Of Sleep and Long Nights by Konnie Enos

At the end of a long weekend, my older son needed to return to where he works in the northern part of the state. The fastest way to get him to where he needs to be is for my husband to drive him there. He doesn’t want my husband driving back alone so my younger son went along for the ride.

This means several things for me and my daughter.

For starters, we’d have to do the chores normally done by the now absent men. Or more like my daughter would because I’m not able to do them myself.

The next hurdle would be dogs wanting out in the middle of the night. My daughter hates anyone waking her up at night, but I simply do not hear them when I’m asleep.

We know this because my family members have mentioned the annoyance of dogs barking to get one door or another opened. As a rule, when I lay my head down at night I’m down for the count within half an hour. I would never call myself a heavy sleeper. I can wake up to alarms, but not necessarily any other sound from my phone. My bladder wakes me about three times a night. My family can be talking, particularly if they are in my room.

Dogs barking in the middle of the night?

I don’t hear it. I wouldn’t even know they were doing it if my family members hadn’t told me about how annoying it is. As a result, me and my daughter discussed how to manage me not hearing them wanting out of my bedroom. The result was that we left my bedroom door open.

Now, with my door open, my daughter turned off all my lights so that it wouldn’t bother her. Since she goes to bed at least a couple of hours before I do, it means I am sitting in the dark.

No problem. Sitting up doing stuff on my tech, which provides its own light, is something I do most nights.

Now the issue.

At some point, after my daughter had gone to bed, my son, sounding rather tired, called telling me they were where his brother is staying. As I am telling him to get some sleep, I hear my husband in the background saying that they are turning right back around and coming home.

Then the phone went dead. For whatever reason, I didn’t call them back to clarify my husband’s intentions for the evening. One could assume I spent the next several hours concerned about my tired husband driving eight hours back home in the middle of the night.

I did not.

I had known how my night would transpire as soon as I learned he was going to be gone overnight. For some reason, I don’t sleep well when my husband isn’t at least in our bedroom when I go to bed. More accurately, I don’t get tired enough to go to bed when he isn’t here.

Under those circumstances, I either stayed up all night or did not crash until three or four in the morning. Staying up late means I sleep in. Often not getting up until ten or eleven.

Now the problem is that I often wait to write my post until around six on Wednesday morning. Staying up late wasn’t going to be a good idea.

What happened?

It was well after two in the morning when I decided I was not going to get any sleep. I decided attempting to write my post would be an effective use of my time.

 Guess what happened within an hour of me starting to type.

Yeah, that’s right. I crashed.

I somehow managed to wake up with the sun even though that was something like two hours after I fell asleep. But, of course, that limited amount of sleep means I’m exhausted now.

My day can go one of two ways.

I could fall back to sleep. Melinda is the only one up and about, so the house isn’t noisy. I am also still groggy and periodically putting my head down for a few brief moments of rest. My body would love some more sleep.

The other option is that I can’t fall back to sleep because my husband isn’t here. Or the sun's up. Or my daughter is doing her chores. I did get about two hours of sleep. I’m not thoroughly exhausted anymore.

So, if my notifications on social media don’t go out at eight in the morning as usual, blame it on me falling back to sleep. I’m most of the way there already.

Smile. Make the day a brighter day. 

Autism and Other Character Quirks by Bonnie Le Hamilton

At some point this last week I was watching a scene clip from The Big Bang when it dawned on me that Sheldon Cooper was on the spectrum. I have no idea why it hadn’t crossed my mind sooner; I have watched quite a bit of the series and I’d seen the entire episode the clip was from.

But it got me wondering why I haven’t written any characters on the spectrum. I certainly know what that is like; being on the spectrum and not knowing it.

Then I started thinking about some of the characters I do have and well, I figured out it would only take a little tweaking to make one of my minor characters into someone on the spectrum. The only thing is that I really want a main character who is on the spectrum. So, I find myself contemplating tweaking the heroine of that story into someone on the spectrum.

And why do I want it to be a female character?

That’s simple. Write what you know. I know what it is like to be on the spectrum and clearly, I am female.

