The Mother Load

The Mother Load Has MOVED!

2011-02-03T23:59:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-02T08:06:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-01T05:13:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-30T08:37:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-27T05:38:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-01-26T20:38:00.000-08:00

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...

2011-01-24T06:34:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-19T03:00:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-01-17T05:20:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-14T06:47:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-12T05:13:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-01-10T03:38:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

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)

2011-01-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-12-29T09:06:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-25T10:08:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-20T08:52:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-16T23:56:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-12-14T08:27:00.001-08:00

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...

2010-12-13T11:49:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-12-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-12-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

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?

Buy Local From the Little Shop on the Corner : The Reading Reptile

2010-12-06T06:08:00.000-08:00

I love Amazon.com as much as the next gal, but when it comes to quality customer service, attention to detail, and small businesses dedicated to differentiating themselves, I'll happily shop locally. Over the weekend, we did just that by celebrating the girls' fifth birthday at a nearby bookstore called "The Reading Reptile." While talking with one of the other moms, we agreed it reminds us of the Little Shop on the Corner from the Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks movie "You've Got Mail." Deb, the owner, was in charge of the "Arty Party." Uber-organized and efficient, she'd memorized all the kids' names within a matter of minutes. She read them stories (all sat and listened intently), made clay with them, and then walked everyone through three cool art projects. We finished up with cupcakes the kids got to decorate. A wonderful time was had by all, and it was definitely a memorable morning for Abby & Izzy!

This place is what I imagine Heaven might be like, where characters from mine and my children's best-loved books come alive in paper-mache all over the place (all made by Deb, the crafty and talented owner!):

Olivia the Pig, one of our favorites

Max, King of the Wild Things!

Frog and Toad

We adore Eloise!

Go Dog, Go!

Lily's Purple Plastic Purse

So my message to you today and this holiday season (and beyond)?

Shop locally.

Go where everybody knows your name (kinda like that theme song from "Cheers").

I don't want to lose places like Reading Reptile that make my city what it is---unique and amazing.

What is your "Little Shop on the Corner?" Do you support your local merchants?

Trapped With Twins and My Medela Breast Pump

2010-12-02T19:44:00.000-08:00

I'm linking up again today with the Red Dress Club. We're doing "flash fiction." If you're unfamiliar with flash fiction, think of it as a condensed short story. Shorter than short. The word count for flash fiction typically ranges from 100 to 2000 words.

and the prompt I've chosen is:

"Trapped"

I'm trapped in the mire; the thick, dripping, caramel-like consistency of my mommy brain. Neurons fire in a mad frenzy, crashing into one another--then disappear, POOF-- in a cloud of dust. I am incapable of a single coherent thought.

OVERLOAD. OVERLOAD. CANNOT COMPUTE.

I'm so exhausted I'm falling asleep at the pump. The Medela Pump In Style, that is. Though there's nothing stylish about it.

I sit, boobies locked and loaded to this dreadfully slow contraption (the one I got to use in the hospital was like a Mercedes, while this was more like a Yugo):

photo courtesy of www.medela.com

Listening to the obnoxiously loud motor, rivaled only by the obnoxiously loud screaming of my twin baby girls. One is howling in my lap, the other lies on the floor next to me, red faced and squawking. Fortunately with all this carrying on my let-down reflex is uninhibited; yet the noise is closing in on me, trapping me in its tight web.

Sometimes you can say the same word over and over until it becomes a string of meaningless sounds. Well, the crying is kind of like that, too. Soon it barely interrupts my tired trance. I'm staring at the wall, one forearm holding the pump's parts in place with my free hand pressing a paci into Abby's mouth. I realize my mouth is sagging open and that it's time to switch out bottles. Which is messy and complicated with a baby in one's lap. Let's not even talk about how many times I've spilled milk on the carpet trying to do this dance.

It's January in Kansas, and bitterly cold outside. Because the girls are preemies, their risk for RSV is exceptionally high and their neonatologist told us not to take them out. Too many germs. So we're sequestered. Only my husband uses his Get Out of Jail Free card for work every day and has intelligent conversations with actual adults. He also gets a regular shower. He eats meals in peace, even if they're sometimes rushed.

Me? My hair is filthy. I smell like milk. I've been wearing the same pair of pajamas for three (going on four) days. Sometimes after the girls are fed, burped, and freshly diapered, I swaddle them tightly and strap them into their vibrating Fisher-Price seats. I turn on their white noise machine, poke the pacifiers in, and pull their bedroom door closed behind me. Then I go to my room, closing my door quietly behind me.

I'm trapped. I crawl into my bed, close my eyes and pray they fall asleep.

Do We Have the Gimmies? And Too Much Stuff?

2010-11-29T12:00:00.000-08:00

(photo courtesy of Amazon.com)

Lately there's a lot of loud humming in my head. There's too much of it this time of year when the toy commercials come on constantly, the newspaper arrives loaded with extra ads and inserts ~~what a waste of trees~~, and the emails for special sales and promotions flood my inbox. It's enough to put this girl into a tailspin. And it ain't pretty, people.

I've been reading a lot of posts lately that have made me even more pensive about life and "stuff", like this one on homelessness via Diana Adams of Bit Rebels. And this one about gratitude and greed via my friend Amy Oscar.

I've also been thinking about this video, The Story of Stuff, which you should watch if you haven't already.

Then my BFF Shelly Kramer of V3 Integrated Marketing and I went road trippin' to ~~BFE~~ Bern, Kansas on Saturday to pick up our cow. You know the one. And if you don't, go here to catch up. I'll wait.

Anycow, we had lots of time in the car to talk, seeing as we took a few ~~minor~~ detours, including one to, um, Nebraska (cough, cough). When we came upon this sign

I slammed on the brakes and pulled over ~~freaking out slightly~~. Shelly, ever level-headed, got on her phone to call the meat packing plant for more specific directions (let's just say country folk don't get that we city people aren't used to going off the grid. My GPS was no help--it showed us kinda floating on a screen of white space). As we drove, wide open fields raced past us while a beautiful blue sky floated gracefully above. Grasses turning dry and brown, trees that seemed naked with the recent loss of their leaves. I squealed as we passed cattle grazing, baby calves, deer, and even alpaca!

We talked while we drove through several small farm towns as we neared Bern. Shelly mentioned how different people's lives are up there. For example, Deborah, the woman whose cow we bought, lives in a very small house with her husband, two kids, and a third on the way. Her kids have no idea what Gogurt is, and the abhorrent fruit snacks my kids are addicted to are completely alien to them. Their nearest grocery store is a half hour drive away. Deborah and her neighbors stock a nearby food pantry with essentials so that in a pinch they can grab what they need: a sack of flour, maybe some sugar, and perhaps some beans or potatoes. There is no McDonald's in Bern. There is no Wal-Mart in Bern. It's truly all very quaint, simple, and quiet. Nothing but miles and miles of farmland around, wide open spaces, and consequently less of a need or desire for the "stuff" the rest of us constantly crave and find so necessary.

What a different life many of us lead. It's difficult for me to admit, but we definitely lead a life of excess. We have not only what we need, but so much more. I drive a two-year-old minivan that we bought brand new; we live in a large new house with plenty of space; and our girls have their own playroom in the basement that's overflowing with Barbies, an easel, a doll house, kiddie table & chairs set, a ginormous dress-up trunk, and a small inflatable bouncy house (thank you very much for the Craigslist find, Shelly!). We go out to nice meals at restaurants when we want, go to the movie theater, shop at Banana Republic, The Gap, Target and Old Navy. We have several different chains of grocery stores available to us, all within a two or three mile radius. We take all of this for granted.

Still, we are generous. We donate to many different charities and make a point of supporting lots of people and organizations in need. I keep granola bars and packs of peanut butter crackers in my car to hand out to the homeless, along with the smile Diana Adams talks about in her post. This morning I dropped off several large bags of clothes, shoes, housewares, etc. at Goodwill. I support Heifer International and send meaningful gifts to help people around the world receive training that helps them become self-reliant. Not only is that being green, it's not just more "stuff."

But here I am trying to make all these excuses for myself. When I'm part of the problem of "stuff."

As I type this, there's a closet upstairs where we're hiding Hanukkah and birthday gifts for our daughters. Part of me can't help it. They are still so young. I'm hopeful we can gradually ease away from this unhealthy obsession and instead do things like volunteer at shelters or food kitchens someday when they are older. Maybe rather than giving each other presents, we can commit to putting that money towards a charity (or a few) we all believe in and want to support. There are so many in need. I have taught my children about homelessness and while they clearly don't fully understand it, they do show sympathy and they enjoy helping me dole out snacks or put money in a bucket. If I have my way, within a few years we'll take gifts to a nearby children's hospital to hand out.

And that good feeling, that high I get from helping others? That's the only "stuff" I really need.

Gratitude. (And Fear)

2010-11-26T07:58:00.000-08:00

I'm linking up today with the Red Dress Club to talk about what I'm grateful for.

I am grateful for so many things: my freedom of speech, my nice house and my mama minivan. Grateful for my family and friends, my husband and kids (and let's not forget Monster our mini poodle). I'm thankful for the food we eat, the clothes we wear, and our freedom of religion. I feel blessed to know people like Diana Adams over at Bit Rebels who wrote this incredible post on homelessness, because it inspires me to do more. I'm incredibly lucky to have Shelly Kramer of V3im.com who's buying a cow with me. We're going road trippin' tomorrow to pick up the meat and deliver it. Can't wait to have some girl time and catch up with her, all the while doing something green and healthy for our families. I'm indebted to innumerable talented blogger friends who make me think, help me grow, and virtually hold my hand. Not room enough to mention them all, but here are a few to get you started:

Pamela at Road To Joy
Nancy at Away We Go
Ash At Shades
Alexandra at Good Day Regular People
Cherry Woodburn at Borderless Thinking
Allizon Nazarian
Amy Oscar
Tulpen at Bad Words
Joyce Cherrier at Freaking Fitness
Blogging Goddess
Ms. Wasteland
Danielle Smith of Extraordinary Mommy
Michelle Mangen, the Virtual Assistant
Megan at I Dance, I Write

On a more serious note...

I am grateful I can be a practicing Jew in today's day and age. Oh, except that people from Westboro Baptist Church picket outside our synagogue some Friday evenings. I am grateful that my gay dad can live his life with his partner without encountering any bigotry or scrutiny. Oh, except that WBC's site URL is http://www.godhatesfags.com./ Nice.

I am grateful I wasn't taken from my home, made to walk miles and miles in horrid conditions to places called Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, or Dachau. I'm happy my head wasn't shaved and that I wasn't starved and made to work all day long and sleep in cramped quarters. Most of all, I'm glad no one told me it was time for a shower, but instead sent me into a gas chamber where I lived my last minutes hearing screaming, crying, and the sound of bodies around me collapsing on the cold, concrete floor.

It will never happen again. Right? The Holocaust, I mean. Sometimes I'm not so sure. Sometimes, like last night, ON THANKSGIVING, no less, I'm taken aback by the stark realization that antisemitism and all kinds of racism and bigotry are still very much alive. Not just alive, but thriving.

Some of you might have watched my whimsical vlog on Hanukkah. I noticed last night that several people I don't know had left not-so-nice comments about my being Jewish. I blocked those YouTube users, reported them, and deleted the slurs. Then I got mad. The shaking and pacing kind of mad.

To add insult to injury, I was on Twitter where @SCTNow_Portland sent out a tweet about child trafficking "by the Jews." It linked to a YouTube video. Heart pounding, I clicked on the link and was relieved to see a message that YouTube had removed the clip due to violations and hateful sentiments. I walked in our local SCT Now (Stop Child Trafficking) walk back in October and was proud to do so. But the notion that people are pinning something like this on a particular religious group infuriated me. I've not seen any tweets about child trafficking by "the gays," or "the African Americans," or "the Methodists." Unfollow.

Some days I'm afraid. I don't understand people. I worry for my daughters' future. I'm terrified there will come a day when we head to temple for services and there will be violence outside. And I'll have to explain it to them. They don't even know about the Holocaust yet and I dread the day they're old enough that it's time to tell them.

Seriously, people. Enough is ENOUGH.

It's time to grow up. It's time to be kind to one another. It's time to embrace our differences, respect said differences, and really think about where this world is heading. Where YOU are heading.

Later while I was still stewing, I watched Chelsea Handler and Gwyneth Paltrow fist bump on Chelsea Lately's special last night. Both women have Jewish roots, and I adore them. Watching them together after the evening's previous events made me smile. If Chels and Gwynnie can fist bump, then damn it, this post is my virtual one.

What are you grateful for? What are you afraid of? I want to know.

Thanksgiving: It's Really About the Pie.

2010-11-24T09:54:00.000-08:00

Our local newspaper asked us last year to submit a short letter, in 150 words or less, about what we were thankful for on Thanksgiving. They called me to verify authorship, so I got pretty excited, but still wasn't sure it would be published. I woke last Thanksgiving morning to find it/this in the paper. Happy Turkey Day, everyone!

*******************
My husband and I were desperate to have children, but a medical condition presented a roadblock. After a roller-coaster ride of Clomid, intrauterine insemination and in-vitro fertilization, I was lucky enough to become pregnant. I gave birth to twin girls in 2005 and am so grateful to the doctor who helped us. Without her, there would be no infectious laughter, no one to call me “Mommy” and no mess of Goldfish crumbs in my back seat. I am grateful to my husband who has been my best friend through everything. There is no greater gift than sharing a Thanksgiving dinner with him and my daughters. This year I will pause as we begin to heap our plates with mounds of sweet potatoes. I will choke up as I look at my husband and my daughters and think to myself, “I am the luckiest woman in the world.”

******************
And on that note, I'd like to introduce you to one of my daughters. This video was taken shortly before her 2nd birthday as she's chowing down on Thanksgiving leftovers. Without modern medicine, without wonderful doctors, without my husband, parents and supportive friends, this little one (and her darling twin sister) would not be here. I am so lucky. And there was no mix up at the lab, people. Clearly this girl loves pie, just like her mama. She doesn't just love it. You might say she's a wee bit obsessed ~~just like her mama.~~

I'm Loving My Mess--Allison Nazarian Style.

2010-11-22T06:08:00.000-08:00

I've been busy, people. Busy delving into this incredible new book by Allison Nazarian, whom I had the pleasure and privilege of meeting in person back in September at CIP. (Jealous? I met a real, live, published writer and she autographed my copy!). It's ridiculously perfect for me. First off, just look at the title & cover:

Love Your Mess.

Nazarian writes about life being messy. Not literally messy, like the growing piles of paperwork, lists and bills littering my kitchen counter. Messy in the sense of emotionally, mentally and logistically. How real is your life, she asks? Because the conclusion she draws is that the more real we become, the messier life is. It just is. You know, like you can't have the chicken without the egg. Or which came first, the chicken or the egg? I forget how it goes. But you know what I mean.

"Messiness is a by-product of a life well-lived. It's not something to be avoided or ignored or falsely neatened up. And, in fact (get this), it is something you want. That you should strive for. That you should be thankful for.
Because the truth is this: No messiness means no lessons, no loving with abandon, no real living out loud." (p. 15)

Something else Allison writes about that really resonates with me is The Voice. The Voice says things like, "Of course you aren't getting anything done today...you are disorganized/unfocused/without purpose."

Or The Voice says, "Your kids are fighting because you are the world's worst Mother. Duh."

And it might even go so far as this, "You say writing is your top priority but you never get to it. Maybe you aren't really meant to be a writer. And even if you are a decent writer, you aren't making any money from writing. Stands to reason it's pretty worthless. Maybe you are, too?" (pp. 19-20)

I can't begin to describe how much I relate to all of this, these feelings. The Voice speaks to me all day every day. It rarely says anything positive. Here are some snippets of My Voice:

You fancy yourself a writer, eh? But what do you write, exactly? A stupid blog?
You've been saying for years that you want to write a book. Maybe you'll never really do it. And even if you do, who the heck is gonna publish that shit, let alone read it?
You're a horrible mother. Those twins steamroll you. Clearly they're wearing the pants.
You totally suck in the kitchen. You can't even make your own pie crusts.
Your laundry room is a wreck. Why can't you ever clean it up? And that dusty thing in the cabinet? It's called an iron. Use it once in a while, mmm'kay?
You're a bad wife. Being tired all the time is no excuse.
You're going on a girls' trip to Vegas? You don't deserve to do that. You should skip it.
Why are you wearing your pajamas during the daytime? And when was your last shower?

