The fat pug and the pirate Boston

The other day I had an interesting conversation with my dogs.  The fat pug told me I was slacking as a housemaid–writing too much, she lectured–what about the children?  Of course I countered with (and not very nicely as I knew she was manipulating me for barbeque spareribs) “Mind you own business, pug, your tongue is sticking out.”

While this may sound harsh trust when I say that it is most definitely what she needed to hear.  My fat pug is always trying to manipulate me and force her opinion me.   Most days I can handle it.  She is only a dog after all, but sometimes it gets to me you know?  Here I am trying to do my best and it’s never good enough.  Not for her.  Never for her.  If I bathed in hot dog water and let her lick my feet it wouldn’t be enough.

Imagine, if you will, the way in which she says it.  First of all she sounds like an overweight smoker with a chronic chest cold, but it’s the tone that does me in.  So judgmental and condescending.

Waddles up to me without a care in the world, and let me tell you that if my rear end was exposed on a daily basis I might be a bit more humble, but not her.  She walks around inspecting everything as if it is her mandate in life; doggy police for the Kita home.  God help the children if they are doing something they shouldn’t be.  Her little corkscrew tail stands at attention and she lets them have it.  Yip yip yip.

Sigh.

It is her version of love.

You cannot compare the love of a pug to anything else.  It is pure.  complete and absolute.  It is also, creepy, suffocating and odd.  If you’ve ever seen the Stephen King movie, ‘Misery’ you might understand.  Thank God my fat pug could never hold a sledge hammer.  (of course I’ve hidden it just in case).

So, as I’m lecturing the pug on lecturing me, my Boston Terrier wiggles up to us (honestly it’s as though his butt is an independent appendage someone attached on as an afterthought) and he asks what the problem is.

Now you have to understand that my Boston does not speak in anyway you think he should. Considering he’s as wound as tight as a towel ready to snap you might imagine his voice to be a high pitched whine.  Or maybe due to his linage it wouldn’t be a stretch to think he had a easy going Massachusetts swag.

He doesn’t.

“What the problem, me mateys?  Whose the scallywag this time?”

“Kutless,” I say with as much patience as I can muster (he is after all a Boston Terrier)  “Stay out of this.”

“You two be acting like a bunch of sprogs with this one being a squiffy I ever did see one.”

“Listen here, pal, after what I caught you licking the other day…”

“It was me bath I was takin!”

It is never a win for me when I talk to my dogs.  Usually I pretend they are sweet, loyal pets with floppy tongues and spontaneous flatulence, but sometimes they make it difficult.  Yesterday I saw them salute the neighbor’s cat, and the day before the pug was running laps in the back yard while the Boston counted off with barks.  If they’re planning something…well I want to be the last to know.

Fable Nation: A glimpse into the nightmare

Prologue

If someone told me there would come a time I would not want to play the newest, hottest video game on the market I would not have believed them.  Most times I would play my games until the rents threatened my freedom, or hunger threatened my stomach. Didn’t matter which came first. It never dawned on me something might happen to change my addictive habits, but I am twelve, I don’t think about anything unless it entertains me, or tastes good.

People over thirty have told me I have an active imagination.  I’m not stupid.  I know its adult talk for being a liar. I’m no liar—a mild coward, with a reasonable fear of creepy crawlies—but not a liar.  I like order.  Is that so wrong?  I like things that make sense.  I want to know when I hit my sister I’m going to get in trouble, or if I’m rude to my mom she’ll twist my ear like a pretzel.  These things comfort me.  It’s the simple order of life that keeps my world sane.  After playing Fable Nation nothing in my life would ever again be normal.

Why should anyone believe my story?  They shouldn’t, I am not sure I would if I did not live it, but I have the scars to prove it.  You can’t be nearly consumed by a spider the size of a minivan without suffering a scratch, or major contusion.

This is Mitch from the inside…

Lessons from a Bee

Ah nature!  Smell the rain.  See the beauty that surrounds us.  The dew in the early morning that adorns the grass.  The rambunctious twitter of quarreling Sparrows.   The focused Bee zipping from flower to flower hard at work.  Nature is God’s lesson book for us.  We can learn much from the intricate balance of nature if we pay attention.

Is there something you want to accomplish in your life?   Do you have dreams or goals?   Most of us do.  Whether it is becoming a new breed of super hero with genetic implants or a better Beiber we all strive to leave our mark in this world (hopefully one without traces blood or human waste).

But…

There is a dangerous misconception that if we attempt something we should succeed or at the least it should be an easy road to success.  Our desires are not a direct line to accomplishment.  This becomes more complicated if we have a natural gifting in an area.  But the same principle remains.  Desire coupled with natural talent does not equal success.  There is another essential ingredient.  Effort.

