MFA – the last week

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I woke up this morning with a real purpose.

Today is the first day of the last week of my Master’s program. My purpose is to finish strong!

In many ways it has been a hard road. The program is an intensive one, two years of study completed in only one year.

They really weren’t kidding about that intensive part. I hit quite a few walls throughout the year, walls that took every ounce of strength I had to climb, one slippery handhold at a time. Sometimes I wondered if I could make it.

When I began the program I was warned that I would need to devote an average of 30 hours a week to complete it. I must say, the estimation of the time commitment was dead on. Although there were a few lighter weeks that required a mere 20 hours, they were balanced with others that needed at least 40. I had one or two weeks that came in around 50.

But all that is now in the past.

In a few minutes, when I’m done here, I’ll log onto the school’s portal and check what I need to do for this final week. Then I’ll roll up my sleeves and get to work.

Because I like when I get that oh-so-lovely sense of accomplishment. And successfully finishing this Master’s program will feel lovely indeed.

And I have a purpose.

I will finish strong.

 

City living

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The thing about living in a city is that no person is ever truly alone. People are there and watching, even if they aren’t trying to watch.

This morning, a little before 7:30, I was making a cup of espresso. My espresso maker is right by a window, and the window overlooks my neighbor’s back yard.

It is a very busy backyard. There has been a constant stream of workers building and digging all summer long. As soon as one project is completed and the workers leave, another team arrives to start the next project.

The current team has only been at work a day or two. I have no clue what their project is, only that it requires a certain amount of hammering and playing of loud music.

I’m pretty sure that although I can see into my neighbor’s backyard, anyone in the backyard probably cannot easily see into my kitchen.

At least that is what I now assume. Ever since this morning when, after looking around in a very suspicious manner, one of the workers unzipped his pants and marked his territory just like a dog.

Yes, you read correctly. He urinated, right there in the backyard.

Just what I wanted to see as I made my coffee.

Yep, city living. It can sometimes surprise you.

 

The new era

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A new era just began for me. Today. This morning.

I stepped outside to walk the dog this morning to be greeted by the sound of children heading off to the first day of school.

That’s when it hit me. My last child is grown.

I’ve always been a hands-on type of mom, so for twenty-two years I’ve taken my children to school on the first day. It started with my oldest daughter and became an instant tradition.

Twenty-two years of rushing through breakfast. Twenty-two years of agonizing over first-day-clothing, which always resulted in multiple clothing changes. Twenty-two years of backpack checks and lunches. And twenty-two years of tears, usually mine.

I’ll miss it, but at least I have the memories. Memories of angst, and memories of excitement.

My youngest begins college at the end of this month, but it’s not the same. She’ll head out to her first day of school from her dorm room. I won’t be a part of it.

The new era has indeed begun.

Now I’ve gone and done it!

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Or at least, my allergies have gone and done it.

Up to now my allergies have just been annoying. They keep me from fully enjoying social gatherings, since I’m allergic to a lot of foods and fragrance triggers asthma in me.

You may think that I miss eating all those yummy goodies, but avoiding the wrong food is the easy part.

People who don’t know me well think I’m anti-social. Especially when they reach out to give me a hug and I practically sprint away. It isn’t that I don’t want to be friendly, it’s only that their perfume jumped ahead of them and gave me a fragrance sock right on my nose. My heart might be saying, “how sweet, a friend,” but my lungs are screaming, “poison…run!”

That’s bad enough. But now, now my stupid allergies have now gone too far. They made me lose a job.

I tried to stick it out. I struggled to concentrate as each waft of fragrance was matched by a wave of dizziness. I lasted up to the point when that elephant pranced into the room, sat on my chest, and wiggled around to find a comfortable seat. I knew then that it was a lost cause.

I’ve heard that acupuncture relieves allergies, for some people. I should give it a try. Nothing else has ever helped.

Yep, I really should think about it.

I really should.

After all, what choice do I really have? I can be an unemployed anti-socialite or a pin cushion.

You would think the decision would be easy, wouldn’t you?

 

August 20th is a good day

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I have some very exciting news!

Monday morning at 5:10 a.m. my husband and I received a phone call from my daughter. She was going to have her baby.

We rushed over to her house. Her 3-year-old son was still sound asleep, so we assured my daughter and her husband that we could take good care of him while they were busy at the hospital. They left, and we sat on the couch and twiddled our thumbs for a while.

Five in the morning is NOT my normal time to wake up. So after about 30 minutes of thumb-twiddling my husband volunteered to run out to Starbucks for a cup of perk-me-up. I was tired of fighting with my eyelids to stay open, so I agreed.

He was only gone about 10 minutes when the 3-year-old decided it was time to start his day. As soon as the little sweetie saw me peeking into his room he burst into tears.

“I want my mommy and daddy!” he cried, throwing himself dramatically down on the bed. (If you’ve never been around small children you’ve probably never experienced real, true drama. They do it very well because for them, everything is very, very important.)

“Your mommy and daddy have gone to the hospital. They’ll be back a little later.” I kept my voice calm.

“I want my mommy and daddy!” he cried, tears streaming down his little face.

