A Place of Her Own

I was sitting in my recliner last night, feet propped up with two blankets on. I had my laptop, Kindle Fire, phone, and good intentions for a manuscript for a novel all in my lap when Iris happened. Remember that cute little gray girl cat I have? Well, I still have her and she still likes laps.

I had just finished a bowl of soup and she decided she wanted a place of her own…on my lap. She hopped up into the chair with me and circled around all the stuff in my lap. She decided there was too much clutter and it needed to go.

First, as she was circling to find the perfect spot, her tail swept several sheets of my manuscript onto the floor. Next, she started “making biscuits” meaning she was paw-pawing the blanket. Her paws scooped up a binder clip that had held my manuscript together and knocked that on the floor followed by my phone.

I took the hint. I moved everything off my lap and made room for her. Then she left. Cats!

Note: She came back about ten minutes later and curled up. Ridiculous little girl!

Fruit Killer

Have you ever cut open a pomegranate before? I did this for the first time the other day, desperate for something fruity. My husband had brought a few over from a client’s house. They had tried them and didn’t like them. I didn’t even know how to begin to gut one, so I called my mother, knowing she had done it before.

 She told me to cut it whichever way—vertically or horizontally—and scoop the seeds out. Allen had said something about soaking it. I tried both. Mom had said she usually halved it like she would an orange, so I cut it horizontally. She told me there would be some seeds lost in the cutting.

 Intent on what I was doing I paid little attention to anything else. I made the cut, grabbed a spoon and started scooping seeds out into a bowl, imagining them popping open between my teeth, allowing their juice to gush across my tongue. Noting that some of the pith had come out with the seeds, I also decided to soak the seeds to separate out the pith. The scooping was not easy work. Those seeds are packed inside pretty tightly and I had juice running down my left hand as I scooped. At long last the seeds were out, soaked, and the pith skimmed off. I went into another room, determined to enjoy first and clean up later.

 When I went back into the kitchen, I allowed myself to look at the scene of the fruit murder for the first time. It really did look like the scene of a violent crime. There was juice everywhere! It had gotten on the cutting board, spurted onto the counter, splashed onto the wall behind the counter, seeped over to the stove, and even painted the roll of paper towels.

 That section of the kitchen was awash in purple pomegranate blood. As I stepped up to the counter to wipe it down, my toe got wet. Not surprisingly, there droplets on the floor as well. I hadn’t made that big of a mess in that short of a span of time for quite awhile. Not wanting the juice to stain anything, I worked quickly, even though I was starting to do a potty dance.

 Once the kitchen was clean, I allowed myself time in the bathroom. When I stood before the mirror, washing my hands, I noticed that the kitchen was not the only place that looked like the scene of a violent murder. I looked the part of a killer! I had spatters of juice on my face and left arm. As I stepped back from the mirror a bit so I could see more, I realized my shirt, too, bore witness to my fruit victim’s blood.

 The shirt was spattered purple and looked like a Jackson Pollack painting. I was an absolute mess. Fortunately it was just an old t-shirt I was wearing around the house, not something I liked to wear out. I made a note to myself: never open a pomegranate without a paint shirt on.

 The purple will probably not come out of the shirt. There wasn’t enough Shout in the world to get all the spatters. The wall is lightly stained in a couple of places, but so faint you have to know it is there in order to see it. I have decided that maybe cutting open pomegranates isn’t for me, especially since my knives are right-handed and I am not. If I do ever murder another one, I might have to set a large bowl over it to catch the mess as I slice into it’s flesh.

 Lesson learned: fruit murder doesn’t pay. But the seeds sure tasted good!

Want Fries With That?

The title of my blog is now a little misleading. I am no longer a TOTAL lady of leisure. I have acquired a part-time job at the local library, and with that job comes stories. Today was no different.

During customary checkout procedure I take a patron’s card, scan it, and then scan the items being taken home while making sure to unlock any media items and demagnetize almost everything. A woman approached the counter with a young boy who was probably no older than 11.

Now, we all know that kids this age know everything and will continue to know everything until they are about 30. This boy was no different. He thought nothing of placing his mouth on the edge of the chest-high portion of the counter while waiting for his mother.

