Author Archives: Miss Vicki

Shine

shine

By Vicki Hughes   Posted April 17, 2013

Yesterday was tragic in Boston. I don’t watch the news, and the events from yesterday remind me once again why I opted out years ago. But we live in a very media connected world, and there was no “not knowing.”

My newsfeed on Facebook and Twitter were covered up with details, and the facts that got through to me compelled me to reach out to a dear, fitness freak friend in Boston, just to make sure he was alive and well. When things like this happen, we have to do a quick inventory on our dear ones to make sure they are safe, and well.

For some who checked on their loved ones yesterday, it was devastating news. It was not a sigh of relief. It was the impossible, implausible, unfathomable, no.

My heart is broken, and my prayers for them all continue. But I continue to guard my heart and my mind. I leave the television off. I turn away when I see a public broadcast replaying the footage. I remind myself that horrible things happen all over this planet, every single day. If I spend my time, my limited, precious, finite time, focused on the atrocities, the terrible, the unfair and the disturbing, it will be at the expense of my capacity to believe, hope, rejoice, inspire, create and celebrate.

Those who have been lost, and damaged, and devastated, I choose to honor by living, by doing those very things that they will not be able to do, and helping other people really live too. Because time flies. Even if we die at 110 with our boots on, in our own bed, with our loved ones gathered around us, it’s still a fast 110 years. We better get crackin’ if we want to enjoy those individual moments that are making up our life, right now.

I can’t change the fact that crazy people will continue to do crazy things. I can’t even get a guarantee of tomorrow’s weather forecast, so I can’t waste my precious time obsessing about it. The clock is ticking for all of us.

As for me, I give myself permission to remain optimistic, to recognize everything that also went well yesterday, and to feel glad to be here, in spite of the sad fact that many are not. I do those who have gone on no service by getting lost in the maze of all that is wrong in this world.

Light will always overcome darkness, but darkness is still a factor. All we can do is shine on it.

© Vicki Hughes 2013

Aunt Erma Would Be Proud

erma-bombeck

By Vicki Hughes  Posted April 16, 2013

In case it isn’t obvious, I adore Erma Bombeck. I found her when I was a twenty-something young mother of a rambunctious toddler, and her wit was my cup of tea. I related to her lack of enthusiasm for housework, the mind numbing redundancy of laundry, and her secret fears that true self actualization might be possible with the right deodorant or the next self help book, but that I might be reading the wrong one, or slathering my pits with the wrong speed stick.

Erma gave me hope that an ordinary wife and mother could build a real writing career, and express herself with self deprecating humor and a little real, honest look at how life really is.

I won a little online writing contest with Midlife Collage this past week. And I have to give Aunt Erma a little nod, because she gave me hope that everyone starts somewhere, and sometimes it’s a very unglamorous place. Here’s to progress, and going for it, and for the people who actually read what I write. You have made my day, possibly my year.

Cheers.

© Vicki Hughes 2013

The Dark Side of Southern Life

enforcer

By Vicki Hughes     Posted April 11, 2013

Living in the deep south, we are constantly enjoying a long list of perks, that people who visit from elsewhere are quick to notice. Fine weather, friendly people, food so good that it makes you want to slap someone, good manners, azaleas, and the inherent right to fry absolutely anything without anyone raising an eyebrow.

But there is a dark side.

Nobody discusses it when you first arrive, because frankly, it’s bad manners to make disagreeable conversation before the mint juleps kick in. However, I’ve been here long enough to be able to speak as a transplanted Southerner. I may not have an actual accent, but I do say y’all, and bless your heart, and I’m a regular at the Piggly Wiggly. In spite of my Southern California roots, the past twenty-five years of living in Dixie have qualified me to speak with some actual knowledge of the southern life.

Here is what they don’t tell you upon arrival through Customs: Roaches.

The south is a roach fest. For those of you in Southern California, this does not mean we have an assortment of great weed to choose from. That’s in Oregon. The south has actual cockroaches. Lawd have mercy! That word is so rude, it hurts my eyes to look at it.

