H.H. Rune's Blog

As a youngster, I was quiet. Shy, almost to the point of mouse-dom. Each day at school I would try to hide, be invisible and never make a peep. I had maybe one or two friends at a time, and those people were always the leaders in the friendship. I was a sidekick for sure.

One of the ways I blended into the background, is that I rarely left my seat in class. The horror of horrors was to ask the teacher to go to the bathroom. So in all of my elementary school I had only a few trips to the loo.

I was a latchkey kid with a younger brother who I tortured in ways I am dreadfully embarrassed about as an adult and I have apologized so many times I can’t count.

He arrived home after me and sometimes I would lock him out and not let him in the house and again, be a total booger to him in general. I am not sure why.

There would be a day where he would seek revenge on me, but back to the ADHD brain for a moment. ( I do excel at flitting around as I tell a story.)

For many of the things I did, my brain allowed me to forget such times and happily go on my way. Sometimes believing that I was a good sister.

One moment was completely forgotten by me into my forties and only came back to bite me at the most inopportune time.

I’d invited my beau, who has since become my husband to a dinner held at the house my mother was housesitting at in the company of my brother and sister in law. Boyfriend was pretty new to knowing my family and me come to think of it.

Somehow the topic came up of how I was a child, and my brother pulled a story from the dungeons of the past and carefully enacted his revenge.

He recounted how I would torture him by not letting him into the house, sometimes it was raining, or snowing or most harshly he had to go to the bathroom. I had forgotten all of it.

Then he came at me, “Remember that time when the roles were reversed and I got into the house before you? A day when you had to go to the bathroom really bad.

Again, no recollection.

“I remember you begging to be let in, trying to threaten me from the other side of the door about what you you would once you got in and what kinds of punishments I could expect in return.”

Still nothing.

“I remember how you pleaded that you had to go and this and that and there was a moment when your face changed. You stared me dead in the eyes and peed your pants, never breaking eye contact in the most sick and psychotic way.”

By now the table was roaring in laughter, myself included, as I had been spared this memory for the majority of my life. My newly installed boyfriend took in in stride and it was a bonding moment for my brother and me.

“I totally deserved that,” I said after the laughter died down. “I could totally see myself doing that. I hated going to the bathroom at school, and I did torture you so. Well played, little brother.”

“Pretty sure you got me back the next day, but at least I knew then that sometimes the tables could be turned and I had a fighting chance.

Not sure why my brother and I fought so much as kids as he is one of my favorite people now. Maybe it was the era, the very nerve of having to deal with and take care of a little brother. There have been times when I was the instigator, throwing a fork at him at dinner and having it stick into his face, and then times when he threw a dart near me and it stuck into the top of my head. So we are somewhat lucky to be alive and mostly even and we don’t fight like that anymore.

I’d let him in the house if he had to go, and I like to think he’d let me in if I did. We have older bladders and more worldly understanding.

I can’t be sure though. Tally ho.

By H.H. Rune

(This list does not include job, family, or faith related shoulds.)

We are bombarded constantly with new data or ideas that might better our health, happiness or overall life experience. Today, by 8 A.M. as I took a warm shower, (contrary to the current societal recommendation,) I had already thought about many of the other things I am supposed to do today and everyday, to be my best self. This list is my own comprehensive list compiled in my brain over at least ten years of deluge of social media and articles and books that I have exposed myself to. Hopefully with this dump, I will let go of the urgency and self- criticism of not doing everything on the list on the daily. Maybe, in reading this list you will feel that you are not alone with being filled to the brim with the extra and excessive expectations we put on ourselves with every decision we make in our already busy days. I hereby give myself grace and let go. I will do what I can and feel like doing on any given day, and celebrate the freedom of not having to do it all. 

