​Much to my dismay, texting has become a part of life. Oh, I suppose it’s fine for quick question/answer situations, but for conversation purposes, it’s excruciating. You have to be brief while still getting your point across. This can easily lead to misunderstandings, especially for someone who frequently speaks sarcasm. My tone of voice speaks volumes. How does one convey tone of voice in brief textual interactions? Oh right, that’s what emojis are for. Except when I pull up the sizable list of possible round, yellow faces, I find myself frozen in confusion and indecisiveness.
​

​Take this one, for instance. Does it mean ‘That sucks,’ or ‘I’m constipated?’

​And this one. Does that mean ‘I’m just being a brat,’ or ‘I want to lick you?’

​Does this mean ‘kiss my ass’ or ‘I wanna make out?’

​And the one with the teeth. ‘I’m hoping you will overlook my mistake and find me endearing,’ or ‘Watch out, I bite?’

​I thought this was the sarcasm icon. Apparently it has sexual connotations. So instead of telling my co-worker ‘yea, right!’ I said, ‘you know you want me.’

​I’m not sure if that means I’m embarrassed or I’m delirious with fever, but one works as a reaction, one as an explanation, so I figure I’m covered either way.

​Why does this guy have a snot bubble coming out of his nose?

Don’t get me started on all those non-face options. We all know that swirl of brown does not mean chocolate pudding, but what does the robot mean? ‘I’m the terminator?’ And what possible reason could I have for using a pink poodle? An old school Atari joystick? Is that one sexual? And those food icons are oddly specific. Don’t panic everyone, we have emojis for prawns AND yams for all of your seafood and tuber needs.
 
Maybe that’s the fun of emojis, the uncertainty. Maybe they’re being a smart ass, maybe they’re coming on to you. It’s a mystery. Well, I’m not a mystery writer, so I think I’ll stick with the standard 70s smiley face and cryptic text responses. Oh, and non-virtual human interaction. That works too.

​I’ve heard that our bodies betray us in our old age.  It’s probably more likely that they are paying us back for every abuse we bestowed upon them in our youth.  I’m not sure what I did to deserve the hormone-induced anxiety attacks I’ve been having lately, maybe it was the 90 percent sugar diet I adhered to in high school, or maybe the three straight years without achieving REM sleep when my kids were babies.  I’m not sure, but all I know is, for my fortieth birthday, my body gave me periodic moments of insanity.
 
It doesn’t always start the same way, but I can be sure it’s going to be a whopper when I start to feel like I am standing on the surface of the sun.  Most people, when being cooked, have the luxury of screaming and flailing about.  Unfortunately, that is not a wise response when it is happening in a shopping mall or at a PTO meeting.  So one must pretend all is well, taking off only as much clothing as is legally permitted for the given situation.
 
Just when I start to get used to the internal combustion, my mind starts thumbing through the rolodex I keep of every mistake I’ve ever made, searching for just the right one on which to fixate.  It can be anything: yelling at my kids in an exorcist voice, an off-hand comment to a friend that might have been taken the wrong way, forgetting to water my boss’s plants when he was on his honeymoon, not returning a phone call… whatever the crime, it is all I can think about.
 
I didn’t just forget to water those plants.  I killed a living thing.  A living thing that provides oxygen for every human being on this planet.  I have single-handedly accelerated global warming.  The world is going to end and it is, without question, all my fault.
 
Now I am usually a rational human being.  When I fixate on something stupid, I can, even in the midst of my anxiety attack, recognize my insanity.  I try to remind myself that forgetting to water plants is not actually a criminal offense.  But then my thoughts take on a whole new angle.  Why did I forget?  Am I coming down with Alzheimer’s?  How long do I have before I’m institutionalized?  Who will look after my kids when I’m gone?  Who will change my diapers?  Where will they bury me?  They’d better cremate me.  I won’t be embalmed.
 