A few nights ago I went to the bathroom to take out my contacts, and when I pulled open the drawer, I discovered a two and a half inch long roach, doing a Fandango with my toothbrush. I screeched, “John! Hurry! There’s a roach, and he’s giant, and he’s with my toothbrush!” Here is a fact of marriage that I will pass along to all you newbies. When you want your spouse to move quickly, with ninja skills, they will generally come at the pace of a sedated snail and make you want to punch kittens. Just know it’s going to happen, and you can cross it off your list of things that will surprise you.

He moseyed into the bathroom (I’m starting to believe that when he hears my bug-scream, he goes extra slow in hopes that it will scurry away before he arrives.) He grabbed like, three squares of toilet paper, and I was thinking, “This guy is not taking me seriously, he needs a HazMat suit and  a flamethrower, not three squares of Charmin.”

I commenced hopping on one foot, issuing orders like a Mob boss. “Kill it! Kill it! Dammit, man, what are you waiting for? KILL!!!!”

He made a few toilet papery jabs that made everything in the drawer jump, and then the roach escaped through the back of the drawer. Thus began my dirty looks, stewing and decrees that it was time for The Enforcer. I told John that he needed to do what had to be done, while I went to shop for toothbrushes.

This is a man who knows how I feel about roaches. Back in the eighties, when we lived in Atlanta, I was eight months pregnant, lying in bed, semi-peacefully, when a gigantic roach fell out of the a/c vent over our bed and landed, splat on my bare thigh. What ensued is what I imagine would happen if a psychotic walrus got tangled in a clothes line hanging with sheets and blankets. John was launched off the bed in my heroic attempts to remove all the bedclothes in one fluid motion, like those guys who pull a tablecloth out from under a fully set table.

It ended up with a familiar scene. An escaped felon roach, with me highly pissed off, issuing death threats and extermination orders. We were so poor back then that we frequently had to make those awkward choices at the grocery store checkout: Beer or toilet paper? But that day, budgets were not even a consideration. I didn’t care if it meant PBJ’s for a month. I declared, “We are calling an actual Bug Man. Today. I don’t care what it costs, it’s not up for discussion. Make it happen.”

Therefore John took my toothbrush moment to heart, and he brought in The Enforcer. For you non-southerners, this is not a guy named Guido in a bad suit. It’s a fine white powder with boric acid which creates a barrier that most roaches won’t cross, except for those on suicide missions, but that’s a story for another day. After you live here a while, and you discover that the chemicals the Bug Man uses are the reason you never see the same Bug Man twice, so you have to make smarter choices.

My greatest concern with putting down the line of enforcement, so to speak, is that I realize that somewhere in my house, there will be a few roaches, already inside the perimeter, who are now trapped inside the line. I call them Desperados. They can’t crawl back to Hell, from whence they came, so they are forced to stay inside, with me, until they have the bad fortune to expose themselves.

This morning, just as I poured my coffee, I saw the skittering out of the corner of my eye. Once these foul creatures come in contact with The Enforcer, it begins to effect them. They lose speed, and they scurry along like they’re looking for their car keys that they dropped.

These slower roaches are a good thing, because it allows me to do my part, of keeping an eye on them, while I bellow for backup. “John! Giant roach! Hurry! Reba has him cornered.” Momma’s dog was nosing the little creep, while John did his bug killing, death march to my side. “Where is the little bastard?”

I pointed to the corner where the roach was being examined by the dog. John took the paper towel he was holding, and gingerly bent over to go for the kill. Except his back has been out for a week. I forgot that. It looked sort of like an early morning exercise show for guys in their fifties, working on their low lunges, awkwardly. We both heard, crunch, and in unison, we made our that’s-disgusting-face. I was relieved to know he’d ended that bug, when he pulled back his hand, and it hopped out, and made a run for cover. John made three valiant attempts, from his now sprawled out stance, all to no avail. It crawled behind the armoire, injured, but alive, and is probably blogging right now about it’s near death experience.

John looked up at me, with regret in his eyes. In our family, we have a hard and fast rule we have learned from watching way too many revenge themed movies. If you get the chance to pull the trigger, do it. Never let your injured enemy live.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, at least he’s injured. We did hear the crunch.” John said, “Yeah, but I’m not sure if that was him, or my back.”

