters, be gone!

Published by: 1

Write Here. Write Now. Oh, look, shiney!

Writer's Life

Got up early Saturday morning fully intending to hunker down and write for a few hours before I had to get ready to take my mom out for lunch and a movie for Mother’s Day Weekend.  Ah, the best laid plans…. *sigh*

My fella left for work at 4:30am. My son was gone by 7am. That left me alone with Nona the Guinea Pig who, once she’s been given her morning grape, baby carrot and handful of timothy hay is very quiet when it comes to company. I fired up the computer, brought up my file for “That’s What Shadows Are Made Of” and as is my habit, reread and edited the last thing I wrote. Now, it was time to continue with the story.  I had NO EXCUSES! None, zip, nada, zilch.

Well, ya know, I should probably get that load of jeans going in the washer first. I’ve been without an electric dryer for little over a month now and with it being a rainy day, knew I couldn’t dry the clothes out on the line. I’d taken down the makeshift line I’d put up in the spare room so after I got the jeans sorted out and chugging along, went about the task of putting up a new line in the back room. Even though it was raining, it was still warm enough to open the back room door for a fresh breeze to blow through a bit. That all took me 30-45 minutes. Satisfied, I warmed up my coffee again and headed back to the computer. I sat there pondering my next great paragraph then…

Oh wait, I haven’t checked Facebook yet! I should do that quick otherwise I’ll be distracted by the thought I haven’t done so.  And so passes another 30-45 minutes by which time, you guessed it, the washer announces that it’s done with the jeans. Off I got to get those hung up on my new line and of course, I have to start another load while I’m up and about. Getting kinda hungry. Well, I’m up now so may as well make myself some breakfast.

And so, thirty minutes goes by while I do all that. Right! Time to sit down and get back into writing what my brain has been processing to write. I settle back into my chair, a fresh, hot cup of coffee in hand. I do manage to write about two or three pages before it’s time to hop in the shower, get dressed and spend the rest of the day with my mom.

We went to see The Great Gatsby out in Binghamton. It was a fine film but we both agreed it could have been A LOT better if they’d not ‘hip-hopped’ it up and used music that was actually from the time period. The 1920s had some awesome tunes!

By the time I returned home it was nearly 8:00pm and my mood to write has all but evaporated into thin air. There’s always tomorrow! Sunday! Mother’s Day! The day when Mom gets to do what she wants and the rest of the world be damned!! I *WILL* sit down and I *WILL* write. No one and nothing is going to distract me.

Except, there’s still the matter of laundry to do, of course. And the house is a mess. I really need to clean Nona The Guinea Pigs cage and it would be so much more relaxing if I didn’t have to look at the carpet that needed to be vacuumed weeks ago.The dining room could use a tidy and oh, I should get the pork tenderloin and veggies prepped and in the crockpot so I don’t have to think about dinner for the rest of the day. That’ll be good cuz then I can write. Wow, look at all those dishes. They can wait. Gonna write, right after I clean take care of Nona.

At about 9:30 my son emerges with my Mother’s Day card and an invitation to go out to breakfast. Mind you, I’m still slopping around in my night clothes. I finish with Nona and go hop in the shower and get dressed. At the first two stops we are greeted by packed diners. We end up going to Banana Curve Diner in Sayre, PA. Never too late for breakfast there. Arrive back home about noon. The sun is shining and there’s that little matter of working on the outside area of the back room. It will only take a little bit of time to haul out the old dog house platform and do a bit of raking. While I’m out here and the weather is holding, I may as well lay some bricks, flagstone and rocks at this back entrance, too!

Mr. Jim arrived home from work about 4:30, by which time I’ve cleaned the living room, dining room and downstairs bathroom. The aroma of crockpot goodness is starting to fill the house. Laundry is drying nicely and my back step is looking not so bad at all. I’ve accomplished a lot and feel really good about it…. but…. I never even opened the file for “Shadows” and frankly, I’m too damn tired after dinner. I don’t want to think about plots and characters and all that anymore.

Maybe next weekend.

Oh, wait. I’m supposed to be meeting with my friend Sherry then.

Published by: 1

Gelotophobia – Fear of being laughed at or ridiculed.

