Party poopers - poppers - peppers - ... errrr. Friday Fiction Challenge - all audiences

Hello again, my lovely readers.

This week's challenge is a Non-Fiction story around the topic "Party Personality".
I hope you'll enjoy the read, but if you don't ... no sweat.

Have a great weekend!!

Party poopers, poppers, peppers, … errrr.

Party personality.

That’s an easy one to write about.

I don’t have one.

Or two.

Or three.

I know some people do, depending on the kind of party they’re attending, they will dress and act differently. I don’t.

Why?

That’s simple: I don’t play games. I don’t pretend. What you see, is what you get. I don’t have multiple personalities … well, maybe I do, but not for partying purposes. Besides, I don’t like to party. There’s too much noise, too many people - most of whom you don’t know or don’t want to know – and too much alcohol. There always is, no matter where you go or who you’re with, there is always, always, too much alcohol. Sometimes only 1 person will have too much of that, but it’s enough to ruin the whole evening/party.

I’ve never liked to party. I’ve never been interested in going to these kinds of events. I like a good concert every once in a while, but not parties. Not even birthday parties when a lot of people are invited, or wedding parties, or graduation parties (which we don’t really have here).

So, I don’t really have the problem of having (or not) a party personality. I don’t need one since I don’t attend parties.

Even at work, all those ‘social gatherings’, they just give me the creeps. Half the people there, are people you don’t even know because they work in different departments, or on different floors, different buildings, whatever, but you’re all slapped together in one big room and ‘have fun’. It’s not my idea of fun, that’s for sure. I prefer to be at home, in my lazy chair, reading a good book while listening to music I actually like, or watching a movie for the gazillionth time, or – which happens more often – sitting at my computer, writing or playing games.

And even if I did attend parties, I still wouldn’t need an alternate personality for it.

Why should I?

Why should I pretend to be different at a party?

Why couldn’t I just be me at a party?

Why would I have to play it sexy, or tough, or hard to get, or easy to get, or whatever?

Why do people even feel the need to be different at a social gathering?

Why do people feel the need to play games?

Is it because they think they’ll find mister right (or mrs right) by playing a game of make-belief? How could you? How could you possible find the right partner, if you’re not being true to yourself? How does that make any sense at all?

If people don’t like me for who I am, why should I pretend to be different to make them like me?

I know I tried that, way back when I was still young and innocent (blah). I wanted to be part of the popular group of girls in school, like everyone else. So I tried to act like them, talk like them, walk like them, dress like them. Who was I trying to fool? They could see right through the charade and – honestly – I know none of them really liked me, they tolerated me in the area. And you want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because I was the pitbull, the guard dog. The one they turned to whenever a boy/guy was bugging them. The one who took action and didn’t think twice about going up against a guy twice her size. That was why they tolerated me around. Because I would defend them against attack or bullying.

They never liked me, I know that now. I didn’t know it then, until one beautiful Friday evening in May 1990 when I found out … the hard way.

It was my 18^th birthday and my mom and stepdad allowed me to throw a party.

I invited everyone. All of my ‘friends’ from school, and everyone on my volleyball team. I was excited and looking forward to having a great time. The night of the party, our doorbell rang once. Just once! When I got the door, my entire volleyball team was there. They had rendezvoused at the training complex and a couple of the parents had driven the whole group over to my place from there.

I had an awesome, fabulous time with real friends. People whom I didn’t have to pretend with. People who knew me and who appreciated me for who I was. We all had a common goal: be better than the opposing team. Because of that common goal, there was no need to pretend, no need to fake. With them, I was me. No need for an alternate personality.

When I got back to school on Monday, I started telling my ‘friends’ how awesome my party had been and how much fun I’d had and I could see them, looking at each other, trying to figure out who broke the ‘oath’, who had betrayed the others by coming to my party.

I knew then and there, that they didn’t give a damn about me. Either because they knew I was faking it, or simply because they didn’t care either way.

It was a lesson learned and I remember it to date.

