The Mother Load

The Mother Load Has MOVED!

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 07:59:00 +0000

The Mother Load has lef the building. Please come check out my fancy new digs at:

http://www.erinmargolin.com/

and my new Facebook fan page is here:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/RoadToMyWriterRoots

New Orleans Honeysuckle: Gramma's Backyard

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 16:06:00 +0000

image courtesy of lakeshorepreserve.wisc.edu

Honeysuckle vines spill over the fence, falling like a fountain, cascades of bright green.
The white flowers in my grandmother's backyard look like tiny, delicate bells

I tenderly bring the clear drop of nectar to my lips, tasting its sweetness

The sweetness of childhood, innocence.

Pumping my legs on Gramma's wooden swing, gripping its thick ropes

Hanging from the old, wise oak tree with branches stretching to the sky

I look up at him in wonder while I swing

Watching my own feet as they propel me higher and higher
My hair swings back to slap my face each time, a quick sting like a bee.

I'm wearing white socks folded down once with my brown sandals

I can see the light brown hair on my legs, the scar on my right knee

From when I fell off my bike the year before.

this was not taken on that day, but you can see my sandals with socks

my beautiful mom, & my younger brother, "Markie"

My mom does headstands on the old blanket in the middle of the yard, making us laugh.

She is thin, beautiful, talented, full of fun and light. Her feet are bare.

I can't stand on my head. But she can do everything.

And her feet are much prettier than mine.

I don't take off my shoes after I swing--

The St. Augustine grass is rough and crunchy and makes my ankles itch.

Now:
Can I make myself new again?

Can I start over, a slate wiped clean?

Innocent like that day in the backyard.

It's time for a swing.

Evolution & Revolution

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 13:13:00 +0000

As many of you know, I've been working on a new blog. It's close to completion and I'm beyond excited. I've been stripping down, baring my soul and blending the old with the new in many ways.

The Mother Load is evolving. I'm takin' it to the next level, ya'll.

This video clip was taken in December, but I wanted to wait to share it until my new blog was almost ready. Thanks to Lee and Tracie for filming it and going with me! This day was monumental and marked a significant change in my way of thinking. The tattoo embodies the inspiration behind my tag line: The Road to My Writer Roots. New Orleans is my home, where so much happened to me. It's my heart, where I write from. And now I carry it with me on my right hip---a glorious fleur de lis ~~that makes my father want to curl up and die~~.

You can view the finished product in a post here.

Lies & 1 Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 16:37:00 +0000

The glorious Tulpen Elefanten of Bad Words tagged me in her Memetastic post. Since I haven't done anything fun here in a while ~~according to The Father Load~~ , I'm going to participate.

Here's the poop scoop on this game/meme, according to Tulpen:

You must list 5 things about yourself; 4 of them must be bold-faced lies. Just make some shit up, we'll never know; one of them has to be true, though. Of course, nobody will ever know the difference, so we're just on the honor system here. I trust you. Except for the 4 you lied about, you lying bastards! But don't go crazy trying to think of stuff as we're not really interested in quality here. Then you must pass this on to 5 bloggers.

Now for the 4 lies and a truth:

1. When I was six my baby brother, Kevin, was born and I was super jealous. My parents had just given me this book with its all-too-vivid illustrations of two cartoon characters doing the sex:

image courtesy of Amazon.com

So I asked my brother, Mark, who was four at the time, to help me in my pregnancy endeavors. I ordered him to lie on top of me (I bossed him & he did everything I said) so we could make a baby STAT. He did, we snorted and giggled, and then I told him we were all done. Needless to say, no baby was made that day.

2.) As I was going through security at Nashville airport yesterday, I got stopped because I forgot to put my Poo Potpourri in a ziploc bag. I was mortified, but the TSA guy just chuckled and shook his head, then handed it back to me.

image courtesy of http://poopourri.com/

3.) I brought The Father Load's giant suitcase to Blissdom and sweated like a pig hauling it through the Gaylord Opryland. What's up with calling it Gaylord, anyway? I always overpack. It's silly because why was I trying to dress to impress 600+ women ~~and four men~~? I got lost approximately 22 times in 72 hours. I can't read maps. The highlight of the conference? When KLZ (Taming Insanity) ate my banana. Ooooooh. That was HAWT.

image courtesy of photobucket.com

4.) I'm hopelessly in love with Natalie Portman. I loved her in Black Swan. Because apparently I'm all dark, heavy, and twisty like that. But aren't many writers born out of dark and twisty lives ~~like Sylvia Plath who stuck her head in the oven~~?

images courtesy of Google.com

5.) These are my feet:

image courtesy of Google.com

I've chosen to pass this nonsense along to these lucky ladies (who you should be following, DUH):
1.) Terri Sonoda (@Tsonoda)
2.) Snuggle Wasteland (@MsWasteland)
3.) Totally Ovar It (@TotallyOvarIt)
4.) Taming Insanity (@TamingInsanity)
5.) Crayon Wrangler (@CrayonWrangler)

Cheers!