© Vicki Hughes 2013

Emergency Espresso

coffeface

By Vicki Hughes  Posted April 8, 2013

All last week I was forced to wake up early. Work has been crazy, and I’ve been there to open, which means getting up earlier than I am made for. Prior to ten a.m. I’m really not hearing what people say, I just nod my head a lot. I try to avoid serious responsibilities until my brain cells are truly awake.

My morning routine is very simple and predictable. Wake up, scowl, find my glasses, find my robe, go to the kitchen and pour a cup of Joe, then kick the dog out of my chair, where he has once again turned the little rosebud quilt into a dog nest, sit down, check Facebook, grab my journal, and write. I find that a few minutes on Facebook clears my cobwebby head just a little. Sleep has a way of undoing all of my cognitive skills.

Pre-dawn, Friday morning, I came out to get my coffee, and realized there wasn’t a leftover cup sitting there waiting to be zapped in the microwave, so I would be forced to make a new pot. As I reached for the coffee canister, it felt light. I shook it momentarily, and cautiously opened the lid. Peering in, I stood there staring at the half a teaspoon of coffee sprinkled in the bottom of the canister. And I just kept staring at it.

I thought, “This can’t be right. There should be stuff in here. The stuff I want. Where’s my stuff?!” Then I convinced myself to stop freaking out. I looked in the cabinet above the coffee maker, thinking, surely we have more in reserve. No time to panic.

There was no coffee in the cabinet. None. Nada. Someone had used the last of the coffee and said diddly squat about this very important fact. Suddenly I was rummaging through the cabinet like a black bear at a Yosemite picnic, lifting things quizzically, and tossing them aside, shaking jars and grunting in disapproval. I was in such a state, I briefly considered some Chai Tea. CHAI TEA in place of coffee!?

No. Just, no.

And then I saw it. Emergency espresso.

If it had been behind glass, I’d have happily taken a hammer to it, and dealt with the glass shards later. I have no recollection of where this can of espresso came from, but I was thankful just knowing that it was not decaf, and it was a fine dust of actual coffee beans that could serve as a suitable substitute. I briefly considered that it might render me incapable of closing my eyes again till June, but that’s okay. Beggars can’t be choosers. Long story short, I got my much needed caffeine. I’m not entirely sure if that actually was espresso, because it tasted sort of like it had been filtered through cardboard in the Soviet Union. You do what you have to do.

I’ve discovered a few substitutions over the years that are never a good idea.

Liquid dish soap for dishwasher detergent is a definite no-no. Sadly, one time doing this was not sufficient to prevent me from doing it again, many years later. We were probably out of coffee when it happened the second time. Learn from my mistakes, people. Unless you want to have a bubble rave in your kitchen, liquid dish soap should be kept far, far away from the dishwasher.

Because genetics is funny stuff, and mistakes may in fact be genetic, an eight year old Chelsey once tried using the aforementioned liquid dish soap to mop our kitchen floor. She’d seen one of those commercials where the lady squirts the Mop & Glo all over the floor, and creates a shiny sparkling kitchen floor. That’s the day she learned the difference between Dawn and Mop & Glo. We both learned how many hours it takes to get 3/4 of a cup of liquid dish soap off of linoleum, but we also learned how to convert your kitchen into a skating rink in under ninety seconds. I should post that tip on Pinterest.

Also, paper napkins should never be used in place of paper towels to pat dry chicken breasts. Ever. Unless you were planning to use napkin confetti to bread your chicken, in which case, don’t let me stop you. Carry on!

What substitutions have you discovered were just an all around bad idea?

© Vicki Hughes 2013

 

 

Why We Only Have One Child

birdy

By Vicki Hughes    Posted April 3, 2013

When you choose to be a one child family, you are going to have to explain yourself. Probably not as much as you would have to explain being a no-child family, but still, it comes up.

For those of us who do not live in China, a one child policy seems to raise eyebrows. People with lots of kids seem especially suspicious. A friend with four kids once asked John, “How come you only have one kid, and I had to have four?” Without missing a beat he replied, “Because we’re smart.”

