40 goals.

Y'all know I like lists. I don't make lists very often but when I do, I am always more on track. Which is why I'm going to encourage you to participate in this list-making scheme with me, for 2015.

I read on Huffingtonpost.com recently about a writer who set 52 goals for herself in all things artsy and literacy for 2015. I hearted it, I hearted it a lot. You can read her ideas by clicking HERE. 

You have to come up with 52 things you want to do in 52 weeks. However, I am late to the game (per usual), and now we only have about 45 weeks left in this year. So I tried to come up with a stunning list of 45 things I want to have a go at in the next 45 weeks. But then I couldn't come up with 45. So I stopped at 40. Welcome to Amy. 

Oh, and I won't lie: I ripped off many from the original writer's ideas. Just flat out ripped them off. Didn't even change the wording, really. Total plagiarism. I'll accept my flogging with aplomb.

THE LIST

1. See (in a theater) 5 movies that do not involve cartoons, singing animals, or princesses of any kind.

2. Write 1 book review, and try to take it seriously.

3. Write 1 movie review, and try to take it seriously.

4. Go back to the Margaret Mitchell House at least one time to hear a visiting author read/speak about whatever work s/he is hocking. (You do know that book tours are like press junkets for literary types?) (I used to go to the Margaret Mitchell House all the time, but then I had a kid. Margaret's house is no place for busy little kids.)

5. The original creator of this list idea said to read a book waaay outside your usual genre preference/s. I'll pretty much read anything, but you know what I never read? Erotica. So I'm going to read a book of Erotica. Just to say I've read one.

6. I'm also going to watch one Horror movie. I'm not into Horror movies, but I'm going to see one just to say I did it. I hope I don't need Xanax after.

7. I'm going to write 1 short story and submit it somewhere legit.

8. I'm going to take a weekend away for myself, and do nothing but write.

9. I'm going to start a writer website.

10. With a logo.

11. On May 2, 2015, I'm going to shop at one (or five) local, independent bookstores. Apparently, this is now a thing: National Bookstore Day.

12. I'm going to start trying to interacting with more bloggers--writers and non-writers.

13. And I'm going to start trying to guest blog and host guest bloggers here. (Wanna write with me??)

14. I'm going to interview at least one writer (famous or not) and put it up here for all the world (aka: my mom) to read.

15. I will look into becoming a Huffington Post occasional blogger. Because why not?

16. I will join some type of writers' association.

17. I'm going to enter one (or more) piece/s of writing into a contest.

18. I'm going to return public library books ON TIME (which means M and I will be scheduling regular library visits, which means I'll have to prioritize, which means...well, just don't hold your breath on #18, is what I'm saying.)

19. I'm going to interact more with more published, established writers (famous and not so famous) on Twitter.

20. This summer, I'm going to commit to a minimum of 500 words of writing per day. June-July. Every day.

21. I'm going to go on a writer's retreat. You know where I'd really like to go? THIS place--that place looks lusciously delicious. But it it doesn't work out, I'm cool just creating my own retreat in a mountain cabin somewhere. (Wanna come hang out with me at a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains? We can be solitary creatives during the day, writing and taking quiet walks and contemplating Story. And then congregate in the kitchen/living room each evening to have wild hot tub parties with grilled gourmet dinners and wine and beer. But you'll have to do all the grilling because I burn stuff.)

22. I'm going to find a website that's content driven and apply to write for them (I know, I KNOW! I just wrote about what a snore bore content driven stuff is...but it's part of my building my published works scheme and there seems to be no way around it).

23. I'm going to find an online writing community to join.

24. And an offline community.

25. You know what I didn't do last year that I said I would? Last Spring, Jason Isaacs (Hello to Jason Isaacs!) tweeted about an organization called the Afghan Women's Writing Project (awwproject.org) that promotes rights of women to tell their stories. I meant to host a Living Room Fundraiser, but Life blew up and didn't do it. Going to rectify it. (Wanna come and hang out in my living room and celebrate freedom and literacy through storytelling?)

26. I'm going to randomly leave some books I loved reading in various locations, like coffee shops. Just to share my book love.

27. I'm going to promote the crap out of other storytellers, in as many ways as I can.

28. I'm going to take Miss M on a literary pilgrimage. I'm not sure where, but hopefully there will also be a beach involved.

29. Apparently, Twitter has pitch fests. They're online pitch conferences where writers try to get people to buy their ideas so they can write them. I'm going to participate in one. If I can figure out how to do it, and when they take place.

30. I'm also going to participate in artsy-oriented twitups, which are like meetups but on Twitter.

31. I'm going to travel somewhere outside the U.S.A. I've just decided to do it. And it may not be until 2016 when I actually board a plane, but I'm going to do it. Just ripping off the band-aid. Going abroad. (And NO, Mom, I will NOT actively avoid the Middle East. I don't think I'm going there, but if I do, I won't tell you til the plane lands.)

32. I'm going to think of my writing as a business--it's been suggested I set up a bank account and pay myself for writing, and use it to save any money I earn from writing.

33. I'm going to create a vision board/s for a story/many stories I want to write.

34. I'm going to see at least 5 plays. In real theatres. With actors and stages and...and...everything. And if I can finagle it? I'm going to go all groupie and see if I can get backstage. Tell them I'm with the band. (Actors can have groupies, right?) (Really, I just want the actors to teach me how to project my voice so I can scare kids.)

35. A lovely writer who taught me in two writing classes has a writing business now called Under Over On. I'm not sure I can afford the actual classes, but she often hosts Saturday writing sessions for creatives--you meet in a location that's inspiring in some way and you...just...WRITE.

36. I'm going to take Miss M on a MARTA ride. Because character fodder. And it'll get her out of the house.

37. Planning to take a wine tasting class. Or an acting class. Or both. (Do you think they have acting classes in which you drink wine while you study? I'd like that.)

38. I'm planning to find an online class to take--I'm not sure of what, but they sound much easier than having to go out into the elements.

39. Though I'll miss the camaraderie of sipping wine and talking shop with other storytellers--so now I'm thinking meetup.com...I'll just start my own talk shop/sip wine meetup.

40. I'm going to write a poem or short story and read it out loud somewhere. It may end up being just on YouTube. But it'll be out loud. For an audience.

What'll be on your list? Get cracking!

rainbows of neuroticism.