I Just Have a Soul Full of Ladybugs.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 13:38:00 +0000

inspired by a prompt yesterday via Blissdom Wisdom Workshops

I just have... wildflowers in my heart

I just have... poetry pouring out of a hole in my head.

I just have... eyes that are puffy from tears I hold back. Or the tears I can't.

I just have....love etched on my arms.

I just have... a soul full of ladybugs, butterflies, and songbirds.

I just have....aching, papery skin that shrinks away from touch.

I just have...fireworks of longing going off inside me, hues of purple, pink, and orange.

I just have...spiderwebs in places that I've left closed off for years.

I just have...a stomach that stays knotted up like some old rope on a ship.

I just have...an empty womb where swan songs were once sung.

I just have...a heaviness that's too big to hold.

I just have...brown eyes that want to see inside you, see if you're real.

I just have...an angry tendency to compare.

I just have...so much love for others, yet so little for myself.

Dude, Where's My Blog?

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 04:38:00 +0000

So I'm here.
At Blissdom. In Nashville.
All I can say is?

It's eleven kinds of awesome.

Part of me feels like I don't belong here
Amongst all these super smart people.
(This is not just the low-brow Chardonnay talking)

I have a lot of work to do
But I need your help.
That means honest input, critiques, and comments.

I cannot be objective about my own work. I can't step away.

I'm afraid. Afraid of my writing, afraid of myself.
Afraid that my life will be reduced to getting crunk at cronferences.
Just dreaming about the writer I could be.
Instead of taking chances---submitting posts for publication and not caring whether "they" accept something or not. Have to keep trying. Practicing.

I'm afraid of saying things. Things that will alienate you.
Things that might even scare me. I'm not sure what's underneath,
This dinosaur buried in the rubble. I'm chipping away slowly,
Because fear is a dirty fool.

But I am still here.
It's a first step.

I love you all.
Thank you for reading.
There are no real words.
I am grateful and scared and humbled here.
I will never be a "big blogger," but I don't wanna be.
I wanna be the girl next door. Who's a writer.
Who you love to stop by and read.

Because that is who I am.

I dream of...

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 14:34:00 +0000

I've been inspired by Liz an awful lot lately. She evokes such powerful feelings in me, yet does so using very few words. Please stop by her place and read for a spell. You can follow her on Twitter at @ArtemisRetreats.

I dream of...
Writing incredible things
Of reading and swooning over words on a page.
Of black ink on my fingers and pages full of my messy handwriting.

I struggle every day to
Coax my words out,
I {try to} stare down Fear
Look him in the eye
Directly, without faltering
And say,
"Fuck you."

I struggle every day to
Shove aside Worry
I push away from his tears and frowns.

I struggle every day to
Ignore the malicious whispers in my head
And pray to the Gods of Inspiration instead

I struggle every day with the knowledge that
You will read me only when you feel like it
And you may not like what I write.
But that's not the point.

The point is that I had the guts to put it out there.

My Awakening.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 08:01:00 +0000

Today I'm linking up with the Red Dress Club! Here's today's prompt, courtesy of Katie / @Ksluiter:

Hemingway was famous for his super sparse writing. He used almost only dialogue in many of his works. Write a piece in which you use ONLY dialogue. (I'm bending the rules because, well, I can.)

"Let's go someplace where we can talk," Jessie said as I got into her car.

"What about P.J.'s? I'm seriously craving an iced mocha," I suggested.

"Nah, I was thinking of someplace quieter. I just really need to tell you something," she said.

"Okay. Well, wherever you wanna go is fine, you're the one driving," I said, as I reached over to switch on the radio. I started humming along with Dave Matthews.

"So how are you? Are you going back up to school next week?" she asked.

"Yes! I'm so ready. I'm sick of talking to my shrink, sick of thinking about it all, and I really just want to get back to normal. Whatever that is. You know?"

"You're not going to hurt yourself again, are you? Because I gotta tell ya, that scared the shit out of me Erin. You just can't do that," Jessie said. "It's fucked up."

"Honestly, I can't promise I won't do it again 'cause I still think about it. It's like the urges come on so suddenly sometimes and I can't stop myself. Nobody gets it. But the Prozac and Klonopin are helping," I added.

"I'm worried about you. I mean, you're my friend and I love you and I don't know what I would've done if I'd been the one to find you with blood everywhere," she said as she pulled her car into a spot at The Point on the Lakefront. Then she turned off the music.

My stomach lurched. The Point was where people went to make out. I saw a few other cars, most of them with foggy windows. I leaned the side of my head on the glass and looked out at the waves. Jessie took the keys out of the ignition and tossed them into the cup holder. It got quiet. My stomach gurgled and I clamped my hands down over it instinctively.

"I'm not sure how to say this," she began. "We've been friends for a long time and I don't want to lose that. But lately..." she trailed off. "Lately I've been thinking about you. Like, a lot." She stopped and took a deep breath, then exhaled.

