Chicken Noodle Gravy

The Friendship Oak

2012-06-01T07:51:00.001-04:00

Probably a maple tree but the closest thing I had in my picture album.

From beneath the shade of the ancient oak tree, the child separated herself from the world around her. In some ways, it was a self-exile, a way of escaping a world that was often cruel and hard to understand, but in truth, the truth that lay in the darkest corners of the child’s heart, the separation was a painful one.

For some, friendship came easy. Girls with perfect pink dresses and overflowing wells of self-confidence skipped along the playground, chatting and giggling and owning recess with their entire beings.

For her, friendship was a constant battle. She latched on to those popular girls with their perfect pink dresses, worshiping them as princesses and fueling their already secure self-esteem. Some days, the days when they needed her around, they would welcome her into their inner-circle, make her feel a part of their secret world. Other days, as if she were a pesky fly, they would swat her away, uninterested in her shy, bookish ways, unconcerned about her feelings and her paper-thin heart.

And so, she made friends with the squirrels and the occasional stray cat…and of course, the ancient oak with its loving branches and its reassuring shade.

The gnarled roots of the tree reached up from the ground and provided not only a cradle for the child but also an imaginary world where she could cook acorn stews and dance with magical fairies. From its comforting embrace, she would watch the other children and wish for someone to come by and steal away her loneliness.

And sometimes, someone would. A fellow loner, or a girl in a perfect pink dress looking for a side-kick. They would flit in and out of her life and her solitary playground world, but none of them lasted as long as the oak.

The oak saw her through happiness, sadness, good days and bad. The oak was her friend, her confidant, her source of joy and comfort.

The oak still stands in that quiet spot beside the playground, still sheltering shy and lonely children, still bringing a sense of friendship to those who may not otherwise feel it.

The child who loved the oak eventually grew up, leaving behind the playground and the ghosts who haunted it.

But she still lives within my heart. She still struggles with her shy nature. She still befriends the confident, popular girls in need of a sidekick. She still climbs trees and loves animals. In many ways, she’s still that same child who played beneath the oak, longing for friendship and struggling with insecurity.

Sometimes, I still feel trapped on that playground, playing amongst the roots of that ancient oak. Maybe, to some extent, I’ll always feel that way. Maybe we all feel that pang of loneliness from time to time, as we fumble our way through life seeking connection, friendship, and the comforting arms of an old oak tree.

Writing on Cue

2012-05-29T21:18:00.001-04:00

The Lightning and the Lightning Bug wants us to write uninterrupted for ten solid minutes. Didn't think I was up to the challenge, but I managed. Will you join us? Click the link below!

9:03pm

Ten minutes of uninterrupted writing? You’d think that’d be easy, and for some, it probably is, but for me…the classic overthinker…this exercise has been torturous. I’ve thought about it while showering. While lying in bed at night. While eating my fruit roll-up for breakfast. While grooming my four cats. I’ve thought, and I’ve thought, and I’ve officially given up thinking at this point in favor of getting something…anything down on paper.

I’ve realized something over the last few days. I suck at “just writing.” I need a purpose. I need an idea. I need direction. Sitting down and writing just to write? Nope, that’s just not me and that kind of makes me ashamed. I should be able to write on command, right? Yeah, not so much. I’ve never been that kind of writer. I need just the right amount of inspiration mixed with just the right amount of motivation mixed with just the right amount of wine, then I’m set. But until I hit that “just right” point? I can’t just write.

When I thought of this prompt on Sunday, I thought, “yay! Something I can actually participate in.” Because honestly, I’ve been running short on the inspiration department lately when it comes to prompts and writing. I just don’t get inspired like I used to; then again, I figure I’m just going through a dry spell. Happens to the best of us, right?

Well, I’m sick of dipping my quill into a dry inkwell. It’s time to get that inspiration back…even if it means just writing for ten minutes about absolutely nothing other than writing, which is probably boring for anyone but me.

I picked up my novel again over the weekend. And by “picked up,” I mean I opened the Word document it was hiding in and actually started looking it over. I even wrote a few paragraphs tonight. 250 words to be exact. Which is 250 more words than I’ve written for it in nearly six months. Sad but true. Like my new determination to walk off my jiggly beer gut and live a healthier lifestyle, I’m also determined to write this damn novel.

That means spending less time surfing facebook and twitter and looking at cute pictures of cats on the internet, but it must be done. I have a story to tell, and I’m going to tell it.

It feels like it’s already written in my head anyway; I just have to find a way to get it down on paper, and I will. I’m determined. If it takes 5,000 nights of 250 word spurts, then that’s what it takes. Becky Garrett wants to be heard; she’s sick of living only in my head.

Well, my last minute is winding down. I guess I can write on cue after all.

9:13pm

One Potato, Two Potato

2012-05-28T08:00:00.000-04:00

Source: theentertainingelf.com via Bonnie on Pinterest

Less than a month ago, the hubby and I were well on our way to growing roots and being couch-bound for the rest of our lives. We were on a fast road to nowhere, and considering we were only in our twenties, our sedentary lifestyle was becoming something of a joke.

Something had to give…and if anything, it needed to be our guts.

For a long time, I had a somewhat reckless view of my own eating and exercise habits. I was of the opinion that life was too short to diet and exercise. Basically, I thought to myself, “Self, I could die tomorrow, and if I do, I want to enjoy my last few meals to the fullest!”

With that attitude, I really could die tomorrow.

Y’all, I wasn’t just eating badly; no, I took eating badly to a whole new level.

Junk food for breakfast. Junk food for lunch. Rich, greasy food for dinner. Beer, wine, or soft drinks with many of our meals. I’m ashamed to say that it had gotten a bit out of hand.

Growing up, I wasn’t a big fan of food. I could take it or leave it, and more often than not, my parents had to beg me to eat anything at all. My food of choice was junk food then, too.

Most of that changed when I met my husband. He loved food and introduced me to things like sandwiches and pot roast, and because of his influence, this long-time picky eater finally fell in love with food. Head over heals, in fact, and my normally fit figure fell with me. Since I met him back in 2006, due to our eating habits and our couch potato ways, I’ve gained nearly 30 pounds.

My extra weight hadn’t really bothered me until…it happened.

Back in February, I attended an event for work. Nothing major, a career day for a bunch of middle schoolers. My primary goal was to not scar them for life.

Mission probably accomplished.

Scarred children aside, a local newspaper photographer was also at the event, snapping candids and then taking a posed group shot at the end of the day.

I'm not the biggest fan of having my picture taken, but at the time, I thought nothing of it. Then one happy April day, a co-worker brought in a newspaper clipping with that spectacular group photo on it in all its black and white glory.

I usually hate pictures of myself. I'm possibly the most un-photogenic person on the planet, but this was bad even for my standards.

Slouchy. Paunchy. Icky. Those are the three words that came to mind when I saw myself.

That photo was officially my wake-up call. It was time to get healthy.

Luckily, I have another couch potato joining me in my endeavors: my husband. During our month of eating better and working out (and by "working out" I mean walking around our neighborhood instead of sitting on our couch), we've learned a few things we thought we should share with our fellow couch potatoes who may be thinking about pulling up their roots:

1) Gnats do not taste good. We walk at about 8:00 each night to avoid the heat of the day. Unfortunately, avoiding the heat means we have to encounter wicked little gnats, which try to fly into our mouths, noses, and eyes...with much success. I've swallowed a couple of the little suckers, which is a wholly unpleasant experience. Trust me.

2) You can get a stitch in your side just from walking. I never would have thought that I was so out of shape that I could be in physical pain after strolling around our neighborhood. I was wrong. After a few weeks of walking, the stitch doesn't come quite as often, but man, when it does...

3) You shouldn't try to jog after only three nights of walking. There's a natural order to these things. Don't try to speed that order up...you may end up coughing up a lung.

4) Your iPod is your friend. The Glee soundtrack that is on permanent loop on my iPod is an excellent walking partner. The upbeat tracks pump me up and give me just the right dose of energy to keep me from giving up too soon. Of course, they also make me want to dance...which for the person walking with me may or may not be a good thing.

5) Fashion is everything. On our first few nights of walking, Jeremy and I were totally unprepared fashion-wise. We walked in jeans. Jeans. What were we thinking? Since then, we've realized the important of proper exercise clothing. It really does make a huge difference.

6) It could be worse. This one comes from the hubby himself, who thought he'd much prefer couch-sitting and video game-playing to an active lifestyle. "It's not as bad as I thought it would be" is about the best endorsement you're going to find from this former couch potato.

And that's true. It could be worse....worse being where we were a month ago with our poor eating habits and days spent sitting around doing nothing. I'm loving our new active, healthier lifestyle so far...despite the gnats, stitches, coughed-up lungs, and that overwhelming urge to dance.

Source: tumblr.com via Lesli on Pinterest

Hanging out with the fabulous folks at yeah write!

We Are Young

2012-05-21T20:09:00.000-04:00

Source: Uploaded by user via Jenna on Pinterest

Sitting on the mountain, on that already sweltering early May morning, I almost wished I could steal their youth from the air. It felt electric, energized, and I breathed it in as if it might take me back ten years, to where they stood now.

