Friday's Fabulous Five and Stuff

Rohan has been saying some funny things lately. Had to get them down. Indulge me this moment of Mommy Blogging:

A little preface... I have an extreme aversion to most scents on my hands. I can't stand to have my hands smell like food in any form... except maybe lemons, limes and cilantro. That's about it. There are certain soaps that I can not use because I can't stand the way they smell on my hands. Wendy's restaurant has one such soap. I digress. The point is, I think that I passed this quirk on to my son.

Rohan had gone with his best pal, Keller, to McDonald's to play and have a happy meal. They had a grand time involving non-stop running. Upon his return home, he came to me extremely upset because his hands "smehwd yucky". I think it was whatever disinfectant they use on the McDonald's playland that he was smelling. It was a rather weird aroma. We proceeded to wash his hands really well. He ran off happily.

In a few minutes, he came back crying that they still "smehwd yucky". I wasn't sure what to do. I could tell that this was the kind of scent that would just have to come off with time. But, to help him feel better, I said, "How 'bout we put on some lotion to help the smell?" He agreed, excitedly and we then rubbed his hands down with lotion, and he sniffed them, smiled at me and turned to run back to his movie-watching with Keller. As I was putting away the lotion I heard the exurberant voice of my darling child (who is SO easy to love) say, "Kewwa, smehw my hands! Day smehw wike oshen!" (cute because it sounded just like "ocean")

One more... a conversation between Rohan and I the other day:

R- Hey Mom? Have you eatda whoppa?

M- Yes.

R- Did it burn yo hand?

M- *laughs* No....

R- Was it evil?

M- *laughs again, harder* No...... do you mean a whopper, like the little chocolate balls?

R- Yeah....

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1- I love my children and the funny things they say.

2- I painted yesterday from about noon until about 9:30pm over at our duplex. It feels good to get that little job closer to completion, (no, it's not done yet!) and to get the walls whipped into shaped.

3- I'm going to go see Twilight again tonight. I'm hoping I'll like it better the second time I see it. I've heard that from some people, that it's better the second time. Either way, I get to hang out with some awesome ladies, so that will be super fun!

4- Rohan and I went to the fire station today and had a tour. I thought it was fasinating! I think we need to go for a tour for a date. I loved asking lots of questions. Did you know that the industry standard fire truck holds 1000 gallons of water? And they pull the water from the hydrant and into the truck which pumps it into the hose and sprays it? I didn't that before, but now I do. Thanks for arranging the tour, Maria! I wanna slide down the pole now.

5- Dustin was home all week again. (working, but coming home each night!) It's a beautiful thing! Life is FABULOUS!!!!

Yeah, Write... Chapter 3

Welcome to Chapter 3 of our game. Excellent job, Ginny! Next week, we will hear from Polly with the following prompts...

...put your hands in your pockets...

and

...I thought I knew the meaning of the word relief, but...

If you're just joining us, please go here for an explanation. And to get caught up, click here for chapter 1 and chapter 2.

Chapter 3

Despite his encouraging and pleasing reaction, the first step was definitely the easiest. I laboriously worked to put one foot in front of the other as I battled the dichotomous truths before me. Was turning back the right thing to do? I had tried without success to run away, and although going back was proving to be almost as difficult, I was at least able to get my body to respond to the commands from my brain. Each step brought me closer to the threat and security of his presence and I tried to get my mind around the awful truth he had revealed. Where we would go from here? Things would, obviously, never be the same, and yet, I was intrigued at the possibilities that lay ahead. I always believed, at least at some level, that we make this world our own heaven or hell, and with each step I was trying to convince myself that there was a heaven to be found in all of this. As I continued to watch my leaden feet, my shoulders curled in exhaustion and grief, arms hanging limp, swaying like an ape's with the physics of my lumber, I realized that I was muttering aloud in conversation with myself as I contemplated the consequences of going back. I didn't really have the energy to care. It's not like there was anyone around to hear me.