"I've got feelings for you," she blurted out.

"Feelings? What kind of feelings?" I asked, staring hard at the whitecaps, blurring the edges of her in my peripheral vision.

"Why can't you look at me? Can you look at me, please?" she asked.

Reluctantly I lifted my head and slowly shifted to face her.

"I'm in love with you," she said simply. "I just am."

"So you're telling me this now. When you know about Lauren, my dad, and everything I've been dealing with. You know I have feelings for her and I'm a mess dealing with all that crap, plus the cutting, my parents. And you do this now?"

"I know, I know. But I had to tell you. I had to get it out," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

I sighed and rubbed my temples.

"What do you want me to say, Jessie?" I asked. "I'm sorry I don't feel that way about you. And even though I don't really know who I am or what this thing with Lauren is all about, I know my heart belongs to her for now. I may be a freakin' train wreck, but I know that much."

"So why can't you just look me in the eye and say it?" she asked.

"You know I'm terrible about the eye contact. Get off my case," I snapped. "Besides, this is the last thing I need right now. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings or anything, but I just can't deal."

I began unraveling. Looking out at the waves, I thought of Edna Pontellier. I longed to be in the Gulf, giving up, handing myself over to the rough waves. Salty, swirling water sucking me under, drifting down into the dark, cool deep. It would be so much easier.

"Jessie, I'm sorry. I really am. But can you please just take me home?" I plead.

Inwardly, I'm stuffing down the sudden overwhelming desire to cut myself, to offer up my blood to some unknown God.

You Have No Power Over Me.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Wed, 19 Jan 2011 11:00:00 +0000

Today I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

A girl I went to high school with once accused me of sleeping with our writing teacher in order to get straight A's in the class. ~~I'll just wait here while you pick your jaw up off the floor.~~ We were juniors at the time (do I really need to say that I was still very much a virgin then?). She did it in front of a large group of our classmates in room 15, the one with the steep step up to the basketball court. At first it was all slow motion and foggy, like I'd heard her wrong. But the mean look on her face and the quivering anger in her voice indicated otherwise. I couldn't stand everyone staring at me, mouths agape, as a heavy blanket of silence fell over the room. So I ran out, called my mom in tears and asked her to come and get me. I'd been shamed, somehow turned into a small child again; yet I hadn't done anything wrong. My grades sucked in everything else, but writing? That was my one true thing. I earned those A's, and it wasn't by hopping into my teacher's bed.

I didn't stand up for myself. I didn't confront her. I ran away. As is my tendency.

Later on as a freshman in college, my peer review group in one of my classes informed me that I "used too many big words." Our professor had asked us to to read each other's work and give critiques. I was completely crushed. And I took it personally, which I shouldn't have. Perhaps my sensitive nature got the better of me. As it tends to do.

I'm a writer, people. It's what I do. I'm a sculptor of words. I mold and shape them, manipulate them. Give them depth, breadth and feeling, make them convey what I want. It's me, who I am at my core. It's why I'm shy, why I'm not a banker or a doctor or an actress. Besides, I'm terrible at math, science, and public speaking. This girl just wants to write.

Old habits die hard; I've let these things live and thrive in my memory, pervade my entire existence, belittle me, convince me I have no real talent. I realized after reading Julie's post over at Dutch Being Me yesterday that I'm just beginning to respect myself (long overdue). Did that high school girl think I couldn't have just one thing to myself? Everyone else has a niche, why not me?
Writing is mine. I claim it now.
I. Am. A. Writer.
No one can take that from me.

And now for a cheesy blast from the past.
"You have no power over me."

Labyrinth, 1986, starring David Bowie & Jennifer Connelly

Blissdom, here I come!

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 13:20:00 +0000

As if this space isn't already ~~selfish~~ enough about me, I thought I'd copy Crayon Wrangler and write a special post dedicated to Blissdom, the upcoming conference I'm attending. Just so we can get the initial awkwardness over with, I'm going to introduce myself here and get all the small talk out of the way. Mmmmm'kay?

I'm Erin & this is me with my kiddos. Yes they are twins. No, they are not identical. Yes, I knew I was having twins. No, twins do not run in our family.

No, these little darlings are not coming with me.

This conference is about me, not my kids.

I'm a nervous conference newbie. Although I know my roommates pretty well (@elainea & @birdonthestreet), Blissdom is big, the Opryland Hotel is huge, and I'm feeling very, very small. I'm grateful for the Blissdom column I've created in Tweetdeck so I can easily "meet" and "see" everyone beforehand and try to match names and faces with blog titles, etc. But please forgive me if I confuse you with someone else or call you by the wrong name.

I'm going to Nashville to learn how to be a better writer and blogger. I'm a sponge just dying to absorb absolutely everything I can. I'm going so I can meet other people who want similar things and network with them. We will learn from each other, too.