Easy right?

Not likely. This character is already established. It will take a major rewrite to change who she is.

I guess, I could try to make my hero from that story to be on the spectrum but that is even more farfetched, though it is one of his younger sisters that is so close to being on the spectrum right now.

I have no idea why I haven’t used those obvious characteristics before, even before I knew they were what put me on the spectrum.

I mean my earliest stories did include a teenage girl that was behind in school; something else I know. I actually have several stories where the heroine is two years behind in school. Not all of those are finished, but I have started them.

Anyway, right now I am trying to think about some of the quirks that make me who I am and how they would work for my heroine’s characters.

Have you ever used your own quirks in your characters?

That seems like an easy route to writing, but I find, for the most part, it isn’t. Who wants to see their own shortcomings spelled out in black and white?

Then again, our characters need quirks, so why not use the ones we know personally? And why not have them exactly how it was in our own lives?

Konnie has at least a couple of stories where the heroine is 2 years behind in school, just like I have several. The only thing is in none of those stories are the characters behind for the same series of events that got us behind through no fault of our own.

Of course, the problem there would be that our stories have to be believable, and it is more believable that one tragic event led to the character being behind rather than a series of events over several years leading to it.

And let’s face it; the chances of that series of events happening again, let alone in this day and age, are pretty slim. Part of why we are behind is because of a stupid teacher who saw three kids from the same family in the same grade and decided we were all idiots on sight.

Yeah, we skipped school a lot that year, and that teacher was one of the reasons why we did it. Plus, that only got us put back one year.

We were put back the first time because the stupid teacher decided we couldn’t be smart enough for first grade because we didn’t go to kindergarten (this was back in the days when kindergarten wasn’t required).

In that case, the teacher moved us to the kindergarten with our younger brother without our mother’s permission. Things like that wouldn’t stand today. It shouldn’t have been allowed when it happened to us.

So, anyway, we were behind in school, and we use that in our stories, but in our stories, they are behind because of some tragic accident not because of a couple of idiot teachers.

Then again, in the WIP where I am contemplating making at least one character be on the spectrum, I have the hero of the story behind by two years.

Though I might have to change that; it seems farfetched that any parent can get away with keeping their child out of school until they are seven, especially when it’s only one of the parents doing it. Maybe a few months, but two whole years?

I just can’t figure out how else to do it. I don’t want it to be another accident nor because he couldn’t hack it.

Anyway, happy writing everyone!

 

Of Emergencies and Busy Schedules by Konnie Enos

Almost two weeks ago I noticed the symptoms of a UTI. I knew what it was and how to treat it. UTIs are common and can be treated in the early stages with home remedies. The best ones are drinking lots of water and cranberry juice.

Water I had covered. Cranberry juice required a trip to the store, which I did not feel like going to. Since there are only two other people in the house who can drive my choices were Melinda and Jerry.

I knew if Melinda went the task would be quickly and easily accomplished without further input than I needed some cranberry juice. I also knew she would not want to be disturbed at that hour. Being neurodivergent she gets testy if her set schedule of doing things is disrupted. Grocery shopping is done on Friday or Saturday morning. Also, it just happened to be around the time she would insist on beginning meal prep for our dinner. Now she can switch gears for an emergency, but I didn’t think this was serious enough to disturb her.

Besides, Jerry was just across the room rather than on the other side of the house.

With my beloved husband, I not only had to be extremely clear about what I wanted, but I had to write it down. Even then, he wasn’t sure he’d get it right and therefore roped the only other person in the house to go with him for help and moral support. Therefore, I also had to tell Royce explicitly what I wanted.

Thankfully, the mission was accomplished.

However, within a day or so I figured out I’d miscalculated. My infection was more advanced than I expected and did not quickly respond to the juice.

I found myself at the stage where pain and difficulty using the bathroom meant it was time to see the doctor. By this time, it was late evening on a Friday. This was not waiting for office hours.