Today, I tried to read WHAT COLOR IS YOUR PARACHUTE? because I'm trying to figure out: what color is my parachute? The beginning of the book is completely overwhelming--it goes into great detail about creating your Internet Presence, your Google resume, your online portfolio. And then there's your regular, old-fashioned resume to create and regular, old-fashioned offline portfolio. And how to write a gripping cover letter. I couldn't even make it past page 2 of the part about interviewing. The interviewing part blew up my brain and made me want to find the nearest wine bottle to curl up in a corner with. You guys! I haven't done a job interview in almost two decades. No, seriously: TWO decades. That equals twenty. Twenty years. Two decades of practicing not doing job interviews. And no resume, online or off. I keep meaning to make one--well, two, actually: one for teaching and one general, please-oh-please-just-hire-me-I-promise-I'm-a-fast-learner resume. But I keep forgetting to create these. Because naps. And the Internet. 

I'm really not selling myself, am I?

At any rate, I Googled me. And Facebook and Twitter searched my name. Here's what I found out:

Google: The top person in the Google search was someone on Twitter whose handle involves the term "wee." Weeglamson. There are 25 LinkedIn professionals with my name, the most popular person is in the Netherlands.  There's an Amy Samson who got featured in Forbes magazine, because she's a top rated CEO. There's a photographer Amy, an Amy who does yoga, and another person with my name is in the music industry. And some other Amy S. has a Vine account and apparently likes to watch brief educational videos on how to scare pigs. This was just the first page's results. But basically, THIS Amy Samson you are reading about right now? Totally obscure. A person of vague and indeterminate existence. A girl hidden from the known world, shrouded deep within the bowels of all that is and ever was! 

How do I feel about this? On the one hand: Phew! Thank God! I don't want any weird people following me around, asking for selfies or money or whatever.

On the other hand: I don't officially exist, if the Internet gets to give an opinion, and according to the What Color is Your Parachute? book guy that is very, very bad. And so I don't want that; I want my parachute to stand out, and if I get to have a say in its design at all, I'd like there to be huge swaths of spangles and glitter, with some lush velvet and silk here and there. And as my parachute flies by you, I'd like it to gently brush your face and leave you floating in a cloud scented like sandalwood and patchouli, as images of dolphins and mermaids water dance in your head.

Facebook: There's a photographer with my exact same name, and she's more popular than me on Facebook. I have 19 "fans" of my Facebook Writer page, 3 of whom are family members and the other 16 are supportive friends. She has two photography business pages and one is liked by 52 people, the other by 77 people. 

Twitter: weeglamson manages bands...there are a lot of British women with my name, and they love cats...someone with my name wants you to know, via her bio, that she's wearing a white bra...there's the much more popular than me photographer Amy--she's got a Twitter...and there's a South African version of me...and a lot of egghead Amy Samsons who couldn't be bothered to find even a picture of a cute kitten or whatever to stick in the picture box (what up with that, people? Get a picture, yo) (on Facebook, my mother still hasn't uploaded a picture of herself five years after joining it--I think people who do that look stalker-y...it probably doesn't help that my mother uses Facebook to, well, you know, stalk people. But don't worry--she just stalks her children). 

Also, some chick with the handle @amysamson got it in 2008, one year before I found Twitter, and then proceeded to tweet just two times, both times in 2011 and only at the insistence of another person who she probably doesn't even know now. But she has more followers than following (which is a THING on Twitter and I still can't figure out the Matrix formula). 

Really, I think if you're not going to use your Twitter account, and you have someone else's @firstnamesurname handle, you should let the other someone who also has your name and IS using Twitter actively to have that handle. Be gracious and share; there are apparently so many of us, yet we aren't allowed to replicate. (Except if I change my twitter handle, then I lose the 341ish--the number fluctuates--followers I have grown since this summer. I don't know how I've grown them to over 300, but I'm glad for them, because it's been an arduous process. I don't even pay attention now to who unfollows me--I just hope I didn't say something that offended them and if I find out that I still follow them after they unfollow me, I still unfollow immediately with a fervent prayer they end up ostracized and alone in the corner of the great Twitter party.)

My point with this is that there are a lot of people with my name in the world, and I'm supposed to make myself stand out. I don't want a potential employer to prefer weeglamson or the photographer over me...I want a potential employer to want THIS gal. This shiny, sparkly gal.

Other things about finding my parachute's color:

Blogging. If I have a blog (say, such as this one), I should make it content-rich, driven in the direction of the career I'd like to go. Right now, and I bet you'll agree with me, this blog has no direction. This blog is like a road map drawn by a monkey on meth. This blog flies all over the freaking place, directionless, without a driver. A runaway blog. A freight train off a cliff. Gary Busey's brain imagining his dog's brain after a hit of bad crack.

The solution to rectify this unfortunate blog situation? Start another one, but this time give it direction and possibly a better title. 

Sigh. But those blogs are so BORING. Aren't they? I mean, have you been on them? They're all about the same thing...X Content, serious talk, more X driven content, a link to another X Content blog with more serious talk, a picture of an interesting but very somber infograph. People in the comments sections leaving serious comments with no appreciation for irony or a good romp in the rain. That kind of thing.

Snore. I like adding rainbows to my content, blurting out all my neuroticisms for all to read, and generally just telling stories about whatever's in my brain. Rainbows of Neuroticism is what I like, and who I am. That's probably my parachute's color: one large, neurotic rainbow of directionless content. Just like me.

Tomorrow, my plan is to fill in the flower part of the book. The flower part is supposed to tell me EXACTLY who I am (neurotic rainbows!) and what I should be doing with my life, so I can live and work my passion. (I hope my passion turns out to be a job that involves lying on the beach with a margarita next to me while a Channing Tatum lookalike gives me a massage before I head out to dinner with my boyfriend Clive Owen. And I hope this passion pays me $150,000 a year. That's not that much, is it? $150,000 per year? Plus nice healthcare and insurance benefits. I just want a house on the beach, to be able to afford Whole Foods groceries, and some nice trips to Europe each summer. Is it too much to ask?)

I think it's pretty fair to say that any potential employer stumbling upon THIS content in my blog is going to want to conduct a very thorough psychological exam before even discussing salary requirements. If I make it past the interview phase. Since I haven't had to even set foot in the interview phase for 20 years. (Inside, I only feel 14. When did I turn 14+20+18?) (It is also fair to say I will NOT be interviewing for jobs that require any amount of math skills.)

Other things in my head right now:

Why do I even have a passport? It has this many stamps from other countries in it: 0. 