Drink a full glass of water upon waking. Don’t eat until noon. To support the adrenals, eat within an hour of waking. Eat protein. Eat fat. Eat fiber. Count carbs. Don’t count carbs. Eat protein but don’t get too muscular. Avoid gluten and dairy and anything inflammatory. Don’t ingest red dye number-whatever. No high fructose corn syrup either. Don’t eat tomatoes as they have lectins which make you fat. Don’t eat peanuts for the same reason. For thyroid challenged people- no cruciferous vegetables, so no cauliflower pizzas, or cauliflower rice either. Eat Kale, don’t. Eat foods that are in season. Locally grown, organic only. No processed foods. Don’t eat fried food. Don’t eat regular potatoes, only sweet potatoes or yams. Eat things on the outside edges of the grocery store. Count your calories, keep a log. Use an app to track what you eat. Only eat pasture raised eggs. Eat a Mediterranean diet. Eat paleo. Be a vegetarian. Be a vegan. Be a raw vegan. Drink red wine. Don’t drink alcohol. Eat a caloric deficit. Don’t. No artificial sweeteners, but no natural sweeteners either. Have a cup of coffee so you poop regularly. Don’t drink coffee. Don’t use real cream or milk. Use plant based cream, or milk but not soy. Don’t overtax the almond industry. Almond based milk, flour and butter will leave no almonds on the planet. Worry about almonds. Worry about the planet. Drink green tea. But not after noon or it will make it hard to sleep. Avoid caffeine. Avoid sugar. Dark chocolate is ok if organically grown, dark above 80% and ethically sourced, but make sure there is no lead in it. Don’t eat chocolate after noon or it will wreck your sleep. Don’t microwave your food. Drink half your body weight in water everyday in ounces. At least eight cups a day. No tap. Filtered at least. Or mineral water sourced direct from a stream in untouched Scandinavia. Sparkling water in a pinch. Use Himalayan sea salt on everything. Watch your salt intake. Dry brush your body then use a fascia blaster on your cellulite.Make sure to work out. Everyday. At least three days a week. At least twenty minutes. Do strength training. Do yoga, but not certain poses when you are on your period. Don’t worry about extra weight. Stress a lot about it.  Love your body. Don’t bother over the shape of it. Do. Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s the little things that count. Get a mammogram, it’s probably that time again. Shower in ice cold water. Don’t wash your hair every day. Put body oil on your skin to help your skin stay soft. Take your vitamins. Yes, every one of them.Take a probiotic, take a prebiotic. Every single day. Pee after sex. Wipe front to back. Do face yoga or gua sha to keep wrinkles away. Check for chin hairs every day. Take a walk. Put your feet on the earth. No, not there, that’s where the dog goes. Hug a tree. Meditate. Meditate longer. Don’t think of things while you meditate. Don’t let your mind wander while meditating. Journal. Work your pelvic floor, but not kegels, that will make it worse. (That is the old way of thinking.) Get eight hours of sleep. Have an app to track your sleep and how many times you fart in your sleep. Wake up early. No cell phones two hours before bed. Don’t talk with your head close to your cell phone. No phones in the bedroom, even to charge. No screens an hour before bed. Read. Listen to self help podcasts and books. Stay off your phone. Place your bed head to the east. Don’t have your bed in front of a window. Don’t have a fan blow on your face as you sleep. Don’t sleep on your boobs, they will flatten even more. Don’t sleep on your face, you will wrinkle more. Be in tune to your natural circadian rhythm. Buy crystals to help you get through things in life. Cleanse your crystals when you buy them and once a month. Re-energize them at the full moon each month, but cleanse them first. It’s best if someone else cleanses your crystals. Maybe use whiskey to wash them. Sprinkle cinnamon at your doorway. Don’t have a cluttered entryway. Be a minimalist. Treasure family artifacts. Recycle your bottles, pray they are actually recycled. Go thrifting. Sit up straight. Buy a necklace that comes with an app to make sure you are standing up straight. Buy a standing desk. Buy a treadmill to walk on while standing at your standing desk. Try not to send Jeff Bezos any more money. Even the smile site that gives to charities is helping him with a tax write off. Buy local. Make things. Journal. Every day. Write your dreams. Make a vision board. Dance. Be you with no apologies. Act your age. Don’t. Get your eyes checked. Listen. Check in on your friends. But only the ones that are vibing at your same vibration. You can’t save everybody. Protect your aura. Prioritize self care. Keep a positive attitude. Always. Under all conditions. No feeling sorry for yourself. No excuses. Have a side hustle. Hustle, hustle, hustle. Check your emails. But not in the first or power hour of planning your day.  Don’t send long emails. Don’t write back right away. Don’t text back when you’re upset. Don’t do too much. Don’t give too much of yourself, getting down to nothing left in your tank. Don’t try to be anyone you aren’t or don’t want to be. Relax. Take it easy. Everything will be ok. Be still. Be patient. Be you. Even if you didn’t do all or any of these things today, Congratulations! You are a Human-Doing–the-very-best-you-can, now give yourself a damn break. 