I envied them. I envied the hopefulness and optimism that now coursed through their veins, like a sweet elixir fueling their dreams. I remembered feeling that, too, all those years ago; I remembered the possibilities that seemed just within my grasp; I remembered looking forward to a future in which I would finally call the shots.

But at this particular graduation, I noticed the students experiencing something that I did not remember, something that just wasn’t a part of my high school experience. And for this, I envied them even more.

Fifteen graduates were lined on that stage. Fifteen unique, vivid youths ready to conquer the world. Only fifteen. Not thirty. Not 100. Not 500. Only fifteen.

Their experience was unique, enviable. Lovely. Most of them had grown up together. Thirteen years together. Not rare but still unique in the fact that their class was so small, forever bonded by memories, experiences, and friendships that more closely resembled family.

My high school years, on the other hand, were neither unique nor enviable. I expect that my experience resembled the experience of many. I was a wall flower, invisible, a lone wolf. I didn’t fit in with a particular clique, so I didn’t fit in at all. I was too different, too weird, too everything.

When I sat waiting to graduate that May evening all of those years ago, I don’t recall feeling particularly sad. I knew I would never miss those high school years of heartache and pain. I knew I wouldn’t miss being lonely, being self-conscious, being an outcast.

But the fifteen who sat on that stage in front of me now, they taught me something new, something valuable and sweet that I’ll hold on to for years to come.

They were sad, sad not only because they grew up together and were going to miss each other but also sad because they were going to miss something infinitely more important, something that was impossible to get back.

Youth.

I’m still young. At twenty-nine, I’m not one of those women who laments about how old I’m getting or worries over the years ticking away. I try to live a youthful life, with laughter, trips to Disney World, fruit roll-up lunches, an over-abundance of cats. You know the usual.

But when I was waiting to graduate, waiting to walk across that stage and into my new life, I wasn’t thinking about what I might be losing, what I would never be able to get back.

These kids were. You could tell it in every word they said, in the tears streaming down their faces. They knew that the days of after-school snacks, of family dinners, of tears in their parents’ arms, of bike rides with the neighbor’s kids, of catching lightning bugs at dusk—those days were coming to a close. This moment, a proud, exciting moment was the beginning of something new, but at the same time, it was the ending of something equally important, something that is precious and fleeting and beautiful.

I tried not to cry with them as the graduation came to a close. I struggled not to grab the hand of my Daddy, who was sitting next to me, and hold it like I did when I was a little girl. But I kind of wish I had.

These kids were incredibly lucky. Lucky to have grown up in the comforting, supportive arms of a very small school. Lucky to have found each other and the friendships they so obviously treasured. But even more than that, they were lucky to be wise enough to realize that saying hello to the future also meant saying goodbye to a pretty darn good past.

Source: Uploaded by user via Ann-Sophy on Pinterest

Once again, I'm with my friends at yeah write. Hope you'll do yourself a favor and click the link below to meet some wonderful writers and friends.

Patchwork of Love

2012-05-18T08:50:00.000-04:00

Today, when driving in to work, I heard a phrase on the radio that I completely fell in love with. Two women were talking about their parents and how the relationship between their parents had shaped their lives. One of the women described seeing her mother and father exchange loving, tender glances. She stated that such moments helped build and shape a patchwork of love that would endure into her adult life.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought. When I heard the words, I immediately imagined a huge, intricate quilt with vivid and unique patches, woven together with a myriad of different threads. I imagined that my own quilt could stretch far across the sky, wrapping the Earth itself in a warm, comforting embrace.

There would be patches of the strangers who darted in and out of my life and yet left an indelible mark of kindness.

Patches of animals and pets, their fuzzy souls making everything more fulfilled and complete, their friendship filling a gaping hole of loneliness through so many heartbreaks.

Patches of friends, those I can touch and those I can only speak to through words on a screen, but all of those who reached out and whom I reached out to for a lasting connection of laughs and tears, shared happiness and fears.

Patches of memories. Of Pawpaw. Of vacations to Florida. Of Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings.

Patches of the family I so adore, the blessing of a lifetime, the genesis of my own patchwork of love, the memories shared, the bond of blood, the certainty that if I ever need them they’re always just right there.

Patches of the man I love, the partner and friend. Patches of his hugs and kisses and the comfort of his smell and the sweetness of his heart. Patches woven together across great distances with a strong thread that cannot be broken or cut or torn apart.

I am blessed with patches of many shapes, sizes, and colors, but as beautiful as my own quilt is, I find myself even more marveled and mesmerized by the patchwork of love of others, by the differences I see in each. Because truly, the most incredible thing about a patchwork of love is that not everyone's will be built the same or look the same.

Some will be sewn together later in life, past the dark days of an undeserved childhood, past the void left empty by those who should love you the most. Some love has to be built from the ground up with a family that may not be from blood but is instead from the heart. The threads of this patchwork are like steel.

Some, the lucky ones, are born with a patchwork already started for them. From the moment they are conceived, so is the soft quilt that will envelope them through childhood and on.

Some will endure rips, tears, burns. Some may even begin to unravel at certain times, but they will be sewn back together. They will from this darkness be stronger than ever.

Some patchworks...most I would say...will revolve around family. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. Families brought together by the only thing that really matters: Love. These are the patchworks that will be so alike and so different. These are the patchworks that we all must embrace because of that common thread, that universal thread that bonds us all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought, and the even more beautiful thought is that each person carries with them a patchwork of love and that each one is stunningly unique and yet always tying us together with that common thread of love.

What does your patchwork of love look like?

Source: inaweofapplique.blogspot.com via Kristin on Pinterest

To the Mother

2012-05-13T09:52:00.000-04:00

Source: liveinternet.ru via Mariya on Pinterest

To my Mama, who kissed away tears and hugged away fears, who taught me to love, to be kind and respectful, who shared everything with me from wisdom to wishes, who stood hand-in-hand with my Daddy and made me who I am today.

To his Mom, who raised such a selfless man, who raised such an intelligent man, such a goofy and loving man, who raised the man who would be my soulmate, my best friend, and my partner.

To the Mommy, who kisses a toddler's boo-boos, who looks at him with her heart in her eyes, who found the love of her life and the sweetness of a child's hugs.

To the Mother, who didn't have to be a mother, who chose to be the best mother they could ask for, who chose to raise them right, who chose to love them with her entire heart.

To the Mother, who is yet to be, who waits patiently and wishes and hopes and dreams, who will one day be who she is meant to be, will one day love the child she is meant to love.

To the Mother, who has gone away, who watches out from above, who is always in your heart, wishing all the best for you and loving you from far away.

To the Mother, whose chicks have flown the nest, who wrestles with her babies having grown up, who is always there for you even when you're the adult she dreamed of.

To the Mothers, who struggle everyday, who juggle everyday, who stress and worry and love anyway.

Happy Mother's Day

Boring

2012-05-12T08:00:00.000-04:00

Source: tumblr.com via Roy on Pinterest

Truth is I’m boring. An ordinary twenty-nine year-old woman hiding behind fantastical stories and characters I can only dream of knowing. I grew up in an ordinary hometown. Was raised by two ordinary, if not amazing, parents. Had an ordinary, if not happy, childhood.

I’ve not traveled very far, no further than my own country for sure. My most exciting vacations have occurred in Florida: Orlando and St. Augustine, Pensacola and Cape San Blas. I’ve been to Texas, California, Illinois…and no further.

Truth is I’m a bit of a homebody.

My simple pleasures in life are eating a good meal, cuddling on the couch with my husband, tending a small vegetable garden. Nothing too exciting, pretty ordinary and boring I guess.

I wonder sometimes how it could all fit together. An ordinary woman from an ordinary town writing, or at least trying to write, extraordinary non-fiction and fiction. I don’t have a vast well of exciting experiences to draw from. I’ve not been in many relationships. I’ve not even had that many friendships. I’m pretty much a loner with loner tendencies attempting to weave together words in an appealing and interesting way.

All of my heroes had fascinating and exciting lives. They were expatriates and war heroes, serial womanizers and alcoholics. They traveled extensively and walked on the fringes of society. They were the Hemingways and Faulkners, the O’Connors and Poes.

They were tortured and unstable. Artists driven by pain and passion.

I’m cheerful. Happy-go-lucky.

Lower middle class.

Average.

Ordinary and boring.

The closest I come to tortured and unstable is with social anxieties and neuroses. And yet, I write…just like they did. I’m driven to…just like they were.

Not all writers write from dark places. I understand that. Not all writers lead romantic, sensational lives. I understand that as well. But these heroes of mine did, these extraordinary talents who inspire me and whom I aspire to be like were never ordinary or boring…at least by this fan’s approximation.

So how does ordinary, boring me expect to follow in their footsteps? Where can I find inspiration and passion that’s equal to theirs?

The answer is…everywhere.

In the twisting limbs of the ancient oak tree that grows just down the street, watching generations come and go and change with the wind.

In the smiling, toothless grin of the construction worker who’s working hard to bring air back into my office building.

In the laughs and shared secrets between me and my husband, whispered late at night to the summer song of crickets and hoot owls.

In the ordinary, boring days that drag on too long and yet never last long enough.

