GETTING IN THE MOOD TO WRITE 

I love coffee.  There's nothing like a hot cup of French Roast to put me in the mood to write. 

This caffeine craze began when I was six years old.  Every time my family visited my grandparents, I'd beg Bubbie for a cup.  My grandmother always gave in.  She spooned three teaspoons of Folgers coffee into my mug of milk.  It wasn't like I needed to feel like a grown-up.  It was the aroma and taste that I craved.  That coffee-milk concoction was the best thing ever. 

I began regularly drinking coffee with cream and sugar after I graduated college.  Now days, I drink black coffee and my favorite flavors are French Roast, as well as Guatemalan or Columbian coffee.  Holding a steamy cup warms my hands and fingers and the taste gives me a little caffeine buzz.  After a few sips, I'm ready to edit my manuscripts, do some marketing, and respond to clients and critique partners.  I'll sip coffee throughout the day, less than 2 cups, which is a fairly harmless custom compared to the habits of some famed American authors. 

I did a little research.  According to Tom Dardis, author of The Thirsty Muse, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Eugene O’Neill got in the mood to write with alcohol.  Dardis reveals that these writers inherited their alcoholism from their parents.  Dardis states that the first three burned themselves out before they reached their creative potential.  I'm not sure I agree with him in regards to Hemingway.  

Judy Reeves, author of A Writer’s Book of Days, observes that several famous authors had healthier “getting into the writing mood” methods.  She notes that Alexandre Dumas (the elder) ate an apple early each morning.  Charles Dickens took long walks every day.  Modern day novelist Stephen King has a glass of water or tea, takes a vitamin pill and listens to music. 

So, it seems common that many authors rely on some stimulus to prepare themselves to write.  A cup of java usually does the trick for me.  But on the rare occasion coffee doesn't get my creative juices flowing, I put my writing for a little bit and:  

• study French     
• answer emails
• work on client's manuscripts and query letters   
• take a walk and mull over ideas
• read inspirational quotes on writing
• go to Pinterest to get visual writing ideas
• read Facebook posts until I figure I've got better things to do with my time 

Putty Cat

Taking a break works wonders.  I am refreshed and ready to write.   

While the water boils for a fresh cup of coffee, I take care of the cats; otherwise, two of them will be hopping on the keyboard.  First, I feed our kitten Lizzie (to distract her from Ozzie's bowl because she's a bit of a food hog), and then Ozzie, and lastly, Putt-Putt (our lovable stray) because he's staring at me through the screen door,

and then feed Ozzie and Lizzie again because they see Putty is eating, so naturally, they want more food.

Whew!  After making sure all three of them are well-fed, I pour myself a cup of steaming hot coffee. 

I turn on the computer and I'm relaxed, open to the flow of ideas, and in the mood to write.

À la prochaine! 

MIGRAINE MISERY   

I've suffered from migraines for decades. 

One of the worst things about these debilitating headaches is losing time to write.  With a migraine, the precious day fades away without the opportunity to pen a single word.  It's impossible to be creative with a pounding headache.    

A migraine feels like the tip of a knife stabbing the temple of my head.  With this amount of pain, it's difficult to think clearly or to make good judgments.  Once while driving with a migraine, I bypassed a familiar street I needed to travel on to get home.  The ability to think straight had been lost and I drove past my turn.

At times, a migraine can produce flashing lights or zigzag patterns.  It can also bring on the chills and nausea, and it may affect the bladder and bowels.

Like most migraine sufferers, I have triggers that set off the pounding headache.  Of the fifteen common triggers listed below, the first eleven can give me a migraine.

Loud noise
Bright lights
Air travel
Stress
Alcohol
Foods with additives like soy*   
Changes in barometric pressure 
Female hormones
Certain medicines
Certain fragrances
Certain baking odors
Hunger
Dehydration
Caffeine
Change in sleep patterns

Though I know what can set off a migraine, sometimes it's difficult to control or to avoid these triggers.  So, for years I explored methods to give me some relief.  I tried a bioidentical hormone cream, acupuncture, essential oils, and cannabis, but none of these treatments worked. 

Finally, I saw a neurologist.  He too, suffered from migraines.  So, here was someone who understood these debilitating headaches.  He prescribed the vasoconstrictor Imitrex.  And voilà.  Imitrex stops a migraine in its tracks.  I reach for this wonder med at the first sign of a migraine attack, which in my case can be any of the following:  a tightening across my forehead, sinus pressure, feeling foggy brained, seeing light flashes, or having blurry vision. 

