To My Brother, with Mucus

Over the last year of mom's illness (ALS), she had constant issues with phlegm.  She couldn't swallow or spit or even cough.  Her throat, mouth, and tongue were completely unresponsive.  We found a suction machine, like what a dentist uses, and set her up with that so she could find some relief from the horrible sense of choking to death.  She'd take the suction wand and cram that thing so far down her throat I thought she was going to accidentally pull her seat cushion through herself backwards.  It was gory.
At times, this activity was more than I could stomach, and I had to look away.  I'm going to spare you the details, except to say this: snot in a straw.  Okay, no more details!
Besides being horribly appalling and uncomfortable to watch, it was awful to see mom struggle with this.  She feared choking, she couldn't clear her throat, she was just so uncomfortable.
She used a device to communicate.  She'd type out a word or sentence, and hit a button and it'd read it back, as best it could.  Usually the device's best was really lousy.  At one point it developed an Indian accent, which left you feeling like you were having a conversation with tech support for Mom v.1.0.
The disease began to take its toll on her hands as well.  Soon she abbreviated her thoughts, using single words to communicate.
Her single word for phlegm build-up, the sensation she was choking, and please get her the suction device was "Mucus."
Mucus.
I began to notice the effect the word had on my brother.  I saw the way his lips pursed, his nose wrinkled.  The churning of his stomach seemed to alter the tilt of Earth on its axis. It bothered him deeply.  I saw him in a new and vulnerable light.  My big brother, the one who always got to do everything before me.  The bigger, smarter, more athletic older brother who, in my younger years, I regarded as completely untouchable.  There he was, a little weak in the knees, a little afraid, and a little grossed out.
I thought, "Paydirt."
Thus began the random acts of mucus.  Sometimes I send him an email -- no subject line, just a word: "mucus."  Sometimes I spell it in all caps, or I enlarge the font.  I send texts to his phone too, just the word Mucus.  On occasion if he doesn't answer when I call, I leave him a voicemail message: mucus.
It's not a constant thing.  Just once in awhile.  It's my way of letting him know that I'm thinking of him and that I appreciate our connection.  Some people use the word "love," I use Mucus.

True Intimacy is Calling Each Other by Your Real Names

Jeff and I heard this on the news the other morning -- that "pet" names for each other kill romance.  I thought, "they must mean names like pooky or poopsy or whatever." 
Then the reporter said, "...and "honey" is the biggest offender." 
We looked at each other. 
We pondered a romanceless future. 
And rolled our eyes. 
Here's the deal:  Jeff calls me baby or honey, and I like it.  He doesn't call anyone else that (okay, he calls his kids honey, which is fine).  This makes it special and unique.  In one word he's able to convey several times throughout the day that I'm special to him. 
I call him honey.  I do not call anyone else that, ever.  Never.  But I call lots of people Jeff.  Usually, it's because that's their name. 
Also, when we talk to other people, we don't refer to each other as "honey" or "baby".  I don't call my best friend and say, "you'll never guess what honey did today!"  It's a specific term used only for face-to-face situations. 
We play with the notion of referring to each other by first name.  It makes me feel like he's pissed at me or something.  It's too formal, too distant, maybe too common. 
"Teresa, how was your day?"
"It was fine, Jeff, how was yours?"
"Teresa, did you get the mail?"
"Jeff, do you want to watch a movie?"
~shudder~
I call him honey, he calls me baby, and we still kiss everyday. 

I Love That Boy

Tonight at Thanksgiving dinner, Mountain Man's Aunt said about him, "I love that boy."  Yep.  She loves that 6-foot-tall, chainsaw-wielding, father-of-two "boy." 
"I hit the jackpot" I told her. 


Here he is sewing our wedding invitations.  (Sewing?  Invitations?  Yes, it's a long story, worthy of an entire blog of its own.)

He's handy to have around.

He's a good dad.

He baits my hook for me.  (Is that a euphemism?  If it means he rocks my world, then yes.)

~swoon~

Chaps, Chainsaw, Mountains, Man

Oh My

He will dress up in an Elvis wig, hike to the top of the mountain when the lifts are closed, and ski with me.

And smile the whole time.

We get each other. 

Aunt Inga, I love that boy too.

Introduction to this Blog

I've always loved to write, but have wandered in and out of a creative fog for years. Basically, being a "writer" was a dream so distant, hazy, and unattainable that I finally shelved it.
At the same time, "falling in love with the perfect man" was also a far-away dream, so far removed from my life that I even resented those who did fall in love. I thought they were making it up, secretly settling for a good-enough partner but touting their love as "the real thing".
I met and fell in love with my perfect man. Things changed. Dreams became reality, and I remembered some shelved fantasies that might also be attainable just like that amazing love. I trained for and ran a marathon -- a dream that had been conceived and shelved 10 years before. I married my perfect man -- an inconceivable notion just a few years ago. My dream of writing was next up on the list of fantasies to be dusted off and (re)tried.
The book "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron entered my life. Two false-starts later and I'm writing. Please check out her book.
So, how can I call myself a writer? It's not like J.K. Rowling and I dine in London every couple of weeks. I haven't had a single word published (other than blogging) since 1996. But, I write every single day. Hundreds of words. The words don't have to do with work, or home, or anything day to day. They are totally the product of creativity. They come to light as a result of a lot of work, dedication, and practice. Whether or not they are enjoyed by anyone else is not the measure of my success.
Running the marathon was a very small part of my dream to run a marathon. The training was the big commitment. You have to run a lot. You have to run 5 days a week. Sometimes those runs can take hours. You do this for months. Then one day, you just run a long run, just like you practiced, and you check "run a marathon" off your checklist of things to accomplish in life.
Getting published is also a small part of my dream to be a writer. Writing, a lot, is the big commitment.
My next blog entry will be, "How much does a fiction writer make?" If you're like me, you're thinking, "Is she gonna get rich off this?" I'm wondering that, too... I'll share my plan with you in the next entry.