Archive for the ‘Shelley Widhalm, Writer’ Category

Purse Anatomy

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010

Until I was in my thirties, I refused to carry a purse. I didn’t want to have to worry about misplacing it, like I did with keys until I started designating key drop-off zones throughout the house.

I carried my ID, a credit card and some money in a pocket, and if I didn’t have any, such as when I wore a dress, I carried a tiny party purse, even if it was a non-party designation where I was heading.

I didn’t want to be burdened, weighed down, responsible for something that could just as well fit in my back pocket.

But three years ago, I was diagnosed with asthma. I had to carry an inhaler, and that wouldn’t feel comfortable in my pocket, so I bought a purse from Target on clearance for $14. I bought a wallet (I’ve had several over the years but kept them in my bedroom to store my credit cards, library cards and other number-identifying plastics), also on clearance.

I figured I should throw in, along with my cell phone that previously was attached to my hip via a clip, a 2-ounce lotion bottle, and then a 0.5-ounce hand sanitizer because of the craze about ultra sanitizing away the flu, meningitis and other germs. I realized wouldn’t a hair pick be nice, along with extra scrunchies. And then along came the spot cleaner in case of spills (not oil, mind you).

On Jan. 1, I added a daily planner (no Blackberries for me! I still crave pen and paper) and later a mini-notebook in case I had a brilliant idea for a blog.

And this summer, I added a pen-size bottle of insect repellant, which did me in. I picked up my purse and realized it was heavy. How the heck did that happen?

Posted in Shelley Widhalm, Writer | 3 Comments »

Dog-gone it, it’s my turn!

Sunday, August 1st, 2010

I am racing in the heat, and then I stop for a break and hang out my tongue. I get back up and sniff the grass, but I prefer it when I get a ride and can encounter the whole world, smells and all. I ride in a white bag sitting atop rolled-up towels.

My name is Zoey, and I am a very cute, very smart miniature dachshund. Here’s my stats: weight, 8.6 pounds; height, 2 hands; length, very, very long; age, 1 ½ years; cuteness factor, 10.

Shelley, the keeper of this blog, is letting me write this month. She and I blog on Shelley’s website, whatever it is all that tech stuff does. I just type.

I bet you don’t believe that I’m typing, but Shelley’s brother rigged up a special dog-friendly keyboard with 1-inch keys that are in alphabetical order. Don’t give me any of that QWERTY stuff. It was hard enough learning the ABCs and how to spell.

Shelley and I blog once a week. We’re telling our story of how we met and bark about important subjects, like chasing birds, befriending feral cats and calling out to possible friends, human and dog alike.

Oh, the white bag, you ask. Shelley carries me in it when we go on walks and I don’t feel like being on a leash. I let her know by taking a seat and looking around at beautiful nature. I like the bag for making me taller, plus it’s nice to take a breather once in awhile. I am kind of squat and though the smells may be better at ground level, I like seeing what’s beyond the blades of grass or Shelley’s high heels. It is so busy with all the changes in smells and motions and noise; it reminds me of squirming all over my siblings before we parted ways.

(P.S. Shelley told me about her friend Heather’s daughter Samantha, who has left us for greener pastures. Dog-gone it, I wanted her to play with me. I heard she is beautiful and kind and lovely and anyone like that is a friend of mine. I am sorry, Samantha, your Mommy had to say goodbye to you before you got to experience all the world’s smells and she got to see you become who you would become when you’re very being was what made her want to sniff up so much love, she couldn’t even keep you in her heart, she had to let all that love flow into words and hugs and kisses, oh and so much, I can’t even describe it. I’m just a dog, you know, and I don’t understand love that big, but can anyone?)

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Posted in Heather Schichtel, Writer, Life Event, Shelley Widhalm, Writer | 3 Comments »

Monday Blues

Thursday, July 1st, 2010

I wonder, sometimes, about my work attitude. I am like many people on Sundays who complain that they don’t want to go to work on Monday. And then I go to work on Monday and get caught up in the work and start enjoying the accomplishing of tasks. Friday arrives, and I think, yes, I will write and work my way toward being a great American novelist. I may do some writing, but I tend to get caught up in doing errands and whatever social things I’ve got going on for the stretch of two days.

I think on Sunday, where has my time gone? If only I could write all day Monday, that would be ideal. I think, I do not want to go to work, and the cycle starts all over again.

I find that either I have to be my good-girl worker self that does what she is supposed to do, something I am fine with as long as I get caught up in trying to accomplish my work duties. But as soon as I let my inner squall, the one I try to ignore and push away, come up into where I can feel it in my mind, I start to ache. I realize I am being who I am not, and then I wonder who I am if my outlines are colored all wrong. I feel starved trying to shift from being who society tells me to be to what is tapped down from the fear of risk and losing and being too poor to pay bills. In the process, I feel my squall become sharper, more resistant to my ignorance as it tells me yes, you can. There is the Serenity Prayer. And hope. And what if. There is yes, there is being real. Chance it.

Oh, I need that push.

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Posted in Shelley Widhalm, Writer | 2 Comments »

From Good to Rags

Saturday, May 1st, 2010

My father told me he knew I was a clothes hound when he and my mother took me to my grandmother’s house, and I, as a three year old, kicked out my leg to show off my new shoes.

“You loved your new shoes. That was a real treat for you,” my mother said when repeating the story.

In high school, my mother gave me a budget for my back-to-school clothes, and I would try dozens of outfits on, then make a final decision, dragging my mother along in crisscross patterns through the mall.

In college and after, I retained my love of clothing, but could not spend, spend, spend. Though I could shop and select out a few pieces, I was not of the Saks income, more like that of coupons, bargains and sales, which I use to my full advantage to select out a few pieces to add to my wardrobe each year.

