Wow, I sound adventurous!

Last week, I shared 22 things I have NOT done.

Linking up again to Mama Kat’s writer’s workshop, where I selected the prompt: “Write a list of 22 things you HAVE done”

Maybe I’ll reveal a few things that surprise you!

I have…

1. Gone parasailing

2. Danced in the rain

3. Experienced an earthquake

4. Bicycled down a volcano (Haleakela)

5. Tasted and dined at a winery in Tuscany

6. Climbed 2 miles up Mt. Ranier

7. Happily bounded 2 miles DOWN Mt. Ranier

8. Ridden Millennium Force at Cedar Rapids twice in a row

9. Viewed New York City from the Empire State Building

10. Climbed a glacier

11. Taken a photo of the Sistine Chapel ceiling

12. Eaten candy made from flowers (lavender and rose)

13. Earned a bachelor’s degree (magna cum laude, baby!)

14. Been to Disney World many times

15. Seen a grizzly bear mama with cubs in the wild

16. Survived a trip to Europe with a 14-month old

17. Posted on this blog 508 times. (It’ll be 2 years in January!)

18. Marched in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade

19. Fed animal cookies to a sheep

20. Been mama to bunnies, cats, and fish

21. Strolled the streets of Barcelona

22. Been a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a cousin, and a mom.

Oh yes, I know I am blessed.

"I am from.." (a post from #BBCATL & writer's workshop)

I am from homemade cookies, Keds sneakers, and lightning bugs.

I am from the cul-de-sac headquarters of the neighborhood BBQ, where friendly handshakes and childlike giggles paused only for a mom's still-warm and oozing blueberry pie.

I am from the grass, the fresh, crisp softness between asphalt-blackened toes.

I am from beach vacations and open arms, from farmers and coal miners and first-generation college graduates.

I am from the watermelon fights and "I'm sorry" hugs.

From "you can do anything" to "be careful what you say".

I am from Rocky Top and European immigrants, meat and potatoes.

From the playful cousins to the available parents, and the sister so close in age we could share friends as well as clothes.

I am from handmade quilts, memories captured on Kodak slides, and a place that will, within my soul, always be frozen in time.

- - - -
This post was crafted during Bloggy Bootcamp Atlanta. Thanks to MamaKat and Francesca who led the session and found the fantastic original post "Where I'm From" by writer/teacher George Ella Lyon.

Twelve thousand two-hundred days+

I have been around for over 12,210 days. I am 33 years old.

I have viewed lovely places and experienced a few adventures, but I have never…

1. Eaten food at Taco Bell

2. Traveled great distances by train

3. Jumped from an airplane

4. Been a dog owner

5. Hugged a boa constrictor

6. Worn a leather jumpsuit

(but this one can be yours for only $755 at Nieman Marcus)

7. Been struck by lightning

8. Eaten snails

9. Gone hang-gliding

10. Broken a bone

11. Visited Paris

12. Shaved my head

13. Watched a Disney movie in Minnesota

14. Burped my ABCs

15. Grown taller than 5’ 4”

16. Performed in a real circus

(only the preschool one when I was four)

17. Tickled an iguana

18. Soaked up sunshine in Tahiti

19. Visited Pinetrest.com

(but I guess I’d better check it out…)

20. Totaled a car

21. Climbed to the top of a palm tree

And #22…

I have never, ever lost an ounce of love for these two people:

I would give up all my wishes and past experiences for them.

 - - - -

Writing prompt from Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop! Join in next week!

If you really knew me...

Social media has a way of making us feel popular. We feel a twinge of pride from having hundreds of Facebook friends, thousands of Twitter followers, and blog readers from all over the world.

But there is a line between tangible and virtual.

Not too long ago, a well-respected and heavily-followed social media expert committed suicide. For many of us, we immediately thought, "How could that be? He had so many followers!".

But a social media follower is not the same as a real-life friend. It is easy to feel alone, even in the thick of a crowd.

If you really knew me, you would know that...

I write the truth.
I write from my heart.
I am what I write...

But I am probably too embarrassed to talk about it in person.

My first blog conference is coming up on Saturday.

I am a nervous wreck.

What do I wear?
Are comfy shoes okay?
Should I try to be trendy?
Or should I just be me?
What if "me" isn't good enough?

What if I hate it?
Can I leave early and go home to my family?

If you really know me, you will understand that this step is a big one. Blog readers know my heart. They have read my dreams. They are aware of my fears.

And I am about to come out from behind the computer screen... as ME.

I still have no idea what I'm going to wear.

- - -
Inspired by one of Mama Kat's prompts from her prompt-generator HERE.
"If you really knew me, you would know that..."

