10 Trends From 2014 I Didn't Jump On



All about the bread, 'bout the bread, all gluten 

Most of 2014's trends were fitness trends, which means this post was originally titled 150 Trends from 2014 I Didn't Jump On. Instead, I capped it at 10, because the internet likes that. And in the interest of a fair and balanced review, I kept my exercise hating tendency in check. So, here are the Trends from 2014 that left me, meh.

1.) PALEO: While I love a good piece of butcher quality meat, no one is ever going to take my gluten away. I want all the glutens. Forever and ever, amen. The meat craze can go get crazy with someone else because I'm over here with a bowl of saltines dolloped with red raspberry jelly on my lap. All smiles and starch-comforted, how else is there to live?

2.) CROSSFIT: If CrossFit is the only way to be fit, then call me NoFit. No Interested too. I'll keep the reasons to myself, for three seconds. And then I'll tell you. I've had three children. Any sudden bursts of movement and it's not pretty -- not pretty looking and especially not pretty sounding. I also prefer to keep my bowel movements private and not witnessed in a warehouse.

3.)  UBER:  No, thank you. My safety is A-#1 priority in my life. I'm not calling a person I don't know (another way of saying *stranger*) to come get me and take me somewhere while they control the wheel.  Why? Because not everyone shares the same morals and values, that's why. Ain't gonna happen. No place is that important to get to. Two strangers in a car, one who is at command central while I'm in the back. Guess who holds all the cards? Hint: the one holding them is the one who's all in on this trend.

4.) DROP-CROTCH HAREM PANTS: I don't need a special cut pant to be trendy, my middle-aged butt already makes all my pants drop-crotch.

5.) PINK CAMOUFLAGE: I'm tough. But not really. I'm tough. But not really. I can't handle all that back and forth in my head. You are, or you aren't. I am, but not really... *and not only that, but you're not invisible, you know, not even in a pinkish way.

6.) THE WORD "BAE": This one wasn't my choice. I like the way it sounds, but my kids beat me to the punch and made it clear I was to never use it. No matter if they were present or not. As it should be, my bae... er, my children.

7.)  ELLO: Usually (always) I take awhile in starting anything new as it is. If it's something online, it could be weeks before I twist my arm and tell myself to get back into the 21st century. So, after Ello was splashed all over my Facebook feed with Jump Facebook's Ship Now! I took my trademark week and a half before I began googling youtube tutorials on Ello. Heh, it was gone. Just like that. Ello, good-bye.

8.) AERIAL YOGA:  Feeling weightless while suspended mid air on silk hammocks, sounds like the magic cure to free you from that which holds you down. Money, stress, relationships, too full a plate and not enough hours to get it finished. It sounds good, but I'm not paying for that. Not when I already have my own sensory deprivation tank slash floating on air unit. I call it my bed.

9.) BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH: Ah, this one was easy to pass on, strictly preference and the aesthetics of symmetry. Benedict may make others' grow dizzy at first sight, but I've never been one for a man with eyes up on his forehead. Nothing personal, just that I prefer a more quarter-planed face; eyes in this quadrant, and the forehead left just for that, the forehead.

And how could we forget:

10.) COCONUT OIL GARGLING: This was a close one. Remember, I called this trends I passed on, not trends I was nearly tempted with. This one almost got me. It had all the lure that calls my name: easy, effortless, no exercise involved, and cheap. Started by Gwyneth, all you had to do was buy coconut oil and gargle for 20 minutes, though the head of Goop would never call it gargling. The process was going viral under the practice of "oil pulling." Word games, making us conjure up visions of toxins being pulled from our polluted delicate systems via a coconut oil train. I thought about it, and then decided, 20 minutes? I can't even hold a smile for the camera for 60 seconds without my muscles spasming, how am I going to gargle for 20 minutes without ending up looking like Dizzy Gillespie for the rest of my life. But did I pass? In all honesty to you, no I didn't. I tried it. I now refer to it as the longest 20 minutes of my life.

I almost can't wait for 2015, imagine the trends I'll be able to pass on then. If I were a betting woman, I'd say all of them. Again.

* * *

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This Is 18

I once had a household of boys. They were pint sized and forever underfoot. My life was an endless existence of tripping over elaborate toy fire truck scenes and featured the indispensable me, in the middle of their Engine Company No. 9, my generous hip to waist valley made a wonderful holding tank for misbehaving and time-outed fire trucks.

Weeks and months and years of chubby cheeks to kiss and fall in love with over and over again with their velvety smoothness. Even chubbier thighs to raspberry when they weren't quick enough to get away from the sneaky mama alligator who hid behind the dining room chair legs to surprise them.

They would wake me too early, I never had the sleep I needed to take on the day. I would fix my small children breakfast, lunch, their dinner. Dressing them and washing them up and planning the activity for the day, everything was according to me. I had never been so essential in my life.

I am still in a household of males, but now, it's me who wakes them. When I ask what they'd like for dinner, sometimes the answer is "I fixed myself something already, thanks, mom." Dressing them? My clothing choices are met with rolled eyes and "you're kidding me, right?" And how is it that I've gone from knowing by blind memory every inch of their body, from the small pinpoint brown freckle on the outer edge of one's left foot to the pinkish quarter circle on the other one's left elbow, to not having seen their bodies in longer than I can remember?

After our first was born, I feared that if we had more children, I couldn't love them with the same interdependent existence that my first and I shared.

At seven months pregnant with you, our second child, the middle of the night would have me eyes wide open, asking what if, what if, what if I don't love him as much as my first one? But then, you were born, and the amazement I felt at seeing your face for the first time made me gasp, as if I had never seen a baby of mine before. I remember laughing when they gave you to me because I loved you so much that fast and how ridiculously incredible to love again like that.

I was once the mother of babies who squirmed to be out of my arms and let down, who then grew into children who'd wiggle free of my hands impatient to run in the park, and zoomed into teens who began taking phones into their rooms to talk privately. This, from a time when I could carry all three of them at once.

And today, I am the mother of a second adult child.

This is 18. The pudgy hands and creased wrists of yours that I memorized now have fingers longer than mine. My laundry basket is filled with your jeans whose inseams rival that of your father's. From boy to child to man, where if I hear a voice in the house, I'm tricked about who's home, is it you? is it your father?