You are enough. 

HH

Back from a week’s vacation and thinking again about finding a regular job. I’ve had almost two years of working a part time design business that has floundered to say the least.

The rest of the time also was spent piling tens of thousands of words into my new Five book series as well. Queries. Rejections. Querying again. Online seminars, writer’s workshops, writer’s conventions and online pitches.

One opportunity, a contest, will announce in the wintertime, but when exactly is that? It could be January, February. I continue to wait. Hopeful.

My paid for career happened because of my mother. Her passion became mine. It was something I was good at, regardless of the lack of title, and I have found jobs along the way. This time feels differently. The job search.

It reminds me of the line in the movie- When Harry met Sally– “When you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start right now.”

It is the same for me now. I have finally figured out the purpose of my life, and I want this writing career of mine to start right now.

The idea of getting even a temporary job in my previous role feels like a death wish. A massive toe dip into the sometimes vapid, egotistical quagmire that it never felt like before. My passion of helping others make a home has fallen away into an attempt to have each view into a room be suitable for a magazine cover. Thousands of dollars spent to look a certain, “way.” Don’t get me wrong, I loved doing it until I didn’t, and the people have been amazing. It’s just me.

I lay on the floor. Frustrated. Yes, there are jobs I could get, but I would show up not giving a shit about any of them, and that doesn’t seem fair to anyone. A waste of time and energy for them, as well as myself. They ask for people to apply who are exited, ones who want to “grow,” with the company. Nope, that’s not me. Should I apply anyway?

I think of a more menial task that will help pay the bills. I’d hate that too.

I think of my Uncle who died with his dream of being a author tight inside him. Pages and pages of his words, left to dust. He never realized any of the success or even understanding that he dreamed of, even though he tried hard for many years to get there.

With the tactical game of publishing these days, what is the magic key to finding our perfect publishing partners? What are we supposed to do with our energy and passion as we wait in the meantime?

Each rejection comes and I feel it and let it go.

~Not meant for me.

~Not the right person, time or project. Etcetera and so on.

Four hundred thousand words cobbled together in my series of five and yet I haven’t been paid for a single word yet. Not one red cent towards my effort. But yet, I would rather cut off a limb then to restrict or eliminate my ability to spend whatever hours I can carve out of each day to write even more.

The compulsion. The need. The guttural pain I feel not to be able to share my words, and my work with others on a scale that I and others who have read it feel like it deserves.

Stab me in the heart over and over but don’t make me quit. I have to do this.

Tears come, and I blink them away. No, I have to remain positive.

I have to believe that my time and my place are being held for me, they will arrive at the perfect moment. If only I can hold on. Believe. Hope. Try harder. Keep going.

I remind myself, “Don’t take a job that should go to someone else. Either out of want or need. That work is no longer my work. I am unable to act like I love that work. It is a lie. I am not that good of an actress, not anymore. “

I am a writer and author to be.

~

It seems kind of unfair sometimes, when I think of it. The story I was given, all complicated and such. Then let’s add the ADHD in there, where I have trouble remembering things, and keeping good track of stuff. With the bonus symptom of a good bit of RSD thrown in for good measure.

RSD – Rejection sensitivity dysphoria, it just blows.

What is rejection sensitive dysphoria? RSD is an overwhelming emotional sensation that a person may experience in response to an actual or perceived rejection or criticism. It is a serious condition that can result in low mood and self-esteem and is not a person being overly sensitive.

So, since I am in the process of seeking out an agent and sending a bit of my work/heart into the world, in hopes of being noticed, I am quite proud of myself that I am not now stuck in a hole in a tree somewhere, licking my primordial wounds.