Because I dared to write

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote,
“The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

I perused their tweets and lurked quietly into their blog posts. I followed their tales and shared joy from their memories. I felt the familiar twinge of jealousy as I scanned all the comments and tweets among the group; I would never feel such camaraderie.

The Red Dress Club? Looked like fun. However, jumping in myself was an utterly horrifying idea. These were real writers; teachers passing along their gifts to the newest generations, published authors, and bloggers who have already reached a certain level of fame I could only hope to find.

I was not qualified.

It was too scary.

What if they laughed behind their computer screens, baffled by the nerve of this untrained nobody blogger?

The RemembRED memoir prompts were persistent, intriguing me week after week, pulling me to join in. Finally, I took the plunge. Six months ago, I linked up with my very first The Red Dress Club post: First Day.

My stomach fluttered as my sweaty hand guided the mouse to hover the cursor over “publish”. I closed my eyes and quickly, before I could change my mind, clicked. That moment was the scariest. It was the moment I allowed myself to join a group of talented writers. The moment I agreed to call myself a writer. My own kind of writer, perhaps, but a writer nonetheless.

It has been easy from there. Am I a professional writer? No, and I don’t need those credentials. I blog for fun. I blog to relieve my brain when words are building up inside.

And when a prompt inspires?
I write. I link up. I tweet it out. Then I sit back and enjoy the creativity of others.

I am uplifted when I touch someone with mine.




The Red Dress Club has since evolved and has a new name: Write on Edge. Intrigued? Join in! I promise it is not as scary as it seems.

I wish for you...

Sometimes, a writing prompt gives me an immediate jolt of inspiration. I know what I want to write and how I want to write it.

This week, Mama Kat showed this image that's been floating around Facebook:

And Mama Kat asked... "Who does it make you think about?"

No pondering needed with this one. My thoughts went instantaneously to someone. Not a person who isn't making an effort in my life, but a person who needs to read these words, take them to heart, and get the dead weight out of her life. Forever.

I am not at liberty to talk about it here
    ... which probably makes for a pretty lame blog post.

But it is not my own life to analyze, nor my own life to discuss on the Internet.

But for those of you out there who allow others to manipulate your feelings?

I wish for you strength.

For those who accept letdowns from the same person/people time and time again?

I wish for you self-worth.

And for those who hang on tightly to someone who just cannot give back?

I wish for you power.

The power to know when the time is right... and finally let go.


- - -

Wind and a blur of color

T-shirts and sneakers whiz by in a blur of rainbow colors. Heat from sun-warmed metal radiates through our clothes. Wind lifts my hair, tangles it. The volume of her voice rises and falls as we, too, rise up and glide down, around and around.

Mother and daughter, we survey our domain. We lean to the side, fingers wiggling at the little Daddy down below. I spot a petite train. She exclaims when she sees a playground. Grins are exchanged with nearby riders sharing our little bit of airspace.

Her joy in this moment is worth the nausea to come.

This week's writing prompt from Galit at Write on Edge: "This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like. But don’t tell me what it is, conjure it."  Our limit was 100 words.

The jeans in the bottom drawer

Shortly after Amelia was born, my jeans were looking good. Through sheer exhaustion and first-time-mommy stress, I was skinnier than I had been in years.

Baby weight? Did not exist in my world.

Or so I thought.

It was simply delayed.

Today, my jeans are angry with me. They feel neglected and unloved, living in the bottom drawer, uncomfortably tight around my “mama middle”. My daughter and I graduated 'Infant/Toddler 101' last year and while she is more active than ever, Mama somehow moved into a sedentary phase (with a side of snacking).

My confidence faltered when I succumbed to a new jeans purchase last fall. I dragged my feet from the junior’s section into the grown-up world of pleats and elastic waistbands. No worries – I did not go that far. I did, however, succeed in finding two pairs of new jeans that fit well, felt comfortable, and minimized my muffin top.

Designer? Well, no.

But I do not believe I have fallen into the depths of “mom jeans”… yet. And if I have? Please, for the sake of human decency, please pull me aside one day and tell me. I promise not to cry. In front of you.

It is almost fall here, and I will soon dig out those new jeans for their seasonal debut. My old jeans? Are still waiting patiently for me in the drawer, buried underneath more recent (and larger) purchases.

I owe it to myself to get back into those jeans one day. My weight plummeted after the birth of my daughter; I know it is possible.

Don’t lose faith in me, skinny jeans. I will see you again one day. Just give me a little more time.

- - -

The assignment this week was to write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – in which jeans play a prominent role.

