Diary Of A Mad Housewife
 
Daily Hotsheet:

Kurt Roth

Jack Zuzeek
 
 

Terry's essay archives
email me
October 26, 1999
The soul-weariness of writers block continues....

It's now been over 5 months since I've written a word of fiction.  Before that, only 1 completed story in 10 months.  I've managed to do a few journal entries about this and that, but  any "writing of substance" completely eludes me.  I feel like I'm locked in a cell of self-consciousness, with the world judging not only my words, but the thoughts in my mind before they can move to my fingers.  Aside from a burst of editing in August, I haven't even gone through the process of trying anymore.

Part of it is time.  My family has taken turns being sick since school starting, and then there was the decorating stuff.  There's always something that has to be done, and I feel guilty for the time I take for writing, knowing it will be unproductive.  And yeah, depression is a problem again.

So what exactly am I doing?  Trying to figure out what I can do that will make me feel like a real person again, who is entitled to an opinion and a say in things.  That means looking for a job and/or going back to school.  I've been out of school for 18 years, and out of the work force for 17 years, aside from a short stint as a piano teacher before we moved to Spokane.  I've got extensive training in music (a young person's game, that), but no college degree.  Anything above minimum wage means going back to school, which is expensive and takes a lot of time.  So I'm floundering.

I've made a few positive changes, though.  Last week I joined a health club, and yesterday I made the last committment for dancing at the Nov. 6 hafla.  Of course, the minute I officially took my dance name and sent off my info, my ability to dance vanished.      My family and friends will be there (including many outside the dance community), and my teacher is performing on the same bill.  I don't want to embarass any of them.

Enough whining.

Julie's band competed at the Everett Festival Of Bands over the weekend, and took Grand Sweepstakes Prize again, along with many other individual awards!  Congratulations, kids!

October 25, 1999

Last night time stopped for a moment, as the Major League Baseball's All-Century Team was announced.  1,800 miles apart, my mother and I both watched.  The best of her generation and the best of mine, as well as that of her father--the one who gave her the love of the game--and that of my children--to whom I hope I have passed that love--gathered together in memories.   Her father's heroes; Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth.  Her heroes; Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle.  Mine; Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, Hank Aaron.  My son's; Mark McGuire, Cal Ripkin Jr., Ken Griffey Jr.

What a night.  Ted Williams being lifted onto the stage was, for me, on par with seeing Muhammed Ali light the Olympic torch in Atlanta.  The ghosts of the past walking hand-in-hand through the stadium with the living.  Call me sentimental, but I'll never forget it.

October 16, 1999
Check out the cool site of the day: the page my daughter Julie manages for Central Valley High School Band.  Last weekend they swept the Lilac Festival, taking Best Brass and Winds, Best Auxillary, Best Percussion, Best Marching, Best General Effect, and Grand Sweepstakes Prize for overall highest score!  Congrats!  Three weeks ago they did the same at the Southeastern Washington Cavalcade of Bands.

For those unfamiliar with marching band competitions, let me tell you it's a full-fledged sport.  The schedule is exhausting.  Two hours of daily practice during the school week, plus 3 evening hours on Mondays and Wednesdays, and another five hours (sometimes more) on Saturday.  The started rehearsals three weeks before school began in band camp which ran from 8-5 Monday through Friday.  (That's on the feet marching time, folks.)  I played a lot of different sports in my time, but few demanded the level of dedication as these kids bring to their work.

Although they proudly call themselves Band Geeks, forget the stereotypes.  These kids are caring a full load of Honors and Advanced Placement classes in English, Biology, Chemistry, Physics, Calculus, History, etc.  With their classloads demanding 2+ hours of homework a night--per class--, they give up sleep, relaxation and often meals to meet their obligations.  Many while holding down jobs.

They pay for it physically, too.  Spokane (which ranks in the bottom quarter of the nation for air quality) has an unusually high incidence of asthma, and the band is representative of that.  During marching season, Julie and many of her friends live on rescue inhalers rather than give up the band.  Quite a few play in wrist braces and some (including Julie) are in physical therapy twice a week for severe tendonitis.  All this without the financial or emotional support the athletic teams take for granted.  They do all their own fundraising for uniforms and to get to events.  But they don't quit.  Even when, as parents, we beg them to.

I've held my daughter while she cries in exhaustion and pain after a long night rehearsal, then cried myself as she dries her eyes and moves on to a homework session that will last until 3 am.  In the morning she'll rouse herself at 6 to be at school by 7:15.

So visit their page, read it, and write them a note.  Tell them you're proud of what they've accomplished, and wish them luck.

Signed,
a band geek's mom

October 14, 1999

     Wilt Chamberlain
     1936-1999

"Nobody roots for Goliath."  Jerry West
 

In the 1960s and early 70s, Goliath walked the boards of the NBA, and the sports world loaded up a basket full of slings and searched about for David-wannabes.  "Too tall," they said.  "Too cocky," they said.  "He'll ruin the game."  So they widened the lane, changed the free-throw rules, invented offense goaltending, and booed him at every opportunity.  Wilt Chamberlain--the man America loved to hate.

"Wilt Chamberlain is no Bill Russell."