Yesterday I submitted four queries, to people I was excited about. I thought the words had merit and would give the person an idea of what I was doing. I went to bed, hopeful and calm.

Alas, I woke up to a rejection. Could they not have waited a full day? The typical wait time is two weeks to six months? It was such shit, she had to turn it around in one night?

Ugh. And I know that I am doing that to myself, she was probably just clearing her email box, and mine had tumbled in at the last minute when she was close. So zap!

There have been some changes in me over the last year or so, ones that are helping me navigate the rejections I have had. Up to 22 today.

I read about some people getting hundreds and good god, I do not want to have to get through that, one by one, but it gives a perspective for sure.

So why do I want to get published anyway, you may ask. I have thought about it a lot. It isn’t ego, it isn’t money, it isn’t for the fame that might be possible. It really is because I want to help people. Help them navigate some potentially similar waters with a maybe new perspective, one that might help them through or keep them from getting stuck in bitterness.

My mom just texted me, “Maybe your book is self help instead of women’s fiction mixed with memoir?” Maybe so.

In the query, I have to state where my book would be on the shelves of a bookstore, hell I don’t know, how about in the front window, is that a choice? Who would read it, and what other book published in the last three years it is like. I read a tweet yesterday and I’m sorry I do not remember the source, but it said something like~ Ok, it takes me 4-5 years to write a book, and comparables must be within three years, so I must actually mentally anticipate the book that might come into play as a comparable, in the time that I am writing it, and hope that the other finishes it in time. Not only a writer but a worldwide mind reader as well. I butchered that, but when I read it I was like wow.

I have been writing my series for the last twenty years. It has taken me that long to determine the best and most empowered ending, and to weave my protagonist through the thorny labyrinth of shit she’s been through, to come out a total rock star on the other side.

It has been a pleasure, and a pain, but I am grateful now, for a name to call my upset when things don’t go my way. It’s another way I can give myself grace, dust myself off and try again.

This story is still a gift, even if it takes longer than I think it should. The Universe knows my perfect agent partner, has determined the perfect time for my work to be unveiled.

Maybe, just maybe, all five of my books need to be completed before they are launched? I hope not, as I would love a paycheck, one that is enough to show others that what I am doing is real. One for myself, to say, hey, we see you’ve been working hard. We get it, you’ve got bills. A kid to help get though grad school, and an Irish Wolfhound named Angus to procure and love. Maybe some new windows in this old house of mine.

The rejection this morning has fully bounced off, like a little ball out of a gumball machine in the arcade of life. It gave me a chance to write this. To take a moment and be proud of myself for trying, if you don’t try, you never get anything or anywhere.

I have something to share, something really, really good. Who’s ready?

H.H. Rune

I had a birthday coming up. People were starting to ask me what I would like to get for a present or what I would like to do.

I was having a weird reaction to it.

“I don’t know.”

Finally, last night it hit me. I don’t want to decide. I don’t want to feel like I am planning it. I don’t want to pick my gift. I don’t want to make or order my own cake.

I do not want to decide.

*Giving a gift is an opportunity to show the person that you care about, that you see who they are.*

That you are paying attention to the little things that light you up.

That you see what they tend to wear when they are having one of their happy days, and what flowers you see them buy for themselves.

Try paying attention to the people around you.

It is always my mission to make a person cry, with the gift I give them.

Something that will make them feel seen, heard and loved.

Isn’t that the best gift after all?

H.H.Rune

P.S. Do not ask me what I want for my birthday.

For me.

I sit in the coffee shop waiting for my friend. It is a nice place and I visit it often with my love, although he is not with me now.

She should be here, I think to myself. We said nine.

Looking down at my phone, I notice a flake of skin in my view.

It suddenly commands my full attention.

I brush my hand across my face hoping to dislodge it.

No.

Again.

No.

It pulls at me, and I imagine that people are seeing me look cross eyed at nothing.

Why can’t I just let it go?

Again, I use a finger targeted to the area to grab while trying hard not to look like a pick.

Good grief.

The music hums in the distance. Maybe it’s because I am looking down. Maybe it won’t be in view if I look up?

I look up and around the room. There is a man in the corner, typing into a laptop. His glasses tipped down to the edge of his nose.

