All the Feelings

Just saw Saving Mr. Banks with the husband. Neither of us could leave the theater until we composed ourselves. Especially me. Not knowing the film was going to incite tears, I had no Kleenex with me. So ill-prepared was I. Instead, like a child with a runny nose, I resorted to drying my eyes on the voluminous cowl neck of my sweater.
Too many connections, I had/have with this movie. Like the author, P.L. Travers, of Mary Poppins, on which this movie is based, I had an alcoholic father whom I adored. I watched my father spit up blood; I saw his eyes, fixed and dilated, as he lay on his deathbed. I was forty-two when I watched my dad die. It was traumatic. Travers, whose real name was Helen Lyndon Goff, was only seven when her beloved father passed. And her mother, like mine, was emotionally troubled. I frequently daydreamed of having a different mother, one that was more loving and tender and stable, and I would probably have taken to a nanny who possessed those qualities. My mom didn't work outside of the home, really, save for a few temporary jobs, and we certainly weren't the wealthy sort who employed nannies or any kind of household help.
In life, I had a dad like Travers's, the Mr. Banks in the children's book. My dad, Duncan McDowell, was a delight, the sort who sang and danced and changed lyrics to popular songs with nonsensical lines ("They, asked me if I knew, raccoon poop was blue ... " ~ a dining room tribute to the Platters' song, "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.") My father was my very dear friend. I felt like my arm had been cut off when he died. I wrote nothing for a full year, read very little, slept fitfully. Nothing, really, mattered to me, my grief was so broad. Clearly, I identify with the quite functional dysfunctional father-daughter relationship portrayed in Hollywood's dramatized movie, Saving Mr. Banks. I lived it, from the years 1965 until 1977, the summer I turned twelve, the summer Elvis died and my father quit drinking. Many times, I'd been a little girl praying that my daddy would lay off the sauce, as he called it; or, at the very least, he would only get a little buzzed, instead of pass-out drunk. Dad was still nice when he drank a six-pack. It was when the orange vodka came out that our carpet turned to eggshells.
Currently, I am a nanny, so there is that link. I sing and dance with the children in my care; I nurture them daily; I prepare their meals; I discipline tenderly; I love the children and they love me in return. The recognition that I am Mary Poppins to four children overwhelms me with happiness and gratitude. I know that I am making a difference in their lives. That is no small awareness. It is an enormous truth that carries immense responsibility.
Travers infused Mary Poppins with love because it was autobiography disguised as fiction. The pain of her love for her father, Travers Goff, is transparent on every page. She wanted the Mr. Banks of her book, an idealized version of her father, to impress and enthrall all. She wanted redemption and restoration of his character. She wanted an erasure of the alcoholism and his untimely death. (He was in his early 40s when he died from influenza, a truth that is not divulged in the cinematic version.)
It is why, the very same reason, that I am writing Bologna With the Red String: A Culinary Tribute to a Blue-Collar Upbringing in a Barbecue Town. The food memoir is a love story ~ a tribute ~ to my parents, much more than it is a cookbook. It does not exist to make fun of my blue-collar background, even though there is humor employed in the telling. We might have been poor at times, but we were never stupid; our income insufficiencies weren't from lack of responsibility. There was a recession and people quit buying cars. My auto-worker dad rolled newspapers to keep food on the family table when the General Motors plant shut down.
My story seeks only to honor my mom and dad, both of whom did the best they could, and then some.

