humour

Mr. Wanton’s new nickname for me!

/ wantonwordflirt / 6 Comments

Having ordered my groceries on-line, I was waiting for the call to go pick them up curbside. No pre-set pick up times out here in the boonies; you go get the groceries immediately when they call.

While I was waiting at home for Sobey’s to call, my three year old grandson called to FaceTime with me. Sometimes he calls, talks for 30 seconds and is done, but this time he was chatty. After a couple of minutes, the landline phone starting ringing. Call display was showing it was the grocery store, so I picked up while still on FaceTime on my cell phone with Charles.

As I was confirming my credit card number with the Sobey’s clerk, I had a sudden urge to use the washroom. ARGH! Why does everything happen at once? Quickly, I finished my Sobey’s business, then told Charles I must end my FaceTime call, so I could go to the bathroom. Charles protested,”No, Baba I want to talk to you.”

“Talk to you later! Love you!” I hung up, feeling like the worst grandma ever!

I had on my “dog pants”; the pants I usually wear at home so when our Labrador Retriever slobbers on me it won’t matter. I grabbed clean yoga capris, pulling them on quickly, as I dashed out to my vehicle.

Mission accomplished, I returned home to spend the next four hours washing everything from the store, putting it away, then making our supper, and finally doing dishes. After supper, Mr. Wanton and I were relaxing, watching TV. I looked down at my legs elevated in the recliner.

“OH MY GOD, my pants are inside-out!”

With no emotion, Mr, Wanton replied, “So? It’s just us here in the house, who cares? It doesn’t matter.”

I jumped out of the recliner like it was an ejection seat.

“I wore these pants uptown!” I shouted.

I spun my body around so my backside was towards Mr. Wanton.

“Can you see the tag? Is there a tag hanging on my butt crack?”

“I can’t see your butt at all; your shirt is so long.”

I tugged my shirt up.

“What about now?”

“Oh yah, I can see the imprint of the brand and size, but the pants have no tag.”

Now, I was laughing, realizing unless someone was close to me they would not see the seams of my pants on the side of my legs. Whew.

I actually had inside-out pants on for the last six hours and didn’t even notice. I asked Mr. Wanton if he thought me going to town in inside-out pants was a sign of being too relaxed, or too stressed? He diplomatically “pleaded the fifth”.

A few days later, it was my birthday. For the first time ever in his life, Mr. Wanton baked a cake.

My parents, my son, and his girlfriend came for an outdoor visit. Mr. Wanton was in and out of the house as he checked on his cake project. My Mom asked him what kind of cake he was making.

“Square“, he said with a smart-ass grin.

“No, it isn’t, it’s a rectangle. Two sides are long. ” I laughed.

“Square, rectangle, same thing.”

I said, “If that cake is a square, then I am hourglass shape!”

“What shape do you think you are?” he asked.

“Rectangle! Just like the cake! A vertical rectangle, with arms and legs, and a head sticking out.”

“Like SpongeBob SquarePants?” he asked.

“Exactly! Except I have a head on top!”

The cake and the birthday visit were both a success.

That night as I collapsed into bed, a voice came out of the dark.

“Goodnight Sponge Baba Inside-out Pants!”

Pumping the brakes on perfectionism…

/ wantonwordflirt / 17 Comments

“The greatest mistake we make is living in constant fear that we will make one.” ~ John C. Maxwell ~

A little more on perfectionism today because it is why I avoided writing the last week or so. The avoidance began after being involved in a discussion about published books and famous authors.

The discussion started after a friend discovered a mistake in pronoun use in a New York Times best-selling novel. I mentioned I was surprised such a mistake had made it past the editors at a large reputable publishing house. All were in agreement.

The talk then turned to mistakes writers make. Another friend mentioned she is appalled when writers use “comma splices”. Everyone involved in the discussion then began to detail errors they have seen in published books. I stood silent.

As the group broke up for the evening, all I could think was: I do not know what a “comma splice” is, oh my God, and I think I’m a writer? I’m not a writer, or I would know what that is.

I drove home pondering if I should continue to write or give it up completely. To be honest, I was ready in that moment to swear off writing forever. (I had done so once before, after a grade 12 English class with a teacher who terrified me. That swearing off of writing lasted twenty years or more.)

This was also not the first time in more recent history I was having anxiety over my writing. I have Facebook “friends” who are published poets, authors, high school and college level English instructors, spoken word artists, lyricists, Ph. D university professors and creative writing instructors, journalists, and English literature majors. The thought has crossed my mind many times that my writing is not up to their standards, and absolutely I admit it is not.

(Even writing the previous sentence I am thinking: I used the word “that” again. Oh no. I am just proving my own point. Of course I am not a “real writer”.)

The next day a friend who is in my writing group phoned me.  I confessed the anxiety I was having because of what occurred the night before. She started laughing and assured me I probably DID know what a comma splice was, I just did not know it by that term. Thanks my friend, I needed to hear your encouraging words.

I took a deep breath; I realized as a reader it is not perfect grammar, punctuation, classic structure, or extensive vocabulary which catches my attention, rather it is authenticity. Granted there are certain standards to be upheld in writing, as in all communication, but I can be forgiving of writers who make some errors if what they have to tell me is authentic. If a piece of writing resonates with me I don’t care if it’s in the form of a cartoon with word bubbles and thought clouds, or a poem with no structure or rhyme.

If I can be forgiving of other writers making mistakes, so must I be forgiving of myself. Part of why I named this blog as I did is because I do want to be wanton, both playful and a bit reckless in my writing. Maybe all along I wanted to send a subliminal message to those seeking perfection in writing – this would not be the place to find it.

