My Aunt Judy passed away a few weeks ago. She is the one who illustrated all of my children's book covers (except for Hey, Little Baby). We shared a blog of free stories for children; I wrote, she drew. We spoke or emailed weekly. So guess what? She was a big part of my life.
In writing about her now, I seek to avoid sadness. Yes, she was an incredible aunt and person. But she would laugh and tell me I was being a dramatic writer if I wrote something like that. So I'm going to tell you stuff that will make us both smile.
Okay, so I am the world's slowest eater. Why am I the slowest? Because I no longer have any competition. By the time I get through my salad, others are finishing dessert. Judy had me totally completely beat in our uncompetitive race. She was twice as unfast.
This is due to her addiction to listening. Yes, you heard me. She was one of those wackos who listened when you talked. She told me, "Why would I want to talk about myself? I all ready know about me."
Who says crazy stuff like that? I mean, what is the point of a conversation if you are not fighting for your chance to show off your fine choice of words, brilliant ideas, and exhilarating highlights of every thing that ever happened to you.
Don't let it be thought here that she never spoke. In one conversation, we could solve all of the world's problems. Trouble was, nobody ever asked us. If the Big Shots in power ever followed the Judy and Heather World Advice Discussions, we would have World Peace by this weekend. But I suppose the world was just not ready to listen like Judy did.
She was one of those wackos who 'followed her bliss' by becoming a professional illustrator. Imagine how bizarre this world would be if everyone were in a career that they loved. I shutter just thinking about it. And, of course, just like all those motivational books preach, she made money by waltzing along in life, doing as she pleased, drawing dogs, people as cartoons, animals. She even had the audacity to make pictures that were designed for kids through adults. Realistic to cartoon. Her talent was, sheesh, what is that big word I'm looking for? Oh, yeah...unlimited.
Except that, boy was she ever picky. Could not let anything with her name on it go out into the public that was not to the best of her ability. She even researched her stuff as well. Made sure the dog breeds were just right, surfers were on the waves correctly, elephants had their ears shaped true to form. Wow, you'd have thought she really, truly cared about what was put out into the world.
When my boys were small, I went to her constantly for advice. While every one else was telling me to be more strict, punishing, and to make demands at the drop of a dirty diaper, she talked of a different path. Wild tips like listening, compromise, guidance and love. Learning through example, natural consequences, being firm yet gentle.
And me, being the Judy fan that I have always been, I followed her parenting style. And what do I have to show for my loyalty? Nothing but two thoughtful, caring boys who learned to listen, be polite, discuss ideas, and be wonderful. Just like her son.
Once again, can you imagine a world in which we all listened to our children? Too much for me to handle in one sitting.
She also had to go and have a supportive, kind, respectful marriage to a great guy. Where does that leave the rest of us? Are we supposed to follow in her footsteps and turn marriage into a joyful partnership? Where is the fun in having no abuse, drama, or temper tantrum arguments? Those are some pretty high goals to set for two people.
Now that she is gone, there is a big, gaping hole in my life. Every day, for the rest of my life, I will be attempting to fill it with appreciation of the time I got to spend with her. If I go on any more about this kind of talk, however, I will be crying for another night.
Aunt Judy was splendiferous and will be missed for the rest of my life.
If there is a way for you to get this message in your body-less form: I love you, Aunt Judy. But then, you already knew that.
Oh, if anyone out there passes on before I do and can give her this message, please pass it on: I tried so, so hard, but I can't get into mystery novels. I know you loved them, but I will just never share your favorite book genre. Sorry.
Heather Leigh
Niece of Judy, Aunt Extraordinaire
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Monday, March 28, 2016
Dear Readers
This may come as a big shock, but the Internal Revenue Service, IRS, is doing two things that baffle me. Seems that two years ago, there was a screw up between what I reported and what they have on their records. I sent in proof that I am in the right on this issue, BUT IN THE MEANTIME, while it is being sorted out, I will be forced to pay interest charges on the discrepancy. Even if I I am double, triple-proofed as having done the right thing, I will still be punished. And, of course, never paid back those charges.