In the ordinary, boring life of a woman chasing her dream and catching handfuls of wishes-come-true along the way.

I don’t have to travel the world (like Hemingway). I don’t have to drink through pain and sorrow (like Faulkner). I don’t even have to marry my cousin (like Poe). I just have to live life and perhaps look a little closer for my inspiration…because what may first appear to be ordinary and boring may actually be pretty extraordinary after all.

Where do you find inspiration? In grand adventures or everyday blessings?

Speaking of extraordinary, have you visited yeah write yet?

Mouse-Earing the Pages

2012-05-10T20:00:00.000-04:00

150 days. 150 days stand between me and a Disney World vacation.

Although I’m counting down, I won’t wish this time away. The precious days leading up to our trip will be spent preparing, planning, and looking forward.

Basically, I will be turning into what those in the Disney know call a theme park commando.

You know my type. I schedule bathroom breaks between rides on Splash Mountain and Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. I map out the perfect route to Toy Story Midway Mania, so that when the ropes drop I’m first in line. I peruse the various restaurant menus, picking out the perfect entrée, beverage, and dessert.

It’s all pretty obnoxious. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that I get on my own nerves with all the Disney-centric talk, research, and all-consuming preparation.

But I can’t stop. Like a woman-possessed, I pore over Disney World-related websites, print out planning guides, gobble up secret tips. I’ve even started buying clothes for the trip, carefully selecting t-shirts and shorts that will be both comfortable and cute. There’s a special section in my closet where they all hang, tags still intact, waiting for their big day.

The really sad thing is (and there are many sad things here) that once I get to Disney World all of this planning will have been for nothing. We basically do whatever we want to when we want to, which is how vacation should be in my opinion, but up until that moment when we do arrive, every minute of the trip will be scheduled and overscheduled and rescheduled and back again.

And y’all, I don’t even have kids. This is a trip just for me and my husband, a fifth-anniversary celebration to the most magical place on Earth and one of my all-time favorite vacation destinations.

It may seem pretty strange at first: a childless couple in their twenties choosing to go to Disney World on vacation. Isn’t Disney World for kids, you ask? Well, yes and no. It’s for kids, but it’s also for grown-ups. For the adults who refuse to give up fun and goofiness and everyday magic.

Even Walt Disney himself believed that Disney shouldn’t be intended for kids alone, saying: “You're dead if you aim only for kids. Adults are only kids grown up, anyway.” And I guess that’s what Jeremy and I are: kids at heart with obsessive compulsive vacation planning tendencies.

At this juncture, I’ve just about exhausted all of the planning and preparation options available to me, and believe me, there are a lot.

So this weekend I’m going to begin what I refer to as the Disney World Extravaganza notebook, a compilation of all of the menus, planning tools and tips, reservation confirmation documents, and other Disney World odds and ends, all combined stylishly in a pretty green notebook that matches our even prettier green Disney luggage.

After that, we will have around 145 more days to fill with excitement and anticipation, and therein lies my problem. When I’ve already done everything there is to do to prepare, what else is going to be there to get me pumped about the trip?

Ugh. See? Obnoxious.

What do you do to prepare for vacation? Are you a vacation planning maniac? Any tips on how to best enjoy the preparation and counting down?

I Was There

2012-05-05T07:50:00.001-04:00

I was there...

...as a little girl, tucked tight with you in Mawmaw and Pawpaw's guest room, kicking you awake constantly with my flailing legs and arms. You probably hated having to share a bed with me, your annoying little sister, but I loved those nights; excitement would rush through me, the thought of a slumber party with my big sister would nearly overwhelm me. We'd lie awake and whisper to each other, sister secrets shared in the dark and away from adult ears.

I was there...

...helping you decorate for prom. Ducking behind you when your cute friends would come around. I lived in awe of your high school world, crushing on boys way older than me and worshiping you as the princess that you were. I was always just on the outskirts of your world, separate but a part of it because you allowed me to be a part of it. And those times when you didn't allow me to be a part of it? Well, I'd just tell on you like the brat that I was...and still am.

I was there....

...as we grew older, the nine years separating us became fewer and fewer, though the physical distance between us expanded. Friendship blossomed, and we were there for each other in new ways. Georgia Tech games, trips to Disney, phone conversations that would last for hours. Tough times came and went, and we had each other through it all; sisters and best friends. No one understood us like we understood each other, through both joy and pain.

I was there...

...when your water broke and a new adventure began. Labor didn't stop you from doing loads of laundry and offering to drive yourself to the hospital. You've always been strong like that...even when you think you're not, you are. The strongest person I know. And then you gave us Garrett, sweet, unique, handsome little Garrett, a new bond between us, another branch of love.

I was there...

...to watch you become a mother. Years of practicing with me, offering love and guidance, made you a pro. You handled the transition like a champ, though stresses would come and go. You began raising a polite, caring, and very nearly perfect little boy. Jeremy and I would talk about your skill and patience with him, the way you seemed to be born to be his mother.

I was there...

....and I am there. Through it all. Thick and thin. We're sisters. Alike in so many ways and just enough different to make it all more interesting and fun. I know I can call you anytime. I know I can count on you for pep talks and sharing tears. Miles may still separate us, but no distance could dampen our friendship and support of each other. Thanks for being the best big sister. Thanks for putting up with me when I was an annoying tag-a-long and tattletale. Thanks for seeing me through heartbreak and sadness. Thanks for sharing the many happy moments that build our lives.

And happy birthday!

Want to meet some lovely writers? Check out yeah write, the best writing community online!

The Clique

2012-04-27T20:42:00.000-04:00

When we arrive, the hallway is already crowded, wheelchairs and walkers making a curious-looking processional, as the residents wait for their various activities.

On one side, the smokers are obviously getting antsy. On the other, the coffee-drinkers are also beginning to lose their patience.

As Daddy and I duck through, one of the ladies in a wheelchair meets my eyes. "Excuse me." She says, her gravely, smoker's voice announcing which activity she's waiting on. "What time is it?"

Daddy looks at his watch. "9:20. You've got ten more minutes."

Collectively, they all begin to sigh and grumble. Ten minutes might as well be an eternity when you're waiting to smoke, drink coffee, and socialize. Especially here.

Having properly riled up the crowd, we make our way through them and back to Meme's room.

She's already in her wheelchair, blue eyes sharp and bright. Today's another good day.

We begin our visit by making small talk. The weather, politics, family, and Meme's favorite subject: the past. She speaks of events that happened twenty or thirty years ago as if they happened yesterday. She brings the dead back to life, referring to them as if they're waiting in the next room. She thrives on this talk of history and days gone by. And I'm happy that she spends the majority of her days in that happy past.

As our conversation begins to wane, Daddy suggests that we go down to the cafeteria. Meme immediately perks up at the idea.

The trip back down the hallway is no less entertaining than the one upon our arrival. Except this time, Meme's with us. It's a bit clearer than before; the smokers have all moved outside for their morning smoke break, and the coffee-drinkers have gathered in the cafeteria, our destination.

On our way, Meme pokes fun at nurses, admonishes "slow pokes" in front of us, and seems to have something to say to just about everyone. She keeps the hallway laughing, and it turns out this is just a preview of coming attractions.

The second we push through the swinging doors of the cafeteria Meme comes even more alive.

Still unaware of her transformation, Daddy and I choose a table away from the crowd and settle down for a nice chat and a cup of coffee.

From across the room, a woman with light red hair and a full face of makeup gestures, "Mary! Mary!" She waves madly. "How are you this morning?"

I watch, astounded, as Meme yells back across the room. "Doin' good! How about you?"

A few other residents near the red-headed woman notice Meme and join in. They carry on a conversation...although I suspect each person may be on a different subject...from across the room.

Realizing his mistake, Daddy stands and says, "Guess we should move over there."

And so we do. We crowd around a few tables that are already crowded by what I've come to think of as The Clique, and appropriately, the final pieces of the morning seem to click into place, no pun intended.

Like a queen holding court, Meme becomes the center of this small group, cracking jokes and flirting madly with a man named Billy. My Meme, the same one with Alzheimer's, the same one who spends many of her days in a fog, laughs and smiles and entertains us all as if there's nothing wrong, as if a disease isn't eating away at her mind.

Looking across the room, I notice others, those not lucky enough to be part of The Clique, those not lucky enough to know they are even part of this world.

One lady colors furiously, bearing down her crayons onto a coloring book filled with pictures of puppies and kittens.

Another gentleman stares off into space, drool trailing from his bottom lip to the top of his hand where it rests on his wheelchair.

A man I know only as Bubba watches us all from the corner of the room, taking everything in and thinking deep, and what I imagine to be, sad thoughts.

The mixture of sad and happy in the room is one that I didn't expect, but then again, no trip to the nursing home is ever quite what I expect. Some days, like today, are good. There's laughter, easy conversation, and plenty of smiles. These are the days we all have to hold on to, keep replaying in our minds over and over so that we can smile and feel good again.

Because too many of the days are bad. They come too often and stay far too long. Days when the biggest response we can get out of Meme is a blink. Days when we can only stand in her room and cry.

