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I’m feeling war weary, though I won a battle recently – and to me it was gargantuan. Yep. Moving my site! It was also symbolic, because if I could win one battle, maybe I could win one more. And I have many battles ahead.

Battle fatigue and holiday headaches

I’m certainly not alone in having battles to fight. It’s life! Sometimes we make more of our struggles than needed. Other times, we don’t ask for help when we should. Fighting battles – now and then, or daily – is something we all deal with. And at holiday time, it can get worse.

  • Are you feeling battle fatigue? Do you know why? Holiday shopping overload
  • Do you fight battles in your own head, over small decisions?
  • Is it worse at the holidays?
  • Who helps you through tough choices – strategies for the new job,  considering relocation, or reconciling with a spouse?
  • Who helps with little choices and tasks, that all add up?
  • Are you exhausted trying to do it all, including footing the bills for holiday shopping?

There are many sorts of fights – from minor irritants to significant issues of health, job security, relationships and principles. Some of these are overwhelming; we need help in battle.

Then there are legal fights – they’re often long, expensive and grueling. Fights over property, over money, over custody, over child support. We are often left depleted, financially and emotionally.

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Ever moved as a child? As an adult? There’s usually a mix of emotions when you leave one home for another – worry, excitement – and of course, all that packing, cleaning up, then settling in. Well, here we are – a new home for my Daily Plate of Crazy! This particular transition got me thinking about the notion of home, in its many meanings.  Home is where the heart is - and what does that mean to you?

Home is where the heart is

When I was a child, the expression home is where the heart is seemed true. Romantic, isn’t it? What’s not to love about the notion that wherever your loved ones are, you’re at home?

There are other interpretations, of course. Sometimes places whisper to you, and in those locations you feel you’ve come home.

As an adult, I realize that love – and life – involve more complexity than something as simple as “home is where the heart is.” Other people are not our homes, though they may share space in our hearts. Some locations don’t suit us, yet we can make ourselves a home in many of them, nonetheless. Other locations – a house, a neighborhood, a city – will never feel sufficiently warm, accepting, or safe to call home.

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Who are you? What are you?

Silly questions? Maybe not. I know who my “dream self” is – and what she does. And then there’s reality. So, when asked who you are or what you are, how do you answer? Is your response automatic and factual, or does it come from a place of self-examination?

Vital statistics

If a stranger asks me who I am as I register at a conference, I provide vital statistics at a general level – my name and where I’m from, to situate me. If I’m speed dating, my answer is very different – still providing vital statistics (probably fudging a few), and adding some descriptive information that eases into the “what do you do” realm.

Often, we state who we are to provide context through relationship to someone else. I attended a school function last weekend and a woman said to me “Tell me who you are – you look familiar.” It turns out our kids had played together years ago. We then pointed to our teens and she quickly became “her mom” and I was “his mom.” From that context and relationship, our conversation grew.

What do you do?

These days, I’m busy writing, busy with my son, and money is tight. While I’m “working” (at writing, looking for work, and mothering), I’m not paid for these tasks though they consume 16 hours of each day of the week. So, going out and being asked what I do isn’t on the agenda, particularly since the assumption is “what do you do for a living.” At the moment, that’s an uncomfortable question. Still, when I do socialize, I have appropriate answers all of which are true, that I spin for the situation and audience.

The real challenge: issues of self identity and self esteem that sit at the base of “who are you and what do you do.” They derive from how we spend our time, what is valued in our culture, and whether or not we’re paid for it. 

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Viewing Kristen’s cookie – before coffee – was almost too much.

I woke early, remembered four extra teen boys sleeping in my house – somewhere – and stopped by one of my favorite spots, trying to hold off on that first dose of caffeine. I dropped in at Kristen’s place, Motherese. And there was that cookie. And it looked delicious, and perfect, and made me want… coffee.

But I stayed put. Read. Smiled. Loved her metaphor of balancing the salty and the sweet for just the perfect result. Easier in baking than in life, certainly. And then I eased out of my bedroom and put on a pot of coffee. I turned to see a 16-year old on the couch in the living room, his long leg poking out from under a worn comforter. The floor was strewn with boat-sized Nikes, socks, jackets, wallets, car keys. The signs of adolescence. But the leg – on the boy I’d known since he was four – was in pajamas.

Recipes

I came back into my room and re-read. Then I fetched my Italian Roast, quietly, while imagining Kristen’s baking, and the care to get it just right. I remember cookies like that – the perfectly soft middle and crisped edge – how good they look as well as how scrumptious they taste. I smiled again.

I also enjoy baking and cooking, and when I was single, both were less improvisational, and closely followed recipes. But since having children, nothing is exacting, nothing follows the recipe, and everything is a bit of a mess…

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Why oh why do you think that you must “tell all?” Every little corner of the self revealed?

Whether confiding in a significant other or writing in the so-called public forum, do you know when enough is enough? Would I present my every thought, my every tale and detail for public or private consumption?

Don’t think so. Would you?

What you know and what you don’t

Do you know yourself? Do you believe there is a “single truth” that captures you? That your viewpoint is uninfluenced by age, experience, mood, the moment, the company you keep, not to mention your reasons for disclosure of a humorous or serious tidbit?