I like my passport picture far better than my drivers license picture. My current drivers license picture was taken after I lost the license with the good picture, the one in which I was tanned and young and wearing a halter top so it looks like I was at the DMV naked. This drivers license picture was taken after a long day of work, after waiting 6 hours in a holding pen with 10,000 other people who also just worked a long day, and I had a busy 3 year old with me who kept trying to "help" me grade papers. My lips were chapped and my hair was flat. I asked for a do over when I saw it and the woman looked at me like, "Grrrrlllll, you crazy!" and said NO. And now I have a hideous drivers license picture. I wince every time I have to whip it out to buy wine.

At some point, they stop asking you to show proof of age, don't they? I could let my hair go its natural poopy brown with a lot of strands of grey, but I am too vain. And having more fun as a blonde. (I'm not having any fun--I go to work, come home, cook/eat/clean dinner, collapse exhausted. But my hair looks GREAT.)

I hope I get to use my passport before 2015 comes to an end. I hope my flower graph tells me I should be in a job that requires a lot of passport whipping outage, and that Clive Owen needs a new manager and I'M HER, and that a life on the beach is in my near future. This feels just like I'm about to call 1-900-PSYCHICS. I hope my palm has a famous line on it somewhere. (Actually, I don't want to be famous--I just want to be slightly well off, with a small troop of adoring fans who send me chocolates and wine now and then and tell me how fabulous my hair looks. .......everybody wants that, right? Right?)

This is all I have tonight. Tomorrow is Dr. Martin Luther King Day, and I'm going to honor his memory by sleeping in late and pondering my navel area. I'm sure he'd be so proud.

gutted isomniac.

<------ Pretty much.  I can get to sleep, it's that I can't stay there. On the nights I do sleep all the way through, when I wake up? I feel like I just won the lottery (oh, what I wouldn't give right now to win a lottery--I'm not greedy, I'd just like $500,000. Just enough to quit my job so I can figure out what it is I could do for a living that wouldn't crush my soul all the time.)


I had a discouraging week, Internet. Are you insomniac, too? Let's talk for a bit.

So I've made a really hard, big life decision: to put in for a transfer to a different school. The school I'm at, I've been at almost my entire career: seventeen years. Seventeen years of little poor kids, many of them from other countries. When I was in college, all I ever wanted to do was work with little poor kids from other countries. I got into teaching to help children, to make a difference. I wanted to leave my little corner of the world better than how I found it.

I am not a stellar, award-winning teacher. Teaching someone how to read or do math or use correct punctuation and capitals does not come naturally to me. Over the years, I've learned some techniques for how to do these things, but I've also learned that if they don't get it this year, they'll get it next year. And if they don't get it next year, then they'll get it the year after. And if they don't get it the year after, then something may be wrong in their brain or their home. And that this has been an ongoing issue since humans started walking up right. And I've also learned that some kids love to read, some prefer math, some are better at music or physical education or selling stolen goods off the black market. Everyone has a talent; sometimes it's not school. We should all  know how to read, write, and do basic math, though. I think because...I hope it will keep our traffic accidents down.

But telling stories and listening to others' stories does come naturally, and so does fixing boo boos on lost lambs' little broken hearts. That I could do all day long, and weave some reading/writing/rithmetic in between. But they don't really want that anymore; they want 100% engagement and test success, and if you're going to do Art, it better be mostly learn-y and not artsy. They want talented teachers who will magically yank little kids out the dream that should be childhood and get them to pass tests so adults can feel good. (You do know that kids only feel good when they pass tests because they know it's going to make some adult in their life very happy, yes? Kids don't give a crap about passing tests...unless it's part of a video game.) This is very, very, very hard to do without proper home support.

I think I've made it abundantly clear here that I'm about 2 steps away from being a card carrying Socialist. I'm a left-leaning, borderline Commie pinko. I think it's possible for everyone to get along, enjoy the same spoils of the hunt, and just generally be awesome. And I think people who want to hoard wealth for themselves and turn around and tell poor people and others who are struggling to make ends meet: "We're doing this for YOU; it's helping us help YOU" are a special kind of low life. I hope there's a really horrid 10th circle of Dante's Inferno for them.

What's happening today is that we are no longer doing what is best for other human beings; this is a GLOBAL problem, you guys. I'm not just talking about teaching, though that's where I'm personally seeing it happen. We're doing what's best for someone somewhere very far removed from us, from our situations, and they're reaping the spoils of the hunt we're doing all the work on, and then they aren't sharing. I know that sounds like I'm crazy and I'm not going to apologize because it's 2 AM and you're allowed to be crazy when it's 2 AM and you're an insomniac constantly operating on 200 hours of sleep deprivation.

I just...I can't do poor people's kids anymore. This hunt has exhausted me, and I'm not even getting to enjoy the spoils. But I got into teaching to help children, so I'm going to try a different demographic and see if that helps. I struggled and struggled with the decision, but I pulled the plug last week and announced I'm going to try to transfer to a school in a different area. I'm going to see if that freshens and changes my perspective on what's happening in education. It'll also give me a chance to work closer to my house and be at a school my daughter can go to (are you reading what I'm saying there? I can take Miss M to the school that I work at...but I can't. And that's all I will say about it. Well, wait--I will say one more thing about it: the school faculty is not why I can't place her here. And THAT'S all I'll say about it).

I am all kinds of gutted about this. This was the school that taught me how to actually be a teacher. I've made countless friends here--people who are long gone from my work environment but I still stay in touch with because I just think they're fabulous. I have memories of my father walking around this school. I pass by classrooms and go: Oh, I remember when I taught 1st grade there. Oh, I remember when my friend X taught there--so many memories there. Some of my highest highs and my lowest lows have been spent at this school. I've gone through most of my rites of passage here--my dad's death, my marriage, buying a house, one separation, one reconciliation, my baby, turning 40. I started teaching here when I was 26. Now I'm about to turn 43. I've worked for 7 different principals here, 100 different assistant principals (not that many, but that's how many it feels like). I've worked with hundreds and hundreds of kids and families; I have thousands of stories that'll break your heart and renew your faith. THAT'S how dedicated I've been to this school and these low income families and their sweet babies.

But 1998 was a lot different than 2015. Teaching doesn't look anything like it used to. It's become something I didn't really sign up for. Usually, I can adapt and change and roll with the punches but...this feels different. This feels very, very different. And many of the families that are in my school's area right now are absolutely uninvolved and I don't think it's disrespectful to say this out loud; I think I'm making a firsthand observation that I could back up with a lot of hard data (which they love so much). Anecdotal data example: in 1998, there were posters plastered all over my school with an image of a house and an image of a school with the message, in English and Spanish, What happens HERE (the house) affects what happens HERE (the school). Now, we have posters about how programming code is going to be part of school curriculum just like learning to read and write and do math (this is elementary school, y'all...some of us are still trying to learn our addresses and tie our shoe laces). And posters with pictures of student chairs and desks with messages that say The more you are here, the more you'll learn and succeed.

