Tag Archives: Writing/Chicken Scratches

I Don’t Want That…

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This week I’m taking care of two of my grandkids.  When I woke up the four-year-old in the morning, our conversation went like this.

I kissed her forehead and said, “Good Morning, Sweet Pea.”

She stretched and yawned,  then said.  “I don’t want that for breakfast.”

“I haven’t even told you what I’m cooking.”

“I know.  But I don’t want that.”

That’s how I’ve been feeling lately.  I don’t want that…I don’t even know what the “that” is that I don’t want.

In the morning, looking forward to some quiet time, I make my tea, pick up my journal and go to sit in an Adirondack chair surrounded by lush gardens.  But, that’s not what I want.

After breakfast, I go to my office to write.  As I’m driving, I’m working out a problem with my new novel.  I love this story but,  I can’t figure out how to describe the wings the main character is anxious to have removed so she can be like the rest of the teenagers.  Are they dragon wings?  Butterfly wings?  Bird Wings?  I don’t know and now…I don’t want to do that.

I’ve tried shopping therapy — I came home with hives from the stress.

I tried redecorating therapy — I haven’t finished, so now I have paint cans and brushes sitting around my house that have been there long enough, I actually had to dust them.

I even tried hair therapy, but you all know how that turned out..

I catch myself sighing every few minutes and now I’m afraid I’m turning into my Grandmother Nellie, who walked around expelling sighs loud enough to power half  the wind turbines in Kansas.

I heard a self-help guru recently who said if you change something in one part of your life, the part you want to change will happen, so when a friend of mine asked if I’d go with her to get training for a motorcycle license I said yes.  Unfortunately, that’s not until the fall.

Maybe the change I need right now is something that will help me lose those five extra pounds that are hanging around my middle.   I’ll stop at the store on the way home and buy something healthy to cook.

I climb in my car, and at the first red light I turn the opposite direction of the store because, sigh, even though I don’t know what I was going to cook, I know I don’t want that.

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Here’s my youngest grandson, dressed and ready to be admitted as the newest citizen of Crazie Town.  Care to join him?

Our new Fire Chief

Operation: It’s All About ME

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 A few years ago I wrote an essay about my trip to South Africa and it was published in the Kansas City Star.  Shortly after that, I received a call from the South African Consulate telling me how much they liked the story and asking me if my husband and I would attend their Freedom Day party.

“OF COURSE I WILL!” I shouted.

I may have been over excited, but it was because the night would be All About ME.  My husband is a politician, so I’ve spent years being “the spouse” at hundreds of events.  Some of the perks that come with being The Spouse are:

  • We arrive at a function and pick up our name-tags.  His will be printed in bold even letters, mine will be hastily hand-written.
  • People speak to me as if I’m in grade school – pasting a big smile on their faces and over-enunciating their patronizing words.  “I’ll bet you had a wonderful day of shopping while your husband was working, didn’t you?”
  • Or, I’m the one pasting the giant smile on my face while the two of them speak in some foreign language.  “I’m concerned about SB121.  Blah, blah, blah, motion to amend, blah, blah, blah, above the line, blah, blah, blah.”

But not this time.  This time, my husband would be the one standing around with nothing to say or do, a plastic smile plastered on his face.  The joy of Freedom Day increased with every thought I had about how miserable he would be.

We arrive at the event and the elevator doors open onto the first phase of Operation: It’s All About ME.  The name-tag table.  I’m embarrassed to tell you how giddy I was at the thought of having an actual printed name-tag and secretly hoping that his would be the one that was handwritten.  Yes, I’m dreadful.  I admit it.  Let’s just move on, shall we?

We walk up, and the assistant sitting behind the table jumps up.  “Oh!  Senator Vratil.  How nice to see you.  I have your name-tag right here.”  She hands it to him – neatly printed in Times New Roman.  As my eyes rake the table, searching for mine, I hear her dreaded question…  “And who’s this with you?”

All the color drains from my face and like a fish gasping for air my mouth opens and closes several times.  As hot, angry tears threatened to spill over my lashes,  I run to the bathroom where I pace back and forth, humiliated and enraged.  Sure, I’ve killed a mouse, I sputter.  Maybe even a few cockroaches, but I mean really, Karma?  Did I deserve this?

Pulling myself together, I finally return to my husband, who holds the vile hand-written name-tag in his hand.  I snatch the paper from him and rip it to shreds.

“Uh, are you okay?” he asks.

“Perfectly fine,”  I say, grabbing his arm and with my head held high, marching into the reception.

Since It’s All About ME, at first my brain only registered the humiliation I had just suffered by not receiving the golden award of a computer printed name-tag.  But eventually, even my ego had to shut up long enough to listen to the speakers.   They shared their stories of abuse and emotional struggles during apartheid and the joy they felt when democracy came to their country.

Sigh. I wish I could tell you that I had a complete change in attitude after those speeches.  I mean… it wasn’t like I was totally callous.  I did actually realize that in the big scheme of things, a sticky piece of paper with my name printed on it, is truly unimportant.

But at the end of the speeches, when they called my name and talked about the article I’d written, I have to admit that all I thought was… YES!  It’s All About ME!

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Guess what?  I’ve been writing this blog for a year!  Amazing.  If this post made you smile, share me on your Facebook page and if you’re feeling really generous, click LIKE on my author’s page.  Then again, maybe it’s not such a good idea to  reinforce OPERATION:  IT’S ALL ABOUT ME.