Mental health / Phobias

He’s bigger than you! He’s meaner than you! He’s about to take your lunch money! For the past couple weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about bullies. If only they were limited to the sort of person noted above. If only they were only in high school. If only we could all put our finger on exactly what a bully is.

Sadly, they come in all shapes and sizes and aren’t limited to the male of our species. From my experience the female variety are even worse! Male bullies usually just want to beat the snot out of you and take your valuables. Females don’t have to lay a hand on you to do damage. The females I’ve encountered, directly or indirectly, tend to go for the sneak attack. They scheme a lot more and the damage a female bully does leans more towards the mental/psychological than the physical. They may not be strong enough to kick sand in your face but they’ll still leave you feeling battered, bruised and helpless. I’ll never really understand why bullies do what they do. It makes them feel special and in-control and all that, but I can feel special and in control without stamping all over the feelings of another person. I’m sure there’s a galaxy of articles, books, speeches, classes, studies et al out there about these people. I’m not here to rehash any of those.

I’d like to say I completely lucked out in life and was never bullied by anyone but I can’t. In fact, a few years ago I was able to escape such a relationship. Sometimes finding out your partner is cheating on you is a good thing. It was the little push I need to get rid of his arse once and for all. I know my abuse wasn’t as bad as what some of my friends have had to endure. I like to tell the story of a friend of mine from high school and how I stopped him from getting pounded without lifting a finger.

We must have been sophomores. My friend, let’s call him Fred, through no fault of his own beyond being very smart, polite and sticking to his religious convictions of turning the other cheek, found himself cornered on a stairway during lunch. Unfortunately the school bully, we’ll call him Abner, shared the same lunch period. There was the usual ruckus through the masses, the whispering grapevine, through which I got wind of what was going on. With a hard, hot knot in my stomach, I pulled myself away from whatever book of witchery I may have been reading at the time and went to see what was going on. It wasn’t out of morbid curiosity. This was MY FRIEND and well, there wasn’t much to me back then but I’d be damned if I was going to let Fred get pounded. I’d beat the crap out of Abner myself if I had to. I’m not a violent person by nature, mind you, so punching Abner in the face would certainly be a last resort – though I can’t say I’d have minded doing it.

Upon my arrival to the scene, Abner was standing over Fred who was sitting on the steps. Abner was going through his Bully Posturing and Tough Talk. Abner was demanding Fred take the first swing, don’t be a chicken, you sissy, the usual shpeel. Fred wouldn’t do it cuz we all know, the one who throws the first punch is the one who started it, right? I knew Fred would never take the first swing and slowly nudged my way through the gathering peanut gallery until I was sure both Fred and Abner could see me. I casually crossed my arms and leaned against the nearby pillar and watched Abner. Maybe watch isn’t quite the right word.. more like, ‘evil-eyed’ the bad boy. If looks could kill, sorta thing. It was an unblinking, cold stare. After a few minutes Abner looked towards the crowd and saw me. I gave him an equally icy smile and shook my head ever so slightly back and forth.

Abner stood motionless and silent for a moment then looked at Fred and said, “She’s one of your friends, isn’t she?” Fred saw me and nodded. Abner looked at me again. I hadn’t moved an inch and my anger was increasing. It must have showed because Fred backed down. “She’s a witch or something. She knows stuff,” he said. Just about this time the school VP showed up and carted the two of them away. Not sure what the final outcome was back at The Office, but I’d like to think I played a role in preventing Fred from being hurt that day or any days that followed. I went back to my table and my book and finished my lunch now officially dubbed a witch. It was a title I’d carry with me for many years with a certain level of pride. Maybe that’s why I was never bullied too much.

But, as stated prior, bullies don’t just go away when you leave high school. I’ve come to think that the worse sort of bullies maybe aren’t though of as bullies at all, and maybe they don’t do what they do with any intention of harm, but what they say still hurts and makes the victim feel less of a person.