Jerry took me to the nearest urgent care that was open at that hour. (Meaning an emergency room.) They ran a couple of tests and agreed with my diagnosis. They sent me home with antibiotics.

I’m really good at taking my medicine so I figured that issue was dealt with.

By Wednesday the pain had moved up into my back. I’ve had Kidney infections before.

I called the nurse's line. She said to be seen within the hour. I did try my doctor, but he couldn’t fit me in until the next day. Back to the urgent care I went. I figured they’d run some tests and get me a stronger antibiotic.

When the doctor told me they were admitting me I was floored.

Then they spent the entire night requiring blood samples that took no less than THREE pokes each time to just get any blood. I was tired (they kept waking me up) and my arms were starting to fill up with bruises from all their efforts. They had put in an IV, which was receiving the fluids they were flushing just fine, but it would not let them draw any blood from it.

So, they decided the best option was a PIC line. Which required them to first locate the vein with ultrasound. It took most of the next day for the tech needed to do it to arrive, but she managed to get that line in.

Thankfully, they managed it before my IV decided to stop working so I didn’t get poked and prodded anymore. Though, of course, the damage had been done. My arms were full of some very colorful bruises.

After two days they sent me home with stronger antibiotics and I’m doing much better now. However, I did spend an additional couple of days in my bed recuperating from the experience. A full week later and my arms are still recovering. The smaller bruises on the back of my hands are nearly all healed. They are not nearly as visible though if I happen to hit them they still feel bruised. The ones where the IVs were are still very colorful.

After all of this, Melinda, Jerry, and I discussed what we needed to do this week and discovered that our week, especially Tuesday, was packed. Three of us had overlapping appointments.

I took Jerry to his morning appointment so Melinda could have the car for hers. I was supposed to take Paratransit to mine, but they were running late. Fortunately, Melinda took less time than expected. Jerry was supposed to run his second errand while I was at the doctor's but delayed it until I got back.

It was a bit of a stressful and long day.

Smile. Make the day a brighter day.

Of Not Looking My Age by Bonnie Le Hamilton

I do not look my age. I honestly never have. I say this because the other day I was reading a post about people telling their most memorable experience of not looking their age. I found myself wondering, which was my most memorable experience, I have so many.

The most recent incident happened at work a little over a month ago. I forget what started the conversation, but I mentioned I would be turning 62 in July this year and one co-worker stared at me stunned. “You’re older than me?”

“Apparently.”

I am around three years older than her; she thought she was older than me. Nope.

And I had similar problems way back in school. Like back in my junior year of high school. We had just moved from a small town in Idaho to Tacoma Washington, and it was my first day at this big new school. I was also having trouble finding one of my classes and the tardy bell had already rung. Desperate, I cornered the only other person in the area, saying, “Could you help me, I think I’m lost.”

He looked me over from head to toe (it was January, and we were outside, so I did have a heavy coat on), and he said, “Yeah, the junior high is down there,” pointing down the hill.

I glared at him and said, “I’m a Junior, and I’m looking for,” I showed him my schedule, “this class.”

He was stunned, but he did show me where my class was. Maybe if he’d seen the size of my chest he wouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion, but then maybe not

A little over a year later, Konnie and I were attending a conference for the youth, and at one point we had sack lunches in a park. Konnie and I were sitting and visiting with the younger sister of a girl in our class because none of the girls her age wanted anything to do with her.

The poor girl was 6’2” and around 14 or 15.

Someone else saw the three of us together and made a comment about our friend babysitting who she thought was the youngest kids in the entire group. Nope, we were the oldest.

Though the most memorable instance was when I was twenty-four. I had a roommate who had just turned twenty-one and she came home from work with the news that her coworkers had learned she was now twenty-one and invited her to join them at a local bar after work.

Problem one is the young lady was a small-town LDS girl. I was the only one she knew well who had ever been inside a bar.

She had in fact been very intrigued when she learned I’m a convert and had been raised by a barmaid. Now she wanted me to go with her to the bar because she really wanted to see what it was like.

I’ve told this story before, we had a fight about it, but she won. I’d first tried to talk her out of going altogether then tried to just give her some advice on what would be a safe beverage to order. She prevailed and I went with her.