Actually, if I had left it up to John we would have several cats, no dogs, and we would have used our disposable income to travel the world going to great surfing destinations, giving him drag racing lessons, and buying me ice skater outfits, which I assure you I would NOT wear, instead of buying braces for perfectly good teeth, and buying sushi for hoards of Chelsey’s teenaged friends, and forcing her to take family vacations that were lame, and not up to her thirteen year old standards.

Obviously, I did not leave it up to him. Instead, I contracted Baby Fever, from sniffing my friend Judy’s eighteen month old, and letting the little rat wrap her chubby fingers around my pinkie, begging me to dip the “fwench fwy” in the ketchup again. My biological clock went into overdrive, and all John’s objections to reproducing were out the window. He is the oldest of four, and I have no siblings. He knew more about the implications than I did.

To sway him, I used a similar approach I’d used with great success, to get puppies and kittens as a child. “You will never even know it’s here, I will feed it, and walk it, and I will love you forever….pleeeeease??” He said if I would shut up about it, and move out from between him and TV while The Winston Cup was on, we could get one. I thought he sounded a little stingy, but I figured we would jump off that bridge when we came to it.

Except I lied. He soon knew she was here, he was forced into feeding, and walking her, and quite a bit of wiping as well. I tried to keep him distracted with good food, batting my eyelashes, and making sure he got to watch the women’s ice skating during the winter Olympics. It’s called negotiating, people.

Having learned nothing from all those puppies and kittens, I was strangely shocked, and got really annoyed when she interfered with my sleep, and with all the poop I was expected to clean up. I discovered this was way more of a commitment than I’d realized. I’m flighty that way. Thankfully, John is a commitment kind of guy.

He was simply made to be Chelsey’s Dad. I can tell you with all sincerity, no other man on this planet could have done a better job. They “get” each other in their own eclectic way, seemingly passing cosmic notes, and nodding at each other like spies in the park. He voluntarily took the reins on many occasions, back before she morphed into the lovely adult I completely enjoy today, and kept me from selling her to the Professional Eye Rolling Association, to earn her own sushi money as their mascot.

Eventually, after I realized what I’d signed us up for, I grudgingly admitted, he was right, one was enough.

© Vicki Hughes 2013

 

It’s Just A Feeling That I Had

gummyworm

By Vicki Hughes     Posted April 1, 2013

I heard a Maroon 5 song on the radio with the lyrics, “It’s just a feeling that I had.” It made me think that for most of us, there’s no such things as “just” a feeling, because our feelings are the primary catalyst for our actions, and emotions move us.

There’s a difference between “my feelings” as in, “You hurt my feelings,” and having a feeling, such as a leading, or an implication or a feeling in our guts. But I’m about to tell you something you may not like to hear: I don’t believe anyone has the power to hurt my feelings without my cooperation.

Let me explain. People do things, and then I get to make decisions about what I say to myself about the things they do. That conversation will determine if my feelings are hurt or not. That decision is mine to make.

If it’s an unkind thing someone has done or a thoughtless thing, or a rude thing, one of the smartest things I can say to myself is, “This isn’t about me.” Their actions are about them. It set me free from a lot of unhappiness when I realized that other people would likely be acting the way they act no matter who was standing in my shoes. If it’s not about me, why would I want to let it hurt my feelings? People spend so little time thinking about me it’s stunning! They have a lot of other stuff going on, and I’m a footnote, at best, ninety-nine percent of the time. The other one percent, if they really are thinking about me, they are either my biggest fan or a complete idiot, so there’s no point getting my panties in a wad either way.

You could make a part time career out of being offended just by judging all the things other people do and say. I don’t recommend this career path, but lots of people seem to be on it. Here is the best thing I ever learned about judgement, from Jim Richard’s book, How To Stop The Pain: To judge something is to presume to know why someone has done or said something, and then to attach a motive to it.

“He did that because he thinks I’m stupid.”

“She said that to make me look bad.”

“He left me out to make a point.”

But here’s the rub. Maybe they did, and maybe they didn’t, but you really don’t know why. And if your believing you know people’s secret motives makes you feel like crap, that’s your decision.

Maybe they don’t think you’re stupid, and they just had to pee really bad, and felt rushed, so they completed the task quickly, with no intention of implying your inability to do it yourself. Maybe their comments got taken out of context, and didn’t have anything to do with you. Maybe you didn’t get invited because, oh, I don’t know, they forgot. Have you ever forgotten anything?