This is 18. I watch you, my second boy, confident, happy, liking who you are. When I see you laugh with friends at school, or the ease with your smile when you greet everyone, it takes those words that creep into my heart, the ones that tell me You could have done more, been more, worked harder, for them, and shows me, that this life is good because you've come to believe what I've whispered in your ear since you were first mine: You're wonderful. You're beautiful. I can't wait to see who you'll be!

When do boys turn into men? It seems, overnight.

* * *

Happy birthday, my beautiful son. You're wonderful. You're beautiful. I'm so glad you're here.

 

Christmas, Again

This was our second Christmas without my mother.

We set a place for her near our tree, her wedding picture alongside a lit candle, before we began our Christmas Eve. It has been 16 months since she passed away, and moments of her still sneak into my day. It's a surprise where these snatches of memory come from—I can't trace what coaxes these thoughts out, because I will be in the middle of something unrelated to anything my mother did, like washing out my son's lunch box, and then I'm suddenly standing, remembering how she never liked driving in icy weather.

Sixteen months, and I don't miss her any less, and I don't miss her any more, than that first holiday without her.

People ask me if things are easier for me this year. I know, or at least I hope, that they mean to soothe me when they promise, “You'll get over it.” My hope is that I never get over it. I don't want to not notice that she's gone from my life. I don't have as one of my goals, to get “over” losing her.

There is a fear of sadness, I can feel it from others. An uncomfortable vibe that reflects fromthem, to me. I'm sure, seeing me, lips trembling, voice cracking, eyes tearing, it can't be easy to witness. But there is a beauty in sitting, giving attention to someone when they tell of how they love and miss, dream of and wish for, that person that is now gone and forever absent from their life. Right there, that moment when I listen to them, I can picture the place in their heart.

 

In the beginning, my children were afraid of sadness, too. They would get nervous and interrupt when I'd begin to talk about my mother, asking for reassurance, "You're not going to cry, are you?" I would answer honestly, "I just might." Then, I'd add, "but it's important that you let me finish. It's all right if I cry. Don't let it scare you."

 

I began a lot of stories this holiday week with the words, "My mother used to..." My children listened, no one stopping me with the worried question, will you cry? They know, I love telling stories about her, the memories of the life we shared together. If I break into tears, they're no longer fearful. They let my emotions run their course, slowly then peaking, then ebbing away. Happy that I had ears to hear her name. I don't always cry, more often than not, I do tell a story with my voice even and unwavering.

 

If tears come to my eyes when I talk about my mother, it's not always because of grief. There is pride, too, in being her daughter. If a tear or two drops, it's from the love for her that overwhelms me. You think you feel love for someone when they're breathing next to you. There is no way I can prepare anyone for the heart explosion of what you feel at their loss.

Just as there is more than one kind of tear, there is more than one way to celebrate the holidays. The commercials on TV and radio show us what they ideally are: full dining rooms gathered with family and everyone home. But the mourners celebrate too. With achingly less volume, and more quiet, with less words from our mouths, but hours of replayed conversations once had. We are loving, remembering, and lingering on memories of the ones we will love forever.

If you know us, the mourners, ask us how we're doing. Give us the chance to say their name, to let who they are fall off our tongues and float into the universe.

Don't be scared to let us speak.
Don't hush our tears, or cut our words short.

As uncomfortable as raw emotion is to see, be our friend. Take our hand, and don't break eye contact, let us tell you the words we carry.

Grief is a gift. I'll never be over not having my mother with me and I don't want to be.

 

Allow us to give our sorrow, words. It helps to keep our hearts from breaking.

 

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the over wrought heart and bids it break.”

-William Shakespeare

* * *

When Christmas Comes Around

When I sit down to write on this blog, I think of you, the one who will be reading the words here. Some say they write for themselves, and though it's true that I can't imagine a life without writing, there is a lot that goes in my personal journals and has never been read by anyone. This online space that I am fortunate enough to have cultivated here, is tended to with the promise to myself that anyone who clicks over, doesn't leave without feeling a part of how we are all in this together---sharing lives and moments of laughter, love, hardship and hope.

I want you to feel inspired, motivated, maybe discover a new point of view, and more than anything, less alone.

With a heart bursting with gratitude, I thank you for reading this blog. You have changed my life, and I wish you could feel the joy you bring with your support and encouragement.

Happy holidays, my friends, and may you have moments that fill you with everything you need.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being part of my life.

 

* * *

That One Christmas You'll Always Remember

Some remember stacks of gifts under the tree, others recall having someone special home with them. We share holiday stories of finally getting the puppy we asked for or the dollhouse we dreamed of.

My most sparkling Christmas was of a night when I had everything I wanted.

I am honored that our local public radio station, WUWM, allowed me to share it with their audience:

http://wuwm.com/post/essay-magic-memory#.VJW8OcMDqVc.facebook


Merry Holidays and the Happiest of New Year's to you, my friends.

xo

When They Come Home

It was a long three month stay away. My firstborn is home from his first semester at college and tonight, nothing can take away my smile. There's more dinner dishes in the sink and the washer is back to groaning again from use. The refrigerator door opened and closed enough times tonight that I thought we'd go burn through a light bulb.

My son is good, he looks healthy, happy, and comes alive when he talks of life on campus. I listen to his voice fill the kitchen and his laugh grips my heart hard enough to hurt.

Our family sits around him, asking their questions. His father asks him about classes, grades. I think how the week before, he wasn't here. The yogurt turns sour because he's not home to eat it. The orange juice goes tart and the bananas turn brown for the same reason. After three months, I still haven't learned how to shop for a household that doesn't have him in it.

It's been a good first semester away from home for him. School is one hundred percent what he dreamed it would be.

When he passes a mirror, he tells me he's been eating less starch, more protein, and how good this looks on him. I stop myself from saying how easy it is to look good when you're 19. He's solid, strong, and hugging him feels like you're encircling a tree. When I ask how he's sleeping, feeling, he says great. He adds, working hard, too, and meeting the coolest people. His mood is fantastic, and his eyes dance with the details of his days.

I had a hint once of what life like this would be like for the both of us. He had just begun school, still so little. When I picked him up after four hours, he was unstoppable as he bubbled over with news of projects, books, what the teacher said. His joy was palpable, but my uncensored reaction to realizing his life was now going to contain parts without me in it, struck me smack in the chest.

Time rushes past. It doesn't seem like we are part of the years we're in, but around us, are the souvenirs from along the way. I see the foot stool I painted green for him, the one he once needed to reach the sink. How is it that it still occupies this same corner? As if it's ever going back to its original purpose.