I'm giving The Voice the finger. I'm well aware my life is messy. But it's a good thing. Now I just need to learn to embrace it, accept it, and snuggle up on the couch with it. Because it's part of what makes me uniquely me. And as for my many messes? If you're a regular reader, you know about most of them. My gay dad, my struggles with my body image, bullies, and two short people who are running the show here when I should be. Because I'm the mom. Well, at the very least, I'm gonna write a damn good book about my messes. I mean, I'm not literally stealing Allison's idea, I just mean I'm going to write about the stuff that makes up my messy life. And YOU are going to buy a copy. Even if it's 20 years from now ~~it better not take me that long, God damn it.~~

This book is so good I'm making flashcards to tape up all over my bathroom mirror, fridge, and on the inside of my car with quotes from it. I also think Allison should make an audio version so I can listen to her affirmations and wisdom while I'm driving my mom-mobile (hint, hint). Reading about her mess is especially comforting because she is a published writer who's experienced a similar kind of muckety muck that I have. And she's not afraid to admit it. ~~Did I mention she autographed my copy?~~ Which means I'm not alone, and it also gives me the courage to be more open about my messes. Which I think I have been, especially lately, on my blog.

You will love this book. You will fall in love with Allison just as I have. She's candid, bright, and she's helping me learn how to live.

Ergo:
I'm going to Vegas, baby. I deserve it.

Do you have The Voice in your head? What does it say to you?
Wanna read more? Go here and buy Allison's kick-ass book.

Red Writing Hood: Let Go

2010-11-19T00:30:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time as I've been too intimidated. But today I'm nervously linking up again with the Red Dress Blog. My assignment: write a piece (fiction or non-fiction) inspired by a song. It can be any song of your choosing. If it is not clear from your story what the song is, throw us a bone and put a note at top or bottom of your post to let us know what you picked.

The song I chose is "Let Go" by Frou Frou. It's on the Garden State soundtrack, which is one of my favorite movies ever. How can you not love Natalie Portman ~~my girl crush~~ and Zach Braff (he starred in it but also directed it)? Garden State was released in September 2004, when The Father Load and I were in the thick of our infertility.

Flying down I-435 at 7 a.m., heading to Overland Park Regional Medical Center. Again. My red sharps box sits smugly next to me in the passenger's seat, half full of used needles. Evidence of my complete and utter failure as a woman. My body's unwillingness to cooperate. A symbol of the perpetual emptiness of my womb, the laziness of my ovaries. And super! It's the color of blood, the one thing any trying-desperately-to-conceive-woman dreads seeing. Well, aside from pregnant bellies, babies and birth announcements, that is.

"Let Go" is on repeat, blaring from the speakers in my navy blue VW Jetta. I'm trying to let go, to not worry that my ovaries aren't doing what they're supposed to be doing. I'm "too busy writing your (my) own tragedy." I have a full feeling, I'm bloated, I've been crying at every God damn commercial and if a pregnant belly even enters my peripheral vision, I lose my shit. Surely there's something going on inside me, but I'm too scared to let hope in. The possibility of parenthood has always hovered just out of our reach. Today is the first ultrasound after weeks and weeks of injectible fertility drugs. First Lupron and birth control pills to supress me and mimic menopause, then daily cocktails of Gonal F and Repronex to rev me up and put my ovaries into overdrive. Eggs galore being the ultimate goal. Delicately balanced, of course, with the desire for quality over quantity.

This is my second round of in vitro, hence the reason I'm trying to let go. Because aside from all the money that's been spent, I'm emotionally, physically, and mentally undone. I'm hollowed out, a fragile shell of a person. The idea of doing this song and dance again nauseates me. I want to be a mother, but at what price? There are plenty of other babies and young children already living in this world who need homes. Carrying a child in my womb isn't necessary in order to be a mother or for said child to know he/she is mine. Sure, that part would be nice, but I'm not gonna quibble over that.

The other night our friend Yasmeen and her husband came by to visit. They were in from out of town and Yasmeen and I had grown close when we were both struggling to get pregnant in the early days. Then after a few weeks of not hearing from her, I got the dreaded call. Yasmeen was pregnant. I was happy for her, sad for me. I'm always being left behind.

When I go upstairs to greet them, her belly takes me by surprise and I start sobbing uncontrollably. I let her hug me even though there's a part of me that wants nothing to do with her, that jealous, selfish part of me that's so ugly I want to smother it. But the other side wins out, the side of me that wants what she has--life growing inside of her. I ask if I can touch her tummy. "Of course," she says, smiling. I lightly lay my hands on her. Her belly is high and hard, so round. She is lucky. She is living my dream. Something thumps my right hand and I jump, and then start to cry harder, but can't help the smile spreading across my face, which is now dripping with snot. I turn away and curl into The Father Load's waiting arms, bury my face in his neck. Let go. Don't hope that the drugs are working. Just don't. LET GO.

I snap out of the memory and remind myself I never thought I'd get this far. Never even thought I could give myself multiple injections every day. The first time was the worst. Standing in the kitchen shaking and hyperventilating, leaning against the counter with one hand, my shirt pulled halfway up and tucked under my armpit. I'm embarrassed, though no one is there to watch me. It's just a needle. How do drug addicts do this all the time, I think to myself. Then:

"Jump in. Whatcha waiting for? It's all right."

I pinch a small slab of skin from my lower abdomen, jab the needle in, and push the plunger. Done. Crying with relief, I call my mom and tell her I've done it. My husband comes home prepared to administer the shot, and I smile with tearstained cheeks and tell him he doesn't need to worry about it. I'm beaming. And with each day, administering the shots becomes easier. I'm practically a pro.

There's beauty in the beakdown. After weeks of injections and a tender, bruised belly, it's time. They retrieve 14 good eggs, and we have two to transfer on the fifth day. Six days later I'm at home and feel a familiar wetness in my panties. A sob catches in my throat as I stop right there in the middle of my living room, yank my pants down and see the bright red blood.

no no no no no no no no no
I grab the phone and with shaking fingers dial my husband.
"I'm bleeding," I say when he answers.
Silence.
"I'm going to call and see if I can get in for a pregnancy test. I need to know this is over. I need closure. I need to move on. I can't do this anymore."
The Father Load is holding back his own tears and his voice has gotten so low I can barely hear it.
"Okay," he mumbles.
"We're going to adopt," I say.
"Whatever you want," he replies.
I hang up.
I call the nurse and after blubbering into the phone I finally make her understand what's going on.
She puts me on hold.
For what seems like a long time.
Then she comes back on and tells me I can come in tomorrow morning, because today is really still too soon.

No sleep that night.

I stagger out of bed, zombie-like, and go through the motions of brushing my teeth, using the bathroom, putting in my contacts.
Before I know it I'm at the office with a tourniquet on my arm. And it's like I don't even know how I got there. I don't remember having driven myself. But I did.
Then magically I'm back at home, as if transported. I feel nothing. I sit on the couch in silence, starting at the green patches of our yard coming back.
After two hours, the phone rings. I look at the Caller ID and it's the nurse.
"Hello," I say. Praying for the last time that this is some hellish mistake.

It is.

I am pregnant. With terribly low levels of progesterone, hence the bleeding. But after everything, I.Am.Pregnant.

And now?

I have let go of the desire for more children. We are enough. The four of us. My twin girls, my very patient husband, and me.

Someday I will have to let the girls go.
But not today.

Stop Self-Defeating Thoughts With This Amazing FREE Program!

2010-11-16T18:57:00.000-08:00

My dear friend Cherry Woodburn, the brainchild behind the blog Borderless Thinking, is launching an impressive FREE email series that begins tomorrow (Wednesday). Once you register (which is quick and easy via her site) you'll receive an email once a week for the next five weeks which will radically change the way you view yourself and your future. I've already signed up, and encourage you to do so as well. In fact, I'm so confident that you'll enjoy Cherry's program that I'm going to give you a gift if you join me/us (remember: it's FREE, it's an email that comes to you each week--you don't have to GO anywhere, PAY anything, or sign your life away). If Cherry confirms that you've registered, you'll get to ask me one question, whatever you want ~~make it good~~. And I will either blog or vlog the answers in the near future. Go on. Embarrass me. Make me look like a fool ~~it's not hard, people~~ . On that note, please welcome Cherry Woodburn!

These days, and for many years now, I can say with ease:

• I’m smart.
• I'm confident in my abilities.
• I’m a good problem solver.
• I say no.
• I make friends easily.
• I’m willing to take risks.
• I’m worth showering myself with self-care.
• I’ve learned to tame my inner shrew: http://bit.ly/bIQyst

Although I believe in myself, I’m not perfect. And I want to be completely honest with you: I’m struggling with getting older. I haven’t yet tamed the voice of the inner shrew-on-aging. I hear her in the cold, stark reality of morning light when I put on eyeliner and use my index finger to pull my skin away from the side of my eye for ease of application, and release my finger only to have the skin decide to stay out there for a bit of a rest. Then slowly, almost begrudgingly, my beloved piece of skin, that’s been with me all my life, decides to make its way back to the place where it started. The shrew-on-aging lets me know that, like a dried up white rubber band, my skin’s just not holding things together the way it used to.

For the first time in my life I’ve reached an age which I have trouble saying out loud. My brain (vs. the resident shrew-on-aging who’s bribed and owned by the media) KNOWS that I am succumbing to a society-induced dis-ease. And I need some support to stop succumbing.

So this old lady is hoping to enlist your support by providing the following information I wish I’d known sooner.

1. Old is a relative term.
    a. When you’re 30, you suddenly understand that 25 is young.
    b. When you’re 40 you chuckle at the 30-year-olds that are complaining about looking older.
    c. When you’re 50 you realize you’ll never feel “your age” because you spent your life with misconceptions about what 50, or any age older than you are, feels like.
   d. When you’re 60 you realize that you definitely have wrinkles and that when you’re 70 or 80 or 90 you’ll look back and think how great you looked and felt with them.

2. Cosmetic surgery has taken away the level playing field. We aren't all aging together or “at the same rate”. That can make the body-signs of aging more challenging to accept.
    a. That being said, don’t start with the procedures because there will always be another procedure you could have, and another one and another one. There will also always be someone you can compare yourself too (like the plastic surgeon that goes to the same yoga studio I do) that looks younger because she’s had more procedures. Comparison is never a wise idea.
    b. The cosmetic & cosmetic surgery industries are making HUGE profits off of your fear of getting older.
    c. The industries play on that fear with ads, ads and more ads telling you you’re not good enough the way you are. “Look younger!” they shout to women of any age.
    d. You’re still 20, or 30 or 40 or 50 or 60 or 70 or 80 years old no matter how much botox etc. is keeping your face and neck wrinkle-free.
    e. Gloves will have to come back into fashion all year round to hide the proof-is-in-the-hands. Do you really want to be wearing white gloves in the summer?

3. Old is just a word, like short or tall are. Old does not inherently have a negative meaning.
    a. It’s time to venerate the older generations for the stories and experience they have.
    b. You will one day become that older generation.
    c. If you don’t become old, it’s because you died.

Aging really is a gift. I realize it more and more. I’m alive to see my grandchildren; to pass on the love and lack of rules that grandparents are supposed to do.

Granted I still have to contend with the image that some of the younger generations have that people, particularly women, of the age of 60 don’t have a lot to offer. They’re wrong. So I’m asking you to join me in a huge Fuck You to a culture that says there’s something wrong with living. Because living equals aging.

I invite you to sign up for a free 5-week program I designed to help other women get on the path to increased self-esteem. For more information, click here: http://borderlessthinking.com/are-you-limiting-yourself/

To contact Cherry:
http://borderlessthinking.com

http://cherrywoodburn.wordpress.com/
http://twitter.com/cherrywoodburn
http://blogtalkradio.com/cherrywoodburn

10 Ways to Embrace Your Inner Jew at Hanukkah Time

2010-11-15T08:51:00.000-08:00

Here's me in all my glory. This is how ~~scary~~ I look like on a daily basis. I meant to shower this morning ~~thank goodness there's no smell-o-vision~~. BEWARE: I violated my own personal vlogging rule, which is to try to keep the vlog to a 2-3 minute minimum... yet we Jews are not known for our brevity. Le sigh. But you love me anyway, so you're going to watch. And seriously? When I watch the vlog regularly on my computer, my lips match the sound. But something happens once I turn it over to You Tube. I am not techno savvy. Is it me/my settings, is it my webcam? I hate that it looks dubbed. Oy vey!

Here's the rub: I want to seriously spread this Hanukkah love.

For a really fun PRIZE, here's how to enter:

*leave me a comment letting me know what your favorite part of the video was.
*follow me/my blog via Google Friend Connect.
*follow me on Twitter: @erinlynn76
*for every tweet, you'll get yet another entry (you can tweet twice daily, just post the links to your tweets in the comments!).
*follow me on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/erin.margolin#!/erin.margolin
*"like" my Facebook Mother Load fan page: http://www.facebook.com/search.php?q=the+mother+load&init=quick&tas=search_preload#!/pages/Fairway-KS/The-Mother-Load/112118315466348

*post a link to this vlog post on your Facebook page for 5 extra entries (link to me so I can see it!).

At the end of the week I'll choose a winner and you'll get a PRIZE! A goodie package of some of my favorite things.

Poetry or Utter Crap? You Decide.

2010-11-12T10:24:00.000-08:00

In a pile of fall leaves I gingerly sit
So much hidden under their crunchy blanket
The words I want don't come. Not a single sound.
Except inside my heart still pounds pounds pounds.

Why did you call me here?
My heart whispers a warning in my ear.
What do you want, you fool?
Because I am trying to be done with you.

Important words left unsaid
The pulsing and ringing in my head
A door slamming in my face--
But really, who's been disgraced?

Even in my dreams I cannot escape
The swift current of your wake
I'm angry. I want you to go.
Unless you can give me all you've got, put on a show.

I will not fall prey anymore--
Be your victim or wallow on the floor
I'm done with the charade.
I'm calling it----"A spade is a spade."

I'm Not Sorry. Really.

2010-11-10T12:08:00.000-08:00

I just read this friggin' fantabulous post via @DanielleSmithTV of ExtraordinaryMommy.com. It struck a nerve and I felt things within me begin to shift, crack, and turn on themselves. I was reading about myself. And I bet if you hop over there, you'll find the very same thing.

I apologize all the time. For nothing. For everything. For little, silly, insignificant things. "I'm sorry" is likely the most oft-used phrase in my vocabulary and perhaps beginning today I'll keep a tally--maybe even the next few days. Anyone wanna make any guesses? Maybe I'll throw in a prize? (Or I won't, and then I won't apologize. Mmm'kay?)

Danielle's post made me think about where it comes from, this incessant need to blurt out the phrase so frequently. It's become such a bad habit. I don't even realize I'm saying it half the time. I think it comes from my core, my lack of respect for myself, the high standards I hold myself to. It comes from listening to my mother who also apologizes on a regular basis. But like Danielle points out, it seems women are doing most of this, not men. Why? Because for the most part, we're the ones in the trenches. We're juggling everything, doing it all, trying to make 3,428 things fall into place on any given day. Even if we don't "work" per se and stay home with the kids, we're still cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, playing chauffeur, laundress, secretary, and personal shopper. We're raking the leaves, pulling the weeds, taking out the trash, playing referee and unclogging the toilet . We're schlepping to the vet, schlepping to the pediatrician, and schlepping to the PTA meetings. We're wiping butts, wiping countertops, and wiping runny noses. We're running errands, running after soccer balls in the street, running up and down the stairs. When we're off our game, the whole house of cards collapses; dinner doesn't get made, Joey's late for soccer practice, and we come home to dog barf all over the kitchen floor. And then we say it. We say, "I'm sorry."

No more I'm sorry. It's okay to have Stouffer's frozen lasagna for dinner sometimes.

No more Mrs. Nicey Nice. It's pointless to feel badly about stupid stuff.

No more apologizing for things that are not my fault or are out of my control (i.e. dog puke).

No more even thinking about apologizing when it's unnecessary.

No more apologizing for calling someone, worrying it might be a bad time (that's what voice mail is for).

No more apologizing to my kids when I'm telling them they can't do something. I'm the mom. I'M IN CHARGE, DAMN IT.

No more apologizing for crying. Emotions happen.

No more apologizing for missing important meetings. I just had hernia surgery.

No more apologizing for not commenting on all of your blogs. I do what I can when I can. I still love you.