When those days come again, and they will, I'm going to think of The Clique. I'm going to think of how they yelled across the room at each other, how they chatted and giggled, how they almost seemed like teenagers carrying on at lunchtime in high school.

I'm going to think of those fleeting moments of youth, lighting on their shoulders like butterflies, bringing them back to life in colors as vivid as an old woman's crayons.

Source: tumblr.com via Gabriel on Pinterest

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The "I'm Sorry" Jar

2012-04-23T07:00:00.000-04:00

Source: when-pigs-have-wings.blogspot.com via Lauren on Pinterest

I'm not going to start by saying I'm sorry. When I'm at a loss for words, when all seems to be said and done, "I'm sorry" is my stand-by, my go-to phrase. It's the nervous tic I've never been able to conquer, the bad habit I just can't break. It's the motto and slogan and tag-line of a life-long people pleaser, of a self-conscious, socially-anxious, neurotic weirdo with an incredibly guilty conscience.

So, I'm not going to start this by saying I'm sorry. Because I haven't done anything wrong.

And I usually haven't done anything wrong when I say it. The things I apologize for are often beyond my control and have nothing to do with my thoughts or actions...and yet, I still apologize. In fact, I over-apologize.

About two weeks ago, in a meeting with my boss, I found myself uttering those dreaded words again. The meeting had run long, due to no real fault of my own, and I scurried to apologize.

My boss sighed. My tendency to overuse "I'm sorry" wasn't new to her. In fact, she'd admonished me for it before. "Katie, you have nothing to be sorry for."

And I knew that. Logically, I knew that my apology wasn't warranted or necessary.

Logically, I know a lot of things.

As we headed up the hallway from her office, my boss continued, "We're going to break that bad habit of yours. I'm going to start charging you every time you say 'I'm sorry.'"

One of my coworkers who happened to overhear our conversation piped up, "Yeah, we'll start her an 'I'm Sorry' Jar. Kinda like a Cussing Jar. She'll be broke in no time flat!"

The problem is she's right. Absolutely, completely, and embarrassingly correct in every way.

Since then, I've been thinking a lot about my tendency to apologize for anything and everything and nothing. I've been thinking about how those simple words undermine me, about how they take away my power and make me appear weak, about how they justify the actions of others...good or bad.

And when I use them too much? It strips away the power of the words themselves, making them pointless to say and pointless for others to hear.

Out of all the reasons to stop saying "I'm sorry," this was the one that really got to me, that really made me start thinking about how to break this bad habit. Sincerity is important to me. I'm not much of a talker; when I do talk, I want people to know that I mean what I'm saying. I want them to understand that I value words, and I value their meaning. I don't say something just to say it...

...unless I'm saying "I'm sorry."

The compulsion to utter that phrase has become less about the meaning behind the words and more about my own neuroses, my own need to avoid conflict, my own, nearly overwhelming, need to please others.

But I'm sick of being that person. I'm sick of having a perpetually guilty conscience for things that I haven't even done wrong. I'm sick of being a push-over who gains no respect from those around her, who has a reputation of being weak.

I'm not sorry for who I am or for the decisions I make. I'm not sorry that I have opinions that don't match yours. I'm not sorry that you're having to do your job. I'm not sorry that I made one little mistake; everyone makes mistakes. I forgive them for theirs; when will I forgive myself for my own?

When I need to be sorry, I'm sorry. But for the hundreds of thousands of times that I haven't even done anything to be sorry for, I'm not sorry.

Do you have an "I'm sorry" compulsion? How do you keep from apologizing all the time for nothing?

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The Tiny Thumb Theory

2012-04-20T07:33:00.000-04:00

Source: bit.ly via Angelena on Pinterest

Disclaimer: The "scientific theories" herein are neither scientific nor particularly theory-like. I'm just poking a little fun at myself and my fellow cell phone addicts.

In the future, we all have tiny thumbs that make the touch screens and the tiny keyboards of our so-called "smart phones" infinitely easier to use. I only wish that I could speed up this inevitable evolutionary process, because I currently suck at text messaging on my own not-quite-smart, touch screen phone. It can sometimes take as much as an hour to send one text that says, "Wut r u doin? :)." My huge, gangly thumbs stumble over each letter, hitting the "d" when I mean "s," throwing in a period when I intend a comma. It's really very annoying. I'm sure you'll agree.

You know what's also annoying? Grammar. Capitalization. Punctuation. Spelling.

In the future, with our tiny text-messaging, angry-bird-launching thumbs, things like spelling, grammar, and proper word usage will have become obsolete, because Autocorrect--note the capital A--will take care of all of those pesky errors.

In the future, Autocorrect is a well-honed AI that also happens to be President of the United States. By then, all of the bugs (read: human error) will have worked themselves out, and websites like DamnYouAutocorrect.com and AutocorrectFail.org will be a thing of our past, replaced (much like our good sense and any remaining language skills) with websites like AllHailAutocorrect.net and AutocorrectisDaBomb.com.

Ah, the future. A place ruled by computers and humans with tiny, ridiculous-looking thumbs. I can hardly wait. By then, we'll probably even have formed a new language consisting entirely of emoticons.

We're already well on our way:

(=^.^=) <*)))-{ o/\o *\o/* (-_-;)

<_< I think you get the point.

Now don't get me wrong. I love technology. I think it has the potential of leading us into all kinds of Jetson-like awesomeness complete with personal space mobiles and robot maids named Rosie. But in this current age of smart phone apps and autocorrect, I do wonder, in all that we're gaining, if we're also losing a little bit of something along the way.

Things like hand-writing. Will the children of the future know the feeling of tracing letters in a phonics book? Of learning cursive? As antiquated as it may seem, I often still write my stories and poetry in long-hand...there's just something about putting pen to paper that helps me connect with my words and characters on an even greater level.

Things like spelling and grammatical skills, the fine and beautiful art of language...in favor of short-hand and text-speak. "You" becomes "u." "Are" becomes "r." "Love" becomes "luv." And for what? A second saved by cutting down a word and effectively butchering language as we know it.

Things like face-to-face conversation, meeting a person's eyes when you're talking to them, the common courtesy of not staring at a phone while ordering dinner or spending time with a date. Politeness and respect and the manners that our parents taught us long ago.

Source: Uploaded by user via Marly on Pinterest

Coming from a social-network-using, cell-phone-wielding blogger, this all may seem a little hypocritical. Essentially, I'm criticizing the effects of the technology that makes all that I do easier and more successful. Texting, mobile apps, twitter, facebook. They all go hand-in-hand with my world of blogging. They are my teammates, my tools of the trade.

But I'm not asking for these things to disappear. I'm only asking that we think a little bit about our future and our present the next time we text. The next time we launch an angry bird. The next time we stare at our phones instead of participating in human interaction.

Think about how much we've gained, yes...but also, about how much we stand to lose if we allow our phones to take over our lives. And most importantly, think about our tiny thumbs, because who wouldn't laugh when they think of that?

Are you a cell phone addict? Do you think we're losing anything with the ever-increasing popularity of cell phones?

The Land of Missing Pets

2012-04-17T07:00:00.000-04:00

“Katie!”

The dreaded sound of Mama’s voice beckoned me from my perch in the tree house. The sun was setting gold, yellow, and pink over the horizon, and I knew it was time to go back inside. Still, I pretended that I didn’t hear. I would stay in that tree house as long as possible, eyes scanning our yard, the neighbor’s yard, searching desperately, desperately for Mollie.

It was my fifth afternoon in the tree house; the fifth afternoon I’d spent calling her, watching the woods, watching the driveway, watching everything for any sign of her gray and white coat.

Mama and Daddy had all but given up, but the eight-year-old I was stubbornly held on, keeping vigil on Daddy’s plywood and the limbs of an old oak tree for as long as possible. I don’t remember how many more days I stayed in that tree house from after school until nightfall calling Mollie’s name, but I do remember she never came back.

She wasn’t my only pet that went missing, but she’s the one I remember the most…except for Danny of course. Danny was an escape artist. If there was a hole in a fence, he would find it for you and help himself to the always greener grass on the other side.

Not unlike many of the horses I’ve known, Danny was food motivated. Extremely food motivated. He loved cheese puffs, animal crackers, and apple treats. Not to mention sweet feed, alfalfa, and carrots.

If there was nicer, sweeter, more fragrant grass on the other side of the fence, Danny would find a way through and indulge. Thankfully, he escaped only twice (we think), but both times, he managed to get himself in a whole heck of a lot of trouble.

The first escape resulted in a nasty collision with a car.

Thankfully, the driver of the car escaped with only a few scratches, but Danny wasn’t quite so lucky. The accident tore a nasty gash on his beautiful face. Forty-three stitches and three thousand dollars in vet bills later, we decided it was time to move on to greener—and more secure—pastures. Danny’s new home provided better fencing and a little peace of mind.

Several years passed without incident. We checked the fences religiously, patching where needed and always keeping an eye on our big, flashy blonde Appaloosa, lest he should revert back to his old Houdini ways.

And eventually, he did.

When I came home from school one day, Mama broke the news to me.

“Danny’s missing.” She said with a grim tightness around her lips. “Daddy’s already out looking for him.”