A woman comes out of the restroom, and wipes her hands on her dress. I hope it is from the extra water and that she washed her hands, not wiping off that she didn’t.

I look down at my own dress. It is getting wrinkly from sitting here.

The flake of skin teases me more. I brush my nose again, trying not to be obvious that something is bugging me.

Where is my friend? Do I have time to go to the restroom before she gets here?

If I get up, someone will take my spot for sure.

No, I have to wait until she gets here, so I don’t lose this table.

There are three people just standing around in wait.

Where is she?

Shit.

I look down at my phone. Flake.

Flake, flake, flake.

I brush.

Nothing.

Still there.

I fake sneeze into a napkin, so I can do a full sweep of the area.

FINALLY!

Free from the dreaded flake.

My friend walks in.

Everything is right in the Universe again.

I recently went for something and was not chosen.

This is a part of life. I wonder if others go into a sort of ruminating trance about it, like I do?

“What’s wrong with me?” That speaks to my mental tracks of unworthiness.

“What did I do wrong, what could I have done to have a different outcome?”

“Why not me?”

After all of the friends and family members condolences run out, you are left with your own thoughts.

“What could I have done differently?”

“What was the reason I was not chosen over someone else?”

“Was it experience? Heart? My outfit?”

It is a good practice once in a while to challenge our own dark ways of thinking. To reject the practice of beating ourselves up for something we said, a decision we made or an action we took.

After all, once said or done, there is no turning back time and it is not changeable, only managed somehow if we choose.

“It’s a part of life.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“It’s a lesson.”

Little sayings that help us deal with what is.

Truth: We do not have disappointment unless we reach. We do not see and feel failure unless we have actually tried to do something.

There is a bravery in that, that we need to acknowledge, and be proud of.

I feel like getting a new job or going for an opportunity is a lot like falling in love.

You need two active willing participants, thinking and committing to align with each other for the same campaign, at the same time.

Sometimes the timing is just off. It wasn’t necessarily because someone was a bad person, or unworthy or incapable of doing something, it is simply a matter of the timing. Exact and similar timing is what brings things together.

Yes, there are other circumstances, such as education requirements, locality and overall values. But all things being equal it is just the luck of the draw and pure timing that puts things in place.

So, today I will settle in and know that I tried. I gave what I had and knew; and will continue my giving and reaching for bigger things.

Seems to me that the point in life is to become a better person than you were the day before.

It is to learn and grow with what challenges and disappointments come your way.

And grabbing tight to the incredible successes and the joy that comes beyond measure.

I sit listening to the rain on the window in a quiet spot.

I gave it a try. And I am proud of myself. I will try to cut myself more slack next time I am rejected.

~It wasn’t meant to be.

~It’s just a part of life.

But I won’t let that won’t stop me. I will always keep stretching.

I sat at my desk, working busily on paid work, trying to meet a deadline. It’s been almost two weeks since I wrote anything, because this work came in with a new client, and I dove into it.

My husband called to me from downstairs, as he works from home on Mondays. “Hey, did you see my text?”

I hadn’t, then quickly looked. We have an invitation to dinner at our friends’ house.

The wife, a delightful, warm hearted, young woman was making a family recipe from her native homeland of Cambodia. Ka. Could we come, and she asked if we had a preference for chicken or pork belly in the Ka?

We hadn’t seen them in some time, so a visit would be nice. I have never eaten or heard of Ka, and had no opinion on which meat to choose. “Chicken is more familiar, and possibly less expensive, but I don’t really know, and I don’t care, since I don’t know,” I said to my husband.

“Shall we say yes to the invite, and say chef’s choice on the meat?”

Love it. He has a way to break everything down into bite sized chunks when I am sitting in my overwhelm. And he knows I have a dreadful time making decisions.

He let them know we would be bringing wine, but that I would be drinking water, as I have mostly, completely given up alcohol, since it makes me feel bad. And since I am almost instantaneously drunk off only sips, which I find abnormal and questionable. Having lost both an Uncle and an Aunt to Liver disease, one from self-inflicted alcoholism, the other from mysterious circumstances the Doctors never did determine, it’s not worth it to me. Recently, also, a cousin needed a liver transplant. Yeah, I’m out.