And I really like to quote Kiefer Sutherland when asked ‘What is the best advice your father ever gave you?’. His answer: “Don’t get caught with your pants down.”

There is absolutely no reason WHAT SO EVER to fake your way through life.

Be true to yourself because people will either see through the charade, in which case they won’t like you because you’re lying, or they will find out, sooner or later, and they won’t like you either, because you lied to them. It’s a lose/lose situation, every which way you want to look at it.

With me, it’s very simple: You like me? Great! You don’t? Fine by me.

What you see is what you get, I don’t do special treatment and I don’t care what people think.

I am free to be me.

We all are.

Live and let live.

So, seriously, my party personality is the same you’ll see at work, at home or when I’m grocery shopping.

Party on!

More entries can be found over here

Mary Poppins and I - Weekly Writing Challenge - all audiences

Hello everyone!
It's Friday (even though it's already Saturday in my time zone by the time I got around to posting this), so here's this week's entry for the Friday Fiction Challenge. This week is non fiction and the prompt was quite simple: Write a short essay from the starting point, "If I had a Mary Poppins Bag."

Simple as in 'not many words' and 'not a complex/complicated subject'.
It gets less simple to work with, when you realize you have absolutely no bloody clue as to what a Mary Poppins bag does or doesn't do.

I hope you'll enjoy the read.

Mary Poppins and I.

That’s a long story.

Well … actually, it’s not.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen the movie and if I did … that was decades ago. When I saw the prompt for this week’s writing challenge, I was like “umm …… what???”. I had absolutely no idea what to make of it. What the heck is so special about Mary Poppins’ bag that someone might want to write a story about it? So, I did the only thing I could do (no, I didn’t go out to find the movie, or download it) I Googled it. Seriously. I had to!

I said before I wouldn’t bail out on a challenge simply because I have no idea where to start, so I had to get busy and figure out what the heck this week’s ‘essay’ might be about. You know, the word ‘essay’ to me, always brings out a certain fear … no, anguish is a better word for it. To me, an essay is something you do for school, like some big project that you spend months on, sometimes even all year. I don’t know why, but that’s the connection I make. An essay to me is a huge piece of very serious work.

Now, how to write a short essay – or huge piece of very serious work – about something I wouldn’t know the first thing about?

Where do I start?

What do I have to say about it?

What could I possibly have to say about a bag, belonging to a movie character that was a big thing when I was just a kid and I have no memory of ever seeing?

Good thing is, the bag is probably something every one of us would like to have at one point or another. Even though, I think I’d rather have a Jack-sack, but that’s not the topic of this ‘essay’ (lol-ing here). But maybe the writers of 24 figured Jack needed a Mary Poppins bag of his own … maybe they did see the movie and thought “Hey, that’s exactly what we need to give this guy, a bag that holds everything he could possibly need ... except ammo at the worst possible time of course, because that wouldn’t be fun!”

I can actually imagine these people sitting around a table discussing it, grins galore.

No, back to Mary Poppins whom I should know from that impossible-to-pronounce sing-along song. I remember the tune, but do not (and I’m serious here) ask me or expect me to go anywhere near singing any of it. So, this bag of hers, this old, raggedy bag of hers. It supposedly holds everything you need, when you need it.

How and when would I use it?

When would I reach into it?

What would I reach into it for?

At work, I might feel inclined to reach in and pull out an office wall, or a divider of some kind, so I could just lock myself (or someone else) up and away to keep all the noise or idiocy out (or locked in). Or I would pull an extra computer out, complete with stand-in who could do all the work I’m doing, so I can do twice as much (days like today, I would just let the stand-in do it all and go back to sleep myself). On the way to or from work, I might be tempted to pull out a police officer … at each intersection. You know, one who would stop all crossing traffic and make sure I can just cruise on home without delay. There are times I would pull out a nice fluffy pillow to get a more comfortable rest (bumping your head against the window coz the damn bus hit another pothole is all but funny when that pothole gets too big!). I could also pull out my trusted stand-in to sit on the seat next to me so no one else could take it. On the very rare occasions I didn’t come prepared, I would be able to pull out an extra notebook (for my on-the-road writing), or a spare pen when I run out of ink (that’s happened to me a few times … *hateful moments*!), but I’m usually prepared for situations like that.