Of course he wasn't.  No one but Bill could be.  Or should be.  Mr. Russell was a legend in his own right, deservedly so.  But the perspective of 25 years adds another dimension to what they really meant.  In the 60s, Mr. Russell was everything the country needed in a famous man of color.  He was soft-spoken, dignified, reserved, humble.  Non-threatening.  Wilt Chamberlain was none of these things, and in the days of the Watts Riots, Detroit's "burn it down" and the NBA's unspoken rule that there should be two white men per team on the floor at all times, that was an unpardonable sin.

Chamberlain was Dennis Rodman to Russell's Michael Jordan.  Crass to his class.  And I loved him for it.  Wilt was outspoken, outrageous, controversial and probably the greatest center to ever play the game.  He wasn't grateful.  And he never apologized for any of it.

In my adolescent way, I learned a lot from him.  I studiously copied his fade-away jump shot (out of the pivot, of course) and his aggressive rebounding style.  I strove to match his record of never fouling out.  I even tried--at 5 foot nothing--to learn to dunk.  I watched every televised game, and felt my gut burn at the booing crowds, both at home and on the road.   Because most of all, I admired his pride.

After his retirement, I bought Wilt; Just Like Any Other 7-Foot Black Millionaire Who Lives Next Door.  That battered paperback, sans cover and many pages, is still on my bookshelf.  I still remember the vitriol that book generated in reaction to his attitudes on basketball, sex and life in general.  I couldn't have cared less about who was boinking whom and what colors the boinker/boinkee were, but I was fascinated by the peek inside Wilt's mind.  I loved his no-holds-barred commentary and his honesty egocentricity, and adored him all the more.  He never bowed to scorn, and he never became someone else's vision of who Wilt Chamberlain should be.

This Goliath walked out of the valley with his head held high.

October 7, 1999 (belated upload)
Decor ....

Hell is going to be a designer showroom, full of carpet samples, paint chits and fabric swatches, and before you're allowed to take up eternal residence you will have to decorate your cell.  And it all has to coordinate.

For several months we've been talking about replacing the living room carpet.  It's at least 15 years old--probably quite a few more--and has been through 2 families of kids that I know of.  Now that Tony is almost 10, it seemed like time, specially given Meredith's allergies and Julie's asthma.  Sometime this fall, I figured, we'd get around to it.  I nodded a lot to questions of colors and textures, while Kerwin began work on a gorgeous hardwood floor panel that would go in at the front door as a piece of the total package.  I had plenty of time to think about decor.  Later.

I don't do decor.  Decor is a gremlin which swells and spawns nasty little creatures with a variety of names;  window treatments, slipcovers, accessories, borders.  They should be stuffed in blenders or the nearest microwave oven, lest they suck your brain out through your ear and you morph into Martha Stewart.

Then Monday, Meredith was also diagnosed with asthma and a bad case of asthmatic bronchitis.  The rhythm of the house shifted to the pattern of the girls' wheezing, and we realized we had to get that mildewy, allergin-ridden rug out of the house asap, before the weather demanded closed windows and forced air heat.   So I reluctantly accompanied Kerwin on the rounds of carpet warehouses and paint stores.

To say that I didn't have an opinion is an understatement of epic proportions.  Not that I'm opposed to warm floors and freshly painted walls.  Hardly.  Ideally, I would leave my house for a visit to the library and find a new living room upon my return home an hour later.  It would just happen, and I could go on about my business in my typically oblivious fashion.

It doesn't work that way.

Someone has to actually shop for those things.  Salespeople want to know your preferences on color, texture, nap, weave, fiber content, etc and aren't happy with "I really don't care" as a response.  Neither are husbands.  As a woman, I'm supposed to care about those things.  Kerwin expected it, and wanted to get something I'd be happy with.  So I tried to have an opinion.  I really did.

The old carpet was a dirty faded beige-y brown swirled thingie from the 80s, so I didn't want anything like that.  I supposed I wanted something different.  Several stores and many hours later, I took a shot in the dark, just to put both of us out of our misery.  Berber looked funky and different (and very low maintainance), so how about that?  Done, right?  Hardly.  Do you have any idea how many million varieties of Berber there are?  But I picked one.  That decided, we made a note of it and moved on to paint that would match.  Got that figured out, too, and planned to return the next day to fork over the money.

But in the meantime, I took Meredith to the doctor.  Lo, the waiting room was done in the Berber I'd just chosen, and worse, it fit there perfectly.

Back to the drawing board and the carpet store.  My frustration level was high enough that I finally informed Kerwin that he should go pick something and leave me home.  After much whining on my part, I finally convinced him that I really didn't care, and really didn't have any opinion, and that I really wasn't inclined to get one.  Things got better after that.  He picked out some samples (non-Berber and non-bathroomish) and all I had to do was say yes or no.  I said yes quickly and gratefully to the 2nd one.  When the saleman pointed out something similiar but cheaper, I agreed without hesitation.  Done!

Next it was back to the paint store, which we handled like a visit to the optomotrist.  This is #1, is #2 better or worse; so on and so on through the possibilities.  Done.

Now the paint is applied and the new carpet is down.  The kids are breathing better and the adults are exhausted from installing it.  But it's done.  Now all I have to do is keep mix-mastering the gremlins they spawn.

I'm never committing decor again.

Mailbox report:
395 day form letter from Prism Magazine.

October 4, 1999
What I Learned At A "Literary" Conference

Past months:
September, 1999
August, 1999
July, 1999
June, 1999
May, 1999
April, 1999
March, 1999

 
home
family
dance
misc. interests
music
 writing
The Written Word
what's new?

You are visitor #1783 .  Thanks!