It's hard to not say, tell me everything.

I wait until we have time alone to ask him where he gets his hair cut, is there a really good pasta place close by, did it feel strange the first night he wasn't home?

Are your boots warm enough?

Do you use a buddy system when you go out? please say yes

Why don't I ever see pictures of you with a hat on? do you need another one?

If I know the small things, then I can see him clearly in the days he's not here, I can envision 9:01 or 2:50 or 11:09.

Things feel different. The duffel bag on the floor of his room reminds me whenever I walk past that this is a visit. Ponder that. Your child visiting.

I watch my son as he talks about the life he has now, the one that's his. I am amazed at how well I take it. I was always certain, I mean a million dollars bet certain, that when he left, I would have been lost. I pictured myself walking in circles, befuddled, needing to learn the new way to live with one of my children gone. Instead, I find myself thrilled for him, relieved that he's adapted, grateful that he is happy. I feel all of these things at the same time as the lump in my throat.

He's home, but not in the same way as he was home his first 18 years, and yet, I am OK. I marvel at the power of love, so strong for someone else that it can override what I should be feeling now, what I thought I would be -- an ache of the heart.

 

* * *

The Days of December

Nine days to go. It'll soon be Christmas Eve at our house, and my first son will be home from college. I think of how my second boy will have just one more Christmas with us, then he'll be on his own, too. I've got the third littlest still with me for a good chunk of years, but we all know what they say about time, and how it flies.

It's the thought of them, how this is their life, that fuels me. I feel bone weary this year, December has been a tough month for our nation and for our world. December is emotionally trying for me as it is, with the weight of loss of the ones no longer with us. When too much of the news on TV and radio start to feel like boulders on my back, I turn everything off and turn everything toward making life for my children.

Surprisingly, or not, I do December without a to-do list. I gave myself a pass on not keeping up with anything that magazines or the internet tell me I need, decades ago. I never had it in me, and I didn't see it growing up, so with that, I wouldn't notice if something was missing. Like expectations.

I meet the basics, a clean home, some juniper berries and cedar branches from the yard put around the stairs and front door, small gifts, and a prelit tree in the corner. This is good, and when I spend an hour adding twinkling lights around the fireplace, it's magical.

That's my style, and my family accepts it along with me. What they see others do, if it's going all out, they're fine with. I always hope that the people who do so much more than I do, do it because they feel the love for it. That it fills their tank to have their December be one that is full of splendor, in their eyes. With my whole heart, I hope it's done with no resentment, and that with each string of lights they put up, there's a sparkle of anticipation. I hope it's the joy of spreading cheer that propels them, and not the pressure of the season.

This is not to say I haven't had holiday seasons in my life where I've tried something that didn't feel natural to me. The year I had a subscription to Real Simple magazine (a gift from someone I think truly wanted me to be more like them) the theme was “Scandinavian Christmas.” Every room featured in the issue's pages were done in icy blue and glittery snow white. I tried it. I left the traditional red and green decorations from the Christmas years before packed away in the basement, and I went to a home decorating store and filled the back of the minivan with shimmering pale blues and sequined white branches. I drove everything home, pushed the house doors open, and then threw the whole scheme in the rooms. I looked around and felt like I was in someone else's house, one that was a chilly ice skating rink of an abode and left me muttering "Where's my sweater, I need my sweater."

Another year, I tried to do what I saw everyone else preparing to do at the grocery store, their shopping carts filled with 10 pound bags of flour and packs of 20 sticks of creamery butter. If children across America were going to have cookies for Christmas, then my children would too. After a weekend of baking and a constantly hot oven, I turned out a kitchen table-full of cookies on cooling racks. The product of all those hours of rolling and cutting were gone in two hours when my husband walked in through the door famished from work.

I've had lots of Christmas Year adventures where I spent time doing what I thought I was supposed to be. Like the year of collection displaying. I gathered small wooden Christmas trees and placed them atop the piano. I packed nutcrackers, big and small, and then carried them throughout the house, tucking them here and there. The kids didn't like nutcrackers in the bathroom, "I feel watched, mom." I had a year of miniature white Christmas tree candles, too. Kind of feels like you have double vision in Lilliput.

The year of the mini white Christmas trees was followed by the year of crackled silver glass, followed by the year of bunches of red berries tied to any protruding knobbed surface. I even held two holiday parties one year. Between cleaning the house and arranging the food, I was a stressed out disaster. Hostessing is not my in blood and I couldn't make myself like it no matter how loud the siren call from Real Simple's Holiday Table edition.

Through this entire process of trying on to see who I am for the holidays, I found out one thing. Who I am is someone who enjoys looking forward to the day in December where I see the smiles from being together and the delight in finding just the right gift. I'm someone who likes it slow, unhurried, with the day spread out before us and no one paying never no mind to any clock.

We have just two weeks left before the year ends. If we listen to what our hearts and bodies tell us, we'll strike the balance we need. Elf on a shelf, Secret Santa, or a minimalist season like me, it's your choice. Garland the heck out of it all, dip everything in glitter and sparkles, because it gives you joy. Or find contentment and satisfaction in a three feet bough set simply against the corner.

I only send wishes for you to be in the moments, and not feel like you should do more, haven't done enough, or that you've done too much. There should be no need to defend what feels right. Whether that means falling asleep with garland wrapped around your neck while you whisper Rudolph's name, or your family looks at their gifts and asks, "Hey, isn't that the wrapping paper from my birthday?" It's red, close enough.

Take care, my friends. Happy holidays to you.
*Clock just moved to midnight. Only eight days left until we're all together. 

xo

 

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What's Christmas Like When You're Allergic to Evergreens?

Made in China. My kids could recognize those three words on any gold foil tag by the time they were 3 years old. And not in a sound-it-out way but an "Oh! Yeah. It all has to be Made in China for Mama for Christmas. Right, mama? Cuz mama's 'lergic to real things. Look for the tags that say Made in China, guys."

It took me years to figure out I was allergic to evergreen. I had no idea the itchy hands, burning eyes, scratchy throat, husky Demi Moore voice, were all symptoms of a Coniferous Attack on my body. Hard to believe, but here I am, to tell it.