If I really gave it a lot of thought, I’m sure I could come up with dozens of situations that might justify or require reaching into the bag, but I’ve been totally, utterly, unable to wake up today, so I’m going to call it and head for the hay.

Goodnight all and Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (yes, I just Googled that)

As usual, more entries can be found at Now Hark This!

Till death do us part - Friday Fiction Challenge - PG-12

Here's another Friday Flash Fic.
This week is Non-Fiction and the prompt was simple: write a short essay from the starting point "Death".
Now, this thing could go anyway with me (as everything does, lol) and I've rated it PG-12 simply because it's about death and I don't think children under the age of 12 should be confronted with that just yet. I could be wrong rating it that way, if there are rules for it and I'm 'breaking' them, please let me know and I'll adjust.

Other than that ..... I won't say 'enjoy the read'.

Till death do us part.

Not only in ‘holy matrimony’, but in every life, whatever your religion, whatever your views, whatever your beliefs, we live until death do us part.

I’m not even sure where to take this, but I’m going to go with the flow, as I always do.

I could write about the – probably expected – deaths that have occurred in my life. Thankfully, there haven’t been many. My grandfather when I was 9, my grandmother when I was 13. Other than that, I’ve been marked by the deaths of pets more often than the deaths of humans. The last one a few years ago, my last dog (until I have time to take care of one again, hopefully next year). If you’re not an animal or dog lover, you may wonder how such a thing could ‘mark’ me, but if you don’t understand, I’m not going to waste my time trying to make you. You do or you don’t. It’s like common sense or an ability to give without expecting anything in return. You have it, or you don’t. It’s not something that can be taught, so I won’t try, I’m a very impatient teacher anyways, so you’re probably better off without the experience.

Do I think about death a lot?

I guess I used to, but I don’t think about it as often as I did. I’ve grown older and I’ve grown stronger. My next tattoo will read “What doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger”. It didn’t kill me. I was thinking about death, I didn’t go as far as others have. There was always something holding me back, keeping me from taking the plunge – literally.

Not that the ‘something’ was anything really.

It was a thought.

A realization.

A reality I didn’t even want to contemplate.

It just would never happen.

For over ten years, that one thought (always the same), kept me going, struggling on, fighting for every inch of every step I wanted to take.

It didn’t kill me.

It made me stronger.

It almost did, though. Even years later, I still found myself thinking about the unthinkable. Something else kept me from doing it at that time, but I won’t go there. It’s a rocky ride I don’t want to take again. I won’t take again. It happened, it’s over, let’s let it rest.

That is one thing I can let rest.

Other things won’t be put to rest.

They just won’t be silenced, hidden, forgotten. And there is no way in hell they will ever be forgiven. Most of the time, I’ve ‘got it’ and everything is fine, but sometimes something happens and everything just takes a slide into chaos. It can’t be stopped. It’s even worse when I try to stop it. Every once in a while, I have to let it out and let it play. It doesn’t mean it controls me. It doesn’t mean it controls who I am or what I do.

I control it.

Most of the time.

Most of the time I am stronger than that.

Stronger than what was done to me.

Stronger than what was said to me.

But then, every so often, in the dead of night and in the darkness of my room, I fall apart.

Does it mean I’ll jump off a bridge or put a bullet through my brain?

No, it doesn’t.

Not anymore.

I never have.

I never will.

What doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger.

More entries are at Now Hark This!

The Motivator - Friday Flash Fiction - all audiences

Yes, I'm early. Not by much though, it will be Friday here in 85 minutes.