 

It's a godsend to have a reliable medicine.  Without Imitrex, I'd be curled up in bed for up to six hours trying not to throw up and missing out on composing blogs, editing my stories, fine-tuning queries, advising clients, and doing social media marketing.  A migraine can make me feel miserable and can ruin a major portion of my day.  

Migraines will probably affect me for the rest of my life.  That's a fact, not a complaint.  I accept this.  Luckily, when I feel one coming on, there's a medicine that brings relief in about fifteen minutes.  As long as I can get ahead of a migraine before it manifests, I'm good to go.  Pain-free, I can tackle my writing tasks.  And without a migraine, I can make the most of a precious day. 

Carpe diem! 

*Soy lecithin is added to many foods such as ice cream, soups, breads, and chocolate.  If you get headaches after having a meal, read the packaging labels.  Find out if soy lecithin is one of the ingredients.

ODE TO OZZIE

I had given up hope that my cat would return.  

Ozzie escaped on a frosty November night.  A week later, I wrote this poem to come to terms with his death.     

ODE TO OZZIE

That's the way it's meant to be

you and me

and the silver moon

and open doors with scents galore

unexplored

'til now.

That's the way it's meant to be.

You left me for wooded fields

and starry nights of winter chill

to roam the verdant virgin hills.

Bed you down safe and sound

gather round angels

to bring you home 

and keep you bound in peace.  

No longer by my side, 

you padded off with Nature's guide 

to wooded fields 

and verdant hills,  

for that's the way it's meant to be. 

 

Epilogue:

Near the end of January, a couple found a stray hiding in the bushes by their home.  He was crying.  He was starving.  They took him in, fed him, and then posted his picture on Next Door.  

A neighbor called me to say she had seen a post of a cat that might be Ozzie.    

  

With a little detective work, my husband and I were able to find the people who rescued the stray.  Down in their basement was skinny cat that could barely meow, that could barely lift his head.  He had two different colored eyes.  They had saved Ozzie.   

Ozzie had travelled to the outskirts of our neighborhood.  He braved snow and predators and single digit temperatures.  He had been missing for two months. 

With the guidance of angels and the kindness of strangers, we have been reunited.

Je suis reconnaissant (I am grateful)

Exhausted, but happy to be home.

LOSING A PET 

I grieve for my pet.    

On a frosty November night, our beloved cat Ozzie ran away.  The basement door was ajar and he slipped outside.  It's been months since he's disappeared.   

Ozzie was always intrigued with the outside world.  He'd attempt to sneak out whenever we opened the deck or patio doors.  He'd push against the screen door trying to tear through it.   

A few months before his departure, he'd hop up to a table and stare longingly through a window at the backyard.  I thought he might be watching for opossums, raccoons, or stray cats.  Perhaps, he was pining to be outside and planning his escape.     

Two years ago, he got outside through the basement door that led into the garage.  When we discovered he was missing, we searched the garage, our yard, and the neighborhood.  Ozzie reappeared in the garage about four hours later. 

Since that day, I bought a tag for his collar which was engraved:  Ozzie.  I'm an indoor cat.  I don't belong outside.  Please call my mom.   

But the tag didn't help.  Ozzie is still missing.  

Here's what I think could have happened:  

• Ozzie may have appeared at someone's doorstep without his collar (it was a breakaway collar that may have been snapped open) and taken in, appearing as a friendly stray.  If he was adopted, the good-hearted neighbor may not have given any thought to having his microchip read, which would reunited him with us.      

• Ozzie may have been sick and traveled to the woods beyond our backyard to find a place to die.  He had been sleeping a bit more than normal and he wasn't as social as he had been.  Cats hide their illnesses and Ozzie may have been concealing the fact that his health was failing. 

• Ozzie may have been lured by curiosity and gotten lost.

• A predator may have found Ozzie.

I believe if Ozzie wanted to, he could have come back the night he escaped.  The door had been open for several hours.  It was cold outside and the terrain beyond our property was unfamiliar.  Occasionally, I had taken him out with a vest and leash to enjoy the backyard.  I think he would have recognized the difference in the smells of our yard and the area beyond.  

A week after Ozzie's escape, my husband and I went to the Humane Society hoping to find him, but no one had brought Ozzie to the shelter.  While we were there, we played with some kittens that were up for adoption.  One of the little bitty cats let me hold her in my lap without squirming.  What were the chances on that day we'd find a kitten with the same name as our daughter?

We adopted Abby, but renamed her Lizzie (a double z in honor of Ozzie.)  Several days later when I took Lizzie to our veterinarian, I told him about Ozzie's disappearance.  Dr. Vice had taken care of Ozzie for seven years.  As he gave Lizzie a rabies shot, he said that no other cat will replace Ozzie.  He said, "Now you have Lizzie and she will have her own story."