Missing? The word didn’t compute. Danny was huge. Hard to miss. How could a 1500-pound horse possibly be missing?

But he was.

We called the Sherriff’s Department daily, drove up and down the streets calling his name. We did all the things you do when a pet a missing, even though our pet happened to be a horse.

About three days out, we got a lead that Danny was spotted in a church parking lot on a Sunday; I guess he was praying that we’d find him. At the time, I imagined him milling about the church goers, nibbling on the floppy hat of the pastor’s wife, saying his “hi, how are you’s” and nodding his gigantic head.

The church lead never did pan out, but all the praying I'd been doing did finally pay off.

Daddy was the one who found him. On one of dozens of drives down country roads. Like me holding vigil for Mollie in my childhood tree house, Daddy just wasn’t willing to give up.

Danny was pinned in the front yard of a mobile home of a family who claimed they’d tried to find his owners, but I suspect they hadn’t. They had a nice setup going on, new (temporary) fencing, fresh hay. We figured they intended to take him to the livestock sale, make a few extra hundred dollars.

Thankfully, we found him just in time. Thankfully, he wasn't destined to disappear to the land of missing pets, that elusive place where cats and dogs--yes, I suppose even horses--go when their people can't find them, that place where they all sit and wait patiently until we finally come to take them home.

The Blonde Who Still Has My Heart

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Before It Slips Away

2012-04-09T20:00:00.000-04:00

You and Mawmaw

It seems odd to me that I hardly ever write of you, odd that I think of you almost every day and yet do not wrap my words around you and the memories I have of you. Why would that be? Why would you whom I love and miss so much almost never find your way into my words?

You're Pawpaw. I think of you often. I talk of you often. You're the man who gave me my love of cats. You're the man who paid me a dollar to scratch your back. You're the man who sailed the ocean and fed hungry sailors. You're the man who could talk for hours about nothing and about everything.

You defined my childhood; in many ways, you define my now.

The memories I have of you I keep close to my heart, cherishing each one, replaying them in my mind over and over, grasping constantly for the little pieces that might be slipping away. And yet, I write none of them down. Me: the writer of words, the recorder of thoughts and dreams and yesterdays.

Mawmaw spoke of you last night. Equal parts sadness and sweetness evident in her voice, tears and the ghost of you reflected in her eyes. She spoke, and I drank it all in, eager to hear stories I'd heard a thousand times before, eager to see you again through her words. And I did see you again.

Just as her story ended, she said something that pierced my heart and made me deeply ashamed.

"I wish I could write it all down. It could almost be a book."

I don't have many talents. I'm not particularly athletic or crafty. My cooking is mediocre at best. I don't paint or take photographs. But I do write. I write because I love to. I write because I'm driven to. I wish I could share my writing with you now. You don’t know how many times I’ve wished that.

Over the years, I’ve wished many things that involve you.

I wish you could have been there to see my horses, to see me and Danny sail over fences, to see Suzy looking so fine all prettied up for a show.

I wish you could have been there when I graduated high school and college…even though I felt you there in each moment.

I wish you could have met Jeremy. You would love Jeremy. He’s honorable and kind and so smart. A lot like you. He’s quiet though; you would’ve enjoyed ribbing him and uncovering that quiet exterior. You two could have talked on the porch for hours.

But I don’t have to wish one day that I had written your’s and Mawmaw’s stories down. I won’t wish that someday. Mawmaw may not be able to write it all down, but I can.

The story she told last night was about your time in the Veteran’s Hospital, back when you fought your battle against tuberculosis. For two years, you were away from Mawmaw and your children, my mother included, fighting to get well. For two years, Mawmaw visited you every weekend, wearing gloves and a mask and unable to even be near you or touch you.

It’s unfathomable to think of you, strong, virile, full of life, reduced to a bed and a hospital for two years of your life. But you were. You lost a lung, lost much of your physicality during those two years. Mawmaw says when they first took you into the hospital that you were so strong needles would break in the muscles on your arms. And when you left, for a long time you couldn’t even get a job because of your limitations and others’ fear that you could still be contagious.

It’s just like you to bounce back. It’s just like you to fight against all odds to rebuild your life and your family and do whatever was necessary to provide for them. And you did bounce back. You went on to live a full and happy life, with three children, six grandchildren, and Pawpaw, now you have five great grandchildren.

But that’s a story for another day, and I promise, Pawpaw, to write it all down.

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Hide and Seek

2012-04-06T10:14:00.000-04:00

Her playhouse was made of leaves and vines, of sticks and trees. Sunlight filtered into it, setting her stage of childhood and sorrow with spackles of brightness and shadow.

Inside, drawn up against the forest floor, she counted to ten, again and again, a whispered repetition that became more frantic, labored breath catching on each hurried number.

Somewhere, a twig would snap. A bird would call. And the girl would freeze, thinking her adventure over, knowing her freedom was fleeting. He would find her. He always did. No matter how still she grew or quiet her counting.

He always did.

Author's Note: Fiction inspired by #100WordSong, the brilliant weekly writing challenge from my buddy Lance of My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. This week's song was "Runaway" by Jefferson Starship chosen by the delightful Kir of The Kir Corner.

Mirror, Mirror

2012-04-03T07:00:00.000-04:00

Perception. Such a tricky thing. There’s how others perceive me:

Shy.

Nervous.

Malleable.

Weak.

Since I was a child, people have made similar snap judgments about me, as people are wont to do.

Oh, she’s quiet? She must be shy.

Oh, she’s blushing? She must be nervous.

Oh, she wants to please people? She must be malleable.

Oh, she avoids confrontation? She must be weak.

And maybe I am all of those things. But I’m not just those things. I’m not just a neurotic introvert with tendencies of being a pushover. And I’d prefer if people didn’t boil me down to that. Because I am so much more.

Would you ever guess that this shy girl loves to argue? Would you ever guess that when she’s driving she cusses like a sailor? In your skewed and narrow-minded view of me, would you imagine that I’m crazy competitive? Did you know that I have a quick Irish temper? The soul of a poet? The heart of a fighter?

Funny, while in high school, everyone said I was shy. They would say it with a twinge of sympathy coloring their voices: “Oh, Katie? Well, she’s shy.” In the South, we add “bless her heart” to the end of things like that, and all the sudden, insulting someone or talking about them behind their back suddenly becomes okay. At least that’s what we tell ourselves.

To be fair, being called shy wasn’t particularly insulting. I’ve been called much worse. But as a child, I remember perceiving that three-letter-word as the nastiest of insults. Hearing it would make me cringe, because I knew it minimalized me and my abilities; I knew that as long as that word hovered over my head, I would be held back by it.

In middle school and high school, I was help back by it. I was held back by it, because I started believing it. It was the word used most often to describe Katie, the word that popped out of nearly anyone’s mouth when asked about me.

I was Katie. I was the shy girl. I was boiled down to nothing more than a label.

I think that’s what happens to many of us in high school. We get labeled. We’re jocks. Or nerds. Or outsiders. Or shy girls. We’re square pegs forced into round holes. Never mind about how we perceive ourselves. In high school, it’s all about how others perceive us.

I realized today that life hasn’t changed much from high school.

Even though I turn twenty-nine in two days, I’m still allowing myself to be defined by others. I’m still letting someone else tell me that I’m shy or a pushover or not true to myself. I’m still letting someone else tell me what’s wrong with me, why I don’t quite fit.

Source: business-beware.tumblr.com via Ashley on Pinterest

Today, something broke inside me. A flood of feelings, a barrage of pent-up frustrations, each one assaulting both heart and head and leaving me exposed and sure of nothing. Afterward the dam broke, I sat in front of my computer for nearly two hours, the day’s events replaying shot-by-shot in my head, regrets and confusion bubbling to the surface.

And I wrote this post, then made this vow:

My last year of my twenties will not be defined by friends or enemies. My last year of my twenties will be about me: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I will be myself. I will be kind, caring, goofy, and strange. I will worry about everything. I will laugh about nothing. I won’t let the negativity of others drag me down. I won’t let the opinions others have of me define me. I won’t let their misconceptions rule the day. I will be me, and I will love that person, flaws and all.

Have you ever been defined by a label? Do certain people in your life have misconceptions about who you are?

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Kaleidoscope

2012-03-27T07:00:00.000-04:00

Source: stitchedincolor.com via Michelle on Pinterest

As I played with Barbies in the floor of my purple childhood bedroom, I knew the names of my children. I knew, and my Barbies knew, and so together, we acted out complicated and dramatic scenes of family and futures that wouldn’t even come close to what my real future would turn out to be.

By the time I was eight-years-old, I had resolved that one day I would have babies. I named these babies Benjamin and Lucy and felt assured that nothing would change my desire for babies or their set-in-stone names.

As time passed, the desire did change. I became more interested in things like horses and travel and writing. I became less interested in my Barbies and any future babies that I might have. My future, once painted in reds and yellows and blues, transformed into vibrant greens and purples, becoming a rich kaleidoscope that no longer resembled anything I had previously imagined for myself.

College rolled around, and my kaleidoscope future at turns both settled and shifted, constantly changing to reflect my current moods and obsessions. When I met Jeremy, I was no longer an eight-year-old with dreams of future children named Benjamin and Lucy; I was a grown woman, and I didn’t know if I even wanted kids.

