My First Editorial

This week I had the privilege of writing an editorial for the school newspaper, and since it has such a "bloggy" feel to it, wanted to post it here, as well.

(Music Review) Break Me Out by The Rescues

I've been in love with The Rescues since my husband discovered them this past spring. He bought the cd at Best Buy, forced me to listen to this song, and I was hooked. I must've listened to the cd at least a dozen times in the next week; over and over as I drove the 26 minutes to school in the mornings and the 26 minutes home in the afternoons.

The album is terrific. The group consists of two men, two women, and their harmonies remind me of youth choir -- which made my husband groan when I described it in those terms. They've got a pop-music feel -- which made my brother groan and say, "that's not my type of music."

But I love them. And I particularly love "Break Me Out."

Lessons Learned from My Obsession with Space

My dad loves to tell the story about my 7th-grade trip to Space Camp. Or rather, the circumstances surrounding winning my trip to Space Camp.

Now I've Gone & Said "Ifs, Ands, or Buts." Who Am I?

We took our 4-year-old daughter to watch our city's local fireworks Monday night. It was her first time to see fireworks and I was almost as excited as she was about sharing such a special moment. I loved fireworks as a child; heck, I still do.

So we arrive at our viewing point, the local community college. We find a spot on the concrete stairs. We'd have preferred the grass but earlier it'd rained just enough. Another family with a little boy was seated a few steps above, and he and Shannon struck up a conversation almost immediately. Within minutes they bonded over their overprotective parents, both of whom kept telling them to stop swinging on the railing. This kept her entertained since we'd arrived about 20 minutes early, which was all well and good. Until I told her she needed to come sit with us since the fireworks were about to start.

To which she replied with an emphatic stomp and a stubborn, "No, Mom. I wanna sit with my friend."

My Brother Was Right. Who Would've Thought?

I spent last weekend (June 9-12) at Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival in Manchester, Tennessee. Those who follow me on Facebook, you already know this. I've posted of nothing else for the past several weeks. Actually, since we bought our tickets on Black Friday (yes, in November) I've been mentioning it for the past six months. You're sick of hearing about it, and I'm okay with that. But the next few posts will be about my experience, and I hope my odd twist on things will hold your interest.

My younger brother Brack is the reason this all started. He went to Bonnaroo last year. And Lollapalooza, Voodoo Fest, Nocturnal Fest, and a host of other festivals I can't remember. Bonnaroo was his favorite, though, and he talked about it nonstop. Sound familiar? It took three months for my husband and me to decide to go (you'll read about that later this week) but once we were "in," Brack became the expert. Annoyingly so. I'll be the first to admit that some of his advice was a little out there, but once we made it to the farm, I realized he was right. About (almost) everything. Which was even more annoying.

Laughter through Tears and a Little White Dog

This isn't a story about a dog. Not really.

It's Tuesday, a warm June afternoon and I'm sitting alone in my living room. Criss-cross-applesauce in the recliner, dreading the phone call I know is coming. Finally it rings, and reading my aunt's name on the screen, I answer. "You have bad news."

"Depends on how you look at it," she says, crying.

And then I'm sobbing, large shaking cries that actually make noise. Cries that give the "boo hoo's" their creed. I hold myself and rock, in a fashion done only by those who are truly devastated.

Erasing the Bad Words

I'm trying not to say "no" and "stop" and "don't" all the time.

To my daughter, that is. As in, "Don't dump all your crayons out," and "Stop getting your blueberry muffin all over the floor," and "No, you can't help me peel the boiled eggs."

I realize how lucky I am to have a healthy, happy 3-year-old.  My work with the American Cancer Society introduced me to too many parents who aren't so fortunate, and not to sound cliche, but sweating the small stuff is a waste of precious time. What's a few crumbs on the floor in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

So in the past two weeks, Shannon has played in all-purpose flour, glittered the kitchen with her craft project, glued a bit of carpet together in my office, and assembled a book of torn-out pages from a spiral notebook. Oh yes, and just this morning we listened to christmas music. In return, I've got gluey paw prints across the back porch, glitter in the bottom of my coffee cup, and "giblets" of paper throughout the house (by the way, thanks to Mrs. Russell for giving them a name).

And it's okay. Better than okay --- she's happier, and I'm happier. Sure, I'll have "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" stuck in my head for the rest of the day. And of course, I can't erase every "no" and "stop" and "don't" from my vocabulary. No, you can't lick the spoon when there's raw eggs in the batter. Stop swinging that necklace before you smack yourself (or me) in the face. Don't go wake up your Daddy before his alarm goes off.

But so far I'm doing pretty well. In fact, I think I'll let her peel a boiled egg today.