When we arrived at the bar, she quickly spotted her coworkers, and we crossed the room to their table with a barmaid close behind us.

The barmaid took my roommate's order, and then I asked her for orange juice, she told me she’d have to see my ID first. I fought it simply because I knew I wouldn’t be ordering any alcohol, but she insisted; I showed her my ID and she went to get our drinks.

My roommate started giggling. I asked her to be quiet and tried to tell her it wasn’t funny, but she countered it was too.

Her coworkers asked her what was so funny, and my roommate pointed to me saying, “She’s twenty-four.” 

Making me the only one at the table not laughing hysterically when the barmaid returned with our drinks and asked what was so funny. I told her, “Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Having been raised by a barmaid, I was aware she could lose her job over not carding someone she should have.

The fellow on the other side of her said, “You only carded the oldest one here.”

Dang. I didn’t know that. I looked at her and said, “I told you; you didn’t want to know.”

Her face had gone sheet white, and everyone else at that table quickly wiped out their IDs.

FYI, my roommate was the youngest one there, and not counting me, the oldest guy was about a month shy of twenty-four.

Anyway, happy writing everyone!

 

Of Lost Things and Last Minutes by Konnie Enos

My side of the room is generally organized chaos. My loosely defined nightstand consists of a tray table, an end table, a medium and small set of plastic drawers, and a mishmash of boxes and bags to keep everything I want in easy reach nearby.

Chaos means stuff gets lost. Now if this haphazard area is bumped, things generally fall onto something below them. Occasionally, they manage to find a crevice to reach the floor. The real issue is when someone intentionally knocks things over or manages to kick them under the bed.

Now, my husband and children are not apt to come riffling through my nightstand unless they need something stored in this mess. I tell them where to look and avoid them having to do any searching. They can generally manage this without dislodging anything.

Of course, we also have dogs in the house. At present count, there are four of them. Tiny Ivan couldn’t reach anything on my nightstand let alone dislodge it even if he wanted to. He also generally avoids my room. Then there is the three-legged Xavier and the medium-sized Gunner. Both of which probably could dislodge things if they had any interest in doing so. Like Ivan, they are old enough to prefer sleeping over puppy-exuberant mischief.

On the other hand, Lakota is not only our largest dog but still young enough to retain a significant amount of puppy exuberance. I also have some snack food stored on my nightstand. Plenty of incentive for her to investigate. Since she won’t come anywhere near me, she does this when I’m not in the bedroom.

First I noticed the contents of my garbage can were getting strewn around. We quickly figured out she was getting into it so I now put it where she couldn’t reach it. (It’s now covered.)

Unfortunately, that means she explored further. On more than one occasion she knocked things off my nightstand. This action, unfortunately, put some of my snack food within easy reach for her. Finding things that included jerky sticks just encouraged further exploration.

Needless to say, I’ve had to pick things up more often than usual lately. (I’ve also had to get creative to keep my snacks away from her since some of it is chocolate.)

For these reasons when I recently reached for a small box of tissues I’d precariously perched on my jewelry box, I couldn’t find it. I assumed it had fallen during Lakota’s most recent foray.

Now falling to things below them, or even the floor in front of my nightstand isn’t an issue because I should be able to still see them. Managing to fall and fly or otherwise get knocked under the bed is a different issue.

Since my husband and I are both senior citizens and both suffer from arthritis getting down on our protesting knees and looking under the bed is not an easy thing to do. Getting back up from that uncomfortable position is even harder.

When the two of us could not immediately see the box of tissues by searching the floor in front of my nightstand we assumed it was under the bed. Jerry enlisted Royce for the search.

I’m not sure if that was a better choice. Due to his size getting down in the confined space beside my bed is not easy for him either. There is also the issue of like most males, including his father, Royce has object blindness. He can be looking right at something and not see it.

He, however, dutifully comes to my bedside.