This week's prompt over at +Krisann Gentry 's blog is as simply as it is complex: write a short essay from the starting point "an inspirational speech in under 50 words".
That can go anywhere.
It did!

Enjoy the read :o)

The motivator.

Yeah!

That’s a nice title.

If I were to make new business cards, I might add it, but then again, why do I need business cards. I don’t need them for my job and I don’t go out a lot, so I certainly don’t need them to hand out to all my new ‘friends’. Why would I need to have them?

Or should I make them for fun?

As a way to get a chuckle or a smile out of people when they check them?

I could.

But that’s not what I wanted to write about.

No, it’s the ‘motivator’ thing I need to write about. Well … need … it’s a big word. Then again, I do need to write. I need to keep busy and help myself move forward. I need to expand my horizon, break out of the box I have been locked up in for such a long time now. I need to find other things to write about. Other than the eternal Jack Bauer.

I love to write about him, though. He’s so flexible, yet so rigid. So outlandishly awesome, yet so humanly flawed.

It’s a character I love to work with, because I can do anything to – or with – him.

It’s Jack Bauer’s ‘fault’ I’m here tonight, working on this piece. It’s so totally Jack Bauer’s ‘fault’ I started writing in English and it’s even more Jack Bauer’s ‘fault’ that I keep getting better at what I do. It’s also Jack Bauer’s ‘fault’ I met some of the most awesome people ever, because without him, I wouldn’t have visited the sites that I did. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have connected with these people; I would never have met them and I would certainly never have had the chance to meet them.

Four words come to mind (and I actually have a badge that says that): Jack Bauer is God.

He sure is my God (as in “oh my god, he’s awesome” LOL).

But enough!

That’s not what I wanted to write about.

I wanted to write about this week’s prompt.

About ‘an inspirational speech in under 50 words’.

That’s what made me think I should add ‘Motivator’ as a title on those business cards (I won’t make).

As a mother, that’s what you are - must be - end up being - never thought you could be.

It’s something that comes naturally (I think) when faced with your own personal mini-me(s). That something that makes you say the right things at the right times to make all the stress, strain, anxiety and/or fear go away. That what will encourage the mini-me to go for it, to give it his best shot, to take that leap or jump off that rock. That something that makes the difference between wanting to do it and actually doing it.

But what is it?

What is it, that gives mommies (only speaking for myself here) the ability to take a child’s hand and help it fly? Is it superhuman strength? Is it an invisible umbilical cord that connects us and feeds my courage straight to my mini-me? Is it an echo of words once heard oneself and merely repeated to the next generation? Is it a never ending gift, passed on along with our other skills and talents, straight down the family tree?

What is it, that gives us the ability to talk sense into young rebels? To give them focus when their heads are in disarray? To give them courage when their heart has sunk into their heels? What is it, that lets us say what needs to be said? Do what needs to be done?

Maybe Jack Bauer isn’t the only god around here.

Maybe I’m a goddess myself.

A goddess and a motivator, inevitably able to sway the most discouraged, fearful, young one into giving it his all.

Ha!

How’s that for a motivational poster!

If that doesn’t inspire you … let me see if I can find something else.

Here are a few words of wisdom:

·         Never give up on your dreams, they are what keeps you alive on the inside

·         What doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger (and I am living, breathing, writing proof of that)

·         Always expect the unexpected, you will never be caught off guard

·         Tomorrow is only a day away

·         The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the street

·         When at first you don’t succeed, try again

·         On your next birthday, remember you are only one day older than the day before

Enjoy your life, you only get one shot at it.

Make it worth your while.

More entries can be found at Now Hark This!
Feel free to join in if you'd like.
The more the merrier!!!

Child's Play - all audiences - Friday Flash Fiction

This week's prompt sounded very promising and I had half a dozen ways I could take it, but I chose to wait until I was actually ready to start writing, to decide where I would take it. I let "the flow" decide for me.

I hope you'll enjoy this short 'blurb'.

Welcome to my world!

Child’s play.

I didn’t have to think long about the title for this ‘work’.