Suddenly I snapped out of the magnetic trance that had been pulling me somewhat reluctantly toward him. Why wasn't there anyone around? Why hadn't even one of the hundreds of cars that had passed us on the highway stopped? Or even slowed down? It was almost as if no one had even seen the smoking car or either one of us looking pathetic and helpless as we sat on the loosening gravel of the shoulder of the road. In the mere seconds it took to have all of those thoughts run through my head, I heard a voice that so clearly sounded like my mother's. It wasn't an actual voice, but one in my mind, and it was perfectly clear as it shouted to my subconscious, "Get out, NOW!

It's amazing the motivation that comes upon hearing your mother's voice yelling at you, real or not. My once curled, sagging shoulders rolled back as my spine straightened. My head whipped up with a determination I never knew I had. As my eyes leveled off from the dramatic motion, I realized I stood just feet in front of him. Our eyes met, and yet didn't. He seemed to be staring through me rather than at me and I could feel that almost magnetic force trying to pull me in again, only I was aware of it this time. An ominous feeling of fear swept over my body and a wave of cold moved through my every limb. My stiff, clammy fingers moved up to my cheek where I could now feel the outline of the two black marks. His gaze didn't abate in the slightest. I turned my emancipated body around as if to catch sight of what it was he was looking at, and I ran. I ran with more energy and determination than I had ever remembered feeling. I thought I heard him yell something, but I couldn't be sure for the blood pounding in my ears. I crossed the same road for the third time now and practically flew over the playground's gravel that had once proved my captor. I was getting close to the apartments now and knew I couldn't stop until I was safely behind one of those doors. What I would do next, I didn't know. I couldn't think about that now. All I could afford to do in this moment was keep my feet moving as fast as possible. I feared if I slowed down he might be able to extend his controlling influence over me again.

Finally my feet moved from the uneven softness of the grassy lawn to the concrete of the breezeway between apartment doors. I quickly looked at the four doors within sight as my brain scrambled to decide which to pound on first. Did it really matter? Why was I even taking the time to be selective? After seconds that felt like minutes, I saw the clear, clean lines of a brass three centered perfectly on a door. It almost looked as though it was glowing, begging me to select that door. I am sure I felt this way because three has always been my favorite number, but something about that door called to me. And so I lunged for the door, pounding with the side of my fist. I yelled pleadingly, "Please, open the door, please!"

My clenched fist tightened as I continued to pound and plead, and I could feel my fingernails digging into my palm. I was about to give up and try another door when the hairs on my neck stood on end as I got that eerie feeling of being watched. I continued to pound while I quickly sent my gaze in both directions to calm my adrenaline-filled senses. I first looked toward the direction of the car. I couldn't see the car around the corner of the building, but I also couldn't see him, which caused me to let go of my bated breath. However, the feeling of being watched persisted as I flipped my head around my other shoulder, my hair whipping me in the face with the action. When my hair fell away from my eyes I noticed the open door to apartment number four directly behind me. In the doorway stood a very large silhouette of a man. My arm froze, still raised at a right angle, my hand pulsing in pain from the incessant pounding. Instead of feeling relieved to finally see an actual person, I felt a different sense of terror in my new situation. What I saw behind the silhouette was too horrific to be real and the smell emanating from that open door was nearly powerful enough to bring me to my knees.

From The Jar... #31

One time Kaci mentioned that she wanted to SEE the Jar. Kaci... consider yourself obliged! There's my little Jar that I pull from every Wednesday. Isn't it preshy?

I have to confess. I dug around in the Jar for a while until I found one I actually wanted to write about. I'm giving myself a break though. Seven years, remember? And the Jar says...


What brings you the most peace and why?


I'd have to say writing. And I'd also have to say, I've never really thought about why so I don't know. I used to write in a journal when I was young. Young, like grade school through early high school. Whenever I look back through them I realize I almost never wrote when I was happy. Only when I was sad or upset or angry. I always felt better after I wrote, though and that's what's important, I guess.

When I graduated from high school, my sister Sarah gave me a little notebook with blank, unlined pages. By that time, I had stopped writing in a journal. I moved out of my parent's house 5 days after I graduated and this little book came with me. I don't really remember what happened, but suddenly I started writing poetry. This little book is the home for all my college heartbreak and pain. And a few joys. But mostly my pain.
Front cover. I love the weight and feel of this book. And I love that it has me poured into it's pages.