Mom, on the other hand, thought something of that. Upon glancing over and seeing her son lip-locked with the counter’s edge, she immediately told him not to do that. Of course the boy removed his lips, waited for his mother to turn away, and then placed them back on the smooth surface. I have no idea what tasted so good to him.

Now, I couldn’t let an opportunity to teach the young lad a lesson go to waste. However, boys this age don’t get scared and don’t get grossed out. Ever. I mean, what would their friends think? Still, I felt he needed to know something important about that counter top. Donning my sternest librarian face and keeping my expression deadpan and serious, I asked, “Do you know how many people put their hands there after picking their noses?”

Beep, beep. I continued scanning, glancing up long enough to see him look at me to see if I was joking. Keeping my face locked in a serious expression, I saw the horror spread over his face slowly. It was a lot like the opening scene of the semi-recent phantom of the opera movie when the screen goes from black and white cobwebs to a full color, gas lit opera house.

“Betcha didn’t think about that,” his mother said, seeming to play into my hands. The horrified expression remained on his face until he turned to walk towards the door. “Have a nice day,” I called after him. I wanted to add, “Want fries with that?”

Crying Over Spilt Ink

I wrote my first poem in 5th grade about a snowflake. That is all I can remember about it and I wish I had kept it. I took it up to my teacher to read and she said, “That’s nice.”
Unlike many kids I enjoyed school and liked many of my teachers. In fact, I found it easier to get along with the teachers than the students. I knew I was a nerd of sorts because I got great grades most of the time and other kids would sometimes call me one when I did better than them on a test or assignment. It made me proud, but not particularly special. Most of the kids got pretty decent grades in parochial school so I never saw myself as above average in any way.
Then I walked into the public school system in eighth grade. I had been around a few goof-offs before, just not so many. Because I was from parochial school I was put into the classes for average kids. By the end of the first semester, the teachers recognized I was above average and petitioned to get me into honors math and English.
There was one teacher in particular who encouraged the other teachers to agree I was not just average, who saw me as someone who had special gifts even. That was my English teacher, Barb Duncan. When I showed her my writing, she encouraged me to enter an essay contest, in which I took third place and for that I got my picture and essay in the local paper.
She told me I was a strong writer who had a lot of potential. She inspired me to keep writing. When I wrote my first short play a few years later for a high school project, I dedicated it to her during the performance.
My parents never discouraged my writing or my interest in any of the arts and even seemed adequately proud when I wrote an essay at age 16 that won me a trip to Washington DC for a week. But they never inspired me and coached me the way Mrs. Duncan did, probably because they didn’t really know what to do with a child interested in the fine arts other than to just let her do her thing.
Mrs. Duncan pushed me, wanting to see more out of me. I’ll never forget her—she was very petite, probably almost a foot shorter than I am. She had a long, dark braid down her back and totally didn’t look like the type of woman to ride a Harley, but she had a wild passion in her for the open road apparently.
I wish now that I knew how to connect with her again. I haven’t seen her since probably just after college. What she would think of me now, I wonder. My pen was dormant for so long. Do I still have the talent and promise she saw so long ago?
I sometimes wish I still had some of those early teen musings to look back upon. Would I see what she did? I once had a folder full of writing that I did when I was young, but I can’t find it now. I would like to see some of it. Though much of it is silly romance or angst I think I am now in a good place for looking back, for now I can recognize how far I have come.
I sometimes wonder if I would have taken as great an interest in writing and the English major in general if it wasn’t for Harley Duncan, as the students called her. I couldn’t stop writing once I was told I was good at it.
However in college, my writing professor told me my scope was limited and the amount of writing I did diminished steadily until all I did was journal. I didn’t take any more creative writing classes after that. All I wrote about was the pain I experienced and I showed almost no one my writing.
My husband rekindled my interest in the written word when we were dating by saying he liked the way I wrote my letters to him (we lived in different towns). In grad school a few years later, I took another creative writing class as a requirement. I was very nervous about presenting my short story to the class to critique but received so much good feedback that I was once again encouraged to write a little.
However, it took nearly a decade before I would take up my pen on a regular basis again. I not only had to gain self-confidence, but I also had to feel I had something worthwhile to say. Ink is still not filling a notebook a month—not yet anyway. But ink is spilling forth gradually. It may not happen every day, but it does happen usually at least once a week. I haven’t worked out an adequate way to reward myself for daily writing to get myself into the habit. There are still a lot of gaps between entries. However, I am writing more than I was just three months ago and I must relish and reward that achievement.
There is no sense in crying over the days I didn’t write because they are in the past. I can write today, and tomorrow, and the day after that. I must write until my current notebook is full, no matter how bad the writing is. After I reward myself, I must then begin again with another notebook. I must just take things one line at a time.
Barb Duncan only began to fan the writing flame in me. Other writers and bloggers are now tending to it. It might have nearly gone out once or twice, but it has never been snuffed completely. Now I have a passion for sharing what I have learned. It is no longer a single flame flickering, but a roaring fireplace providing me with the hot, burning desire to write, to create something useful and worthwhile.
This blog was inspired by a writing prompt that asks the writer to recreate a change of mind. It is from Write Starts by Hal Zina Bennett, which is a great little book of prompts I use for exercises. This prompt is spelled out on pg. 39-40. The title is my husband, Allen Posz’s, brainchild and I thought it went well with the piece.
Has someone ever inspired you to want to improve your skills? Has that memory stuck with you? What kinds of stories would you like to see me tell in this blog? Fiction? Nonfiction? A particular genre? Feel free to leave a comment below and tell me what direction you would like to see me go, as well as sharing something you remember about someone who gave you direction in your life.