I tell him exactly what I’m looking for and where I last saw it, as in where I know I placed it. Due to the cramped conditions and the object blindness, I am not expecting much. In fact, I’m already considering annoying Melinda and asking for her help.

Royce glances over my nightstand and says, “It’s right there.”

“What? Where?”

He picks it up from BEHIND my jewelry box and hands it to me.

Its position and the other things up there, such as my bottle of lotion, meant it was mostly blocked from my view even though I’d been closer to it than Royce was.

Thinking of Royce just reminds me that I started this year’s gift shopping late. As in I didn’t even start shopping until after I would normally already have it wrapped.

When I noticed that, I immediately did some shopping and managed to get him a gift which was delivered a few weeks ago. I have, however, repeatedly put off wrapping it.

Now I can no longer put it off. I have to wrap his birthday present sometime today before we serve dinner.

Why?

Because we always unwrap birthday presents after dinner and today is the day.

Happy birthday, Royce.

Smile. Make the day a brighter day.

 

Tom and Jerry by Bonnie Le Hamilton

 

This past week Konnie posted on Facebook that she’d seen a t-shirt with the slogan, “Proud daughter of a Vietnam Vet,” then she went to say if she had a shirt like that it would say, “Proud daughter of a Vietnam Vet and wife of a First Gulf War vet who is the son of a Korean War vet.”

When I read that post, I stared at it for a good minute before I said to myself, I could say the same thing!

Now the fact that we are both daughters of a Vietnam Vet is a given considering that we were born in the same city, in the same hospital, on the same day to the same parents, we are clearly both daughters of a Vietnam Vet, and so is our big sister.

But let’s look at the rest of that statement.

We are both wives of vets of the First Gulf War.

Also true, since Konnie did not heed my warning and married a Navy guy even though I had been married to one for four years at that point and knew what a huge hassle it can be to be a military spouse and had told her so. That was her choice.

However, after that little tidbit, we get to the son of a Korean War vet part. And as much as our husbands have little in common other than falling in love with identical twins, this is surprising that we both married men whose fathers served in Korea when our own father served in Vietnam.

This is equally surprising because Konnie’s husband is only six months older than us and he’s the oldest child in his family, whereas my husband is not quite four years older than us, and he was the second born from his father’s second family.

Clearly, my father-in-law was a lot older when my husband was born than my father was when I was born. Don’t ask me the math on that, I have no idea. I do know he had two children from his first marriage, was briefly engaged to a woman who dumped him for someone else and then married the woman who eventually gave him six more children, the second of which was my husband.

Even without the failed marriage and the runaway fiancé, my husband was still his fourth child whereas I was my father’s, well, third, but the second one arrived a mere six minutes before me, and the first one was born only sixteen months before us. Let alone that Dad was only twenty at the time of our birth!

All this adds up to being weird that both Tom and Jerry are sons of Korean War vets.

And yes, their names are Tom and Jerry.

That’s another thing I warned Konnie about when she informed me, she was engaged.

Now let’s look at this rationally.

We have two men with vastly different backgrounds who happen to fall for identical twin sisters. Two men who also happen to be sons of Korean War vets, both of whom marry daughters of a Vietnam vet.

That seems pretty far-fetched to me right there, but I must point out that Tom is not quite four years older than Konnie and me, as his birthday is in August and ours is in July.

Please don’t make me do the math on Jerry and Tom. Jerry’s is exactly six months before ours. Other than that, I am not going to calculate it.

I can be precise on how much older Tom is from us. I know it exactly. He is exactly one month, two weeks, and five days shy of being four years older than us.

This, however, is not because I calculated it. No, that distinction goes to our big sister. Though she wasn’t calculating how much older Tom was than us. She was calculating how much older Konnie, and I were from our brother Bryon, who happens to have been born on Tom’s fifth birthday.

But let’s get back to Tom and Jerry.

So far what they have in common is Konnie and me, and their Korean War vet fathers. They are also members of our church. The similarity ends there because Tom didn’t serve a mission, but Jerry did. But then Konnie served a mission, and I didn’t.

Anyway, after all that they are as different as night and day.

