Category Archives: blogging

Stick a fork in me Jerry, I’m done!

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For any of you that watched Seinfeld in the good old days, the subject line of this post refers to the day Kramer lathered himself in butter to tan on the roof and fell asleep.  Many references were made to the smell of roasted turkey coming from the roof and Newman spent most of the day chasing Kramer through the hallways of their apartment building armed with a knife and fork.

I now have some frame of reference to what a turkey feels like when it is pulled from the oven.  Today, I had my first ever M.R.I. to determine what I have done to my knee.  For those unaware of Magnetic Resonance Imaging, the process is similar to taking a meat product and shoving into a casing to create a sausage.  A human body is robed in the flattering hospital gown and pants and thrust into an opening barely large enough to contain said body.  For twenty to thirty minutes, the owner of the body must remain perfectly motionless for the imaging to be successful.

mri-10

(image credit:  howstuffworks.com)

Precautions are taken to restrict any movement of the part being scanned and a call button is placed in the hand of the subject waiting to enter the tunnel in case of any discomfort or panic.  Thankfully I did not experience either of those.  With a knee scan, the head remains outside of the enclosure and the orb surrounds only the parts deemed necessary for imaging.

Ear plugs are inserted to mute the throbbing noise created by the imaging machine and dulcet tones are played to mask the sound of technology.  The soothing sounds of The Eagles helped to transport me to that hotel in California where you can check out any time you want but you can never leave, but the DJ followed up with James Brown’s “I Feel Good” and it was painful to remain still.  Who doesn’t want to move when you hear that song?

The machine hummed and pulsated.  The tube resonated with the sounds of helium-suspended-magnets as bursts of radio frequencies were bounced from my flesh back to a computer where the images would be recorded for posterity and diagnosis.  The heat in the tube increased and my body temperature spiked.  Beads of sweat trickled from my brow and finally the timer sounded.  My M.R.I. was over and dinner was served.   If only I’d thought to prepare myself with some butter, salt and pepper.  Thankfully nobody chased me down the corridors of the hospital with a knife and fork!

A brave new world

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Today I began a new journey.   Today was my first day at a new job…..one that I ventured into after spending the better part of two decades at a place that was overwhelmingly familiar.  The best part of today was walking into a place that, although not as familiar, I felt like I belonged.  The buildings, the walls, the faces and the surroundings are new but still give me a sense of  home.

The joy of working in hospitality is knowing that a strong personality and having the ability to fly by the seat of your pants are not only requirements, but assets that can assuage any sense of discomfort that may arise from being in a foreign place.  And today, I flew.   I jumped in with both feet and hit the ground running.

Perhaps the comfort level comes from being in a situation that is remarkably similar to my comfort zone, but on a much smaller scale.  Or perhaps that peacefulness comes from being able to be myself and not sweat the small stuff.  I adapt.  It’s what I’m good at and a skill that allows me to blend in without seeming like I have no knowledge of my surroundings.

shammy

(image credit: http://www.shamrocklodge.com)

Tomorrow I can go back knowing a little more than I knew today – and knowledge is power.  Tomorrow I take what I learned today and parlay it into a greater feeling of awareness and comprehension.  Tomorrow the rest of me flies with the seat of my pants, and not just by the seat of my pants.  Tomorrow I look back at yesterday and realize its success.  Tomorrow, I look forward to many more tomorrows.

The fading image in my rear-view mirror

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Like the perfect piece of baker’s chocolate, today will be bittersweet.  I am comfortably ensconced in a chair in my office, shrouded by four very familiar walls that are situated on a property that I could maneuver my way around with my eyes closed.  But today is my last day in this place.

A big part of my life has been spent exploring every facet of the 408 acres that make up this resort property.  From my humble beginnings in 1986 I have cleaned every single one of the 158 rooms on numerous occasions, I have served hundreds of people in its dining room, I have greeted hundreds more at the front desk and I have encouraged thousands to vacation here.  My car could drive itself from home to office after the numerous trips we have made together down this winding Muskoka road.