I tend to be shy. I love to laugh and I giggle a lot when I'm anxious. I have to fight the urge to go hide in a corner. I'm terrible at starting up conversations. But next week I am going to stuff all my insecurities so I can get the most out of the conference, out of you, and out of myself. I don't want to waste those three precious days worrying about the kids, the dog, and whether or not the house is on fire; this is my time. And you know what? I am fun, damn it. So let's hang out and have a blast!

Blissdom is my gift to myself: it's for me, about me. Because I'm worth it.

What about you? If you're not going to Blissdom, what have you done for yourself lately?

Being a Woman, Being a Mom.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 14:47:00 +0000

Yesterday I read a very personal piece about breastfeeding by the talented KLZ of Taming Insanity.

Her poignant and powerful post stirred up so many things inside of me, particularly my feelings about being a woman and how I define it. How I struggle with it, even now at the age of 34.

Without medical intervention, I can't get pregnant. I don't ovulate because I have PCOS, which you can read about here. I have blogged about our journey several times, most recently here for the Red Dress Club.

What I've been thinking about lately is how my own feelings of femininity are closely tied to my inability to conceive. How being a women at its most basic level means being able to bear children. Carry said children in your womb naturally, effortlessly, beautifully. There is honestly nothing I love more than a pregnant belly--preferably mine, but I'll take yours, too--and I miss mine desperately sometimes. So if I come up to you and ask to feel your belly? Please consider letting me. And then don't worry too much when you see me start to cry.

The times I've felt most feminine, most proud to be a woman? Were undoubtedly when I was pregnant, my belly full of babies, round with potential, an outward sign of my femininity, my power, my prowess:

18 weeks

22 weeks

23 weeks

28 weeks

front and side views

at 30 weeks!

I know I am so lucky. I consider myself blessed to have my two little miracles, blessed to be a mom. Despite everything we went through, I now have my twin daughters, Abby and Izzy. Nothing can ever take that away. I am a mother.

I am a mother. I am a mother. I am a mother.

I am a woman.

Hear me roar!
If I can do this? I can do anything.

Abby & Izzy's Birth Day, 12/9/05

Where do you think your feelings of femininity come from? Am I just nuts? I'd love to hear your opinions & perspectives on this.

A Cup of Tea, or, A Real Writer

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 13:13:00 +0000

I slowly lift the tea bag up and watch it

     twirl     twirl
            twirl

          drip

                 drip

                        drip

Then I wrap the string around it, wringing out the loose drops.

This cup of tea is an illusion.
It claims to be comforting.
I clasp its warmth in my dry hands
And my own stale breath rises to greet me as I
Blow on the hot auburn liquid. Sniffing steam.

Surely a real writer sits in the cold, dark morning sipping hot tea.

Surely a real writer doesn't get caught up staring out of the window
Into the darkness of the snowy morning...instead of writing.

Surely a real writer doesn't think too much.
Surely she isn't scared of the words hitting the page
Making them real.
Making herself real.

Words, memories, dreams piling up
Reconstructing the past
Wishing I hadn't thrown so much away
Wishing I remembered me more.
What I said, wrote, did, how I acted.

Long before this morning's cup of tea.

Do You Want to Be Average?

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 11:38:00 +0000

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

I was first introduced to Chris Guillebeau by Sarah Robinson at her Creating Irresistible Presence conference last fall. Sarah raved about Chris' book, The Art of Non-Conformity, so of course I had to have it (along with a host of others). Today I wanted to share this list of his that inspires me. I hope it does the same for you.

11 Ways To Be Unremarkably Average

1. Accept what people tell you at face value.

2. Don't question authority.

3. Go to college because you're supposed to, not because you want to learn something.

4. Go overseas once or twice in your life, to somewhere safe like England.

5. Don't try to learn another language, everyone else will eventually learn English.

6. Think about starting your own business, but never do it.

7. Think about writing a book, but never do it.

8. Get the largest mortgage you qualify for and spend 30 years paying for it.

9. Sit at a desk 40 hours a week for an average of 10 hours of productive work.

10. Don't stand out or draw attention to yourself.

11. Jump through hoops. Check off boxes.

I don't know about you, but I readily identify with several of these, especially # 7. What do you think? What would you add to this list? Any of these make you cringe? Who wants to join me in my journey to being anything but average? (p.s. you can buy Chris' book here!)

The ABC's of a Dream

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 08:01:00 +0000

I'm linking up for the first prompt of 2011 over at The Red Dress Club :

Write a short piece - fiction, non-fiction, poetry, whatevs - in which each sentence starts with the next letter of the alphabet, starting with "A." So your finished product will consist of 26 sentences. (I am tweaking this a bit and making mine 26 lines, so technically just over 26 sentences.)