Do you think I could charge them interest for the hassle of fixing what may be their mistake? How about the postage and handling, stress, copying fees, and time spent away from writing that I am doling out on this fun event. I'm sure they will at least send me a fruit basket for my troubles.
They should, because we are on close terms. I know we are on comfy terms because when they write these letters to me, explaining why I have to pay for what is not my fault, they address the message as: 'Dear Heather Leigh'. Webster's Dictionary defines dear as: beloved, loved. See? They do care.
Nothing like being loved by the IRS.
Although, I am curious as to what they do to those they do not love. Perhaps the uncared for are forced to become an IRS auditor. That must be it. I have always wondered who would volunteer for such a position. Now we know the secret.
There is a locked windowless basement with thousands of forgotten U.S. citizens going through the records of small businesses, tax payers who make below living wages, and elderly on fixed income. So if you get audited some day, remember that the person doing the dirty deed is not your enemy. They are people like you and me who did not pay the interest charges for uncommitted crimes, or non-adored citizens. Pity those poor folk; keep them in your prayers.
And here is my promise to you, my dear Readers. If I find a discrepancy between what you tell me and what I understand, I will never charge you for the misunderstanding. No, not a thing. Because I am nice like that.
In the coming days until the end of the tax season, I wish you non-punishment for whatever you tell the IRS. Stay away from closed-in basements. Be careful who you say 'Dear' to. Put away money for interest in case you are charged for doing the right thing.
If you ever figure out the logic behind the IRS, please let me know. I believe that there may be thousands of other folks who are baffled by what they do. We would all appreciate more clarity with that bureaucracy that kindly takes in our money.
From your beloved author,
Heather Leigh
Do you think I could charge them interest for the hassle of fixing what may be their mistake? How about the postage and handling, stress, copying fees, and time spent away from writing that I am doling out on this fun event. I'm sure they will at least send me a fruit basket for my troubles.
They should, because we are on close terms. I know we are on comfy terms because when they write these letters to me, explaining why I have to pay for what is not my fault, they address the message as: 'Dear Heather Leigh'. Webster's Dictionary defines dear as: beloved, loved. See? They do care.
Nothing like being loved by the IRS.
Although, I am curious as to what they do to those they do not love. Perhaps the uncared for are forced to become an IRS auditor. That must be it. I have always wondered who would volunteer for such a position. Now we know the secret.
There is a locked windowless basement with thousands of forgotten U.S. citizens going through the records of small businesses, tax payers who make below living wages, and elderly on fixed income. So if you get audited some day, remember that the person doing the dirty deed is not your enemy. They are people like you and me who did not pay the interest charges for uncommitted crimes, or non-adored citizens. Pity those poor folk; keep them in your prayers.
And here is my promise to you, my dear Readers. If I find a discrepancy between what you tell me and what I understand, I will never charge you for the misunderstanding. No, not a thing. Because I am nice like that.
In the coming days until the end of the tax season, I wish you non-punishment for whatever you tell the IRS. Stay away from closed-in basements. Be careful who you say 'Dear' to. Put away money for interest in case you are charged for doing the right thing.
If you ever figure out the logic behind the IRS, please let me know. I believe that there may be thousands of other folks who are baffled by what they do. We would all appreciate more clarity with that bureaucracy that kindly takes in our money.
From your beloved author,
Heather Leigh
Monday, March 14, 2016
Sydney the Great
When the boys were four and seven years old, we finally moved into a house. It was then that I was doomed to follow through on a promise made--a family dog. We spent several weeks visiting the Animal Shelter. There were many wonderful canines ready for homes, but none of them matched what we were looking for. Either they were not interested in a home of chaotic, rambunctious boys, or we did not feel the pull of love to take him/her home.