On government shutdowns, lack of money, bologna, and MacDowell

It's Day Two of the government shutdown and I am feeling pissy and sad and emotional. Very PMS-y, I might say. Part of me wants to log on to Facebook and rant and rave and call Republicans Retardicans or Repugnacans, because it is the GOP that I (and much of America, including our fine president) blame for the mess that is in Washington. Congress schmongress. Let's fire them all and get new idiots in there. Let's start with the Tea Partiers.
My husband, who's been with the Federal Aviation Administration for twenty-five years, went to work yesterday, and today, and he will go tomorrow and the next day, but he isn't getting paid right away. Government-issued IOUs. So of course I have a pony in this race, which makes me (somewhat) worthless because I bring in a whopping $275 weekly from my nanny jobs. (I love my morning and afternoon gigs; I am torn. Don't want to leave my families; might have to leave my families and get a 9-5 desk job, which is necessary at this stage in the race because my foot is still semi-broken and throbs ten hours a day. But then there's my adorable children, and a verbal promise that I will stay with them throughout the school year. As I said before, I am torn. Oh, and broke.)
My default plan, whenever the pissiness and sadness and OhmigodIneedtomakemoney sets in, I turn to my writing. Specifically, I am trying very, very, very hard to corral my ADD and focus on my Bologna book. I am particularly in support of this plan because it has been one year since I was at MacDowell, holed up in my cozy stone cottage in the woods of New Hampshire. It was ONE YEAR ago that I was at my laptop working on Bologna With the Red String, and now 365 days have gone by, and I am still not finished.
Not finished.
Getting closer, but ...
NOT FINISHED.
What to do?
Pretend I'm at MacDowell. Head to my writing room, which my dear husband helped make possible (the man I'm disappointing financially); spray Indigo Wild's Frankincense & Myrrh Zum Mist -- that's the scent I sprayed inside Mixter Studio; listen to Tony Bennett's Duets II album --that's the music I listened to on my iPod as I wrote, outlined, edited and cursed at the simple desk adjacent to the stone fireplace; set myself to a schedule: 9 a.m. to noon, write; break for lunch; write from 12:30 to 3 p.m. And yet ... I am missing (son of a bitch, oh, how I am missing) the screened-in porch and wooded surroundings of Mixter studio; I am missing the electric hotpot that I used four, five, six times a day to make decaf coffee or tea; I am missing the glorious absence of housekeeping; I am missing the wonderful Plunk! of my lunch basket hitting the porch; I am missing naptime. (At MacDowell, I napped from 3 to 5 each day, waking to shower and prepare for dinner.)

To encourage my focus and discipline, I tell myself that I will to return to MacDowell once I publish the food memoir. You will go back, Kathleen, you will get there.

It will happen for you. Now sit your ass down in that chair. Finish the fucking book.

I thought nervous breakdowns weren't real

Is the entire world going crazy? Children, gunned down in American classrooms; children, gassed in their homes in Syria; children, slaughtered inside a mall in Kenya. Here in the U.S., Congress can't make a decision and President Obama looks like he's going to lose his shit every time he stands behind a podium. Here in my home in suburban Kansas City, two adult children, both college-educated, are pulling in eight bucks an hour pulling espresso shots at the local Starbucks. Groceries are costing thirty dollars a bag and gas is $3.40 a gallon. Our electric bill last month was $360. My husband wants to retire in eight years, only it's looking like he won't be golfing five days a week anytime soon. Since leaving the classroom, it's been damned near impossible to find full-time work for me: I'm pushing fifty, and outside of knowing how to diagram a sentence and explain plot structure, my career skills are behind the times. Luckily, I have several nanny gigs that pay well and I go to work each morning delighted to be in the presence of children, sweet and innocent kids who board the school bus daily and plan on arriving home, alive, later that day.
Two of my friends currently are undergoing treatment for breast cancer. Another continues to grieve the loss of her eighteen-year-old son (the worst loss of all); my sis just got slammed with child support and wage garnishment because her ex had a better lawyer than she did; my parents are both dead (I continue to feel orphaned); cute little Hannah Montana has morphed into a stripper; my 21-year-old is fawning over that pot-smoking loser Wiz Khalifa; my MacDowell days are behind me and my bologna book is still unfinished; somehow I ended up in a Republican Bunco group; my dogs won't stop barking; I haven't been to Mass in almost a year; my computer has a virus and typing this post is taking me nine hundred times longer than it should.
I told myself today that I would not turn on the television because the news is so distressing; I told myself today that I would eat five servings of fruits and vegetables; I told myself today that I would get a big poster board and plan out my book's structure. (I am a visual person and if I can't see something directly it doesn't exist.) I told myself I would try to walk the dogs and even if my right foot began throbbing I had to at least circle two cul de sacs.
It's a plan. I'll keep you posted.