A lot of people suffer from phobias. Some are mild and easily overcome. Some are so bad the sufferer can’t leave their own home. I have a few phobias. I also have some deep-seeded insecurities that I am working to overcome. Facing ones fears to overcome a phobia is one thing but to have that fear pushed upon you is or to have that fear or insecurity totally ignored and mocked is completely different. If you’re a real friend to someone who is afraid of heights you AREN’T helping by taking them up in a twenty-story glass elevator. You don’t toss a snake or spider on someone who is deathly afraid of them. And you really shouldn’t mock anyone who has an insecurity about how they look or feel. That’s being a bully just as much as Abner was to Fred. The phobic feels bad enough as it is. You are making them feel worse, like they’re feelings don’t matter to you at all and like there is something more wrong with them than they already believe there to be. That doesn’t sound like a friend to me at all. It’s okay to be light-hearted to try and  make them feel better but don’t tell them what they are feeling is nothing or silly or stupid. It isn’t NOTHING! It’s very real. It’s very painful. An off-handed remark that what they are feeling doesn’t matter strikes just as hard as a punch to the jaw or a slap across the face. It makes you a bully.

I’m not talking about being overly Politically Correct either. In my mind, that’s a whole different ballgame.

Being kind to each other is so much easier than being cruel and it’s so much more rewarding. Words can hurt just as much a those sticks, stones and fists. Think before you speak and treat others as you would expect to be treated. Being respectful, even to total strangers, goes a long way.

Published by: 0

I Can Haz Sissy Bar?

Adventures / Family & Relationships / Motorcycles & me

Yep, I’m a sissy. I admit it. Or, maybe I’m just getting old. No. No. I’m a sissy.

This weekend was a bitter-sweet one. The sweetness came in that it was the first weekend of the motorcycle riding season here in Upstate NY that we’ve been able to enjoy since Jim moved in back in January. Saturday we rode out to Binghamton, NY to Southern Tier Harley Davidson for their Spring Open House. We nabbed two of the few remaining roast pork sammiches, oggled a few bikes, bumped into one of my co-workers and, much to JIm’s reluctance, ordered a pad for the sissy bar he took off the bike years ago. Our return ride included stopping at the Blue Dolphin for lunch. Sunday afternoon we headed out again. Stopping at Punk’s Place in Candor and The Pub in Waverly. Arriving home in one piece, Jim set to work starting some beef stew. Oh, my aching inner thighs!

Now, about that sissy bar. I’m not sure when my interest in motorcycles began. I remember my brother had a minibike when we were in middle school and I know my Uncle Jack had at least one bike he’d take me for rides on around the same period. It’s been more years than I care to admit. Uncle Jack didn’t have a sissy bar and as much as I loved riding with him, I always felt like I was hanging on for dear life when we rode. It was likely then that I decided that when/if I ever got a bike of my own, I’d do any passengers I might carry, the favor or not suffering as I had always done.

In 1986 when I bought my Honda Rebel I did just that. I had the bike for four years and only had a few passengers but they all were grateful for that bar. I’m sure it had nothing to do with my skills as a driver. LOL!

Fast forward to this weekend and the lack of said bar. I love to ride with my guy, don’t get me wrong, I really do, but without the bar there’s always that slight moment of terror when the red light turns green or that 40 mph speed zone ends or when someone finds it amusing to gun the engine then reaches back and pats me on the leg as if to say, “You still back there, baby?”  I couldn’t see it but I can bet ya he was smirking up there. My head fills with images of either 1) me flying off backwards and my head ending up looking like a smashed pumpkin the morning after Halloween Night or 2) me holding on so tight it yanks us BOTH off the bike. Neither is pretty and for some reason those images put quite the damper on the whole Fun Factor for me as a passenger. Not to mention those sore inner thigh muscles mentioned earlier and the sore arse I had because I kept sliding just far enough off back seat to make it well – unpleasant. I try not to be a selfish person, but in the case of the bar – it makes a HUGE difference to me. It will be a totally different and much more enjoyable ride for me once it’s there. Personally, I think he should think of it this way, if I can lean back a bit and relax, he can then in turn lean back a bit on me! It’s a win-win situation and if his biker friends pick on him about it, I’m more than happy to have the blame put on the Old Lady.

That was the Sweet part.. now the Bitter.