But the recession has made shopping dreary. Why? The clothes I used to buy from department stores and small retailers, all mid-grade, are of a lesser quality. They last a season. They shrink or they stretch. They lose their shape. They fall apart. And some of them get those little nubbies that should be the domain of sweaters only.

This reduction in quality is a way for stores to cut back on their costs, but it is putting a damper on my love of shopping. Now, I’m wary. I check if the material has spandex. I look for small, even stitching and tight, straight seams. I look at the thickness of material. I look for the bias and cut.

In the past, I did not have to be so careful. Now, I’m a wary consumer in a depressed economy who wants the shopping to be an experience and pleasure, not another chore to replace the clothes that fell apart the last season.

Posted in Shelley Widhalm, Writer | 2 Comments »

Phone Numbers

Friday, April 2nd, 2010

I’m afraid to change my phone number.

I don’t know why, but I still have my Virginia area code though I live in Colorado. I know that I should change it to 970 and take my last step toward residency.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Colorado, particularly the mountains, the bright cerulean blue skies, the clean air (until you get to Denver) and Old Town Fort Collins. I like seeing the mountains from the Mountain Avenue parking garage, the archway by Coopersmith’s and the sculpture of three geese with their wings touching as they lift out of the middle of the triangle of shops and restaurants in downtown.

In 2001, I moved to the Washington, D.C. area and stayed for seven years. I was homesick for Fort Collins, and now that I’m back here, I’m homesick for D.C. and Virginia, for the monuments, the Smithsonian museums, the Blue Ridge Mountains and the ocean, plus all the different towns and cities within a day’s drive.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t put a book down once I start it, and I can’t let go of the places I’ve been. I get attached. I roll through the memories of the places I love. It’s like they put grains of sand and pieces of brick and bits of stones into my heart, weighing me down wherever I go.

I got used to the fast pace of D.C., the business-clad coffee goers, the formal luncheons, the politics in the air I breathed, and the lack of bike trails except in places where you had to drive and park.

I took a long time to settle in, both in D.C. and back here. I guess part of it is being sentimental and a wonderer of the big what if? I hadn’t wanted to leave D.C. after I had been laid off and couldn’t find a job. I moved back to my hometown to be close to family, more of a security than being alone in a big city without an income.

I wonder how long it takes for where you live to become home. I don’t have sparkly red shoes to click. I just have memories and this clinginess to nine numbers.

Posted in Life Event, Shelley Widhalm, Writer | 4 Comments »

Dating the Dog

Monday, March 1st, 2010

I’d rather date my dog.

I’ve never been married, and I think I know why. I loved animals first. As a child, my teddy bears where top of the list, maybe because I was shy and found them to be safe companions. I played with them, held tea parties and gave them homework.

In high school, I started dating, but in college and after was when I had the boyfriends. Some were not so nice, or they were kind of boring, but they all were handsome. I went out with men for their looks – now, I know there’s more than the surface, but then I have a dog.

Her name’s Zoey, and if you read this, you need to pronounce it Zoo-eey with lots of affection. She weighs 8.8 pounds, is 1.2 years old and is 0.5 feet tall.

My miniature daschund greets me when I come home from work with wiggles starting with her tail that move her whole body into alarcity. She leaps off the chair and says, hi, hi, hi, as she runs circles around the coffee table. I really doubt a man would do that for me.

Zoey kisses me when she’s naughty or in the morning or when she runs by me. She wants to play all of the time, I mean all of the time, meaning that her attitude is all about fun.

She is my sleeping buddy, but if I toss and turn too much or hog the sheets, she doesn’t say anything about it. She snuggles smack against me leaning into my stomach – I’m a side sleeper – giving me a nightlong cuddle. What more could a girl want.

She doesn’t care how I look or what I wear, unless it’s socks, and then she wants to take them off, run around with them a bit and drop them on the floor. But if I put them back on, she has to take them off and run around, so that it becomes a battle of the sole.

Last of all, I can say I love you over and over and not wear out the words. She doesn’t have to say anything but I know in her dog language, she says I love you back. I’ve got it all, a best friend and a cuddle buddy in a nearly 9-pound package.

Posted in Life Event, Shelley Widhalm, Writer | 1 Comment »

I have this problem with books

Sunday, January 31st, 2010

I have this problem with books, but I do not think it merits an entry in The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. However, I cannot be certain, because it is not like I have a copy and could easily look up a “category” to find out if I have a disorder beyond being a bibliophile.

Granted, I love books, both their physical attributes and the possibilities of what stories, along with the language in which they are told, could be secreted inside.

I have been a reader since elementary school, the intensity and frequency of my obsession following a wavy line on a bar graph. In college, for example, I read textbooks and novels for my English class and was too read-out for reading during my free time. Now, I read instead of watching television, to relax and to escape into a place other than Larimer County, Colorado.
So my problem is that I am very committed to my books, whether I buy them, borrow them from family or friends or check them out from the library.

I can start reading a book and not like it, or even hate it – I don’t like the style, the setting, the plot or the characters, for example – but I have to give it a chance. I figure 50 pages is fair, and then if I still do not like it, well, I’ve read 50 pages and that’s 1/6th the length of the average book I read. I think, oh, I put all this time into it, I’ll read some more. And when I still don’t like it, I have become committed to finish the book. I have to finish the book! Even though life is too short to read a book one does not care for, I end up reading in a race trying to finish the book to read something I like.

I’ve decided my problem is book-aty, or an excessive loyalty to books that causes one to make A Too-long Yowl of frustration.

Posted in Book, Shelley Widhalm, Writer | 2 Comments »