I dive back into my work, hoping to meet the imaginary goal I had for myself before we have to leave, so I can actually relax when we get there.

I finish and pop downstairs to change into something cute, switching outfits three times which is typical, before settling on some wide leg short pants, a white shirt and gray cowl neck sweater vest.

I curl a few strands of my hair to freshen up, and remember a coat I found recently in a second hand shop that I’d been dying to wear, as it set off my eyes.

It was upstairs hidden with my winter clothes, that I will need to dig out, after putting my summer stuff away. I will, when I have the time.

Some short gray boots, another score from a second hand shop, and I put on the coat, walking into the bedroom to see myself in the full length mirror before we walked out the door to dinner.

I fluff the coat, and notice something on the lapel, perhaps a pin left over from the last time I wore it?

I look again, but I do not have my glasses on. It moves.

I scream!

A spider!

I whip it away, and it lands on the floor strolling, casually over to the doorway to escape my over the top uproar.

My husband jumps into action, being the ninja that he is, tossing a pretzel jug over the top of the creature, and calling for me to grab a stiff piece of paper from the recycle to put underneath to get it out of the house.

All of me wanted to stomp on it. But I didn’t. My fright at spiders seems to be getting worse. I will work on that when I have the time.

We toss it outside. Putting together the last items as we head to our friends, my adrenaline still pumping.

I sit quiet in the car. In the coat. Thinking.

“You do think that a spider that size would have kept other spiders off of this coat, right?  You know, like a territory right, I can’t possibly have more than one spider on here. It was a big bad ass spider. It wouldn’t share this coat. Right?” I said to him.

He knows exactly what I am getting at.

“Yes, I am sure he would have kept any other spiders off of it. You couldn’t possibly have another spider on you. What are the chances?”

Exactly. What are the chances? I decide not to freak out. I don’t have time. We will be late. 

Why do spiders even live in houses anyway. In the cold Fall days, we don’t have anything crawly in the house for them to live on?

I mean except us.

I freak out a little more, inside, and settle into the car seat, feeling like spiders are crawling all over me. I decide to deal.

This spider on the coat came from the room next to my office. Perhaps that spider was the one I lost track of, a couple of weeks ago, while looking for some way to get it outside? When I was home alone. Gawd, what if there are more? We might have to move.

We arrive at our friends and wave to the camera light hanging out by their garage to announce our arrival. We notice paper lanterns strung in the exterior entry, leftover from their recent wedding. Festive.

We remove our shoes and come inside, smelling the food we are about to consume. It is a new smell to me.  A somewhat fusion of many different asian style foods I have been exposed to, blended into one. I am unable to pinpoint any smell in particular.

The husband offers to take our coats and we strip ourselves of them and hand them over. He hangs them in their entry closet. I am hoping inside, I have not now immigrated a spider or two to our dear friends’ home in the process.

“Want to hear a funny story?” I say, my husband knowing what I am about to say.

“Always.” They chimed together.  A perfect answer, and one I will always say myself when asked that very question.

I relayed the terrifying experience from only ten minutes ago, and the wife is also horrified, saying that just this morning there was a spider hanging, teasingly over the toilet in their bathroom, and she couldn’t get herself to go.

My husband and I comment on the lovely smell coming from the kitchen, as she toils, then takes a sip of the broth, and asks her husband to taste it, as if something is missing.

I peer into the pot at the brew. Medium brown broth, with bamboo shoots, miniature corn, and small and large ovals peer back. Quail eggs were mentioned in the text too. This would be my first.

I point to the orbs, and ask about the larger sized ones, so those are potatoes?”

“No, those are chicken eggs, and the smaller ones are quail eggs.”

“Do they have the shells on?” Wondering how I would peel them while they are wet and hot. I continued to question, completely stumped as to what this all was.

“No, I hard boil them, then put them in. They soak up the juices of the broth and other things and it’s all together. We serve it over rice.”

Huh. I say inside my head. Ok. This was an entirely new experience for me altogether.

Growing up, I was a super picky eater. Ketchup only on my hamburger. I didn’t like strawberries because of the seeds. Cheese pizza only.