No more apologizing for not being able to constantly juggle the 2,754 things that are on my plate without missing a beat. It's just not humanly possible. Perfection is unattainable.

In conclusion, I'm not sorry. Really, I'm not.

What are you not sorry about? Are you a perpetual apologizer like me? Do we need to start an Apologizers Anonymous?

Too Bad I Gave Away All My Maternity Clothes....

2010-11-08T08:45:00.000-08:00

Because the surgery to fix this little sucker has transformed me into six months preggo lady. No lie. The hernia was 3 cm wide, or about the width of two fingers....or the width of that clampy tool thingie you see there, which is positioned right at the edges of the hernia itself.

Yummy, no?

So I know you're dying to see the outside, too, right? Especially the white Spanx girdle contraption which makes me feel really sexy? Here you go:

Sexy, no?

Well, let me just say it's a pretty powerful piece of fabric.

Because when I unleash the beast, this is what you see:

My poor tummy. The surgery was laparoscopic, which means

they made several incisions and slid their tools inside to sew

the mesh patch over the hole.

(That is tape and cotton packing over my belly button)

If that doesn't scare you, look at the side view.

Me in all my glory. Yech.

The swelling. Oh, and I didn't realize to perform the surgery laparoscopically, they have to pump you full of air. Yeah. So nice.

Anyone have any maternity tops I can borrow?

Anysurgery, thank you all for your love, care, concern, emails, calls, flowers, fruit arrangements, prayers, meals, and positive thoughts. I am off painkillers as of last night (let's cross our fingers I can stay that way), and am just taking Motrin and Extra Strength Tylenol.

Okay, back to bed for me. I'm almost done reading The Alchemist. Have a slew of others behind it. My mom is here helping out with the hooligans for a few days, thank goodness.

Should I do a giveaway for my girdle? Who wants it? I don't look half bad when it's on....

Do You Know My Friend Amy Oscar?

2010-11-04T05:23:00.000-07:00

After my last post, I had a long conversation with my friend, Amy Oscar, who is an intuitive spiritual consultant. She was one of many I was lucky enough to meet at CIP, Sarah Robinson's conference I attended in September. What Amy does is fascinating, and I encourage you to read more about it here. Talking through things with her helped me put together some of the puzzle pieces I wrote about on Monday. One particular thing Amy said has stuck with me: "The story we tell over and over again is not the story." She suggested I take a look at things that were going on within our family before my dad came out of the closet. And indeed, there were things going on, but they will have to wait for another post.

According to Amy (I'm using her words verbatim because she says it far better than I could):

The third chakra is the seat of the will (and willpower). This is the place where "fire in the belly" lives, the personal 'foundry' where we forge, through our choices, the life that we will ultimately manifest.

In terms of your hernia, its location suggests to me a weakness in your ability to own your own choices, your authority over your own life. I said that perhaps, continuing to tell the story of the wound that you received when your father came out was holding you in the past - and holding this weakness/vulnerability open even though that event happened many years ago. Understanding the energy anatomy of the body can help us understand how symptoms and illness are often (I said, always) linked to causal factors in the psyche and energy body. In this way, a hernia - a weakness in the abdominal wall above the navel - suggests, to me, that this weakness, held over time had manifested from the energy body to the physical body and now physical surgery is the solution. From the perspective of energetic healing, you can support this surgery - and prevent further symptoms, recurrence, weakness in this chakra - by addressing the psychological issues in play.

Amy sent me here to check out this educational diagram of all the chakras and where they reside (if you're a curious bird like me). I was so intrigued that I asked Amy to give me the names of some books about all of this stuff so I can investigate further. Working with Amy again would be wonderful (if she's willing), and I'm looking forward to learning and discovering more.

If you'd like to connect with Amy, you can find her on Twitter here:
Her blog is incredible, and I encourage you to subscribe now.
You can also find her on Facebook here.
Pssssst. She's also got a book coming!! It's going to be phenomenal, just like Amy!

Bits and pieces of our conversation, stream-of-consciousness style:

**symptoms in the body = flags from the psyche.
**so many things I'm dealing with: rage, betrayal, lying, and identity issues. All of these things coming to a head are like the an infection, like the wound in my abdominal wall.
**when I was 15, I shoved it all under the carpet to hide it-- the secret of my gay dad.
**intubation = symbolic b/c I could not speak, did not speak, did not have/use my voice.
**shame in homosexuality --> imagery I used of something I was choking on, being shoved down my throat.
**start looking at what was going on before dad came out.
**his coming out = his pulling the tube (intubation) out.
**other truths may still be buried, carrying a weight.
** the 3rd chakra is navel/stomach/belly button area = powerlessness.
**my dad didn't do anything to me, he did it for himself (I do know this, but still it's hard)
**to be writing/thinking about all of this now is good, but risky in a way because of the historical blow coupled with the anniversary of the wound, and now surgery in the same week. But may also be cathartic and very healing (literally and metaphorically).

Amy gave me some food for thought in a big way. She was brilliant, insightful, kind, and gentle with me. I'm utterly and completely in awe of her. So hurry on over to her blog and get to know her!

Halloween May Be Over, But November Haunts Me.

2010-11-01T09:22:00.000-07:00

Every year the first week of November stops me dead in my tracks as I run headlong into a brick wall. I stagger to my feet, stunned, brush the grit off, and start the familiar shuffle down the same path I did back in November of 1991 when I was 15 years old. I can't believe it was 19 years ago. Nineteen, which is almost 20. Sounds like a lot. It is a lot. So why, then, does it still plague me? Why won't it go away? Well, because my gay dad isn't going away. He's still my dad. Our family is still our family, however atypical and foreign to some.

Nineteen years ago this week, my dad spilled his secret out onto the floor of our living room. Like a pool of blood, crawling and seeping all over clean, shiny floors. I drowned in it, choked on it. I'm back now, but I'm still changing, morphing, blurring, reaching, and becoming. I stare out my kitchen window watching the leaves drift down and listen to the trees laughing, dancing and whispering their secrets.

I'm instantly transported back to that day, like a time warp. A scratch on a record blip...blip...blip or a cd that's on repeat. Rewind, play. Rewind, play. Pause. Rewind, play again. You might be talking to me, but my brain goes somewhere else for a few minutes. I'm flooded with memories that seem so close and tangible, like bubbles I can pop; yet a part of me wishes them far away, out of reach, locked up in a box buried a million miles under the sea.

As soon as the secret was out and I'd gotten permission, I fled the scene of the gory crime--the butchering of our white picket fence family.

I'm being butchered this Friday. There's a hole in my gut (an umbilical hernia), similar to the one in my heart/psyche. The hole in my abdomen will be repaired. Yet I'm not sure if my soul will ever mend? Can mesh, stitches and Percocet be the salve to soothe my other gaping wounds?

This wound is not new, this hole in my abdominal wall. I had it last year, and it was repaired. Now it's back (cue scratched record: blip...blip...blip). What is it with this repetition in my life, patterns, things that follow me and won't go away?

I had my first hernia fixed in August 2009, and it was horrifying. I've had surgeries, but this? I woke up still intubated. And paralyzed-- I couldn't even blink my eyes open or force my lashes to flutter--all I could feel was something huge jammed down my throat. Something I was supposed to just swallow. Only it was too much. I wasn't in control, I couldn't do anything. Frozen for what seemed like forever in a stony sarcophagus.

After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a matter of minutes, someone pulled the tube out. I still couldn't move my body, but somehow tears flowed and I felt them drip down my cheeks. When a nurse came to check on me in the recovery room, I was at last able to make my lips and tongue move enough to slur, "I want my husband." I'm sure it sounded nothing like that, given the drug haze, and I had to repeat myself. Once The Father Load appeared, I lost it. Still unable to really move, but I could speak---I had a voice. I went on and on about how someone messed up and I woke up with the tube still in my throat.

I am terrified this will happen again on Friday. I am terrified I am losing my voice. There is so much I want to say. I am making a promise to myself that during this hiatus while I am healing, I am going to write. You may not see it all here, but I have to stop making excuses. I think writing will heal my wounds and without a tube stuck in my throat, I have a voice, and it needs to be heard.

Are you willing to listen? Are you silencing yourself? Are there things you wish you could say? Leave them in the comments.

I'll Show You Mine if You Show Me Yours, or, The Crap That Lives In My Purse.

2010-10-29T00:01:00.000-07:00

I've seen posts like this all over the Blogosphere lately, so I'm finally jumping on the bandwagon. I wish I remembered where I'd seen them all so I could give credit where credit is due. If you know, please email me so I can edit this to include those bloggers!

Exhibit A:
My Gap handbag I got on sale for $16.99 a few weeks ago. Looks innocent enough, right? Yeah, well, let's just say looks can be deceiving, people.

Exhibit B: This is me. Apparently.

In true Ally Sheedy/Breakfast Club fashion, I dumped all its contents onto the living room floor. Then I took photos of things in small groups. However, please note that ~~not~~ surprisingly, no makeup, fun headbands, or Capn' Crunch cereal were found in my purse.

In no particular order, here is everything that was/is in my bag.

1.) About 22 pieces of UNused Kleenex. Because it would be too easy to keep it in its handy little travel pack.

2.) New package of Heartgard for Monster. I don't accept plastic shopping bags, so sometimes I just stuff things in my purse.

3.) New package of Frontline for Monster. Got 1 vial free. Yay! I never get anything free! Well, I didn't. My dog did.

1.) Bag of almonds for me. Been using same Ziploc for them for entirely too long. Because I'm green. Or just gross, your call.

2.) Animal crackers, one pack per hooligan. Never ever leave home without sustenance for kiddos. And they have to be exactly the same, or it might cause World War III.

3.) Annie's fruity bunnies. The girls' favorite snack. One I can feel sorta good about. Maybe.

4.) Think Thin protein bar. My favorite meal on-the-go.

1.) Envirosax reusable pink bunny shopping bag. Holds up to 44 lbs. of stuff. Always keep one balled up in my purse.

2.) Purple reusable produce bag from Whole Foods. Always keep one in my purse.

3.) Small pack of Hello Kitty wipes. Because my kids had to have 'em & because Hello Kitty rocks.

4.) Pink composition book. For all the stuff I'm not writing or should be writing down.

5.) The Alchemist by Paulo Coelo. Haven't started reading it yet. Never be without reading material.

6.) Box of Altoids. Because I have halitosis. Or diarrhea of the mouth. Or something. I stink.

7.) Boxes of crayons from Nordstrom's Cafe. I think they get thrown away (after use) otherwise, so we bring them home. Like we need more crayons around here.

Misc. papers:

1.) Agenda from my most recent PJ Library Committee meeting with my notes scribbled all over it.

2.) Yellow menu from Great Harvest Bread. Because I absolutely need more carbs in my life.

3.) Black sunglasses case from Ann Taylor Loft.

4.) ASPCA brochure: 101 Things You Didn't Know Could Harm Your Pet. Because I love my doggie (and animals in general) and support the organization.

5.) PJ Library enrollment brochure so I can stalk ~~Jews~~ people while I'm on the go.

6.) Small, white bullet-shaped Natracare tampon. (under the sunglasses case) Because even when I'm in the red, I'm still green. But not like all Christmas-y, because I'm a Jew and we do Hanukkah over here.

7.) Flyer and hand-written notes from a workshop we recently attended where Susan Stiffelman spoke about "Parenting Without Power Struggles." One of my children who shall remain nameless is the reason we attended said conference. Hint: her name begins with "A." But I'm not saying anything more.

8.) Ginormous vet bill receipt for grooming and labs for Monster. But bonus-- a rebate form for the Heartgard! I can get 12 whole dollars back! Woohoo!

9.) Miscellaneous note/list of stuff I need to do but haven't yet. Oy vey.

1.) Pens--six of them. Because somehow, even with that many in my purse, I'm always digging for and unable to find one when I most need it.

2.) Random Hello Kitty band-aid. Because boo boo's happen. A lot. And only ~~something with that god forsaken cat on it~~ Hello Kitty can stop the ~~fake~~ tears.

3.) My regular key chain and my spare car key chain. Because it really makes sense to drive around with my spare key in case I lock myself out of my car.

4.) Contact lens case.

5.) Stupid Sprint cell phone. That doesn't give me any service in my own house.

6.) Small tube of Cetaphil hand lotion.

7.) Small bottle of hand sanitizer.

8.) Box of Shut The Hell Up gum. Just because I liked the box. 12 kinds of awesome, people.

9.) Hobo wallet from my BFF Shelly Kramer. It's da bomb diggity. And she has one just like it.

10.) Misc. hair clips/accessories including Hello Kitty ponytail holder. Because in case it's not obvious, we like that chic. I mean cat.

11.) Old bottle of Cymbalta which is now filled with various vitamins, Advil, and Pepcid ~~for all the heartburn my kids give me~~.

12.) Plastic witch finger with red nail polish on that I was instructed to hold onto because someone else was too ~~lazy~~ ~~tired~~ busy to hold it herself.

So let's see what's in YOUR bag!

Top 10 Reasons I Can't Leave the House Today. But I'm Not a Hermit, I Swear.

2010-10-27T06:25:00.000-07:00

1.) Laundry. Mountains of it. Created predominantly by two hooligans who feel compelled to change outfits multiple times a day to keep up with the latest ~~Target~~ fashions. Then I can't remember what was truly dirty to begin with, and/or I can't find a spot/stain, so I just chuck it all back through the wash again. Izzy pees through her Pull-Up most nights, so I wash sheets a lot ~~thank goodness Abby sleeps in panties and stays dry~~. Let's not even talk about all the track marks in their princess panties. You moms who think dealing with your kids' poop ends with potty training? I laugh at you. No, see, here's the rub: they can wipe, and they do wipe, but they do not do a good job. Ewww. So I bond with my Method detergent, my eco-friendly stain spray, and my washing machine. It's true love, people. I do so much laundry that I deserve one of these beauties for Hanukkah. And a matching dryer. Not necessarily in red, but you get the idea.

2.) I haven't showered in 3+ days. I used to shower daily, but that was prior to having children. Now showering is a luxury, one I can rarely afford. My options are: (a) shower with little people whining and pounding on the door to tattle at regular intervals; (b) wake up at the ass crack of dawn to shower before the little hags wake up; or (c) shower with them while they point at my va-jay-jay and ask me when they will grow boobies. Anylazy, (d) I'm too tired by the time I corral their little asses into bed at night to shower then. So three days without any soap or shampoo = pretty ripe. Better stay in.

3.) I am too busy cramming Cheez-its in my mouth and washing them down with Honest Tea while watching all the shows I have saved on my DVR, like Brothers & Sisters, Grey's Anatomy, Dexter, Gossip Girl, and Man vs. Food. Me and the couch? We're like in love. Actually, this is just a fantasy of mine.

4.) I had a bikini wax the day before. So there's that initial uncomfortable chafing thing ~~that either no one talks about or only I am privy to~~. Also there could still be remnants of blue-green wax stubbornly stuck to my lady bits so that mere walking is like a second round of waxing.

5.) I was too busy cleaning the house because The Father Load is hosting a Journal Club tonight with many very important medical people. They come over, eat Oklahoma Joe's, use too many plastic cups and paper plates ~~you have no idea how this irks me~~ and laugh at me when I put our recycling bins on the patio to prompt them to do the ~~right~~ green thing. And then my whole house which was previously clean and smelling like Mrs. Meyers products now reeks like a barbeque joint and stale beer. Gross.

6.) I am still learning the ways of the vegetarian woman. I haven't yet determined the proper ratio of salads and fruit to beans and nuts that won't offend my delicate intestinal tract. When I overdose, my body rebels and leaving the house becomes impossible.

7.) I'm addicted to your blogs. I love reading them. Alas, so many wonderful blogs, so little time. I also love writing blogs. And did I mention reading blogs? I thrive on the connections I'm making with people. I've made so many friends and I've come out of my shell because I've read about you coming out of yours. Thank you. I'm in love with you. You've taught me how to use this noggin of mine that's been dormant for so long. You keep my heart open, my mind sharp, and my body moving. You teach me things every day. THANK YOU for being so delicious that I can't leave my computer all day. ~~Hello, my name is Erin, and I'm addicted to BlogLand.~~

8.) My children are being such hellions that I am afraid to take them out in public for fear of being shunned. People will look at me and I'll be that mom. You know who I'm talking about--- that yelling, red-faced, screaming banshee who's completely out of control. My shopping cart will be full of bribes like Twinkies, Zhu Zhu pets, Halloween candy, coloring books, pop tarts, and all manner of ridiculous crap. I also might start to imagine something like this is a good solution:

9.) I have this eyebow ~~obsession~~ problem. See, if I don't pluck my ~~caterpillars~~ eyebrows, I might look something like this. And this is being kind, people:

So, I pluck and pluck and pluck (don't tell me to get 'em waxed because I'm incapable of not plucking until the next wax, can't tolerate the strays---I am slightly OCD, remember?). And then I have all these lovely red pock marks between my eyes and my eyebrows and I look scary for a day. So I can't leave the house.