Jeremy was certain. Positive. He knew more than anything that he wanted a wife, and he wanted a family. Used to, when you asked what he wanted to do with his life, his answer was simple: he wanted to be a dad.

I was uncertain. Questioning. Mind reeling with possibilities and outcomes. When asked what I wanted to do with my life, my answer was complicated, multi-part, and almost never included children.

I worried that this would ultimately be a point of contention. I had seen other couples break up over similar decisions. If this, a most fundamental point of compatibility, was up for debate, then would we ever make it?

Despite my misgivings, Jeremy and I discussed possibilities. Kids, college, career paths. At one point, we even named our possible future children. Beautiful names that still give me goosebumps when I think of how perfect they are. I’ve always been a namer of things. Pets, random wildlife that wander into our sights, stuffed animals, cars. A thing has a name, and it has life, a purpose, a meaning.

Those dream children of ours have a life, a purpose, a meaning, even if they never come to be.

Together, Jeremy and I dreamed and planned, revealing a combined realization for the future that paled in comparison to past versions of the same future. As we built our own family of cats and each other, Jeremy’s desire for children waned. My own desires became less clear. To this day, they are still unclear.

Most of the time, I lean towards the “I don’t want children” camp. Admitting this is hard. I wonder if something is wrong with me, if something inside is broken. I’ve even had friends all but say that something is broken, that something must be missing from me if I don’t want to have kids, that I’m not whole.

And I wonder if that’s true, and honestly, it hurts to wonder that.

Everyone has different wishes and hopes. Everyone has a different kaleidoscope future. Would mine be less vibrant, less bright, less fulfilled if it didn’t include children? Or could I find my own sources for fulfillment and contentment through my husband, through my family, through my beautiful nephew, through my words?

Source: flickr.com via Ruth on Pinterest

Kids are a blessing, no doubt, but they are not the only blessing life has to hand out.

Ultimately, Jeremy and I have to decide what we want. We have to revisit the baby question and think long and hard on what our changing kaleidoscope future has in store. Lucky for us, if we do end up having kids, we already have some stellar names picked out…and if we don’t, well, we’re pretty dang good at naming cats, too.

Author's Note: I won't lie. This one was hard to share. Knowing I have supportive readers and friends gave me the courage to hit publish.

And I'm sharing with the supportive community of yeah write as well. Please take the time to click the button below and discover some truly beautiful blogs. And if you have the opportunity, return on Thursday to vote for five of your favorite posts.

No Maintenance

2012-03-23T22:14:00.001-04:00

I have a confession.

Self-respecting fashionistas and readers who take any sort of pride in appearance, stop reading now, because this isn’t going to be pretty.

I haven’t had my hair cut in almost a year. This isn’t a religious choice. It’s certainly not a choice based on aesthetics or beauty. In fact, it could hardly be called a choice at all. Truth is I’m just lazy.

Taking the time out of my schedule of writing, working, and spending time with my family to get a haircut just isn’t high on my priority list. And for me, haircuts aren’t just a quick trip to the salon. No, a salon visit can take hours. Hours to cut. Hours to color. Hours I could spend doing something useful like spot welding or fixing the drip in our bathroom faucet.

I’ve been blessed with thick hair. I know it’s a blessing, believe me, I know that. But it’s also a curse. Every stylist I’ve ever encountered has marveled at my thick locks, eyeing the brunette mess on top of my head with a combination of admiration and horror… probably because they know they are about to have to deal with it. And dealing with it takes hours, y’all. Hours out of my precious life. Hours I’ll never get back.

Low maintenance is putting it mildly with me. I’m practically no maintenance. I’ve always been the kind of woman who’d rather play in the dirt than play with makeup, who’d rather throw my hair in a ponytail than spend anytime styling it. I’m a tom boy, the furthest thing from a frilly, pretty female that you’ve encountered.

I don't tan.

I only wear makeup 'cause I'm scary if I don't.

I don't bother with perfume or pretty-smelling lotions.

My fingernails are never painted. Nor are my lips.

And I like it that way. Mostly. But there comes a time in every tom boy's life that a little TLC is necessary. A time when your split ends have their own split ends. A time when your eye brows must part ways and become two once again. A time when your gray hairs must take cover for something a little more civilized and a little less Bride of Frankenstein.

So, my friends, I have decided to visit the dreaded salon. For the sake of those who have to look at me, I will brave having to sit in that uncomfortable chair for hours. I will make awkward small talk with the stylist and valiantly pretend like I'm a real girl.

And to my Mama, my sister, and all others who beg me to get my hair done every once in a blue moon: enjoy this while it lasts, 'cause it'll probably be another year before it happens again.

How about you? Are you high maintenance? Low maintenance? Or, like me, no maintenance? All tom boys, raise your hands!

High Notes

2012-03-20T07:00:00.000-04:00

Something strange happens sometimes. You experience a moment, a flash in time that is so inspiring, so beautiful, that as a writer you can’t wait to record it.

The words spill out, each one crowding the next as they fly over the page, settling onto the white spaces of it like a flock of birds on a fresh-cut field. You write what could very well be your best work ever in twenty minutes flat, the inspiration so amazing, so beautiful that you can hardly contain it all in mere words.

Source: weheartit.com via Linda on Pinterest

And then it's over.

The world settles back into place around you, and you're left feeling drained, spent, mind reeling, wondering if you'll ever be able to write again.

For those few precious moments, it was easy, a perfectly orchestrated symphony of words and images and phrases coming together to create something really special, something beautiful and unique.

But most of the time, it's hard.

When I first started writing, it was difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that not everything I wrote was going to be my best work. I just couldn't understand how one day I could write beautifully, and the next it was like I'd forgotten how to string together a coherent sentence.

Well, it's the next day, y'all. It has been for about a week.

Now, before this becomes one of those whiny writer's block posts that we all know I'm capable of writing, I figure I better shift gears a bit and talk about Seinfeld.

Growing up in my dry and witty household, Seinfeld was a commodity, a staple upon which we feasted every Thursday night. I learned many life lessons (particularly what NOT to do) from the likes of Elaine, Jerry, Kramer, and George. I laughed about things like contraceptive sponges and being the "master of my domain," even when the meaning of both were largely lost upon me as a clueless preteen.

Despite the fact that it's been off the air for more than ten years, Seinfeld quotes still pepper the conversation of many a family gathering, where you might hear any member of my family shout out "Cartwright!" or "No soup for you!" over Sunday dinner. We like to say that for every situation life throws at you there is a Seinfeld episode that corresponds and relates in some cosmic way.

The same can be said for the bout of "writer's block" that I'm currently facing.

This time I’m reminded of the Seinfeld episode when George tries to leave every situation "on a high note." He wants to leave a good impression, for everyone to remember him when he was on his game, and so he adopts an "I'm out!" philosophy. When he happens to pitch a good idea or tell a particularly funny joke, he immediately bows out of the room. He thinks that leaving on a high note will make him seem more clever to his friends and colleagues. And maybe that's true...for awhile.

But, as in most Seinfeld episodes, George's plan eventually backfires, and he's left juggling more than he bargained for. The English major in me wants to over-analyze the message that the Seinfeld writers are sending. And so I will.

Life has plenty of high notes; if we're lucky, we all get to experience those precious moments when everything is perfectly in sync and grooving. With writing. With work. With life at home. But life has plenty of duds as well, and there's absolutely no way to avoid them. Eventually, they just catch up with us.

The trick is to keep going. Write past creative blocks. Fight past bad days at work. Look past negative people. And just keep swimming.

Wait, that's Finding Nemo, and I'm mixing my references, but you get what I mean. Bowing out is never an option, not even when the words escape you, not even when it looks like you may never write anything lovely again...

Because just when you've lost all hope, when you think that your voice is gone for good, that flock of words lights on the white spaces of your page and inspiration takes flight.

For some beautiful inspiration and writing, I highly encourage you to visit yeah write by clicking the button below, and don't forget to visit again on Thursday when you can vote for your five favorite posts:

The Catervention

2012-03-14T19:55:00.001-04:00

Last night, I was part of a Catervention. As informal as it was, I’m pretty certain that some detailed planning went into the entire thing.

My parents, husband, and I were cruising down the interstate, discussing fascinating topics like the weather and flatulence in the workplace, when the subject of my new kitten came up. They probably thought it was a casual turn in the conversation. I know better.

My love for cats has long been a source of contention in my family. During my twenty-nine years on this earth, there’s never been a time when I was catless. Growing up, my parents begrudgingly surrendered to my obvious need for feline interaction, but we rarely (see: never) had more than one cat at a time. They controlled my addiction as long as I was under their roof.

But when I wasn’t under their roof anymore, I entered the cat collecting phase of my life.

The first apartment my husband and I lived in didn’t allow pets. This minor detail didn’t stop me from moving my diabetic cat in with us. After she passed from an infection, Jeremy and I went to the shelter and rescued Kisa, our first cat together.

We lived in bliss with Kisa for a little over a year before deciding that we needed to rescue another cat: Sushi. Another year passing saw the rescue of Poe.