A dream in which you finally start telling me the truth. Your truth.
Bringing friends with you on a spontaneous trip to Vegas, you appeared suddenly.
Careening your convertible up the crowded street, dirty but drivable.
"Don't come here," I plead, backing away. "I can't. Not again." Willing you away.
Ever the charmer, you hop out and grab my hand, yanking me this way and that. Your way.
"Forget it all and come with us," you said after we sat down to have drinks.
Ghosts floated all around me, warning, wafting, swirling--gentle reminders.
Hovering nearby, my friend Heather made eyes at me, but didn't utter a sound.
I had to borrow money from her to pay for our stuff since you were "saving for Vegas." Cheapskate.
Just like always, you made me doubt myself, your sincerity, your intentions.
"Kid, you know I love you. Just get in the damn car," you said as you looked over at your friends.
Lunging at you with all my frustration in my fist. I miss. I try again.
Maniacal laughter, mirrors in a fun house: everything's misshapen, distorted. Bubbles and blur.
No, no--spinning round and round, my skirt billowing out like a bell. I want off this ride.
Out of nowhere you jump up and grab me.
Pushing and pulling ensue, a tug of war over the past and future.
Questioning myself is never so prevalent as when I'm with you.
Running around doing this same old dance drains me.
Sometimes I get so tired of carrying this burden. Your burden.
Too many people telling me what to do, like you.
Until I remember that this is just a dream.
Vanquished, vindicated me. I hold power over you!
Wielding my magic wand, I wave it until you get smaller and smaller.
Xanax won't be necessary anymore, you are so tiny I tower over you.
You can't haunt or taunt me anymore.
Zen-like is how I feel when I wake.

A Bunch of Wildflowers

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 08:01:00 +0000

I came into my room and it was dark. I saw you standing there, frozen.
Caught by surprise with one of my books open in your hands.
It took me a minute to realize it wasn't just any book, but my journal.
The one Dad bought me from the Smythson Shop on Bond Street in London.
The one with the flowers on the cover and leather tipped corners.

I was the cat and you the mouse:
I leapt to my bookshelves to assess the damage, you scurried out in a blur.

I felt violated in the worst way, unsure of what you'd read;
or what your intentions were.
First I got hot, then cold, then goosebumps and sweat covered me.
I had to get out. Away. My words were stolen, my private thoughts, pieces of me.
Dreams, fears and doubts all splayed out for you to see, to snicker and laugh at.

I threw my journal in my backpack and went to the library.
My steps sent the cockroaches running in droves across the sidewalk.
I shuddered thinking of the ones hovering above me, hidden in the old oak trees.

I chose a desk in the corner by the window and threw my things on the floor.
I opened my journal and re-read the last few pages as waves of nausea washed over me.
Too dangerous to write anymore. Too stupid. Too vulnerable.
What did you see?

When the librarians kicked me out, I trudged home,
Back to the scene of the crime. My deepest thoughts spattered
Like blood all over the walls of my room, the floor...

When I got back you were waiting for me
With a bunch of wildflowers you'd picked.

Ten Things I'm Willing to Admit to Myself (& You)

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 08:01:00 +0000

And so 2011 begins.
I don't make resolutions because they just beg to be broken; but I do have goals for the new year:

Starting today, I'll be writing my morning pages before the girls wake up. This will become my daily ritual, my alone time to think, write and let the words tumble out. Eventually I hope this will evolve into the beginning of a beautiful book. ~~Don't get your hopes up.~~
I'm working on a brand new site, my own domain/ dot com. I'm excited, but so anxious ~~I've got the runs~~. I won't be The Mother Load anymore. It'll be a fresh start and I hope you'll follow me over to my new digs when it's time.
I'm going to Blissdom, a writing/blogging conference in Nashville at the end of January.

In order to be successful, I have to admit some things to myself and to you so we're all on the same page.

It is going to ~~royally suck~~ be really hard to wake up at 5:15 a.m. every day. But I have two (cyber)writing partners who are holding me accountable: Ashlei at Shades of Blue & Green and Nancy at Away We Go. We plan to check in with one another on Twitter every morning ~~at the ass crack of dawn~~.
A lot of what I write ~~will~~ may be utter crap. And that's okay. The point is just to get into the habit of writing for several hours daily.
There ~~will~~ may be days when I hit a wall. I'm not perfect. No one is. (Right?)
I'm scared to death of my new blog/site. I'm not even really sure what I want it to look like. All I know is what I don't want it to look like. Le sigh.
I'm going to Blissdom at the end of this month and that also scares the pants off of me. But I registered, bought my plane tickets, and booked my hotel room, complete with two darling roommates. So there's no going back. Done deal.
I'm worried I'm going to annoy the heck out of said roommates at Blissdom. Also? I don't want them to know that I poop. Shhhhhh.
I'm terrified that "the book" will never happen.
I don't know what I'll do if the words won't come? (call Ashlei & Nancy or refer to Bird by Bird?)
I ~~will~~ may need lots of help: pressure, pep talks, and ass kicking. Alcoholic beverages are also a given and you might be so lucky as to witness a good cry.
I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. With any of this. A minute ago I had "hell" written there instead of fuck. But fuck it. Oh wait, that sounds bad...

