Personal Stuff

I thought I'd start a series of sorts on this blog about what it was like for me growing up. So...yeah, I'll be talking about my family. Some are real wonky.

The plan is to post these by Thursday or Friday each week. But then again, my schedule is crazy.

My first post will be about my mom. What she was like and what my sibs and I endured.

My thoughts on posting some personal stuff will be in hopes to inspire or help others. And how the people in a writer's life may affect our stories.

Hope everyone has a lovely weekend! I'll be with the Glowstick and visiting my Little-Pizza-Party-Boy having some fun. Love being a grandmother!

Hugs and chocolate!

Shelly

Sabotaged

The last two weeks of my writing life’s been difficult. If it’s not my relentless work schedule getting in the way, it’s my brain stumbling over words. Or, how do I describe this and that. Or, it’s sweetman sitting at the kitchen table clipping his nails or munching on chips loudly. Or, it’s No-No going off on one her hypochondriac rants. Or, it’s Honey Bear bringing his cat ball (loud bell inside), slamming it into my lap to play. Or, it’s sweetman stepping into another warm welcome from Sir-Poops-A-Lot---listening to his tantrums.

The following describes the other night at my house. Number five has a lot to do with the chaos I go through, I swear.

Shelly sat at her kitchen table around seven o’ clock. She’d cleaned the kitchen, walked her dogs, and made herself a cup of tea. It had been a long one at work and she’d anticipated this moment at her keyboards all day. A story for her next chapter chattered at her all day. She had to write.

Tinkletinkletinkle…Something small and noisy plopped in her lap. She moved her hand to grab it. A golf-sized ball. A cold, wet nose nudged at her hand. Honey Bear. He wanted to play ball.

Shelly rolled the ball into the living room where her hubby watched television.

The little cotton ball on four legs ran back to the kitchen table with his ball wanting his mommy to throw more.

She sighed, and said: “Honey, can you play with Honey Bear?”

Her hubby walked into her writing area. “Sure,” he said, picking up the fluff mound, turning around, he went up the stairs.

Shelly’s finger tips tapped the keyboards at first, warming up, and finally danced across them. Her mind raced back to her story file. “So much for a cup of tea,” Mel said into the air.

Someone stomped down the stairs.“Mom,” No-No said. “I think the doctor messed up my hip.”

Shelly looked up from her keyboards and watched her daughter plop into a chair across from her. She bugged her eyes at her daughter. “I’m working, right now".

“But I’m in pain. I think I’m going to be crippled for life,” her daughter said. Tears filled her eyes.

Shelly sucked in a gob of air and looked down at her computer screen. She can banter while I write, she thought. I can do two things at once. Her fingers pecked away again.A flicker of light floated behind her. Don walked toward her, a silhouette.

A crash sounded from upstairs. “He did it again!” her husband shouted from the stair top. “Where’s that dog? Where’s that dog?”

Shelly looked up from her keyboard and rolled her eyes.

“You don’t believe me!” No-No cried. “You don’t love me. You never did.” Snot dribbled down her daughter’s lips onto her chin.

Shelly didn’t respond and looked back at her keyboards. Her fingers raced across them. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.” His free hand rested on her shoulder and he put the small votive on the counter in front of her.

An army of feet plodded down the stairs, human and animal. Sir Poops-A-Lot raced to his box. Shelly’s husband ran behind. “Bad dog!”

She breathed in and kept punching at the keyboards. She leaned back into his chest, warm and safe. The baby inside her stretched out for the evening’s slumber and she moved Don’s hand to her belly. “Do you feel that?”

“You’re a bad boy!” her husband shouted before he took a seat at the table. He went on and on about dog poop.

No-no went on and on about being crippled.

Shelly tried to get her story out while her family fussed over stuff. The inner and outer chatter didn’t mix. She exploded inside and both her hands slapped the table. “My writing is another job! Seriously!” she shouted.

Yup. Another day in the life of a writer.

Happy blogging, reading and writing!!

Shelly

My Idea World and Futuristic Slavery

Sundays used to be the day people went to church or slept in. Big dinners were served and grandma and grandpa, even aunts, uncles, and cousins were important. It used to be a day where everything shut down except ones self. It used to be a day of rest and a time to reflect. Not anymore.

In my idea world, I’d be sleeping right now, maybe til nine am. I ‘d wake up and curl into my hubby’s warm body and we’d make love taking our time knowing we’d have no where to rush to. After, we’d lay there for a few minutes, maybe doze off for a little while longer.