I had only gotten better somewhat in my thirties when I proclaimed that it was my goal to lead an extraordinary life, and I would have to start saying yes more. (This will be one of the main themes in my forthcoming book series.)

Hard boiled eggs were always a weird one for me, as I was over thirty five when I ate my first one, always finding them repugnant based on the smell alone. And if they were runny? No.

I am doing this. Plus it smells good, and I will probably eat a quail egg tonight too. I am all in.

We scoop our food into our bowls and sit down at a table in their dining room, set with some beautiful fall gourds and two strips of brown paper to lie under our dishes.

I touch the paper and ask if we can draw on it, not judging at all. More inspired and delighted that we can be artsy during or after our meal.

The sauce and rice blend and I know in my head that the eggs in the dish are going to be hot, as they are intact and have been boiling for hours. I decide to cut them with my spoon into smaller bites, to blend into the perfect bite of sauce, veggies, pork belly, and egg.

It is delicious. I am glad I decided to try.

We also grab and nibble on slices of cucumber sitting on a shared plate, meant to soften the spice, if we come into a more pungent bite. I experienced one such bite, with a full pearl of peppercorn in my mouth, and I reached for my water, hopefully, inconspicuously.

I am getting down to my last few bites and have waited, trying to talk myself into eating the quail egg.

It’s little. It’s cute. As a rule, I don’t eat little and cute. Preferring that my carnage be fully grown.

(Yes, it would be ideal if I didn’t eat meat at all. This I know, but it is not my preference. To each his/her own.)

Because.

Bacon.

I will do it. I take the whole quail egg onto my spoon and have fully talked myself into it.

I put it in my mouth and started to chew. It is an egg, but smaller, a finer texture too, and a different flavor, not bad, nor good, but different. I swallow.

I grab a cucumber slice to pull my brain away from the cute little quail egg baby that will never be, that I just ate, and feel proud of myself.

I am doing bigger things. I am not being the lame one, saying no, I am not going to try something.

I am living my bigger life everyday.

Little did I know that I was about to try something else for the first time.

“We are having persimmons for dessert. Have you ever had one before?”

My husband thinks he has so he answers that way, but not being able to remember the exact time, and I 100% know that I have not.

And that’s dumb. Why haven’t I? They are at the store and they are very pretty. I just have never ventured or had anyone offer me any. There is a tree down the street where I recognize the fruit, yet, it is another one of things I have never tried.

The husband peels them and cuts them into zig zags and places them in front of us on a shared plate.

They are a beautiful orange in color, solid flesh inside resembling a cantaloupe. “No seeds?” I ask.

“Some do, these ones don’t. Which doesn’t make sense as to how they exist at all with no way to replicate themselves.”

We all agree to research that more on our own and get back to the group, while each grabbing a piece of fruit? Fruits have seeds. More confusion.

“They kind of taste like a cantaloupe and a squash had a baby.” The wife offers, trying to give us some context.

The first bite is hard, and yes, maybe a mix of those two flavors. I guess. Or something entirely different? I taste on.

“It’s interesting,” I say. Everyone agrees with that statement.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it,”

“I don’t think that I don’t like it, it’s just new.” I say back, also watching my husband’s face to see what his thoughts are. He would later say, he wouldn’t seek it out, but it was good to try it.

She put some cookies out next to the plate of persimmon slices, and some indulged with those too.

A nephew arrived home, back from work. He scooped up some food, and sat with us.

By then, I had asked for something to draw with, while we continued to catch up.

Then we all started drawing, the wife writing in Japanese, all of our names at the table, my husband doodling, and me making shapes that eventually converged into a wild tropical bird, with a massive head and tiny little body. Perhaps my homage to the quail and chicken eggs ingested.

All in all, a wonderful Monday night with friends, trying and eating extraordinary food, and having out of the box conversations.

Love days like that.

What are you going to try this week?

H.H. Rune

I sat in line at a light. Turning left. My least favorite turn. Looking around there is a good amount of people out, for 10:30 a.m.

I was glad to be second in line, so that my mind could wander some, and I would sense the car in front of me move when it was time. I didn’t have to watch the light. 