This is the "Title Page". Which reminds me. I've been wanting to change the name of my blog and I've been having a hard time with what to change it to. I think I've just been inspired.

A poem that I actually wrote while still in high school, but it was on some dumb piece of paper and I wanted to throw it away. So I put it in the book.

I said I never really thought about the why, but that's not entirely true. I just found this that I wrote on May 6, 1997.

~~~~~

I don't have to think so much when I write. I feel weight lifted each time I look at a full page of my swirling script. If I had known such release came with the pen and page, I would be in a different place today.

So, I write more. With no direction. Just as my life right now. Just feeling my heart break over and over with every dial tone or goodbye. I didn't want this. I didn't want any of this. Why did I allow it?

~~~~~

I've just now been thinking that maybe writing allowed me to vent things I don't say. In my thirty year history, I haven't vented out loud very much. I had a tendency to keep the deeper thoughts hidden. I didn't want people to see what was in my heart or that I have needs or pain or anger. And writing has allowed that. I could just write it and not have to have anyone hear it. It was out though, and that felt good. Now I have my blog and I've found that I like writing when I'm happy too. Or pensive, or moody or silly. I just love writing and it's no longer dependent on my mood. Writing definitely brings me the most peace, more than anything on this wide earth, and I am grateful to God for granting me this outlet for soothing my heart.

"It Goes On" accompanied by Procrastination

I thought and thought about yesterday's Manic Monday. The word was snow. Snow? Honestly? Haven't we seen quite enough snow? Could we pick a word like flower or green or tulip? Or perhaps 'degrees'? Then I could enumerate the many wonders of 75 [degrees] and my acute anxiousness for a LACK of snow. I suppose I could have written all of this yesterday, but I just couldn't manage it.

But you know what I found out? Life goes on. Even when I don't do a blog post. Amazing.

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Procrastination is something that drifts in and out of my life. It's like mold spores that float along in the air, lighting upon my to do list and spoiling it. That is, the to do list in my mind... I don't keep a hard copy. Perhaps that's my problem. Alas, that's a thought for another day.

I hold the shame of my moldy list like a hand of poker. My face is straight. I give nothing away, most days. There are occasions like today where I just want to throw my cards down, reckless and liberated. Calling my own bluff and betting anyway. I might lose, but I have a wild hair and decide that it doesn't matter. Win or lose, I'm laying it down. Showing my crappy hand.

At the very end of October, I told someone I would do something for them. It was not really a big deal. Transcribing some CDs. Doesn't sound hard. I was even getting paid for my efforts. I did the first one in November. It was slower than it seemed it should be and I didn't like it. Five CDs to go and they sat on my computer. November passed. December. January. Nearly February now and this man is wondering if I'm ever going to get them done. And so am I.

Last night, I stayed up late typing my little brains out. One more CD done. I'm in a groove now, but why did it take me 3 months to get in my groove? I am not sure where I'm going with this... I do know that my angst over moldy spore damage could be the death of me. It turns my shoulders to cables and my stomach to rocks.

For a long time now, I've been wondering what it is that procrastination does for me. What part of me actually needs it? How I can let it go? I don't know that I have any answers. Some days are better than others and I try to look at what's different on those better days. Nike and President Kimball come to mind. Just. Do. It. Yep. Sounds so easy and it is on some days. But on those not-better-than-others days, my heart is like an internal battleground and my body that should "just do it" is the POW. I get stuck. I'm the girl with concrete shoes and I can't find the chisel.

Regardless, I keep trying. Even as I type that last sentence, I hear Yoda in my head. "Do or do not. There is no try." Sorry Yoda. You can go back to the Dagobah System and live in your swamp. If there is no try then I'm screwed. I'd go for "Do Not" every time. I like trying. Try is mine and I'm keepin' it!

Friday's Fabulous Five

Oh man. Life is fabulous and I love that I get to really look at what is great in my life every Friday. Some days I have to look harder than other days, but there's so much to find!!!

