Heads or Tails

At first, reading was my salvation. Now, it's writing. If I couldn't write, I beg you to dig a hole and bury me, because I'd be dead inside. That might sound a little melodramatic, but it's the truth.

I have been faced with a very important personal decision I've put off for a very long time. I'm not going to recount the details here -- it's too close and I'm not ready. Suffice to say the massive stress of this decision has manifested in physical ways, affected my emotional and mental health, and it's time to put a stop to this horseshit.

I'm no stranger to stress. It probably runs through my veins like heart's blood. All I know is I'm finally sick and tired of feeling this way, totally aware it has been through my own choices and decisions. I don't regret those decisions or choices, but I do choose a different path at this time.

I don't deal well with change. In my life, change is dangerous, dark, and frightening. I know it's the only constant, and I know it's inevitable. I also know not all change is bad. But I don't like it and I often struggle against it to my own detriment. I second-guess myself; I worry way too much about things over which I have no control; I run with the hamsters all night long. I often put other people's feelings ahead of my own. I have a difficult time asking for help, although I am very blessed to have some amazing friends in my life and two daughters who are the world to me. Then, I beat myself up about the decisions I have made, which is really just a lesson in futility.

It is what it is. A saying I totally despise, probably because it is so true.

So, I have made this decision with full intent of seeing it through. I hope I'm strong enough to do that. Because there's this little girl inside who is very scared, very lonely, and very much resistant to my decision. She's crying and carrying on and in so much pain I scarce know what to do with her other than to hold her close and let her sob it all out. Tell her it's okay to be sad and scared, but that everything will be all right. At the moment she's not listening which is manifesting as nausea, headache, elevated heart rate, and other examples of total fuckery.

I hope I'm not lying to her. I sincerely hope my comforting words are not lies, because she deserves the truth. She deserves better.

The thing is, all these symptoms are only telling me I'm doing the right thing. A very good friend told me once the more scared you are means you're on the right track. In this case, I'd have to say I'm dead on, from the way I feel. While I know this too, shall pass, in the meantime I'm feeling awful.

And yet...I still harbor this small spark of hope. I attribute this to all the books I read that told me if you are strong, and brave, and stand true, there is a happy ending. Of course, I read just as many books in which there are no happy endings, so I'm aware this is a crap shoot. I'm just going to flip a coin and hope for the best.

I'll let you know if it lands heads or tails.

In The Beginning

I honestly don't have a lot of memories of my very early childhood -- like, before eight. I know we moved a lot -- each one of us kids were born in a different town.

My very first memory is of near-death. It was just before my third birthday, and I was sick with croup. My fever spiked, and my windpipe started to swell shut. My mother told me I was starting to turn blue. My dad scooped me up and ran down the street to the hospital. In those days, they didn't have inhalation therapy like today, so an emergency tracheotomy was performed and I was installed in a plastic oxygen tent over my crib.

I vaguely remember my dad holding me and running. I remember a bright light in my eyes, and a doctor's face covered in a green mask. I remember him coming close to my face with something shiny in his hand and then I don't remember anything else.

My dad saved my life.

I couldn't speak unless I placed my finger over the hole in my throat, and I wouldn't touch it. I spent my third birthday in the hospital, and my mother and the nurses brought me a birthday cake with no candles, because of the oxygen. I received twenty-eight Little Golden books and my mother taught me to read before I was finally released.

They said the scar would fade but it never did.

I remember once visiting my grandparents, and nagged to put on my shoes. I loved running around barefoot; but not when a three-inch sliver of wood became lodged in the bottom of my little foot. My Grandpa Rudy held me in the emergency room while they poured iodine over it. Man, it hurt like a bugger and I was pretty vocal about my opinion. They wrapped my foot up in a big white bandage that looked like a cast, and Grandpa carried me out to the car.

I have memories of the Pacific Ocean. I remember the giant redwoods. I still dream about them.

###

My clearest memories are when we lived in Visalia, an agricultural small town in the middle of the San Joaquin valley. We lived across the street from Mooney's Park. My dad worked there building a Wild West town for the little amusement park. I loved going over there and riding the roller coaster; since my dad worked there we could ride as many times as we wanted. A small train ran around a small track right through the Wild West town; it was really cool.

When my dad worked there he somehow found time to build a little house for me and my sister. My sister wasn't really all that interested, but I loved it. It had a porch, windows, a sun roof, and built asymmetrically, like a Tim Burton creation probably before he was even born. I was heartbroken when my father sold it.

