Storytelling

I have been trying to read the same paragraph for over an hour now. I can't pay attention to the words on the page, I just seem to stare and absorb nothing so I start again. And again. The book is about the art of telling stories and all I seem to be is distracted by the story of the people in my life and how it ultimately swirls around and impacts mine, as my story impacts theirs. I have always thought I had a story to tell, but how to tell it, and when?

This blog is bits and pieces of my story, and I am finding out more people than I knew or imagined are reading it. At first it was just my Mom, extended family and close friends (I only knew because they told me in person) then it grew to Russian and Korean cyber bots cruising the web. I like to think someone in Russia is getting an unintentional lesson about the humor in cervical cancer and doesn't even know it. I am finding out that more people here (now that I link the blog through facebook) are reading it as well. I am always stunned, a bit embarrassed and then immediately curious as to what they thought. Were they inspired? Pissed off? Bored? Confused? Then, I consider, if they told me, would I change anything? Nope. Would I argue my point? Most likely.

I don't know for sure what my story is. I do know how more and more amazed I am every day that I get another chance to keep on trying to tell it.

In the Dust

I was dusting today. Then I was dancing. Having the energy to dust let alone dance is remarkable. I turned on my stereo, put the CDs that were in there from the last time on shuffle (yes, I own real live CDs, and cassette tapes, and LPs) and when my favorite Band of Horses song "Dilly" started I just wriggled and giggled, Kermit flailed my arms, picked up Peanut and held him in my arms while I swayed, did the white man two step and shook my bootie. I played that song probably five times, and I didn't stop smiling even while my eyes were closed as I sang. If you read this blog you might remember that my Mom went with me to see Band of Horses in August of last year and how much her gesture meant to me. Sitting on the hardest of hard ground in extreme heat surrounded by drunken unaware irritating and half naked youth. I half went out of fear of never being able to see another concert again and to bring back the feeling I love so much of live music.

I love being able to dust my own living room. A year or so ago, I wasn't even doing that for myself. As I take the cloth and wipe away the dust, I think of all the particles of each person, animal or even vegetation that makes up what we call dust. Pieces of past and present beings, and their leavings are settling on my desk, my dresser, bookshelf. The duty of keeping your dwelling clean can be seen as a burden, but being ABLE is something else all together. I saw each swipe of my dust cloth as a gift today, not only because I could, but because I was picking up pieces of me as well.

The Bliss Button

When I was having my surgeries, chemo and radiation, I did a purposeful news blackout. I didn't want any more stress, any more negative or any more darkness in my life. I only read, thought, watched and talked about fun, happy or things that brought back wonderful memories. The past week or so I re-instituted a news blackout and when I decided to rejoin the 24 hour news cycle, I was flabbergasted at all I had missed and truly not surprised at the rest. I sometimes think the news can just be put on repeat, allowing the horrors and atrocities to sell erection pills so the public can wait for the next disaster between shopping trips. I am even looking at my entertainment with different eyes. The newest programs (which I am debating continuing watching) are all gore, conspiracy and bleakness.

I propose an all happy news network. One that only tells of the husband changing all the poopy diapers that day. Or the child that did his homework without being asked. Videos of kids playing together, without fighting. Laughter. Old women getting their lawns mowed from anonymous neighbors. Smiling at strangers. Strangers smiling back.

I have the saying on my Facebook page "If you are not outraged, you are not paying attention." Well, on my fridge, I also have the cartoon/satire/truth that says "My desire to be well informed is currently at odds with my desire to remain sane." Right now, I choose bliss. And if that means being ignorant of all the ugliness, death, cruelty and sheer blackheartedness that the news chooses to display, I choose the off button.

Keys to Creeping

Need signs your creeper neighbor is hitting on you? Have you had a conversation like this?

Me: (Trying to get my door unlocked, the keys sticks whenever it is snowing)
60 Something Male Neighbor that POPS up in the snow, on his bicycle and says:

N: "Hey, you need help with that door?"
Me: "Nah, it just sticks when it is cold."
N: "Anytime, you need help you just come ask. Okay. How you doing tonight?"
Me: "I'm doing pretty good."
N: "Well, you sure do look good. Mmmmmhmmmmm."
Me: (what the hell did he just say? stupid door I hate you door!)
N: "You come down for a visit anytime."
Me: (door finally opens and all I can say is) "See ya later."
N: "Oh, I sure hope so." (then he did a half growl half old sassy black Mammy mmmm-mmmm)

Nice to know I can still bring in the AARP set. On bicycles.

Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit, Stephie Stephie Stephie

There is a superstition that when you wake on the first day of the month, the first thing you should say to ensure good luck for the entire month is "Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit." Today is the first of the month, as well as it would be the 40th birthday of Stephie. My first thoughts this morning, let alone words were not Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit (which in my home you would think would happen quite regularly and I do have a Pickle-rabbit next to me as I type this) but were more muddled and commonplace. I have been inundated with Stephie thoughts for weeks, and all of this Super Bowl talk has put me on overload. Stephie's birthday party was at the Super Bowl party (which she never really liked) so Steph being herself, always wanted a big to do. With just the "The Grown-Ups." Which has now morphed into the cousins. But people have their own lives and the world keeps spinning in spite of her being buried in it.

I can sing the secret dirty jingles she and I made up that no one else knew, I can wear purple, I can smell Cotton Blossom from Bath and Body Works and be nearly doubled over from emotion AND I can keep on breathing, loving, laughing and saying Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit... Stephie, Stephie, Stephie.