Ultimately, we get to decide, and place the emphasis and meaning on the events that play out for us. That is extremely good news. We get to write our own story. It can be, “People like me, I’m fun, life is good, and I’m glad I’m here,” or it can be, “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna go eat worms.”

© Vicki Hughes 2013

 

 

Do You See What I See?

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By Vicki Hughes     Posted March 31, 2013

I had a thought provoking conversation with a friend a few days ago. She was curious about the sea glass jewelry I make from the softened glass fragments that I find here on remote Fairhope beaches. She asked me, “How do you find sea glass? I’ve lived along beaches for years and I’ve never found any.” She clarified, she wasn’t after my secret honey holes, she just wondered if there was a trick to it.

I told her, “I honestly believe it’s a matter of intention. I expect to find it, and I do. I think you have to train your brain to see it. But once you learn to see it, you can’t un-see it anymore.”

I explained how, in the beginning, when I took John with me the first few times, he didn’t find any sea glass at all, only a few cool rocks. He’d hold one up hopefully, and ask, “It this glass?” I’d shake me head, “Nope, keep looking.” But now, he is a glass finding machine! We never go to the beach to “pick glass” and come home empty handed.

Sometimes we don’t see certain things because we’ve convinced ourselves that seeing them is too hard. I feel this way about four leaf clovers. I look down at a patch of clover, and I’m all, “There is no way I will ever be able to find one, specific, odd-ball clover with a genetic mutation, in all of THAT!” And apparently I never will. Not with that attitude. Do yo know how many four leaf clovers Momma has found? Me neither, but it’s a lot. I try to be happy for her, but I’m secretly jealous. Don’t even get me started about her winning drawings and raffles.

I believe we all see what we are looking for, that which we are focused on. It behooves us to look for what we actually want. We get results when we stay focused on something, and allow a little time to pass so the results can show up. It takes some time for results to appear, and we short circuit the magic if we stop looking fifteen minutes into the game.

This explains why I’m not very good at fishing. I quit too soon. If a fish doesn’t jump on my hook within the first few minutes, I get bored and assume there are no fish, and give up. John on the other hand, has learned the art of waiting. He knows they’re out there, and he patiently waits for them to get their lunch break and stop by his line for a snack. He’s catching fish which don’t exist in my world, and I’m wandering around the shoreline, doodling in a journal.

We’re all anticipating something, positive or negative. We will get confirming evidence for whatever it may be, and then we will see more, and more, and more. We look for people to be kind and helpful, or for them to be selfish, annoying jerks. We look for bills, or we look for new sources of income. We look for disaster or opportunity. What we look for has an uncanny way of showing up.

A few days ago, I started looking for idiot drivers, and pretty soon, they all showed up! Magic. It was a stunning reminder of my role and responsibility in the creation of my reality. All of the good drivers didn’t evaporate when I got fixated on the crappy drivers, but I was no longer able to notice the good drivers, only the clowns in cars. Suddenly, I was seeing the ones that were weaving, and nearly rear ending me, and the ones who sat like stones in front of me at green lights, the ones who suddenly wanted to cross over into my lane as if I was invisible, “Hello?”

We’re all focused on something. The question is…what?

What would you like to tune into that would make life a little happier when it starts showing up?

© Vicki Hughes 2013

How To Get Clear on What You Want to Do (and also freak out)

catterpillar

By Vicki Hughes    Posted March 30, 2013

A couple months back, I posted as my Facebook status, “Caterpillars are just butterflies in fur coats.” I’d been going through my own caterpillar experience. I had a lump in my breast. When your fingers make that discovery, it takes a few minutes for your brain to process the implications. And you forget to breathe.

Due to some insurance complications, I wasn’t able to run screaming into the ER, demanding immediate answers. So, I began a waiting game that felt like a combination of Russian Roulette, Operation, and Perfection, that nerve wracking game where the little plastic pieces fly up in your face if you don’t get them crammed in the right spots before the end of the world, “POP! Goes Perfection!”