To master something, to be efficient or a success at whatever it is we have chosen takes a great deal of effort.  This is the sweaty, dirty, frustrating and exhausting part.  The behind the scenes ugly stuff no one wants to know about.  We want to read a good, polished book not a rough draft.  We don’t even want to know that the author had to edit the manuscript several times.  We want to watch a musical production and see everyone hitting the proper notes and knowing their lines.  We don’t want to buy tickets for the dress rehearsal.  Would you pay money for a  product that hadn’t been tested and perfected? I hope the answer is no.

Look at the life of the honey bee.  The Queen bee lays her eggs in a six sided cell filled with pollen and honey as a food source.  The top is sealed with wax. When the food source runs out the time has come for the little bees to enter the world.  Before they can do that they must find a way out.  The wax top is so hard the bees are only able to make a tiny hole to escape from.  The process of escape actually rubs off the outer membrane encasing the wings.  This part, though painful and exhausting is essential.  It is in the process of shedding the membrane that the bee’s wings are strengthened enough to use them to fly.

If someone came along and poked holes in the honeycomb the bees could easily escape but without the ability to fly.

Success comes from effort.

Today I am going to choose to sweat over my writing.  I will force myself to write even though I see no point, no light at the end of my tunnel.  I will do this because I understand I must if I am ever going to reach the summit of my goals.

Dill Pickle Dancers

If we don’t say what we are thinking and say what we believe others want to hear are we better people for it?  I understand the idea of being a good person and I do so wish to be good, but what if my thoughts do not reflect that desire?  What if I really hate my friends new shirt or I think someone’s hair cut makes them look like an antelope?  Those are not good things to say.  I know this.  So what do I do?  Say nothing?  Take advantage of the multipurpose  ‘interesting‘ word?  Lie for the good of everyone involved?  I don’t want to hurt  feelings but I do want to be true to myself.  The problem is I’m not always nice, or forgiving or great.  Sometimes I’m petty, deceitful and rotten.  But I want to be known and I want to be authentic.

Even if it means being vulnerable to public criticism.

Have you ever been in a room of people and you had visions of shouting out something ridiculous?

“The penguin pees on ice!”

“Ladies and Gentlemen I have a hairy toe!”

“Can freckles be picked off with a toothpick?”

Now before you whip out your sharpies and assign labels let me be clear that I have not, nor do I ever think I will say any of the aforementioned sentences.  There are so many other wonderfully weird things to say.  But back to my original question, is it better to say what we think or filter our thoughts?  I think it is good advice to try to avoid hurting others but what about showing others who we really are?  Do we even know who that is?

What if I challenged you to tell someone what you were thinking this very minute?

I’m thinking of dill pickle people with olive eyes.  Now they are dancing and singing Elvis songs. 

Good times.

What are you thinking? Is it weird or boring?  Funny or mean?

Is there a difference in speaking our minds if it is nonsense that means nothing as opposed to opinions?  Have you ever kept your opinion to yourself when others were freely sharing? I think it is easier to voice opinions rather than let people really see us.

I have a theory.  We all have stinky, judgmental minds that need some sort of prearranged agreement with our mouths.  Speak and be heard but try not to damage the  feelings of others.  That is not always easy or possible.  It would be beneficial to sift through the garbage our brain consumes daily to find nuggets of  brilliance or mediocre meanderings.

Or perhaps monitor what we take in to lesson the amount of sludge.

But that is another blog and one for a parent or a teacher to lecture.  As for me I’m am going to practice speaking freely and see how many people I can disturb.

It feels like Monkeys in top hats are dancing on my bladder.

I just did it.

It felt good. 

Finding, Keeping, living–our Dreams (and head butting the little voice in our head that tries to distract us)

Do you have a dream?  A plan for the future?  Do you know what you want to be when you grow up?    By the time we’re young children a small seed of desire to ‘do’ something with our lives is planted, but sadly, a drought of apathy comes along and starves our dreams before they have a chance to grow.  Or, sometimes a flood of reality washes away the fragile roots.  Be wary of the person whose sees dreams as a threat to their black and white existence.  These people lost theirs long ago and can no longer appreciate the beauty  and wildness of dreams.  Protect your dreams from the storms of life that would sweep them up in destructive wind and soaking rains.

Do you want to change the world?  Take action!  Do people scoff or roll their eyes?  Ignore them.  Save your pennies and save the whales.  Do you want to immortalize yourself with the power of a carefully chosen word?  Pick up your pencil and write.  Do you want to be the best at something?  Practice.  Don’t listen to the naysayers who try and drag you down into the dungeons of  the real world.  The world is what you make of it.  The dungeon is but an unlit room with self imposed shackles.

