Halloween daze

It's almost October which is my favorite time of year. I'm a self professed Halloween fanatic. A goth girl and a dark wave enthusiast. For Pete's sake, I have a six foot Zombie punker animatron in my living room. 

Halloween is spooky. It's fun. It's make believe. It's costumes and makeup, all things I love. 

Halloween is the smell of pumpkins and the taste of my favorite fall flavored coffee, a savory blend with rosemary called twig and tree. It's also "It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" time. It's Halloween Town and Halloween Wars. It's my husband making me pumpkin and squash filled raviolis with sage butter sauce. 

Halloween is rainy days and hot coffee by a fire.

Plus, October is my birthday month. I always say Libras rule and others drool. 

My goal this month and my 52nd birthday life goal is to let my anxiety go. I want to be carefree and happy. I what to let go of what others think. I want to stop constantly over thinking everything. I want to be present and confident in who I am. 

Whether that be a witch or a writer, or maybe both. So if you see me, pointy hat, wand in one hand, pen in the other, just give me a wave. I promise to wave back.

This blog and most of my projects, including my podcast, is self funded. If you'd like to show your appreciation, you can donate! All funds go to financing my blog and podcast. https://www.buymeacoffee.com/jemmantz4

Stories

I curse the two story house we live in as I traipse up and down the stairs during my lunch to do laundry and clean the guest bedroom and bathroom.

"My feet hurt," I tell my husband. I've been cleaning all day. We're having company and I must get the house in order. This was after a full day of work. I forgot the way mopping hurts my back. 

I'm actually pretty lazy most of the time. I work hard and then I read or watch television. I don't cook much and although I pick up the house a lot, especially early morning after a couple of espressos, deep cleaning our whole house this week was not something I was looking forward to.

Yet, there's something satisfying in scrubbing a floor and a bathtub. I love how the shiny marble counters look after a nice wipe down. 

Yet, I must also admit that I am the opposite of a domestic goddess. I always say, I don't cook, I order. And I'm a writer, not a cleaner. I know I'm privileged. I have a good job with a nice income and a husband who pitches in a lot.  And we have a large five bedroom house, a house way too big for us. But we still find a way to fill it up. 

Actually, I think that's the problem. We have so much stuff. I have way too many clothes. They're in containers. I wear the same black dresses, pants, shirts and cardigans to work and after work, it's a t-shirt and sweats. So why am I holding on to all of this stuff? Because I can't let go? Because I think I'll fit into my size 12 dresses again? Because I can I suppose. Because I can. 

The unknowing

I often start writing these blogs not knowing what I will write. After years of writing these, I sometimes wonder, do I have anything else to say? Yes, I do.

People may say that memoir can be a self absorbed endeavor, and at times it can be. But why is that a bad thing? An excavation of the self is always warranted. Why did we do this and why didn't we do that? At times, it can be both healing and reflective and writing has allowed many writers to heal their trauma and fight their demons. 

I have too many inner demons to fight I think. I've been so irritable lately. There's something waging a war in my brain. It could be because my shih tzu Chewbacca is struggling health wise and I wake up most days at 4 am to comfort and watch over him. Truth is, I don't know what I'll do without him. Recently, I was reminded of how fleeting our time here is. How important life is, and how we must treasure that gift. And use it. 

It's too easy and trite to just say smell the roses. Plus, I've smelled enough damn roses. I've danced my ass off. I've drank enough from the flask of hedonism. I don't want to be a party girl anymore. I want to have fun yes, but in an intentional way. The definition of fun is perhaps changing for me. For me, fun was working all day Saturday on one story, and I just felt so full after. Is that happiness? 

I'm not really sure I suppose. I'm still trying to figure this out, because, ultimately, I don't know shit.

Purposefully

Yesterday, I had the day off for a presentation at CSUSB. It was virtual. I took the day off because I wanted to be centered and present. I wanted time to get dressed and feel myself outside of my job. 

The topic was on race and policing. The CSUSB series I spoke at was started as a reaction to the murder of George Floyd as was my own first book, so it seemed fitting. And it was. 

I felt like myself up there reading and then answering questions. I felt as if I could speak my truth. And that everyone heard me. 

Presenting virtually is an art. I have learned through my podcasting that the best way to be present is through preparation. I'm always prepared. Always. Yet you can't lean too much on a script. It has to be a truth telling performance. You have to be able to just be you up there in Zoom land. 

Feeling good is also a big part. I washed and towel dried my hair to curly perfection. I did my makeup twice after my eyeliner bled from my sweat. I wore a black dress and a cardigan, gold hoops and my course, my gold Bowie bolt necklace. 

It's all about the intention for me. I'm there to let the kids (I'm clearly old because to me, 20 is a kid now) know that I wrote the book for them. Especially my longer YA memoir (my second book to be published but it was started many moons ago). It's for anyone who felt like an outcast and for anyone who's made a mistake they had to fight back from. Really, and truly, all I'm here to say is that I'm me, you're you, let's connect. And read my books, pretty please. I wrote them to be read. Because I had, and certainly still do have, something to say.

Another bad dream

I was trying to go to bed early last night while my husband watched an evening soccer game. I took a shot of Benadryl and my eyes started to close almost immediately. The next thing I know, I am being suffocated by a blanket, and someone or something is pressing down on my face. I can't scream. Or breathe even. I kick and struggle under the blanket. 

I wake up with a start to my husband and his mom cheering downstairs. "Goal!" 

I'm breathing heavy, disoriented and discombobulated. I realize I'd been having a nightmare. I am covered in sweat. Deep breaths in and out quell my panic. I cross myself and say a prayer. 

The room is dark. I'm scared. Turning on a light, I lay back down. 

What's brought this on? Then I realize my mortality is pressing down on me. I'm a month and a few days away from turning fifty-two. What will the next decade bring? I don't have kids. But I have my family, my husband, my mom and my sisters and nieces. And of course, Chewbacca and my close friends. And then there's my books, and my blossoming writing and performing career and the community of writers I've built as friends who continually inspire me. 

Yet . . . 

Look, I know I should be grateful but there's times, times like these, in a moonlit room where I lie staring at a dark ceiling wishing that I had a daughter that I could hug and talk to, mentor and love. 

Tears welling up in my eyes, I shake my head and sigh aloud and silently remind myself that I must be grateful for what I have. Be grateful. Be grateful. I repeat it in my head like a mantra. Plus, I'm a pragmatist who knows there's no use in wishing for something you can't have. It's an exercise in futility. I tell myself again, be grateful.

And I go back to bed and try to dream.