Apparently, these types of attacks are not uncommon among women from 35 to menopaused.  If they get to the point that they disrupt a person’s life, there are many medications doctors can prescribe.  I tried yoga breathing, because breathing can never be a bad thing (unless you’re under water), and herbal remedies, but the best non-prescription cure I found was calling friends and relatives who are kind enough to talk me down without calling the funny farm.  Thank you for that, by the way, people.  In the end I did get a prescription, because when you fixate on something that’s truly stressful (like when your son has cancer), the fear is not easily shaken.
 
The most irritating part of it all is that I was coming to enjoy the one great thing about getting older.  I had shed my neurotic tendencies and realized most problems weren’t terminal.  I was secure in who I was.  And then, the revenge of the endocrine system.  Ah well, it was nice while it lasted.

So I thought I was dying the other day.
 
I was at work, getting my classroom ready for school. Everything was fine, when all of the sudden I got dizzy. This is stupid. Why can’t I shake this off? The floor was slanted like a ramp, the walls were spinning as though I had just downed three Mai Tais. This is almost fun, I thought. Except I wasn’t drunk, nor had I just gotten off the Tilt-a-Whirl.
 
Oh balls. Maybe I’m having a stroke. This is it. The BIG one. Hold on Weezy, I’m comin’ for you!
 
Then the nausea set in.
 
Holy hell. I’m going to blow chunks and fall and break my neck at the same time. Who will find me? What will they think? What will they smell? I decided I’d better call the office and have someone come check on me in five minutes, just in case. Then I sat down and held on to the edge of my desk for dear life. Any movement at all sent the barf meter rising, so I tried shutting my eyes. Much worse. It was like I was spinning in the void of space. Instead I opened my eyes and focused on one spot on the wall while I pondered my prognosis.
 
So if I do have a brain tumor, will my neurosurgeon be hot like McDreamy? Will they be able to remove the tumor without removing my knowledge of the alphabet? I guess I don’t mind if I forget how to tie my own shoes, because I can always wear slip-ons. But what if I lose the whole potty-training thing? What if the tumor is inoperable? If I die, who will inherit my shoes? Who’s going to remind my kids to wash their hands and use Chapstick? Will they sing ‘I’ll Fly Away’ at my funeral?
 
Then the school nurse arrived. After checking my blood pressure, she was pretty sure I wasn’t dying and wondered if I didn’t have some kind of inner ear thing. She said if you’re congested in there it can really mess up your balance and cause nausea.
 
Ding ding ding. We have a winner. That morning my allergies were pretty bad and I kept wondering if I had taken my antihistamine yet. I’m thinking I accidently took three. In case you were wondering, taking three Claritin is a really bad idea.
 
I somehow managed to get through a meeting before my husband came to drive me home. Yeah, I didn’t make it. I made him pull over about three blocks down the road. I’m pretty sure my stomach lining is still on the pavement in that lot at the bottom of the hill.
 
Thankfully, after some rest and decongestants, I was no longer planning my own funeral. It’s safe to say, until I find a cure for my Dori-like short-term memory problem, I won’t be taking anymore Claritin anytime soon.


Find my blog amusing? Check out my book, Middle Eight!

 While on vacation last year, the Reasoner, the Daredevil, the Worrier,
and I decided to go sledding.  Not our usual sledding at the resort, where
my job is to stand near the bottom and make sure no one goes crashing into a
tree, lake, or roadway.  We went to a ski resort to go inner-tubing down
groomed slopes.


 It will be fun, safer too, I figured.  As we pulled in, the tubing
hills looked very tame next to the ski slopes, with straw and snow banks to
cushion the landing.  Yes, this was a good idea, I thought.  And then
we spoke to the attendant.


 He explained that the first to slopes were tame, but the last two had
jumps.  Someone just flew out of their tube and crashed, hitting their head
pretty hard on one of those.  Hmmm.  Well, we’ll just avoid those two
slopes.


 Up we went, dragging tubes behind us as we ascended up the side of the
mountain.  The Worrier began to have second thoughts.  “It will be
fun,” I assured him.