We would bring home garland, ready to deck the halls, our car trunk full of boughs and red velvet for festooning, and no sooner did I began to swaddle and swirl the house mantle and bannisters, when I'd begin itching. Just like a Gold Bond commercial. Oh that darn itch, that darn itch. Pine trees made me suddenly 88 years old. I attributed it to dry skin, it was winter, after all, and we were outside running errands all day. So I'd go through bottles and bottles of lotion feeling temporary relief and then, right back to the burn and the itch. (sexy bit of writing here today, isn't it?)

Until we moved into this house. This lot has evergreens all over the back of it. I believe in live and let live, but there was this heavy bough on a pine branch that slapped my leg every time I was in the back of the yard, and the fresh thing had to go. I held it taut one day, while sawing at it with a rusty dull blade we inherited from the previous homeowners. About five effortless minutes of saw saw saw, and it was that darn burning itch like I had at Christmas. But in the day's light, I could see itty bitty bumps all over my hands where I was holding the evergreen.

Did we both just say it at the same time? Aha!

Evergreen! Evergreen is the culprit! I rushed into the house to tell everybody inside that I don't have winter eczema but an allergy to evergreen! Hmmm, go figure, no one seemed too astounded with this seismic shift to my life. To be fair, it was summer, and talk of garland and evergreen mantle swags don't get anyone excited in July.

Today, we have tubs of Made in China faux greenery in our basement. China's finest work, I mean, their finest, sits front and center in our front room. A Real Feel Artificial Christmas Tree, a glorious 9 feet tall branched prelit wonder, graces the corner of our house for the world to see.

I revere it, the kids respect it. We assemble it, top, middle, bottom, and fan out its branches. We stand back, and ooh and ahh while youngest plugs it in.

Fake? Naaah, sir, this tree is not fake. Fake is a word used for the plastic tree experiments of 1963. When you could see the sorrowful attempts of those that wanted to be modern and get a plastic tree. What was left standing after a multi-personned attempt at construction was something that looked like the one and only time my husband tried to save us money by giving our then 12 month old son a Flowbee hairchopcut.

No, our tree is no fake. What stands in our front picture window, is a life saving member of the family. This tree is as real as the beautiful non-itch of my hands.

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19 Makeshift Snacks to the Rescue!

My friends call me "good enough girl." That's what they call me, all right. Because if it does in a pinch, and if it fills a temporary need, why, then.... GOOD ENOUGH!

Today, so filled with the holiday spirit am I, that I'm sharing my go-to good enough snacks that are satisfying for a second breakfast or second lunch. Whatever you partake in (I happen to dabble gold star in both)

Go ahead, cobble a little extra sumpin sumpin special just for you today.

Let the foodromance begin:

--Sliced bananas mixed with microwave melted Hershey's kisses and mini marshmallows.

 

--Graham cracker S'mores, 23 seconds in the microwave.

 

--Hot cocoa with a 5 second squirt of Reddi-Whip. Chocolate sauce? Don't mind if I do.

 

--McDonald's will mix half and half of any flavor shakes for you.

Lately, I'm all into the half Arctic Orange with half Chocolate. Ho my god.

 

--Peeled, sliced apples smothered in melted French Vanilla frosting.

 

--Any kind of cupcake, any number. They don't count as cake calories because they're little.

 

--Hot dog sliced the long way, filled with shredded cheese, wrapped in bacon and put under the broiler for 4 minutes. Dang.

 

--A dinner plate full of Doritos chips, sprinkled with taco seasoned shredded cheese, diced tomatoes, crumbled turkey meat, microwaved for 1:25, then dolloped --  twice -- with sour cream and guacamole.

 

--Guacamole. Naked. No spoon.

 

--One scoop of chocolate ice cream with maraschino cherries on top. Mmmmm-hmmm. Mmmm.

 

--Frozen Girl Scout Thin Mints.

 

--Boy Scout Cheese Pop Corn.

 

--Instant brownie in a box brownies slathered with raspberry preserves while they're still smoking hot.

 

--Those Hot-Lava-Cake-in-5-microwave-minutes kits. Holy Wow.

 

--Lay's Thick Cut Vinegar and Salt Potato Chips stuck in between the bun and hot sloppy joe meat.

 

--25 crumbled crackers floating on top of a home made bowl of chili, heavy on the tomatoes.

 

--Martha Stewart Brand New Recipe for Boston Cream Pie cupcakes. Again, due to size, calorie-less.

 

--A baked potato, nuked, and stuffed with bacon bits, sour cream, cheddar cheese and a touch of salsa.

 

--A tall glass of Fanta orange soda served over a big fat scoop of creamy vanilla ice cream: Voila! Dreamsicle.

Are we all smiling and patting our bellies now? Good enough.

*Bonus Snack: Chips-n-Beer. Oh, wait, that's dinner. Never mind.

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The Chinks in the Armor Are Hardest on Me

I was confessing to my close friend, my true reason for putting off decluttering.

It's because of what I find, I told her.

Letters in crayon hieroglyphics, love notes on torn construction paper, broken macaroni necklaces, hot wheels stashed away after being wrapped in Kleenex as a secret gift to me.

In my jam packed dresser drawers, I have pictures. They're a heartbreaking toss up every which way, photos that I would linger over and didn't want kept on a shelf in a photo album. The one here, I found Saturday afternoon. It's my last baby who is 12 now. He was so small, I could hold him cradled in one arm.

These treasures from my life do me in. I guess you could consider it torture I mean, to keep them. Why keep them. It's nostalgia, absolutely, it's something in my hand today from my life yesterday, like the 6 inch sword made from crossing craft sticks together and foil wrap. When it's in my palm, I'm transformed back into what my three children made me from the minute they were born. Their very own Ripley. I was untouchable, unbeatable and nothing stood in my way -- they gave me that role as if they came to this world knowing.

It became the meaning to my days. And I rose to that title, without question, I met it. I would sense them, the moment before their cries, and swoop into their room, lifting them from their crib. It felt like I was rescuing them from a tower.

Only mommy, they used to say.

Life continues in this way, the days the kind that fool you into thinking they will always be like this for you. You, their rider coming in on a steed, armed, ready, capable. Able to save in one deft move.

Spiders, balls caught in trees, knees needing bandages, bullies at the park, a fray in the favorite blue blanket. Nothing was impossible and you flew to them before they even knew they needed you.

Then, overnight ... you're not the only heroine they've always known.

One day, you look at the newest holiday pictures, and you gaze at the short woman lost amidst others taller.
Or you call them to you, because even when you squint, you still can't make out the fine print on the computer screen.
Or you ask them to the basement to lift boxes into the crawl space -- a job you once did before your knees turned to gravel.
When we walk at night, I have to take their arm in the darkness.