1- Dustin has been home all week!! (working everyday, but coming HOME at 5:00 just like the good old days!) It's amazing. My dinner making ambitions have shot through the roof this week. I feel like a domestic goddess again! (or something)

2- Remember how I won an iPod? Well, it actually arrived yesterday and let me tell you how much fun I'm having with my new toy! I got so much done today simply because I got to walk around jamming to music as I did everything! If I had the ambition to and the toothpicks to hold my eyes open, I could listen to music for 27 hours straight and not hear the same song twice... and we're just getting started, baby!!!

3- My incredible friend is getting baptized tonight! I'm so happy for him and for his wife and his sister. Congrats, Jazzy. You 'da MAN!!!

4- My two bedrooms that we're remodling have shelves in the closets and the doors will be hung tomorrow. I found a really good deal on carpet, pad AND installation. AWESOME.

5- Chiropractors rule. Especially my chiropractor. He hurts me, but I love him and I can hardly wait to go get hurt again on Monday.

Yeah, Write... Amendment to Rules

Our little game is getting very interesting! I'm fairly excited about it. Ginny brought to my attention that she hasn't gotten any prompts for her writing. I realized that I left that out of the rules and that's part of what makes it so fun! So, please note the amendment to the rules as follows: I will pick two random phrases or things that you must use in your chapter. I will pick them and post them when I post the story. For next week, Ginny, your prompts are....

...and we make this world our own heaven or hell...

and

... the smell was nearly powerful enough to bring me to my knees...

Happy writing!!!

Yeah, Write...

As a reminder, this is a writing project that I started a couple weeks ago. I wrote a story using prompts from my readers and ended it with an abrupt cliffhanger. In the comment section, it was decided to let it be a bit of a game. Maria took my story and wrote the next "chapter". It is posted below and it's AWESOME! Well done, Maria! Next week we will hear from Ginny. And the following week, our contributor will be Polly. If anyone else is interested in playing, please let me know and I will assign you a week to write.

The rules: Pick up the story where it was left off and write where you think it would go. Thursdays are the day I'll post the chapters. Email me your chapter by Wednesday. You only get one week as we want to keep the story flowing and keep "our readers" interested! I will play editor in this, here, game. Don't get your feeling hurt if I edit something. I'll only do it for flow, not content. I'll try to approve any edits if there's time enough before posting, but I will say that as this is my blog, I'll reserve the right to have the final say. Additionally, you agree to grant me copyrights if you agree to play the game.

To be brought up to speed on the first chapter of the story, click here.


Chapter 2

My vision was blurred and I brushed my arm across my face. The coarseness of my jacket scratched at my raw cheeks. My tears were flowing freely and were physically causing pain because it was so cold outside. I did not know where I was going, I thought in the direction of the apartments. I was just running, running away from him. I stumbled onto a road, managed to cross it quickly, and felt my feet bog down in gravel. I looked around briefly at the playground I had found and then crumbled onto the rocks. My body shook with the sobs I had stifled in my hasty escape. How could this be? Was this real? It was truth so painful, so awful, I could not bear it.

My world crashed around me as I listened again in my mind to his confession. The pain in my jaw flared as I gritted my teeth at the sting of my most recent memory. The physical pain was nothing compared to my internal suffering. I wanted to run to the apartments now just thirty yards away. I willed myself to run, but my body would not go. I could not pick myself up. My desperation, or perhaps something even stronger, held me there. As I tried to breathe deeply to calm myself, I turned back toward the car and saw him emerge, looking at me. I was hit with a wave of nausea and I tried to turned away. I felt like my center of balance was shifting under my very body. It was vertigo with an intensity I had never experienced before. I was spinning out of control. I collapsed with sheer emotional exhaustion onto the gravel and laid my head on the cold stones. The coolness was comforting now and I closed my eyes. A memory flickered.

