New Specs!

My 2010 Specs

I got some time off around the December holidays and didn't have to report back for the day job till Monday, January 4, 2016. On Sunday I started tensing up and growing anxious about going back to work the next day. By the early evening I had a headache. Around 8 o'clock I noticed lights flashing in my peripheral view, in my right eye. Sort of like a bunch of paparazzi had shrunk themselves into a submarine (which'd been shrunk first, obvi) and were then injected in me, only to wind up behind my eyeball and go to town with their cameras as though Beyoncé, Jay Z, and baby Blue Ivy had just taken residence there.

An old broad wearing her old specs.

This has happened before, over the course of my adulthood (such as it is), but not frequently. I wasn't clear on what caused it, but as I'd been more regular about my eye exams and no doctor had predicted my doom, I reckoned it was no big deal. Now, though, I realized it'd been a few years since my last exam (in point of fact, it'd been OVER FIVE YEARS) (tsk). So I made an appointment with some doc at some joint near my place of employ and brooded over whether these folks'd make me get my eyes dilated (which I hate) or if they had that machine that takes a pic of the inside of your eye and could work from that alone.

The thing is that my eyes are already sensitive to light. With the pupils widened, for HOURS, I'm extremely uncomfortable—disoriented, even. Last time my eyes'd been dilated was YEARS ago, on a blindingly sunny day. Even with sunglasses on, I was miserable. (Well, more miserable than usual.) I found myself walking to the bus stop with super-slow comical caution, lest I wind up stepping into the street and getting run over. Took me forever to get home.

So yeah, they had that piccie-taking machine but, yeah, after the doc heard the main reason that'd brought me to her examination room, she encouraged me to consider getting dilated anyway (the cost of which was already included in the exam and covered by my insurance) and she could then follow-up with piccie-device if I wanted (which I did, though that was not covered). Whatevs—I did both things and was relieved to learn that all was well. Doc diagnosed ocular migraine (which surprised, as I do get headaches with weather changes and whatnot, but I wouldn't say they're bad enough to qualify as migraines). Since my prescription changed from the previous one, she recommended I order anti-glare whatsit for the lenses of my new specs, what with my vampire-like abhorrence of (sun)light and ocular migraines and shit. (I'm paraphrasing.)

I did that and as I headed for the subway to get myself home I patted myself on the back for having scheduled the appointment so late in the day that it was night and so not as hard on me as daylight would've been. Still, I felt a bit weird as I stood on the platform awaiting the 1 train, as even the dim light down there bothered me a little. The train was going to be a bit so I texted My Dear Friend Nikki.

Me: Had an eye exam, had to get pupils dilated. Opium eaters would envy my look right now. Ugh.
Nikki: Aw...I bet you look like those big eyed paintings of little kids.
Me: I DO!!!!!
Nikki: You should take a selfie

So I did.

I looked like a motherfucking vampire, for realz. (Rawr.)

When I got to Grand Central Terminal there were some cops chillin' by the Shuttle exit, doing bag checks. I thought, "Great, this will be the time they pull me aside to check out my shit, all because of my weirdly doped-up pupils." But they didn't. Which, in hindsight (haha, geddit, hindsight?), is a bit of a shame, 'cause that'd improved this story by, like, a zillion percent. I mean, I could make some shit up, but that's not my style.

Anyway, made it home all right and got my new specs about a week later. The attendant at the eye shop cautioned me that it might take some time to adjust to the new Rx, which every attendant has always told me upon delivery of a new pair of glasses, and I'd never had to "adjust." I did this time, though! It was weird to feel eye fatigue for a few hours on the first couple of days I wore them, but adjust I did and I kinda dig 'em. Not sure if the anti-glare stuff's really made much of a difference, though...

Contrasting the old with the new. What a difference 5 years makes!

They feel fine on, but dang, they look HUGE on my face!

Don't they???

Yep, still seem mighty large, to me...

Whadda y'all think?

Oh Great Mystery

If preparing for the holidays is wearing you out,

and you feel like you're drowning:

sit,

breathe,

and listen.

O magnum mysterium,

et admirabile sacramentum,

ut animalia viderent Dominum natum,

jacentem in praesepio!

Beata Virgo, cujus viscera

meruerunt portare

Dominum Christum.

Alleluia!

O great mystery,

and wonderful sacrament,

that animals should see the new-born Lord,

lying in a manger!

Blessed is the Virgin whose womb

was worthy to bear

Christ the Lord.

Alleluia!

May the love and wonder of the season feed and fill our spirits.

Merry Christmas.

Honesty

My son (aka Balthazar, the Kid) tapped on my bedroom door.

Me, looking up from my sprawled position on my bed: Oh, hey Kid. How long've you been up?

Balthy: An hour.

Me, surprised: Yeah? I haven't heard you. Whatcha been doin'?

B, shrugging: Avoiding responsibility.

Me, having lost an afternoon binge-watching the 1st season of Fargo on Hulu: Me too.

Took Balthy up to college for the start of his Senior year this weekend. If all goes according to schedule, he should be graduating in May 2016, God willing.