Then there came Sydney. After claiming that we were looking for a small mutt, we ended up falling in love with a fifty-five pound pedigree Australian Shepherd. In the visiting room of the Shelter, she sat beside me, laid her head in my lap and told me she was ready to be our companion. Well then, that was settled.
In the days before we could bring her home, the boys and I wondered who would leave behind such a beautiful, intelligent breed. When we got her to her new dwelling, we learned very quickly why clever dogs can actually be too clever. A list of her accomplishments over the years:
Escaping from every fenced-in enclosure: six foot fences, locked gates, indestructible metal dog crate. Who ever advertised on that dog crate box that no dog could break out of it, never met Sydney. Silly fools.
Propping her paws on the counter, edging down glass jars, biting gently and lowering jar to ground, opening with her teeth. Eating contents without a crack in the glass--including a very expensive jar of Macadamia nuts that I still have not forgiven her for.
Wolfing down a box of chocolates and never getting sick.
Eating and peeling avocados and avoiding the pit.
Breaking through a glass front door without a scratch. Imagine our surprise when we got home to discover the front of our dog on the porch and the back of her in the house. I still can't figure out how she did not hurt herself. Perhaps she was a stunt dog in a previous life?
Jumping out of the car window while I was driving into the Dog Park. At least the window was rolled down a few inches so it was not broken.
What we learned from Sydney: Don't leave anything on the counter. Buy a solid wood door. Keep the windows up at the Dog Park.
What she never did learn was how to hide the evidence of her naughtiness. After eating a bag of pink candy, she tried to tell us the candy just disappeared while we were gone. There was no connection between her previously white chest fur suddenly turning pink. Aren't dogs color blind?
It was after a few of these Sydney accomplishments that I began to get an inkling as to why her previous owners thought that perhaps she was a bit difficult to keep as a pet. But what they may have failed to notice are her plus sides.
I was always protected. Just try to hug me in her presence--she would stand in front of me and block the way. You could have been a hug attacker!
Waiting outside the bathroom door, she would not let any child come close. She knew it was my moment of peace and was there to make sure I got it.
She almost drowned in the river attempting to herd us back to the shore. This from the dog who hates getting wet.
At walk time, she could jump and leap in a full circle in excitement. Taught us the value of simple pleasures.
Always waited at the door for our arrival. Nothing like coming home after traffic, smog and stress to a loving warm ball of fur. She knew her value.
Now that she is old, things have changed a bit. A daily walk around the block takes about half an hour. Sleep is more fun than the Dog Park. No glass doors or metal cages have been busted in several years. But she is still our adored, beautiful, wonderful Sydney. The people who left her behind were just plain stupid.
Heather Leigh,
Owner of that too clever dog
P.S. I was going to wait until she passed to write about how wonderful she is. But then I realized that once she is gone, I won't be able to talk about her for quite a while.
Then there came Sydney. After claiming that we were looking for a small mutt, we ended up falling in love with a fifty-five pound pedigree Australian Shepherd. In the visiting room of the Shelter, she sat beside me, laid her head in my lap and told me she was ready to be our companion. Well then, that was settled.
In the days before we could bring her home, the boys and I wondered who would leave behind such a beautiful, intelligent breed. When we got her to her new dwelling, we learned very quickly why clever dogs can actually be too clever. A list of her accomplishments over the years:
Escaping from every fenced-in enclosure: six foot fences, locked gates, indestructible metal dog crate. Who ever advertised on that dog crate box that no dog could break out of it, never met Sydney. Silly fools.
Propping her paws on the counter, edging down glass jars, biting gently and lowering jar to ground, opening with her teeth. Eating contents without a crack in the glass--including a very expensive jar of Macadamia nuts that I still have not forgiven her for.
Wolfing down a box of chocolates and never getting sick.
Eating and peeling avocados and avoiding the pit.
Breaking through a glass front door without a scratch. Imagine our surprise when we got home to discover the front of our dog on the porch and the back of her in the house. I still can't figure out how she did not hurt herself. Perhaps she was a stunt dog in a previous life?