I miss Ozzie.  I may never get over losing him.  He was my bud.  I hear stories about pets finding their way back home months after they've disappeared.  So, Ozzie may return and have a baby sister.  But for now, my life is different and I have to deal with the devastating loss and the crushing heartbreak.    

I stroke Lizzie's little face and rub her furry belly and ask, "Lizzie, do you know where Ozzie can be?"  She looks at me tenderly, as if pondering his whereabouts, as if she knows.  Then I ask her one more question:  "Lizzie, with what will your story be?"

Ozzie me manque  

                                                                                                                                                    Ozzie has table privileges

SPOILED 

Written before Ozzie escaped on Thanksgiving night. 

He has not returned.

I spoil our cat Ozzie.  Ollie (our first cat) died from kidney disease when he was only eight-years-old and the loss was so devastating that I go out of my way to indulge Ozzie.      

My sweet boy gets to eat a dish of dry kibbles and a dish of meaty wet food—yes, he has two food bowls.  And he gets to eat whenever he wants, which is throughout the day.  If I'm in the kitchen he waits by his tray.  He's got me pegged.  I fill both of them for him before I have a bite to eat.

When he's finished, he gets to watch the birds.  In the summer, I open the kitchen door for him and Ozzie lies against the screen, soaking in the sun.  He enjoys the variety of the birds that come to the feeders:  cardinals, wrens, woodpeckers, goldfinches, doves, chickadees, titmice, sometimes a rose-breasted grosbeak and hummingbirds.  If he's lucky, he gets to say hello to Putty, a stray cat we care for who frequents the deck for food.

In the mornings, Ozzie usually lies behind the computer screen.  I slide the keyboard to the front edge of the desk so he has plenty of room to stretch out and listen to bird-singing Youtube videos as I work.  

After lunch, Ozzie gets to nap on the guest room bed.  I give him a chin and belly rub before his eyelids get heavy. 

Then late afternoon when he awakens, he gets a dish of wet food—served in bed.

At supper time and before we have dinner, Ozzie gets two more dishes of food.  Then he jumps to the kitchen table and he gets to lounge on a place mat at the end of the table.  He's not reprimanded.  My husband and I know it's useless.  Most of the time, he naps unless he is intrigued by the food on our plates.

During the evening when I'm watching television or reading, he gets to make muffins on my lap. I don't move until he's tuckered out. 

After that, we may rough house.  He gets to swat at my arm.  He gets to gently bite my hand and clench it in his mouth.  When it's bedtime, he gets to curl up by my feet or on my pillow.

The only things he doesn't get to do is walk across the stove and sneak outside, both for reasons of safety.  And he doesn't get to body slam against a closed door—it's uncalled for and annoying.  But overall, Ozzie Mrvos has it made.  He gets lots of love and attention.  From I can tell, he shows his gratitude by butting his head against my hand.     

Without a doubt, I pamper Ozzie.  He gets table privileges.  He gets to watch birds, live or on video and so much more.  Is he spoiled?  Perhaps.  Do I mind?  Not one bit.  

Anything for my sweet boy. 

Ozzie me manque  

                                                                                                                                                                  Courtesy: imdb.com

A MOVIE, A GRADUATION, AND A MESSAGE

One of my favorite movies is The Hangover.  You know the film about four friends who drive to Las Vegas for a wild and memorable stag party.  

My sister (who thinks I have dignified taste) was aghast.  She told her husband, "My sister L-I-K-E-S  The Hangover."  And she said this like the line from Home Alone: "I made my family disappear!"

Come on.  What's not to like about The Hangover?  Bradley Cooper is easy on the eyes. Zack Galifianakis is hilarious.    

And then there's Ken Jeong.  And he may be the main reason why I love this movie.  He is over-the-top outrageous.    

Ken Jeong plays a Chinese mobster Leslie Chow who pops out of the trunk of a car and goes ape-shit, wielding a crowbar and demanding the return of his money.  Originally, this scene did not call for him to be naked.  Ken asked permission to show some skin.  Lots of skin.  In baring all, Jeong makes this violent scene well, less violent and more hilarious.  

You can imagine how excited I felt when Ken Jeong was announced as the key-note speaker at Duke's commencement, an event my husband and I would be attending.  Our daughter graduated from Duke in 2020, but commencement was put on hold due to Covid.  Sixteen months later on September 26, the Class of 2020 would have a special celebration to honor their accomplishments. 

Courtesy: Duke.edu

On the day of commencement, my husband and I arrived an hour before the ceremony to get a good seat.  At 9:00 sharp, "Pomp and Circumstance" stirred everyone to their feet as the procession of graduates, faculty, and administration filed into the quad.  We were happily surprised that so many graduates returned to campus.  We were thrilled to see so many relatives present to honor the graduates. 