There is a voice in all of our heads that likes to tell us we are not good enough, that we will never be as good as the best.  Why even start?  Won’t we just be disappointed in the end?

Don’t believe the voice.  Run from the voice, or better yet chase the voice into a dark alley and show it whose boss, and when it comes back (it always comes back) flex your growing confidence and watch it run.

Dreams are wild, unkempt, sparkling, hopeful, scary, challenging.  They are an ember of beginnings.  Don’t just sit back and watch the light fade, blow on it, feed it, build it and fan it into a blaze.

Lesson from a Fat Pug

I have a pug.  She is a tad portly.  A little chubby.  A mite snuggly in the fur.  Her name is Stella and she has taught me a few things.  You would be amazed at the wisdom of a fat pug.

Lesson #1

Love hard.

My little (but really fat) pug is obsessed with me.  She feels no shame.  Where I go she goes.  Her adoration shines from her eyes, and I’m convinced she would choose me over a piece of chicken.  Wherever I am I can scan the room and find her watching me, staring me down.  No it’s not creepy.  It’s sweet.  She loves me and knows no other way than to show me…incessantly.

Lesson #2

Enjoy the simple pleasures

Whether it is a spot of winter sunshine on the carpet or a stale piece of popcorn under the couch, my pug is exuberant.  She gobbles up the joys of her life as though they were gourmet offerings.

Lesson #3

Run from danger

My five year old makes it her daily mission to track down the dog and carry her around.  This is not a pretty sight.  Flaps of fat, chunks of chub, loads of lard squish out past her little fingers and arms.  She wiggles around in a pathetic attempt to free herself.  The five year old is strong.  Stella has learned to hear the light padding of feet and run from them.

Lesson #4

Be comfortable in your own skin

Bask in the light of self confidence.  My pug doesn’t care about her looks.  She knows who she is and she likes it.  So her tongue may hang out when she’s relaxing… who cares?  On occasion flatulence gets the best of her, but she doesn’t fret, not even when people run from the room.  She likes herself.

And finally,

Lesson #5

Don’t give up

Stella is not allowed on the couch.  Everyday I find Stella asleep on the couch.  Stella is only allowed a little bit of food (she’s fat) this doesn’t stop her from bellowing at her food dish demanding more.  When she doesn’t want to play with the eager Boston Terrier she lives with she lets him know–violently.  The pug knows what she wants and she doesn’t stop until she gets it.

Learn from the pug as I have.  Wisdom comes from the most unusual source.

My heart is a cozy little cottage that sometimes needs a good housekeeper

 

I like to imagine that my heart is a little house.  Maybe even a quaint cottage.  It has a stone fireplace with two high back, gingham print chairs angled in front.  There is a perpetual stack of fire wood at the side and a bottomless  mug of hot chocolate on the little reading table between the chairs with a never ending supply of gooey chocolate chip cookies.  It’ s not heart shaped, nor is it cluttered with arteries, it’s just a simple cottage filled with cherished items.

Everyone once in a while I try to decorate with something new.  I add a picture or a vase, or sometimes I switch the brand of hot chocolate, or add different cookies.  I want to take good care of my little cottage.  I want to keep it pretty and clean, but there are times it becomes cluttered with stuff.  Silly things that don’t go with my decorating style.  Stupid items that sit there and collect dust.  Ugly pieces that diminish the original beauty.

When that happens I have a choice to make.  I can either change my ideals of what my cozy cottage should look like and settle for second rate, or I can roll up my sleeves and put forth some effort into a tidy up.

The dust of my lazy attitude is wiped clean.  The muddy tracks on the floor from impurities are mopped up.  The cluttered pieces along the mantle from lack of discernment are trashed.

When a guest tries to replace my cookies with a low fat version of the real kind, they are (eventually) asked to leave.  I want the good stuff, not the sugar free knock offs.

I have a gatekeeper who watches over my heart and guards the door from impostors and evil doers, but I have on occasion vetoed his power and allowed something/someone inside who didn’t belong. That never goes as planned.  Something gets broken, feelings are hurt…

It’s not always easy to see the dirt.  After the first layer I become accustomed to it, and before long enough grime has built up it’s hard to remember what  a clean house looks like.

When my heart becomes too cluttered and dirty I call in the housekeeper.  This isn’t easy.  I’m embarrassed that I’ve allowed things to get so bad.  Mud on the furniture?  Dingy windows?  Diet cookies?  It’s hard to admit I’ve made such poor choices, and need help, but it’s worth it in the end.  How can I see the incredible view if the windows are covered in filth?  How can I enjoy the fireplace when there isn’t any wood to burn?