I almost can't believe it.

These past three years have challenged me, exhausted me. Now I've a year to get my shit together so we can move into a place of our own again, while simultaneously saving the requisite funds to put out another book (oh, and I suppose I should finish writing it, as well). I'm thrilled and terrified. I almost feel like a graduate myself. (I say "almost" because my back and knees frequently remind me that I ain't no spring chicken.)

Not gonna lie—I fear the future. It sucks when you're going through hell, but at least there's a devil you know. Yet all we can do is keep going.

Because what's the alternative? We're either going or stopping. I sometimes don't know which is preferable. But who, on this side of the veil, can know?

I'll keep going, I guess, till I'm either recalled or have no other reason to. In the meantime, I'm going to make myself some hot cocoa and get to work on my story.

That is all.

Scribbling #5

After that writerly type class I started in April finished, I jumped into another one, offered through the NYU School of Professional Studies. Lots of great prompts in that class too. One inspired a piece (a true story!) that I reckoned would suit my little bloggy-blog to a T. The prompt: "Write about an awkward moment at school OR about a birthday party OR a romantic moment during puberty." I sorta mixed the first and third options into a weird little cocktail (you'd expect nothing less from me, no doubt).

*          *          *

My first high school, Saint Raphael’s, suffered from under-enrollment to the point that we had to merge with our brother school (this is not a euphemism). So it was in the fall semester of my sophomore year at Holy Trinity that I laid eyes upon my first serious crush, Patrick Greco*. Impossibly tall, with a shock of blonde hair framing a pale and narrow face and sapphire blue eyes, he stole my breath. If I hadn’t just lunched before my first Greco sighting, I might’ve swooned. Thinking back, I’ve no idea why he affected my heart-rate as he did, when the type I’ve come to be really into is tall, dark, and broody (as well as authoritative—yeah, I’ve got a daddy thing, so what?). But affect me he did, and I mooned around, all that fall, gushing about him to all my little girlfriends.

Unfortunately, I also told one of my new guy friends. The wrong guy friend.

Derek Jacobs, a junior, was acquainted with young Greco and offered to play matchmaker. I freaked out at the very thought. I was so incredibly innocent, so untouched, naïve. The word “sheltered” fails to convey the heartiness with which my mother preserved my virtue. I’m convinced the old gal would’ve brought back the chastity belt if she’d only known about it. I used to tell my friends that the epitaph on my tombstone would read, “Return to sender—unopened.”

I think you get the picture.

I knew nothing about dating and wasn’t supposed to. It seemed an exercise in futility for Jacobs to say anything about me to Greco, who likely didn’t even know I existed. That is, he didn’t until Jacobs went against my express wishes and let fly Cupid’s arrow at the hapless towheaded boy of sixteen.

One day soon after (I’m guessing, as I was completely unaware that Jacobs had spilled my beans) (as it were), I crouched down at my locker, fishing for whatever I needed for my next class. The corridor teemed with uniformed teens, the noise in the uncarpeted hallway deafened. I was caught completely off-guard when the door to my locker swung out of my hand. As I raised my eyes, Patrick Greco crouched down beside me. He seemed preternaturally serene, even if his dark blue eyes burned like dying stars. My heart seized at his sudden nearness. Then he said, “So. I hear you like me.”

Well, damn—I wasn’t ready for that! I don’t know that I could’ve handled anything else he might have thrown at me, but there was absolutely no way I’d been prepared to deal with such directness from a boy. A boy I liked? I said the only thing I could think of to save myself from this horrible exposure. “No!” I shook my head for emphasis, grabbed my stuff, slammed my locker shut, and ran off.

And that was the end of that. Next time Jacobs saw me he had the nerve to laugh. I wish I’d had the nerve to tell him to fuck off. Perhaps if he’d warned me in advance I might not have utterly bungled that milestone.

Because the thing is, I’m forty-bloody-four and still skittish. I’m totally tongue-tied when a guy approaches me, unless it’s someone I know and have some sort of relationship with already. I don’t know that I’d be different, or be able to behave differently at least, if I’d been able to engage fully with that very first opportunity. Maybe not. And I don’t know if Greco and I would’ve gone the distance. Probably not.

Some folks say, “If only I could go back…” I usually feel the opposite: “…thank God I never have to relive that moment.” But for Patrick, and for myself, I almost wish I could…

*Names have been changed to protect the clueless.

Blog Tour: "A Silent Soliloquy" by L.G. Keltner!

It's out, folks, it's out, it's out, IT'S OUT!!!

***Ahem***

My bloggy pal's Sci-Fi book is out and here's L.G. now to tell y'all about it!

*     *     *

Title: A Silent Soliloquy
Author: L.G. Keltner
Genre: Science Fiction/Dystopian
Length: 28,000 words
Cover Art: Devross
Release Date: July 6th, 2015

First of all, I’d like to thank Mina for being so awesome and letting me stop by today!  I’m here to promote my newly published novella A Silent Soliloquy, and what better way to do that than with a short excerpt?