As mentioned, this was our first weekend ride together in Upstate NY. Sadly, it may be our last. He’s starting a new job that will include working weekends which means all the awesome stuff that goes on will likely be missed. We can really do with the income and it’s not like there won’t be week nights we can’t go out – still…just sorta a bummer in that regard. I’m happy and sad at the same time and I’m sure he’s feeling a bit of the same. We’ll make the best of it because that’s how we both roll. It’s just another life change and being as we took pretty close to the biggest step possible as a couple last January when he moved up here from Texas, I’m sure we’ll manage this.

So, I can haz a sissy bar as soon as the order comes in and one or the other of us can get out to pick it up and he gets it put on. And even if the rides together may be more rare, they will be made all the more sweeter when they do happen cuz I’ll be able to straddle my guy from behind a little less tightly and my thighs, though they could benefit from the workout, will be a little less sore.

The last time I had inner thighs this sore… well, never mind that.

Published by: 1

How Modern Job Hunting Contributes To Unemployment

Job Hunting

I’ve known quite a few people looking for jobs over the past five years. All of them truly want to work. All of them have marketable skills in their chosen fields. All of them have done their best to get their resumes up-to-date and their applications out there.  What I’ve also noticed is how every single one of these people has complained about the changing face of job hunting.

Back when I was a fresh-faced kid out of high school my job hunting started at the ass-scratch of dawn with my Dad banging on my bedroom door ‘reminding’ me I needed to get up and go into town with him and mom to pound-the-pavement.  I didn’t have a car and living in the middle of nowhere in Upstate NY, public transport did not exist.  My only way to get anywhere was to ride into the city with my parents, find a friend or borrow my grandmother’s car. I certainly couldn’t afford a car because, well, I didn’t have a job!  Therefore, the fun often started at 6:00am. Mom and I were dropped off by Dad at around 7:30. Mom would head into her office while I would continue my walking adventure with a couple of tested pens, a dozen copies of my meager resume that consisted of my recent graduation from high school and some volunteer summer jobs I’d had, a good book, a packed lunch and a pair of sturdy walking shoes. I’d walk door-to-door, one shop to the next that held even the vaguest of employment interests to me. One application after another was filled out on the spot and stapled to a resume. When I ran out of resumes, my job hunting day was over. I did this weekly for months, centering on a different area of the city each time, making my name and lack of experience known to one and all. I was friendly and personable, doing my best to hide and overcome my introvert nature. By the end of that day, I was exhausted.  I’d trudge back to my mom’s office where we’d meet up with my dad at 4:45pm and head back home.

On my days off from this sort of job hunting, I would occasionally be able to drive my grandmother’s car or better yet, ride my bike – and I don’t mean a motorcycle here, kids. I mean a bicycle that you peddled with your very own legs! Remember, I lived out in the middle of nowhere. There was nowhere in town to get a job. Okay, maybe that’s not true. I could have tried at the lumber mill, the feed store or the hardware store, I suppose. The nearest large grocery store was fifteen miles away. If the weather seemed promising and Gramma’s car wasn’t available, filled my backpack with the above mentioned items, hopped on my trusty 10-speed and was on my way.  More applications filled out by hand. More resumes handed out.

Of course, the first words out of my dad’s mouth at the end of these days was always, “Find a job yet?” It took months before I could finally answer him with a yes.

Fast forward to today and the modern methods of job hunting.  You no longer walk door to door and if you do, you’re wasting your time.  Though it’s important to have your resume up-to-date, don’t bother printing out too many. Most places won’t take them. Hell, you don’t even need a frickin’ pen, let alone good walking shoes. Why? Because NO PLACE wants you to put the effort into filling out a paper application anymore. God forbid a person looking for a job should show any sort of true initiative when it comes to work! Time and time and time again, my job-seeking friends (every single one of them) has bemoaned to me the invention of the online job application. You can lounge at your computer in you sweat pants and wife-beater t-shirt while sipping shots of Jack Daniels out of your coffee cup if you want. Now there’s someone I’d be interested in hiring, NOT! No, give me the person who cares enough to get up early, shower, dress with a certain level of self respect and pound some pavement. THAT’S someone willing to actually work for a living.