It was definitely farm country. An irrigation ditch ran behind our house, and of course, water and dirt were just irresistible to kids. My mother used to yell at us all the time, telling us we were going to catch polio or some other disgusting disease playing in that muck. Even the kiddie pool under the huge walnut tree in the front yard wasn't enough to keep us from the lure of the ick. 

We had a dog named Inky; I had a bicycle I could ride to school or down the road to my friend Carla's house where we would play I Spy and Man From U.N.C.L.E; we had a baby cow in one half of the barn. The other half of the barn was my dad's studio/workshop. It was where he made the magic happen. Not only was he an accomplished carpenter, he was a sign painter and an artist. He loved to work in oils, and the aroma of oil paint, linseed oil, and paint thinner brings me back to that studio as if I were standing in it right now.

That was my life. And it was good. Happy.

The Days Go By

And like a former boss used to tell me, "Busy is good." Of course, he was a doctor and he made a hell of a lot more money than I do. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere but I'm too tired to figure it out.

Work-wise, things are going well. Personally, there are issues, dark issues, that have found it necessary to rear their ugly head once again and make their presence known. I'm not real happy about this, of course, because I thought I laid a lot of those hideous things to rest a long time ago, and I really don't have time for this horseshit. However, while stuffing issues into a trunk might work in the short term as a coping mechanism, I'm a witness that as a long-term strategy it leaves a lot to be desired.

The truth is, the roots of these issues go back so far it is nigh impossible to dig them out properly and give them the treatment they deserve. Where do you even start? It's like trying to dig up that stubborn root of the tree in your backyard that's fucking up digging and planting your garden. The shovel hits a root, and the next thing you know, you're digging clear to the planet's core and wishing you had a flamethrower so you could just burn it all away and start over. And still the root goes on and on and on.

But there is no starting over. At this stage of the game you have what you have, and what you have to do is deal with it. Because after so many years, that damned trunk is stuffed so full there's no more room and that shit busts out all over the place and splatters on the walls, the floor, in your hair, ruining the couch and poisoning the plants. No one wants that.

If the gorram health care in this country was worth a fart in a high wind, I'd opt for therapy. Hey, I know when I'm outclassed, but it's not an option. Still, I'm not stupid and I can figure out a lot of this on my own. Until I win the Lotto or a seat in Congress and can afford proper health care, I have to do this myself.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived on the west coast. At the age of eight, her whole world disintegrated due to the bitter divorce of her parents. With no warning or preparation, she and her siblings were transported three thousand mils across country to the east coast, to live with a grandmother who made the witch in Hansel and Gretel look like Mother Theresa. Not only was it a great culture shock, she lost everything she loved. Her grandparents, her father, her dog, her bicycle, her friends, her home...she became the caretaker of her younger siblings and watched as her mother deteriorated into alcoholism and a whole lot of self-destructive behavior no child should ever witness or experience.

And that was just the beginning of her hell. The first instance of sexual molestation occurred at age eight; it was the first time, but it was, unfortunately, not the last time. In those days, it was not something you could talk about or tell. Couple that with heinous threats against her loved ones should she open her mouth, and there you have the beginnings of the trunk.

She became withdrawn and quite introverted in an attempt to become invisible; that didn't work, although the tendency toward introversion became a lifelong behavior. Constant moving and switching schools did nothing to give her a feeling of permanence; in her world, there was no such thing. And she always had her younger siblings to look after and a mother to tend when alcohol changed her into a complete stranger.

It's not that there weren't good times -- few and far between, but there were some. But there was never anyone who looked after this little girl, to tell her certain things were not her fault, that she was beautiful and special and deserved so much more. So she grew up with the deep certainty, which she kept in the trunk, that she was totally worthless.

Now, this little girl could have collapsed completely and adopt the self-destructive behavior she was witness to in her youth. She could have cultivated hatred and bitterness, and in total honesty, there was a period of time where she flirted with this path. However, for some unknown reason, instead she set about to prove she was indeed worthy and had something to offer. It actually became a driving force in her life. She was not always successful, and often spent many a long hour beating herself black and blue for her errors and shortcomings, worse than anyone else ever reprimanded her, at least until she got married.

Which led to a complete and total clusterfuck of cosmic proportions. She thought she'd already been through the fire, and indeed she had. What she didn't know was that fire was a tiny match compared to the conflagration she would be confronted with in the course of her marriage. Which is a story for another time.

Baby steps, yanno. I supposed this should be continued. All I know is reading and writing has been my salvation my whole life, and if that's the tool I have, I'm going to use it.

Stay tuned. If you dare.

