It’s Just Me, Debbie

How in the world can I have writers block when I am not even a writer?!?!?!  I have pondered this all week and as of yet have no solution. I vowed to never let another whole 7 days go without an entry, so I have decided to do what could be viewed by some as cheating, I am writing about nothing! (Sorry Dr. Stan)

     I have patiently waited and waited for that spark, that little glow of a story – not much, just an idea to erupt into a flame; a brilliant fire of thought to burn the paper, and still I wait.

     I have never been big on patience, not do I particularly enjoy contemplating the appearance of an empty page. So, here I sit writing about waiting, or you might say, waiting to write. Which ever way you look at it, this installment sounds almost as confused as I feel.

     All the different processes of writing keep buzzing around in my head like pesky mosquitoes on a humid summer day. I try and try to get rid of them, but they only buzz at me louder, drowning out any hopes of putting organized thought to paper.

     I tried writing about traveling, boring. I wrote about hunting, drab. I even tried to write a story about vampires, ridiculous!  

      I have unearthed what they mean by writers block; no, more than a block, it’s the entire freaking wall. The wall is up and refusing to come down. The Great Wall of China has lasted for centuries, the Berlin Wall for over 20 years. Hopefully Debbie’s wall will soon be tumbling like the “walls of Jericho”. Where are those trumpets?

     Luckily, I don’t depend on writing for a living; if I did I’m afraid there would be many a hungry day’s. The well’s  gone dry and there’s not a cloud in the sky, not even a hint of a cool rain to replenish the arid grounds of thought.

     I have always held a deep admiration for those in the writing profession. The ability they have to put so much down on paper, and to do it with such flair. If we could dig into our imaginations with comfort, and fearlessness, what fascinating times we might have. 

     If nothing else, my time of inspirational famine has increased my adoration for all of the great authors.

     Imagine what it would be like to have the imagination of Stephen King or Edgar Allen Poe; the insight and wisdom of Martin Luther King; the colorful language of Keats and Shelly, the ability to make words dance across a page like playful butterflies in a cool spring breeze.

     Perhaps our own fears of inadequacy or rejection are all that stand in our way. 

Because of my lack of talent, because of my fears, because of great walls and pesky mosquitoes, here I sit writing about waiting as I wait to write.

As B.O.B and I sat here freezing, I was contemplating the arrival of spring. Which in turn brought back fond memories of living in Phoenix and spending many, many days in the surrounding desert. I love the desert. It makes me fell warm and happy. It just feels like home. I am not a poet, nor have I ever professed to be one. I do not understand poetry and it fails to inspire me or “awaken” my soul. However, it seems I have written a poem! That’s what I have been told any way.

Differences

The cactus, not much shape. The texture is one of warnng. Stiff sharp fingers cover the shell in an attempt to protect itself from the outer world. Sending inquisitive others away with the promise of a painful stab.

The cactus flower. Beautiful shapes of soft velvety petals softly blowing in the breeze, as if beckoning for a gentle caress.

One a grey green. Always the same shade, changing hues only in death.

The other a medley of colors. Each flower it’s own distinct self. The petals showing personalized blends of yellows, oranges, reds, purples and blues.

Both, however, have the power of life encased within their selves. It’s a short lived   sameness. One envelopes a life saving supply of water. So bitter and striking such a blow to the tender mouth that only a dying man would be able to withstand the assault.

The other sits atop a flavorful bulb which provides a much sought after treat.

As a child I would stand in awe looking at the desert and all it encompassed after a long awaited rain. It made me think there must be an exuberant angel, choosing the huge, empty wasteland as it’s canvas. Spreading his joy in vast arrays of color. Like handfuls of Birthday Cake sprinkles. So we might all enjoy the sweet beauty of His creation.

The cactus and it’s flower are like our lives. In our greyest, drabbest, most shapeless moments if we would only look hard enough, dig deep enough, we might perhaps see the bright, vivid color of happiness dancing across the sky of our soul. Smell the pure sweet fragrance of laughter tickling our senses. Feel the velvety soft touch of a miracle as it whispers to our hearts of better times to come.

Gosh, it’s here again. I can’t believe on the 14th Steve and I will have been married 35 years! When I chose Valentines Day for our wedding, it really wasn’t out of a need for romance or because it was my favorite holiday, it was simply so he would never forget our anniversary. It WORKED! Not only does he never forget, but he always, always, always gets me a dozen red roses for Valentines day and then an arrangement of blue carnations (my favorite flower), one for every year we have been married. No matter how tough he tries to appear, he really is a wonderfully romantic husband. He is so much better at romance than I am, but he is the love of my life. I woulkd do it all over again and not change a thing.  As a result of 35 years of tradition on our anniversary, you can bet the first thing that happens when any of my girls walk in the door is “the counting of the carnations”.

Valentines Day, sixth grade…I am sure there are plenty of you out there who remember how we celebrated it in “the old days”. I remember the teacher passing out colored construction paper; pink, red and white, and we would spend the half hour after lunch, decorating our Valentines envelopes. Our name would be stenciled across the top and then the newly decorated art piece would be taped to the front of our desk’s. Back then there were no rules stating everyone had to buy valentines for every child in the class. I was positive that I would be the only girl in the class with an empty envelope! In all fairness, let me give you a little peep into the past, a little look at why, perhaps, I had this fear.

