Poor. Pitiful. Me. A Thanksgiving Post.

Poor. Pitiful. Me.

I often write blog posts in my head. It's a shame I can't telepathically send them to "Draft" mode. Earlier this week I had a good one cookin' as I drove to school. I was cranky and irritated and had worked myself up. You see, my parents divorced when I was 18. And though the first few years were a little rough, it was a pretty easy transition to being a 'divorced kid' (although technically I was an adult).

Until the holidays roll around. And then being a 'divorced kid' sucks hard, no matter how old I am. Surprise, surprise. Thirty isn't any different.

Priorities... Can't Live Without 'Em

There’s nothing worse than having to figure out my priorities. Gag. But the beginning of a new semester demands it, because without having an official list drafted, I quickly begin to feel like I’m drowning.

My Ultimate Authority... Lessons Learned from Sue Monk Kidd

To write what I learned from Sue Monk Kidd's The Dance of the Dissident Daughter would be another book in itself. Period. But here are the highlights, the select few that are not necessarily the most important wisdom I came away with, but ones I think are the easiest to express here and now.

Writing: The Highs & Lows & 'Dislike' Button

This past week has been a week of extreme highs and moderate lows. Most of you know a major blog site -- BlogHer.com -- featured several of my blogs. As of this writing more than 4,000 people have viewed (and hopefully read) my words. What a rush! Do I care that I'm not paid for this? Heck no! Just as I bask in every post y'all share on your Facebook pages and/or Twitter feeds -- not to mention your comments -- I've reveled in this small success. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm proud -- and as an extra perk, my dopamine levels have been off the charts!

Lunching with Joshilyn Jackson & What She Didn't Teach Me

So yes, yes. I lunched with Joshilyn Jackson on Friday. [Brush my shoulder, toss my hair, look smug]

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."

'Tis Better to Show Your Tush (Lessons Learned from a First Time 'Rooer)

Hindsight is 20/20, right? But as I stood on the shoulder of the interstate, unable to see where my friends had driven at least 10 miles ahead of me, there was no hindsight. There was no end in sight.

Let me back up a little… (which is what I wished they could've done).

We finally arrive in the famous line that begins about 17 miles outside the Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival gate. If you've ever driven by it on I-24, you know what I'm talking about. Cars line up on the shoulder for an incredibly slow-moving experience. People get out and wander between cars. If a bathroom break is required, you just head off into the woods. Or so I thought.

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.

Dumb Blondes, Turning 30, & Why I Hate Thomas Wolfe

Who says you can't go back?

Thanks to Netflix Instant Queue, my daughter is obsessed with She-Ra.  You know... He-Man's sister. I have to throw in that little descriptive or else most people forget who she is, poor gal.  And when I say "obsessed", I mean obsessed.  We watch her every morning, and we'll be throwing a She-Ra birthday party later this summer, complete with a Princess of Power cake and all.

Additionally, I finished Sweet Valley Confidential: 10 Years Later this week. The saga of Elizabeth & Jessica Wakefield and the entire Sweet Valley gang continues.  I got my first Sweet Valley Kids book in second grade as a Valentine's present from my mom. From then on I was hooked, and pretty sure I read everything published about the twins straight through their college years. Without giving too much away, the twins are still blond and perfect, their parents still belong to the Sweet Valley country club, and Lila Fowler is still a rich bitch.

What a wonderful return to my childhood... or not so much. Because I honestly can't tell you which was worse.