Tag: bloganuary

Do mental math like nobody’s watching

I wish I could do mental math.

Mental math is the number one cause of mental illness. For me it is. This is my truth and I’ve known it for years.

If you want to see me experience bizarre, unnecessary humiliation, watch me attempt basic mental math in front of people. It doesn’t matter how simple the mental math is, I guarantee it won’t be pretty. If I have to add a 20% tip or figure out what the date will be when you say “in five days,” I start perspiring and blushing and my nose starts whistling. Immediate acne. It’s insanity. It’s hell.

But I don’t dislike writing math. I enjoyed solving math problems on paper or in workbooks. I love the way math looks on dry erase boards. It’s aesthetically pleasing to look at long, complex math problems written out on a chalkboard.

And physicalizing math with cooking and carpentry can be a pleasure. Baking cookies is a fun way to teach “the dozen” to little children, and who doesn’t appreciate the wisdom and poetry of of “measure twice, cut once?”

Even pregnancy and labor are measured in multiple styles of numbers: heartbeats, centimeters, fingertips, percentages, weeks, seconds, millimeters, etc. Though neither pregnancy nor labor are a breeze, they’ve proven to be my favorite math “classes.” So no, I don’t dislike physical math. Physical math is fun.

For a little perspective, let’s compare numbers to letters. The alphabet is easy. Twenty-six letters and that’s it. I can work with the alphabet. But numbers? They just keep coming. Numbers don’t stop.

And neither do these prompts. I’ve reconciled 16 and still have 15 more to complete. I’m just glad I could figure out my “balance” here in the privacy of my office without anyone looking at me.

Thanks for reading. I really appreciate it. I know it’s not necessarily easy or fun to read someone’s blog, but hopefully it beats mental math. -Connie

I know I’m not alone

I had many favorite toys:

  • Fisher Price airplane (it came with its own string!)
  • Fisher Price people (that fit in the airplane!)
  • Small chalkboard on my bedroom wall
  • Hula hoop (several because they “bend” easily)
  • “Drive Yourself Crazy” – a handheld game that had a miniature steering wheel
  • Magic 8 Ball (always good for a laugh)
  • Viewmaster (stunning visuals!)
  • My pink coat (technically not a gift, but Santa gave it to me so…)
  • Numerous stuffed animals (Monty and Lino)

But the standout champion toy was – and is – the baton! My first memory of a baton is from the Chicago-based kids’ television show Bozo’s Circus. At the end of each show, when the closing credits started to roll, Bozo would gloriously march everyone out and I’m telling you that clown had serious marching skills. He’d pump that baton like nobody’s business all while doing “high knees” in enormous, ENORMOUS shoes. A completely inspired performance! I know I’m not alone when I say I wanted to be like Bozo.

Photo credit: Lester Kempner on Pinterest.

At some point, probably to rend me from the television and my obsession with Bozo, my parents bought me a baton and I am grateful.

It is weirdly therapeutic to twirl a baton and downright mesmerizing to watch a professional baton twirler go at it. Bozo had great showmanship, but didn’t have the finesse of a trained majorette.

I was never a majorette. I had no training. But I could twirl a baton with both hands, do finger twirls, toss them up quite high and catch them, sometimes behind my back. Satisfying! And I shouldn’t have to tell this, but I had great fun embodying Bozo’s “high-knees” march and rhythmic baton pumping.

When I was an adult, I’d occasionally see a bin filled with batons at a grocery store. I would pick one out, impulsively buy it, take it home and give it a twirl. I didn’t do the march.* Even in my twenties and thirties, I still found twirling the baton to be joyful, stress-reducing activity.

I assumed batons were something “everybody” loved, but my kids never showed much interest in them. It’s possible my over-the-top enthusiasm for twirling and marching ruined it for them.

Probably that.

It’s been several years since I gave one a twirl. Maybe one will mysteriously appear this spring in our backyard or garage? I should probably start stretching out, just in case.

Or maybe not.

Hey, thanks for reading! See you tomorrow. -Connie

*I did the march.

Quiet! You Have Entered Your Comfort Zone!

Whether I’m writing plays or planning some creative event, I am consistently “out there” (online and in person) risking failure, misunderstanding and rejection. I’ve been living this way so long that said states of failure, misunderstanding and rejection actually *are* my comfort zones; that is if I believed such things existed.

What would a comfort zone even look like? A narrow hallway with non-slip rugs? A room with a soft easy chair and a stack of Better Homes & Gardens? Would there be signage?

I know a “comfort zone” is a metaphor (at least I hope it is), but I honestly can’t think of a single person who lives comfortably or lazily or without risk. Most (if not all) of the people I know are working toward their own personal greater good.

We are all constantly putting ourselves in the line of fire at work, in our relationships, in our faith and with ourselves. Not just artists (holla!) but teachers, nurses, doctors, managers, laborers, first responders, morticians, waiters, waitresses, pizza delivery guys, stylists, lawyers, journalists and on and on.

