How do you define success? For me, does it matter how you define it, as long as my definition is clear in my head and my heart? I have this yin-yang-ish inner debate happening within. The part of me that is influenced by how others may perceive me and what their general assessment of success is not feeling very highly of herself. Continue reading Definition of Success
There’ s something surreal about dreams. Dreams make you feel as though you’re running in molasses, and yelling in jell-o. They’re more about a state of mind, or an emotion, than an actual real fact-based action. Our wake-up state gives our dreams much more sense and clarity than they have. To me, dreams are all about our brains having fun flying within. Continue reading Dreamy
I am told I have less than an hour to live. This oddly makes me happy and relieved. I will finally know if there is life after life. If there is such a thing as a heaven then my father is waiting for me to join him. I walk to the beach to wait for my time to go. And I am in sheer and utter peace with this waiting.
Next thing I learn is that a lifelong friend of mine has always had a thing for me. And by a thing for me, I learn from a friend that a friend is in love with me. I am never told the name but I know who it is. It’s Johnny Depp. I tell him he’s too late, I have a husband whom I love and am totally crazy about. Without a moment of hesitation and sans regret, I turn him down. Had I known Johnny had it hard for me would I had said “I do” five years ago to Mr. Love-at-first-sight? Yes. Again and again. Even if the other prize was Mr Depp.
What kind of day follows dreams like these?
Would you believe I am sitting at my laptop with nothing on but a pair of underwear and a bikini top with a new coat of fiery orange nail polish drying on my fingers? What if I told you a friend gave me a xanax or two to help deal with my sudden blast of sadness and I simply placed them in my coin purse without even being tempted to take one and allow my odd feelings to be swallowed by a comforting sensation of inner fog? What if I then wrote an even longer sentence with more confusing questions?
I need to breathe.
I’ve just returned from an upsetting visit with the doctor. She confirmed via today’s modern technological magic that I am menopausal. *cringe* How did that happen? Have I missed one of life’s important and major steps aka adulthood? How did I do that? How did I go from teenage to menopause? I went directly to jail without passing go thus keeping me from claiming my much desired $200.
So I did what most modern woman would under under such circumstances and consulted my social network. Of course I went on Facebook posting a mysterious post about the saddest thing to sadness is the depression which fish tailed into a discussion about the wonder pill: xanax.
And then I went out for a paddle board ride. I rode that board hard. I rode it through 4-foot waves. And I rode her into the sunset. I was a Marlborough ad minus the gruff cowboy and the stinky cigarette.
I will re-write the book on how a woman should
live hammer through her menopausal years like a teenager. I feel the need for a new pair of Doc Martens.
This week’s creative writing challenge at The Daily Post is Metamorphosis. The purpose is really about hybrids and werewolves, half man half beast creatures that create a complete metamorphosis. What with what I am currently going through I thought a teenage-mutant-menopausal-boarding-chick? Why not?
Go to the bathroom…
My best friend and I wrote this in Grade 7. Secondaire 1 for my Quebec youth. We decided we wanted to be writers. A piece with this level of depth needed collaboration don’t you think?
I found an old notebook with pages and pages of treasures such as this little gem. Our English teacher Madame Cherry (proper name for the head of a bordello – remember this was Quebec, in the hype of the référendum, even the English teachers were madames and monsieurs). Madame Cherry was the shits. One of my favorite teachers ever.
She inspired us to be something, anything. Simply inspired us to be. She was a dreamer. A lover of life. She listened.
I never understood why our English teachers always focused on creative writing and the joys of reading in a time when Quebec wanted nothing else than to convince the world French Power needed to take over. Meanwhile our French classes oozed rules, exceptions, complications, boring texts, boring stories, and if writing was involved – well let’s just say grammar killed the creative mind.
If anything, the people behind the French Power Hunger Games needed to take notice on what Madame Cherry and her colleagues were up to. Then again maybe it’s best they didn’t. I can’t imagine what Canada would look like today with a political gash among my family and friends.
Who ever thought Kool-Aid was intricately linked with Canada’s political and cultural history? This was a Studio 30+ writing prompt based on Kool-Aid. Heck, Eric Storch wrote about surviving a zombie apocalypse…