It’s not always that easy though.

Sometimes I use a “working title”, sometimes I find a title that sounds ‘right’ before I even start to write, sometimes I end up keeping the working title; for lack of anything better.

What the hell am I talking about???

I bet you’re wondering about that.

Well, obviously – or not so – I’m talking about my writing.

It’s not always easy.

I like my title to give the reader a hint as to what they can expect from the story, but I also like to give it a twist if I can. I once wrote a story under the title “Presenting the bill” – which I intentionally misspelled – and proceeded to introduce Bill Buchanan – recurring role played by James Morrison on 24. It wasn’t revealed until right at the end, which is exactly what I wanted and intended. My readers loved it! So, my title worked! In more ways than one.

But like I said, it’s not always easy to find the right title.

Will it cover the load?

Will it hint to what might be coming without giving away too much?

Will it catch?

After all, a catchy title is always the best way to draw attention to your work. It should intrigue people, make them wonder what the underlying story might be about, make them curious about what is hidden within the pages, what adventure is mixed into the words. It should make them excited to find out how quickly you can take them from the front cover to the back, preferably in one swift swoop.

Isn’t that what we all want?

For people to pick up our book, or click on our link, and read our work in one sitting?

For people to want to find out what magic awaits behind the veil that is a title?

I know I do.

Always have, always will.

For as long as I’ve been writing, I’ve been trying to let people enjoy the magic of the word. I hope I’ll continue doing so for a very long time to come.

You’re probably wondering what this has to do with Child’s Play.

Basically, that’s what writing is to me.

It’s child’s play.

It’s a piece of cake.

I can sit down at my computer or pick up a notebook and a pen and just write. Fill the blank space with letters, words, paragraphs, chapters and make them all work together to tell a story. I can just do that. It’s that easy. I do not fear the blank page. I do not worry about minimum requirements – I usually go well over them. I do not hesitate to write, whatever is on my mind, whether that is good or not, whether that is fit for publishing or will forever remain private. The word does not throw me into a panic.

Right now, it’s 11.35 pm and I’m working on my entry for this week’s challenge.

Out of the blue.

Just like that.

Child’s play.

My mom would probably tell me to stop acting like a kid and get my act together, but what fun is there in that????

More entries to be found here

Flawless - Friday Flash Fic Challenge - all audiences

Flawless.

This week’s prompt didn’t really inspire me, so I figured I’d sit this one out, but then I went to read the other submissions and saw this listing: “Moody’s submission – coming soon”.

Now, I had absolutely no idea whatsoever on how to even get started on this, or where to take it, especially since it has to be non-fiction, but seeing this made me rethink my approach. Isn’t this exactly what I came here for? Why I joined in on this? On this “weekly challenge”.

Isn’t that what I label these posts with? Challenge.

What the heck kind of a writer would I be, if I balked at the first sign of adversity?

Not much good of any kind, I’d say.

So, here I am, sitting at my computer, tapping the keys on my keyboard while listening to some music and wondering what the hell I’m going to do with this. Where can I take this? Why am I even bothering if I have no idea? What the hell am I doing here, at nearly 1 a.m.?

What the hell am I doing here at this time of night?

What I’m doing is very simple, I’m trying to write something. Something that will make sense and that will follow the guidelines … or at least one of these. Hopefully.

So, where will I take this?

Sure, I’ve had some thoughts milling through my mind. Have you ever known me not to have thoughts milling through my mind???? Seriously, I have a dozen ideas bouncing around in there. They’re not always connected, nor are they always clear, but they’re there. That’s me. That’s who I am and how I ‘work’. But to create order in the bouncy castle … there’s a challenge!

So, my favorite character flaw.

See why this one’s a tough cookie?

Because you see, a flaw, per definition, is an imperfection. A fault. A defect.

It’s something ‘bad’.

Or negative.

How can something negative be favored?

Then again, who decides if something is negative?

Who gets to decide whether something you do is good or bad, positive or negative?