The time had come to live again

This week's Red Writing Hood Prompt asked us to write about a season of change. I decided to revisit my prior short fiction piece, The Runaway. I gave you the end before; here is a bit more to her story:

- - - -

The aches pulsing through her back were nothing compared to the lightning stabbing her brain.

What happened? Where am I?

She surveyed the small dark room. The furnishings were old and small. The thin and scratchy linens lay rumpled on the bed. An old clock ticked and tocked on the wall. As the moments passed, the fog within her brain cleared.

The priest. My bags.

He was kind. He listened. He picked her up, literally, from the depths of filth. He awakened her fighting spirit. He helped her to grasp her self-worth that had been long gone for all those months.

She had agreed to follow him, simply for the promise of a warm shower and clean clothes. She trudged through the open doorway and let out a gasp as a smiling, chubby woman made a beeline towards her.

“Welcome! We are so glad to have you here!”

What have I done?

The gentle clergyman remained by her side and placed a hand on her shoulder as she signed her name with a trembling hand. Her body was screaming to run, far and fast, back to the street. Only the slight pressure of human contact kept her moving forward.

He is right. I need this. I don’t want to die.

Once the ink was placed to paper, the chipper woman nimbly snatched her tattered bag.

“We have to keep your belongings, hon. Any substances we find will be destroyed.”

No! Okay. No! But I need them!

She shook her head and forced aside the greedy pleadings inside. She remained silent, eyes cast downward, and simply nodded.

Shower. Sleep. Eventually… home.

The time had come to live again.

From heartbreak to hope

We had to leave immediately.

The invisible hand of regret had a grip on my gut. Squeezing. Choking. Working its way up to my throat where a lump had already formed as I fought back tears.

Then, a gentle hand on my knee. A finger, underneath my chin, lifting my face towards the sun once again.

"Let's just look at it."

I inhaled slowly, deeply. Then a sigh escaped my lips. "But, I'm just going to be heartbroken again."

His hand moved swiftly to grip my own. A slight tug.

"Only one look."

I shook off his fingers that were intertwined with mine. I turned and reached for the handle. And, sighed, once again. "Fine. Only for a second."

We walked, side by side, up the concrete drive. I did not want to do this again.

The opening of the door freed the distinct smells from inside. Paint. Lumber. Brand new carpet. With just one step inside, all my tension dissipated. Light streamed through the newly-installed windows. Every sound echoed through the emptiness.

"I love it. But... remember last time?"

I felt a touch on my back. "Don't worry about that now. Do you want it?"

Tears finally escaped my eyes. "Of course I do. But we felt that way last time. We were sent away."

"But, look!" he exclaimed, shoving a flyer in my hand. I saw the numbers emblazoned across the top.

I could not believe my eyes. "But... the price!"

He flashed me a toothy grin. "Yeah. So, do you want it?"

And that's when we realized. We were already home.

- - -
The Red Dress Club has become Write on Edge!
Check out the fantastic new website.



"This week, we gave you the beginning and the end of the story – sometimes the very places we get stuck – and asked you only to come up with the middle. You were to start your piece with We had to leave immediately and end it with And then we realized we were already home."

What she did for me

When I was a little girl, she was a teenager. When I was Cookie Monster for Halloween, she was a gorgeous princess in a blue and silver gown. When she went to the prom, she let me walk next door to peek at her grown-up and fabulous look. She was a babysitter, but also willing to be a friend.

Later, when my mind was guiding me to a possible career in advertising, I learned that she had already pursued - and grasped - that dream. Once again, she allowed me to look up to her and opened her calendar to schedule time for a tour.

I visited the big-city advertising agency on a Friday. I navigated the parking deck and strolled past a spraying fountain to enter the shiny building. In the elevator, I smoothed my skirt and picked at my hair. When I heard five dings, it was time to step out into the agency. The colorful lobby greeted me with cheer. I affixed my best grown-up look on my face and approached the desk. "Director of First Impressions," said the little placard. This place? Was even too cool to say "receptionist". I had stars in my eyes.

Soon, I was trailing behind my mentor as she pointed out various parts of the agency. She introduced me to agency friends. I should have seized the opportunity to ask questions, but I was mute with nerves. At one point, I noticed a little brown dog. A living, breating, fluffy animal. Sleeping under someone's desk. That is when I learned about Dog Friday. At this office, employees could actually bring their dogs to work! The working world was going to be so cool. I could not wait to venture out of Tennessee and into this big city to start my own fabulous life.

She has no idea what her guidance meant to me back then. We have both moved through varying careers. She left the ad agency world for good, I left once and came back. Not all agencies are funky and fun... in fact, some mimic the worst of sweatshops. But I still believe I made the correct choice for a career. I enjoy it and I am good at it.

