Will the Real Me. . . and Pen Parentis Literary Salon...

 

This is me right now, well, last week.
 

I will be HERE on November 13, at the PEN PARENTIS LITERARY SALON.  7 pm.

According to the website, this is the me that will be there:

The day I had my author photos taken.
Was my hair ever that blonde?
 

Who the fuck is she?


Or, her:

Okay, I kinda miss her. Was that only three years ago?!
Sheesh!

How about her?

this is what happens when you buy $10 red hair dye.

Her?

yes, those are reading glasses >:(

                                                                                             Her?

this may be photoshopped, for sure...

Meh.

Would the real Gae Polisner please stand up?

Well, one of us will be there.

HERE. At the Pen Parentis Literary Salon. On November 13. At 7 pm.

And, I may (may, may, may...) actually read in public for the first time from a piece of my women's fiction. I'm thinking about it. Though the thought sort of terrifies me also.

Especially, if you'll be there listening.

Eh. No big deal.

You'll likely never recognize me again.

I probably should stop changing my hair.

- gae

Bye, Bye Birdies

Bobo and Taha, our ex-cockatiels

I'm not an animal person. I wish I were.

Partly, I'm not good with noise, smell or mess. I joke at times that I'm borderline autistic in my senses -- to the point of discomfort, at that.

Also, I'm terrified of them being hurt or injured. I overempathize maybe. But I can't bear the thought of the suffering. And I have all I can handle to try to keep the humans I'm responsible for from suffering.

Suffice it to say, I don't make a good pet owner, and I know it.

Now, you should know, I grew up with pets. Cats and big dogs. As a little girl, I was definitely devoted to our first dog, Maverick. But, as I got older, I got less tolerant of the drool and the smell and the hair. I enjoyed an occasional cuddle with the kittens, but I couldn't clean up cat vomit without gagging. Or, scoop poop from the ground or their litter.

I am just not cut out for poop scooping.

And the good goes in hand with the bad.

People think I don't like animals. I do. I just love them more from afar.

I get how that truth doesn't seem reasonable.

At any rate, fast forward to my two beautiful boys who, by the time they are toddlers, want what every kid wants: a cat or a dog. Except, I'm not a good pet owner, and, anyway, Son Number One is allergic. Badly, badly allergic.

The parade of non-cat or dog animals begins.

Enter:

hermit crabs (RIP);

bunny rabbits (oy vey, what was I thinking?!), and, then

birds.

And one supposedly hypoallergenic dog (Not!) in between.


I didn't even want a freaking dog and I wept for days when we had to give him back.

Sobbed, I tell you.

Some of you might remember the weeping.  

Son Two with Taha recently

At any rate, the birds lasted here for nearly six years. It was a good run. Honestly, I think and hope we were actually pretty good owners.

BUT, they never got the attention they seemed to crave, or I felt they truly deserved.

They would love nothing more than to be out on my shoulder all day -- and guess what, I'd let them be, except for the constant liquid poop thing. . .

Still, we gave them a decent amount of attention, as best we could.

But, the boys are getting bigger, and the older leaves for college next year.

And he is the person in our house who has always been best with the birds.

So, the other day, when a chance conversation came up with a friend  -- her partner was BADLY wanting a bird; she had owned one previously that had died, and her heart was craving another -- I felt maybe it was karmic, and I jumped on it.

Last night, with the boys' consent, we packed their cage and brought them to their new home.

So, today, the spot with the bird cage is empty, and Taha and Bobo are gone. I keep turning my head to the sound of phantom tweets.

And, yes, I have shed a few tears.

I can only imagine how it will be when the boys' bedrooms are empty. I mean, I never even minded their poop.

But, in the meantime, I am grateful. I know the birds have a wonderful -- better -- new home.

And, of course, life marches. And birds fly.

With love and gratitude to Carol and Carole.

- gae

This is Not

I dropped my boys off at school this morning.

They rushed out, swept into the sea of moving bodies.

A train came, slowing my path home. The 7:27 that bothers me every time.

Still, three minutes later I was home.

I pulled into my driveway and stared at my small brick house trying to picture it, one year from now, my oldest gone.

Four years from now,
with only my husband and me in it.

Where is the time where little children roamed the rooms,
drew on chalkboards,
made stick puppets,
cuddled safely in my arms?

Where is the woman with babies, with toddlers, with children rushed to baseball games, tennis lessons, piano?

Where are the pancakes and Big Book of Trains and boys in the snowman pajamas?

How are so many meet-the-teacher nights gone?

Whose house will this be, with no small boys to tuck in?
To teach to be brave?
To set free?

Whose house will this be, if I am the mother of these boys
and these boys are
gone?

This house is not me
without them.

This is not a house.

N'est pas un pipe.

- gae

Of Glitter, Ashes and Remembering

I usually reserve personal stuff
(and certainly dumb,
mundane,
silly
and/or ridiculous stuff)
for my private,
non-author facebook page.

But, today, inspired by a quote
a reader loved
from The Pull of Gravity
(which she had posted to her Tumblr page),
I shared a bit of personal stuff
on my facebook author
page
that went like this:

(if you click on the photos, you can see them larger).

I love social media. I love how it allows us to connect with, and move each other, so swiftly. It's a distraction, too, for sure. But today, with these memories -- and my mother's touch for knowing how to create such a memorable ceremony -- swirling in my heart and brain, I was happy for a chance to share.

- gae

Needing Time to Slow Down While Wishing it Away...

Okay, fine. The title of this post is a lie.

I never really wish it away.

In fact, I'd probably make a deal with the devil to have it go backwards for a while.

But, the more I swim and need water, the more I need December - April to just go away.

Is that so much to ask for, to have longer days packed into a seven-month year?

But I'm teetering on 50 here (holy fuck), and I need time to stop, slow down. I need time NOT to fly, or months to disappear.

I need to wish 2014 to stay looming in the FAR distance, even though I won't see my next YA in publication until then.

Competing interests, wouldn't you say?

Indeed, I feel like one of those push-me-pull-you's
from Dr. Doolittle,
wanting time to fly almost as badly as
I want it to stand still.

And yet, I know better.

As I sit here and type, my eyes keep darting up to this sweet little
art project my youngest brought home to me what
feels like five minutes ago. . .

Five minutes ago, I put it up on that shelf for safe-keeping (and viewing) until I could find a better spot for it.

It must've been November, for All Saints Day or Day of the Dead, in elementary school, at least five years ago.

Five years in five minutes, I tell you.

Five lousy minutes ago.

Yeah, I'd make that deal with the devil in a heart beat.


-gae

I need somehow to embrace the cold, dark chill in the morning and feel productive, rather than melancholy and dull.