Jumping out of the car window while I was driving into the Dog Park. At least the window was rolled down a few inches so it was not broken.
What we learned from Sydney: Don't leave anything on the counter. Buy a solid wood door. Keep the windows up at the Dog Park.
What she never did learn was how to hide the evidence of her naughtiness. After eating a bag of pink candy, she tried to tell us the candy just disappeared while we were gone. There was no connection between her previously white chest fur suddenly turning pink. Aren't dogs color blind?
It was after a few of these Sydney accomplishments that I began to get an inkling as to why her previous owners thought that perhaps she was a bit difficult to keep as a pet. But what they may have failed to notice are her plus sides.
I was always protected. Just try to hug me in her presence--she would stand in front of me and block the way. You could have been a hug attacker!
Waiting outside the bathroom door, she would not let any child come close. She knew it was my moment of peace and was there to make sure I got it.
She almost drowned in the river attempting to herd us back to the shore. This from the dog who hates getting wet.
At walk time, she could jump and leap in a full circle in excitement. Taught us the value of simple pleasures.
Always waited at the door for our arrival. Nothing like coming home after traffic, smog and stress to a loving warm ball of fur. She knew her value.
Now that she is old, things have changed a bit. A daily walk around the block takes about half an hour. Sleep is more fun than the Dog Park. No glass doors or metal cages have been busted in several years. But she is still our adored, beautiful, wonderful Sydney. The people who left her behind were just plain stupid.
Heather Leigh,
Owner of that too clever dog
P.S. I was going to wait until she passed to write about how wonderful she is. But then I realized that once she is gone, I won't be able to talk about her for quite a while.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Cutie Canines
I have a serious problem and I don't want anyone telling me this is no big deal. Our dogs love fruits and vegetables. I can hear what you are thinking: healthy animals are a good thing. Their diet choices keep them away from illness, the vet, diarrhea issues, whatever. Well, that is all good for those canines--but what about me?
The California Cuties, mandarin oranges, are in season (are they only available in California? Any out-of-staters out there, please let me know). Those bright orange lively spheres are sweeter and better than any candy on the market. Easy to peel, no seeds, zesty with flavor and juice, seems like they should be illegal or at least bad for you like a donut.
So here is where the issue zooms in. Sydney and Daisy are even more smitten with them than I am. Translation: I'm allowed to eat one segment, next goes to Syd and then Daisy. I'm allowed to eat one-third of those golf ball sized treats! The whole Cutie season only lasts a month.
And you should see them when we get a watermelon, Sydney's favorite fruit. It's a wonder they don't attack me while it is being cut. Sheesh.
I know what else you are thinking. That I am the owner, the master, the Akeela. That I should be able to say no to those furry companions. But Sydney is fifteen years old. She is in her last year of life expectancy (something that will bring me to wrenching tears if I dwell on it for more than ten seconds). You try and say 'no' when this may be her last Cutie season.
Of course, she has passed on her fruit and veggie, begging and obsession to puppy Daisy. Can't just treat one dog and not the other. Talk about sibling rivalry issues that would cause mayhem and madness in our peaceful home.
There is also no fairness with this whole sheboogle. Because, see, I do not share any enthusiasm for their treats. No, I just can't get into dog biscuits, doggies nibbles, or even pig ears. Nothing! Not one iota of my body wants to get down on the floor and chew away at a bone or chunk of raw hide. They get every bit of their snack to themselves. Not once has anyone in our family looked at them with big eyes and yearned for a piece of their stuff.
Okay, there was that one time when the boys were five and eight. Older one dared the younger to eat a dog biscuit. He did it, but only because it was smeared in peanut butter. That doesn't count as begging.
Guess I'll have to smuggle my fruit to work from now on. Well, I don't know. I do kind of love those dogs. Maybe I can share just one more Cutie.