The story is not the person. And that’s true whether we’re talking about celebrities in the news, your neighbor next door, or you. Or me. No one’s life is neatly packaged and presented with a bow. At least no one I’ve ever known – or would want to. How dull would that be?

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There is a dab of Chanel between my breasts.

Yes. Come closer.

I have poured myself a drink and spread myself out, on top of the bed covers, propped against red pillows in all this turbulence. Sleeplessness tangles sheets and twists blankets. As for the rest of the room, it is chaotic and I have only my excuses, surveying each table and dresser, each chair and the floor. Everything is spilling over with too much, and not enough of what is essential.

Outside, the wind asserts its dominance. It howls and releases. Limbs bend and leaves are ripped off their stems, whirling then scattering as branches scrape against my windows. Sunlight holds its own against shadow, flaunting its impermanence and renewal. Nature in all her hubris is glorious. And she knows it.

Yes. Come closer.

* * *

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It’s been a scattered week. (Is it really only Thursday morning?)

After seven blissful hours of sleep, I am more equipped than usual to muse on this and that, and offer a few observations on the self – how, and how much we offer to others – along with thoughts on colorful gloves, drunken drafts, and assorted amusements.

Statements of self – purple, pink, and red

I am seated on my couch, watching a young mother walking with her two little girls – they look to be four or five – all holding hands, swinging their arms in the cold, both girls wearing bright purple sweaters.

From this vantage point, at my front window, I observe a narrowing microcosm of an already limited world: dog walkers mostly, the occasional landscaping truck, the mail truck much later in the day. By rush hour, neighbors begin to pull their cars into driveways, and disappear inside their houses. This is a tiny island of quiet on a tranquil road, off a larger artery, adjacent to increasing urban sprawl.

Every weekday my son now drives to the high school as I ride in the passenger seat, then take the wheel when he gets out, and I return home to write. This morning, stopped at a light, I watched a  walker weave her way through traffic to cross the street. She was in her 50s or 60s, trim and athletic, with a shock of silver hair, a dark jacket, hot pink gloves, and a hot pink scarf. A woman growing older, enjoying her bright color, just as those two little girls delighted in their neon purple sweaters.

Red

My own preference is for red, a color I wear, a color that moves me, a color that punctuates my surroundings. My couch has red cushions, my bed, red pillows, and my closet is filled with red tops and scarves and surprisingly – few red shoes. But my statement of self – visually – is not only about red. There are other colors, contrasts, and textures; there is movement, pattern and lighting, all of which influence what is seen.

A few words on drunken drafts

This week (and into the weekend) the festivities of the Momalom Half-Drunk (writing) Challenge continue. The point is not to be drunk, rather, to let go. Letting go in words, letting go of inhibitions, and for some of us – letting go of things we never said aloud, or never put on the page. In that way, we may release a measure of pain, or discover something. A different perspective. A memory. A revelation, in the act itself of laboring through or fitting together a structure of words.

As a writer, it is a comfortable and uncomfortable place, satisfying and insufficient. And consequently, from the place of insufficiency I find that I want a big, fat, juicy disclaimer – my 1/4 drunk or 1/2 drunk ramblings are drafts!

Re-reading, I am aghast. Not at the content, but sloppy writing and absence of tightening. That said, I will leave those words as they stand: barely edited bits of self. Yes, barely edited bits of self.

  • And isn’t that what we put here, as we write to known and unknown readers?
  • Are these not other statements of self, even as we retain so much more that you will never see, because we hold it close, as is appropriate for each of us in our own way, privately?

Other threads: One

I have the honor and pleasure of having been asked by Tish Jett of A Femme d’un Certain Age to do some book picks for the holidays. You can find them on her delicious site spilling over with goodies and a French twist. Tish writes on all things of taste and style, as an expat American and long-time journalist who lives in France. I adore Tish’s point of view, her wry, dry humor, and the style tips I love to see and read as she describes them.

Stop by her place for a few thoughts on holiday books as gift ideas. I hope you will enjoy the change of pace; you will certainly see other “statements of self” about me, in what I love to read, and what I would love for you to discover. Magical, sexy, funny, surprising books. Then, do visit Tish often. I know I always feel welcome there, and you will as well.

Other threads: Two

I pop into the HTML behind these writings, to tweak a few things here and there. As I was inserting my little copyright link and share/save image, I couldn’t help but notice an HTML command that said OnMouseOut.

I just had to laugh. As for the mouse in my kitchen,  if only it were that easy!

Other threads: Three

I plan on one more “drunken” post for the lovely moms (and dads) at Momalom. (About 1/4-drunk, thank you very much). As a solo parent, my opportunities for even one glass of wine are limited (that 24/7 on-call thing). So, my best shot (ho ho) at a final Writing Under the Influence draft will be a morning indulgence that wears off by afternoon, when I resume responsible Mom duty.