The Proof Is In the Way He Holds A Doll

To be a judge for the Great Stork, you have to really know your stuff. You have to know what little boys like, what little girls like, what they expect out of a sibling of the same sex, what they expect out of a sibling of the opposite sex, and so on. I have recently been reviewing applications for boys who say they want a little sister and giving my reports from their auditions to the Great Stork. In the end, it is the Great Stork’s decision who gets a sister and who gets a brother, but I make the recommendations based on what I observe during the auditions.
Recently, I went to the home of a little boy who was getting his first younger sibling. Taking the form of a fly, I sat quietly on the wall as his friend, who had brought along a little sister, engaged him in play. Now, if a little boy wants to be the big brother of a little girl, he must be very special. He must be patient and kind and willing to play by her rules. This little boy started off fairly well. He fed the doll in its high chair gently. However, when he went to pick the doll up out of the chair, he grabbed her by the head. Big mistake! Dolls must always be treated like babies—with great care and gentleness. I recommended that this little boy get a brother.
A few blocks down, another little boy was having a tea party with a neighbor girl about his age. She asked him to pour, and I knew this would be a great test. He held the teapot over the cup, but lingered too long, and she told him he had spilled tea all over the table. Worse still? It didn’t seem to bother him and he didn’t offer to clean it up. He, too, will probably get a little brother. Little brothers don’t mind messes. In fact, they rather enjoy making them.
Then I came across young Garrett who was visiting his aunts, uncles and grandparents at his Aunt Brenda’s house where his young cousin Adelyn lives. Now since Garrett wasn’t at his own house, he didn’t have his usual toys, which meant he would be playing with Adelyn, an interaction I just couldn’t miss.
Again, I sat on the wall in the form of a fly and observed. I’m surprised his Aunt Brenda didn’t find and swat me. At first, Garrett and Adelyn played the gender neutral game of balloons. He gave her first choice of colors between green and purple rather than just claiming the green one, so he passed that test. She chose purple anyway. They bopped the balloons into the air, Garrett taking great pride in getting his to hit the vaulted ceiling, a very boy thing to do but not anti-girl. Then Brenda suggested to Adelyn that she show Garrett her room, which he seemed genuinely excited to see.
Moments later, Garrett pranced out of her room pushing a small, pink umbrella stroller with a doll in it. He didn’t look sheepish or embarrassed, so he passed that test with flying colors. He even had a big smile on his face. Adelyn followed behind with more dolls in a tiny pink wagon. Garrett asked her what the doll in his stroller’s name was and she answered, “Shelley.” Score 3 for Garrett!
Garrett parked the stroller next to the couch and took the doll out of it, holding it gently like a baby which seemed to please Adelyn. He rocked it, fed it, and put it to bed saying, “Goodnight, Shelley.” Garrett didn’t balk about pretending he and Adelyn were a couple. He stretched out next to her on a small sofa that unfolded. It was bright pink with fairy princesses on it. When the dolly cried, he got up and took care of it. Kudos to Garrett!
After a while, they went back to playing balloons again. I observed closely and watched as Garrett smacked Adelyn in the face with his green balloon. Shame on him! But I couldn’t grade him too harshly because he did pass all the tests involving playing with dolls and it was just a balloon. She didn’t even bat an eyelash and, in fact, she smacked him back.
I have decided to recommend that Garrett get a little sister. His younger brother Grant, on the other hand, will probably fail the tests, but he wasn’t available for an audition Sunday due to illness. I still hold out hope since Garrett is the oldest. If any 6-year-old boy deserves a sister, it is Garrett. I have given my report to the Great Stork, who will ultimately have the final say. I guess we will all find out when the baby is born in May.
Do the people in your family find out the sex of their babies? Do you know of a little boy who tenderly plays with his little sister or a big sister who plays rough and tumble with her little brother? Please leave your answers in the comment section below.