 

P.S. “A comma splice is the use of a comma to join two independent clauses. For example: It is nearly half past five, we cannot reach town before dark. Although acceptable in some languages and compulsory in others (e.g. Bulgarian or French), comma splices are usually considered style errors in English.”

the two “P” words….

/ wantonwordflirt / 12 Comments

Can you think of two words that start with “p” and fit together perfectly?

And no, all you innately sexual creatures, once again, I am not thinking of “that”. Remember, I told you before, this is not the place for sexually wanton writing, yet somehow ever since I said that, innuendo continues to appear.

The two seldom verbalized or admitted, but often practiced words, are the reason I have been away from my blog the last seventeen days. Of course I’m referring to procrastination and perfectionism. Usually when I am away from my blog for awhile it is because of one or the other, or both.

Recently I wrote a 2500 word short story for a timed international writing contest, NYC Midnight. One of my Underground Writing Cohort friends had tempted me to give it a whirl. I had a week to complete and submit the story after being assigned a genre, character, and a specific subject to be included.

Thanks to doing the story for the contest I became more self-aware. I discovered I can procrastinate perfectly. I never considered myself a perfectionist before. I now realized I was obviously wrong.

To be fair, the first three days I did have a migraine headache. Apparently people who have Sjogren’s are also prone to migraines at a more frequent rate than other migraine sufferers; hooray for us. Mine start by feeling like a vague sinus headache then build up to full frontal facial pain for three days. Needless to say pain encompassing my entire face is not conducive to my creative pursuits. So, right off the get go I was down to four days.

While I wasn’t sitting at my computer typing out my story I WAS doing what I do best – writing the story in my head. I told Mr. Wanton it would be extremely helpful to me if he, of technological expertise and mechanical invention, could possibly come up with something that could transcribe my thoughts automatically into a word document on my computer. You know, like verbal word transcription, but for my thoughts. He said “that is a bad, bad, idea.” What does he know? Oh yah, I usually tell him what I am thinking. Perhaps his opinion is of value in this instance.

Upon the end of the headache I should have been ready to type up my story, right? Wrong. For the next few days I proceeded to attack my long lost to-do list with a vengeance – the one that sits permanently on my desk, with items dating back to 1999, not all of which are crossed off yet.

Wow – more self-awareness – if I wanted to finally accomplish my least appealing tasks, the long overdue “leftovers” on my to-do list, all I had to do is commit myself to something I wanted to do even less, in this case the short story.

Perfect. I could put off the short story writing, not feeling guilty whatsoever, because I was getting lots of other stuff done. You know, important stuff – like organize my panties and socks, look up random symptoms via Google, watch Adele and Bruno Mars “Careoke” videos on YouTube repeatedly (okay, admittedly that wasn’t on my to-do list but in hindsight it should have been). I accidentally discovered the most seriously underrated motivational technique for overcoming procrastination ever.

So that brings me to this moment. How did I get over my procrastination to write a blog post today? Easy answer, the alternative was the now top priority item on my to-do list – personal income tax. Uh-huh, I definitely found what I can do perfectly every time.

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P.S. In case you are curious, I did complete the short story in eight hours on the seventh day, well before the midnight deadline.

My Joy Jar*

/ wantonwordflirt / 15 Comments

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A few years ago on Pinterest the “good things jar” was pinned which basically is: re-purposing an old jar or container of some sort, every week writing down something good that happened to you and putting the slip of paper in the container, then on New Year’s Eve reading the contents to reflect on all the good things that happened to you during the year. Yah, whatever, bah humbug.

Even though I came across this idea on Facebook multiple times, I never considered making one until this year. What spurred me into action was a friend whose 2016 contained significant losses of people she loved dearly, enduring on-going health challenges, difficulties at her job, and also banishing a family member out of her life; however not all was bad, she did go on her lifelong dream trip overseas. At the end of the year she posted about how having the notes in the jar to read did help her realize indeed numerous “good things” had happened in spite of the grief, frustrations and losses she sustained.

What the hell, I’ve nothing to lose and only warm fuzzies to gain was my thought this New Year’s Eve. Perhaps because this past Dec. 31st was one of the better ones in recent memory, I was motivated, I had something positive to put on a paper to start off the year. I would commence documenting every day small joys.

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When I decided to go forward with this project, I blew the dust off an empty container in the pantry, placed it on my desk, writing and tossing my first note inside. Skepticism engulfed me. I wondered if some weeks the best I’d be able to muster would be “did not drop toothbrush on the floor” or “didn’t get dog drool on my pants”. No, I reminded myself, this was not about bad things that didn’t happen hence being good by default, but honest to God “good things” that would actually occur.

Some people write a daily note, some write a weekly note. I figured I was optimistic and realistic with a once a week goal. Yet here I sit, just seven days into the year and I have seven notes in the jar. I now see how this can work from beginning to end of the year. Just by having the jar on my desk in clear sight it is reminding me to acknowledge the good that happens every day. I’ll let you know in 358 days how it has all worked out.

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*Earlier this week I blogged about the meaning of the word “wanton” assuring readers of no sexual content on this blog. Yet, while sitting at my desk writing down a “good thing”, I hollered to my husband (“Mr. Wanton”) downstairs in his office: “Hey, you wanna help fill “My Joy Jar”? Silence. I hadn’t explained the project; he had no idea what I was talking about. A few seconds later he hollered back: “Sure. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.” Someone thinks he might be in for a really good year. 😉