Breakfast would happen in the middle of the day. Some eggs over easy with bagels. Maybe even some cream cheese and lox.

The rest of the day would be spent piddling around, self reflecting and journaling. Or, spending some time in one of our near-by parks walking or biking. Maybe I’d go see my sister, my dad, my brother, and some of my grown daughters.

This is my idea day off but it doesn’t exist, not even on my day off. Every Sunday I rush to get to work like a million other Americans. This my friend is what progress has brought us to. Futuristic slavery. No rest and little time to pursue your personal dreams.

Yup. Shelly is feeling the stress, the body aches, and the exhaustion that comes with pursuing a dream. My life is being strangled by a corporate schedule bending me to be flexible for them, not me. But my dream lives on and my fingers continue to peck at the keyboards. My brain never stops. I refuse to be anybody’s slave. Some how, some way, I’ll break free from the corporate chains that bind me.

One day, I’ll have my day to putz around and rest. One day my world will evolve around me. Not me, around it. It’s coming one word and one chapter at a time.

Okay, enough of that blah..blah…blah.

What’s your idea Sunday or day off? How do you see progress in the 21st century? How are you guys dealing with American slavery and following your dream?

Happy blogging, reading,and writing!!!

Shelly

P.S. I’d rather be working on my writing today.

Challenge Day 15: Life’s Lessons

Wow! It’s day fifteen of my challenge to write a blog everyday in fifteen minutes. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. The hard part was paring it down to fifty words. I’m a wordy person even in conversation.

But, that’s not the point of this blog. Hopefully, this one won’t be lengthy I’ve got other writing to attend to and a phone conference with my editor some time today. It’s one of those be ready when she calls deals, drop-what-you’re-doing-at-that moment-kind-of-thing.

Okay. Enough of that.

This morning I woke up at eight A.M. Its not like me to sleep this late, I’m usually up by five A.M. But it’s freezing in the Sunshine State today. Tomorrow could be a different story. Even Sir-Poops-A-Lot stayed in bed all night. No warm welcomes from him, thank the potty-gods.

About the time I meandered down the stairs to the kitchen, my phone rang. Right away I’m thinking its work calling me to come in on my day off (happens a lot since I’m a shift manager). But no, its Tinkerbelle slash Esmeralda, daughter number four. She’s got two personalities. I swear. Good and Evil.

“Mom,”  she said, after mumbles something. She’s known for this. Ghetto language. I know, I raised her to speak proper.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I ask.

“Do you think you can slip me a twenty every week?” she asks loud and clear. No mumbling here. “You know, dad won’t.” Yup. That’s true dad won’t because she’s used us like a yo-yo ever since she turned thirteen, shuffling from my house to his, looking to do things her way. He’s fet-up and makes no bones about it.

I hold my breath for a few seconds, rolled my eyes, and said, “You need to get a job.”  You see, she left her dad’s house about three weeks ago and left mine this past summer. She’s not one to follow the rules, only hers, no other. In February, she’ll be eighteen. Thank God and the Universe. Party, party everywhere. There’s no way this mom will be suffering from empty-nest syndrome.

“How am I going to do that and finish high school and beauty school? I’m in school from 8 am to 6 pm.” Yup. This is true. She made the decision to do things the adult way without having her ducks in a row. No driver’s license. No car. No job. Living like a gypsy from friend’s house to friend’s house. What a life. Huh?

“Find a place that will hire you for the weekends,” I said.

The phone goes silent at her end for about thirty seconds. She catches her breath, and mutters something. Who knows what she’s saying. Sometimes I think I need a dictionary to figure out the incoherent babbles of this child. Seriously, the child didn’t pick up good diction or articulation from me. Annoying.

“Mom,” she said, articulating the name I will sometimes answer to. “Do you think you can throw me a twenty. The people I’m staying with are having money problems.” The people she stays with can afford the luxury of smoking and drinking. Hmmm. Wonder what else they put their monies toward. Maybe they should stop smoking and drinking.

“Seriously, get a job,” I said.

“Mom!” Wow. She said that word with no problem. She articulates ‘MOM’ well.

“What?” I ask, hoping she’ll terminate the call.

“Will you?”

“Look. Let’s say this. I won’t let you starve to death. Okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her tone heated up.

“Just that. I’ll send you a gift card to Publix.”

“Mom.” She rambles a string of something my ears can’t pick up and then….

CLICK!