Introducing Psyched to Write

I know I just posted yesterday and I usually only post once per week, but I just had to share with my followers that yesterday’s post inspired me to create a new blog about writing, psychology, and overcoming obstacles to creativity, particularly for people who have mental illness. This is my launch into the world of being a writer and I just had to share it with you, my loyal readers. Yesterday’s post from here was posted in the new blog, which will have regular posts of it’s own each Tuesday beginning March 5, 2013. I am very excited about this new blog and I hope you will be, too.

The blog is called Psyched to Write and the URL is http://www.psychedtowrite.wordpress.com so go over and check out the “What It’s About” tab to learn more. My posts here in “A Lady’s Tales” will continue each Thursday as scheduled. Spread the word to all your writer or creative-type friends. Who knows? You might be next to enter the blogosphere! Be psyched to write, and write on!

Marsha Holtgrewe-Posz

A Writer’s Pep Talk

It is Thursday evening, so I am a bit late with this week’s post, but it is still technically coming out on Thursday. This week, I will walk you through the type of conversation I have to have with myself whenever I have a negative thought about me. This post is based on the quote below and demonstrates exactly what I needed therapists to teach me. This is something I could have never learned on my own. I have started this writing journey, and I am getting closer to feeling that it would be impossible to not finish it, but I still have a ways to go. Enjoy, and put this method to good use if need be.
“Every time I start on a new book, I am a beginner again. I doubt myself, I grow discouraged, all the work accomplished in the past is as though it never was, my first drafts are so shapeless that it seems impossible to go on with the attempt at all, right up until the moment…when it has become impossible not to finish it.”
–Simone De Bevoir, Force of Circumstance
I can really relate to this quote because I feel like a beginner whenever I start a new project whether it is writing, knitting, scrapping or anything else. I look at the supplies and wonder how I am going to put them together into something coherent. I have the core belief that I am not good enough for anything, something so deeply ingrained that I’ve become a source of frustration for many therapists over the years. I don’t know where it came from or how to get around it either. Thinking positively rarely works because I don’t believe any of the positive thoughts I force myself to have. Rational Emotive Therapy comes closest to working as long as I remember to use it. This method forces me to question my thoughts, to ask things such as, “How do I know I’m not good enough to succeed? What evidence or proof do I really have?” It also forces to me to give honest answers to those questions. Let’s walk through it.
I’m on the precipice of beginning to write my memoir. I am reading books about writing and making myself finish them before I begin writing. I tell myself it is self-education. Knowledge is power and knowing things will keep me from writing a disaster. But how do I know it would be a disaster? Am I truly educating myself or stalling? What is the real motive behind all this self-education? Am I ever going to know enough to be a good writer? These are questions I must ask myself and force myself to answer truthfully.
Here are the facts. I do know I was successful in my grad school creative writing class. I do know my short story really connected with my readers. I do know my professor saw potential because I got an A in the course. I do know that only one of the 15 or so students didn’t like my story, but I also know he had no real knowledge of the subject matter. I know that no writing will please everyone all of the time.
So why do I linger on these thoughts of not being educated enough and feeling inadequate in general when I ought to just jump in, start writing and have fun with it? Not all writers feel the need for an MFA in creative writing or any other degree for that matter. Some writers have little college experience at all, so why do I think an MA in English literature doesn’t make me enough of an expert? Good question! I still don’t know the answer, but my hubby has begged me not to return to school, so I’ve begun reading on my own. I have already learned a lot from my reading (which justifies the expense of the books), including which of the 4 paradigms of writing is likely to suit me. So why am I not using it? Because I am afraid of doing it wrong. But there is no correct way to write. These are just suggestions of common methods. Yet I still feel I should immerse myself in knowledge to avoid mistakes. I have news for myself: There will be mistakes. Lots of them. Just when I think I have found them all, a reader will find more. Every writer makes mistakes. In fact, every person makes mistakes. It is ok to make mistakes. It is even ok to fail. What is not ok is giving up or not trying at all.
This mental banter is necessary for me to work through negative thinking and eventually I come up with a statement that I can see as true and work with it, such as the italicized final sentence of the last paragraph. Unfortunately for me, confidence is not in my nature. I have to earn it through battling myself, and it is always hard work. One of my therapists once told me I have the biggest wet noodle with which to flog myself that she ever saw. I have to prove I am worthy of anything and repeat that on a constant basis to believe it.
I wrote this back in January as I embarked on a journey to write my memoir. As I prepared for this week’s blog entry, I came across this and realized I needed to hear it all over again. Once again, I have doubted my abilities as a writer. However, skills I have learned in therapy help me argue with myself when I need a pep talk of sorts. It can help me evaluate the facts rather than rely on what my emotions about a situation may be. Does any of this sound familiar to you? Do you have doubts when you begin any new project about your abilities to complete it? Can you talk yourself out of self-doubt and despair? If so, what is your method? Please comment below and write on!