10.) I have absolutely no idea what goes here. But I got nine, so that's good, right?

Wedding Redux, or, My Husband Agrees To Marry Me a Second Time.

2010-10-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

Many of you have heard about the fundraiser The Father Load and I participated in last night called The Sasone Wedding. Sasone is an organization that benefits Jewish children with special needs. Part of the evening included a "wedding," wherein a couple from each synagogue in Kansas City (so seven couples altogether) renewed their vows. Guests made donations to Sasone in lieu of buying the couples gifts. If you'd like to learn more about Sasone, please go here.

In short, it was a lovely evening for a good cause and I have to give a shout out to my Matron of Honor, Anne, and The Father Load's Best Man, David. They both did a great job. David's wife, Tiffany, made sure to take many incriminating photos throughout the night, some of which I will be sharing ~~and the rest will promptly be deleted.~~

Here's my dress:

David's Bridal $99 special. No lie.

Perhaps it looks prettier on the hanger.

A little something blue from Victoria's Secret from my sweet Matron of Honor, Anne.

A little support for the "girls." Didn't need these last time because I

had falsies sewn into my wedding gown.

Bling from Ann Taylor. My wedding gift to myself.

OPI nail polish = Miso Happy With This Color

A box of treasures my next door neighbor, Jami, brought me to

help me accessorize for the evening! Purses, jewelry,

and a very sweet card!

Sadly, The Father Load has a habit of closing his eyes in many photos.

But here's a back view where you can see my side bun

that I did myself, & the back of my dress.

Pink flower belt in hair by J. Crew.

Oh, and Hubs in his Banana Republic suit.

Being goofy. Oh, and why didn't anyone tell me about Fashion Tape
before last night? I could've used some. A-hem.

Before the ceremony, standing in front of the chuppah.

My necklace by 74 Harley Street Designs.

My Matron of Honor, Anne, me, The Father Load, & his Best Man, David.

David gave the most touching speech and we were so moved by his beautiful

tribute to us and our girls. Thank you, David! Kudos to David

& Tiffany for spending an evening with a bunch of Jews! LOL

We had our own cake, screened with a photo from our original wedding.

We thought it came out pretty nicely. And it sure tasted good!

I needed a little booze because I had cold feet.

I wasn't sure I could marry The Father Load the first time,

let alone a second time. Sheesh. I kid, I kid!

Just before we walked down the aisle. Cool because in the background

you can see part of the slide show---and the photo is of all of us,

but you can only see The Father Load holding Baby Izzy.

Getting ready to walk down the aisle for the second time.

I don't know how to fix red eye, so shut it.

This is all of us standing under the chuppah during the ceremony.

I know it's dark. I don't know how to fix it. Sue me.

So there you have it, folks. My second Jewish wedding. L'chaim!

I think we need to put the "fun" back into FUNdraisers!

What organizations do you like to support?

I've Been Bitch Slapped. And It Ain't Pretty.

2010-10-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading Redhead Writing's new Bitch Slap Post: What's Your Excuse? If you haven't been reading Erika, shame on you, and you'd best hurry your little ass on over. She's got amazingly insightful, witty, and brilliant things to say and I aspire to be more like her ~~in my wildest secret dreams.~~

So here we are. What is my excuse?

Since my boobie scare, I feel like someone kicked me in the gut. If you need to catch up on that tidbit, please go here and here. But if you're like me, you're tired of hearing and thinking about it. Yet I can't seem to stop the obsessive thoughts, the what ifs, the mind wanderings, the dreams.

I feel wrung out like a washcloth that someone's left in a moldy ball in the corner of the shower.

I feel tired, like I haven't slept in a bazillion years. Even though I am sleeping some. Fitfully.

I feel overwhelmed, impatient, gritty like sand. Shallow and cloudy like a wading pool. Hazy and opaque, like looking through a fog, smog, cloud, or into a dirty mirror. Angry smears of thick oil paint slashed across a naked canvas. Their dried, hard, raised ridges. Colors bleeding into one another.

While I was waiting for the MRI and then for its results, I went to the JCC to work out. I swam laps until I couldn't swim anymore. Then I got dressed and wrapped my wet hair in a bun and ran laps around the track until I couldn't run anymore. I was running from myself, from the fear. But I can't run. I can't hide (physically yes, metaphorically, no).

I have to face it. The raw reality of what I've just been through. So why can't I peel myself off the floor now that I'm safe? What is my excuse now? I am getting through my to-do list that Erika talks about, but I'm back to this auto-pilot mode. Half-assed. The reality is I don't deserve any trophy. There are no miracles here. Just plain old me.

And meanwhile I'm pissed that there's this gaping hole in my gut--a hernia--that I am having repaired two weeks from tomorrow. I'm bitch slapping the dick of a doctor who "fixed" it in August of '09 because he was apparently on auto-pilot and doing it half assed. No mesh. So now I have to go back under the knife, inconvenience everyone, and miss exercising for six weeks. I'm pissed. And I feel sapped. How can I go into this surgery feeling beaten down and trodden on, weak, angry?

I'm trying, I really am.
Slowly peeling myself back, piece by piece. After I worked so hard at #CIP to build myself up. And only to trip and fall. Only to get stuck, again.

Help me get unstuck, please.

Today's Post Is Brought To You By The Letters M, R, & I

2010-10-18T12:07:00.000-07:00

**If you missed my post about finding a lump in my breast last week, go here first.

I had my MRI at 7:45 this morning. My friend Anne met me there (The Father Load was unable to come) and I am grateful for her moral support. I also invited myself over to my friend Meg's house last week to vent and talk for a while. Thank God for good friends! Anne stayed with me while I got gowned up and they started my IV. Then I had to say goodbye and go down the hall with the nurse.

As soon as I saw the hulking machine and heard its humming my eyes welled up and I started to sniffle. Everything seemed frightfully cold and sterile. I desperately wanted The Father Load. The nurse handed me some headphones so I could ~~avoid freaking the fuck out~~ listen to music during the procedure. With her help I positioned myself, but it was no easy task since I had to go face down and plant my breasts into two ginormous holes. I lowered my forehead/face onto a hard piece of crappy plastic resembling a tiny toilet seat (which was ironic indeed because I certainly felt shitty). The best part was the giant ridge in between my boobs that jammed into my sternum. All this while keeping my right arm straight because even with a flexible needle, the IV still ached. I finally laid all the way down and the nurse instructed me to remain still as long as I heard loud noises.

Then the whole table slid slowly backwards, sucking me into its gaping mouth, and although I was face down and couldn't see, I sensed my close, cave-like surroundings. Just as Aerosmith came on I started to think it might not be so bad, but then I heard something akin to gunshots. And they wouldn't stop. I couldn't even hear Steven Tyler. Tears came in a rush and soon the snot was dripping off the tip of my nose and it bothered me that I couldn't move to wipe it. My own stale breath came back at me with nowhere to go except the shallow toilet bowl I was looking into.

Then I knew I had to separate from myself or I'd never get through the next 29 minutes.

So I closed my eyes and tried to think good thoughts.

I thought about when we snuggled in bed Saturday morning. The girls made a mommy sandwich, one of them on each side of me. Abby faced me, and I listened to the rhythmic suck, suck, suck of her thumb, and
the whistling of air through her nostrils. She flung her right arm over me and patted me gently as if she sensed I needed that. Izzy was curled into me from behind, quiet, the heat of her breath on my back, her cold feet on the back of my legs. There was no talking for a while, no fighting, just precious moments being insatiably in love with my little girls.

They need me. I can't go anywhere.

Then,
Nothing is going to happen to me right now.

The machine's noises changed and suddenly it sounded as if it was saying "benign," "benign," "benign," over and over again, faster and faster. A high-pitched whinny.

It isn't my time yet, I thought.

I remembered the girls' first lemonade stand over the weekend. A milestone. More work for me, but it was worth it to see them flying to greet each customer, take the order, and run back, sloshing lemonade out of the Dixie cups. Red-faced and sweaty from the sun, we lined them up for sunscreen. In October.

Goofing off with Jacklyn while the adults set up

Some of the girls' friends who joined in the fun!

New knocking noises began, and my right arm got cold as they pushed the contrast solution into my IV. I shut my eyes hard and thought ahead to this Sunday evening, when I will re-marry my husband. The new ivory dress hanging in my closet in a bag, pressed, waiting for me. We will stand under the chuppah as we did almost nine years ago. There will be cake and champagne and dancing. I can't wait.

Nothing is going to happen to me right now.
It isn't my time yet.

I got a phone call from The Father Load a little while ago. The radiologist reviewed my films and said everything is normal.

Nothing is going to happen to me right now.
Is isn't my time yet.

I Believe.

2010-10-15T08:51:00.000-07:00

I believe in giving lots of hugs, and holding on tight.
I believe in family.
I believe in apologizing when I've hurt someone.
I believe in second chances, and sometimes third chances.
I believe in standing up for my beliefs.
I believe in a woman's right to choose.

I believe in love.
I believe any two people who are in love should have the right to marry.
I believe that in-vitro fertilization, fertility treatments, egg donation, surrogacy, and adoption are amazing things.
I believe that some people and doctors go overboard and this is dangerous.

I believe everyone has something important to say.
I believe that being a mom is a really tough job.
I believe in not settling.
I believe in speaking up.
I believe in gut feelings.
I believe I can be more like Madonna every day.
I believe in date nights.
I believe in babysitters.
I believe in myself.

I believe in Halloween. I believe in magic. I believe in chance.

I believe in blaring my music when my kids aren't in the car.
I believe dogs can give the best medicine.
I believe in the power of friends I've never met.
I believe I am a writer.
I believe in the power of retail therapy.
I believe that I am loved.

I believe in being green.
I believe in recognizing that what we put into our bodies is just as important as things we put on our bodies.
I believe in Whole Foods & farmers' markets.
I believe in buying local & sustainable.
I believe in composting & recycling.
I believe that plastic is evil.
I believe that we are wasteful.
I believe we have a lot of work to do.

I believe in karma.
I believe in fate.
I believe that a hot bath and a glass of wine can cure most anything.
I believe that female friendships are intense and powerful.

I believe that I need to put myself first more often.
I believe that I do too much.
I believe that I need to be okay with saying "no" sometimes.
I believe I need to cut myself some slack.

I believe in homemade chocolate chip cookies with milk.
I believe in my daughters.
I believe in my husband.
I believe our Judaism is an important and integral part of our life.
I believe it is my duty to acknowledge my Jewish heritage, embrace it, and share it so that history does not repeat itself.

I believe that waiting is the hardest thing.
I believe that it's okay not to shower daily.
I believe yoga pants are my best friend.
I believe we need to focus more on our health and less on french fries.
I believe in the power of exercise and moving my body.

I believe in holding doors open for people.
I believe in bringing new moms and sick people dinner.
I believe in lemonade stands and big tips for the kids running them.
I believe in piggy banks and saving for a rainy day.
I believe that today's children shouldn't have to worry about riding their bikes, taking walks, or playing outside and being approached by strangers.
I believe we have to educate our kids about these things without scaring them too much.

I believe in the power a single person can have.

I believe I am ENOUGH.

And I desperately want to know:
What do YOU believe in? Leave it in the comments.

One Lump or Two?

2010-10-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

Last week I found a lump in my left breast quite by accident as I was ardently scratching my armpit. It felt like a little garbanzo bean was hiding under there. I fingered it gingerly for a minute, then caught The Father Load's attention. We were watching Dexter at the time, so he half looked at me and said, "What?" while distractedly shifting his eyes back over to the bloody crime scene and the waif-like Jennifer Carpenter. I scooted over, took his hand and placed it on the lump. Our eyes locked.

"Feel it?" I said.

"Uh huh," came the reply. "You need to call the Dr. N in the morning."

My heartbeat sped up. I don't have any idea what happened in the rest of the episode. I'd switched over to auto pilot.

I remembered when Sunday over at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood blogged about her brush with breast cancer here and most recently here. When I read her posts I thought to myself, "Holy shit that was scary, and I'm so glad she's cancer free," but I never actually checked my own boobs. How stupid. Until now, I've relied solely on my gynecologist to check me out at my annual exam. Even though it's fucking Breast Cancer Awareness Month every October and Kansas City's fountains all turn shades of pink. I NEVER ACTUALLY CHECKED MY OWN BOOBS. MY.....OWN......BOOBS.

So Monday afternoon I went in for my first mammogram. As the tech manhandled me and manipulated my breasts this way and that, I looked up at the ceiling and pretended to be somewhere else. I felt naked, embarrassed and vulnerable. I started sweating, but I couldn't move to put my hair in a ponytail. As the machine clamped down on my pale, veiny breast, I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. In between pictures the tech asked me questions and made notes on her chart. "Is there a history of breast cancer in the family?" she asked. "Yes," I said, and felt my throat tighten. "My maternal grandmother had a lumpectomy and radiation. My mother and her sister have had several scares and biopsies, but so far everything's been benign."

How did I get here? Me....in a hospital gown? Having a mammogram at age 34? No fucking way. I can't deal with another bully right now. This one is invisible. It's unfair. It's secretive and sly, it snuck up on me just as I started feeling strong and brave.

After the mammogram, I had to have an ultrasound. The radiologist came in to look and said he wasn't too concerned, but wanted to see me back in six months to monitor the lump and see if it changes at all. So we set up that appointment and I left, feeling somewhat better, but still anxious to meet with the doctor and get the official green light.

I saw Dr. N (the breast surgeon) today to go over the results from yesterday's scans. I put on the lovely gown again and she began to examine me. She found the lump on the left side and we chatted and I started to relax a little. Then she moved over to the right breast. There was the slightest pause, the slowing of her hand, and the narrowing of her eyes. I heard the clock tick and my stomach gurgled. I knew before I knew. I knew suddenly that I also didn't want to know.

She found a second, larger lump. On the right side.

"I'd like to get you scanned again if you have time," she said. My stomach lurched like a roller coaster.

Deja vu.

Lying sideways with the help of a wedge-shaped pillow, arm up over my head, and lube all over my chest, while the tech rams the probe into my pit and the side of my breast, which is now getting very tender. Dr. N joins us. After several minutes she goes to get the radiologist. Soon there are four of us in the room, but I'm not really there. Dr. N keeps one hand resting softly on my calf, as if to comfort me, but I've left my body and my thoughts are falling everywhere, like slow confetti, bumping into one another, criss-crossing. I'm furious with myself for my own stupidity, thinking I was somehow exempt from it, or that this could never happen to me.

A lot was said, but I was alone, my brain was not thinking thoughts and I don't remember. I know they are scheduling an MRI. Dr. N said she thinks it may be just "very dense breast tissue," but wants to rule out anything else. The MRI will be sometime within the next week. They are supposed to call me to schedule it.

I am numb. I am fluid. I am stupid. I am like a leaf fluttering to the ground. I am like air, empty and vast, careless. I pride myself on taking such good care of my body and focusing on my heath, but I have ignored this. I have been walking along unfettered and feeling ablaze like fire, finally taking control of my life.

But really, it was a farce. I have failed miserably at taking care of myself. In oh so many ways.

Ladies, CHECK YOUR BREASTS.

Also: Hurry over to my friend Dana's site. She is a breast cancer survivor and her post here struck a chord with me before I even found my lump. I ordered my Save the Tatas pendant and contributed to her fundraising efforts---all money raised goes to the National Breast Cancer Foundation, Inc. She is doing this on her own, and it's amazing. Please head over to her blog and tell her I said hi!

The Bully With the Brown Shoes

2010-10-11T10:33:00.000-07:00

Even before I watched Sarah Silverman's spiel, I've had bullying on my mind. It's all over the news lately, and it saddens me. Here Sarah talks specifically about gay kids being bullied, but many others suffer the same. It's 28 seconds long, but powerful even in its brevity:

When I was six years old I met Bully Melanie. She wore brown shoes with scuffed up toes, the laces dirty, graying and often untied. Her brown hair was stick straight, flat against the sides of her chunky cheeks. Her squinty brown eyes bored into me, so I avoided making eye contact. Which is probably why I remember so much about her shoes. I heard her coming before I actually caught sight her, the way she kicked the big gray rocks on the playground where we sat to eat lunch. Announcing herself, her arrival.