Another lesson to be learned in the life of a young adult. Life’s a BE-OTCH. Get used to it. And God, help them learn what they need to learn.

Yup. Another drama filled-day in the life of Shelly Arkon, a novice writer. Like my hubby says, “It’s all fodder for your upcoming novels.”

Happy reading, writing, and blogging!!

Shelly

Challenge Day 14: A Post-It Note Diddy

One upon a time, too many times

So many happy beginnings

Always a sad ending

In 1998, I wrote this when hubby number two left me for Ms. Big-Boobs. Wrote it on a Post-It note and stuck it in an old journal. Found it this morning rummaging through stuff to toss.

Happy reading, blogging, and writing!!!

Shelly

Multi-tasking: Listening and Writing

My work area is the kitchen table since I was kicked out of my office months ago. No-No, my twenty-one year old moved back in so she could attend college without all the added responsibilities. And, its caused a few problems.

One, my husband, Aron is what you call anal retentive. He has tendencies to organize and alphabetize our cupboards. File, and put things away, and trashes my babble notebooks throughout the house. In his mind, anything that resembles clutter must go.

He’s not happy that I use the top of the older dog’s box to stack manuscripts for editing, how-to-write books, research for articles, and pen cups in plain sight for the whole world to see. It’s not like we have guests. The most guests that get invited are my fiction characters, and they don’t seem to mind my organizational skills. If it’s out of sight, it’s out of mind. I wouldn’t be able to find anything if I lived with everything hidden in a file drawer.

Problem two, my daughter. When she needs to talk she needs to talk and since our work schedules don’t match, she catches me when she can. And, last night was one of them between dishing out microwave popcorn and Mott’s Applesauce to trick-or-treaters.

It went something like this:

I sit toward the window to keep an eye on the costumed kiddies, and she plops right across from me with tears rolling down her cheeks. Lions, tigers, and bears!

“Mom,” she said. “I’m so depressed.

My hands run across the keyboards considering what word should I use.

“Uh-huh,” I said, trying to be the compassionate Mom.

“What am I going to do about Moshe?” That’s her Facebook boyfriend that she’s only seen once. What her fascination is, I don’t know. Met him once and wasn’t impressed. Man of the two word sentence coupled with a fishy handshake.

Should I use the word, pile or heap. I look past her shoulder. My eyes were probably glazing over trying to keep up with my thoughts and what she had to say. A loud sigh escaped me.

“I know you’re working, but he’s really upset me. And, when I told him I needed to talk to him about our problems, he texted me back with this message.” She held up her phone. It read: Going to take a nap.

My fingers tapped at the keyboard, and then pecked one letter at a time. My thoughts have now been totally interrupted now. Whatever thoughts I concentrated on had left. Gone. Poof. Obliberated from eistence. Guess the Wicked Witch used my daughter this time instead of the Flying Monkeys to empty out my word file and chase my characters away. Darn her!

She put her phone down and bawled (great tactic). Snot-dripping, sniveling-like bawling, and howling, too. Honey Bear, my Malti-Poo joined in. The door bell rang. Baby, the older dog, gave out a few loud woofs at the door before I ran to answer it. More trick-or-treaters. Oh. My. God.

“I don’t know why I keep giving him chances,” she said, sucking in air between sniffles. Boy, she’s perfected the crying thing. That’s the first thing she practiced when she was born. She practiced everyday, at least sixteen hours. Snot-crying. Drooling. Screaming. They even escalated into opera-like tantrums.

“Well, maybe the two of you should be friends,” I said.
This started another series of snot-dribbling cries, and more babble that lasted a half-hour.

Not long after that, my husband comes home. The first place he visits is the refrigerator. I’m surprised he didn’t kiss it when he arrived home.

“Where’s the pizza?” he asked.

My hands are happy, and my mind is engaged, writing a scene. I’m doing my best to ignore him because his question is preposterous. My characters and I were onto something big and—.

“Where’s the pizza?” You see, my daughter made pizza for dinner and put it away. I have no clue where she hid it in his organized ice box, and didn’t care.

My fingers stopped, mad that their owner had to get up, and finger through foiled food items because my husband has become one of those helpless married men. Yup. I believe it’s a syndrome of some kind.

After unwrapping several different items, I shove the pizza into his chest. "Here." I take my seat at the table ready to type.

Pizza in hand, he sits beside me. “You wouldn’t believe my night….”

Here we go again. That Wicked Witch is a great strategist. She uses my family against me. Where's that Wizard dude?