*     *     *

“Hey, Tips,” David says softly as he slides into place on the bench beside us.  His shoulder bumps ours, and I savor that innocent moment of contact.  I try to imagine that, in this moment, I am merely a girl who’s meeting with a boy.  No hidden agendas attached.

The fantasy is quickly ruined when he leans in to kiss me.

I can’t help but note the flavor of the lip balm that’s been liberally applied.  Cherry.  An extremely artificial, almost medicinal, cherry flavor.  I know that ours isn’t any better.  The grape flavor is just as medicinal, just as artificial.  It’s a constant reminder of the utility of the kiss that I’m expected to perform.

Though, I must admit, if I ignore the odd taste, the other aspects of the kiss are kind of nice.  His lips are soft, and his body emits a surprising amount of warmth considering his size.  I’m glad when our hands move to rest on his shoulders, increasing the amount of physical contact between us.  It feels grounding, so even though I can’t fully ignore the reason why we’re kissing him, I can momentarily push the knowledge from the forefront of my thoughts.

*     *     *

TIPPIE was created to be a weapon...

By all appearances, she's an ordinary girl of 18, and she uses that to her advantage in her work for The Facility.  What no one sees is that there's another girl buried deep inside.  She can't speak or control the movements of the body she inhabits.  As TIPPIE's silent passenger, she can only observe.  She uses the details she learns from TIPPIE's work to reconstruct the stories of other people's lives.  It helps her feel a little more connected to the world she can only watch.

When TIPPIE's work leads her to David, a young man with a haunted past and information that The Facility wants, TIPPIE uses her skills to earn his trust.  The silent girl beneath the surface knows that TIPPIE is only going to hurt him, but she can't help but feel for him.  Those feelings only grow, but she knows all too well that TIPPIE's work will soon come to an end.

About the Author
L.G. Keltner spends most of her time trying to write while also cleaning up after her crazy but wonderful kids and hanging out with her husband.  Her favorite genre of all time is science fiction, and she’s been trying to write novels since the age of six.  Needless to say, those earliest attempts weren’t all that good. 

Her non-writing hobbies include astronomy and playing Trivial Pursuit.

You can typically find L.G. lurking around her blog, on Twitter, or on her Facebook page.

You can purchase a copy of A Silent Soliloquy at one of the following retailers:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Smashwords

Barnes & Noble

Kobo

You can also add it on Goodreads.

Calling All Creators!

Click this caption to learn more!

One of my good bloggy pals, Yolanda Renèe, hollered at me recently about a groovy every-other-monthly* blog hop she and Denise Covey are reinstating: Write...Edit...Publish! OK, so it's got "write" in the title, which might make you think it's for writers only—BUT IT AIN'T! Artistry of all types is welcome, so long as you follow the prompts for that particular month. Hope y'all'll check it out!


*WTF is bi-monthly, anyway? Twice a month? Every two months? It'll get jiggy with any month regardless of its sex? Doesn't every-other-monthly just make more sense???

Scribbling #4

So I'm a writer who's not been writing and desperately needs to or she'll die (that's not hyperbole). I mentioned in a recent post I took a writerly type class*; in it, the instructor gave prompts meant to spur us into writerly type action. Which, of course, they did (mostly--at least one class saw me penning diatribes against things over which I've absolutely no control because I was emotionally distraught from an earlier event).

Anyway, I'll share with you here something I enjoyed scribbling in class. The prompt was "Write about a physical hardship/injury you've endured."

*     *     *    

"Push! Push! Push like you're going to the bathroom!" Hitler's little sister screamed at me.

"What do you think I'm doing?" I squealed back. My now ragged fingernails dug into the vinyl where I half-sat, half-lay. I felt another one break and bit back a curse.

"You're not pushing!" Hitlerita barked.

"Yes I am!" I attempted to bark back, but a contraction spiked on the monitor and then in my gut and the words slid out on an impotent groan. Bad enough I knew the pain was coming--with that damned machine I could tense up in anticipation of the next fresh wave of hell, which was super helpful, by which I mean not at all. "Please," I panted, "give me an epidural." Another violent cramp gripped me, like a hand had shot up my ass, grasped the base of my spine, and wrenched it like the arm of a slot machine.

"It's too late for that," my OB-GYN said as he fake-jogged into the room. "You're nine centimeters along, we need you to be able to feel so you can push."

"Like you're going to the bathroom!" the Nazi in the surgical mask helpfully reminded me.

On the verge of telling them that I bloody well was pushing, I felt a shift within and held my breath.

"He's coming," said the doctor.

"PUUUUUUUUUUSH!" yelled Eva Braun.

But even as my innards roiled and surged, even as every muscle poised to shoot out the little parasite, I clenched. I was suddenly afraid to see it through, afraid of that final thrust and what it might bring. Or what it might take.

*     *     *    

*If you're not local to NY but interested in writerly type classes, Gotham Writers does offer online classes. Mind you, I've never done any kind of online class, so your mileage may vary. Anyway, I'd say they're worth checking out.