I have her to thank for guiding me there.



Everyone remembers that first inspiration or mentor in their lives that made them want to be or do something in their lives, whether you actually followed through with it or not. Tell us about that inspiration/mentor. How did they affect or change your life!

Art expressions

In the eyes of a child,

Every project is a masterpiece.

In the eyes of a child,

The fridge is a hallowed gallery.

In the eyes of a child,

Glue is a mystical force.

In the eyes of a child,

Buttons become jewels.

Glitter transforms into fairy dust.

And stickers are badges of honor.

We nourish their bodies with healthy foods and build their strength with exercise. Art and creativity play an important role in growing their minds too.

What creative activities do you enjoy with your kids?

- - - -
This post inspired by Mama Kat's Writers' Workshop. The prompt was to post a photo from this week and write a poem about it.

Stung

When I was 17 years old, I fell into the boyfriend trap.

I slipped away from my friends and spent every spare moment with my love of the year.

After the novelty of the new relationship wore off, I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes and saw my friends off to the side, enjoying each other’s company. Laughing. Chatting. Planning weekend activities. Activities that no longer involved me.

There was no Facebook in the mid 1990s, so I turned to the most popular high school “social media” at the time - I wrote a note. A simple note on lined paper torn from my 5-subject World Geography notebook.

    Let’s hang out this weekend! I miss you.

I folded the note precisely and slipped it to my friend as we exited the classroom. We parted ways for different 6th-period destinations. My heart skipped a beat; I did the right thing. I vowed to get my friend back.

When the final bell signaled the end of the school day, I searched the halls for my friend. I was antsy to connect with her as soon as possible. What fun activities would we get ourselves into on Saturday? I could hardly wait. But I did not find her.

Disappointed, I made my way to my gray metal locker, dialed the combination lock, and yanked it open. Yellow paper fluttered to the floor. Yellow paper, which had been previously stuffed through the upper slats in my locker door.

It was a note. Or, more accurately, a letter. Three full pages of handwritten words on slightly crumpled yellow lined paper. I flipped to the back – it was from her! Happily, I skimmed the words.

Then my heart plunged to the pit of my stomach.

My eyes widened with astonishment.

My hands began to tremble.

This was not what I expected.

My friend? Was not delighted to receive my optimistic little note. Her response? Three pages of frigid accusations. Her words held no affection. No wistfulness for our past adventures. No acknowledgement of our former closeness.

Venom.

I was stunned. I was hurt. Her words, floating through the corners of my mind, knocked the wind out of me. My pulse raced. My eyes darted around the emptying high school hallways. Tears wet my eyes as I observed other groups of friends happily chatting as they crossed the threshold towards the sunshine and eventually, to their cars.

I held it together long enough to arrive home and race up to my room. Only then did I let myself feel the sharp-edged pain of her words.

I cried. I called my boyfriend – no answer. I clung to my fuzzy brown bear, trying to find comfort in his warmth.

Maybe we can work this out.
I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. I dialed her number.

“It’s me,” I managed to squeak out. “I got your… note.”

First, silence.

The dial tone felt like a sharp smack in the face. The utter coldness broke my heart. This was someone who was once a very close friend… could there really be no affection left?

I distinctly remember this event as one of the most difficult in my teenage life. I can still feel this day. We patched our broken relationship over time, but it was never the same. I doubt she ever fully forgave me for putting a boyfriend ahead of our friendship. Nor could I ever shake the sting of her written words.

We became polite acquaintances.

The boyfriend? Long gone.

- - - - -

These days, as Amelia clings tightly to my hand in the midst of social situations, I should be glad. At least she hasn’t left me for a boyfriend yet. I hope my painful lesson can somehow keep her from suffering a similar collapse of friendship. I always remind her, “good friends are treasures.” And we thank God for all her friends in our nightly prayers.

- - - - -




Prompt: Choose a time when either the abundance or lack of affection (either by you or someone else) stands out, and show us. Bring us to that time. Help us feel what you felt.

If at first you don't succeed

When I was a kid,

Daddy always said to me,

  Get up! Try again, I believe – don’t you see?

If I tripped and banged a knee,

  Stand back up and keep going

If I fell from my bike,

  Try again, no more woe-ing

When a friend turned her back,

  It’s okay, you’ll make more

When a guy broke my heart,

  Wait, keep looking, there is love in store.

If I cried, he was there,

To hold my hand, or stroke my hair.

But those moments passed,

And he would say at last,

  Try again, I know you can -

  You are able! You are strong!

  And I’m your biggest fan.