Up until last week, we were a three-cat household with no plans for expanding our family. Three cats was quite enough, thank you. The shedding. The litterboxes. The never-ending cycle of pouncing, napping, eating, and meowing. It had finally satisfied my yearning for cats. Finally.

The satisfaction lasted a whole year or so. Which brings us to present and last Friday, when a deaf kitten showed up on our doorstep, and I officially entered Crazy Cat Lady territory. Hence the Catervention.

We’re pretty sure the kitten was dumped, cast off by a family who didn’t have the time or inclination to care for her. We live in a large subdivision, so what better place to dump your unwanted pets? I won’t get on my soapbox regarding abandoned pets today…but suffice it to say, it’s one of the things that make me fighting angry.

I was minding my own business, ironically writing a story about my Pawpaw and his love for cats, when I heard her desperate meowing.

She was curled up on the rug in front of our door, and when I opened the door, she didn’t even budge. Looking back, I should have known right away that she couldn’t hear me and that’s why she didn’t move, but we didn’t discover her hearing impairment until later that night.

Cat lover that I am, I immediately fell head over heels. She was tiny, still a kitten but at that stage where they look more like a miniature cat than a kitten. Golden eyes, black fur highlighted with splashes of gold. Adorable and sweet, so sweet.

Thoughts of “what are we going to do?” rushed through my head. We could take her to the animal shelter, leaving her with an uncertain future. We could advertise her on facebook to a handful of friends.

We could keep her.

I kept circling back to the keeping-her option. What can I say? I’m a sucker.

When Jeremy came home, it was probably already a hopeless case. By that time, I was pretty sure that she was deaf and that put another checkmark in the Keeping Her column. And unfortunately, Jeremy is also a soft-touch with no common sense when it comes to these sorts of things, so there was no one around to talk us out of what ultimately became our final decision.

Futilely, my parents tried last night, five days after Bast (named after an Egyptian goddess) entered our lives.

“We just don’t want you to turn into those women we saw on that Animal Planet Show the other night.” My mom pleaded. “You said you’d stop at two cats, then at three. We don’t want to watch you on Animal Hoarders one day!”

And I don’t want that to happen either, but I couldn’t possibly say no to that little kitten with the black fur and gold spots, especially considering we have room in our hearts and home for her.

Just say a quick prayer that no other strays show up on our porch, because four cats is our limit. No more after four…

Probably.

Linking up with the writers at yeah write once again!

But, Now I See

2012-03-05T20:00:00.000-05:00

Source: 221vision.com via Kaycee on Pinterest

It’s a surreal experience to sit through the same grandfather’s funeral twice in one lifetime. And yet, here I sit, surrounded by family and mouthing the words of “Amazing Grace” as the pastor strums along on his guitar.

I’m ashamed that I don’t know the second verse of “Amazing Grace,” and when I look across the room and see my grandmother, who has Alzheimer’s, singing along at the top of her voice with every word, it makes me even more ashamed.

Today is a good day. MeMe’s mind is sharp; her eyes are bright. It should be a sad occasion, but instead, it feels joyful and sweet. She seems happy, and that makes us all happy.

My grandfather, MeMe’s husband, has been dead for over sixteen years, but in her damaged mind, he died only recently. His death had been troubling her for a few weeks. She had begun asking Daddy and my aunt Claire daily when the funeral was going to be. One particularly hard day, she was ready to leave for the cemetery when Daddy arrived for his daily visit.

Daddy and Claire finally decided that a funeral was in order, something to put her mind at rest and give her some resolution.

Sitting here now, watching her smile and sing along with hymns that are as familiar to her as her own name, I know that they were right.

Alzheimer’s is a nasty disease. It picks and chooses the memories it destroys, leaving some and taking others without any rhyme or reason.

MeMe has vivid memories of the past. Daddy can ask her about neighbors they had thirty or forty years ago, and she remembers their names and the stories surrounding them. Most of the time, she lives in this vivid past, speaking of her Mama and Papa as if they were in the next room, speaking of her children as if they were still teenagers.

I often wonder where the present fits into this past, because, thankfully, MeMe still remembers the names of those in her present. When I visit, I see the recognition in her eyes, and I feel relieved that we have this, just this one thing that we can all still hold on to. In MeMe’s world grown grand-children and long-dead parents can exist together outside of any physical boundaries of time and space.

It’s a world you could almost envy, if you didn’t know any better.

Today, in this present, her smile is infectious, toothless though it may be. She beams it at all of us and keeps saying, “It’s a shame that something like this had to happen to bring us all together.”

And it is a shame.

We visit the Nursing Home as often as possible. Daddy and Claire are there nearly every day. But it’s hard. Life is moving on in the world outside of those walls that keep MeMe so closed in, life is moving on, and because it is, it’s easy to forget.

Which is pretty ironic when you think about it.

Daddy is constantly reminding us all that the people inside the Nursing Home are still people. They still have hopes and dreams and sadness. They have good days and bad days and days when they might not want to go on at all. They're trapped inside a place that reduces them to nearly nothing if we let it. So we mustn't let it, and thus, he reminds me often that those inside are people just like us.

I have to keep repeating this thought like a mantra when I go down the long corridors of the facility. I make it a point to meet the old eyes of each resident I pass, smiling kindly and offering a softly-spoken "hello" and "how are you."

Yes, it's hard to go there. It's hard to see those people trapped. It's hard to see MeMe in a tiny little room that's shared with another resident, a virtual stranger, whose name constantly escapes MeMe’s damaged mind.

But on days like today, when off-key church hymns fill the stale air and make an otherwise sad place happy, when MeMe smiles like she used to, and you almost forget where you are, it’s easy.

Joining up once again with the fabulous writers at yeah write. Click the button below to read some truly wonderful writers and don't forget to return on Thursday to vote for your five favorite posts.

Falling In and Out of Love

2012-03-03T13:12:00.000-05:00

Writing is not my best friend today. It was yesterday, my source of comfort and joy, passion and fulfillment. Today, it represents only pain and frustration, and as I scramble to get it back to good, I am forced to reevaluate our relationship and look at exactly where we stand.

An inevitable part of writing is hitting roadblocks. Lack of inspiration. Particularly harsh criticism. Self-doubt.

The key is to push through those roadblocks and continue on this bumpy journey, never giving in and never giving up.

This week, I hit a roadblock. This week, I wanted to give up.

Part of freelancing, I'm learning, is writing on topics I'm not particularly interested in. I'm given an assignment, and I write on that assignment, regardless of my feelings on the subject. I always want to connect with my subjects, but it's unrealistic to expect that I will be passionate about everything I write.

Until recently, I had that expectation.

When I'm passionate about something, my writing improves exponentially. This is probably no big surprise to anyone and may be true for most everyone, but it's true for me just the same.

I am a machine fueled by passion and love and feelings so strong that sometimes my heart just can't contain them all. So those feelings spill freely and uncensored from my fingertips, splashing onto the page like impossibly bright drops of paint, filling that blank canvas with ideas and characters and just the right words.

When my passion is on empty, the machine slows, choking and sputtering and tripping on every word.

This leaves me at a crossroads. To live the dream and get paid to write, I'll inevitably have to write on subjects of little interest to me.

Source: weheartit.com via Jenna on Pinterest

My husband says to write on those subjects I'll need to apply everything I know about writing, everything I've learned over the years and write from my head instead of my heart. For these assignments, I'll need to look at writing as more of a science instead of an art. I'm not a particularly methodical kind of writer. I feel the words, and I write them.

I don't outline.

I don't brainstorm.

I just write. Just writing has been the only thing I know and understand.

But now, at this crossroads, at this point of looking at writing as more of a profession and less of a hobby, I have to change gears. In order to produce the best work possible, I need to learn a whole slew of new skills.

How to interview. How to ask the right questions, get the right answers. How to inspire my contacts to give me the best quotes possible.

How to work with someone else's words. How to insert those words seamlessly into my own words and make the entire piece flow like water.

How to brainstorm. How to outline. How to draft. How to read an editor's mind and know exactly what they need from an assignment. How to give them what they need.

Relationships change. That's just part of life, I guess. But do I want my relationship with writing to change?

When I first met Jeremy, I tried to talk him into going to culinary school. He loved to cook, so my natural assumption was that he would also love to cook for a living. But he balked at that idea, citing the fact that he didn't want to make cooking into work. It was a passion for him, something he loved to do, and he didn't want the stigma that comes with "working" to change that passion.

At the time, I didn't understand. If you could do something you loved for a living, why wouldn't you? It seemed simple to me.

Today, I understand him and his reasons a little better. Today, my passion has changed.

Can I separate the two sides of myself that have a relationship with writing? Can I keep my passion and keep my work?

As a child, I loved the beach. I wanted to move to the coast and live there forever. When I voiced this dream, my parents always said, "Katie, if you lived there all the time, just like anything else, you'd get tired of it. It wouldn't be as special."

And I guess that's just it. I don't want writing to become living at the beach.

Author's Note: I want to be clear that I'm happy about having the opportunity to write for pay. After a bad week with freelancing, I'm just taking a moment to look at what that means for me and how that may change my relationship with writing.
How do you feel about mixing work and play? Would freelance writing change the way you feel about creative writing?