Which is true! It is true: the more you're at school in your chair, the more you'll learn....if you're not too distracted by mommy and daddy's big fight last night...or hungry...or worried about being hit again...or worried about whether mommy will have to work late again...or freaked out by mommy's new boyfriend. There's a lot going on in some kids' homes these days, and it's a daily struggle. To get them engaged and 100% successful and able to pass tests. With little or no home support. And a lot of pressure to show growth in the data. Somebody somewhere always wants to see growth in the data. (What if you're at 100%? How do you grow past that? What if you're just having a really bad year and you're not able to show growth and need about 180 days to just suck--do we have room to let people have a really bad year and really suck?) (The quick answer to both appears, to me, to be: NO. No perfection or suckage allowed.)

So I'm going to try to get closer to home, and I'm going to try a different demographic of student. I'm nervous about it; I'm worried my decades of teaching low achievers will leave me unprepared for families who are involved in ways that I'm not used to--I don't work well with people breathing down my neck. I'm worried the work I give them will be too easy or too hard or I'm just not talented enough.

I worry, daily, that I'm in the wrong profession, that I'm just not talented enough. I think I'm a good teacher. I just don't think I'm naturally talented at it, and there are some things I just don't do well...like, say, Math. Because the feeling I get these days is they want talented at everything--they want 100% exemplary and talented and good at everything, and they want it for as cheap as they can get it. (This is how 21st century corporations think--if we can't get cheap talent here, we'll outsource to India. If we can't get it there, we'll outsource until we find it.)

I am tired, you guys. I am overwhelmed and disorganized and really tired. And I want to spend more time with my own little girl...this week, she celebrated 100 Day at school. I couldn't go to her program because I couldn't get a sub that fast. She sobbed, "But mommy! We're singing 2, 4, 6, 8 who do we appreciate? and then we're going to point at the audience! And you're not going to be there so I can point at you!"

And there were really, really big tears running down cheeks, hers and mine.

I am at work from 7.45 AM til 5.30 PM most days. Wednesdays I leave early because M has a gymnastics class and I've been asked to participate in her after school activities more. C is doing a lot of the mommy things because of my teaching job. Isn't that crazy? Teaching has traditionally been a female career because people think the hours are 8-3 and, really, 2+2? How hard can that be to teach? (Oh, you'd be surprised.) If you're a traditionally-minded dude who'd like a wife to do traditionally-oriented home life roles? Don't marry a teacher. And if you AREN'T a traditionally-minded dude, then still don't marry a teacher because you're going to be doing a lot of (translation: all of it) laundry, cooking, and child rearing. (I don't do M's homework with her, C does. M and I read, we read lots. But I can't bear to sit and do writing and math and handwriting and all that...after just finishing 12 hours of doing it with 25 other kids.)

This is a really stressful career to go into. You are responsible, now, for more than just teaching 2+2...you are responsible for things other people refuse to be responsible for. The forces at the top don't want to hear about how X's mom keeps switching schools so he can't be placed in special ed, meanwhile it's affecting your entire classroom environment and how much you can teach. The forces at the top don't want to hear about how children are coming to school TWO YEARS BEHIND, with few social skills because they got parents who think good parenting means feed 'em, bathe 'em, put 'em to bed. (No. That is not parenting. That is keep your butt out of Social Services jail time.) The forces at the top just want their data increased, the end. Git 'er done.

When I was in high school, my Advanced Placement U.S. Government teacher (where are you, Lucinda?) told us a story about her first teaching job. It was in the backwaters of Kentucky, and when she opened her classroom door she realized she had no textbooks, not a single thing in the room except desks and a chalkboard. So she went to the superintendent and said, "Where are my textbooks? How am I supposed to teach with no textbooks?" And he said in a thick Kentucky drawl, "Good teacher just teach. Good teacher don't need no textbooks. Good teacher just need chalk."  And she said, "Well, I have no chalk either."

And the next day, in her workroom mailbox, there was one piece of chalk.

That's what I feel like is happening in teaching right now except it's not textbooks and chalk, it's human resources and a basic understanding of some of our poorer families' challenges.

I am most heartbroken that we don't seem to care about what's going on in the homes, or we do but aren't willing to do what's right and necessary to rectify it. (Quick: which is worse? Knowing there's a problem and turning a blind eye to it, or knowing there's a problem and having the resources to do something but in the interest of time/money management and political posturing turning a blind eye to it?)  I suppose I could find a way to deal with the lack of human resources (I hate talking business speak about education; I find it highly inappropriate)...what I need is to know you deeply acknowledge and understand how a child's home life can and does affect what happens at school, and an acknowledgement that all children can and do learn...but at different speeds and ability levels. We are no longer doing what's best for other human beings; we are focused on doing what's best for us. And I am now one of them. They have turned me into one of them. I have to do what's best for me, for my family. And I am absolutely gutted about this, most days of the week but particularly at night.

There are other reasons I have insomnia a lot. But that's a big one right now. And hurrah! You got to be in my brain for a bit (I hope you're reading this over your morning coffee, after a long restful sleep).

two completely unrelated topics.

Unrelated Topic #1: Not a Real Film Critic

Not a real film critic. But thankful for stadium seating.

Last night, at midnight (which is when I watch all my PG13 and R rated movies), I watched the movie DIVERGENT. Full disclosure: I have not read the book yet. But after watching the movie, I will just stick myself out on a limb and say: I sense this is one of those movies that was better as a book.

It wasn't bad! It wasn't bad. It was a thoroughly enjoyable movie watching experience--it kept my attention, I was invested in the outcome for the main characters. It was a good movie. Shailene Woodley was amazingly good--and also, she has great hair. I think I mostly stayed glue to the screen just to watch Shailene's gorgeous, thick, shiny hair in action. What products does one need to get hair like that? But she's also stunningly talented...in case you haven't seen it yet or read the book or just don't like spoiler-y people in general, I won't tell you the circumstances--but there is a scene in the movie that if you don't cry with her or at the very least tear up? Something is terribly, terribly wrong with you and you should seek help.