The Fantasy - Volume One

It's been really difficult to find time in the middle of all the ongoing editing gigs to find time to write. My head is often overflowing with Other People's Stuff, but I absolutely adore what I do so there's that. But thanks to an ass-kicking from a very dear friend (who kicks HARD!!) I came to realize if I don't make time to write my own stuff, well, it's just not going to get written.

So, I've modified my schedule to include time set aside for my own work. While I work on the sequel to Athena's Promise (titled "Athena's Chains"), I've decided to release four volumes of some of my shorter works. Each volume will include some new fiction, some old fiction, and teasers for "Chains". I'm really happy to announce The Fantasy - Volume One is available now from Amazon, with three more volumes to follow over the next few weeks:

The Funny - Volume Two
The Horror - Volume Three
The Heart - Volume Four

I'm really excited about this. So excited I might have peed a little. Hey, it happens. Don't pretend it's never happened to you.

It's really too easy to get stuck in a rut and tell yourself you don't have time for this or that, whatever your passion might be. The truth is, you have to make time, because it goes by all too fast and then, it's months (or even years!) later and you wonder just exactly where all that time went. I don't want to make that mistake anymore.

Hopefully, after the four volumes are completed and done, "Athena's Chains" will be close to ready, and then I have a few more projects in mind before the last in the Aegian Trilogy, "Athena's Release", is published. I know it's an ambitious goal, but I figure if I shoot for the stars and end up in the mud, at least I tried. Life is too damned short to sit on the sidelines and watch the parade go by. I want to be up front with the big fuzzy hat and the long stick, marching my ass off.

In the meantime, check out The Fantasy and if you like it (or even if you don't!) please leave a review or click the "Like" button. We indies rely on word of mouth since we don't have a monster budget or heavy hitters behind us, so every little bit helps. Tell your family, your friends, your neighbors (but maybe not that creepy guy with the weird glasses) and anyone else you can think of who might love some twisted, slightly disturbing, and quirky-type stories. I'll love you even if you don't, but I'll love you harder if you do :)

Thanks! Updates as they happen.

An Open Letter To Nathan Fillion

Dear Nathan,

I have loved you deeply, hopelessly, since the  days of Firefly. I'm sure you must be sick of hearing that (or maybe not – love is love, no matter how demented and twisted) but it's the truth. I have the season on DVD and a copy of Serenity. I can also watch you on Netflix on my Kindle Fire from bed, but we better not go there or I won't finish this letter.

And then, there's Dr. Horrible. You're not exactly a Big Damned Hero there, are you? Maybe that was a foreshadowing of things to come.  But still, not only do you look absolutely yummy, you display an intoxicating sense of humor I find irresistible. As in "OMG, I have to get in bed with my Kindle Fire!" irresistible. When you started your gig as Richard Castle, in spite of my abhorrence of ABC's series (with the exception of "Revenge", because that really appeals to my sense of justice – don't be nervous – and "Once Upon A Time" because of Rumple) I followed you there, too. After all, you play a dashing, handsome, and funny writer. And I follow you on Twitter. Some may look at this as a type of stalking.  I prefer to think of it as being a devoted fan.

However, this debacle with the Bloggess has forced me to evaluate our long distance love affair. Oh, it's true – I've flirted with Adam Levine, but he's just a boy when compared to your manliness. My heart has always belonged to you. But when I learned the Bloggess (who is a Goddess of the Funny whereas I'm just a Goddess-In-Training) asked you for a small favor involving twine for over a year and was totally ignored, I had to question just exactly how committed you were to our relationship.

(He's just waiting  to take your spot, Nathan. Yeah, Adam wants some Netta-love.)

Nater-Tater, (that is a brilliant nickname from the Bloggess, except I now have a strangely erotic reaction to potatoes) I am truly disappointed in you. All the poor woman wanted was a picture of you holding twine to stave off the Evil Marketers who stalk her. I figured, of course Nater-Tater would do this! He's a Big Damned Hero! He loves his demented devoted fans! He knows he would be nowhere today without their adulation!                                        

But you didn't.

Others had to step up where you did not. People like Penn Jillette, and Jeri Ryan, and Wil Wheaton. People like Simon Pegg and Brian Boitano, for the love of Baby Jeebus. THOSE are Big Damned Heroes, Nater-Tater. Though I will say, this whole thing led to a picture of Matthew Broderick holding a spoon – which not only makes him cool, it makes him sexy. And I NEVER thought anything would do that.


Those are people who appreciate the funneh, people who remember what their fans have done for them. My defense of your action (or more specifically, NON-ACTION) has weakened because I'm feeling like you just don't care. And that has broken my heart into a million pieces.