I was the oldest child, no brothers, and I was very small and petite. My dad felt it was a good idea to teach me how to fight, I mean REALLY FIGHT, no pulling hair and scratching, so that I might be able to defend myself and my younger sisters. He did a very good job. At 4 years old I bloodied the nose of the neighbors 8 year old son because he was picking on my baby sister. In the first grade I spent most of my recesses sitting by myself for beating up the boys who tried to kiss me. In the fifth grade I beat up 2 boys who were walking around the playground with mirrors taped to the top of their shoes in the hopes of being able to see up the girls dresses. I also had to endure the nick names the boys labeled me with, my maiden name was Dorsey, hence the nicknames…Debbie Doorknob, Debbie Dinosaur, Debbie Doorbell. The boys learned to make a very hasty retreat when they would utter these names.

A funny thing happened during the summer before sixth grade, I no longer wanted to beat the boys up! I got butterflies in my stomach when they came around and I really hated that they were afraid of me. I tried to be nice to them and even tried to learn how to “giggle” like my best friend Dianne. It wasn’t working. They would pick me to be on their baseball team (I had a mean pitch) or on their side during dodge ball and kick ball, but no-one ever tried to hold my hand in the lunch line.

I actually dreaded the Valentines party. Before school I tried to fake being sick. Mom didn’t fall for it. At school I ran as hard as I could during recess and then went to the nurses office convinced I would have a fever after all that sweating. Nurse didn’t fall for it. Before lunch our teacher, Mr. Grey, collected all of our vantines and then, while we were gone,  the room mother distributed them amongst our previously mentioned envelopes.

As we stood in line outside our classroom door, I was in a panic. I had a stomach ache, my heart was racing and my palms were sweaty. I felt dizzy and really, really just wanted to go home. It is the first time I remember really caring what, if anything, I got for Valentines Day. How would I be able to hide from the other students that my envelope was empty? How would I be able to pretend I didn’t care? Who would ever want to give a girl named “Debbie Doorknob” a valentine? I was sure my life was about to end.

We entered the class from the back and went to our desk’s. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears and my knees were shaking. I spotted my envelope, it had something in it! It wasn’t flat any more! I sat in my desk with my heart racing, and my hands trembeling. I ripped my envelope loose and dumped it on my desk, VALENTINES CARDS!!!! It felt like millions of them!  I had valentines cards! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I wanted to shout and jump up and down with joy. There were big ones and little ones, homemade ones and store bought ones.  Some with candy stuck on them and even some homemade heart shaped cookies. Then I spotted a large handmade card with a giant heart on the front. I carefully picked it up and opened the front flap…

“I am sorry for calling you Debbie Doorknob. I am sorry for putting a mirror on my shoe. You are the prettiest girl in the sixth grade.  Will you be my girlfriend? I love you, Yours Truly, Frank”   “P.S.  Please don’t beat me up”.

It’s amazing what a difference a few kind words can make, I felt like I had ”made the cut”! I was no longer just the meanest girl or the toughest girl or the fastest girl, I was the “prettiest girl in the sixth grade”. My life would never be the same. I no longer had to fien illness or dread parties involving boys. I was someones “valentine”. I was no longer Debbie Doorknob, I foreswore violence against boys (sort of) and happily marched into my new role as a confidant young lady.

SUPER BOWL!!!!

If you know me, you also know I am not much of a football fan. That’s like, almost a sin in my family isn’t it?!?!? However, I do get caught up in the excitement of the festivities. I learned a few years ago, when my father-in-law treated me to a pro game in Arizona, that I loved the crowd!! I loved the noise and the “hoopla”. The fans crack me up with their intensity and their insane devotion…oh wait, thats me during basketball!!! oh well, hope some of you can enjoy the following story I wrote after my first pro-game experience. Thanks Dewey.

One of the great mysteries of the universe; football, a sport played and enjoyed by a multitude of Americans. What is the point? What is the purpose? What’s the benefit? Is this really supposed to be some sort of learning experience? What is the fascination we Americans have with inflicting pain on others we might have actually called our friends just moments before?

How can we judge a persons maleness by the donning of tights, numerous pads (some of which give the appearance of giant brassiers) head gear resembling hoods from a 1950′s space oddysy; a mouthpiece which twist’s and deforms the face beyond recognition, and a protective cup designed to save the only real jewels a young man might possess.

Who was the demented person that decided it would be worth while to teach our young men to smash, crash, grind and stomp another human being into oblivion? The ball, the object of even more confusion. Why shaped like an egg with dangerous points on both ends? Are the points an added bonus for pain? Perhaps the macho male likes the feel of the here-to-for mentioned points jabbing him in the ribs during a fall. Maybe they are used as another weapon against the enemy, perhaps a hard jab may take out an eye or two, slowing the attack from the apponant.

Cleats, are they really just for better traction or performance on the part of the athlete, or are they the invention of a conniving masochist; just another tool of torture used to crush bones, puncture arteries, severe tendons and inflict as much pain as possible with one carefully placed step.

Is this really the way we want to measure the ability, strength or manliness of our men? I SAY YES!!!! Let the games begin! Let us hear the crash of helmets as heads butt across the lines. Let us scream our heads off in excitement. Let us applaud with love, devotion and affection for the player being carried off the field on a stretcher, who has nearly experienced death while mutilating others in defense of his territory.

I too am among the masses mesmerized by the “thrill of victory”, and the “agony of defeat”; hypnotized by the thunderous roar of the crowd; I am among those guilty of yelling at ref’s, stomping feet in anticipation, drinking cokes, eating popcorn, and waving banners in support of my favorite team.

Is it really macho of the males of our species, who try so hard not to show emotion or feelings, to hug each other like excited school girls, to pat each other on the rear as if trying to mold their tight behinds, to jump and leap across the green stage like a ballerina, to even show a smalll tear in the corner of an eye after a special performance? Is there really any point, purpose or benefit to this barbaric game we all love so much? Maybe not, but as the time draws near for the final clash between these giants of men, I have only one more thing to say…”ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?”