What are YOU willing to admit to yourself? Please leave it in the comments---profanity and all.

You Can't Take It With You

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 08:01:00 +0000

I realized recently that I've lost a few friends on Facebook. I'm pretty sure this is because of things I've written on my blog. Initially I was excited because I've always heard you haven't "arrived" until you've offended someone via your blog. The other part of me was saddened and worried by it.

My blog is a mixed bag sprinkled with some fiction and non-fiction, but even my fiction is loosely based in some sort of reality. I've blogged about people in my life. Those people may not have appreciated what I had to say, despite it being the truth. While I can certainly understand that, I haven't painted anyone in an unkind light. Yet, these are my memories, my perspectives, and my side of the story. You'll never know the other side. Par for the course.

But you know what? I had to say it. I had to write it. I'm a writer and this is my truth. This blog is my creative space. I'm not here to be Ms. Nicey Nancy and try to make everyone worship me--I'm here to write because I must. It's what I do. It's who I am. As Allison Nazarian says in this post,

Stop trying to be so damn nice. Nice is a bullshit excuse. First of all, you are already nice without trying. Second, trying to be nice all the time becomes a full-time job and a full-time job means you don’t have time for most anything else. People won’t like you sometimes, and that’s ok. The more you speak your truth, the more some people will turn away. Not everyone wants to or is ready to hear it or face theirs. They may not like the changes they perceive in you. And that is not your problem. Meanwhile, the more this happens, the more those who DO resonate with what you have to say will start to show up. And they won’t expect that Splenda-sweet nice chick in your place.

They expect you. The real you.

Last week I told my daughters for the first time, "Mommy is a writer," and they looked at me with furrowed brows. Not sure why I never told them before, but they've always known Daddy is a surgeon. Now they know about the real me, too.

The people I've written about? Names have been changed, characteristics altered....events/ circumstances? Not so much. If I've offended, I have to just let go. Say goodbye. I can't carry that weight with me into the new year, there's too much at stake. If you don't like me, if you don't like what I write? There's a sting, but it's quick and then it's over. I can't carry the heaviness with me, a feeling of fault. I've done nothing wrong by simply speaking my truths.

The lesson here? Not everyone is gonna love me. And I'm learning to be okay with that.

Jump.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 17:06:00 +0000

At first I thought I was free falling, Tom Petty style. But I'm too Type A for that.

I realized I'm jumping headlong. I'm in the middle of a daring, deliberate, exciting, exuberant leap--into 2011. In my OCD way, I've thought about it long & hard ~~but it's time to shit or get off the pot~~ so it's time I make a conscious JUMP. Like this one, only perhaps slightly less graceful.

I'm attending my first bona fide writing/blogging conference, Blissdom, in Nashville next month. I have two kick-ass roommates, both Louisiana gals: @elainea & @birdonthestreet. Initially I was on the fence about it, but while at lunch with my mom and Katy (@birdonthestreet), ~~there was some serious arm twisting going on~~ the lightbulb went off. And The Voice said:

What are you waiting for?

Now is your time. It's your turn.

Just go for it, you deserve this. You need this.

This will help you start writing your story. It's your time.

A lot of this also stems from the incredible book I just finished, Love Your Mess, by @AllisonNazarian. I'm embracing myself as I am, while at the same time taking steps toward a new me, a me who is comfortable in her own skin. I. LOVE. MY. MESS. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, people.

What are you jumping into for 2011? It's okay to be scared.

Going Home Again

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Sat, 25 Dec 2010 18:08:00 +0000

Yesterday I drove east down West Esplanade in Metairie, watching the egrets stand on their spindly legs: small, yet still so regal. Ducks splashing in the murky-watered canal, some even hanging out right next to the road. Memories came back to me in a flood, the nostalgia washing over me in tumbling waves.

I passed the old, run down Torah Academy with blue siding which is now vacant--my old "marker." Seeing that place every morning on the way to school made my stomach knot up. Because I knew Hell was just around the corner.

I took our girls there yesterday--to my old elementary/high school, Ecole Classique in Metairie. Parking in the white shell lot felt the same; too many pot holes, too uneven. Those bumps were supposed to discourage us highschoolers from driving too fast or doing donuts. The girls and I crossed through the gate holding hands and went inside. It was dark and eerily quiet. If there were any demons lurking, I didn't feel them.

I asked the girls to climb up onto the bleachers, the very same ones I sat on during pep rallies in the early 90s. I'd stomp my feet, clap my hands and shout, hoping our class would win the Spirit Stick. And at the same time always wishing I was one of those girls in the fun blue, white and yellow uniforms making the crowd go crazy.

So many memories spring up for me here. Maybe it's good, maybe it's bad, or maybe it's just that I'll never let go of some things. I don't really know. And that is okay.