Though I have to admit the biggest difference between them is their size.

Tom was exactly a foot taller than me.

Jerry on the other hand is lucky he found a woman shorter than him.

Their personalities are different too. So, I find it weird that they have anything in common at all beyond who they married and what church they attend.

Anyway, happy writing everyone!

Of Old and New Family Members by Konnie Enos

 My house has been a house full of pets since my kids were young. At the beginning of last year, we had a total of six dogs and a cat.

That number quickly dropped. Reeses and Tiger died the same weekend and devastated our family. Then a few months later Mabel finally succumbed after fighting liver problems for three years. Lastly, Hmwun went back to his first owner, a man Hmwun adores. He is old, lonely, and adores Hmwun too. (Jerry is still able to see him regularly.)

This left us with just Ivan, Gunner, and Xavier. All of which are solidly senior dogs. Ivan and Xavier probably have several years left but Gunner is already at the edge of his life expectancy and has liver issues (like Mabel).

After so much loss last year, we decided to hold off getting a new member of the family for a bit.

Well, now it’s well over a year after Reeses and Tiger died, and I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t ever want my house to be without our fur family members so eventually, we’ll have to get one, or two, or maybe more.

This has led me to consider what type of pet I want.

I considered getting a cat. Said cat would have to be fine with dogs. My issue would be the need for litter boxes and thereby cleaning them regularly. That being said, this cat person probably won’t be getting one anytime soon. I also rejected getting a caged animal of any kind because of the need to regularly clean said cages.

Dogs, on the other hand, while there is some necessity to clean up after them, it is not anything I specifically have to do. I could even hire someone to clean up the backyard if need be.

The issue with dogs is they come in all sizes with a variety of breed-specific traits. I therefore put some thought into what type of dogs I would consider.

I don’t want a large dog like Hmwun. He is large enough to look me directly in the eyes while still on all four paws. He is also very enthusiastic with his greetings. I did not relish the thought of someone that large knocking me over while attempting to be playful.

Gunner is only medium-sized. I can stand beside him and easily pet him without bending over. He is also a good 50 pounds and loves to climb in Melinda’s lap. I wouldn’t be comfortable with even a medium-sized dog attempting that with me.

Mabel was a smaller dog, but still over twenty pounds, which is also about the same size as Xavier. Having either one of them try to climb into my non-existent lap is too much.

Ivan, by contrast, is little, under 10 pounds. Plus, he loves to snuggle up to his person. For this reason, most of the breeds I’ve considered are smaller ones.

I’ve also looked into what traits each breed has. I know some dogs need to herd and others have more guarding tendencies. Some are super friendly with everyone while others tend to be aggressive with strangers. And, of course, all dogs have their personalities to go with any in-bred traits.

Outside of these considerations are the grooming needs of each breed.

Some breeds require daily brushing, regular bathing, and frequent nail and/or fur trimmings. Some breeds shed more than others. Understandably, I’d prefer one that didn’t need extensive grooming routines.

There is so much to consider.

Jerry, on the other hand, just wants a dog and he likes large ones. So now we have Lakota. A German Shepard-Pyrenees mix, an intelligent, guarding breed. She needs daily walks, regular brushing, and other extensive grooming measures.

So everything I didn’t want in a pet.

She adores Jerry and Melinda but will run from anyone with facial hair or a top knot. Our boys rarely shave and I keep my long hair corralled in a top knot most of the time.

Lakato will run from me if I try to feed her and she won’t get in my bed unless Jerry is nearby. She similarly avoids Royce and growled at Tony. Though, the funniest thing about her is how intelligent she is. On her very first night here she figured out that she couldn’t sleep anywhere in my path to the bathroom because I would come, often, day and night. It’s also funny to see her dashing under Jerry’s desk when I walk into the room.

She also follows Jerry everywhere. I used to have a little grey shadow (Mabel). Jerry now has a large white one (Lakota).

I’m still thinking about a dog, but one of the best breeds for me is Chihuahua. Ivan is the only one I’ve ever liked.

Smile. Make the day a brighter day.