Who and where are the people living inside their comfort zones?

According to National Alliance of Mental Illness (NAMI), more than 40 million adults have an anxiety disorder and this number doesn’t account for children. “Anxiety disorders,” NAMI says, “are the most common mental health concern.” Comfort Zone, take me away!

I wish I could believe in comfort zones.

I will say I do believe in being “in the zone.” That precious “good vibes only” place when we are each doing our thing. Whether they are teaching, reading, writing, diagnosing, parallel parking, sewing, cleaning, packing, locking up, hugging or whatever, I love to watch my friends and family when they are in their respective zones. Their posture and gaze shift into a peaceful intensity that is so beautiful to behold.

Hey, thank you for reading my blog. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go zone out. -Connie

Turkeys agree: ‘Grand Canyon is fun.’

Any road trip sounds good to me, but Jesse and I would love to take our kids to the Grand Canyon soon. I say “soon” but we’ve been talking about doing this for more than a decade.

Eleven years ago, our daughter Fern (then two) had a children’s book about a bunch of turkeys making a beeline to the Grand Canyon. Her copy of Wild Turkey Run by Bob Reese is long gone, but we both remember the turkeys had a very specific reason for rushing to the national park.

“Because,” they said, “Grand Canyon is fun.”

Good children’s books are like beloved pets. They are filled with character and charm. You never want to say goodbye to them, but you know it’s inevitable. By the time Fern’s book went to the great library in the sky, it was completely tattered and torn from being read, cuddled and toted hither and yon. No amount of Scotch tape could repair it. Believe me, we tried.

Though I can’t remember the plot points, the memory of the turkeys zooming to Arizona still cracks me up. Books and pets – like a good road trip – leave funny, specific memories that last a lifetime.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to start planning for that road trip to Grand Canyon with “Tom” and the “poults.” Gobble, gobble and thanks for reading! -Connie the Hen

Turkeys in our backyard ask, “Which way to Grand Canyon?”

Connie Kuntz did not know about the blogging challenge until January 21 therefore she missed the first 20 days and 20 prompts. In a nod to the first “time traveling” prompt that set her on this journey, she is going back in time and finishing up this challenge in daily order, one month behind. That means the prompt for January 1 is now the prompt for February 1. The prompt for January 2 is the prompt for February 2. And so on. She’ll continue “catching up” until February 20, 2022.

‘Is a 24 year old a teenager?’ -Google

I did not know about the blogging challenge until January 21 therefore I missed the first 20 days and 20 prompts. It bugs me that I didn’t truly complete the challenge. Furthermore, it turns out I enjoy this style of writing and I would like to keep at it.

So, in a nod to the first “time traveling” prompt that set me on this journey, I am going back in time and finishing up this challenge in daily order, one month behind. So the prompt for January 1 is now my prompt for February 1. Tomorrow I will use the prompt for January 2, even though tomorrow will be February 2. Make sense?

Great. Here we go:

The advice I would give to my teenage self is the same advice I give to my three teenagers which is actually no advice. I yammer at my kids all the time, but I am not sure I ever give them advice or even say anything worthwhile beyond, “I love you,” and “Did you take your vitamin?”

My teen years weren’t the best years of my life any more than they were a total trainwreck. They were just…years.

And, as a parent, I absolutely love having teenagers (and one 12-year-old) in the house. Even when we’re bickering or irritated with each other, I just plain like it here. If anything, Jesse and I are in a low grade state of panic about what we’re going to do when they go to college. Yes, we want them to grow up and live happy, healthy lives, but it also seems like their departure into adulthood will be the death of fun for us.

It probably won’t be that drastic, but neither are the teen years. They’re not the hormonal nightmare that some would have you believe.

As I was writing this I thought maybe I was underestimating their importance, so I Googled “teen years.” The first two returns were:

  • “The teen years are a time of opportunity, not turmoil.”
  • “Is a 24 year old a teenager?”

Google, like advice, should be taken with a grain of salt, if at all. Thanks for reading. -Connie

Big Dipper, You Are Enough

When I was a kid, I was able to identify The Big Dipper and that’s about it. That was enough for me. But once I started having children, I got greedy for more stars.

Fortunately for me, the solar system is heavily marketed to parents with credit cards. Here is a list of star-related items I bought:

  • Glow-in-the-dark stars
  • Stickers
  • Night lamps that projected “stars”
  • Flashlights with different “star” filters
  • Puzzles of the night sky and solar system
  • Space-related posters and framed art
  • Pajamas with stars and planets
  • Books, poetry and music about stars and constellations
  • A telescope (used once)
  • Star-shaped cookie cutters
  • Astronaut helmets
  • Memberships to the local planetarium and tickets to the planetariums in big cities

That’s what I remember but I am sure there is more.

The media has also been germane to my obsession. Not a week goes by when I’m not reading about some celestial event. There have been blood moons, super moons, blue moons and harvest moons. There have been eclipses lunar and solar; total and partial. Mercury has been in retrograde, Venus in transit and Jupiter at opposition. And let’s not forget “The Great Conjunction,” also known as “the Christmas star.”