On my way to meet Elaine of The Miss-Elaineous Life, "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John came on the radio and jolted me. Eons ago, someone told me that song reminded him of me, though I'm not sure why. But I love the lyrics and since they're stuck in my head, they'll be stuck in yous now, too:

Do you have lots of vivid memories? What happens when you go to places that hold so much meaning for you? Someone recently told me people should just concentrate on moving forward and forget about the past. But can you? Can I?

The Evolution of Erin: 10 Things I Learned This Weekend

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 16:52:00 +0000

1. Sharing laughter, tears & Cosmos with my bloggy besties Lee & Tracie over the weekend was the best medicine in the world. I love you girls!

me, Lee, & Tracie on the rooftop of some bar we don't remember the name of

Cheers!

2. Sometimes a complete stranger you've just met can manage to size you up in a matter of seconds.

3. I talk about letting go and apologizing, but these are issues I'm still wrestling with. I am too much in my own head. My brain is always on overdrive. I ruminate on the past and have a hard time freeing myself from the web.

4. My heart is big; maybe too big. Is that possible? I see the best in everyone. I trust, but at the same time, I'm not sure I should. I'm guarded. Does that make any kind of sense? No, I didn't think so either.

5. It is difficult to reconcile my memories of the distant past with what actually happened. Are those recesses of my brain biased? Do I make things up or tweak them so they're more palatable?

6. Despite the struggles, I'm growing by leaps and bounds, saying what's on my mind. So while I struggle with letting go of some things, I am simultaneously evolving, shifting and making room for The New Erin. The Evolution of Erin, as it were.

7. I've written before about my love for New Orleans (the city of my birth) and the fleur de lis. Fleur de lis literally means "lily flower" & you can learn more about it here. I've wanted a fleur de lis tattoo for a LONG time, so this past weekend was the perfect opportunity. I even managed to incorporate my original tattoo I got when I was in college with my friend Heather (we got matching flowers to prove we were fun, daring and not lame). ~~Sorry, Dad. Don't hate me.~~

BEFORE: my original tattoo I got in college circa 1997, on my right hip.

8. I'm doing something new in early 2011, but I'm not going to call it a New Year's Resolution. Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird is an amazing read for writers. I'm going to put it into action, starting with my morning pages. I will set my alarm every morning (not sure of the exact time yet, but thinking 5:30-5:45 ish) so that I can write in the quiet early morning darkness.

"The very first thing I tell my new students on the first day of a workshop is

that good writing is about telling the truth." --Anne Lamott

9. There is nothing better than returning home after a weekend away and being greeted by hugs and sweet kisses from my husband and daughters. I missed them, but it was still a treat to get away.

10. Changes are a comin' for me & The Mother Load. Slowly but surely, I'm learning how to fly. My friend Megan Matthieson's post today inspires me soooo much and speaks to what I've been feeling. Go read it now: I Am a Bird.

AFTER: fleur de lis tattoo incorporating my original tattoo (thanks to lee & tracie for the idea)

close up: NO, IT IS NOT RED. the red is only irritation. The red will eventually be grey shading.

Laughter That Makes Tea Come Out of Your Nose

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 07:56:00 +0000

Today Elaine from The Miss Elaine-ous Life is taking over my blog!

Elaine is a bloggy friend who was one of my first followers. She's an amazing mom to three gorgeous children, and I'm jealous because she now lives in my home state (Louisiana). She recently moved there from Texas, so it's been an adjustment, but she's dealt with it really well. I adore her blog and she's definitely one to follow. You can also find her on Twitter here. Without further adieu, I give you the intelligent, witty and kind Elaine!

As we approach the holidays I've been thinking about my family.

And when I say "my family," I mean my parents and my brothers. The people I grew up with, the ones who raised me and that I was raised with.

I cried like a child earlier at the preview episode of the show Find My Family. For some reason (and I honestly don't know why) the whole subject of adoption and people being separated from their siblings and parents makes me bawl every time. It's the reunion part that really gets me. I truly cannot imagine the feeling of coming face-to-face with the parents who gave you up and looking into the eyes that are also yours, for the very first time as an adult.

It's completely heart-wrenching to me. I suppose because my family means SO VERY much to me.

When I think about my childhood I remember Friday night fried chicken, fun birthday parties, visiting my grandparents a lot, loving school, shopping at the mall with my mother, sleep-overs with my best girlfriends, holidays with lots of food and presents, going to church with my parents and so MANY other good memories.

But in a way, as I got older (and so did my brothers - who are all several years older than I am) I was sort of like an only child. Therefore, the earlier childhood memories I do have with my brothers are pretty special.

I remember my middle brother Chris comforting me one night after my mother and I fought. He surrounded me on my bed with stuffed animals and made me laugh instead of cry.

When I was in high school my brother Larry would still occasionally eat dinner with us and most nights it would end in crazy laughter. There were many times that my mother could not control herself and as things escalated one evening, iced tea came out of her nose. All four of us (me, my mother, my father and my brother) were laughing so hard that we could hardly catch our breath.