I can't stand to declutter, I tell my friend, because of all that I find.

The Umbilical Cord

Oh, Doctor, are you sure....
     the day he was born and you cut the cord-
     that cord that connects child to mother-
did you make it a clean cut? complete?

Because sometimes I wonder
    when the sound of his cry would cause
     the strange pain, prickly pins,
     "letting down" the milk to meet his need.
     And when, as he advanced to solids and fed with a spoon
     my mouth popped open
     with every attempt to spoon food into his;
     my tongue licked the corners of my mouth
     when the baby food spilled out on his face.


If the cord was cleanly cut, complete
     why the sinking sick stomach in me
     at the sight of his blood after a fall?
     Why is my mouth dry
     when he is the one on stage to say the lines?
     Why are my palms sweating
     when he is the pitcher on the mound?
    Why does my heart ache
      when his is broken?

Doctor, could you check?
I think the cord is still intact.

~Jana Vick

Is That... Do I? What The Heck I Can't See

A difficult decision, but undeniable circumstances. It had to be done.

Fortunately, all went well and I am home. Resting comfortably? Yeah, sure, but I am whining and complaining all the way.

I had eye surgery Tuesday morning, and everything is still blurry with some razzle dazzle fireworks going on. I can't do a lot on my own and the eye drops that I have to take to avoid infection and calm inflammation sting like a mofo. I'm not happy. One can be grateful, and still not be a grinning fool.

Everything looks like nothing it actually is. My glasses don't work because my vision will be off until the swelling subsides, and so I pretty much have every light on in the house turned up to full candle power because dammnit I just can't see. I can make things out, but it's all a guessing game.

I finally decided to just get over it and enjoy the ride. So now, instead of migraine inducing jaw clenching frustration over screaming BUT WHAT IS IT! I just go with the flow. What I think it is, it shall be.

Like this picture I saw today. It was a holiday ad, but it looked like it was a woman who had just gone paleo and had rubbed the blood from her raw steak on her dress. Or maybe she's a fancy butcher. Either way, why question it. She looks happy.

I also went on a tirade, my children held captive to it on a Sunday morning, while I launched with all I had into an op-ed piece in today's paper where I read the author's opinion that a certain segment of our population is 'undeserved' of special attention. What?! After a few minutes, my middle son came over to walk me to the sofa and help me lie down. He glimpsed at the article I was frothing over and said, "Mom, actually, the guy agrees with you. It says, 'underserved."

Never mind.

Mostly, I just have to take a deep breath these coming weeks, and heal. Everything will still be there when I'm up and 20/20.

Except I'm kind of worried about one thing. I just logged on to Facebook and I can tell something big is going down.

All my friends' updates say they were up till dawn "Ordering Chinese presents" for their kids.

Holy Cow I hope when I'm able to see again that Oriental Trading Company does speedy overnight delivery.

* * *

Announcing the Listen To Your Mother Anthology

 

 

 

 



Scheduled for release April 7, 2015 and published through Putnam Books, the much anticipated Listen To Your Mother anthology, featuring 56 stories chosen from over 1,000 live readings from LTYM Shows across America, is now available for pre-order.

I am honored to have an essay included among the incredible authors here. I read onstage for the LTYM Madison show of a moment spent with my Abuelita when I was four years, and how the power of her words has carried me to this day.

This anthology is a work of love, and I am grateful to everyone who has shared their stories, and especially to Ann Imig, the creator and national director of the  Listen To Your Mother Shows.


Praise for Listen to Your Mother“With their authentic glimpses into this hard, beautiful thing we call life, the essays between these covers led me to fresh perspectives on mothering and being mothered. I savored the open vulnerability that met me with each turn of the page. From the hilarious to the profound, and not bound by gender or geography, these stories generously plumbed the depths of all that is motherhood.” —Anna Whiston Donaldson, New York Times-bestselling author of Rare Bird

 *Did I mention you could pre-order now? You can, please click below for more details:

http://listentoyourmothershow.com/buy-the-ltym-book/

* * *



Is There a Way to Talk to Someone Who Doesn't Believe in Racism?

Dear World:

I read something from someone today that said "Racism was in the '60s. What we see today isn't racism but people who don't know how to act in the world." I wanted to cry, I want to scream at them. Then something inside me makes me just go quiet. Tell me, Dear World, is there any way, at all, to talk to people who think that? Or should I just give up?

Signed,
Heartbroken, Angry, Should I Just Stay Silent

Dear Dear Dear One:

I could begin with asking you how old you are, but that doesn't matter. You feel frustration, and frustration can be felt in someone as young as a few hours old or as old as 112. How do we get others to look at themselves? Your manner of interaction is all up to you. And no one would blame you if you did scream until you went hoarse. To feel what you feel is called being just. It's seeing inequality and ugly disparity and not being able to simply turn away. Being this way, to the degree that makes you question action, isn't easy. You know what's easy?

Not looking at truth, denying statistics, that's easy to do.

What's hard is asking ourselves the honest state of our reaction to people of color. This is painstaking work. It is impossible to not know things about yourself, your secrets, like distrust of a race, thoughts about people with skin that is black, brown, or your way of stiffening around those who are different from you. Believe me, we are no strangers to ourselves.

To wonder whether or not it matters that you say something, that considering staying silent while we live among others who are not treated equally, well... how would you answer that?

I can't think of anything more important to societal change than honest examination of self.

What is born from there could be action. Louder, and braver, an evolution into taking part and standing against human inequality. This takes voice, in the form of our hands, our conscience, our time, our marching feet, our typing fingers, our standing firm in the belief that our country needs to be for all the people - with opportunity and equal justice. Even if it isn't that right now. 

There is work to do from everyone. The natural draw to become defensive, and then hopeless, is a ceaseless danger. You wonder if you should just give up with someone who says that if everyone acted the way they're *supposed* to, they'd have no trouble in this world. To that, I say invite them to learn more. But you'll miss that chance, if you decide to never break your silence.

* * *

Is Racism Real?
https://www.dosomething.org/facts/11-facts-about-racial-discrimination

The Three Things I Can't Live Without

And with that, I gratefully and with a full heart, end 30 days of blogging.

NaBloPoMo, you were wonderful.

Thank you to everyone, for writing, for reading, for the sharing of your lives this past month. Very cool thing, this internet is.