 
(Post inspired my Mama Kat's *pretty much world famous* Writers' Workshop. This week, I selected this prompt: Write a poem about starting over.) 

How do I love thee?

Finally back to a Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop prompt! This week, I'm bringing things back to my reason for being:
Amelia.

My "mommy blog" has morphed a bit since it began 16 months ago, now incorporating several memoirs of my own, an occasional dabble in fiction, and (intentionally) infrequent product reviews. But in my heart and in real life, it is still all about Amelia.

I chose Mama Kat's prompt #5: List ten things about one of your favorite people.

- - - - - - - - - -

(1) Her voice. This girl could read the phone book and it would sound adorable. I'm sure all three-year-olds have cute voices, but this one truly melts my heart!

(2) Her hair.  I know, I complain about the craziness of her locks. But really? Her mind-of-its-own hair is a perfect complement to her personality. WILD and free!

That brings us to...

(3) Her personality. Amelia has an endearing streak of quiet shyness around strangers. And at home? She performs and dances and acts nutty. She has a kind heart and constantly takes good care of her stuffed animals.

(4) Her nose. Amelia is adorable for many reasons. Her nose is one of my very favorite parts. It is petite and perfect. Steve says it's from me, but hers is even cuter.

(5) Her creativity. She's barely three, and she can draw - people! You know, the kind with a huge head on top of legs and arms sticking out where ears should be. She adds some squiggle to the arms, and voila, it's a bird. She adds a bunch of legs all around and it's a spider. She can draw and paint and create for a solid hour (or more!) these days. My fridge is the new hot gallery in town - it is full of masterpieces!

(6) Her eyes. She had a 25% chance of having blue eyes. And blue they are! Gorgeous, ocean-blue eyes. She is soooo lucky!

(7) She is a copycat. Nothing escapes this child! She now drives her big wheel around the house complaining about traffic and sighing over red lights that are too long. She's even told an imaginary car or two to "go!". I guess we're creating an authentic Atlanta driver at an early age. (Oooops.)

(8) Her athleticism. Girls can do anything boys can do. Especially my girl! She can wallop a soccer ball, sprint really fast, and even (sometimes) hit a pink softball with her pink foam bat. She can climb, she can dance, she can jump. Just as good as any boy out there.

(9) Her princess obsession. Never in a million years did I think I'd have a girly girl (did ya read #8, above?). She is sporty and strong, but has a serious princess obsession. We watched the big Royal Wedding together. We collect Disney Princess toys, books, placemats, and cups. In her world, no movie is quite good enough without a beautiful princess heroine. And in her world, she is always the princess.

(10) She loves me. Sure, mommyhood is a lot of work and pressure. At the end of the day, when my girl says "I love you too, Mommy", I can smile wide. (Then I go pass out on my bed.)

- - - - - - - - - -

The future

What will Amelia be when she grows up?

I really don't know yet. Will she use her creativity in the arts? Her intelligence in business? Her height and beauty in fashion?

Sometimes, we get a glimpse into her future. Maybe Amelia will grow up to be a..

Teacher?

Zookeeper?

Blogger? Writer?

Or... maybe a lawyer?

(click below to view the video)

This post prompted from Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop



Does neon make me look fat?

November 2007.
Babymoon.

A chance to get away from it all and celebrate our last big vacation before the arrival of our bundle of joy.

Whose bright idea was it to go to Las Vegas?

A pregnant woman in Las Vegas fits in about as well as a small-town country girl without a penny to spend.

As my husband and I snaked our way through the crowded Vegas sidewalks, I felt enormous. Amidst all the young and pretty people, I was a whale. My feet were aching and my jacket barely zipped over my protruding belly. The guys handing out those little strip club cards? Took one look at me and quickly pulled in their outstretched arms. I could barely even entertain myself at the roulette wheel for fear of choking my baby with secondhand smoke.

There is a lot of walking to be done in Las Vegas...

A multitude of photo opportunities...

And way too many reasons to stay up late at night.

However, this pregnant mama found some comfort in the midst of sin city.

Large hotel rooms for naptime...

And buffets! Buffets with multiple dessert options. Nothing cures what ails a mommy-to-be like creme brulee. Like gelato. Oh, and cheesecake. Cookies? Yep, those too.

My child is addicted to sugary snacks. I think I blame Las Vegas.

- - - - - -

This week's writing prompt from Studio 30 Plus: LAS VEGAS

"Studio30 Plus, the brain child of Jerrod from The Yellow Factor and Jules from Mean Girl Garage, began one snowy, wintery day in January 2010. Looking for a place where bloggers over the age of 30 could meet up, exchange ideas, make some friends, and find new blogs to read, they put their minds together and formed this growing community."