Heather Leigh,
Companion to Veggie Lovers
P.S. I know the third thing you are all thinking: what are the vegetables they love? Carrots and corn on the cob at the top, onions at the bottom.
The California Cuties, mandarin oranges, are in season (are they only available in California? Any out-of-staters out there, please let me know). Those bright orange lively spheres are sweeter and better than any candy on the market. Easy to peel, no seeds, zesty with flavor and juice, seems like they should be illegal or at least bad for you like a donut.
So here is where the issue zooms in. Sydney and Daisy are even more smitten with them than I am. Translation: I'm allowed to eat one segment, next goes to Syd and then Daisy. I'm allowed to eat one-third of those golf ball sized treats! The whole Cutie season only lasts a month.
And you should see them when we get a watermelon, Sydney's favorite fruit. It's a wonder they don't attack me while it is being cut. Sheesh.
I know what else you are thinking. That I am the owner, the master, the Akeela. That I should be able to say no to those furry companions. But Sydney is fifteen years old. She is in her last year of life expectancy (something that will bring me to wrenching tears if I dwell on it for more than ten seconds). You try and say 'no' when this may be her last Cutie season.
Of course, she has passed on her fruit and veggie, begging and obsession to puppy Daisy. Can't just treat one dog and not the other. Talk about sibling rivalry issues that would cause mayhem and madness in our peaceful home.
There is also no fairness with this whole sheboogle. Because, see, I do not share any enthusiasm for their treats. No, I just can't get into dog biscuits, doggies nibbles, or even pig ears. Nothing! Not one iota of my body wants to get down on the floor and chew away at a bone or chunk of raw hide. They get every bit of their snack to themselves. Not once has anyone in our family looked at them with big eyes and yearned for a piece of their stuff.
Okay, there was that one time when the boys were five and eight. Older one dared the younger to eat a dog biscuit. He did it, but only because it was smeared in peanut butter. That doesn't count as begging.
Guess I'll have to smuggle my fruit to work from now on. Well, I don't know. I do kind of love those dogs. Maybe I can share just one more Cutie.
Heather Leigh,
Companion to Veggie Lovers
P.S. I know the third thing you are all thinking: what are the vegetables they love? Carrots and corn on the cob at the top, onions at the bottom.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Humor and Therapy
I have two main goals as a parent:
1. To not screw up so bad that the boys need therapy to get over me.
2. To screw up enough to give them a sense of humor.
So far, I seem to be succeeding in the second goal. The first is pending as they are still at home. How do I know they have a sense of humor? Here is a remark made years ago by my second son:
"Good babies come from Disneyland. Bad babies from the back alleys of Taco Bell."
My first son and I are religious attenders of the monthly Improv show in town and we laugh too loudly at The Muppets.
Both make me laugh even when I am not partaking in wine.
All that is left now to fulfill my life-long wish to have moderately dysfunctional offspring, is to get them into moderately dysfunctional families of their own. Ohhh, the joys of being a parent.
Yesterday we went on our trip to the dentist. In our small town, the only decent office that accepts our insurance is two and a half hours away. Anyhoo, most of their conversation revolved around comic books and movies. It is one of the few topics under which they are both in agreement on major issues. Here is how I know that they are seriously maturing: At five and eight years old, they had one of the biggest arguments ever known amongst siblings. Is the Incredible Hulk a real superhero? This led to a huge, knock down, screaming rampage.
And now, ten years later, they can rationally agree that the green muscled hunk needs more airtime in the movie theatre. I am the proud mother of two maturing young men.
When we stopped for lunch at the Chinese food restaurant, no one in our family screamed that I starve my children by making them eat healthy food. Neither of them flung peas, spit wads, or scalding tea. I never heard a single burping of the entire alphabet. And no one slid under the table in search of previously chewed bubble gum to snack on.
People tell me the boys are so good because they had good parenting. But I know this is not the truth. I have seen some pretty darned terrific parents whose kids had major issues. The reality is that I have been blessed.