* *

Six Steps to Getting Out of Bed (When You Don't Want To)

It's amazing how much I love the feeling of sleep. Starting with the weight of my corduroy blanket on my tired body, to the cool pillow that presses against my cheek. That space between here and there when I'm just on the verge of drifting away makes me feel like I just won the lottery.

I enjoy the physicality of sleeping much more than the average person. I can tell, because even now while I write about the time spent to myself snuggled down in a warm cocoon, I'm just about swooning. Soon, oh soon tonight, I will be setting my body down to rest and those first few seconds of being horizontal in between long awaited sheets are among the most guilt-free acts of self care that exist. We all need our sleep and no one -- not even yourself -- will talk you out of it. "You really don't need to sleep," now that's something you'll never hear anyone tell you.

Because I love to sleep, getting out of bed is a problem. The first word of my day has always been, no. No no no no, followed by not yet. How does a person will their body out of a place that makes them feel like they're the queen of a small country?

When your kids are dragging at you and begging you to please get up mom we need to go to school, you have to get up. You may not want to but we must soldier on. It's like that perfect bible verse, "He who eats, must work." Waking up, is my work.

The next time it's time to get out of bed, and you just don't damn want to, try these six steps in the battle to get upright:

Step One:
Set your coffee machine the night before. The enticement of hearing my favorite drink gurgle and brew is sometimes all I need. Just the promise of the roasted beans that will soon hit my lips can coax me up and out of my stupor.

Step Two:
Have your alarms placed far away from your bed and no pleasant sound chimes, either. Pick the most irritating, obnoxious sound you can think of. Like a.m. radio. That'll get you jumping out from the covers to shut off the squawk box.

Step Three:
Fill your refrigerator with something you like very, very much for breakfast. I'm crazy about Yoplait whips/chocolate raspberry. The fact that these little plastic tubs are responsible for getting me downstairs makes them calorie free. Think on that, it'll soon make sense.

Step Four:
Have a dog. Dogs need to be walked to go pee. You got to get up.

Step Five:
Remind yourself how important you are. Get out of bed. If you imagine myself as a Clan of the Cave Bear character, you'll see, it all hinges on you.

Step Six:
Get up because you have to brush your teeth. Think about how much you want to brush your teeth. Pretty soon you'll know that there is nothing else you want more in the world than to get out of bed and brush your teeth. You'll do anything to have the feel of clean, smooth teeth. The thought of minty fresh breath replacing the old cigar I must've chewed on overnight has me tossing aside the covers 99.9 percent of the time.

Try any of these six suggestions above, see what works. I hope one brings you success, but no matter which one of the above you give a shot, there is only one thing you must do no matter the mind trick you employ: Once out of bed, DO NOT get back in.

Never.

But if you do, email me. I'm here in my pajamas in pre-anticipation phase and I have a little something I can send you called, "Six Steps to Getting Out of Bed (The Second Time)."

* * *

Wishing You a Happy Thanksgiving

In the afternoon today, I watched my baby sleep. I heard him wake up, so I took him for a little ride. He likes nature so we went to see a movie about Mockingjays. He was a bit hungry afterward so we stopped for his favorite, French fries. As a treat, we parked the car and went inside so we could dip our fries in shakes.

Then I looked at my baby and noticed the sleeves on his winter coat looked shorter, so we went to the store and found a nice new one that would keep him warm. We saw a striped hat and scarf, with some gloves that were nice, so we got them, too.

It started to get dark by then so I brought my baby home and after awhile, he went up to bed.

We had a great day.

* * * 

That Thanksgiving Day, So Long Ago

My father passed away on Thanksgiving Day. It's a story that I am fortunate enough to be able to share here today. Though this might sound sad, it's actually a story of triumph due to beautiful opportunities and how reaching out, keeps us alive.

I thank The Moth for giving me the surreal moments of sharing my story with so many on their Mainstage. I am forever grateful. You can listen to it here: http://themoth.org/posts/stories/fathers-death

Thank you, everyone, for being a big reason why I tell my stories. It's because you are here, to share them with.

* * *

He's Home

Reverse the Numbers, and Reflect

If you're having trouble understanding why there is uproar over #Ferguson, I can point you to this quote from last night's decision, "If you are outraged, you are privileged. If you're scared, then you're a person of color."

There are incredible essays on the internet today. But this one by Mary C. Curtis,  award-winning journalist of The Washington Post brings it home, "Reverse the numbers, and reflect."

I hope you read it. "When White Friends Don't Believe What Blacks Go Through."

Yet whites are, frequently, disappointingly, incredulous. Very often a “friend’s” reaction that goes something like this: “I don’t think a police officer would stop anyone for no reason at all.” Or: “You must have done something suspicious.” Or my favorite: “If you haven’t done anything wrong, you don’t have anything to worry about.” I am not some child coming home with some tall tale, and I am certainly not a delusional liar... And whites need to believe blacks when we say what we’ve been through.

When Silence Doesn't Work

I have been feeling hopeless, broken, disheartened with the racial disparity in America. But giving up does nothing for change. A radio story I heard this afternoon while listening to ‪#‎Ferguson‬ coverage, reports that in Wisconsin, White Americans are more likely than Black Americans to have used drugs, yet Black Americans are arrested for possession 3 times as much as Whites.

When I am overwhelmed, I retreat. I fall into a lonely corner, and wait on the verge of tears for something. But even then, I can't turn away to breathe - not from the radio, the newspapers, the overheard conversations in stores. Silence serves nothing.

We can't give up. One voice atop many voices is better than no voice from anyone. Something is better than nothing, even a small post like this, may make someone take a second look at an issue they feel impacts them little.

We can't be flattened. For too long we have done nothing, hoping that things would get better on their own... because what's right should prevail. The truth is, America doesn't work for everyone the same way. We have to care about that.

We have to matter to each other. We have to see what reality is for everyone. Our world is not the world that others experience. The only way is to talk, to keep moving on in the direction of opening eyes. To have the hope that one by one, people will get it, they'll listen... and if heard enough times, they will begin to consider.

We have to use our voices and speak. When we hear racial comments, don't pretend that we didn't. Let our voice be the one that stands up to that. Let our children not only hear us, but see us. Let our children grow up knowing what it's like to say no, I heard what you said, and I will say something about it - no matter who is saying it.

We don't want to be blamed for things that happen to us, we don't want to be told how to feel when these things happen, we don't want to hear how to act, how we deserve it for this, that, the other.