I'm sure you have your reasons. Like your quote when asked about it – "I just don't do those kinds of things." Jeezuz wept, Nater-Tater, I don't get this at all. There are pictures of your bare ass all over the internet! Would one lousy picture of you holding an innocuous piece of twine really kill you? Especially if it made people happy? Really?

Dude. YOUR ASS IS ALL OVER THE INTERNET.

It's probably too late to fix this with a picture, but you could try. You could reclaim your status as my Number One Obsession, because I'm sure you're feeling as heartbroken as I am over our rift. You can still Do The Right Thing, whether it's with twine, a spatula, or a spoon. Or even an emery board. If you don't have an emery board, ask the makeup person. I'm sure they have one. Or, if you give me your home address, I can deliver one personally.

*sigh* For years, you have been my Big Damned Hero. Now I have to look for another one. It won't be easy, because you leave big shoes to fill. So, you can cancel that restraining order, because you won't need it anymore. I am still in love with Capt. Reynolds; I still adore the crew of the Serenity, but you, Nathan Fillion, are on my shit list, as much as it pains me to say that and probably pains you to hear it.

In closing, Nater-Tater, we are over. I have to face the fact even though it has been my dying wish (well, I'm not dying, exactly, but eventually I will) to receive a Tweet from you, it is now crystal clear I will never get it. I am now transferring that wish to Adam. Please mark your records accordingly.

In true disappointment,

Your Former Love Slave

P.S. I still retain the right to sleep with Mal Reynolds at night. You can't take that away from me!

Good-Bye, Davy, With Love

I have a big sad today, so right now, even as we speak, I'm baking brownies. (Recipe to follow.)

Davy Jones of the Monkees has passed away of an apparent heart attack at the age of 66.

He was my first crush, way back in the day. I watched their show religiously. If you want to put it in today's perspective, he was my Backstreet Boy, my Justin Bieber (and a fuck of a lot cuter and more talented, if you want my honest opinion).

When they sang this song, they made me a believer, too.

My childhood was...difficult (and that's all I'm saying) so these magic moments of the Monkees' hi-jinks were treasured.

His death has affected me more than say...Whitney Houston, mostly because he wasn't a cracked-out diva and actually worked for a living. Last month he was performing on a cruise ship (and doing a mighty fine job) and as recently as last night performing on a solo tour.

The Monkees worked with some of the biggest talent in music, like Neil Diamond (who wrote "A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You), Boyce and Hart, and Carole King. They played their own instruments on tour, although not always in the studio, and by many accounts were respected musicians even if they were a "casted" group. Among their friends and supporters were the Beatles, The Who, and the Spencer Davis Group. They took a lot of heat from the media for using studio musicians in their recordings, but this was unfair as a lot of the groups of the time (and even now, actually) employ studio musicians.

He was cute, funny, talented, and a gift. He will be missed.

And now, I'm going to eat my brownies, play all the YouTube videos I can find, and sing at the top of my lungs. For you, Davy. <3

Black Bean Brownies

1 can black beans, rinsed and drained
2 ripe bananas
1/3 c agave
1/4 c unsweetened cocoa
1 tbsp. cinnamon
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 c sugar (optional, I left it out)
1/4 c oats

Preheat oven to 350 degrees; line an 8x8 pan with aluminum foil and spray with non-stick cooking spray.

Throw everything else into the food processor and let it rip.

Bake for 30 minutes. These brownies will have a fudge-like consistency. Gluten free, too. Can't taste the beans at all.

The Seventh Level Of Hell

So, I had my fourth session with the Evil Trainer, included in the deal when I signed up. This time, it only took me ten minutes to exit the car, which is a five minute improvement over the last time. Sure, might not seem like much to you -- you know, a normal person -- but to me, that is almost as huge as the inches or weight I've lost so far. I still can't go in to the gym on my own (as in no trainer and no BFF) but I'm working on it.

He's always so perky, this guy. It's irritating, but not really. He seems invested in my success, which I'm sure is related to the pricing sheet he showed me after the workout for additional sessions. But I'll get to that in a minute.

He almost killed me. I mean, he made me RUN! I didn't even know I could run. Of course, the sight of a fat lady who doesn't run unless someone big and ugly is chasing her (and then it depends on how ugly and if they're toting some kind of weapon, like ninja stars or a spiked club) was probably quite comical. My back was really sore after Thursday's workout, and I knew it was going to scream. And it did. Loudly. The Evil Trainer was fantastic about modifying certain exercises he had planned (probably staying up well into the night, rubbing his hands gleefully and drooling on his exercise sheet) to minimize the strain. We worked arms and legs, and after the first fifteen minutes I was wishing I'd been born without limbs of any kind. Except maybe tentacles. Tentacles would be cool.