Heather Leigh
Proud mother of non-belchers
1. To not screw up so bad that the boys need therapy to get over me.
2. To screw up enough to give them a sense of humor.
So far, I seem to be succeeding in the second goal. The first is pending as they are still at home. How do I know they have a sense of humor? Here is a remark made years ago by my second son:
"Good babies come from Disneyland. Bad babies from the back alleys of Taco Bell."
My first son and I are religious attenders of the monthly Improv show in town and we laugh too loudly at The Muppets.
Both make me laugh even when I am not partaking in wine.
All that is left now to fulfill my life-long wish to have moderately dysfunctional offspring, is to get them into moderately dysfunctional families of their own. Ohhh, the joys of being a parent.
Yesterday we went on our trip to the dentist. In our small town, the only decent office that accepts our insurance is two and a half hours away. Anyhoo, most of their conversation revolved around comic books and movies. It is one of the few topics under which they are both in agreement on major issues. Here is how I know that they are seriously maturing: At five and eight years old, they had one of the biggest arguments ever known amongst siblings. Is the Incredible Hulk a real superhero? This led to a huge, knock down, screaming rampage.
And now, ten years later, they can rationally agree that the green muscled hunk needs more airtime in the movie theatre. I am the proud mother of two maturing young men.
When we stopped for lunch at the Chinese food restaurant, no one in our family screamed that I starve my children by making them eat healthy food. Neither of them flung peas, spit wads, or scalding tea. I never heard a single burping of the entire alphabet. And no one slid under the table in search of previously chewed bubble gum to snack on.
People tell me the boys are so good because they had good parenting. But I know this is not the truth. I have seen some pretty darned terrific parents whose kids had major issues. The reality is that I have been blessed.
Heather Leigh
Proud mother of non-belchers
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Drafts of Poop
"The first draft of anything is shit" --Ernest Hemingway
These words of education are intermingled with Stephen King's On Writing. While perched on top of their giant shoulders, I have learned to keep writing/bleeding through that rough draft without looking back and turning into a pillar of salt. The current crap I am wading through is for Massage Therapists.
Please don't divulge my prior secret identity, but for a dozen years I was a massage therapist. It was the 'day job' that I happened to love. Actually, it's not that I don't want it known that I rubbed shoulders in exchange for mortgage payments and tofu. I am not ashamed of my previous income source. Massage was a great career. What other job is there in which people are so happy to see you? Everybody loves the massage woman.
The big problemo with people finding out that I know how to take away aches and pains, is that I always had to wonder if they loved me for my hands or my witty personality. And, as soon as they had knowledge of my profession I would hear, "Oh, I could really use a good massage."
They would gaze at their tight shoulders and then stare pleadingly into my eyes. Kind of like the dogs when I stand near their jar of biscuits. For the people, I would answer that I could use a really good massage, too. For the dogs, I just eat the biscuit in front of them and laugh.
No, I don't really do that. No human likes dog biscuits.
Anyway, back to writing rough drafts. This is my fourth non-fiction book and they are not the joy and laughter that sprays out when I write the Scout and Ellie series for kids. Eventually, I will revise this latest book to add my humor that I pray other people appreciate. But that first time? Every completed chapter is like spitting up a dry tooth ripped out of my mouth with rusty pliers. So far, three are done, so that means three stripped teeth. Good thing I have dental insurance.
Oh, is someone out there going to ask why I am writing/bleeding/vomiting something that is not fun? Well, you must be one of those not-addicted-to-writing types I've heard rumors about. You don't know the inner horrors of having creatures/words/information/stories nailed into your skull that can only escape your body through the magical thing called a computer keyboard.
See, I have all of this experience of having been a soother of tight muscles and I have to rip it out of me to make the memories stop haunting me day and night. If I don't pass it on the the next generation of therapists, I will never have a moment of tea sipping peace again. It is just that bad.