This home away from home has been the site of many experiences for me, some fantastic and some tragic.  This job was not just a job.  This place gave me the tools to grow, not only as an employee and a boss, but as a person.  This place introduced me to many people I consider an extended part of my family.  From staff to hotel guests, the connections I have made here will last a lifetime.

cleves water front

(image credit: http://www.clevelandshouse.com)

But the time has come to change the landscape I see on my drive to work.  Although the splendor of the Muskoka beauty will still be seen through each of my car windows, the shadows that dance on the road before me will be different.  The path that my tires follow will be not be naturally carved in the pavement leading me to the walls that contain so many memories.   This new path will take time to feel as comfortable but I’m sure it will lead me to just as much happiness.

As the image of a lifetime fades in my rear-view mirror, the path ahead is waiting to welcome me with open arms and begin the journey of making new memories.

The Call of Nature

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I’ve had these pictures on my phone for a while and wanted to share them.

a crack in the armor

A crack in the armor of ice.

ice

Intricate patterns in the early morning freeze on my patio table.

ring around the sun

Ring around the sun.

patterns

Hashtag in the sky.

ominous whisps

The atmosphere air-brushed the sky.

criss cross

Same effect in lighter shades.

morning glory

A stunning sky to ease me into the morning.

Decease and desist – Trifecta Post

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His halted steps were deliberate.   He had no physical ailment restraining him but the heaviness in his heart seemed to impede his movement.  The church steps spanned his peripheral vision and the large wooden doors loomed ahead making him feel small, almost minuscule.   He had to cross the threshold.  He knew that as sure as he knew he needed to breathe the air that now seemed viscous and ready to choke him with his next inhalation.

One foot found its place in front of the other and his hand reached for the over-sized handle.  The door groaned its argument about being forced open but he moved forward, knowing what waited for him on the other side.  He knew the faces he would see would seem vaguely familiar but he could not focus on them.  Today was about something much deeper.  Today was about death.

He had recited the eulogy aloud over and over until the words had etched themselves into his brain.  The crowd fell silent as he made his way to the front of the room.  He furtively glanced at the collection of people gathered within the confines of the church walls and collected every ounce of strength that remained in his sorrow-filled body.

The many trial runs in the mirror made it easier and the words seem to spill from his lips.  “My name is Ray, and I am an alcoholic.  Somewhere along the way, the person I was died and this is his funeral.”

“Hi, Ray.”

~

This post was written for the Trifecta Post:
DELIBERATE
1: characterized by or resulting from careful and thorough consideration <a deliberate decision>
2: characterized by awareness of the consequences<deliberate falsehood>
3: slow, unhurried, and steady as though allowing time for decision on each individual action involved

Remember:
  • Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
  • You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
  • The word itself needs to be included in your response.
  • You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
  • Only one entry per writer.
  • If your post doesn’t meet our requirements, please leave your link in the comments section, not in the linkz.
  • Trifecta is open to everyone. Please join us.

Words for the wordies

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I have been working on a novel for a few years. Time that should have been spent writing to get it finished during those years seems to have been interrupted by reality, but I will never give up the dream of seeing it through to its completion, hopefully by the end of this year.

As writers tend to do, I always second guess the salability of the story…..and this, dear friends and readers, is where you come in. The following is the beginning of the book and I would love to get some feedback….positive and negative. From perspective comes growth.

The Waking Hours

Jack Brandon looked at himself in the mirror for the third time. The deep circles under his eyes and the numerous laugh lines did much to convince him that he had earned each of his 38 years. Laugh lines he thought, was the definition of irony. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled. Pulling his gaze from the mirror, Jack glanced around his modest condominium. The collection of antique and clay figurines certainly looked familiar, but somehow seemed vaguely out-of-place. He could not put a finger on it but his trepidation increased.

Shaking off his uneasiness and the frustration of the day, he moved over to the dry sink and poured himself an aromatic glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. He padded barefoot through the plush carpet and sank into his favorite recliner. Although the condo was tastefully decorated, the recliner stuck out like a sore thumb. The remainder of the chocolate-brown corduroy on the arms hung in tatters and foam spouted from the gaping holes, but Jack refused to part with it. The chair had become as comforting as a warm handshake from an old friend – unfortunately, a subject he could not relate to with great authority. Jack had always been a loner. His parents had been extreme over achievers but had never pushed Jack to open up. Before he could rub any more salt in that open wound, he changed his thought pattern to complete nothingness.