At lunchtime I perched on an old wooden bench flanking the playground with my friends Elizabeth and Mandy. My metal Wonder Woman lunchbox was open in front of me, its contents carefully packed by my mother. My ice-cold thermos of milk made the other kids laugh (for most of them had juice), but it kept everything else cool, including my favorite egg salad. I could have done without the soggy cream cheese and jelly sandwiches, but Bully Melanie didn't discriminate. She simply sauntered up to me and took what she wanted, holding out her fat hand and oozing a sense of entitlement. Gruff words were exchanged. She smirked knowingly, while her posse waited in the wings, watching her work. Yanking things out of my hands, she set off with my lunch and my self worth tucked neatly under her arm.

She never called me by my name. I don't even know if she knew my name. Only one year older than I, but she seemed so big and tall. As she towered over me, I felt scared and shamed, so I let her take what she wanted. A browning banana here, a sandwich there, sometimes a bag of Doritos or a little red box of Sunmaid raisins. Sometimes all of it. And then Mandy and Elizabeth would kindly hand over bits of their lunches while the tears rolled down my cheeks. They sat speechless, terrified as I when Bully Melanie appeared, but after she left they'd ask me why I let her do it.

Why?
Because she made me feel small.
She scared me.
She was mean.
She didn't take "no" for an answer.
SHE WAS A BULLY.
And where oh where were my teachers when all this was going on?
I don't remember. But they were not there. They did not see.
I had no advocate. No one to step in and come to my rescue.
I was too young and too scared. Too ineffectual.

Bully Melanie: I wonder where you are and if you continue to swoop in and steal things from other people, even now? I wonder if you have children and if you've taught them that's how to get what they want? Or have you stopped the vicious cycle? Do you remember what you did? Do you care? Are you sorry? Sure, a little lunch every other day---maybe not a big deal, but perhaps it's part of the reason I feel compelled to finish what's on my plate all the time; because I'm afraid you're going to appear with your scary eyes and hold out your hand again, waiting.

Bullies are everywhere.
They come in all shapes and sizes, young and old.
The difference now?
I don't bow to bullies.
I have learned how to stand up tall.
I say, "NO, you won't do this," loud and clear.

Have you been bullied? How can we stop the cycle? I worry about sending my children out into this world. I want to teach them how to avoid falling prey to bullies. Please share your thoughts and experiences with me!

Flashback Friday: Channeling My Inner Rockstar---Madonna

2010-10-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

I'm flashing back today with Deb over at Web Savvy Mom. Back to good old 1985. ish. Or so.

Pictured here is my BFF & neighbor, Jennifer. She was Madonna for Halloween that year. And me? I'm the dorky juice box. I'm practically drooling over her costume, as the two of us had spent many an hour crooning the "Like a Virgin" lyrics into our hairbrushes every day after school. ~~Jennifer's mom also kept a giant box of Blow Pops around, so it was super fun to hang out over there.~~ Don't laugh, girls--you know you did it, too!

Anyvirgin, my jealousy is palpable. Note the envious expression on my face. I may as well be eyeing a plate of french fries I'm about to devour---because I wanted to be her. Not just her, my friend....I wanted to be Madonna. But I wasn't cool or creative enough, my mom only knew how to make costumes out of boxes (which were a bitch to walk in, by the way---my knees knocking on the cardboard), and let's face it-- I wasn't ready to channel my inner Madonna just yet.

But now? With Halloween merely weeks away (and in case it wasn't already crystal clear, it's my FAVORITE holiday), CIP under my belt, my skeletons coming out of the closet, and Abby teasing me with her Madonna shirt which she insists upon wearing every day it's clean....

It's time. It's my turn.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I am morphing into MADONNA. I am going to channel my inner rockstar. And it's gonna last way beyond Halloween, so gird your loins, people. I'm taking on her attitude--not going to care what people think, not going to be afraid to change, and I'm going to say what I want. And you're going to like it. Or at least pretend that you do. I have always had a thing for Madonna and she's my idol. Which could explain the new artwork we bought from @TwoOldHippies in Aspen recently. More on that another time.

Some of you reading this may recall my brief stint as Madge in college. One day a hypnotist showed up on campus for an evening of fun in one of the lecture halls. A big group of us went ~~because there were no fraternity parties that night~~ out of curiosity. He asked for volunteers from the audience and unbeknownst to me, my "friends" sitting behind me were pointing & wildly gesturing in my direction. Because I'm oblivious, naive, and unassuming like that, I got picked and had to get up on stage. Inside I was feeling cautious, but confident because I knew it was all an act. Next thing I know, I'm cowering behind a row of chairs because this hypnotist has convinced me I'm completely naked. Five minutes later he informs me I'm Madonna at a concert; suddenly I'm singing and strutting my stuff all over the stage, belting out lyrics and sounding like a sick cat. Clearly this guy was gifted because whenever I've assumed the position on any type of stage, my voice cracks and shakes, I am a total wreck, and I basically want to vomit thinking of all the people looking at me.

But back to our adventure in the hood today.

Confession # 1: I may or may not have dragged my innocent daughters into a seedy costume shop in the hood that had actual black iron bars over the windows.

Confession # 2: I may or may not have encouraged said children to follow me into the musty, dank, mildewy-smelling basement to look for Madonna garb.

Confession # 3: I may or may not have actually enlisted the help of a salesperson to assist me in assembling the perfect Madge ensemble.

Confession # 4: I may or may not have made several purchases. Said hypothetical purchases shall not be revealed until the week of Halloween. I will, however, complain that I've been unable to locate any of those jelly bracelets. If you know where I can get my hands on some, contact me IMMEDIATELY! Silly Bandz are not gonna cut it. I found some on Ebay, but I'm not sure they're THE jelly bracelets. Help!

Who are you channeling this Halloween? And how can I convince my husband to dress up this year? Furthermore, what should he be?

Gay By Proxy?

2010-10-04T09:48:00.000-07:00

Today it's time for a smoothie. I'm taking chunks of real, juicy events, throwing in some changed names, places, times, etc. and blending it with some artificially-flavored details. However, it remains "Pretty All True" in the words of my favorite Olivia the Pig, and one of my new favorite bloggers, Kris, of Pretty All True.

Gay By Proxy.

Back in 1996, my gaydar was going off. Constantly, it seemed. In my Senior Seminar class with Dr. Miller, in Cups Coffee Shop on Old Canton Road, walking around Northpark Mall, and even as I was helping myself to a giant red concoction full of Everclear on Fraternity Row ~~most~~ Thursday nights.

Gaydar is genetic, you know. My dad is gay, which means that gaydar comes free for him. And somehow he passed it along to me, which sometimes made me think I was gay by proxy.

Which could explain why I fell hopelessly in love with a girl named Lauren. Actually, I became obsessed. Clad in old cowboy boots, she strutted her stuff in my daydreams, all over campus, and into my Women's Studies class upstairs in the creaky John Stone House. I sat next to her self consciously, barely daring to breathe lest the grits I'd had for breakfast waft her way. I stole glances at her and was shocked to discover her meeting my gaze. Unable to maintain eye contact, I looked down at my lap and immediately felt my face flushing crimson.

Eventually I grew a bit of confidence and became friends with Lauren. Admittedly we were better friends in writing than face-to-face, perhaps because of my writer-y-ness, and because what confidence I had wasn't enough to let me look her in the eye whilst having a real conversation. I was too shy and scared. And I quickly learned that she was, too, although she'd never have admitted it. But I felt it.

The emails started flying between us.We had so much to talk about. They became intensely personal, lengthy, and some days I was under such a heavy fog that I didn't realize what was happening around me. I confided in her about everything, and she me. I began to analyze every word. Over the summer we also wrote letters back and forth, sometimes 8-10 pages long. Written by hand.

Even with my head in the clouds, I knew this was unusual. I knew I was feeling "things" for Lauren. And my gaydar was going off wildly, so loudly that I couldn't ignore it anymore, but I didn't dare say anything to her. To anyone. I could barely admit to myself what was carved upon my heart and surely visible to everyone else. What made it harder is that I started to sense that Lauren had feelings for me, too...

Desperately seeking validation, I took everything to my shrink's office. I knew I could count on Robin for an unbiased perspective. Loaded all Lauren's letters in an old box along with a scrapbook she'd made me. The inside covers of the scrapbook were covered with hundreds of pictures of flowers she'd painstakingly cut by hand out of magazines. Like the walls of Idgie Threadgood's room in the old folks' home in Fried Green Tomatoes, one of my favorite movies/books of all time. In my mind, we were Idgie & Ruth.

Robin opened the scrapbook and simply gawked. The time, energy, and love that had gone into it were obvious. She looked right at me and said, "You don't have to show me any more. I truly believe Lauren has mutual feelings for you." Robin sensed my frustration and I told her I was tired of hiding my true feelings. She helped me realize it was time to fess up, that I had to come clean and tell Lauren what was going on inside my head.

One night I asked Lauren to meet me in one of the lecture halls so we could talk privately. It was quiet and empty, so different from during the day. Darker. Things echoed. We sat next to each other on the steps leading down to the stage. My heart was racing in my chest and I didn't think I could do it. Somehow I did. I don't really remember any of what I said that night except that at some point I whispered (while looking down at my Doc Martens--not at her, not making eye contact), "Sometimes I want to kiss you."

She talked me out of it. She blamed my dad. She convinced me that I was just feeling our friendship very deeply and that we were so connected/in tune with one another. She rationalized it all and soon I was crying and apologizing and she was hugging me and it was all over ~~not really~~.

I bought into her arguments, I clung to them. Because on one hand they made total sense and also because as you know, I have a big heart. I love everyone. But after that moment, I hated myself. Although I'd told her everything and didn't have to hide anything anymore, I felt exposed, naked, stupid, and wrung out. Which led to the episode in the shower.

Lauren found out that I'd hurt myself and things were never the same after that. I distanced myself because I didn't know what else to do. I'm sure she didn't understand it all, potentially blamed herself for part of it, and also resented my doing it in the first place.

But I can't take any of it back. I can't un-do it.

These are the pages of my life.

**Please don't forget to check out my giveaway which ends this Friday!! Go here to see Arizona Mamma's cool jewelry and leave a comment to enter. You don't have to be a follower or a blogger---you just have to leave a comment w/ your email address in the pretty white box! ***

Shannon, a.k.a. Arizona Mamma, Tickles Me Pink!

2010-10-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

Holly over at 504 Main is a doll & graciously allows me to link up with her

every Friday to highlight bloggers I love, or that "Tickle Me Pink!"

Some of you may be familiar with Arizona Mamma over at Our Daze in the Desert, and if you're not that's alright! It won't hurt her feelings....much. Well, lately it seems she has been missing from the blogging scene quite a bit. That's because she has had a few other irons in the fire; one of which is her new venture, Shannon Marie Creations. Shannon & her designs TICKLE ME PINK!

Shannon Marie Creations is custom hand-stamped jewelry...and we all love that, right? All of her stuff is sterling silver (with the exception of one piece which is gold filled), and well made...not to mention adorable! It makes the perfect gift considering the holidays are nipping at our heels.

Guess what? Today, one of my lucky readers has the chance to win this piece...

She has named it "Go Green" in my honor. Isn't it perfect?! Here's how you can win:

Each of the following things will get you an entry:

1. Mandatory entry--head over to Shannon Marie Creations and have a look around. Come back and tell me what your favorite piece is here in the comments.

2. Tweet about the giveaway. Come back and provide a link to the tweet itself for an entry. You can tweet it once each day for the duration of the giveaway.

3. Blog about it with a link to this post. Come back and share the link to your post.

Please be sure to leave a separate comment for each entry. That's it!

The contest will start now, and end one week from today--Friday, October 8, 2010 at 8:00 a.m. CST.

Finally, if you see something you like, Shannon (Arizona Mamma) is offering 10% off to any of you who use the code "motherload10." The coupon code expires the last day of October, so head over now to get your goodies.**Please be sure to leave your email address or a way to contact you in your comment if you are not a blogger or registered!**

The numbers generated by this widget come from RANDOM.ORG's true random number generator.

WINNER DRAWN ON FRIDAY MORNING = MISERY, entry # 28! Congrats, girl! We will be contacting you shortly!!!

The Biggest/Scariest Thing (Vlog) I've Ever Done.

2010-09-28T14:51:00.000-07:00

It's no surprise that I'm a techno-moron, so bear with me. I have no clue how to combine the two clips below into a single vlog. I wouldn't be ballsy enough to post this if I hadn't gone to CIP. These are some major revelations and it's a huge deal that I'm even sharing this drivel. Oh, and I blink a lot while I vlog, apparently. I frequently pause while I'm formulating thoughts. Get over it. You know you love me!

**I should preface this by saying I love my dad dearly. I realize these clips could easily be misinterpreted, but I wouldn't be the person I am today without him (i.e. his disclosure about his homosexuality). I am far more open-minded, educated, and real as a result. And perhaps I am a little more brave because of him, too.

Watch this one first:

And if you're still awake, please watch this ~~slightly longer~~ one:

If you've managed to sit through these (combined it's about 7 minutes of video), you are my hero. And if you were bored out of your mind, I completely understand and no hard feelings. Really.

But this is me.

This.
Is.
Me.

In all my glory.
So take it or leave it.
Thoughts? Comments?

I Know This Much Is True

2010-09-26T11:55:00.000-07:00

My experience at @SarahRobinson's event, Creating Irresistible Presence, over the weekend was so mind blowing that I'm not sure where to begin. This was my first conference ever, and it was a smart choice. I made wonderful new friends, centered myself and realized that this book I want to write-- this giant looming task that's been scaring me shitless-- is already writing itself on this very blog. Who knew? (insert lightbulb flash here)

Moving right along.

I know this much is true:

If I don't write, I'll die.
I am scared.
Scared in general, and scared to write about certain things.
"They" tell me I'm not good enough.
"They" tell me everything has already been written, & written better.
"They" tell me not to bother, because no one will care, and no one will read.
I have to stop listening to them. They don't matter.

I am nauseous. I am going to throw up. I feel the burning bile in the back my throat.
The fear bubbles up inside of me, unfurling and reaching, ready to take over.
But I'm not going to let it. I am standing up. I am tall. I am strong.
I am not a shrinking violet. I will not shrink to fit.

There are stories stirring underneath my skin. Little flutters waiting to be set free in the wind.

My life, all that I choose to share, will be the legacy I leave to those who may be lost.

I am not alone.
I am not alone.
I am not alone.
I'll keep saying it until I believe it.

I just want to be loved.
I just want to be loved.
I just want to be loved.
I'll keep saying, "I am already loved" until I believe it.

I want: If you write it, they will come (a la Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams)
I am not going to beg, plead, bribe and whine at you to read my stuff.
I want you to want to come here. I want you to want me.
And I don't want to feel ashamed in wanting that. I want that to be okay.
I tell myself: I am special. What I have to say is important and significant.

I feel like I give so much love, but am afraid to ask for it in return.
I don't want to have to ask--I just want to feel it, to know it's there.
I felt it at CIP. A still warm, fresh-out-of-the-dryer blanket wrapped around me.
Now I'm home and I don't feel it anymore, but I know it's still there.

My heart is so full of all of you. And so open.
I am making myself vulnerable to you.
I am scared. It's okay to be scared.....just a little bit.

What you see is what you get.
I am me. I am Erin. I have my quirks & faults, but my strengths, too.
I am enough, I do enough, I have "enough-ness" (thank you, @Nicole_Willis).
I am going to stop being so "good" (thank you @Tracilove).

I am a writer.
I am a writer.
I am a writer.

I AM A WRITER, DAMN IT!

What are you thinking right now? Please share your thoughts in the comments.

I'm Tickled Pink to have Francis taking over my blog today!

2010-09-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

Today I'm TICKLED PINK to let Francis take over my blog! I met her on Twitter (she's @hipcop) a while ago, and my life hasn't been the same since. She is consistently kind, generous, and full of compliments for everyone. She was in the navy for several years and is now a SAHM who loves running, nature, and John Grisham. Her blog, This Inspires Me, is a treat, and every time I stop by to read, it makes me feel good. So let's roll out the red carpet and give Francis the warm welcome she deserves!