And how?

How can anyone determine whether something that makes you who you are, is good or not?

What do they base their judgment on?

On society? On what society thinks is acceptable?

Who made them experts on human behavior?

The way I see it, society is an expert on absolutely nothing.

For instance, I like to sleep. I love my bed and I love to spend long hours in it.

Is this good?

Or is this bad?

Is it being lazy?

Is it procrastinating?

And what’s so bad about that?

What would the world be like, if everyone had tons of energy?

We’d all be like the Energizer Bunny. Imagine that!

A big bunch of bright pink bunnies, hopping along without pause. The world would be a madhouse!

No, I think it’s a good thing to have folks like me, who like to sleep.

Besides, sleeping isn’t the only thing I do in my bed … okay, you can get your head out of the gutter now … my bed is my favorite place to think about my writing. It’s the place where I’ll ‘play out’ the scenes before I write them down. Where I’ll wake from a dream with a perfect scene for the project I’m working on, or a perfect plot for a new story. The place where most of my writing originates.

So, I ask you again, is it such a bad thing to like that place?

Is it a flaw to be lazy?

If it is, it might very well be one of my favorites.

But yeah, society might just think of me as a lazy ass.

If you think I care, you should think again.

Society has never been on my side, so why would I care what it thinks?

Why would I be held back by what others think are flaws, imperfections, faults?

Why would I let that determine who I am, who I want to be?

I know who I am, because I know where I’m coming from, what I’ve been through and what’s been done to me. I’m still here, I’m still standing, going strong, despite everything, despite my flaws, my imperfections. Despite my faults.

Over the years, they have changed, evolved, as have I. Some have grown, others have not, others yet may have been lost forever.

I guess it remains to be determined if that is a good thing or not.

We all have our flaws, as we all have our talents and I think we should just accept that little fact.

It is who we are.

Nobody’s perfect.

Maybe that’s my favorite flaw: accepting I’m not perfect and will never be, regardless.

More entries can be found here

To write or not to write - Non-Fiction - All audiences.

This week’s Friday Flash Fiction prompt was “write a short essay from the starting point: being a writer”.

I have been playing with it all week, but never got around to writing anything down or working anything out. I had an idea of where to go, but none whatsoever on how to get there.

I guess that’s what “being a writer” is all about.

I’ve always loved to write, ever since I was a kid. In elementary, those were my favorite assignments, my favorite kind of homework. Take an idea, a paragraph or a handful of keywords and do something with it. Create something. Make some magic.

As a kid, I never thought of it as magic, I just really loved doing it. The words usually came naturally to me and I never tried to put a stop to that, never limited myself to the “minimum requirements” for the assignment. Sometimes that minimum requirement would be expressed in number of pages, other times it was expressed in a minimum number of words. I never had my eye on those. I would just get started and finish when I was done, not when I had reached that “goal”. It never was a goal for me to “write 500 words” or “fill 4 pages”. No, I always wrote a story, as requested.

I’ll never forget that one day in 6^th grade. My teacher had a habit of taking my assignment and putting it at the bottom of the stack, while every other one was put on top. I had been wondering about it, but at age 12, I was nowhere near confident (or ballsy) enough to ask her about it, so I complained to my mom (who worked at the school cafeteria). Mom’s wouldn’t be mom’s if she didn’t take my hand and take me to find my teacher to ask her. I got a reply I will never, not ever, forget.

My teacher, Miss Martine, told me she had several reasons for doing that, for putting my assignment at the bottom of the pile. The first reason was that my stories were always the longest, so she needed less time to read all of the others and kept the longest one for last. That already made sense to me and would’ve satisfied my desire for an explanation to her behavior. But that wasn’t the main reason. The main reason was that, not only were my stories always the longest, they were also always the best, so she kept mine for last to have something to look forward to while reading all the other ‘crap’.

Imagine being 12 and your favorite teacher tells you that!

That was my first boost.

It wasn’t the last.