Also, at the beginning of the movie, I teared up when she made a decision to leave for a different kind of life than she'd always thought she'd have. It hit me in the stomach, and I was all kinds of ooh, THIS is going to be one of those movies I get to pick apart psychologically, yay! But then it wasn't and boo. But it still wasn't bad. It's just...there were parts that just didn't seem that believable to me. Or were missing something. I think real film critics call that plot issues. One bit that sort of annoyed me was when the heroine (Tris) was in grave danger and her boyfriend trainer guy comes and saves her. I really hate that in movies--damsels in distress getting saved by a knight in shining armor. If I want a Disney princess movie, I'll watch Cinderella. One of the reasons I wanted to see DIVERGENT was because it was about a strong girl who finds herself. So things didn't add up, or they just...I kept thinking of THE HUNGER GAMES, is what I think I'm trying to say. Throughout the whole film, I just kept waiting for them to kill each other so the odds would ever be in their favor. But ultimately this Tris was no Katniss. Even though their names kind of rhyme.

And hey...just as a side note: Millenials, can we talk for a second? What is with you guys? With all this killing each other and punching each other and all the stark futuristic emo crap? Whatever happened to just sitting around in the high school library for Saturday detention, mourning one's life, while songs by Simple Minds play softly in the background? Or being angsty about turning sixteen because your mom and dad forgot your birthday on account of your sister getting married? I bet social media and smart phones have a lot to do with this. Too much Internet--you guys! It's turning our teens into cyborgs. I bet 100 years from now humanity is going to look just like The Hunger Games/Divergent. With some sparkly vampires running around here and there. 

I submit the above movie "critique" as hard evidence why I'm not a real film critic. And still need a date with a movie professional so I can sound like I actually know what I'm doing when I talk about why movies did or didn't work for me.

Unrelated Topic #2: Anglophilia.

Union Jacks are colourful.

I've been very open about my life-long, deep love for all things UK. I think it started in high school when I discovered Monty Python and then subsequently started watching British comedies on PBS--Black Adder, Only Fools and Horses, Fawlty Towers, Steptoe and Son. British humor (humour?) makes me laugh and laugh. 

Other reasons why I heart the British/Scottish/Irish/Welsh:

*They spell swanky. 

Which means even when they swear, they sound swank. And let me tell you, having hung out with some UK ex-pats for a bit, people from the UK make swearing an art form. As an American with a love for the British, I find it shocking and endearing all at once.

*Pubs. 

They're not bars like here--everybody hangs out at the local pub, even the kids. Pubs are for families (possibly not after 10 pm). I mean: Guinness. And Toad in the Hole! And situations like THIS:

*Boxing Day. 

You all! I think the British get, like, TWO Christmases. And then they made up that whole song The Twelve Days of Christmas. Christmas is, like, a THING in the UK.

*The British royal family. 

I know some English people feel they must go, they are draining the country. But I like them. Especially Harry. (Especially Harry.) Getting rid of the British royal family would be like...like...like making everyone in the UK switch to driving on the right-hand side of the road.

*British endearments. 

My favorite British thing ever is when they call you "love." It feels warm and embracing, and I'd pretty much be putty in the hands of any British person who used it on me. I was once told, in a faux Irish pub here in Atlanta, by a real bloke from Liverpool that the endearment "love" is going away. And that made me sad. But then he called me "love" all afternoon after I told him I liked it, and that made me hopeful. I'm hopeful for you, UK. Don't let me down. There's not much I wouldn't do for a Brit wielding the word "love," and I sense many of my American counterparts feel the same.

*Football. 

We call it soccer, but it makes more sense to call it football. Our football doesn't really involve a lot of foot work, unless it's running. Really, our football ought to be called Helmet-Shoulder Pads Rugby. Or Tackleball since there's so much jumping on top of each other. Calling our football Tackleball would free us up to join the rest of the world and call soccer what it actually is: football. Get on that, ESPN. (ESPN and all American NFL fans are evil eyeing and hissing at me right now, calling me a traitor...I can really feel it.)  

Also, that Liverpool guy who called me love? He taught me what a "pitch" is. I was with him and a bunch of UK and South African people watching 2007 World Cup games, and everyone kept screaming about people doing things on the pitch. American me kept looking around the screen wondering when someone would throw the ball (because baseball pitchers), and going: that's weird--I thought only the goalie gets to throw the ball in this game; why do they keep telling the players to pitch? So, finally, I leaned over to my Liverpudlian table mate and said that to him. After a 20 second very intense stare, he finally got what I was asking, rolled his eyes, sighed, and said, "You Americans. Everything's about how America does it. No, love. No one's pitching anything. The 'pitch' is the field. It's another word for field." Then he proceeded to teach me about how Liverpool has two teams, the Reds and the Blues (they have actual team names, but I've forgotten and I'm too lazy to look them up). He was a Red person. Apparently, the Red people go around and say things like "Red til I'm dead!" I don't know what the Blues say (Blue til I'm due?) , but according to Tim from Liverpool, who cares? Blue people are going DOWN. Still, they're also called the friendliest league because, within whole families, you'll have some people who are Red and some who are Blue. And so you can't just keep yelling at each other about football Red people vs. Blue people all the time, can you? 

I told Tim (from Liverpool) that this sounded a lot like the American Civil War. He looked at me very hard for another 20 seconds, then shook his head and took a long sip of English ale.

(On a slightly related side note: Miss M has been signed up for Spring Soccer (Football). Her team is the Fire United. Maybe because Manchester United was taken? I confess: I really don't know how sports work.)

*How the British say "I love you." 

Basically, it seems to work like this: when the British love you, they insult you. When they're super polite and sweet with you, they pretty much hate your guts. The more you are loved, the more you are gently insulted. Gentle insults are they only way Brits know how to express love. I suspect William the Conqueror may have been responsible for this, but I'm only saying that because William's archbishop is my ancestor. 

At any rate, once I figured this out, I felt really bad for going off on an English friend of mine several years ago. He was in the habit of calling me "muppet." I'd do or say something quirky, and he'd use the word muppet. Which for a long time I thought was so sweet: oh, that's nice! He's using a British term of endearment on me! Like love, only more Jim Henson. And then, one day, I got curious and googled the word "muppet." Google informed me it means "idiot." And so my indignant American came out and I told him to stop calling me that. And now I think we just had a total cultural breakdown--he was insulting me but it was a GOOD thing. In return, I basically told him, "Take your British love and shove it!" 

I'm certain this is how the American Revolution began.

*Maths/Sport.  