Francis & her husband in Maui

Hi! My name is Francis Anderson and I am SO honored to be invading "The Mother Load." I am a proud and happy stay-at-home-mom to two gorgeous boys. My loving husband Rob puts up with me (I mean loves me) and encourages me in all I do! I live in Texas ;)

When did you start blogging and why?

I began blogging in March of this year. I was motivated to get my blog running to enter a Mabel Label's contest that I didn't win! My blog theme is inspiration and I blog about people and events that inspire me. I blog because I love people. I love hearing about personal journeys, successes, and amazing individual efforts. I love to learn.

What advice do you have for bloggers?

I learn from my mistakes. I am not a writer but I am having fun. Following a lot of different blogs has also taught me to not limit my content. Don't be afraid to try something new.

What has and hasn't worked for you?

What has worked for me is getting involved in the blogging community. I only use 'Twitter' and devote a lot of time promoting my blog there. I am always looking for blogs to read and comment on. I love leaving comments that spark conversation and get the bloggers to respond to me!

What hasn't worked for me is patience! I just assumed if I did a blog everyone would love it! ;) Not sure why I'm not super successful (kidding)! I'm too new and just learning as I go.

A funny story you would tell me if I met you.

I was in the Navy. I have always loved risk and adventure. I outdid myself one day by diving off the side of the ship during swim call. With 300 people watching I landed the worst belly flop ever that still hurts when I think about it! My belly is permanently red!

When you get writer's block how do you snap out of it?

I read. I visit the library, blogs, and I Google interesting words. I change the radio station in the car to see if a song will inspire me to write. I look up a calender in Google to see what events in history happened during this time.

What inspires you?

People. I love how we are all different and have our own stories. We can learn a lot from each other.

What is the BEST advice you ever received?

Life is what you make of it. I learned this in the Navy during a depressing day. I have never forgotten those words.

What crazy memory makes you laugh?

I was camping with my boyfriend (now husband) in Sedona when we heard footsteps in the dark and thought we were getting attacked by a bear. He valiantly looked me in the eyes and said "I love you" very "Brave Heart" style with a log in his hand ready to fight the bear. It turned out to be a cow! Still makes me laugh 11 years later!

I met Erin and fell in love with her blog. She has been supportive, encouraging, and very fun to follow! I am a huge fan of her and her blog. Thanks Erin!

Ways to follow me:

I blog here: http://thisinspires.me/

Follow me on Twitter here: http://twitter.com/hipcop

Honored to be guest posting....

2010-09-20T06:17:00.000-07:00

I am honored today to be guest posting here about our recent trip to Aspen. We had a wonderful time, and please stop by to read my first blurb published elsewhere! Comments are off. Please comment over there!

Doorways, Beginnings and Endings: Looking Both Ways

2010-09-17T13:29:00.000-07:00

When I was in eighth grade ~~suffering miserably through~~ taking Latin I, I did a report on Janus, a god in Roman mythology. According to Wickipedia,

Janus is the god of gates, doors, doorways, beginnings and endings. His most prominent remnant in modern culture is his namesake, the month of January, which begins the new year.The reason for this is that one is looking back at the previous year and the other is looking forward to the new year ahead. He is most often depicted as having two faces or heads, facing in opposite directions. These heads were believed to look into both the future and the past.

Because we just celebrated Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, I have been thinking a lot about Janus, and about how I've been living my life...and wondering how it compares to the way you live yours?

Methinks I look back too much, checking over my shoulder to see what or who is lumbering behind me, calling me out, bringing me down. Is this a negative thing? I honestly don't know. My past often weighs heavily upon me. I lug it around like a ball and chain, unable to ever fully leave it behind. It's a part of me, inscribed upon my heart, so it's not always necessarily a physical burden. But it's always there, nesting just below the surface. Would it be better if I ignored my instincts, or patterns that have replayed throughout my life? Should I learn a way to chuck it all out with the greasy pizza boxes or lock it in a cold, metal box and hurl the key into the closest body of water? How do I release myself, how to I move over and beyond these mental blocks I've set up for myself?

I love things neat, tidy and orderly. I especially like closure. I adore definitive answers. I guess I'm slightly Type A/ OCD. But life obviously doesn't work that way. I know this. Life isn't a beautiful Tiffany box with a perfectly tied white bow on top. And I need to learn to live with that. Right?

There's so much I want to do in this life and I only get one shot. But right now, I'm not at my best because I've got too much holding me back. This is one reason I'm so excited to attend Creating Irresistible Presence next week with @katjaib, @AmyOscar, @lipdesign, @DooneyPug, @Lorilatimer, @AllisonNazarian, and of course, CIP's brainchild, @SarahRobinson. I want to start moving FORWARD. I want to leave the negativity behind, or at least somehow harness its power to help propel myself in the right direction.

What about you? Do you look both ways?

My Little Greenies

2010-09-14T07:14:00.000-07:00

If you read me regularly or even just lurk, it should come as no surprise that I am a green gal. I recycle, I compost, I use glass milk bottles (Shatto Dairy), I bring my own bags everywhere, and I dry most of my laundry on a rack. I turn off the tap while I brush my teeth and shave my legs. I shop at Whole Foods and local farmers' markets. Shelly Kramer and I are buying a cow, despite the fact that I'm no longer eating any meat (the rest of my family does). No, he will not be our pet, but he is currently grazing on a local farm eating GRASS (read: not corn) and living the sweet life.

It should also come as no surprise that I am green-ifying my children as well. I bought the girls a copy of Wubbzy Goes Green, and they love it. We talk about a lot of different things: turning off lights when we leave a room, closing the blinds/curtains to keep the house cooler in summer, and using cloth napkins instead of paper at mealtimes (check out cute ones for kids on Etsy!). They know which recycling bin is for glass, which is for plastic, and where to put the newspapers. We've also discussed litter, which really churns my butter because it ends up in places it shouldn't, like our oceans, rivers, and lakes. Deb over at Menopausal New Mom has written about the Pacific Garbage Patch, which was created in part by litter. I often pick up litter while we're on walks and will bring it back home to dispose of it.

While walking Monster (our mini Poodle) with The Father Load one day last week, the girls happened upon some litter in the street.

A plastic bottle, to be exact. Abby immediately picked it up and handed it over to Daddy.

The Father Load said, "Put it down, I'm not carrying that on a walk."

Abby said, "But it's litter, we always pick up litter."

The Father Load replied, "I'm not Mommy, I don't pick up every piece of trash I see on the street."

Izzy piped up and said, "You're not good for the environment, Daddy."

Abby added, "It's time for you to go green, Daddy."

Daddy said, "I'm trying."

Izzy snapped, "You don't try, you just DO."

Abby echoed, "Yeah Daddy, you just DO."

What are you teaching your kids about going green and the environment?

Nancy at Away We Go Tickles Me Pink!

2010-09-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

Have you met Nancy from Away We Go? She Tickles Me Pink! I'm thrilled to be playing along again today with Holly over at 504 Main. She writes:

"The tickling pink concept is of enjoyment great enough to make the recipient glow with pleasure."
-The Phrase Finder

Well my friends, Nancy fits the bill. Her writing astounds me. She thrills me with her submissions to the Red Dress Club, which you can check out here, here, and here. A master of the short story and the written word, she also blogs often about her darling son Joel:

dontcha just wanna eat him up?

Anywhoo, I'm taking a bit of a bloggy break, so I thought I'd let Nancy https://twitter.com/AwayWeGoNancy on Twitter) take the wheel for a bit. She's wonderful and I'm so grateful our paths have crossed! Read on & be sure to stop by her place and follow along.
************

I'm Nancy, the proud proprietor of Away We Go. I have been blogging since October 2008. This makes me an authority on exactly nothing, but nevertheless, I feel a need to pound out my "blogging philosophy."

I am hardly an expert. I don't have a million followers, nor do I make a red cent off my ramblings. On most days, I'm okay with that.

Don't get me wrong. I do care. I care deeply. Every time I see the blinking green light on my phone, my pulse races a bit. Somebody read what I wrote! Somebody had a response! I am not talking to myself in a corner! Yay for staying on this side of sane!

I guess that's how I know that I am a writer---I am unapologetically needy. I need that response. I need that connection. Feed me! Love me!

So, besides my rampant narcissism, why do I blog?

Writing A Present

One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, talks about writing a present. She discusses writing stories for family members and dear friends, recording their truths, their struggles, and their moments of heartbreaking beauty.

I didn't write when my first-born was an infant, and those memories are murky. I will never be able to share my birth stories with perfect clarity. Those candles have burnt out, leaving only hazy smoke.
I don't want to forget my life. It's more than that. I want to relive those moments.

That is the gift of writing. I get to live my life, and then recreate it when I place it on paper.

It's the closest thing to magic that I know.

When I write about a morning at the playground, I experience that perfect joy once again. I pump my legs, feel the wind in my hair, and soar into the heavens. My keyboard is a time machine. I believe that.
And, best of all, it's all there for my kids to discover someday.

Digging out the Fossils

Stephen King, in his masterful book On Writing, compares writing fiction to digging out a fossil. Through time, revision, practice, and thinking, the character and plot reveal themselves. You don't see a dinosaur right away.

I often have a difficult time figuring out my feelings. I'll stew or fall into a funk or yell at my husband. I won't know why. Writing has helped me do this less often.
Writing is therapy, helping me dig through the dirt and debris to find my dinosaur. Sometimes, writer's block is a sign that I'm digging in the wrong spot, and the dinosaur is waiting elsewhere. I can't write anything until I dig the damn thing up.

This doesn't mean that I publish everything. Sometimes the writing in itself is enough. However, I do believe that there is beauty and truth in sharing struggles. Some of my best posts come from fossil hunting.

No Guilt

When it comes to blogging, I've made these choices. Other people may make different choices. They may very well have more success and more readers. This is what works for me as of now.

1. I only do memes when they inspire me. Meaning, I prefer the open-ended prompts as opposed to the Q&A formats. I do them when I like, and feel no guilt when I don't.

2. I comment and respond the best I can. I have a two hour writing window when my kids nap. I do what I can do during that window, and if I don't get to it, I feel no guilt.

3. I don't do following memes or join societies designed to gain new followers. I want people to read my blog because they like what I have to say.

4. I write every day because I need to write to clear my head. That doesn't mean I publish. I'm trying to create quality work, and therefore publish 3-4 times a week.

5. If I am thinking more about the world of blogging than my day-to-day life, it's a sign from the universe that it's time to step back a bit.

These words are just mine, and dashed off words at that. But these words---

It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.
~Vita Sackville-West
---Nothing truer has ever been written.

Blog boldly, friends.

Dear Kindle (Nook & Associates): You Will NEVER Light My Fire.

2010-09-05T14:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Kindle (as well as Nook & Associates):

I thought you should know there is nothing quite like the smell of an old book.

I was in a store today called Nell Hill's that was overflowing with them. They were all from the same old library, complete with stamped cards inside their slots. I paused every few minutes to gently tip one forward from its row, like a soldier out of line. I cradled him and ran my hands slowly over his spine and worn cover. Then I opened him up, lifted him slowly to my face and inhaled deeply. I absorbed the words by osmosis and smelled the souls of a thousand kindred spirits. It felt like coming home.

I wondered where the book had been. Whose knapsack he had traveled in. How many hands had touched him. Who had fingered his yellowed pages while tucked in bed, or hunched over a desk, or sitting on a bench in the park. How many miles had he traveled, what exotic places had he seen, had he unwillingly been taken into someone's bathroom and suffered some indignities there?

My books are my best friends. I am proud to display them on my shelves. I can't have enough of them. I know where each one resides and I can't bear to part with any of them.

So many books...sometimes it seems to me that everything has already been said; all the world's stories have already been told. Where does that leave me? Is there anything unique left to be written? Can I possibly create something new, interesting, and different?

Ultimately Kindle, Nook, & Associates--- you are far too impersonal for the likes of me. You don't have a scent. You lack substance. You're too mechanical. You're not real. You haven't got a history I can feel, smell, and touch. I can't put bookplates on you. I can't lend you to friends and get you back with a sweet note tucked inside. I can't press flowers between your pages or stack you in towering heaps on my bedside table. When ~~and if~~ I write my masterpiece, I don't want it to be available exclusively by download. I want it to be concrete. I want it to rest in a tall pile on your nightstand, nestled between classics like To Kill A Mockingbird and Leaves of Grass.

Therefore, Kindle, I cannot and will never love you.

The End.

The Empress of Good Day Regular People Tickles Me Pink!

2010-09-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

Today I'm collaborating with Holly of 504 Main. I'm highlighting one of my favorite bloggers, The Empress. Her blog, Good Day, Regular People, Tickles Me Pink. You can find her on Twitter via @GDRPempress. Alexandra has blown me away most recently with her hysterical three-part series on "When Someone You Love Has a Blog," which you can read here, here, & here. I identify with her so much it's rather scary. She is brilliant, kind, and an incredible writer. Because she Tickles Me Pink, I asked her if she would do me the honor of guest posting, and she kindly agreed. So without further adieu, I give to you The Empress! I'm certain you'll love her as much as I do!

Commisery Loves Company by The Empress at Good Day Regular People

Commiseration. Yes, sometimes commiseration can be the best solution.

I have been thinking about the blogs I frequent often, the ones I jump up to check on each day. What keeps me returning there? Why do I like them and look forward to their posting? It's what I find there: moods that match my own on some days, other days it's a place where "they get it." I don't want answers to my problems, I just want to be somewhere where it's OK to be who I am. With no feelings of needing to impress, or pretend to be something I'm really not.

I've read that "water seeks its own level" and "water seeks the path of least resistance." And that is what a "blogfriend" does. They're easy, they get you, they know what you like. When we find ourselves complaining, or feeling short ended on this life gig sometimes (we're only human, right?) it's strangely and curiously uplifting to find someone muddling through, too. There is something about the "safety" you feel at a favorite blog. You can be comfortable in your reaction and your response, and what you say in the little square box, because you know that there can be a difference in opinion, and you're still good.

Sometimes, we just want to be understood. Sometimes, we don't want a solution. We just want to nod "yes, yes, yes" and let that be all there is to it. And laughing along in recognition of it all lightens the load. So does tearing up at a post they may write that cuts right to your heart.

You can't really describe chemistry, or put a formula to why you feel drawn to a specific blogger and their site. If we could, we could all buy the book and begin blogs and sell them later for mega grande dollars, or at least a few thousand.

You can't really figure out how you find your "tribe," your group of women that make up your daily life as much as your family and co workers, and physical friends do.

You begin blogging one day, and then little by little, and one by one, you meet people that bring joy to your life, people who make you smile excitedly when you see it's them on comments, or in an email, or a tweet, or the sweetest of all: "a direct message to you from..." on twitter.

I think we all just want to belong to a part of something larger than what we have just physically around us, we want to be accepted, and be the larger collective of what we are like, what is important to us. Finding our values and sharing what is dear to us, tethers and binds us to others. We no longer feel alone, and misunderstood, a stranger in a strange land.

There are times, yes, when we truly want a fix, a solution, resources, help, ideas...but there are, more often than not, just times when we only want to hear, "me, too!" Times when we want to know that someone misses our presence in their life that day. We want to know that we matter, and that someone likes us being part of their world. It's nice to know that someone is thinking of us when they wrote a post. It's nice to know that we, also, have somewhere to go with feelings we have inside, or news we want to share, or when we need someone to listen at 1:00 a.m.

Commiseration, sometimes just the sweet balm we need, and no more.

This Girl Just Wants to Write

2010-08-31T10:27:00.000-07:00

My mom saved this first "story" of mine. It's hardcore evidence that even at a young age I wanted to be a writer. Fortunately my spelling has come a long way. It also demonstrates that my love for animals and all living things began early on. We were still living in the bayou (Houma, LA) when I wrote it, and I believe the turtle's poor sense of direction led him into our yard. Mom had enough to deal with and ultimately Yertle the Turtle ~~and the risk of salmonella~~ completely sent her over the edge. We released him back into the bayou where he hopefully found a friend.

I'm not here for the followers, which isn't to say that I don't adore you, because I do! I'm not here to play games. I'm here for me because I love to write. I need to write like I need air, water, and ~~donuts~~ food. When I don't write, I start to suffocate and feel like the walls are closing in on me. It really is that simple.

I have a difficult time trusting people. I loathe drama and confrontation; I run the other way, fast. ~~Unlike my life,~~ My blog is drama free. This is my space to share my thoughts as I travel the road to my writer-y roots.