"You're tough," he said. "You got this. We got this." No, motherheifer, what YOU'RE going to get is a painful, messy, gory, PAINFUL death in my next novel. This I swear to the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster. At the workout bar, where he proceeded to torture me with modified chin-ups and pushups, I almost cried. And then I said to myself, "Self? YOU ARE NOT CRYING IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING GYM, OKAY? NO." And I did not. But it was close. This whole process is such an emotional one for me, which is most likely another reason I have avoided it as long as I have. But anyway...

After the workout, we proceeded to the most painful part of the session. The financial part.

Holy shit, this guy is expensive. Like, take-my-breath-away or your-ass-must-be-made-of-gold expensive. Like, there's-no-way-in-hell-I-can-afford-this expensive. I totally understand. He's a professional and he has knowledge I do not. He has managed the impossible so far -- getting me to work out, encouraging me to the point where I think I can do this, enduring many exclamations of how much I hate him and putting up with smart-assery on a nuclear scale and even the nickname of Evil Little Fucker. (He said that would make him an ELF and he'd love that on a t-shirt.) It's not the ordinary man who can handle me, but he does it with humor and grace I did not expect.

I know I can't do this on my own. Not yet. So I looked over his pricing sheet and despaired.

I explained my situation -- being freelance, some months I'm okay and others I'm dodging disconnect notices. It's the nature of the beast, and I accept that about my chosen career. I keep my expenses low and my workload high (which landed me in this physical position in the first place, I suppose). The thought of taking on an expense equivalent to a car payment was enough to make me want to vomit and it's just not going to happen.

He made a counter-offer. I said I would think it over. He said no matter what, every two weeks, even if I went on to do this on my own, he would work out with me. (The cynical side of me says sure you will, and try to talk me into more sessions, but honestly, he seems sincere and I do possess a pretty good Bullshit Meter.) I know I won't do as well as I could without his services, although he was throwing out tips and advice on how to do it on my own, and that he knew I had this. Which I do not. Not yet.

Now, I am no stranger to retail, and this is a retail business. On my way out, I caught up with the Big Guy who manages the place. I really like him -- except for the fact he exposed me to this torture in the first place -- and even gave him an autographed copy of my book, which he is currently reading and enjoying immensely. :)  We talked a bit about how it was going, and the fact continuing with a trainer was a little bit out of my reach (like those dishes on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, which will probably never be used and will stay there forever unless I get a ladder). He said he sure understood, and was this close >< to going into the sales spiel when I painfully raised my hand (amazed I could raise it at all) and said, "Nuh-uh. Don't bother. I already know what you're going to say, and dude, I'm a hard sell."

"No you aren't," he says.

I chuckled. "Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining. I spent years in retail. I know how it works. I make salespeople cry."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Because I can. Because I only buy what I WANT to buy, not what someone WANTS me to buy. People see my baby face and think I'm stupid and underestimate me which not only pisses me off but kills the sale every time."

He shook his head. "It's not the face. It's the voice. You have the sweetest voice I've ever heard."

Heh. Nice try.

I hobbled out to my car, convinced I am in the Seventh Level of Hell. I'm in so much pain if I fall onto the asphalt right now, they'd have to call 9-1-1 and the crane. Because I'm fairly certain if I fall I will be unable to rise on my own, struggling like a beetle on its back. The best thing about my 1997 Buick? HEATED SEATS. I think that's the only thing that saved me. Once I arrived home, upon the advice of one of my Facebook friends (oh thank you!! May the blessings of the GFSM rain down upon you!) I drank a glass of apple juice and about a quart of water (pushing the vision of what fish do in it firmly A-WAY).

Another Facebook friend informed me the Ninth Level of Hell awaits tomorrow. And probably the next day. Thank you, Facebook friend. I was afraid of that. No blessings from the GFSM for you, sorry.  *sigh*

At any rate, I'm going to crunch numbers and see what I can come up with. If I can possibly work this out, I will, because I don't want to lose forward momentum after a lifetime of failing at this. I meet with the Evil Trainer for a half-hour assessment on Thursday, and I'm taking my BFF with me. If he thinks I'm a handful, he ain't seen nothing yet.

She's from Chicago too, you Evil Little Fucker, and it's ON. Oh, it's so ON.

I'm bringing the big guns.

I'm cracking up already. Hee!