These are the kind of memories I want my children to have. I want them to remember laughing around the dinner table and happy times together.

I may even be willing to make tea come out of my nose to make it happen.

And just for the heck of it, here's an old little joke/rhyme my mother used to tell that still makes me giggle. Partly because I can hear her say it and picture her as she starts to laugh before she even finishes the second line...

"Farmer Brown went to town with a bale of Hay

Mr. Martin came a fartin' and blew it all away!"

You're welcome... ; )

**Comments are off because I want you to go over to Elaine's place and leave her some love there!

The New Facebook: Are We Making Friends or Foes?

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 16:27:00 +0000

Exhibit A:
The new Facebook profile page (this is mine). Frankly, I don't like the makeover. What do you think?

Exhibit B:

Note the circled red part there under "Recent Activity." Those are comments I've left on my friends' pages. Hypothetically speaking, if I write one someone's wall that ~~I opened a bottle of wine at 3:00 because my children were driving me insane~~ I'm wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row, the whole world will find out about it because it will be posted on my own wall. Nice, huh? Yes, I can delete it once I get home to my computer, but still? Makes me not want to comment at all. Or seriously sensor my comments. Which is no fun. Isn't Facebook supposed to be fun? Well look out because next thing you know, you may start losing friends over things you never realized they'd be able to see.

~~And then this crap?~~ Exhibit C:

Can I just say how much I LOVE seeing my profile photo the size of Mars? Nevermind the personal stuff at the top-- who gives a shit that I was born in New Orleans and have an English degree? And it's so thoughtful of Facebook to randomly choose the most unflattering photos of me to put right at the very top of the page. Makes me want to remove all my photo albums. It's just inconvenient because although I can delete the pictures (I think), I have to be at home at my computer to do it because I'm not all savvy with a fancy pants iPad, iPhone, Crackberry, or smart phone like the rest of you.

What do you think?

If You Give Your Kid Your Camera...

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 19:49:00 +0000

If you give your kid your camera,
She'll want to take photos of her new toys.

(Littlest Pet Shop)

And if she takes photos of her toys, why, she'll have to photograph herself as well!

And because she is a princess, she'll want photos of her princess dolls.

And even princesses have to go potty, so she'll photograph the powder room.

(Princesses NEVER forget to flush!)

Then she will admire herself in the mirror and decide more self portraits are necessary.

Occasionally a silly shot is neccessary to balance out all the fancy photos.

(Oops, the princess *almost* forgot to wash her hands!)

Then she went to find her tired sister snoozing on the couch.

That wasn't much fun, but Daddy was doing Jillian Michaels' 30-Day Shred-- Ouch!

And Monster was all snuggled up, using a blanket as his bed.

Then the princess decided to go up the stairs...

Where she decided to photograph a photograph of herself.

Ramona Quimby, My First Love.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 08:01:00 +0000

I'm linking up today with the Red Dress Club:

The prompt is:
Write a short first-person story about your first love, or write a short fiction piece about a character's first love.

I'd asked my parents to take me to Waldenbooks. My dirty Tretorns spirited me from our space in the parking lot into Lakeside Mall, which always smelled of Swenson's waffle cones.

My palms were sweating so much the crumpled bills in my hand were damp. I'd been saving my weekly allowance for ages in my purple cash box that opened with an impossibly tiny key. "Erin" was carefully carved into the metal as if those four letters would prevent someone from stealing what little I had.

I walked straight to the back of the book store where the young adult section was. Too many decisions: Beverly Cleary, Judy Blume, Baby-sitters Club. But I knew what I wanted. I gently eased the orange paperback from the shelf with the tip of my index finger. The stiff book crackled when I opened it and had that wonderful new smell. I inhaled deeply.

I walked briskly to the check out and placed my purchase on the counter. I smiled at Ramona and couldn't wait to bring her home and up to my room.

Ramona Quimby, my first love.

It Isn't Really About the Cupcakes.

noreply@blogger.com (Erin Margolin) — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 08:01:00 +0000

In honor of the girls' fifth birthday this week, I'm bringing cupcakes to school for them to share with their classmates.

Today's cupcakes are not homemade. I'm loving my mess, Allison Nazarian style.
Last year, said cupcakes were homemade.
For their class Halloween party in October, they were also homemade.
Despite this, I will not allow myself to feel guilty. It's stupid.
The kids won't even know the freakin' difference.
If spending a few bucks at a local bakery makes my life easier, so be it.
I'm a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom), and I don't get paid, but I sure work a helluva lot.
The last month has been insanely busy. Homemade cupcakes aren't worth my sanity.
This God-forsaken cupcake business? I'm so over it.

Besides, like Sara over at Saving For Someday said yesterday? I don't want to set the bar too high for the other moms by bringing homemade cupcakes.

How are you shedding the need to be perfect today?