In first and second grade, I was bullied by a girl a year older than I whose name was Melanie. She had straight, dark hair atop a stocky body, a mean grin on her face, and dirty scuffed-up shoes. Every day at lunch she came over to casually peruse the contents of my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box. I remember I looked down at the rocks on the playground as she approached. I couldn't look at her face. Her shoes announced her. She took what she pleased. I didn't stand up for myself. I just let her.

When I was in sixth grade, there was a close-knit group of girls who weren't very nice to me. They had their own little clique and I wasn't really allowed to be a part of it. They bullied me not by stealing my lunch, but by saying nasty things to my face and behind my back. This time I tried to stand up for myself, but wasn't successful. I was relieved to graduate high school and start over at college where no one knew me.

This pattern has repeated itself throughout my life in various circumstances, but I'm not going to stand for it anymore, especially when it comes to me and my blog. Blogging to me is not about gossip, mud-slinging and nasty comments; it's about reading, writing, sharing ideas, giving constructive criticism, and letting my writer- self out of her shell where she can dare to share her innermost thoughts and stories.

I am standing up. I am not shutting it down. I will continue to write for me. As I have always done.

I'm just gonna write on.

Guest Post via My Brother Mark: Katrina + 5

2010-08-29T00:01:00.000-07:00

On the night of Sunday, August 22, 2010, I tucked my four-and-a-half year old daughter in her bed, kissed her forehead and turned out the lights. About 20 minutes later, a thunderstorm blew through the area. The intense lightning put on quite a show. When a bolt struck close by, and the powerful KA-BOOOOOOM rattled the windows a half-second later, my wife and I were not surprised when the little one's voice called "Daddy! Mommy!"

We spoke to her softly and calmly.

"It's just a little lightning and thunder, honey. The bright lights and the loud noises aren't going to hurt you. It's kind of fun, actually, to count the seconds between the flash and the boom. You're safe and sound here in the house with us. We're right down the hall, and we'll come check on you in a little while." We gave a few more hugs and kisses before making our way back down the hall.

"Daddy?" she called again.

We poked our heads back around the doorway.

"What if the storm gets soooooo big?" she asked.

My wife and I exchanged glances.

"This is just a little storm, honey. It's not a big one."

"But what if it's like the big storm that hit Ne-worlins?"

My heart sank. You should never, ever, know what that is like, I thought.

As a parent, you do your best to ease your child's fears. "There are no such things as monsters." "It was just a movie; it was just pretend." "Don't be scared, I'm going to catch you." But what do you say when it comes to the worst natural disaster in the nation's history? If a small child really knows about Katrina, how could she ever really feel safe in a storm?

If she'd seen the people on the rooftops screaming for help, surrounded by rising water, could I tell her that something like that will never happen to us? If she'd heard about the hundreds of family pets left to drown, would I really be able to reassure her that our dog will be okay in the house by himself during a storm while she is at school?

What if she'd seen the video of Lee Ann Bemboom, the woman at the Convention Center holding her lethargic, overheated baby boy slumped over her arm: "Look how hot he is; he's not waking up very easy!" After seeing that, would my daughter believe me if I told her she'll always be safe in my arms?

What if she'd seen all of her belongings...ALL of her stuffed animals, blankets, shirts, skirts, shorts, shoes, dresses, hats, hair-ties, books, games, paints, crayons, easels, movies and dollies...covered in mold, and mud...and diesel fuel...and feces.

Or worse.

What if she'd returned to the place where her house and all of her things had once been? What if she'd stood on the concrete steps that just recently had ended at a familiar front porch? What if all she could see from the top step was mud and weeds? What if she had turned and asked, "Daddy, where is my room? I want our house back!"

Make no mistake, in late 2005 little ones all over the Gulf Coast tearfully pleaded with their mommies and daddies in just that way. And I'm sure every single parent choked back a levee breach of tears, put on their most stoic face, held their child close and said:

"Baby, it's okay. Everything is fine. You're going to have a new room with new toys really soon. I promise."

Not one of them said, "Storms are nothing to be scared of."

At Katrina +5, New Orleanians look at the numbers: the population, the number of blighted houses remaining, number of reopened schools, number of hospitals, recovery dollars remaining. We look at the calendar: the weeks left until hurricane season is over, the upcoming anniversary of the day we moved into our new homes, and for the unlucky, remembrance of the day fathers, mothers, and children took their last breaths.

At Katrina +5, for those of us with young children, we keep the numbers and the dates to ourselves. For our kids, August 29, 2010 just means beignets for breakfast and one last trip to the store for school supplies. The little ones aren't going to notice the extra church bells ringing to mark the moment of each of the levee breaches. They aren't going to watch the TV specials. They aren't going to read the section in the Times Picayune dedicated to storm stories. And if we can help it, they aren't going to see us crying.

I try to tell myself that I'll explain everything to our little girl when she's old enough to understand it all. I say that I'll tell her when she's able to hear about it without being traumatized. But then I remember.

I still don't understand. And I still get scared.

Another short story: Presidents & My Pool

2010-08-27T13:17:00.000-07:00

It started innocently enough. I was studying for an American History test at the kitchen table, my legs tucked underneath me, biting gently on the tip of my purple Bic pen. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, John Quincy Adams, I repeated over and over in my head. It seemed ridiculous to have to learn the order of the U.S. presidents. Boring to be sure, but at least history was mostly just memorization, which I could handle. It was math that reduced me to a quivering mess.

Just then my mom and her boyfriend walked in with a bunch of really hot guys, one of them being boyfriend's son ~~off limits and a player.~~ I felt my face flush as I looked down at my dorky plaid uniform skirt and suddenly wished I'd stayed in my room to study. But it was too late.

Mom looked at me and said, "This is my daughter, Bella."

There were some nods and awkward waves as they indroduced themselves. Boyfriend's son was Brian, whom I'd already met several times, and his two friends were Travis and Bill. They wanted to go swimming, so mom had offered up our pool, apparently without thinking to give me a heads up so I could at least pretend I wasn't a junior in high school.

The guys were joking with one another and my mom started handing them cans of beer from our fridge. I wasn't sure, but I guessed they were in their early twenties. I quietly gathered my books and started to sneak out when one of them said, "Hey, where you goin'? You're not gonna swim with us?" My stomach lurched and I coughed out an excuse about having to study. Then my brilliant mom butted in and said, "Bella, you really should take a break. You've been at it all day and if you just cram...." she dribbled off. Once the guys made their way outside onto the patio mom pulled me aside. "You should go swimming for a little while," she said, and I could see a twinkle in her eye. My insides were doing somersaults, but I figured I had nothing to lose. I sighed and said, "Okay. I'll go." As I turned to head upstairs to change, she called, "Great! I'll turn on the hot tub!" Shit!

Upstairs I put on my black bikini with the polka-dots that I hoped camouflaged my flat chest. I took deep breaths. I told myself it wasn't a big deal. But it was. These guys were older and good looking and I felt like a kid. I shoved the feeling down and wrapped myself in a towel as I headed back downstairs.

When I went outside I was terrified to see them all in our hot tub. The pool is one thing, but sitting in a hot tub with a bunch of guys? More somersaults began. One of them (who turned out later to be Travis) saw me and said, "Hey, come on in!" I quickly dropped my towel and plopped into the water, sinking down with bubbles up to my chin so no one could see me.

We talked and when they questioned me about my test, I reluctantly told them it was for my American History class. Jokes started flying and someone said something like, "Studying? I was never really good at that part," and they all laughed. Travis positioned himself directly across from me and began asking me about myself. How old I was, was I dating anyone, what I liked to do in my spare time, etc. Eventually I relaxed a bit. Someone handed me a beer and I made myself drink it so they wouldn't think I was a total geek. Someone's foot slithered up my leg and I quickly pulled away thinking it was an accident...until it happened again. I felt Travis' eyes on me.

Later when only the backwash of my Bud Light was left, I had to pee and was dreading it, but finally couldn't wait anymore. I stood up, quickly hopped out and hid myself in my towel. "I'll be right back," I said, as I tiptoed towards the door. When I walked in, the air conditioning gave me goosebumps and I left wet footprints down the hall to the bathroom. Just as I'd closed the door behind me, it opened and Travis came in. My heart threatened to jump out of my chest. "What are you doing?" I asked as I gripped my towel with my pruned fingers. He turned and locked the door, pulled me close and said, "Kiss me."

"What?" I asked.

"C'mon, just kiss me!" he pleaded, and I blurted out, "But I really don't know how." Oh my God, did I really say that out loud?

The next thing I knew his lips were on mine and we stood there kissing, me not really knowing what I was doing and him not seeming to mind. He put his hands on my face softly and stepped closer to me. I could feel a puddle of water pooling at my feet and was suddenly embarrassed that the bar of soap next to the sink was the same cruddy bar that had been in there forever. And that my little brother had probably left pee all over the toilet seat. Yet this 23 year-old man was kissing me.

Something in me unraveled. I let go of my towel and it fell to the marble floor. I wrapped my arms around Travis and etched everything in my brain so I'd never forget.

There's so much more to life than studying for a stupid test.

Guest Post via The Crazy Baby Mama : The Rabbit & the Rabbi

2010-08-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

Please welcome Sarah, The Crazy Baby Mama, (@_CrazyBabyMama_ on Twitter, don't forget the underscores!) who has agreed to a little cross-pollination today! Below you will find one of her most hilarious posts, and if you hop over to her blog today, you'll find one of mine there. Me love Sarah long time. I've followed her forever, and I have the utmost respect for her as a writer. I'm quite sad because she's ~~abandoning me~~ moving to Israel this winter, but thankfully through the internetz we'll be able to keep in touch.
Please note that if you are sensitive to discussions of a bris or battery-operated sex toys, you should skip this. But I encourage you to relax a bit and read on!
So folks, I give you....SARAH! The Crazy Baby Mama!
*******************************************

DISCLAIMER: Dear Dad -- If you somehow manage to stumble on this story, I suggest you check out http://www.funwithtrains.com/ instead. Thank you. Love, Your Daughter.

Anyway, ladies, I may have some bad news: While having sex during pregnancy is generally fine, using a vibrator may be a little more risky. While it's true that most health care practitioners say that if you're having a normal, low-risk pregnancy then you can go to town with your iRabbit, but, if you're prone toward any uterine irritability then you should probably considering retiring that plastic bad boy for a few months. You see, no matter how incredible and mind-blowing your partner may be in bed (or in the backseat of a car, or in the shower, or on a pool table), orgasms from a vibrator are... well... more electrifying. Sorry B. It's nothing personal: Anything battery operated that pulsates like 1000 times a second is bound to deliver the goods harder and faster. And, because of the way vibrators are built, they increase your chances of having very strong, incredibly intense contractions.

(Seriously, Dad, http://www.funwithtrains.com/)

Since I was a hyper-neurotic crazy pregnant lady, I had said goodbye to my neon purple friend as soon as I found out I was knocked-up with Little Homie. But, now that he’s here safe and sound, and now that I’m forbidden from putting anything up into my lady business until Doctor B gives me the green light at my postpartum checkup, my iRabbit has made its triumphant return to my bedside drawer. See? There is no such thing as too much information.

Anyway, on Little Homie’s 8th day of life -- in accordance with the laws of Moses and the people Israel and because B is adamant that his son’s penis match his-- we invited our close family over for his Bris.

For the past few months, we scoured synagogues and two different Benihana restaurants for the perfect mohel to perform the ceremony, until someone reminded me that our family Rabbi had trained as a mohel and wielded a scalpel with a slow hand and an easy touch.

Now, I've known and loved this Rabbi since I was just a few years older than The Girl and Little Homie: He presided over all the services my parents and I went to when I was growing up. He told the best Jewish scary stories at sleep-away camp. He officiated at my Bat Mitzvah, and my mom's funeral. He was there to give the blessing at The Girl’s Simchat Bat. He's more than just a Rabbi to us -- he's part of our extended family. And, I felt better knowing that we were entrusting our son’s penis to someone we already knew than some stranger off the street.

Well, given my ridiculously intense paranoia concern about germs affecting my newborn baby boy, as the guests trickled in on the morning of the Bris, Little Homie and I hung out in the bedroom awaiting the arrival of our Rabbi.

"Ok, what does this have to do with vibrators?" I hear you cry.

Don’t worry. I’ll get there. I’m just taking the scenic route.

The Rabbi arrived and joined us in the bedroom. He greeted us with many "Mazel Tovs," and we got down to business. After we discussed the order of the speakers for the ceremony, the Rabbi stood up and said he needed a pen and paper to write it all down. Before I could stop him, he reached over to open the bedside drawer.

As cliche as it sounds, it really was like the whole thing happened in slow motion. I tried to block him, but I was still a little unstable with the baby in my arms. So, I had to make a fast decision: Either I drop Little Homie on the floor and keep my flysecrets hidden in the bedside drawer, or I sacrifice my dignity while keeping my son safe and sound. Well, Hasta La Vista, Dignity. Vaya Con Dios.

The Rabbi grabbed the knob, and pulled, and for a blessed moment, it seemed like the drawer wouldn't budge. But, with a mighty tug, the Rabbi yanked the drawer open, and in the process, managed to activate the iRabbit's on-switch. Whirring, buzzing, and gyrating, unlike so many smaller, more discreet models, this vibrator leaves very little to the imagination: it comes complete with a fairly girthy shaft, a well-formed glans, and -- YES -- it even appears to be circumcised. While the neon purple tempers things a little, it doesn't help much.

Well, the Rabbi quickly slammed the drawer shut, and we both pretended that we couldn't hear the rhythmic buzzing as we continued to discuss the upcoming ceremony. Little Homie survived his bris without any apparent physical or emotional trauma. In fact, he slept through the whole thing, cooing softly when the Rabbi placed a tiny droplet of the ruby red wine on his sweet baby lips. I, on the other hand, like every other mama of a Jewish baby boy, wept, my head buried in The Girl’s curls while we welcomed my son into the Covenant.

Ch Ch Ch Ch Changes....A la Mother Load

2010-08-25T10:21:00.000-07:00

You've hopefully been admiring my fantabulous makeover courtesy of Bloggy Blog Designz (@BBDesignz on Twitter). Jenna is wonderful to work with, despite being down with a broken foot. I knew what I wanted and she helped me bring my ideas to fruition. Although I've already managed to accidentally delete my buttons, Jenna will have them back in their proper position in no time. This cool gal often hosts giveaways, so if your wallet's a little light and you want to tweak a few things, or even if you want a whole new look, be sure to head on over to her place and see what prizes she has up for grabs. Thank you, Jenna, for my awesome new look ~~and for putting up with me!~~

These aesthetic changes reflect what's been going on inside, and the direction I want my blog to go in. I'm veering off the path of memes, posts lacking interesting material, and I'm certainly not blogging daily. I firmly believe in quality, not quantity, though I'm sure some of you disagree with me. I don't write unless I've got something to say, which I think should be one of blogging's Golden Rules.

The Ninja Blogger graciously agreed to post for me on Monday, and if you missed her insights, please go here. Tomorrow The Crazy Baby Mama will be guest posting, and I have to warn you---if you are easily offended or prefer not to read about a bris, a vibrator, and the female anatomy, you may want to skim or skip; but if you do, you'll be missing out on some of Sarah's best work! So I encourage you to come back tomorrow. And because we are nearing the fifth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, my brother will be guest posting this weekend. I am enjoying an unofficial bloggy break and letting my brain recharge a bit.

I'll leave you with a link to something I wrote here 2+ years ago before I had honed my mad blogging skillz, before I had any followers, and before I realized that no one was reading ~~but I didn't care because it was strictly an emotional outlet.~~ But it's funny, and my friend Meg tells me that this post always makes her laugh. I give you, "My Dear Husband."

See you back here tomorrow for Sarah's post on vibrators!

The Ninja Blogger Takes Over The Mother Load (Cross-Pollination)

2010-08-23T05:05:00.000-07:00

**First off, don't run away! You're in the right place. I've just gotten a lovely new look from the awesome Jenna over at Bloggy Blog Designz. Like what she's done here (she did my last makeover as well!)? Be sure to go check her out and enter some of her giveaways!**

This week I'm cross-pollinating with some bloggers I adore. Today's post is from the one, the only, The Ninja Blogger! She's so popular that she was featured last week at The Crazy Baby Mama. If you need a laugh, you should go read that post right here. I'm tickled pink that she agreed to post at my place today. She's a mama, a writer, and she hates Crocs. I think I love her. You should also follow her on twitter: @TheNinjaBlogger. She rocks my socks off with her candor and honesty. Please visit her and tell her I said hello. Maybe if you're super sweet, she'll guest post for you, too!