What was her name? Why did I want to remember her name? There was a little white mouse in my fifth grade classroom. When she first arrived, she would cower in the corner of her cage, afraid of the noise and the greedy fingers pressing through the bars of her sanctuary trying frantically just to touch the soft white fur. She would pile up her bedding into a sort of hill and try to bury herself from sight, only her bright pink nose periodically poking through, giving her away. As she adjusted to the sounds and smells of the classroom, she gradually eased her way back out. She warily tolerated our interest, but usually just ignored us. I used to chuckle with some melancholy pleasure at her running wheel. I found it sadly humorous that she would spend so much energy, running in a circle, going nowhere. She would hop off the wheel, clearly pleased with her activity and I used to pity her, because she was not going anywhere. She was still stuck, she was still caged. Looking back, perhaps it was myself I pitied because here was an animal every bit as caged, as frightened, and as stuck spinning as I was. And still, her name would not come to me.

I was pulled back to the present and the vertigo eased. I sat up slowly, glancing again to the car. I was on the playground and he was still watching me. His shoulders were drooped in despair and his expression was pure agony. Had I caused that? Was I now causing him pain? How could I bear to cause him pain? What about him held me here? I had wanted to run away and now I knew that I could not. Is that why I was drawn to him? Is that why I was pulled with some deeply rooted magnetic reaction to others with confidence, with direction… because I was devoid of that trait and I was searching for some way to glean it from others? I should have been aware of the pattern I was creating for my life. I had always gravitated towards confidence that was as fragile as my own skittish nature. Friends and boyfriends had often betrayed me and left my life in shambles. Somehow I managed to extricate myself from the wreckage of those relationships, only to find another new and equally damaging one. But he seemed different. He seemed to pull me further from my own center and further into his with ease. And now, how could I possibly pull away from him. This wreckage was different. I had not cowered in the corner enough. I had allowed his fingers to close around my meager consciousness, my delicate self-awareness. I had allowed his scent to become too familiar. I had enjoyed the warmth of his body and the intensity of his gaze. I had reveled in the knowledge that he talked with me, not to me. He was mysterious and I was boring, and yet he still wanted to be with me. And now, I was inextricably linked to him. I knew a secret so dark, so intriguing and yet equally revolting, and instead of being repulsed, I actually felt I was a part of it. But how could that be?

I did not know how it could be, it simply was. As soon as I accepted that I was as bound to him as he was to me, I stood up, not with confidence yet, but with resignation. I turned back toward the car and took the first step in his direction. His face lit in a way I had never yet seen.

Come back next Thursday to see where Ginny will take us!

From The Jar... #30

And the Jar says...


How do you feel about death? Tell about your philosophy of after-life.


Hmmm.... not the easiest pick to be starting at midnight, but I'm going for it.


{WARNING: Macabre content in this post. Read at your own risk. I considered editing parts, but this is for me. I want to remember this.}


I believe that after this life we have the opportunity to be reunited with loved ones. I believe I will carry with me everything I've learned in this life and that I will have the opportunity to continue growing and learning. I believe in resurrection and eternal families.

I am not afraid of death. The dying part could be another story, but we'll cross that bridge when it comes. That being said, I am terribly afraid of death around me. I have always had a terrible fear of cemeteries. As an adult, I'm more or less over that one, but as a child I would hide my face if we even drove by a cemetery. I was terribly disturbed by them and I don't know why.

Dead bodies hold a very deep rooted fear for me. I remember being at a funeral when I was about 14 years old. It was for my sister's then-boyfriend's brother, Roman, who was killed in an avalanche. I watched person after person go to his casket and hold his hand, stroke his face, or touch him in some manner. I was absolutely mortified. I didn't understand it and, frankly, I still don't.

My grandma passed away almost three years ago. We tried to get there in time to say goodbye, but she passed just before we arrived. The grief in the room was tangible, and I watched my mom and dad go and kiss her and touch her face and stroke her hair while they cried. I stood against the wall with my arms folded. My mom said to me, "Do you want to hold her hand or anything? She's still warm...?" I felt like my eyes bulged at the suggestion. I shook my head vehemently and stayed put. In a few minutes I walked over to her thinking maybe I could do it. I even reached my hand out, but in the end, all I could do was look and cry.