 “You and I have a very different definition of fun,” he said.  A
proud moment for me.  I have passed on my sarcasm.


 The plan was for me to go down with the Worrier, but when we got to the
top, things changed.  There was a small shelf of compact snow and ice above
each chute, which was also made up of compact snow and ice.  Everything was
white: chute, shelf, mountain to my right.  I was completely
disoriented.  Add to that a line of people waiting.  A man and his
six-year-old son crowding past to get to the faster slopes.  I just wanted
to get my son in his tube securely before I sent him careening down the
mountain.  I had no idea how to get him and myself secure beforehand. 
Line of people waiting impatiently, I finally got him in and sent him on his
way.  I mean, the six-year-old just went down the jump slope by himself,
laughing all the way.  It’s worth it, right?  Fun, fun, fun.


 Then it was my turn.  Couldn’t turn back now.  I shoved off
and down I flew.  I expected that swirling rush of tickling excitement one
usually feels on a roller coaster or swing.  Didn’t happen.  Just
terror.  Everything in me screaming, “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever
done.  Death is imminent!”


 Bam, bam, smash, my rear end felt every imperfection of this ‘groomed’
slope.  And then it was over.  Thank you, Jesus.  I stood up,
looking for my offspring, hoping they, too, survived, and found Daredevil
halfway up the mountain again.  The Worrier found me.


 “I might puke.”


 The Reasoner encouraged us to get back up and try again. 
Right.  Can’t let the Worrier smell fear.  It’ll be more fun this time
around.  If not, maybe he would puke.  That would be a good excuse to
sit out the rest of the day.


 Unfortunately, it didn’t get better, and the Worrier didn’t puke. 
I got dizzier each time I reached the top.  I clutched at the boundary
sticks as I waited my turn, trying not to look down.  Maybe I should have
eaten something before I got there.  Maybe that was the problem.


“Just stand back here quietly and maybe he won’t see us,” I muttered to the
Worrier when we were safe at the bottom of the slope.


No such luck.  The Reasoner found us.  I explained my dizziness
problem and sat out until lunchtime.  The Worrier got dragged up the
mountain.  Just puke already, and we can all go home!  Too bad the
Worrier was just as afraid of puking as careening down a mountain.


I felt a little better after a tray of chili-cheese nachos, and figured I’d
try again.


 I started to panic even before I reached the top.  I no longer
cared about keeping up a brave face.  I whined to the Reasoner, “I DO NOT
like this!”  He, of course, began to reason with me.  “It’s no steeper than the hills
at the resort.  Even if you fall, you’ll just slide a bit before coming to a stop,” etc.  Not
helpful.


 Down I went, crying out to my maker the whole way.  I’m done,
finito.  I will sit my rump down on this bale of hay at the bottom of the
mountain and watch all of the other crazy people here have fun.  People
were dragging their infants up the mountain.  Insane.  Others were
strapping sticks onto their kids’ feet and making them get yanked up the
mountain by the rope tow.  Cruel.  I nearly passed out watching
Daredevil slip and slide his way onto his inner-tube at the top of chute number
four.


 “That was awesome!” he said, after catching air and landing with a
resounding thud.


 “I’m glad you’re still alive,” I muttered.


 As the day wore on, the Worrier started to tolerate the hill a little
more. The Daredevil rolled his eyes at me and whined, “Come on, Mom!” His tone
accused me of being lame. I looked over at the beautiful moms, sipping wine in
their designer snow suits, laughing as they sat at the bottom of the hill in
their Eddie Bauer folding chairs. Nobody was accusing them of being uncool.


Maybe I’d get to party at the bottom of the hill with the cool moms if I
wasn’t wearing sweats and a hand-me-down coat. Maybe if I could tolerate the
taste of wine, I wouldn’t be expected to hike up that mountain. Or maybe it was
something else. Maybe their kids didn’t expect them to do fun things with them.
My kids did, because that’s what I do. Crap. 