The sun gradually lowered itself and began pulling up the blanket of the horizon. As dusk inched its way to darkness, Jack remained listless in his chair. Blackness swept through the apartment and he found himself awash in a cascade of shadows and jagged streaks of moonlight. Although the solitude did have a serene quality, he could not shake the sense that the darkness held some sort of malice for him. After a few more glasses of wine, Jack was feeling the effects and sleep crept methodically into the corners of his eyes and gently pulled down his eyelids. As his breathing became heavy and rhythmic, the black canvas of his dreamscape was brushed clean and anxiously awaited a new splash of color.

~

He emerged from his sleep to a tirade of rasping coughs and shallow breaths. In the seconds it took for him to discern the sounds, he realized they were coming from him and he felt beads of sweat rolling from his brow. His large hands were flailing through the air, reaching out for an invisible assailant. Immediately he tried to relax and gulped large quantities of air. Jack’s dreams had become far more vivid recently and mornings were a constant source of recollection, collaboration and interpretation. The lingering image of a woman was in his mind but he could not keep hold of the dream and she vanished. Pausing only for a moment, he rose unsteadily from the chair and tried to shake the fragments of sleep from his head. Shadows danced in the corners of the apartment and teased his eyes. Still dusting the cobwebs from his mind, he stumbled to the bathroom and seemed to have lost his inner compass. He tripped over furniture and momentarily lost his equilibrium. He cranked on the hot water, stripped out of his clothes and tried to rid himself of his feeling of wariness as he stepped into the shower.

The heated beads of water stung his skin but he welcomed the pressure of the jet streams. Perhaps the pounding shower could help cleanse his sense of growing failure. Real estate sales were down and reflectively brought Jack’s mood down with them. For every day that passed with no prospects, his depression and loss of enthusiasm increased. Something had to change, and it had to change soon.

Feeling somewhat more awake and refreshed, Jack reached down to shut off the flow of water. He halted briefly and stared, completely puzzled. The shower head and faucet were different from what he remembered. He tried to recall if the landlord had mentioned any changes but he had no memory of that conversation. He turned off the new faucets and threw open the shower curtain. The steam from the shower shrouded his vision as he toweled himself dry. As the mist began to clear Jack stepped from the shower and felt a plush bathmat under his feet. He didn’t own a bathmat. He reached to his left to wipe the mirror and his hand rubbed against nothing but tile and wallpaper. As the last of the shower steam finally dissipated Jack’s mouth fell open. He gaped in horror at the bathroom. It wasn’t his bathroom at all.

Mom

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mom-holding-baby

She birthed me and swaddled me,

she showered me with love.

Her arms always embraced me,

they fit me like a glove.

Her words were the only ones,

that could help to heal my scars.

Hers was the only light,

that would comfort me in the dark.

She woke me up to play with me,

she laughed at all my jokes.

She sang with me to old musicals,

although she couldn’t hold the notes.

Her faith in my abilities,

has stood the test of time.

She’s the portrait of what a mother should be,

and I’m glad that she is mine.

So, here’s to you, mom, on this special day,

my love for you has no end.

You’re my giver of life, my confidant,

and will always be my best friend.

Happy Mother’s Day.

The Storm Rumbles On – Trifextra Post

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The passing wind whooshed by,

leaving the drips of rain scattered.

The clap of thunder resonates,

the crack of lightning left a mark that mattered.

The storm rumbles on,

leaving the earth tattered.

~

Written for the Trifextra Post: On to the weekend challenge.  This weekend we want you to give us 33 words (exactly) that include among them at least one example of onomatopoeia.  When looking for a good page to link to in order to help describe the device, we stumbled upon our very own Apoplectic Apostrophes‘ post on literary devices.  Check it out if you need help remembering how onomatopoeia work.

Alcoholism – the disease that lurks in the shadows

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The words that grip me today are saturated with reality.  They come from a place of experience.  They come from a place of sadness.   But they also come from a place of honesty.  This piece of writing is not fiction and comes from deep within myself.

Disease is a long and winding road.  I am an adult child of alcoholic parents.  There have been reams written on the subject, some of it is familiar to me and some seems to be a foreign language from another planet.  Each child that has grown up with the same label I have experiences their life in a completely different way.  No two children live within the same defined constraints of alcoholism and no two children will ever see the disease in the same way.  My brother and I grew up in the same house and I would put money on the fact that we would describe the experience from two completely different perspectives.  This is the reality of disease – it will affect everyone in a unique way.