After a lyrical benediction by Rev. Dr. Luke A. Powery, a touching speech by student Maghana Sai Iragavarapu and the awarding of degrees, Duke President Vincent Price introduced Ken Jeong, class of 1990.  

Jeong began with a raucous cheer.  "DR. KEN HAS COME BACK HOME!"  Then his mood became emotional.  Wiping away a few tears, he told the graduates, "Whatever you need.  I'm here for you."

He touched on growing up in Greensboro, North Carolina and dreaming to go to Duke.  He revealed an amazing fact.  He said, "I didn't want to be an actor.  I was here to be pre-med at Duke."  

During his 2nd year in college, he took an introduction to acting class that changed his life.  He had never taken any theatre classes.  He said, "I was overcome with passion, and the emotion to perform has never been extinguished." 

After sharing memories of his college days, Ken Jeong wrapped up with a powerful message:

"Live your passions.  Love one another.  Find your identity.  Find your flow in life.  That's all we need. To find our ourselves."  He went on to say, "Don't deny your potential.  Never sell yourself short.  You never know what you will achieve.  Capitalize on your own uniqueness." 

He may have been speaking to the graduates, but it felt as if his words were aimed at everyone seated in the quad.  I was focused, soaking in his presence and intent on the speech.  

While he spoke, The Hangover never entered my mind.  Now it's a given I'll be watching the movie again, though with a better appreciation of Ken Jeong.  Sure, I'll be laughing at his portrayal of Leslie Chow, but I will look beyond this crazy naked criminal to a man who didn't plan on being an actor.  I will see a Blue Devil who opened his heart, a father who followed his passions and a man who encouraged others to follow their dreams.      

 À la prochaine! 

Click on the link to enjoy Ken Jeong's speech.

                                                                                                                                          Photo by Brett Jordan

ANGRY WORDS

It's not often a neighbor hurts my feelings.  

But this summer when I went door to door distributing flyers on behalf of the neighborhood association, I was caught off guard by an angry resident; and to this day, I wonder if the situation could have been handled better.  

I volunteer as secretary on the neighborhood association board.  We have an outstanding team composed of five people who donate their time to represent our neighborhood. 

This summer, we began the annual membership drive.  Dues are not outrageous and yet out of the 400 households, only 100 of them join.  The board decided that if we passed out flyers, more people might be interested.  We felt that if we went door to door, we could inform neighbors about the benefits of joining the association plus remind them about our Facebook page.  On Facebook, members can post news that concerns our neighborhood, sell items, alert others about missing pets, or even offer veggies grown in their gardens. 

I got up early one Saturday morning in June to walk up and down my street and the adjoining streets to pass out about the flyers.  The day was hot, overcast, and misty.  My tee shirt clung to my skin and my hair got damp and frizzy (those who know me would tell you that I'm not fond of muggy weather.) 

I gathered a red marker, masking tape, and the fliers.  I wasn't feeling great.  My hip was sore (later I found out it was due to sciatica).  I felt every step.  Still, this was my assignment and I tried not to think too much about the pain.

For about an hour and a half, I taped flyers to the brickwork or to the windows that flanked the front doors, mindful to avoid delicate surfaces.  I personalized some flyers and gave those to the neighbors I knew well.  All was going smoothly and I was heading back down our street when a man yelled, "HEY, DON'T YOU EVER TAPE ANYTHING TO MY HOUSE AGAIN." 

I was taken aback.  I responded, "These flyers are about the neighborhood association and I was careful not to use tape that would harm your house."

And then, Mr. Grumpy Neighbor lashed out again.  I could see this was a losing argument.  He was pissed off.  There was nothing that could have been said to calm him down.  I walked away quickly and finished my task all the time feeling bruised by his words. 

When I look back on this unfortunate event, I wonder why he couldn't have said something nicer like, "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tape anything to my house."  It's all in how we choose our words that can make the difference in how are feelings are expressed and how language is interpreted by others.  

It still makes me sad every time I walk by the angry man's house.  The ugly words seem to hang in the air.  Then I wonder if I should have handled it differently, been more assertive, gotten in his face and stood my ground.   

But my gut tells me I acted properly.  Mr. Grumpy Neighbor didn't deserve my time.  I have more dignity than getting into a heated discussion, especially with someone who probably didn't care what I had to say.  Though he hurt my feelings, I repeated my mantra:  Don't engage.  Don't engage.  And this always serves me well.  Especially when someone uses nothing but angry words. 

 À la prochaine!