I reassured him again. And again. And again. I spent about 5 minutes reassuring until I finally realized that it wasn’t working. He was just too worried about the changes he knew were coming. A new baby sister is a very big thing.

So I switched tactics. I asked him if he remembered how big his mommy’s stomach had grown. He tearfully nodded that he did. I then asked if he remembered before his mommy’s stomach had gotten big. He thought a moment, but then nodded yes.

I could tell I now had his interest. He wondered where I was going with this.

I then pretended that I was his baby sister, growing, kicking, and stretching in the confined space of her mommy’s tummy.

He smiled.

I knocked on the pretend tummy and asked in a silly voice, “Hello, I’m ready. Can I come out now? Hello, I’m ready to meet my brother.”

He laughed.

The rest of the day went well, with no further tears.

The baby was born around 7:30 p.m., but my husband and I didn’t get to return home until closer to 11.

It was a very long day, but very worth it!

Welcome, little one!

 

Breathe

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I can now breathe again.

I submitted my thesis yesterday (Thursday) morning even though it is not due until Sunday.

I thought about hanging onto it a few days longer. I asked myself, “Wouldn’t one more pass make it stronger? Wouldn’t a few more days of work bring it that much closer to perfection?”

But every change is a double-edged sword. It might make the script better, but then again, it might not. That little glimmer of goodness in the script could be lost with one stroke of the delete button, or overshadowed by an added clutter of words.

Besides, every change increased the odds that I would incorporate a mistake that I might not find to correct.

Still, I almost caved. Until I realized that I could no longer see the script!

Oh, my eyes haven’t given out. I can see other things fine. It is only the script that is blurry.

I’m too close to it. I need to back off and give that little script time to grow and mature.

And I need to breathe.

Ah. Breathing is nice. It feels good to breathe!

I’ll have to try it more often.

Walking the dog

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Even in the middle of rewrites the dog has to be walked.

Sometimes walking the dog can be very pleasant, with sunshine, fresh air, and chats with neighbors.

Sometimes it can be disgusting. (You can use your imagination for the disgusting aspects because I’m not going to expand on that.)

Today was a combination. It started as the former, but ended as the latter.

I don’t really want to talk about it. Let’s just let it go and move on.

Nerves of ice

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You’ve heard of people with nerves of steel? Well, it looks like I’ve got nerves of ice.

Sounds okay, doesn’t it? Ice is cool. Ice is strong. Ice grips and will not let go.
Until it melts.
Which is what my nerves did this weekend.
I need to devote quite a few hours to my thesis project to whip it into shape. I’m worried because the pace of the program has not allowed me to do rewrites like I normally do. I have yet to sit down and read the script all the way through, even once!
So what did I do when the time crunch turned up the heat?
I melted.
During a time I should have been reading and correcting, I have been on the brink of a migraine. For two days I have been unable to either read books or use my computer.
Thanks, body. Nice of you to choose this time to send my eyes and brain on a mandatory vacation.
I suppose it’s my own fault. They are my nerves, after all.
Sigh.
My nerves of ice couldn’t take the heat.

Just family life

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Let’s see…

One daughter is starting college next month.

One daughter just moved back home to save money for grad school.

One daughter is preparing for her wedding.

One daughter is due to have a baby this month.

My husband is remodeling our kitchen.

And my thesis is due in two and a half weeks.

No pressure. No stress.

Just family life.

(Okay, I’ll admit it. I am a little stressed about the thesis. It’ll be our secret.)

A name is a name is a name

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My name is Veronica, but some people don’t seem to know that.

You see, when I was a child I was given the nickname Vickie. Most people thought either that my name really was Vickie, or that it was short for Victoria. Neither is true.

I spent years confused about my name, since Vickie NEVER felt right. (Of course, neither did Victoria, for that matter.)

I was trapped a Twilight Zone without a name.

Until I turned 18 and graduated from high school. Then I took my destiny into my own hands. Kind of.

I started my new life as an adult by dropping Vickie down a sinkhole. (No, I didn’t jump into a pit, I just dumped the name.)

But then I had a problem. The name Veronica is four syllables long. Would anyone take the time to spit that many syllables out of their mouth when they wanted to get my attention?

So I compromised and told people that they could call me Roni for short. It at least had a connection to my real name. veRONIca. Get it?

I should have known better than to compromise with anything as important as a name.

I suffered through Roni until I finally realized that Veronica is actually an easy name to say. People could handle it.

From my early twenties on I was Veronica, and only Veronica, to everyone I met.

Yet the nickname of Roni persists. It sneaks out of the mouths of people who have known me forever and into the brains of people I’ve just met. It spreads like a virus. There is no vaccine.

I try to let it go. But I don’t like being called a name that is not mine. It feels all wrong. It shocks me almost every time someone calls be by that name. A jolt of electricity shoots through my body and my heart skips a beat. And not in a good way.

You probably think I’m overdramatizing, but I’m not. My heart really does jump erratically when someone calls me by that abhorrent name.

I have a perfectly good name, a name that actually feels like me, and I want everyone to use it.

I’m taking a stand.

I am Veronica.