Without further adieu, I give you:

What I’ve Learned from Blogging by The Ninja Blogger

I have learned so many things from blogging.

I have learned to find humor in so many of life's little things. Whether it is my husband, kids, driving, grocery shopping, cooking or internet surfing, I am finding humor everywhere now, and good blog material.

I have learned to work out my problems in a concise way. By writing about what is going on in my life, it makes me stop and think about how I feel and how to dispel it so that I will feel better.

I have learned how to put myself out there by joining in things, even if it is virtual; it is a step in the right direction. I am still not brave enough to attend a conference, but I will get there one day.

I am learning how to express myself in a way that hopefully appeals to everyone who reads me.

I have learned that spell check is my friend. I use it often.

I have learned that if you call out stalkers, they go away.

I have learned that even in the blogosphere you can make very close friends.

I have learned that I do have an addictive personality. I am addicted to blogging.

I have learned that if you host a giveaway and for an extra entry a person can join/follow your blog, that doesn't mean it increases your readership or comments, it's just that someone wants an extra entry.

I have learned that not everyone comments back, no matter how many times you leave comments or how many days in a row you leave them on their blog.

I have learned that I am a voyeur.

I have learned that my butt starts to fall asleep when I sit at the computer for too long.

I have learned how grateful I am to have this outlet.

I have learned how to find my sanity again, and for that I am most grateful.

Thanks to everyone who reads, listens, glances, comments, follows, stays, leaves and likes my daily rants, raves, praises, sorrows, sarcasm and life!

What have YOU learned from blogging?

Friday Dare--What I Did to Make Someone Smile Today (Including Myself)!

2010-08-20T08:55:00.000-07:00

So the inimitable @ShellyKramer threw the gauntlet this morning. She issued a dare on her V3im blog, wherein she challenged us to make someone smile today. Not being one to back down on something this easy, I went right out and did it, and I have photos to prove it. I went to the KC Community Blood Center and offered up a donation. ~~And not just for the free Oreos and apple juice.~~ I insisted on documenting my experience throughout. This darling woman tried to duck out of the photo, but I told her how cute she looked and begged her to pose for me. My donation made her happy, and it made me happy. Perhaps not quite what Shelly had in mind, but I've been meaning to donate for a while and laziness is my only excuse. Thank you, Kansas City Community Blood Center, for your efficiency, stellar employees (especially Elmo, who let me ask him if people ever make jokes about his name), and for getting me in & out so quickly, even though I didn't have an appointment.

Here's the rub, people: this cost me nothing, required ZERO effort on my part, took roughly 1/2 hour from start to finish (including paperwork), and best of all, gave me an excuse to chuck Jazzercise & Jillian today, as I've been instructed not to engage in any rigorous/strenuous activities for the next 24 hours. Can't beat that.

You may note I did not allow the superior Community Blood Center staff to photograph me, but rest assured you can tell it's me by the big feet clad in really old tennis shoes. I was kinda hoping all that blood might call hotties Eric and Bill out to play, or perhaps even the Cullens, but alas there were no bloodsuckers to be found. Damn it.

In a similar vein (pun absolutely intended), how can you spread the smiles today? I confess that I needed a smile today. I needed to feel worthy, good, and helpful. So I went out and did something about it. What can you do today---both for yourself AND for someone else?

Gratitude

2010-08-19T14:03:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling grateful for so many things, and need to make an effort to list them more often. But in no particular order, I am especially appreciative of and grateful for:

My incredible network of Twitter friends who are helping me to grow beyond my wildest dreams: @JoyceCherrier, @HipCop, @KatJaib, @ShellyKramer, @SusanLorelei, @mmangen, @CherryWoodburn, @FromTracie, @AmyOscar, @blogomomma, @SarahRobinson, and soooo many others.
My awesome circle of blog friends who have remained faithful, loyal, and true. You know who you are, you know who I am, yet you manage to love me anyway.Whoa! (This also applies to my non-blogger friends!)
Honest Tea, particularly the Pearfect White Tea. Also Lori's Lemon Tea.
Jazzercise, for allowing me to work out in a supportive, mirror-free atmosphere. Check out their 1-day sale HERE!
Jillian Michaels, despite her saying, "I want you to feel like you're gonna DIE!"
Candy. Because it helps keep my kids in line.
Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay. Because it helps get me out of line.
My friend Meg for not kicking me out of her birthday party Saturday night when I put a purple bowl in my shirt and pretended to be pregnant. My friend Anne for not disowning me after I slapped her ass while dancing. Meg's husband Justin for indulging me and adding the Wang Chung song to his iPod.
Our sweet babysitter Kiley who has the nerve to leave for college in California in 10 days, but has managed to put up with me ~~and my neuroses~~, not to mention my children, for several years now.
Books. So many books, so little time. But lately, Jonathan Safran Foer's "Eating Animals," for opening my eyes to what's really going on behind the scenes in the food industry. Also "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett has likely been my favorite read so far this year.
My husband. I love him so much that we are getting remarried in October at The Sasone Wedding. He still ~~puts up with me~~ dotes on me after over 10 years together! I'm so lucky. He's such a trooper.
My children. Yes, they may be unruly, cantankerous little hags at times, but ~~deep down~~ they are loving, smart, and beautiful girls. Sometimes I do wonder if one of them ~~not naming any names here~~ was perhaps mixed up in the in-vitro lab, because her attitude is unlike anything I've ever witnessed or read about ~~she can't possibly be mine.~~
My family---for loving me, encouraging me, humoring me, ~~paying for my therapy~~ and always being willing to talk through things ~~and drug me when I become to difficult to deal with.~~

I shall end this list here before it becomes too boring ~~although it's more than likely you stopped reading way back there on # 3.~~

What are YOU feeling grateful for ~~besides me, of course?~~

Crawling Out of My Little Erin Shell, or, Thank You, Mrs.(Sarah) Robinson!

2010-08-16T12:37:00.000-07:00

While I was in high school, several of the guys in my class made fun of me by routinely saying, "Just crawl back into your little Erin shell." Those words gnawed at me and hurt me deeply, though I tried not to show it and to laugh it off or ignore it. I have always kept a protective "shell" around me, like a turtle or a snail. Ironically, that shell emerged years before because of similar circumstances and people saying ugly things to me. Even if they were simply joking, their words only made me loathe myself even more.

I've been an introvert much of my life and only let the real me out when I'm feeling truly comfortable....which takes a long time ~~unless there is alcohol involved.~~ But this blog has been an incredible outlet, allowing me the space to safely share my creativity and innermost thoughts. Many of you know I long to write a book and I often say that "I have a book in my head." Yet that book has never quite made it onto paper or into my computer. Fear stands in my way, fear of so many different things, but obviously failure is near the top of that list.

Over the weekend a Twitter friend, @SarahRobinson, messaged me about her upcoming conference: CIP, or Creating Irresistible Presence. Sarah is also the author of Escaping Mediocrity. I recently saw a link on Twitter to her Burn the Ships post, which made me cry with recognition.

I bit the bullet. I overcame incredible nausea, called @SarahRobinson herself as well as @KatJaib and spoke with them both about potentially coming to the conference. And I did it. I hung up the phone, got on the computer, and made my reservations. It's a done deal. Hotlanta, here I come!

My walls are coming down.
My armor is coming off.
I'm making myself vulnerable and opening up.
I'm burning my ships, or my "shell," as it were.
(Thank you, Sarah Robinson!)

No more excuses, no more hiding, no more waiting.

I begin my journey at CIP in Atlanta in September.
I need to be pushed, pulled, stretched to my limit.
I need to be taken out of my comfort zone.
Like @SarahRobinson said, it's as if my words
are all there, but they're "stuck" in my throat and I can't get them out.

I'm going to find myself, that part of me that is ready, waiting.
She's perhaps buried under some rubble and wreckage, but she's there.
She just needs someone to help pull her out.

Who's with me?
And what are YOU waiting for? It's time to pull out all the stops. Burn your ships!

Flashback Friday

2010-08-13T06:41:00.000-07:00

For the first time ever, I am linking up today with Web Savvy Mom and Cathy over at Antsy Pants for Flashback Friday!

I love this photo because it showcases three generations: my grandmother, upon whose lap I am perched (Betty), my mom (Julie), and lil' ole me. I guess I was about a year old when this was taken because my little brother Mark clearly wasn't around yet. My mom looks radiant, although I imagine she and her mother were arguing just before this was taken because of the smile that's not quite on Grandma's face... or it could have been due to the manic depression she suffered from. I didn't know Grandma Betty very well because she lived in Wisconsin and we lived in New Orleans. It looks like this was taken in a hotel room. Not sure of the details behind it, I just know I've always loved it. My mom looks breathtaking, my Grandma is beautiful, and I'm just hangin' out with two lovely ladies!

My mother doesn't like having her picture taken, and neither do I. But for my daughters' sake, I'm working on that, just as I've been Embracing My Body. It just so happens that my mom is coming up to visit us in two weeks, and I'd like to get some three generation photos while she's here. Mom, will you embrace yourself and do it?

Tomorrow is my Grandma Betty's birthday, so I'm posting this in her honor. We lost her when I was in college, and I'm sad that due to the distance I never got to know her very well. I love and miss you, Grandma!

Embrace Your Body Challenge with The Mommyologist

2010-08-10T12:16:00.000-07:00

Mary The Mommyologist is once again getting us to think hard about how we view ourselves with this week's Embrace Your Body Challenge. If you go here, you can watch her vlog and hear what she likes about herself. It made me pretty nervous, but I let her thoughts marinate for a bit.

Ultimately I did my own vlog below about I like about me. It was difficult to do, as it's much more my speed to obsess over all the things I can't stand about myself. But the reality is that I have two young girls watching me every minute, so I need monitor myself and censor what I say out loud. I've got to start thinking more positively too, because they are perceptive and can sense a lot just by watching me as I get dressed and ready in front of a mirror.

So here it is---this was my first shot, out of breath & in the rough, right after failing miserably at a new Jillian Michaels dvd The Father Load bought. Still and all, I managed to find one positive thing. I am going to work hard to find others.

What do you like about yourself? Why not link up at Mary The Mommyologist's place with photos or a vlog and tell us?

Helen Jean Trillin, Grandmaw Extraordinaire: 1924-2005

2010-08-09T05:05:00.000-07:00

Grandmaw (Helen) and my MIL, Carol, at our wedding, 12/05

Her name was Helen.
Grandmaw extraordinaire and mother of three.
Her cooking rivaled Julia Child's.
So tiny was she that I towered over her and worried I would
Crush her in her fragility; she was like a freshly picked flower--
Radiant, delicate, and beautiful.
Her smile could change my day from awful to amazing.

We both loved the color pink ("paaaank," she'd say it, smiling)
And once for my birthday she bought me a pink Kate Spade purse.
She let me call her Grandmaw too, though I was not her grandchild,
Just married to her grandson. But I considered it a privilege to play
The part of granddaughter, something she never had.

When Grandpaw died, she began her slow descent.
The greedy thief had been hiding, hovering in the shadows.
He leapt out suddenly, voracious, devouring all that was hers:
Memories, familiar faces, motor skills and even her personality.
Alzheimer's is a nasty, steadfast thief who quickly dives,
Pouncing on innocent victims and shredding their precious lives.

We visited her often. We tried everything.
But she was slipping away, her eyes lost, her mind locked.
Sometimes she'd come back to us, if only for a few minutes.
Still, we talked to her as if nothing was wrong,
As if she wasn't ill, as if there was no monster in the room.
Carrying on conversations with ourselves, or Grandmaw's shell.
Going through our own private Hell.

We told her of the babies thriving, finally, in my womb.
We told her she was going to be a Great Grandmaw.
Surely this news would wrestle her from the thief's jaws.
It did not. Then we told her I was carrying two girls.
We thrust my burgeoning belly in her face and planted her hands on it.
Nothing. The thief wouldn't release his hold for even one second.

Towards the end, we sat with her. Held her hands. A vigil.
Several times we thought it was over, but it wasn't.
And then, in that final moment when he took her, it seemed unreal.
I stepped out into the hallway to start making phone calls.
My voice mechanical, tears slipping down my cheeks.
Mad as ever at Alzheimer's, that wretched thief.

How can YOU help? How can YOU get involved?
If you are here in KC, go here to learn about our Memory Walk on 10/2. Walk with me (there is a 1-mile walk and a 3-mile walk, your choice)! I am desperate to get the word out, and there are plenty of ways to help. Even if you can't walk, you can do something as simple as putting a sign in your yard. Just ask me for one!

Please consider sponsoring me as I walk in Helen's honor (or donate to another walker you may know). You can find my personal fundraising page here.

Alternatively, it's easy to find a Memory Walk in your state/area. Locate one by going here. They are all taking place around the same time in October.

We all have causes we're passionate about. If Alzheimer's isn't one of yours, I encourage you to seek another out and find a way to become involved. What organizations or charities are special to you? There are so many groups out there that need our help. What are you waiting for?

Red Writing Hood -- Debacle

2010-08-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

I'm participating with The Red Dress Club again today. The instructions were as follows:

This week we're going to switch gears and write a little poetry. Writing poetry helps us work on cadence and rhythm which can make for better fiction. So by flexing our poetry muscles, we can in turn create more fluid fictional pieces. Please write a narrative poem that focuses on the workings of a family, whether it be your own or one that you've created from scratch. Good luck!

**I am not a poet. I wrote this when I was in high school and this is the second time it has appeared on my blog.**

DEBACLE

We stared blankly in a dumbfounded silence

Not daring to even steal glances at one another
The five of us sat tense, unmoving
As rivers of emotion threatened to escape
From behind our downcast eyes.

My mom, my two brothers and I listened
As my father told us a story about how it felt to hide,
Crouched behind a wall of fear for forty years
He said it was time to face the truth,
Time to reveal the secret that had been silent
Within him for so long.

But it had always been lurking there,
Stirring underneath his skin.
It had crept up on him quietly, slowly,
Like a fever.
Until finally, on this day, the fever broke
And relief swam over my father as he confessed
In a shaky voice, "I'm leaving you all because I am gay."

It's too bad his relief wasn't contagious---
He seemed to think it should have been
I just fell apart
We all fell apart
A jigsaw puzzle dismantled
The pieces scattered everywhere
So we're trying to fit them together again
But it's hard to make a new puzzle
When we liked the old one so much better.

How could he create a family knowing all that he did?
His family was his garden--he watered it, tended it, nurtured it.
But he wondered why, if the flowers thrived so,
Did he still feel an unbearable emptiness inside?
After all, he did have a loving family,
Even if it wasn't the kind of family he desperately wanted.
He thought we, his fictitious family, could hide him,
Even from himself.

He was wrong.

Brothers and Sisters

2010-08-04T15:50:00.000-07:00

My brother Mark and I

I wanted to marry my little brother "Markie."

Clad in my favorite Strawberry Shortcake shirt

and a dress made from a blanket.

A fake flower plucked from a vase.

A veil edged in lace.

Markie in my dad's too-big striped tie,

so proudly holding my arm.

An irresistible grin a mile wide,

His hair lightened by the summer spent outside.

My brother Kevin and I, circa 1982

Then came Kevin, and I got to play the part of a little mama.
He arrived when I was five, on the edge of six.
I loved holding him and giving him bottles.

I brought him to school for Show & Tell.
So proud was I that I also shared
"Where Did I Come From?"
the book my parents gave me, with all
of my friends at recess.
We whispered and giggled and pointed
at parts until my teacher caught us.
My parents fielded her phone call that night--what a fuss.

Suddenly I have to turn to look over my shoulder to find that little girl.
All three of us are adults now, having crossed over.
Cut from the same cloth,
yet so different in so many ways.
The miles and the passage of time
have made it difficult for me.
I struggle to pick up the phone.
There's so much I want to say, but I don't.

Things happen and you realize your siblings
are pieces of your puzzle and the vestiges of your childhood.
They will be there when everything else is gone.

I want to be a better sister if it's not too late.
I'll be like an archaeologist and sift through
the broken bones of time, the dirt clogging up the
hardened arteries of my heart.

I wonder if I'll have to dig deep?
I hope what I seek lies just beyond the surface.
With a little dusting off, some polishing, and
careful preservation, we'll be good as new.