"I Look Terrible in that Picture"

Over the past few days, I've listened to women complain about (among other things): fat thighs, bathing suits, big bellies, saggy breasts, double chins, triple chins, quadruple chins...

And the phrase heard 'round the world: "I look terrible in that picture."

Why do women do this?  You'll never hear a man (or not a straight one, anyway) say, "Look how jiggly my arms look in that shirt." For the love, ladies, we aren't perfect creatures, and we certainly don't look like airbrushed supermodels when posing for snapshots. News flash: we're not supposed to!

Last week I had the chance to visit three of my very best friends. We're spread out across three states, but somehow managed to meet and make a day of it. We took pictures like crazy: at lunch at El Girasol, in front of a gym downtown, and leaning over a fence after feeding horses. We didn't set up a glamour shot session -- we captured the moment, lots of moments, of the wonderful day when we all played hooky and managed a last-minute "play date."

We all snap pictures to capture a moment -- a memory. A grandmother with her great-grandchild; a sister's birthday; a mother with her 3-year-old daughter.

Yes, I'm guilty of it, too. But lately I'm more and more aware of the impression I'm making on my daughter. Right now she loves being in front of the camera -- with a follow-up, "Let me see! Let me see!" squeal after each shot. But every time she hears me or another woman complain about cankles or a belly pooch, she marches one day closer to the moment she, too, says:

"Yuck, I look terrible."

So last week I kept her in mind while we snapped those pictures, all 200 of them. And instead of focusing on whether or not I'd sucked in my gut, I looked to see if my level of happiness (which was off the charts) was reflected back at the camera. It was.

And guess what? I'm satisfied with every single one.

We are constantly bombarded about body image and the effects of the media on our self-esteem, so much so that it's become white noise. But it's never too late to start appreciating ourselves, especially in the meaningful moments we are lucky to capture.

So the next time there's a picture in front of you, for the love of all things pixelated, please think before you look at yourself and mutter the words, "Ugh."

* * *

Don't forget to follow me on Facebook to get all the latest posts in your News Feed! Just click the icon!

Surrounded | An Original Poem

Uncomfortably warm in my grandmother’s 

home, sitting down to an old lady’s 

dinner of green beans, corn bread and chicken 

casserole. Nothing salted. 

I am surrounded by the women 

who’ve created me, all talking 

at once about who was saved at this Sunday’s 

service, last night’s Lifetime movie 

and weight.

Always weight. 

They compliment my cousin for her loss and 

Grandmother says her neck looked fat 

in a recent picture. 

The dishes are loaded, pots are 

washed, put away. The cards come out and 

they play, slapping at a ten of 

hearts, yelling I want that! 

while silently, actually 

wanting what the other has. 

Her smaller nose or delicate 

hands or her red hair or curly hair or 

her olive skin and always ― always ― her 

thinner waist.  I am bound 

by the women who’ve created me

because I, too, covet 

what the other has. Her courage ― to command 

a life with Paige that 

makes her happy. Her intellect ― to express 

herself in both Spanish and English. Her 

resilience ― to rear 

seven children in 

nine years. Her happiness ― to revel in life despite 

a lifetime of arthritis. 

And her strength ― to hold tight to 

a little girl’s hand as the

cancer won.

Chocolate oatmeal cookies, pink

salad, diet coke, divinity. The games

continue.

I am entangled in the women who’ve 

created me. I am 

surrounded.

The Tree that Put Me at Ease

Back in February I had the good sense to attend a writers' conference offered on campus --- where I met many talented writers, bought too many of their books, and patiently began to nibble them in small, savory bites.


Except for Jennifer Horne's Bottle Tree. I devoured it that first weekend.


Which is interesting, because --- Horne being the only poet at the conference --- I expected to enjoy her the least. That sounds insulting, but up until that weekend most of my exposure had been to the big dogs --- Keats, Yeats, Frost, etc.  You know, the poetry that demands "work, work, work to understand me." I had the preconceived notion that Horne's would be much of the same.


But then she read her first poem, and I was spellbound.  I didn't know poetry could be like this! I remember thinking, I want to write like this someday. After hearing her speak, I wanted more. After finishing her book, I wanted more. Horne had given me the gift of poetic sustenance, when up until then I didn't know I was starving!  


Two months later I'm a regular in front of the single shelf at my local chain bookstore, picking up Alice Walker and Billy Collins. Thanks to Jennifer Horne I'm at ease with my pursuit of writing poetry, understanding that fancy words and complicated styles don't make a great poem. An open mind, a gift of words, and a sense of story-telling make a great poem.  At least it does in Bottle Tree.


With the author's permission, I've presented one of my favorites from the collection. Please visit Jennifer Horne's blog and/or click here to purchase a copy for yourself.  Trust me, you'll want more.