Missing MacDowell and the freedom to create

Here it is, Saturday morning, the third day of November, and I have written very little since returning from MacDowell, glorious MacDowell.
I have figured out the difference ~ and this was not difficult to theorize ~ but the difference between MacDowell and my home in Kansas City is all about responsibilities.
At MacDowell, I had long, long, long hours to fill, sitting at my laptop, or standing (which is frequently my preference), whereby my only responsibility was to write, and then show up for breakfast and dinner, 8 a.m. and 6:30 p.m., respectively. Lunch was a thunk on my porch that came to me: delicious soup and sandwiches, fruit, and dessert.
At MacDowell, I made my bed, but did not get distracted by laundry or dust on my dresser, or a dog that wanted me to throw a ball ... over and over ... over and over ... over and over.
I love my dogs, but they are a HUGE time suck. They want in, they want out, they want in, they want out, they want me to take them for a walk, they want me to fetch them a biscuit, they want to go "bye-bye," they want to be fed, they want new water, they want me to pet them, to play with them, to let them in, to let them out, to let them in, to let them out.
I can deal with letting housekeeping wait; I can deal with eating sandwiches from Price Chopper and apples and pears when I am hungry; I don't need to cook big meals anymore: the children are grown, it's just me and my husband, and he's fine with sandwiches from Price Chopper, or dinner from the All-You-Can-Eat salad bar there.
It's the dogs. Millie and Bella, so damned cute and so damned needy.
They are the primary reason I have written so very little since coming home. Well, also, there's work responsibilities: yesterday I subbed at Liberty High School and then went right away to help out a neighbor ~ get her children off the bus and into the house; prepare a snack.
But it's the dogs, and the constant attention they seem to need, that's been my Achilles heel now that I am home.
When Tuesday rolls around, I am taking Miss Millie to doggy daycare so I can get some writing done. Without Millie, Bella quiets down. She will sleep for me.
Well. It's a plan.
I need a plan. I have written only 1,070 words on my NaNoWriMo project; I am still not finished with my Bologna book ~and I have put myself on strict deadline to be DONE by December 31.
My short short story for contest needs half a day of attention (deadline Nov. 15). And I haven't begun to solicit literary journals for another five short stories.
***

Anyone need an adorable cocker spaniel?

Monday, Monday ...

Well, I feel like the shock of Michael Jackson's death is behind me. I let myself feel down in the dumps for three days, but it's time to move on. I just hope the media doesn't further crucify this extraordinary talent.
***
Today all three kids are home, and so far two are still in bed. And it's 1 p.m. How do they do this? When I loll about in bed I am subject to strange dreams that usually involve skyscrapers and feeling as though I'm being chased.

Because it's still stupidly hot I might not leave the house today; or, end up seeing a movie. My Sister's Keeper intrigues me, but I don't know if what I need now is a crying spell. The heat already has me feeling depressed.

I've done no writing on my Bologna Book. Will I even get to it this summer?

Peanuts and Cracker Jack ...

Yes! Today was a baseball day, which means, for me, experiencing heaven on earth.
The minor-league baseball game (Go T-Bones!) started at 11 this morning. Spouse and I met another couple at the stadium and for the next seven hours (no kidding ... there was a double header, and the first game played lasted 4 hours, 10 minutes) we drank beer and ate dollar hotdogs and laughed and behaved immaturely.
However, I did catch a rather miserable sunburn ... should have applied my sunscreen more liberally and more often ... .
But the best part of the day was spending glorious time outlining my summer writing project, which I did this morning, bored to distraction in my husband's office. I'd gone to work with him stupidly early (he arrives at his desk each morning at 6:15) and after listening to him talk through various telcons for ninety minutes, I sneaked off to the lounge and pulled out my pen and set to work.
Part cookbook, part memoir, the book will celebrate my blue-collar Midwestern upbringing. Tentatively titled chapters include "Broccoli-Rice Casserole," "Fried Egg Sandwiches," "Gravy," and "Recession Food." Of course one chapter will be devoted to my love and profound appreciation for Miracle Whip. If it's never published officially (Read: reputable publishing house) I'll just vanity press it and leave copies for posterity. I really don't want my mom to die before I get out of her how it is exactly she made her famous pork chops in brown gravy, or how to assemble the milk toast dish she talked about from her own childhood.
I'm jazzed to start the writing.
Stay posted!