In middle school (or junior high if you want to call it that), my French teacher (very eccentric, but awesome lady) convinced me to take part in a national writing contest. It happened on a Wednesday afternoon and I think I was 15 at the time. We had 4 hours to write a story. No prompts, no keywords, no topic, no directives, no limits, no nothing. You have four hours, start writing.

Out of almost 300 contestants, I came in 9^th.

You were saying?

Nowadays, I fill my pages and my time with as many words as I can possibly squeeze in. I have switched from writing in Dutch (my mother tongue) to writing in English (and you have Jack Bauer to blame for that, so don’t look at me!!) and I have grown massively over the years. When I go back to read my earlier stories, I keep thinking “Did I write that crap?” and even more so “And people actually liked it????”.

That’s right!

People actually liked it.

Good people. Smart people. Educated people … Well, most of them anyways, there’s always the odd retard who finds his way to your neck of the woods.

Am I a writer?

Maybe, I don’t know.

Sometimes it feels weird saying that, or writing that.

But, what else could I call myself?

An amateur writer?

But why an amateur?

I don’t like that word.

I may not be a published writer, but does that really mean I should call myself an amateur?

Does the fact your work is published make you a writer?

If not, what does?

What qualifies someone as ‘a writer’?

Is it enough to write to be called a writer?

Write stories that is, not poems for instance, because then you’re a poet. But isn’t a poet also a writer? And isn’t a writer also a poet, for instance when a description is poetic enough to move the reader?

Is that what makes someone a writer? To have readers?

If that’s so, I’ve been a writer ever since I was in elementary!

As for the ideas I had flying around my head all week about this prompt … this wasn’t one of them!

I guess that is what ‘being a writer’ is all about!

More entries for this week's challenge can be found here

Ridiculous - Non Fiction - all audiences

Here's this week's entry into the Flash Fiction Friday Challenge over at Now Hark This!

This week is non-fiction week and the prompt was: "this year".

I've been playing with the idea all week, but never got around to actually writing it, but ... here I am.

I hope you'll enjoy the read.

Ridiculous.

Isn’t that what it is?

Every year.

Every single year.

Everyone does it, but seriously … what’s the point?

Really?

Every year. Always the same.

You want to know why?

Because it’s so damn ridiculous and we never keep ourselves to it.

We always find an excuse.

No, seriously, I mean, how often have you said it?

How often have you made a promise to yourself to do better, be better, eat healthier, move more?

I know I have.

More than often enough.

Every year, we make them.

Our New Year’s Resolutions.

Yeah, I capitalized each letter because this shit is important!

You know!

I really want to do this.

This year.

Not next year, not last year, no, this year.

But … what is so special about this year that will make us do the things we really want to do?

What makes this year so different from all the others we’ve already had or those still ahead?

Why not next year?

Maybe next year will be even better.

Have you ever stopped to think about that?

How come we always make resolutions for this year?

Why not say “Next year, I’ll join a club and exercise more”?

Why?

Because you’re afraid you’ll have forgotten by then?

Or maybe you’re afraid that if you wait till next year, it’ll be too late?

Why would next year be too late?

Why is this year the one that will change your life?

I haven’t got a clue!

I’ve said it enough myself.

This year, I’ll really work on being a better person, on keeping my house a little tidier, on taking more time to spend with my kid and do things with him, I’ll eat better, I’ll eat less crappy foods, I’ll work out more. All those resolutions that have come and gone.
I’m probably still pretty much the same person I was 10 years ago, only now I’ve grown a bit smarter and I’ve got 10 years of experience that I didn’t have then. My house is still an organized mess, I’m still finding myself short on time when it comes to my kid and we still don’t get to do half the things I would like to do with him, but does that make me a bad mother?
I have been eating better though, and I’ve cut crappy foods out of my ‘diet’ for a large part (not that I don’t enjoy an occasional piece of pie or burger and fries) and I’ve been working out a lot more than I used to.

You know what’s funny though?

It wasn’t a resolution.