When my kids were young (meaning they didn’t have a choice), I brought them outside to see every single cosmic event. One winter “morning,” I roused three of my children (Angelo was still too young) at 3:00 a.m., drove them to the country away from any light pollution and set up sleeping bags in a snowy field so they could watch a meteor shower. I had read that the conditions would be perfect at that pre-dawn time to see up to 100 meteors in an hour. The conditions weren’t perfect; they were cold.

Jesse and I have spent hundreds of dollars on star-inspired consumer goods and spent many hours outside observing the night skies with our children. Nowadays making time for celestial events just seems like too much work.

But, sometimes when we get home late at night, we’ll get out of the car and notice that The Big Dipper seems like it is right over our backyard, just for us. One of us will point and say something like “Big Dipper!” and we’ll all look up and marvel at its brightness and beautiful, simple lines.

Big Dipper, please forgive me for seeing other stars. You are and always have been enough. -Connie

Fern’s self portrait from 2015. It’s based on the Carl Sandburg poem “The Child’s Moon” but she included stars.

I think that I shall never see a bio as lovely as a tree

In 2007, Connie Kuntz (tree/her/hers) put her roots down in Rockford, Illinois. Tree enjoys the company of the other trees in her neighborhood. Every autumn, tree travels. “I go where the wind goes,” tree says. Tree is a safe space for kids to play. Tree enjoys hugs and, occasionally, throwing shade.

My son Sam in his natural habitat.

What keeps you up at night?

I call the southeast corner of our block “Turdtown” because it’s where an apparently very large dog goes to poop. It’s disgusting. Normally I would insert a photo here for evidence but it is so nasty, so freaking gross, that if you were to barely glance at the photo, you would gag and possibly barf. I won’t do that to you; I love you too much.

Once a week or so, because the dog poop accumulates fast, I stuff several plastic bags in my coat, walk down there and angrily bag as many frozen poops as I can before I start gagging. I then throw the bags the hell away in our garbage can.

I’ll tell you something: I can’t stand having another dog’s poop in my garbage can. It keeps me up at night. But my friends, this is how I change the world. How about you? Let me know in the comments. -Connie

Don’t let the lovely sunset fool you. Turdtown is pure evil.

Go Tell It on the Smart Speaker

I don’t have a music playlist. I’m not even sure how to assemble such a thing. I’m certain it’s a simple task, but ever since we got a smart speaker, I just ask ‘Siri’ to play music inspired by whatever I’m reading or writing or pondering.

For instance, this week I am reading “Go Tell It on the Mountain” by James Baldwin and have been listening to Sing Freedom! African American Spirituals by Conspirare along the way.

Sometimes I read in silence, but most of the time music adds a wonderful dimension to my experience. I hope you let me know what you are reading and listening to this week. -Connie

Shut the front door?

When I need solitude, I go to the windows and shut the blinds and curtains. Instant peace. I do this when I’m writing or when I crave a little “alone time.” In fact, I’m doing it right now.

Hi. This is what solitude (and I) look like.

Sadly, I learned this “trick” because of the 9/11 attacks.

In 2001, I was 31 and obsessed with my theatre career. To put it bluntly, I was completely self-absorbed. I only cared about “doing shows.” I lived alone in a tiny rented house in North Minneapolis and was terribly lonely.

Lonely yes, but I was also in a constant state of being annoyed at “the world.” I was sick of bad drivers, inconsiderate coworkers, rude customers, gym rats who didn’t wipe down their equipment and worst of all: theatre bullies. Yes, theatre attracts bullies, not just snobs.

But when I learned about the terrorist attacks, something shifted in me. I went from feeling peeved to being deeply distraught. Though I didn’t personally know anyone on the planes, in the towers or at the Pentagon, I felt profound sadness for the victims and their families. And I was so scared for the people who lived in New York City. I was completely shaken by the video footage of the burning, crumbling towers, the image of the man falling to his death, the photos of soot-covered New Yorkers walking away from the Twin Towers. What must it have been like for the people who actually lived there?

Back in Minneapolis, the downtown was a ghost town. I worked at the usually busy City Center Marshalls. In the days following the attacks, my hours had been drastically cut because no one felt like shopping. And, to give everyone a little time to digest the tragedy, rehearsals for the show I was in had been canceled for the week. That meant I was home more than usual which was a relief to me because I knew I needed complete solitude.

Even though it was bright and sunny outside, I shut the blinds and curtains, locked the doors and just sat there, alone in the quiet, mourning. It is still my preferred “method” for deep grieving but is also something I do when I just want to be alone with my thoughts.

I no longer live alone in Minneapolis. I live in Rockford with my husband, our four children and our pets. Our house isn’t very big, but each of us, for reasons big and small, find ways to achieve solitude. And, every anniversary of September 11, we shut the blinds and curtains all day, not for solitude, but as a simple way to respect and remember the victims of 9/11.