Americans say Math, Brits say Maths. Does it matter? Technically, the British are correct: it's mathematics, plural. But then they refer to sports as "sport," which doesn't make sense to me. Unless they're only talking about one sport in particular. 

We could also argue a lot about tomato vs. tomahto, too, I guess. Either way, when British people say it, it sounds swankier. 

*Xs at the end of messages. 

At the end of messages, lots of British people put a small x. As in:

See you tomorrow, then.

-Tim x

This feels just like when they call you "love," and I like it.

*British swear words. 

Bloody. Simply my favorite British swear ever. It's like the F word. You can stick it in anywhere and it works. And if you add the F word in addition, now you're just showing off. It's bloody fucking brilliant.

*British speak.

The British like to abbreviate words. Brekkie for breakfast. Pressies for presents. Baccy for tobacco. And then you get into the different slang for the different UK dialects--Scouse slang, Yorkshire slang, Geordie...it's mind boggling how they all understand each other, and yet they make it work. I think I've written about this before: The British are magic.

*Harry Potter. 

It's a world-wide phenomenon. Hey, remember how the British tried to colonize the entire planet? And then the entire planet was all basically just, Hey, get out you British guys! at various different points throughout history? Then, one day, JK Rowling came along and pretty much did it single-handedly via a series of books with some help from very talented film makers. I bet Queen Victoria feels very vindicated, wherever she is. (It's another good example of why storytellers should be running things--if the Redcoats had just sat the American colonists down for some good stories over Welsh Rarebit, scones, and stout beer, we never would have left you, Mother England. We never ever would have left.)

I have more things I love about the UK, but I don't want to overwhelm you. Basically, I think I live on the wrong side of the pond. Is what I'm saying. But then there's a series of cold, rainy, grey days like we're about to get this coming week and I think: Nope. I'd end up in the dark corner of a pub somewhere, mourning the loss of my American sun.

It's a real conflict. Like how I felt at the end of DIVERGENT. (There, I connected these two topics.)

happy hour music.

I wasn't sure I'd have anything to write about, but I just thought of something to write about, and hopefully you won't finish reading this post and go: Man! That Amy: she needs to get a life. Here's what I'm going to write about tonight:

Applebee's.

you know--the chain restaurant. We ate there tonight. It took 30 minutes to get a server to come get our drink orders. Have you ever had to sit, for 30 minutes, with a hungry, peevish 6 year old? It is the opposite of fun.

However, it gave me an opportunity to do some really good people watching. I've long said airports, shopping malls, and subway trains are THE best locations for good people watching/character development ideas. Now? I'm going to add chain restaurants to the list.

It wasn't an easy mission. First off, Miss M called it  "Applebeets" for the first 5 minutes we were there. But then I laughed and told her when she did that, she was the cutest 6 year old ever. This made her mad. So! MAD! Because Mommy! Don't laugh at me! I told you I don't like it when you laugh at me! ...And also, she is NOT the cutest 6 year old, Sydney is! (So then we had to have a brief, side therapy session to build her fragile self-esteem.)

After 10 minutes of continued waiting for a waiter to say hello to us, I waved at a cute 4 year old sitting at the table next to ours, which pissed Miss M off further because HOW DARE I?! How dare I. ......How dare I (A) acknowledge another child's existence right in front of my own child, and (B) what?! am I saying THAT little girl is cuter than MY little girl?! (After several attempts to explain I actually did not find that little girl cuter than my little Miss M, I just waved at that little girl to be nice, M concluded: This is HORRIBLE! I RUINED THE WHOLE NIGHT!!!!! (So then we had to have another brief, side therapy session to build up her fragile self-esteem.) But then we ordered some sweet potato fries as an appetizer and she was fine.

.....are you getting yet that my child has, like, 90% of my DNA and 10% of her father's? She is all quirky, raging hormones of pure neurotic insecurity. I tend to bundle mine up so nobody looks at me askance or asks me to leave the mall before they call security. M, being six, isn't confined by those societal pressures quite yet, and so hers fly loose and proud and free. She's going to make an excellent Fortune 500 CEO someday. Or the despot of a small, impoverished country deep in the South Pacific. (I actually would be fine with either scenario...because I'd like to be her special advisor and thus earn special favors, like my own private beach and manservants who all look like Channing Tatum.)

Second of all, when we walked in, there was a strange haze of smoke in the air--I think it was sizzling fajitas, but you can never be sure after 6 PM on a Friday in a place like that. It appeared to be the happy hour location that all the OTP (it's an Atlanta thing--Google it) swingers come to exchange business cards. And they had some type of sound system that changed the ambient lighting as the songs switched. Classy. And its songs were loud and slightly inappropriate for small children's ears when we came in. The swingers at the bar might as well have just passed around the bong and been done with it.

Third of all, it was a motley assemblage of humanity: wannabe hip hop stars, creepy business guys, women in business suits in dire need of a shower, girls with arm sleeve tattoos, and a family of people I swear were part of Duck Dynasty. As soon as all the hip hop stars vacated, the Duck Dynasty family changed the music to twangy country.

Have I told you about my issues with rap/hip hop and twangy country? I'm generally quite electic when it comes to music. Right now, I've been listening to a lot of music by Damien Rice and Alison Sudol and Patresa Hartman and The Civil Wars (have you heard of The Civil Wars? I only recently discovered them--only to find out they've disbanded....that sounds about right for me: I'm a late bloomer, about everything). They calm and soothe my soul, and my soul needs a lot of calming and soothing right now. But I'm not opposed to Motown, Reggae, Latin, Jazz, Blues, Classical and Pop/Rock/Alternative music from the 1920s all the way through til today. And Broadway show tunes--there is nothing better than singing a Broadway show tune at the top of your lungs in the car. And, of course, there is my beloved Barry M., who Miss M is also quite in love with right now (but only because he sings to her briefly--briefly as in a 1 second mention of her name--in Could It Be Magic).

But hip hop? Too angry. And, yes, it's true I can have a bit of potty mouth at times, you can see evidence here occasionally. But I promise I only do it when I feel it adds to a thought or emotion I'm attempting to communicate...or you've cut me off in traffic and I really feel I must damage you, psychically, in some way. Rap and many hip hop music makers often feel, to me, as if they maybe could've used a different word in that one sentence, but nope. Because street cred. And possibly the swear was just easier to spell.