Having the lump was freaking me out, and yet I didn’t want to discuss it with anyone until I knew exactly what we might need to discuss. Why should we all be freaking out?

So, I’d breathe in, and breathe out, and then I’d think some scary-ass thoughts and then I’d turn it over to God, and then I’d feel a twinge in my chest and wonder what the hell that was, and then I’d quote a healing scripture, and then I’d read, and then I’d distract myself, and then I’d take a shower and try to decide if I should feel the lump again, and then I’d tell it to dissipate. I laid hands on myself, I tapped, I drank tea, I drank martinis, I praised God for insurance, I laughed at funny shows, I felt numbness in my arm, I felt freaked out, I felt guilty for not saying anything to anyone, then I decided there’s nothing to say to anyone yet, and I’d tell myself to calm down. I’d discover that I was breathing very shallowly and wonder if it was stress or some sort of a symptom. I mentally calculated the hours I’d work that week, I looked forward to seeing my best friend for the weekend, and rejoiced that this delayed doctor’s appointment meant our visit would not be marred by possibly bad news.

I freaked out some more and wondered how long it would take to get the mammogram results. I reminded myself that my family is very healthy, I caught myself thinking morbid thoughts, I made myself take a deep breath. I went for a walk, I made cookies, I played on Facebook, I wrote quotes in my quote journal, I pet the dog and listened to the rain. I made tacos and I swept the crumbs off the counter, I lit a candle and I took out the trash. I got choked up reading a story about a woman whose dog died, and I admired the puffy white clouds that were floating by. I listened to Chelsey lament all the things she still needs to do at her house and I felt bad that I didn’t have the energy to offer to help her. I went to my room and flopped, face down on the bed, and appreciated how good it feels just to lie there. I wished I had more time to write and contemplated ways to make that happen.  I considered how writing is my gift, my calling and my purpose, and I realized that it would suck if I needed an illness to give myself permission to pursue it with passion. I felt mildly guilty that John wanted my attention and I felt selfish and I just didn’t want to play, and then I justified it with the fact that I’d baked him cookies. I allowed myself room to be both scared and confident that it would all work out. I was doing my best. In the end, that has to be enough.

Sidenote: Simple cyst, no malignancy. Resume breathing.

© Vicki Hughes 2013

It’s The Little Things

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By Vicki Hughes      Posted March 28, 2013

Most people agree it’s not the big stuff that really makes us crazy. It’s the little things: the dripping faucet, the ticking of a clock at three a.m., the toothpaste flattened in the middle, that breathing. Little things have the power to unravel us.

But little stuff is also some of the most satisfying stuff in the Universe. I am quite the fan of little things. When I’m attentive to the right little things, I step over into a place where life feels good, and my heart in nearly overflowing with appreciation for all of the thousands of little details that make up this experience we call Life.

Seeing the little stuff that is all around us, supporting and comforting us, making us smile or laugh, making today’s demands a little easier to get through, those things are noteworthy. A cup of tea or coffee in the morning, made just the way we like it. The ability to put on tiny earphones and be transported by beautiful music, pets, who love us with an unfathomable devotion. A healthy, simple meal on our table, and the four walls, wrapped protectively around us, keeping the cold and wind outside.

Our sense of smell, telling us the tea olive is in bloom, the coffee is perking, the cookies are nearly done. Our eyesight, allowing us to take in written words and process them, to see photographs of places we’ve been, and of who we’ve been, and with whom…that catalog of our own personal history that plays out a story in our mind’s eye. We simply pick up the edges of a photograph from twenty years ago, and we can appreciate the fact that we are not that person anymore, because we’ve learned a trick or two in the meantime.

Yes, it cost us a few wrinkles, creases and grey hairs, but we’re here. Here is good. Here has potential. Here has life and breath, and one more day to look around. Here has people, and those people need us here. Here is where we get to smile at them, and talk to them, tell them a story or encourage them to not quit. Not today. Here has the power of all our previous “theres” in it, with the added bonus of Google to fill in the pieces we can’t remember.

Here is chock full of little things that, when we notice them, can be the most amazing place we’ve been in a long time. Breathe it in. Let it weave it’s way into your story, so that one day, a little bit later, it will stand out, and sustain you.

© Vicki Hughes 2013