I was always an intuitive child and I knew from an early age that my parents did not drink the way most parents drank.  Sure, life was fun, life was a party, but life also got swept under the rug and the hard times were diluted with an alternate reality that was sold in a bottle.  My childhood was not a horrible experience, by any means.  My parents were loving, affectionate and giving and our family knew how to care for and support each other and work hard for the things we got.  But the demons always lurked in the corners.  When life was good, it was great.  But when life was difficult, my parents would retreat into the safety of the haze that alcohol created and the world outside of the four walls of our home failed to exist.  They shared a blurred vision that perpetuated the colors of their elusive rainbow.  Their co-dependency only fueled the fire of the disease and, as the years progressed, my father was the first to show the physical symptoms of its true profile.  Alcohol is a serial killer.

His once athletic frame had become withered and yellowed and the spark in his eyes had faded.  The buoyant man brimming with life was transformed into an aged man who, at times, seemed like a stranger.  His personality slowly retreated into a dark corner and the vacant stare that remained only served as a reminder that the man we once knew had been abducted by the demons of his past. Watching my father suffer the prolonged and debilitating effects of the disease was horrific.  Thankfully the memories I choose to keep are those of the energetic, exuberant man whom everyone loved.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that serial killer lurking in the shadows.  I enjoy a glass of wine.  I appreciate a cold beer on a hot day.  But that enjoyment is tarnished with thoughts of a possible genetic mutation that may alter my pleasure and turn it into something sinister.  When I savor a red wine bursting with the aromas of blackberry and cinnamon, when I let it circle my taste buds with the pungent taste of earth and spice, there is an underlying sense of disquiet that the indulgence may have an ulterior motive.   I can only take solace in the fact that wine, for me, is a pleasure and not an escape.  I delight in its taste and my life is not affected by my enjoyment of its true character and nuance.  It enhances my palate, it does not control my world.

True to the form of a demented psyche, the serial killer has now targeted my mother. It has stalked her, circling her and batting at her like a cat with a mouse.  Seeing the recent change in my mom is more difficult because we have something to compare it to.  That all-too-familiar haunting look in her eyes and the subtle changes in her personality bring the experience with my dad back to the forefront of my mind.  We know what to expect and there is nothing we can do to change it.  We are helpless to watch my mom teeter over the same rabbit hole that swallowed my father.

Thankfully my mom is much like my dad and has the spirit of a fighter.  Deep inside she knows she is unwell, but her demeanor and her spunk tell a different story.  Together, as a family, we will board the windows and latch the doors to fend off the evil perpetrator as long as we can.   Serial killers may be tenacious, but this one has no idea what its up against.  Blood is most definitely thicker than water and the life force that flows in our veins is stubborn.  We will never give up without a good fight.   Disease will never trump a child’s love for their parents.

Over forty and feeling…..broken

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Forty may be the new twenty, but I don’t think my body got that memo.   I used to be able to handle stress much better, not that I had the stress I have in my forties, but the carriage that houses my soul never used to show signs of that stress.  I would bounce back and be prepared for the next onslaught of tension, armed and ready to kill that dragon.

These days, I am not as fortunate.  The knots of stress seem to locate the weakest parts of my body and finds the forty-something-year-old muscles far more inviting.  Like an unwanted house guest, it settles in, makes itself comfortable and it chooses to stay for a while.

About a month and a half ago I injured my knee while shoveling snow.  Who knew an activity so benign could leave such a lasting injury?  The pain subsided and temporarily vanished, but every so often it flares up again and I am currently moving slower than some of my mom’s new acquaintances in the retirement home.

I have yet to go to the doctor, but that trip is looming.  The male part of my brain had me convinced that the temple that is my body would heal itself, but that seems far-fetched as I hobble around my house this morning, wishing I had a cane.  In my self-diagnosis, compliments of Google, I realized that I have most likely torn the meniscus in my right knee.   It could be a minor tear but could also lead to surgery if not properly diagnosed and healed.

cane

(image credit: oralchelation.com)

Today, for me, forty feels more like the new sixty but I am determined not to let this affliction get the best of me.  I will beat stress and injury into submission with determination, tenacity and a borrowed cane!