And country? Too twangy, too whiny. Sometimes I do feel like hearing country music...but only when I'm in a bar and want to pretend I'm John Travolta's girlfriend in URBAN COWBOY. Otherwise, country music just makes me nervous. Not the people who make country music, please know. Country music makers always seem very nice and sweet. Maybe in need of some therapy, but god knows I can totally empathize with that. No. It's their listeners who make me really nervous. I can't imagine anything more frightening than finding myself deep in Alabama, at a roadside bar, surrounded by people who are line dancing, hocking saliva into their spittoons. A grandpa whittling a piece of wood off to the side, under the Confederate flag. Humming DIXIE softly to himself, periodically muttering "South gone RISE agin!"

Which is why I always tell people I think that when country singers and hip hop/rap stars get together to make music, I think they're mocking me. It's very possible they don't care about me at all, don't even know who I am. But still. They're definitely mocking MLK, Ghandi, Jesus, Father Abraham, and the memory of Johnny Cash. Which is why when LL Cool J and Brad Paisley made that song together, I was SO annoyed. I'm certain Patsy Cline and Harriet Tubman were both annoyed, too.

And that brings me back to my Applebee's experience tonight: it was nothing but rappers and country boys in that place. I watched the rappers hit on the worn-out looking women in business suits and the worn-out looking women in business suits weakly try to engage...then turn right back to their girlfriends, which is who I think they actually wanted to be with. And I watched the country boys sullenly drink their $1.99 draft beers, refusing to interact with anyone in business suits, dread locks, or gold front teeth. The only people having ANY fun at this place tonight were people under age 10. Everyone else was just...papering their cracks.

Oh, and I got to listen to a drunk blond woman complain about her chicken to a waitress. (Why are drunk people always so LOUD?) As she complained about how bad the chicken was, she kept eating it. She'd say something about how nasty it tasted, take a bite, chew and swallow it, and then loudly insist to the waitress that it wasn't the waitress's fault the chicken was so disgusting. And then she'd take another bite and swallow. Eventually the waitress gave up; she may have comped their meal, which could have been the whole point of the production. Plus, the blond was with three other blondes...and they were all dressed alike, as if they were in a dance troupe. I bet they're restaurant performers who go from business to business drinking, ordering dishes, and then drunkenly complaining as loud as they can about the food. It's probably a cheap way to eat out on a Friday/Saturday night. Clever.

Okay. That's it for this entry. I am done. Grateful I have some story fodder for the weekend. And now? So do you! Feel free to borrow/share mine. Or better yet! Go to a chain restaurant (it doesn't have to be Applebee's; they aren't paying me to shame them here or anything) and sit at the bar. But go at happy hour on a Friday after a long, cold, grueling work week! That's when all the interesting characters come out.

It's better if you're in the American South, too. Our characters are 500 times crazier than any of yours, I promise.

infp = me.

Warning: this entry is full of navel gazing (which, coincidentally, is something INFPs are super good at.)

Also, I go back to work tomorrow, so this blog will be back on its weekend update status.

Right now I am feeling incredibly overwhelmed. I wish I could tell you by what, but then I'd be using you as my personal therapist, and I don't think you come here for that...or do you? Because I mean...no! What am I doing? No, I'm sorry, no. Let's just leave it at that. I'm overwhelmed. One day I won't be. Or I will be, but by different things. (For the record, I don't think being overwhelmed is a bad thing, necessarily. It just depends on what it is that's overwhelming you. Right now, my things are pretty suckage-inducing. But not unfixable...I just need some courage, is all.)

Hey--do you know about Myers-Briggs? The personality type gurus? Every time I take one of their quizzes, I come out as INFP. I'll see things about INFPs on the Internet and go: yup, that's me. Here are some images and links I found to give you the entire lowdown on everything you could possibly need to know and understand Amy. (INFPs = we really just want to be understood. And liked. But mostly understood.)

In Harry Potter terms, I'm Luna Lovegood. I'm also in good company with other INFPs like Louis C.K. (one of my favorite humans), JRR Tolkien, Virginia Woolf, AA Milne, JK Rowling, John Lennon, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Shakespeare (how do they KNOW this? Myers and Briggs weren't even around when he was), Edgar Allen Poe, and George Orwell. I think that sounds like a really fabulous dinner party.

INFP PROBLEMS (all of them are true for me except for #20...forget to eat? Never!)

Here are some issues I generally tend to have (this time in images):

Overwhelmed. See? And terribly, easily distracted.

If it doesn't get on paper, it ceases to exist.

I submit this blog as evidence.

Yes.

Oh yes.

Reason #1 why I hate the phone.

If I could just write instead of talk, I'm certain I'd be running a large Fortune 500 company by now.

 And here's a (for me) timely quote by fellow INFP-ian Jim Morrison of The Doors:

Just be you. I would love to be able to just be me, at least 6 out of 7 days of the week.

And one more! For a bit of uplifting in case this was too downer for the end of your weekend. I got followed on Twitter by author Matt Haig, and I'm so glad he did because he seems like a really wonderful human being. I hope he writes a million bestsellers and goes on to unparalleled literary status in the world of books and writing. He comes up with stuff like this:

I quite agree. Books have stories, and stories connect us, and connections matter quite a lot.

new year, new list.

One of my favorite writers, Neil Gaiman, replied to a comment I sent him about his New Year 2015 post on his blog (it made me cry...Internet, I've been having a YEAR). It might have just been because of where I've been at the last few nights, but his reply felt very gentle, and it felt very kind. I think I've written here before about how important kindness has become to me.

(On a slightly unrelated side note, his reply also gave me a brief glimpse into what a famous person gets to deal with when they log onto Twitter...nobody was interested in me at all, but they WERE interested in getting his attention. And because he linked to me, I got to get some of his attention by proxy. And so, for about 2 hours my Twitter notifications blew up a bit. It was mind boggling; I didn't know where to look first or WHO these people were. Ah, so THAT'S why they need a little blue VIP check. And to not reply to every single person who tries to get their attention because it creates more Twitter chaos and god knows it already has plenty of that. God bless them.)

At any rate, now I feel like I can officially begin 2015 on a good note. (Thank you, Neil Gaiman. Love you.)

Also, on New Year's Eve, I looked and looked and looked for a place to send my story "Alice's Sensible Plan." Finding none (or at least none I felt would be even slightly interested in publishing it), I just said "screw it." And I published it myself on Wattpad. I'm still on the fence about that place, but I know for a fact Margaret Atwood and Paul Coehlo post stories there and if Margaret and Paul say it's okay, then so be it. Here you go: Amy's first (self-) published story.