The Walking Stomach

January 2013 292This week, I introduce our third cat, Gideon. He is extremely intelligent and creative when he wants to be. He can get almost anywhere he wants too, including on top of my kitchen cabinets. But the reason for all of his prowling and jumping is usually food. I call him “The Walking Stomach.”
We had no idea what we were in for. We walked to our local video rental store one day in late August as the sun was beginning to descend. When we got there, we saw a cat in the parking lot that fit the description of the cat I had mentioned wanting next after the passing of my darling Cedric earlier in the year. I had imagined a dark, smoky gray male, and there he was sniffing around the lot. Allen inquired about him inside, and the staff person told him this cat was a frequent visitor and was being fed by the staff. I was hesitant, not sure I was really ready for another cat, but we decided our Gigi needed a companion and he looked exactly like the cat I had imagined. We went home and got our pet taxi, the minivan, and some food for good measure before driving the few blocks to the store. Allen got out of the van, put some food in the back of the taxi, and waited. Surprisingly, the wait wasn’t very long. The cat sniffed briefly and walked right in. Allen secured the door and the cat munched happily the few blocks home.
We released him into the basement where he hid for a couple of days. I would fill the food dish, and it was always empty when I went to check on him. I thought he was hungry after being homeless, but I quickly learned this cat would do absolutely anything for food or treats. We’ve had to get creative over the years. He prowls in desperation every time feeding time gets close. He will climb any mountain if it means being united with his food dish. A while back, we got automatic feeders so he could stay on schedule even if we weren’t home. He learned that by sticking his paw up the food chute he could coax extra kibbles out, so we can’t keep the feeder on the floor all the time because he will dig all day for that extra food. I could have given him a name like Gobbler or Hungry Cat, but I have always preferred using obscure human names for my cats and this one was given the name Gideon.
We later learned that he can’t say no to food, even when he is full. This is when I started saying, “You can take the cat out of the alley, but you can’t take the alley out of the cat.” My parents came up for a visit one weekend in March when we still lived in Iowa. My well-meaning father always insisted on giving the cats treats to get them to like him. I made the mistake of giving him a full bag of fresh treats that weekend. Per the usual, both cats flocked to him every time they heard the crinkle of the treat bag. Gideon would even sit in his lap and eat out of his hand, which Dad loved. By the time Sunday rolled around, we could tell even Gideon was full. Gigi had stopped responding to the treats by the end of Saturday, but not Gideon. Dad shook the bag and Gideon got up, swaggered towards Dad’s outstretched hand, and stared at the treat as if getting the courage to eat it before he gulped it down without even chewing. If a cat could break a sweat, I believe he would have been moist all over. I could see each time that the decision to eat that treat was getting more difficult, but Gideon was determined. He always ate as if he would never see food again. We tried to get Dad to stop, but he insisted that Gideon was starving and needed treats.
Mom and Dad left after lunch and I put the treat bag back into its drawer. I had no intention of giving either cat treats for the rest of the day. Even Gideon didn’t look disappointed. Then, about 25 minutes after they left, Gideon started coughing. Before we could move him, he threw up all over the bed and there wasn’t a hairball in it. It was all the treats he had eaten. I called Mom and Dad on their cell phone. They were looking at Amish furniture in the next town south of us. I told them they needed to turn around so Dad could clean up his mess. They didn’t, of course, but they probably laughed all the way home. To this day, Dad is rationed when he comes over. He gets a small baggie of treats for all 3 cats. He always says they are still hungry after the treats are gone, but I never budge. He will even go as far as to tell me they are too skinny when I know full well they aren’t. I learned my lesson. Not only will “The Walking Stomach” do anything for food, he will also eat until he bursts.
Have you ever taken in a stray, starving animal? Did they ever become secure about meals and realize they would get food daily? Gideon never has! Tell me a story about your stray experience in the comments below. Write on!