I want my heart to stay clean.  I want my little cottage to reflect who I am.  You never know who may pop in for a visit! So I try to be more careful with my visitors and who I give the key away to.  I remind myself I want only the finest chocolate and I listen to my gatekeeper.  He is wise.  But most importantly, when it needs to be cleaned, I call in my housekeeper and watch as He polishes everything to a shine.

 

My Brain is as Crowded as the Mall on Boxing Day

I am trying to improve my writing.  I am trying to be the very best that I can be.  To do that I am reading good books (The Secret Garden was a page turner) and boning up on my descriptive powers.  So everywhere I go I try to mentally describe my surroundings and the people I see in them as I would try to write it.

For example:

He shuffled past the stores, head bent, arms limp at his side.  His sweater was a merry greeting;  his scowl the disclaimer.

Or,

It was as though the hands of time had ravaged her face with little regard to propriety.

Or,

Little hands clawed at the pant leg of the supervising adult too busy to notice his weary eyes and pinched mouth.  He drew back his foot, steadied himself and took aim.  The resulting cry of pain made him smile.

Now you try it.  In the comment section write your best line of description. Why?  Because if I have to then so do you.

Why try to outrun an Ostrich?

I can’t sing.  Never could.  I was in grade three when realized this.  My class was entered into singing competition and we spent everyday practicing.  I can still picture myself eagerly singing my heart out then my teacher tapping me on the shoulder and whispering ‘honey why don’t you just mouth the words.’  It doesn’t get more honest than that people.  Mouth the words.  So I did.   I’ve spent years mouthing the words.  But oh how I wish I could sing.  I have day dreams of climbing atop a table in a crowded mall and breaking into a choreographed song.  It’s beautiful.  Sometimes people join me, but most often they watch too touched by my talent to do anything but wipe the tears from their misting eyes.

I can’t dance either.  I have two moves that involve thumbs and a neck action that can render me immobile if done improperly, but my husband has determined it’s not dancing.  Certainly, I would never own the dance floor in a crowded club, though you guessed it; it’s a dream of mine.  It’s a good fantasy; crowd parting and drifting into a wide circle to clap in tune to my outrageous moves…

I’ve been booed off a volleyball court before.  Enough said.  Sports aren’t my thing.  Unless you count wii sports.  I think we should.

Oh the list, how it grows, of all the things I cannot do.

I can’t do a peircing whistle with my two fingers.  I can’t swim in proper crawl form.  I can’t figure out complicated math problems without google and I can’t twirl a peice of ribbon with a pair of sciccors.

Did you know that an ostrich is a terrible mother?   She leaves her babies.  She’s not very bright.  She can’t fly.  But it doesn’t matter.   Because, oh, how she runs.  It’s what she was created to do.

Do you know what you were created to do?  Is there something that comes easy for you?  Something you get pleasure out of doing?  Then do it.  And do it well.

I can’t do a lot of things and over the years I’ve come to accept my limitations.  I may never draw a crowd with my voice, or win an award for logical thought processing (if there is such an award I wouldn’t want it), or run without being laughed at, but I know what I can do.

The ostrich runs.  What do you do?

Kingly elephants, Sacred Forest, and the White Lion: planning Book two is an African adventure

I’m mapping out my second book in the fantasy series I’m writing. The first one sees main character, Mitch, trapped in the best selling game FABLE NATION. He has to complete a trio of quests to find his way home. It’s finished and in the hands of a publisher, we’ll see what happens. This second book is going to be a lot of fun to write (they all are). I have to travel to the exotic plains of Africa and dive into the legends and fables of the land. Mapping isn’t as much fun as the actual writing part, but it does get my mind going in a bunch of different directions and deepens my constant need to write into an insatiable hunger. I’m a bit of a mad woman when I’m thinking up a new story. I become so engrossed I can accidentally confuse reality with fiction. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I talk to my characters all the time. I’ve never gone so far as to offer them a drink or anything, but I do ask them what they want to say or do. Would it disturb anyone too terribly if I told you they answered back?
So I’m off to Africa to hang out with the white Lion that guards the entrance to the sacred Forest, Thathe Vondo. I wonder what will happen if the Lion is kidnapped or murdered? Does that mean the mythical creatures in the forest, the ones he was protecting, will escape? Which only begs the question: is the White Lion protecting the creatures or the people from the creatures?
What do you think? I would tell you but I won’t know until my fingers tell the story.