Oh, the anguish of the massage therapist turned writer. Well, at least I have a way to destroy/murder/kill/humiliate my memories.
The funny part is, I don't even care if my plethora of facts and wisdom will truly help someone. I just have to get it out so that I can go on with my life of joy and bliss, laughter and stories.
Okay, well, I guess I do care. It would be nice to have been a service to at least a few hundred thousand million therapists. Passing on my knowledge to the next batch of healers would feel rather pleasant.
Rather like Hemingway must have felt knowing that his First Draft Shit philosophy helps so many of us keep trudging on through the muck of every day doo-doo. That guy is my hero.
Heather Leigh,
Proud member of the Church of First Draft Shit
These words of education are intermingled with Stephen King's On Writing. While perched on top of their giant shoulders, I have learned to keep writing/bleeding through that rough draft without looking back and turning into a pillar of salt. The current crap I am wading through is for Massage Therapists.
Please don't divulge my prior secret identity, but for a dozen years I was a massage therapist. It was the 'day job' that I happened to love. Actually, it's not that I don't want it known that I rubbed shoulders in exchange for mortgage payments and tofu. I am not ashamed of my previous income source. Massage was a great career. What other job is there in which people are so happy to see you? Everybody loves the massage woman.
The big problemo with people finding out that I know how to take away aches and pains, is that I always had to wonder if they loved me for my hands or my witty personality. And, as soon as they had knowledge of my profession I would hear, "Oh, I could really use a good massage."
They would gaze at their tight shoulders and then stare pleadingly into my eyes. Kind of like the dogs when I stand near their jar of biscuits. For the people, I would answer that I could use a really good massage, too. For the dogs, I just eat the biscuit in front of them and laugh.
No, I don't really do that. No human likes dog biscuits.
Anyway, back to writing rough drafts. This is my fourth non-fiction book and they are not the joy and laughter that sprays out when I write the Scout and Ellie series for kids. Eventually, I will revise this latest book to add my humor that I pray other people appreciate. But that first time? Every completed chapter is like spitting up a dry tooth ripped out of my mouth with rusty pliers. So far, three are done, so that means three stripped teeth. Good thing I have dental insurance.
Oh, is someone out there going to ask why I am writing/bleeding/vomiting something that is not fun? Well, you must be one of those not-addicted-to-writing types I've heard rumors about. You don't know the inner horrors of having creatures/words/information/stories nailed into your skull that can only escape your body through the magical thing called a computer keyboard.
See, I have all of this experience of having been a soother of tight muscles and I have to rip it out of me to make the memories stop haunting me day and night. If I don't pass it on the the next generation of therapists, I will never have a moment of tea sipping peace again. It is just that bad.
Oh, the anguish of the massage therapist turned writer. Well, at least I have a way to destroy/murder/kill/humiliate my memories.
The funny part is, I don't even care if my plethora of facts and wisdom will truly help someone. I just have to get it out so that I can go on with my life of joy and bliss, laughter and stories.
Okay, well, I guess I do care. It would be nice to have been a service to at least a few hundred thousand million therapists. Passing on my knowledge to the next batch of healers would feel rather pleasant.
Rather like Hemingway must have felt knowing that his First Draft Shit philosophy helps so many of us keep trudging on through the muck of every day doo-doo. That guy is my hero.
Heather Leigh,
Proud member of the Church of First Draft Shit
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Rain For Dogs
Why didn't anyone tell me it rains a lot in the Pacific Northwest? I thought all of these green trees and pastures that we are surrounded by were the result of water shipped in from the Rocky Mountains, hundreds of miles away. My friends have betrayed me. Someone out there could have given me the heads up that winter here entails days, weeks, months of rainy days. How was I supposed to know?
And as my family is from southern California, we're not going with the flow of this incessant water from the sky. The least little sprinkle sends us running to: 1. turn up the heater 2. hide under a mountain of blankets 3. refuse to come out until the insanity is over.