Monday Morning with Household Chores


Surprised into tears by an old song.
It's my mother, not a lover, I miss.
How she sang along happily. With abandon.
The words soothed her. Lifted her, too.
I stop in the middle of mopping the kitchen floor.
Nothing to do but sit down on the steps.
Let the tears have their way.


It's my solitude I weep for.
The never-again of it.
Changeable weather. A sweet old song.
Me aging with all these questions.
She not there to ask.


Isn't every motherless girl the same?
Still expecting her phone call.
Even after however-many years.
Mopping's regular rhythm.
Lemon oil on wooden chest.
Honor her with frangipani candles at Christmas.
Sing with abandon. Abandon. Abandon.




Tweet

Affirmation | An Original Poem

i want for you to know Yourself

be Yourself

love Yourself

who cares about your size

your thighs

the lies we tend to tell ourselves

ways we judge ourselves

ways we shame ourselves

and instead

proclaim Yourself incessant

exclaim Yourself insuppressible

don’t hide from the side of Yourself

that you think others don’t want

and instead

decide what matters ―

the You that needs a voice 

the You that has a choice

should arise

aim for the skies

reside among the stars

because You, my friend, are

luminous

Tweet

The Wishing Star | An Original Poem

We read about it in one of your beginner books. You 
want to wish on a star and on a whim I rush us
out to the porch. Quick! I say, it's cold and you're in a nightgown.


So we squeeze our eyes shut and you wish to be
an artist and I to write a book. Then we lie in the dark, faces
huddled together like girls at a slumber party.


To be a real artist, you explain, means you have the fancy
hat and a messy apron. Can we buy these 
tomorrow so your wish will come true?


Then I tell you that once upon a time I wished on a star. You 
think about this. Did it come true?
Yes, I answer, touching your nose.


You stare for a long moment, your three-year-old eyes
holding mine, for the first time full
of understanding.

Tweet

Playground or Prison | An Original Poem

Ladder!  Yellow slide!  Rock wall!  See-saw!
A little girl swings as she laughs!  Higher!  Higher!


Metal fence.
Wood pile.
Storage shed.
Sod.
A father sweats
pushing
a mower.
Around
and around.

I'm Not Ashamed to Mourn

Tomorrow is my husband's birthday, but today -- today I mourn a loss.

Yes, I've written about my aunt Sharon numerous times before.  I even questioned whether I should write about her again today.  But of course I should -- she was such an influence on my life.  Why should I sit silent because someone else may not want to read about it?

Is there an expiration date on grief?  After the first year, should we stop remembering the exact day? The exact place we were standing when we answered the phone?  Or is it five years? Ten?  Is it wrong to still weep for her sons' loss?  For my own pain?   Should my anger at the injustice of it all subside over time?  I can still hear her say to me, "Hey Em! How's math goin'?" and I wonder if I'll remember again next year.  I don't want to forget her -- I'm not interested in reaching the point where I don't grieve for her.  Yes, there are happy memories and I rejoice in them throughout the year.  But today it's okay to mourn, and I need that.

I'm okay with needing that.

Tomorrow I'll celebrate the birth of the most important man in my life, but today -- today will forever be a black mark on the calendar. I'm okay with that, too.  I'm not ashamed to remember a woman that I loved and to cry for her...

And I won't be ashamed next year.


Tweet

A Case of Me, Chloe-Style

My little sis has a blog! 

"My genes are going to be permanently altered from so much rain! I'm beginning to think that I will forever want to inhabit my bed, feel drab, and write blogs on the weather. What can I say? The only thing saving me is my boots...."




Read more of Chloe's musings at  

A Case of Me 

A Decade of Dreams Coming True

In an article in Time Magazine, Andy Serwer labeled the past ten years the "decade of broken dreams." What began with 9/11 and ended with an economic depression will go down in history as "the decade from hell." Serwer lists (in long-winded detail) every justification for this dour name, including his main argument. Most of us, he says, are worse off than we were when the clock struck midnight 10 years ago.

Ten years ago... wow.

Ten years ago I was a senior in high school, anxiously awaiting a stroke of midnight that would magically begin a new chapter in my life. I was the proud new owner of my very first cell phone, a clunky green Nokia that could knock someone unconscious if wielded correctly. I had returned the day before from my last national cheerleading competition, relieved to be home with no way of knowing how much I would miss the sport (and my body) years later.

Proud to be part of the first graduating class of the new millennium, I thought I was special. I think we all did. Like most high school seniors, I wanted... no, I needed that clock to strike midnight and start the year in which I would graduate and finally be an adult. I was so certain of my future and the path it would take me down and I was literally shaking with the need to get on with it.