For a long time after that, I couldn't even walk past that room without wishing I could run. I love my grandma so dearly and I was deeply and mortally terrified all the same. When I would go in the room, I would avoid even looking at the side of the bed where she laid. But I could feel it. I don't know what I feel, but I feel something. Even now, when I sit on her bed (which belongs to someone else now) I think about her laying there so still.

It isn't just people. I remember when our great dog, Fergus, died and my little sister sat there petting him long after. I did reach out and touch his shoulder and I recoiled as if burned. I couldn't stand the emptiness. I was terrified.

Not exactly a ray of sunshine either, was it? I am being nice though and that's all I promised. This was an interesting subject to explore for me. It brought to mind many things that I'll mull over. I don't think I'll post them, but I'm glad I got to look at this fear of mine.

Tue Pose a Question

I've been really diggin' my pet peeves lately. Or should I say, they've been diggin' me? I've been really irritated with a lot of little simple things. And so, as I often do, I wondered....

What are your pet peeves, my lovelies? Since I am so utterly and completely narcissistic on my blog I think I'll expound on a few of mine.

#1 When one has to travel some distance out of town... let's say it's to a place that is south of where they live, and they're talking about it with me or someone else, it bothers me way more than it should when they say, "We're going UP to such and such place". Why does that bother me? Because in my brain, if you are going up to a city, it should be a city that is NORTH of where you currently are. Or conversely, if someone says, "I'm headed down to Canada." they better be living at the North Pole.

Say it with me... Up = North. Down = South. If I was going to Salt Lake and I lived anywhere in Idaho I would say, "I'm going to head DOWN to Salt Lake City." That's the official way things are done in Clancy's world.

#2 Carrying groceries in from the car. I don't like it. On the rarest of occasions Dustin is around to help me carry them in, but mostly not so. My kids are getting bigger now and are much more able to carry than they used to be... especially Mac. Pretty soon I'm just going to say, "Kids, you want to eat any of this food we just bought? OK, you have to carry it all in the house." That will be a beautiful day and we'll have cupboards that are stocked better than they are currently.

#3 The never ending war waged on mated socks by the washer and dryer. Where oh where does that ONE little sock go? Why must the dryer or washer eat it? And what do I do with that one irritating sock? Save it? Toss it? It is so disturbing.

#4 I have a talking caller ID phone. This is not the pet peeve. The pet peeve occurs when one who is used to a phone that talks is in her basement and the phone rings on the non-talking phone. It is annoying. I can almost hear it from upstairs. Almost.

#5 January. I am looking forward to February 1st.


Well, I'm just a bundle of light and joy this week, aren't I? Sorry about that. I'm just ready for some sunshine and the lack of visible breath when I'm out in it. I'll be nicer tomorrow. Promise.

Manic Monday: Office

As if in a dream, she floated along, pretending like she was doing all the things she was supposed to be doing. Sleep-deprived by her own volition, her brain felt like it was in a bubble, floating away with the slightest breeze, or worse, threatening to pop with the slightest touch. Where was her husband? At his travel-sized office, bored out of his mind, playing solitaire and occasionally actually having something to do. She wanted him home all day every day, but the bills have to be paid. 'Life doesn't always give us what we want, thank goodness.' She heard that thought drift through her mind and watched it like it was far away, not her mind at all.

Sometimes it seemed like the only thing that kept her one with her body was the ache in her neck. The pain was her lifeline. The pain that shifted from a small seed, easily ignored, to a gigantic, impossible weed that could only be uprooted with great force, kept her here in her body, or so it felt. She knew that she should look at what that pain was, at what her body was telling her by planting that seed, but she didn't want to. She had looked before. Dug with her trowel, turned the dirt, cried at her pain, forgiven, loved, healed and thought she pulled the weed out. But the weed had dropped seeds. Seeds that waited patiently to grow with her own neglect of her garden. Of herself.

She wondered idly if other people realize that their pain is a signal? If they know that their body is trying to tell them about an emotional hurt? Do they realize that they can let it go with some digging and some love?

She decided she didn't really care right now. The rest of the world can live without her people-pleasing heart for a time. She knew she'd care again, but at that moment she and her apathy were having an intense reunion as she bathed herself in distraction and wondered, again, why such times come to call.