I didn’t say “This year, I want to lose weight”.

Nope, that’s not what happened.

What happened is this, back in September, we had a dietician who came by the office and everyone who wanted could go for a short visit. All that really happened was that she weighed each of those who decided they wanted to see her (which was basically all of us) and talk – briefly – about the numbers on the scale. It really wasn’t more than that and each visit took about 10 minutes. I walked out of there with a tip. A single tip on how to improve my overall health.

I’ll share it with you: drink less coke.

It’s bad for all kinds of things and I used to drink about a bottle per day.

But I didn’t cut it out entirely, I still enjoy a glass or can of coke every day, the difference is that now, I can enjoy it. A bit like a treat.

It’s really funny how something as small as that, can have such an impressive impact.

Instead of pouring gallons of coke into myself, I switched to a variety of iced tea, one that has that ‘new’ sweetener in it and you want to know what … in 6 weeks time, I lost 3 kilos! That’s over 6 lbs for those of you who’re not familiar with the metric system.

No resolutions, just solutions.

I’ve now been seeing this dietician on a monthly basis since November and I’ve eliminated – I don’t want to say I lost it, because when you lose something, you’ll want to find it again and I do not want to find that weight on my hips again – over 10 kilos so far. That’s nearly 25 lbs since September.

What did it take?

Meeting the right person at the right time.

It sure didn’t take me saying anything that starts with the words “this year”.

So … what’s your excuse?

More entries can be found here http://nowharkthis.blogspot.be/

The nature of the beast - Non-fiction - all audiences

Okay, so I don't have enough time to get this in on Friday, but that's only a detail, isn't it?


This weeks non-fiction prompt was: Family Traits.

Welcome to my life!

The nature of the beast.

You don’t really pay any attention to it when you’re a kid.

It doesn’t matter.

Really not.

Everyone is different.

One kid is tall, another one short. One has dark hair, another is blond. One likes cats, the other loves dogs.

It’s normal we’re all different.

Or is it?

What if that first kid, isn’t the only one with those traits?

What if there are two?

Two of them tall with dark hair and they both like cats?

And the third?

Well, the third is short, blond and she loves dogs.

So?

It doesn’t matter.

Does it?

It never had.

Not until that day.

Not until the day this third kid found out where all those differences – she had never noticed – came from.

The day she had a good chat with her mom.

She was on vacation, home from her work abroad, and decided to spend the day helping mom at work.

A sunny day, warm and happy.

A good day for a heart-to-heart.

She had been away for work for a while now and had overcome certain things. Things she could finally talk about. Freely and without raising her voice … too much.

She never would’ve expected to find her mom comfortable to talk about certain things as well.

Things that concerned her.

Things they had never talked about.

How come they hadn’t?

Was it because of him?

He’s not even concerned.

Was it because she was afraid of her reactions?

She shouldn’t have been.

Wasn’t it important enough to talk about before she moved out of the house?

How old does one have to be, before they can be told the truth?

Would it matter if they understood?

What is there to understand either way?

That’s the way it is, full stop.

There’s nothing you can do about it.

I like the truth.

Tell me the truth.

I can take it.

And I could’ve taken it a lot sooner!

So what if your husband was an ass who had a debt and asked you to find a solution for it?

So what if the guy your asshole of a husband had a debt with, accepted to find a solution for it?

Maybe I wasn’t the solution, I sure as hell am the result of it!

What shame is there in doing something for love?

There is no shame in doing something for love.

Or did you wait to make sure you knew I understood that, before telling me about it?

Is that why you waited so long?

If it is, you were wrong.

If it isn’t, you were still wrong.

It doesn’t matter.

You shouldn’t have hidden the truth.

Maybe I don’t have our family traits, I sure have yours.

And his.

A little bit of both.

I have your build, your sense of humor, your love for books.

I have his hair color, his love of dogs.

It doesn’t matter.

Does it?

Mom?






More entries can be found here: http://nowharkthis.blogspot.be/