You can tell I'm a total newbie at that place. First off, the title of the tale is simply "Alice's Sensible Plan." But Wattpad wanted another title. Or something happened. Anyway, now it's turned into "Alice's Sensible Plan: A World War II Bride Breaks Free." Which is just too, too long and not my intention. But I'm too lazy to fix it. Also, there are formatting issues and probably some typos I've missed. C'est la vie, I'm not an editor, humming Let It Go to myself whenever I think about it.

Okay. Moving on to 2015: A memo I found, with questions to think about as you go into another new year. I liked this better than setting goals...whenever I set goals, I tend to like to sabotage them. Maybe if I just answer questions, I'll trick my ego into thinking this is just about getting fun stuff it likes. I don't know. Let's try it and see!

A bad habit I'm going to break:

Lands. Just *A* bad habit? As in only one? This is hard, World Wide Web! Well, I'd like to have a better night/bedtime schedule, I guess. Right now, it's: come home, cook dinner, clean up dinner, become a vegetable on the internet, give Miss M a bath, read a story, put her to bed, go back to being an online vegetable. This is no way to live. 

I'd like to get into the habit of having a peaceful night. Like 80% peaceful, meditative night with 20% vegetating because right now it's the opposite. That's my bad habit I'm going to work on breaking. (I'm not going to tempt fate by announcing it will be broken...there are reasons I'm papering over the cracks with online vegetating.)

A new skill I'd like to learn:

You know what's been sloshing around in my brain for awhile? Taking an acting class. I don't know why. Maybe I feel the need to find a way to break out of my comfort zone. For some reason, I sense an acting class may do this. I'm going to pencil that in as a Summer 2015 activity.

A person I hope to be more like:

Elizabeth Gilbert, duh. And my dear friend Carol, who's basically as good as being with Elizabeth Gilbert because they're like soul spirit twinsies. I'm going to try to schedule more lunch dates with Carol/Liz this coming year. I have other lovely human beings I will invite along on these outings as well. 

A good deed I'm going to do:

I actually have big plans for this. I've noticed Miss M is sort of...how can I put this nicely? She can be grabbie. A cute little crabby grabbie. She's got a very kind heart, and often expresses concern for people who are having a hard time....until they try to take something she feels is hers and then it's bloody freaking murder time! I want her to know how fortunate she is, and how much other people (and kids) can really struggle, and that if you have more, it's important to help people who have less. Nobody should hoard all the gold; it's not right, and it's not fair and stop trying to feed us all that crap about needing all the money to create more jobs it's a load of horse dukie and you know it.

Anyway, C's talked about taking her to a soup kitchen to volunteer once in awhile, which is an excellent idea and I've thought about that too. And I'd also like to do just random acts of kindness with her, things for neighbors around us, or just when we're out and about. Always on the lookout for somebody who needs something, or just a kind gesture. 

A place I'd like to visit:

Goodness, again with the too many choices. Well, if I COULD, I'd go to Europe. Specifically the UK to feed my anglophilia, but I'd consider other areas. A part of me says: just whip out a credit card and freaking go before your passport expires and then you have to go through the hassle of renewing it...and one day, I may be able to do that. 

But not this year, unfortunately. Too much in the oven, not enough dough in the kitchen. So, I'm going to say that I'd like to take a trip alone somewhere but I don't know where. And I don't know why I want to go alone, but I feel the need to travel solo (sorry Mom. I know you're reading that and going: What did I tell you on the phone the other night about that?!) (hey everybody, could you stop right now and offer a prayer or a good vibe that nothing bad happens to me on this solo trip so I don't have to take a call from my mom wherein she goes: You see?! I TOLD you so! You never listen to me!)

A book I'd like to read:

I have far too many of these to put here. One I didn't get for Christmas that I should have asked for is Amanda Palmer's THE ART OF ASKING. I sense it may be a life changing book. She also has a wonderfully sweet TED Talk about the art of asking. 

A letter I'm going to write:

Not a letter so much, but just more writing in general. My 2015 aspiration (I will not say goal, I will not say goal) is to write every day. Every single day, for at least 30 minutes. About what I don't know yet. But every single day. Every. Day. (It's my therapy, and I will need it this year.)

A new food I'd like to try:

Marmite. Ha! No, I'm just messing with you--I once had some of that stuff on the tip of my little finger and I just couldn't do it. It's the look and smell--very vomit-like (sorry UK people, but it appears many of you eat vomit, and on a regular basis). I mean, I know it's not technically vomit, and I'm being slightly pejorative toward another culture. The UK has lots of lovely food...clotted cream, scones, Eton Mess, Yorkshire pudding, fish & chips, bangers & mash...and then there's marmite. It is just not one of the UK's finest culinary creations, in my opinion). 

Soooo...well. How about vegetarian food? I know that's sort of a lame, kind of cop out answer. But seriously: tofu. Gross, right? I'm game to try it in 2015, though.

I'm going to do better at:

Being open to lots of different kinds of people and experiences (excluding marmite, sorry). I can be fairly judgmental, and when people are judgmental it seems to be born out of their own insecurities. I'd like to be better at being a friend...I'd like to ask for forgiveness more. I'd like to find something beautiful about each day, no matter how hard it was. Elizabeth Gilbert does happiness jars, and a friend of mine also posted on Facebook about a gratitude journal idea she's starting, both excellent ideas. I would like to offline journal again, because it's therapeutic, but if I do it as a gratitude journal, I am self aware enough to know I'd most likely end up really venting my spleen. I would never share any of it here, because I'd write things that would appall and shock you and make you really start to wonder about me. So I'm probably more likely to stick to the happiness jar because if I forget to add to it for, say, ten days, I sense there'd be less self-flagellation involved. So I will begin a happiness jar, with a vent-my-spleen journal for balance. 

In summary, it sounds like in 2015 I'll be aiming for more peaceful moments, kindness and generosity, art and writing, breaking out of my comfort zones, tofu but not marmite, travel, forgiveness, and reflection. With some spleen venting because nobody can be happy 100% of the time, and plus stories with no conflict are simply not stories anybody wants to read or watch or hear. It's just how it is.

Overall, I guess what I'm looking for is connection.

My wish for you, whoever you are reading this, is that your 2015 is filled with millions of blessings, a lot of laughing, kisses and hugs from people who know and love you the best (or why not? kisses and hugs from complete strangers if that's what you're into), at least one grand adventure you can talk about for a very long time, and some really amazing moments of peace and grace filled with the knowledge you're not alone in any of this. And maybe also one amazing new friendship, and lots and lots of art, whichever kind makes you the happiest.

Welcome, 2015. Welcome to this crazy, splendid old world of ours.