Needless to say, I sucked it up, and went down the mountain again with my
boy. Twice. He might have even thought I was cool for doing it if I hadn’t cried
all the way down.

I recently attended another writer’s conference. As usual, I found it to be a mixed bag
of nuts. Some seminars provided much needed nourishment for my writer’s soul,
and some made me just that – nuts.


 I attended a seminar about dialogue tags that offered valuable advice. Too bad
I spent the entire time freaking out. Oh my God, she’s talking about me. I
use way too many adverbs. I am the queen of adverbs. I’m a hack. Run, Audra,
run, before they hold you up in front of all these people as the prime example
of sucky dialogue tag writing.


But if I think back to my college days, who did my English professor hold up
as the example of poor writing skills? Judy Blume. And who hasn’t read a Judy
Blume book? I defy you to find someone from my generation who can’t complete
this sentence: “I must, I must, I must increase my…”


Something about her writing speaks to people, and so they read her books,
enjoy them on some level, and then they recommend them to others. Which is
exactly the point that was made at the next seminar I attended. Write something
that you love, and it will be lovable. Market in a way that you enjoy,
and it will be enjoyable. Maybe not by everyone, but by somebody. And if
somebody loves and enjoys something, they’ll want to share it with others.


It’s so true. I sat next to this lady at the autograph party and she was
telling me how much fun she had writing her new fantasy series. She described
her most recent protagonist and his pet gargoyle with such enthusiasm, next
thing I knew I was buying the first book in the series. I’ll probably be
recommending it on Goodreads shortly.


So while there will always be ways in which I can improve my craft, I
discovered that I am doing something right. My first novel was a labor of
love, and I know that’s why others love it. My second book was a blast to write,
and I know people will have a blast reading it. That’s the key. What does it
matter if I am not the most skilled writer of all time? So what if I
never make it on the New York Times Best Seller list? Am I offering something
that I love and enjoy? Are others loving and enjoying it? The answer is ‘yes,’
and that’s exciting, because to me that is the true definition of success.


Even so, I do plan to ease up on the adverbs.

I took a little getaway recently. No kids, no hubby, just me. I attended a
writer’s convention, did some shopping, visited some relatives. It was such a
rare and momentous occasion for me that I decided to interrupt my scheduled
programming and blog about it.

The high points of the extended weekend:
I met a woman who reminded me of my late grandma. I wanted to hug her and take
her home with me, but that would have been weird for her. Someone told me I
would look good on film. I ignored the fact that she was trying to sell me
something and believed her. I learned a lot at my conference, which is good,
even though much of what I learned induced at least seven different anxiety
attacks.

I’m serious. Am I going to get sued for something I post in my
on-line endeavors? Did you know that THEY have developed a program that allows
THEM to tap into the supposedly private messaging on Facebook and Twitter? I’m
not paranoid, I just don’t know why THEY are out to get me. Am I really expected
to produce at least one book per year? Not to mention the vast amounts of
verbiage I’m supposed to be spewing out of every on-line orifice. Blogs,
Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads…there were more, but I was too busy breathing into
a paper bag to write them all down. I won’t get into all of the second-guessing
and doubts about my writing, needing a better understanding of the market, the
lurking critics. By day three, the introvert in me was on the verge of a
psychotic break.

Visiting with my relatives helped. I come from good stock. Shopping made me forget
my cares for a while. But the best cure for my anxiety, the best part about my trip
was coming home. I know how corny that sounds, but my three boys came running
out of their rooms squealing my name, arms outstretched, huge smiles, and could not
stop hugging me and telling me how much they loved me and missed me. I was gone for
three days.

So I've decided that I will continue to write and push myself out of my comfort zone by
trying to "build an on-line presence," as the experts advise, but I will do it at my own
pace, on my own terms, and never at the expense of my title as "the bestest mommy
anyone ever had." (Thank goodness for selective memory!)