Even if you fill out a dozen applications a day, you are nothing more than a faceless series of facts on a computer screen to a potential employer.  They have no idea who you are beyond that. There’s no information given to them that a person-to-person meeting can provide. There’s a lot to be said about first impressions.  Back in the day that first impression came the moment you walked into that building, your feet aching and your hand cramped and a ‘hire me’ smile plastered on your lips.  I believe in ‘vibes’, that we all give off certain vibes to others that we meet.  You could look at someone, check out how they dressed and the amount of effort they have put into getting the job they have showed up to apply for.  We’ll have none of that anymore.

I truly believe that today’s modern job hunting methods have actually contributed to the higher unemployment rates we now have. Despite Facebook’s best efforts, we have become a society of faceless bots without personalities or the know-how to judge others based on something beyond their ability to make themselves look good in writing.  Today, that first impression comes at the interview – if you are lucky enough to get that far. The good jobs go to those that can express themselves well in writing even if the jobs they are applying for have nothing to do with sentence structure or spelling.

I encourage all employers to PLEASE have paper applications on hand and be willing to accept that hand-written application and a printed resume instead of relying on corporate headquarters to do all the work for you. If you’re the manager, do some managing. Be proactive. Be responsible for who works for you on every level. Consider those few minutes it takes your potential employee to fill out that piece of paper your chance to observe from afar and to tune in with that inner part of each of us that takes first impressions seriously.  You could be missing out on one of the best workers you’ll ever have!  People want to work and I believe those that are willing to walk (literally) that extra mile to find a job, deserve more than to be turned away before they even have a chance with the off-handed remark, “Sorry, we only accept applications online.”

Published by: 1

A Wordless Weekend.

Fresh Air & Sunshine / Mental health / Writer's Life

A few months ago a co-worker asked me to look over his manuscript. I foolishly told him I would. I knew he was writing what he said was a novel last fall. Four months later he announced it was done! Whoa, Nelly! That was fast. Turns out this ‘novel’ is really a short story. So, as I’d said I would, I started to look over what he’d done. It’s a good concept and I went through the first two chapters jotting down suggestions and the like and gave those two chapter to him to look over. It was then that he told me that only had he NOT yet even read over what he’d given me and that it was a first draft BUT! that he, personally doesn’t read fiction. Stephen King has a great quote out there that is something like “If you don’t have the time to read you don’t have the time (or tools) to write.”  The admission that my co-worker doesn’t read fiction explained everything about the faults in his manuscript. I would like to finish the task as I told him I would but I’m not sure if it’s worth the time or effort.  It would be like someone deciding they are going to start a band if they have never even listened to the sort of music they want to play.

Another friend of mine had an art show opening this past Friday. We stopped in for a few minutes. I’d seen her work before and knew she was good so there were no surprises there. Unfortunately, the space was a big tight and I started to feel claustrophobic way too soon. Besides, I’m no good at mingling and making small talk about art. Its one of those subjective things. One man’s fine art is another man’s baby spit up on canvas. Still, I wanted to show her my support and made the effort to visit, albeit, briefly. We went off to explore some of the other art shows and music stuff going on after.

I’ve bought the books and artwork and etc of other creative friends to show them my support for their efforts. Even if I didn’t later care for the music or book after I had a listen or read more deeply.

I do have some talented writer friends, one is my cousin. We’ve had a lot of fun exchanging short story ideas and acting as readers and proofreaders for each others stuff. I encourage her every chance I get. Sadly, I don’t see her too much anymore since she moved. I have no idea if she’s bought my book.

I’ve been trying hard to write as often as possible but this weekend I didn’t even care. I planted herbs seeds and did yard work instead. It needed to be done, that is true, but I know I should have written something! I should have at least opened the file and re-read what I’d written earlier in the week for a quick proofread. It feels like my Muse has recently crawled into a deep, dark hole and doesn’t want to emerge all of a sudden. I’m pretty sure the recent life changes have something to do with that. Even when you have very positive life changes, it requires some adjusting.  When I’m stressed, my Muse shuts down just when I need her most to distract me and keep me from worrying about every little thing. It’s also been a very slow week over on my Facebook page. I’m not feeling ‘the Love’ as it were, like I was plus as I near completion of the next novel, the stress of searching for a publisher is weighing very heavily on my mind and soul. I try to be positive about it. I try to believe in myself and what I want to be when I grow up. It’s not always easy but I hope I don’t have too many more of these wordless weekends. It’s not good for me.

Published by: 0