Evening the Score

2012-02-28T07:00:00.000-05:00

I have a pretty severe competitive streak. Ask anyone who knows me. It’s kind of ridiculous. When I’m driving, I feel like I’m running laps at the Daytona 500; I zoom here and there, obeying the speed limit usually but always, mindlessly, competing with the other drivers. I’m an especially bad passenger, a backseat driver to the extreme, constantly egging my husband on. “Don’t let them pass you!” “Can you believe they cut you off like that?” “Be sure to get a good jump at the red light!”

What kind of crazy, competitive person am I?

My grandmother once told me that someone was always going to be in front of you driving, so there was no need to hurry. Life’s not a race. But I sometimes have a hard time wrapping my head around that fact.

One of the first big fights I had with my husband was caused by my competitive streak and his penchant for cheating. I had just got a board game called Scene It, and I was super excited to start playing it…until I walked into the living room and caught him reading the answer cards. He’s pretty competitive, too, and he was trying to get an edge on the game. Not cool, and I let him know it.

Since then, we’ve understood and respected each other’s limits regarding games and competition, and we’ve mostly avoided any further conflict as a result. Mostly. When we pull out the Monopoly board, however, there’s bound to be a little drama. I whine because I never land on the good properties during the first few rolls. I whine because I get sent to jail more than a drug-addicted celebrity. I whine because after a few times around the board my husband seems to own every property and has started developing houses and hotels on each one. Forking over those little colorful bills makes my heart hurt, and of course, he’s got a smug smile on his face the entire time we’re playing.

He denies it, but I know he’s smug. I know, because on the rare occasion that I actually beat him at a game, I’m smug. Nope, they don’t come any smugger than me.

In fact, just this last week I’ve had much cause to be smug, because I finally, finally found a game that I actually beat him at. Smug smiling and happy dancing ensued. The game may be one that you’re familiar with: Words With Friends.

Now, for the longest time, I was able to avoid this popular, dare-I-say viral online game. I typically avoid trendy stuff, and Words With Friends seemed just about as trendy as you could get. But, alas, on a particularly boring Sunday night, I gave in to the craze.

For those who may be unfamiliar with Words With Friends, it’s basically Scrabble on a computer. You spell out words with letter tiles on a game board full of wonderful little bonuses, like “Triple Word” scores and “Double Letter” scores. It’s basically the Olympics for word nerds like me and my husband, and I was the gold medal winner for the first ten games or so. Until…

Until, my husband played a single word “overmeek” and earned 115 points with it. Ah, my friends, the tables turned. My smug smiling and happy dancing came to an abrupt end. My favorite competitive phrase “nanny nanny boo boo” died on the tip of my tongue. My smarty pants, equally-competitive husband is the winning family member, the head honcho, the supreme Ross…for now.

But, never fear! I plan to pull out Jenga later and even the score.

Are you a competitive cat? What drives your competitive streak?

The Case of the Missing Ovary

2012-02-25T08:00:00.000-05:00

Author's Note: Daddy, you may want to skip this one.

A few weeks ago my right ovary went missing. True story.

It was gone for a full twenty minutes, and I’ll be honest. I was kind of sweating its absence.

The room where it all went down was mercifully dark, but somehow that didn’t make my situation any better. I was there for an ultrasound. Not the cute baby kind either.

Before the appointment even got started, there’d been the typical confusion and panic over the Gown of Doom and the Little Red Button of Humiliation. For those (i.e. MEN) who may be blissfully unfamiliar with these Villains of Gynecology, allow me to introduce you.

The Gown of Doom is a starchy, scratchy, pillow case thing that, at the beginning of a “yearly checkup,” every woman is left alone with to fight to the death in a battle of wits. The Gown is tricky, see. Most hospital gowns open to the back, but no! Not the Gown of Doom. The Gown of Doom must open to the front. I’m probably the only person in the world who has a hard time remembering that, but even without this complication, the gown is uncomfortable and evil. Trust me.

Via - What comes up when you google "Gown of Doom"

After frantically calling my best friend, mom, and sister to confirm the proper usage of the gown, there came the Little Red Button of Humiliation.

When I was first taken into the ultrasound room, the technician chirpily told me that once I was undressed and gowned up, I “should just press the red button and someone will be right in!” (By “right in” they usually mean twenty to thirty minutes later after the Gown of Doom has given you a rash, and you’ve given up all hope of ever getting out of there alive.)

She made it sound so simple.

I followed her too-happily-announced instructions and stripped. The room was at least 62 degrees, and it was still January. Chill bumps popped up to join me in my shame. The Gown of Doom offered little comfort or warmth.

I eyed the Little Red Button of Humiliation, looked back at the exam table.

The Button.

The table.

They were probably six feet apart.

I decided to try sitting on the exam table, then reaching back for the button. This seemed feasible. I wasn’t an Olympic gymnast or yoga master, but even I could manage the little stretch it would take to reach the button.

Negative.

As I attempted to make the little stretch necessary to push the button, the Velcro from the Gown of Doom violently protested by ripping apart and leaving me exposed. Now, if I was telling a made-up story, this would be the part where the nurse knocks and walks in, taking in all my shame and full body blush. But alas, nothing nearly that funny happened, and I was left to readjust the Gown of Doom, hop off the table, and press the Little Red Button of Humiliation.

I somehow managed to rearrange myself and get back on the exam table with that awful crinkly paper before the Ultrasound Tech Chippy McChipperton came back in. Thus began the exam.

“This will be a little cold.”

Holy Mother of God!!!!

Yes, she was right. The gel and ultrasound wand thingy were equally cold as she pressed them along my lower abdomen and made small talk about the weather and her kids. Intermittently dispersed amongst the small talk were her attempts to point out various parts of my body. Looking at the gray fuzziness on the screen, I was reminded more of a geography class as she chattered on:

“There’s Mozambique, and then to the South of that is your left ovary, and…

…hmm.”

Hmm? Nobody wants to hear a medical professional ever say “Hmm” when they’re looking at your body or something inside it.

I took a deep breath, searching the Tech’s puzzled face. “Is there something wrong?”

“I just can’t seem to find your right ovary. You do have one, right?”

What the hell kind of question is that? I mean, I guess I have one, unless unbeknownst to me it fell out! “Umm…yeah.”

She pressed the wand thingy harder into my abdomen, moved it here, then there…and back again.

For twenty minutes.*

The Gown of Doom bit into my skin. The wand thingy started to kind of tickle. I struggled not to squirm.

Finally. Finally, she smiled and said, “Oh, there it is!”

Turns out the whole time it was hiding just behind Russia or some gas bubbles in my colon. Silly ovary.

*Time may have been exaggerated, but it seemed like twenty minutes. Believe me.

I'm sharing this with the wonderful writers at yeah write. To meet some fantastic writers who blog, visit them by clicking the button below:

My Dearest Ms. Austen

2012-02-19T19:54:00.001-05:00

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My Dearest Ms. Austen –

I hope this letter finds you well. Of course, you are dead, so I’m not really sure how “well” you could be. But for a dead writer, I do hope you are well. I hope your eternity is full of ink and quills and social situations to poke fun of.

To start, I would like to comment on a hero from my favorite of your beloved novels, one Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Good God, woman, could you have created a more perfect man? You might already know this, but countless readers have lusted after your Mr. Darcy…particularly when he’s portrayed by Colin Firth on film. Yummy.

But I digress. Thanks for the high expectations. No woman deserves less than a passionate, stubborn, very-nearly-insulting, and intelligent man like Darcy, and no woman should settle for a man who brings forth less passion within her. I have my own irritating and adorable Mr. Darcy, and I wouldn’t trade him for the world.

More important than the dead sexy and very real Colin Firth or the dead sexy and very fictional Mr. Darcy, I would like to mention the nature of your words and your storytelling ability and how both of these things heavily influenced the direction my life has taken.

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As a little girl, I loved to read and be read to, not unlike many children; however, as I grew, I found that my passion for words stretched far beyond just reading them. I had a writer’s heart: first kindled in a grade school poetry competition, catching fire in an eighth grade reading of The Diary of Anne Frank, and consuming my soul in high school with the works of Hemingway, Lee, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, and, a favorite, Ms. Jane Austen.

Ms. Austen, you are just one of my many literary heroes. Your words are just a few of the words that have touched me and molded me as a writer over the years. I collect characters and phrases from you and others, tucking them away like pieces of sea glass…to be used later, shining and sparkling again in my own words and worlds.

And so I dream of you, of having an ounce of your talent, of wielding a quill and a pot of ink as cleverly as you do. I dream of writing words that move millions, that leave a legacy, that still have life centuries after my death.

And of course, I dream of Mr. Darcy…

Sincerely and with great respect,

Ms. Kathryn Ross

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This letter was hand-written for the Lightning and Lightning Bug prompt: Letter Writing Campaign. We were charged to write a letter in 700 words or less to someone we'd never met. I was inspired to write to one of my literary heroes.

Which of your literary heroes would you write to if given the opportunity? What would you say?

If you'd like to join the Letter Writing Campaign, you have until Wednesday to linkup. Hope to see you there!