All my problems would be solved once I had freedom... from my parents, from this town, from the ache inside me that told me I just didn't belong. I was tired of trying to be the girl everyone thought I should be, although I had no idea who I actually was underneath the pretense. I had just experienced my first Christmas after my parents' divorce, and although I can't recall it I must have been sad. Yet despite this, like most high school girls, I still believed in "happily ever after" and yearned for romance and true love. I was foolishly convinced that every boy I met was Mr. Right... and was heartbroken when he wasn't.

The year 2000 would be the starting point for every dream that I had. My body should have been physically vibrating with the pulse of possibility... and never before nor ever since have I been so alive with the anticipation of "what will be."

Ten years later here I am… back in the town from where I worked so hard to leave. I managed to find a semblance of the freedom that I sought, but like most things in life it didn't measure up to the hype I had built in my head. I no longer have that cheerleader's body, but instead traded it for a beautiful 2-year-old little girl. Only one vision managed to turn out exactly as I had dreamed: my husband Ryan is everything I hoped love would be.

Like ten years ago I am once again working to get out of this town. Not with a rabid desperation like before, but with the quiet persistence that comes from wanting a different life for my daughter. Unlike then I now have a much better grasp on who I am and what I believe, yet I still find myself trying to fit in. It's frustrating to continually catch myself trying to be the daughter, the granddaughter, the friend people think I should be, rather than the person that makes me proud.

I wish I knew what that 18-year-old girl resolved to do for the year 2000. Although I'd like to think it was something profound such as "spend more time volunteering" it was probably something silly and selfish like "lose 20 pounds" or out of her control like "find the man of my dreams." How often are the resolutions we make, in the big picture of life, silly, selfish or out of our control?

Like many people I am always quick to make resolutions and then quicker to give up on them. My OCD nature loves everything about resolutions, though: the fresh start to a fresh new year. Although I've made lifestyle changes before at various points throughout the year there's something compelling about starting anew on January 1.

Resolutions represent hope - knowing that we have within us the power to change our lives. Whether it's losing weight, cooking more, spending more quality time with our kids, or starting a family... For one brief moment the goal is a clear image in our mind and so tangible we can almost touch. It is this straight, narrow-minded focus that overtakes us and the power is like a drug... we CAN do this! And we do... for a week or so.

Instead of setting carved-in-stone feats that can easily be measured (usually in defeat) I came across a Winter Solstice ritual last week that takes a new approach to new year's resolutions. Although not as defined as traditional resolutions, Lorna Tedder (The Spiritual Eclectic) has created an amazingly simple concept. Instead of resolving to finally lose the weight, to write more, to take up yoga, join a book club, or blah, blah, blah...

… What if this New Year I welcome in more opportunities for personal expression and meditation? What if I say hello to more silliness and so long to so much seriousness? What if I open my heart to new friends and more simplicity in my life?

What if I say goodbye to people and actions that cause me heartache and give myself permission to accept things as they are?

Time Magazine calls the past ten years the "Decade of Broken Dreams" and I have certainly seen my fair share of them. Ten years ago I left this town to become a big-shot journalist and instead ended up a college drop-out. I went through a devastating break-up with the man I thought was the love of my life. I’ve lost four people that I love. I suffered through a sorority (where I sorely didn't belong) and said goodbye to my appendix, my religion, my Yellow Jeep and my beloved show Friends.

Looking at it from this angle, the decade definitely sucks! Nonetheless, I gained so much more than I lost! Working at Starbucks started a love affair with coffee. I gained new parents and siblings (in fact, my immediate family grew by 200%!) and a few more rockin’ family members through marriage! This decade brought me Facebook and blogging and How I Met Your Mother; one sweet tattoo, a few body piercings, and my all-time favorite song Drops of Jupiter in 2001.

A random part-time job in 2002 brought me face-to-face with the women I call my best friends. An embarrassing move back to my home town in 2005 led me straight into the apartment of my future husband. The death of my aunt directed me to a job about which I am passionate and an unplanned pregnancy gave me my perfect daughter.

Add in my first trip to New York City, a dozen or so different hairstyles, a fantastic Jimmy Buffett concert, learning to appreciate beer, and finally quitting smoking... and I've got a decade of dreams coming true.

These may not be the dreams I had in mind – but that doesn't make them any less spectacular. What did that 18-year-old girl know?

Ten years later I am creeping up on 30 (gasp!) and I wonder how so much has happened in such a short span of time. If I've learned anything at all, it's that the best things that have come out of the past 10 years (my friends, my husband, my daughter) have come from situations where I was truly me. Am I worse off than I was ten years ago? Hell, no! I've got true love, a family, amazing friends...everything that girl ever wanted.

Perhaps in 2010 and for the next decade, though, I add two more important items to my list of New Year's resolutions. Bid farewell to worrying about what others think of me and welcome in more chances to be true to myself.

With that, who knows what the next ten years will bring?   Share