I didn’t have much time. The girl in the red car next to me checked her phone, laughed, throwing her head back, and texted back to someone. I imagined it was one of her girlfriends talking about the boys they saw while out late last night. They had gone to Denny’s at 3 a.m. for just a hoot and a pancake. The boys had filled the booth the restaurant. They sent over a plate of pancakes. Real romantics they were. They had all exchanged numbers and were hoping to get together for a BBQ this weekend. Vanessa, ( my girl in the red car, as I had named her) was interested in Chase. He had curly blonde hair and was pretty quiet. He seemed smart and she liked nerds. Just her kind of guy. She smiled at her phone, and adjusted the radio station, still waiting for the light to turn. What was she going to wear this weekend?

The man behind me in the sports car with the radio up too loud, wore a gold chain around his neck. Hiding or trying to hide his age. Probably trying to find a young girlfriend, maybe even trying to get Vanessa’s attention come to think of it? Gross. Joe was his name, I imagined. Thick dark hair and face needing a shave, he sold cars. He was probably driving one off the lot right now. The music changed and rap poured from the open roof. He adjusted the mirror to look at himself, then back, turning up the radio louder and grinning. Yeah, he was having a good hair day. And in this convertible, he might score a hot babe for the weekend. He had access to the hot tub while his parents were out of town. 

The old man in the truck turned to the right on the lane next to me, his bed piled high with metal scrap. He is barely scraping by on his pension. Carl had been out all day today. Next week was his wife’s birthday and he had some earrings picked out at the department store jeweler. Charlotte didn’t ask for much, but it was her 75th birthday, and she had fancied some Opal and gold clip-ons. Carl knew he had to get them for her. She had been to the Doctor this month and was told that the breast cancer was back. It had spread to her lungs. She didn’t have much longer to go. She was a good woman, and Carl wanted to get for her, anything he could in their time together. He could sleep when he was dead, he figured. Right now he was hunting metal. 

The light turned green and the minivan ahead of me drove off. Then me, then Joe and the girl in the red car. 

Another episode of life at a stoplight.

H.H.Rune

Shared out of reference and introduction

~Me vs the Weighted blanket

By all counts it should have been a good idea. Thoughtful.

I have anxiety at times, and a dickens of a time falling asleep. In general, I worry.

Hubby gifted me a blanket for Christmas last year, it was amazing he found one with all the people of the world looking for some comfort in the throws of a global pandemic.

We are still fairly new, and he is getting to know my likes.

He researched the best one, taking into account, style ( I like simple, not floofy or flowery) color, ( a color I have elsewhere in the house-a safe bet) and weight. 30# was the suggested poundage for us both together, as this was going to be used on our bed.

In the beginning, it was odd, weird, constraining, yet definitely calming.

As summer came, though, I gravitated back to our ivory cotton cloth spread, lighter in color and feel. I do not like to sweat.

I had folded the weighted one in half and in thirds with great effort, and finally into fourths to fit into a kitchen size garbage bag, to protect it from the dust bunnies that live under the bed.

It was exhausting. A regular workout.

As time went on, and with certain medical changes staring at me, I sought the comfort again of the blanket. Pulling it out from under the bed, with a whomp, and spreading it out in the middle of September.

It’s heavy. It seems to move in the night.

Move, migrate, tidal wave over to my side of the bed.

And when I say it is moving, I am not sure if my husband is pushing it that way, or I am pulling ( which I doubt) or if it has a mind of it’s own, knowing I seem to need it more, so it jumps over to me, to help.

Unless the blanket is exactly square in the middle of the bed, it’s own weight has a mind and a strength of its own.

As I have gotten out of bed to write this, having left my phone in the living room due to exhaustion the night before, I have barely escaped.

It was a battle to remove myself from underneath it, at least 16″ hung over my side of the bed, as I managed to pull free.

I’d estimate the actual weight of that section but math is not who I am, so you will have to use your own imagination.

I’m afraid now, to go back to bed. To pull it over on top of my husband in the night, so that it’s more even.

Maybe I will just sleep on the couch, and attempt a coup in the morning. When there is light, and it is a better chance I will have the upper hand.

Literally.

~