We don't want to hear that we imagined, we over-reacted, we're too sensitive/angry/touchy/.

We only want peace, fair and beautiful peace.

"RT BLACK POWER ranger @MalcolmLondon
You ask for peaceful protest but we ask for a peaceful world, a peaceful walk home, a peaceful place to love ourselves, a peaceful country."

* * *

Everything You Need to Know About Christmas

Look at this nostalgia of a cover.

I'll bet the first thing you recognized was the shiny foil spine of  Little Golden Books. I found this holiday compilation at a gift shop last week and couldn't resist picking up one for myself. I knew immediately I was going to give a copy away here, too, because this is my blog and I get to do what I want. So I bought two.

This is what we have in the pages between that gorgeous cover. Each page features an illustration from past Golden Books, all ones that I grew up loving. Each picture set to inspirational encouragement for a peaceful, rush-free holiday season. "... the best thing about Christmas is about being together, so don't over do it!"

A copy of this book is yours, just leave a comment here. Your children will love looking at its enchanting drawings as much as you'll enjoy curling up to it with a mug of hot cocoa. Heartloving, heartlifting, and something to gather around and read to your little ones. Subtle reminders for us to not forget what's important and a book to leave out on your coffee table to warm your guests on their visits.

It's already a family favorite here and one book I'll bring out every holiday season. The lesson of  "Keep Christmas simple" is one I know I need to be reminded of every year. (I know it sounds like I'm selling this book or that I'm being compensated for this review. I'm not. I bought it myself and love it so much and want to share it with someone.)

* * *

Only One Reason to Hate Cleaning? I Have Eleven

Glass, and wood, and tile, so many surfaces, each one needing certain care.

I want to win the lottery so I can install a central spigot in my house that wets everything down and then I just run through and spray Mrs. Murphy's all-purpose cleaner over it all.

Nothing makes me swear under my breath more than cleaning. I've never liked doing it, I fight it and put it off and then the moment comes when sunlight pours in through the kitchen window and illuminates every smudge, grease smear, and spaghetti sauce splashed wall.

It's time to clean, (ahem- beyond time to clean) and this house went past the point of no return about a month ago. I have a friend who bounds out of bed on Saturday mornings with the energy of Elvis knowing his mama is making him banana peanut butter toast for breakfast when it's time for her to clean.

Not me. I have my reasons for dragging my feet when it comes to scrubbing the tubs and toilets. If you asked me why, I'd give you 11 of them:

1.) If people know who I am, it really doesn't matter what my house looks like.

2.) You are never done.

3.) It takes way too much time.

4.) It makes me forget how to smile.

5.) Some rooms are harder than others.

6.) It's so much easier to mess things up then clean it up.

7.) It never looks like I did anything even if I spent all day doing it.

8.) You find some little thing that your child made when he was in preschool, and then you're a heaping puddle of a mess right there in the middle of the closet floor.

9.) If you're old like I am, bending over and scrubbing is not as easy as the three seconds it takes to say that.

10.) You have to dust, clean, put away, wipe, mop, scrub, sweep. It's different little things that there are too many of.

11.) Getting a cleaning service is dumb because you end up until midnight cleaning for the people anyway.

 

As long as I'm alive, I'll be living in a house *knock on wood* and there is no way that I can ever fall in love with a bucket of warm soapy water and a sponge. The only solution I see is bribing my friend who loves to clean to be my neighbor. I think I'll send her some messp*rn pictures via email tonight. That should have her shivering in scrubbing anticipation and at my door by 8 a.m. tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

I'm blogging every day for the month of November, it's part of National Blog Posting Month, NaBloPoMo. Join in, even if the month is 2/3 through... it's a great way to challenge yourself!

Titles of Posts That I Will Never Be Able to Write a Body For

What I Like About Mushrooms

 

101 Uses for Vinegar


When You Don't Know How to Teach Kids Not to Be Brats

How to Love Math


Doughnut Free and Happy


Why I Love to Be in the Snow

 

Yummy Boiled Cabbage Recipes

 

Ancient Alien Civilizations

 

Mmm Mmm Cheeseless Pizza!


Target on $50 or Less


Why I Quit Caffeine

 

11 Things to Love About Getting Old

 

How to Run/Do Yoga/Stretch/and Kick-box Before 9 A.M.

 

Life While Paleo


WeMail, Mailbox, Boxer, Inbox, Tipbit, Cannonall: I Review the Latest Email Apps

 

Why Wait Until Christmas Week to Decorate!

 

I Like My Coffee Black

 

My House is Spotless, Here's How


Secrets to a Sexy Stomach

 

Accepting  the Child That Farts the Most

 

Spouses and Annoying Noises and the People Who Love Them

 

The Fascinating Field of Parasitology

Ways to Offer Your Organizational Advice

 

Learning to Say No to Books

 

Embracing a Life Without Sugar


Miniskirts at Any Age!

 

A Step by Step Guide to Saying No: Too Many Invitations Not Enough Open Nights

 

7-8 Hours: How to Get That Beauty Sleep

 

* * *

 

 

I'm blogging every day for the month of November, it's part of National Blog Posting Month, NaBloPoMo. Join in, even if the month is 2/3 through... it's a great way to challenge yourself!

Template: Where I'm From

A poem by George Ella Lyon called "Where I'm From," has been around the internet for awhile, but I've never felt drawn to make the time to try it.

But then it was assigned to my son's English class, and I had to wonder why it never called to me. After talking to him about it, we saw all the directions an assignment like this could take. You could complete this like a driver's license application, or beat poetry night, you could be as abstract as a dream. That's it right there, how do you write about yourself?

Funny, serious, heartbreaking, a reporting of facts? Any way and as many ways that feel like you, you could write forever. The work is in taking yourself on. The pondering of you. 

The undeniable feature of writing your "Where I'm From" is that you realize no one can do it for you. You're the only one.

I encourage you to make the time for your "Where I'm From", like I did with mine here:
It is truly a moving experience. 

Where I'm From

I am from early morning voices humming in the dawn, from flowered aprons and wooden mortars and pestles.

I am from a house where the kitchen was home, small faces pressed against windows, breathing out steam to make our artist's canvas. 

I am from cumin, cilantro, coarse meal, ground fine by a garden's rock. 

I am from sad melodies and voices that break, from Lilias, and Rositas, and Anas and Marias.

I am from dreams brazenly spoken and sighs kept in silence. 

From the one who once held so much to starting anew. 