These poor locals here have water soaking their brain. Their temperature gauge is wildly miscued. While I maintain a thick, long, water proof coat from December until May, they prance around in t-shirts. Do they not know that 50 degrees F. is the level in which frost bite can saw off limbs? What is wrong with these people?
But the great thing about us being packed together from our fear of chill, is that we are closer as a family unit. My teenage sons are able to bicker and argue to their heart's content. And the subjects are always provocative and profound: from who ate the last veggie chicken pattie to whether or not we should play Pictionary. Don't even get me started on the joy of discovering who stole the last bag of caramel filled chocolate chips.
The boys and I often gaze out the window at the crazy people walking their dogs in the rain. It would be laughable, but what about those poor dogs? Don't they know that water has been known to melt the fur off even the shaggiest creature?
We are kept busy though, with cleaning the floors from puppy Daisy's romps in the back yard mud puddles. What more could we offer to a new dog than mud to play in? Right out the doggie door. What more could she ask for? And old dog Sydney receives mind stimulation in her attempt to not fall down in the slippery grass. Our dogs have it all here.
The only thing that keeps me going is the knowledge that our hometown has been experiencing torrential rains and flooding this year. Is it mean that I sit back and chuckle at their inability to bring about rain as a constant practice, and not as a major dump-out from above? I mean, at least we aren't that bad. Besides, it serves them right for not warning me about the months of rain here.
As I sit back, sip hot cocoa and munch warm popcorn, I guess I should be at peace. My children have a safe, dry place to argue about meaningless subjects. Friends back home are facing floods as revenge for not instructing me on the laws of Mother Nature. The dogs are thriving in muddy mind games.
And, in all seriousness, I am thankful that our family has a warm, dry safe home in which to watch the beautiful rain from our windows. Oh, and that heaters were invented!
Heather Leigh,
Betrayed Rain Victim
And as my family is from southern California, we're not going with the flow of this incessant water from the sky. The least little sprinkle sends us running to: 1. turn up the heater 2. hide under a mountain of blankets 3. refuse to come out until the insanity is over.
These poor locals here have water soaking their brain. Their temperature gauge is wildly miscued. While I maintain a thick, long, water proof coat from December until May, they prance around in t-shirts. Do they not know that 50 degrees F. is the level in which frost bite can saw off limbs? What is wrong with these people?
But the great thing about us being packed together from our fear of chill, is that we are closer as a family unit. My teenage sons are able to bicker and argue to their heart's content. And the subjects are always provocative and profound: from who ate the last veggie chicken pattie to whether or not we should play Pictionary. Don't even get me started on the joy of discovering who stole the last bag of caramel filled chocolate chips.
The boys and I often gaze out the window at the crazy people walking their dogs in the rain. It would be laughable, but what about those poor dogs? Don't they know that water has been known to melt the fur off even the shaggiest creature?
We are kept busy though, with cleaning the floors from puppy Daisy's romps in the back yard mud puddles. What more could we offer to a new dog than mud to play in? Right out the doggie door. What more could she ask for? And old dog Sydney receives mind stimulation in her attempt to not fall down in the slippery grass. Our dogs have it all here.
The only thing that keeps me going is the knowledge that our hometown has been experiencing torrential rains and flooding this year. Is it mean that I sit back and chuckle at their inability to bring about rain as a constant practice, and not as a major dump-out from above? I mean, at least we aren't that bad. Besides, it serves them right for not warning me about the months of rain here.
As I sit back, sip hot cocoa and munch warm popcorn, I guess I should be at peace. My children have a safe, dry place to argue about meaningless subjects. Friends back home are facing floods as revenge for not instructing me on the laws of Mother Nature. The dogs are thriving in muddy mind games.
And, in all seriousness, I am thankful that our family has a warm, dry safe home in which to watch the beautiful rain from our windows. Oh, and that heaters were invented!
Heather Leigh,
Betrayed Rain Victim
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