The Tale of the Highbrow Cat

Happy Valentine’s Day to those of you who choose to celebrate it! Tell me what your plans are with your true love today! For this week’s blog, there was something that happened this weekend with Link that I just have to share. He had us in stitches most of Sunday afternoon. Read on to find out why!
During the past several months, Allen and I have used bits of free time to go through our enormous iTunes library and match albums with artists after they were messed up when Allen moved our music temporarily to a different player. Many of the albums had “unknown” listed as the album artist, but had the names of the albums and their song lists. In order to complete labeling the artists successfully, we often had to play short clips of songs in order to properly identify the artists. We have a very eclectic collection of at least 500 albums ranging in genre from rap to jazz to country to alternative. Nearly every genre and subgenre is represented somewhere in our vast collection.
To begin with, I must explain that Link likes to chase the fairy cursor Allen uses on his computer. His computer is connected to the 51” television next to his desk. Link often sits on the desk or on the printer, pawing at the screen where the cursor is floating while Allen is working at the computer. This has become a favorite past time for Link, the fairy being similar to Navi from The Legend of Zelda games Allen has played. Navi was Link’s best friend and once Allen beat the last game, Link continued to search for Navi, so when Allen moved his computer into the living room, he adopted this cursor so Link could play with it.
As usual, Link was perched on the edge of Allen’s desk, chasing the fairy when Allen played a clip. It was Maria Callas’s powerful opera performance of “La Momma Morte” from the movie soundtrack “Philidelphia.” We went ahead and played the entire piece because we both admire it a great deal as we went about labeling things. As Callas belted out one powerful note after another, Link sunk down onto the desk, sprawling halfway across its width. His head hung off the edge and rested awkwardly on the printer. He closed his eyes and seemed to thoroughly enjoy the piece in its entirety. He was a cat who appeared to have found heaven. Once it ended, Allen moved on to another clip, this time playing “Mack the Knife” sung by Frank Sinatra. While “old blue eyes” had probably soothed many a savage beast in his time, he brought out the savagery in Link. He abandoned his relaxed state and suddenly attacked Allen’s left arm, chewing on his hand and the button at the cuff of his sleeve, wailing his little battle cry. Both of us had already been giggling while watching him enjoy the opera piece, but we were guffawing through Sinatra.
As we went down the list, we experimented, playing some clips longer than others, just to see what he liked. He always seemed to relax during anything classical or opera-related. If we played something fast-paced or heavy, he attacked Allen’s arm. At one point, Link became rather passionate in his protest of what Allen was playing. Allen began playing a song by Johnny Cash and Link gave his little battle cry “meeps” and attacked Allen’s arm again. During the attack, he pivoted so that while his teeth bit Allen’s hand, his back legs straddled the arm just below the elbow and his hips gyrated. Thoroughly grossed out, Allen withdrew his arm from the humping cat and played a classical piece. We now have reason to believe that Link has “highbrow” tastes in music, preferring opera and classical to other types. He is a music snob. Just because he was born on a farm doesn’t mean he likes country!
We are going to have to start playing more opera and classical! I’ve heard that there is a cable station available in some areas for dogs and one is in the works for cats. Does your pet have musical tastes? Do you ever leave music or television on for your pet when you are away? If so, what type of music or television do you leave on? Please leave your comments below. Write on!