I am from time-worn beads grooved from prayer, from belief strong enough to break strands.  

I'm from stories of miracles told with a hush, from streets of cobbled bricks and the mountains beyond.

From an Abuela who held me, in arms that were never too full, too busy, too tired.

I am from pieces and bits, smudged faded scraps of her words, born in her soul and written by hands that swept my tears away into my curls.

 

++++++++++++++++

Here is the basic Where I'm From template. *I'd love it if you tried it with your kids.  

I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.
I am from the _______ (home description... adjective, adjective, sensory detail).
I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural detail)
I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).
I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).
From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).
I am from (representation of religion, or lack of it). Further description.
I'm from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing your family).
From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______ (another detail, and the _______ (another detail about another family member).
I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines indicating their worth).

* * *

Winter Thesaurus

I don't know about you, but some days, I feel plain old sorry for my children.

The things that they have to listen to that stumble out of my mouth. It makes me want to dig up and carry around my college transcripts to show them that once, yes, mama had a working brain. Today, by far, one of the most ridiculous sentences imaginable tripped out of my mouth. As I heard myself saying the last word, I could almost read my childrens' minds, Whatever happened to poor mama that makes her talk like that...

"It's so cold that the temperature outside is just making everything cold."

That's what I had to say to them about today's weather. It was too late to take a single syllable back and I vowed at that moment, never again. I am going to lexeme the heck out of an internet search and unearth every descriptor possible for the word *cold*,  with the Arctic blast as my witness, my children will never have their ears assaulted by the thudding crapshoot remnants of my once bountiful vocabulary.

Help yourself to the list below, my friends, and borrow heavily so that the next time you find yourself out on a blustery day worthy of A.A. Milne's imagination, the tender pinnae around you will get an icy treat:

inhospitable
unwelcoming
forbidding
cool
frigid
frosty
glacial
numb
chilly
freezing
shivery
benumbed
hypothermic
wintry
gelid
bleak
brisk
sharp
stinging
algid
biting
blasted
penetrating
piercing
polar
inclement
nipping
Siberian
severe
boreal
arctic
brumal
frore
snappy
raw

Since I live in Wisconsin, there will be no shortage of opportunity to run through this list at least four times over before we next see the blooms on our trees.

By which time, I'm sure I'll be uttering the most exquisite expression possible of life during a Midwestern winter, "I'm very cold."

* * *

 

 

I'm taking part in NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month. I'm publishing a blog post every day during November. It's never too late to start, so give it a try! 

 



The First Tiiiiimme, Ever I Wrote a Post...

It's the 18th day of National Blog Posting Month. Some people have already called it quits. Some people are already calling their posts desperate.

I'm in it, I'm doing it, and as for posts being desperate? Nope. What we see happening right about now is the creativity that comes from having to find words. It's one of the best exercises for a writer. To take the ordinary and make it into presentable, workable words.

Not everything has to be compelling and riveting. My measure is my pleasure. Have I enjoyed doing NaBloPoMo? The answer is yes. I have liked the idea of knowing a post awaits me, and every day so far this month, I've come through.

But let's get down to business. What am I writing about here today? And what's with the post title. I almost left it at "The First Time" but I don't want to be pulled into the pull of being a clickbait wanker. (and yes, I know what wanker means) What you are about to see today, is The First Time, Ever I Wrote a Post.

Did the earth move on that day five years ago? It might as well have. My heart pounded and my palms were sweaty.

I somehow had the intuition, that with starting a blog, my life was about to change. And it did. With the finding of community, with stretching myself beyond the limits I had set, with learning new things, and with taking a chance. Publishing that first day was monumental for me. I was worried, anxious, apprehensive. Would anyone read me? Who would it be? Was my writing going to be any good? How many posts did I have inside me?  

Here we are, five years later. While it is painful to look back and read the inexperienced voice, I can't be ashamed (I can cringe, though) I learned to walk, and now I trot. I went after something I wanted, and started a blog. Now, when I enter that zen of creativity, I'm at full gallop. 

Readers, I pull out and dust off, for all to see, My First Post:

 

What Can Happen, Right?

So, here we go. Day One.

What can happen, right?

Why am I so nervous??

If you do visit here, you'll pick up that I'm really freaked out by doing something wrong--always. And, I'm also afraid of a lot of things. Blogging, for instance. I finally don't want to let me being afraid of blogging, stop me.

No more. A new me..."FEAR??! You no longer have a hold on me!" See? I'm blogging...

I have begun to blog.

I have my niece as my guaranteed commenter. She promised.

Whether you know me or not, it'll be great for me to finally have a place for you to come visit.

I've visited blogs for about three years now. I never had a place to say, "Hey, come visit me now."

Now I do.

Maybe that's what makes me nervous. It was pretty easy to set this up, you guys. You know what they say about things seeming too easy. There must be a catch! So far, this is pretty pretty easy. I can't believe how easy. So, what's the catch, right? Scary easy, like any nimrod could do it. ANY.

The best reason for me to blog is that I have a feeling there are people out there, I just have this need to know. People like me, that need to read, that can't read enough. That find company in others' words. I visit so many blogs now, and count on the words of these bloggers daily. They have added happiness and joy to my days here, and they make me happy and keep me from feeling alone on so very many days.

I want to do that very same thing for people, too--make them laugh, smile, find acceptance, have a place to stop in--as they work through their day.

That sentence makes me realize how much I miss working, the gathering around the coffee pot before we all hit our desks for the day. I miss the people.

A blog is like the coffee pot at work; catching up, saying hi, and not feeling like we're on our own out here. It's really nice to have a place to talk.

I think this is going to be fun. I'm having fun already, right now. But I do feel a little bit dumb. I'm not even talking to anyone yet (can I really be that simple minded? Oh, cripes...) I love to write, always, I love to write.

In other words, What can happen, right?


Carpe Diem! (I think it'll be symbolic to end each post with a carp and say carpe diem... my kids, not so much, they say stop ... but I like it.)

*Not really liking the italics... I've seen them used on other blogs. But, maybe I'll keep it to dialogue. (yeah, right... like I'm going to be dialoguing myself now) I will work on that after I see what text choices I have. Ha, listen to me, like it'll be easy. ... that'll eat up two hours of my day (wish I were kidding... )

signed, 

I am THE dork at the keyboard.


Ready. Set. [sweaty palms] and... PUBLISH.

*

(omg you guys, I did it)