I will save whatever pours out of the fingertips in today’s writing (soon), but publish either tonight or tomorrow. Those words, unknown at this time, will be a statement of self. But all these bits and pieces we are sharing are pieces of a whole that is moving and changing constantly. We should feel entitled to that ebb and flow, to our beautiful flaws, our comical moments, our indiscretions and lapses in judgment coexisting, without judgment, alongside more polished presentations of ideas, emotions, and action recaps.

Our unedited thoughts are offered as raw precisely for that quality, be they brutal, sad, sentimental, sexy, silly; dislodged from a deeper place (or at least a less protected one). But remember – these are never ourselves in entirety. They are our purple sweaters and pink gloves, our red pillows on the bed.

Sharing fragments and confidences is lovely and connective. Our words bring us closer to each other, and we feel less alone in our emotions and experiences. But these are glimpses into a life, not a life; we offer what we say, what we do not say, and the interpretation of both, which is up to you. I find that knowledge reassuring, and worthy of celebration.


© D A Wolf

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There’s a mouse in my house. I’ve been fretting and whimpering about it for days, and he (or she) is growing more audacious with every passing hour. Yes, I was distressed last week as I heard something making noises in what I thought was a vent above the the stove. I imagined a squirrel or possibly a bird – trapped, suffering, and ultimately dying.

To say that I identified with the unknown creature is to state the obvious. I did, and do: I feel caught in circumstances I cannot escape. And, worse, the clock is ticking, as it was (or so I thought) for whatever was struggling in that shaft.

So I am relieved to know that it’s a mouse – and that he’s very much alive. 

If you give a mouse a cookie…

However, my pleasure has given way to several screams, then irritation, and now it’s become a battle of wills, as the mouse in my house grows bold, and I’m unnerved. And while I still have no desire to do him in, the nature of our relationship (as in all relationships?) has certainly… evolved.

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I feel like the little engine that could!

It’s been weeks and weeks of trying to copy my (rather hefty) content over to my new dot com planet – and a HUGE shout out to J for many offers of help and many hours of email hand-holding AND emailing on my behalf that resulted in all my content copied through just before noon today!!

There are still some things to be figured out and tweaked (blogroll, other widgets, etc.) and decisions about blog stats and analytics as well (suggestions anyone?) – BUT – J held my virtual hand and Godaddy helped as well and a few other online friends (in snowy places) listened to my roller coaster ride (while the mouse was in the house) as I uploaded files.

Pop by and peek at DailyPlateOfCrazy.com!

Here today (and yes, here tomorrow)

I will still be here on WordPress for a while – and please don’t leave comments on the dot com yet. I have some behind-the-scenes tinkering and then I’ll have a redirect from here, as soon as everything is set, so you won’t be troubled at all by my change of address. AND, I will now stop bitching about my dot com - but I still have a Stuart Little problem… I guess the mouse-in-the-house turned his little nose up at the creamy peanut butter and prefers chunky, after all? (I’ll put it on my grocery list.)

As for the site – please bear with me – it does look exactly the same (just have to rebuild the blogroll and a few widgets), so -

  • Here’s to everyone who helped! (Thank you!)
  • A big high-heeled HUG to J (who worked magic of his own)
  • Thank you for pointing me to the “user” solution!
  • And I, for one, am happy to have no spiked coffee this evening!

Every now and then, the big M for Murphy’s Law scurries away (with Stuart Little?) – and it feels incredible to be the little engine that could and can. But I couldn’t have done it without a lot of help from my new friends.


© D A Wolf

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I was never married, though it was something like marriage.

Perhaps I should say that I was married, and he was not. We had documents of our joining, we had a wedding – and it was a happy one. I thought that was a good sign. I remember the way that he looked at me and his grin was wide and his eyes were not veiled that evening; I believe the smile was genuine. But I was a possession, an expedited means to an end. I did not know that then.

Two clergymen from two very different faiths placed my hand in his, blessed the rings on our fingers, gave him permission to take, and me to give. We became what I thought was a timeless unit, a present sweetened, a family future. And something I never had. Safety.

After the ceremony he flitted from friend to friend and I remember feeling alone, and it stabbed at me, and I told myself he’s just happy and sociable, so smile – it will be alright.

Then there was a honeymoon on an island in the Aegean, and even there I sensed it, and set it aside. There was sun and wind and quiet time alone after the chaos of a wedding,  yet it was not what I envisioned; we were there, but somehow separate. He spent his time reading, and I walked by myself for hours, along craggy beaches, then sandy ones, picking my way through couples braving the few hours of heat and then the wind; they were chatting and caressing each other in the sun and nip of an autumn air approaching, and we would also sun together, on our little terrace. There was making love, efficiently enough, and nightly. And I knew that already that, too, had changed, and I set it aside. I would focus on other pleasures, memorizing his cheeks as he slept, the symmetrical dipping downward of his brows, the full lips that resembled his mother’s, and I was overcome with the beauty of him and told myself everything is alright.

There was silence, an overly generous silence, punctuated with stories and laughter. And there was an  impenetrable wall and I had no knowledge then of walls except my own, unable to scale my own, unaware of the work required to disassemble them. What I perceived as patience and time to know each other differently was, I realized later, indifference.

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