tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71605083969701528552024-03-14T23:40:32.287-04:00words.(to your mother)Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.comBlogger214125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-3948603198799697092015-12-26T05:49:00.000-05:002015-12-26T05:49:56.477-05:00changes.<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This blog is ending. I'll keep it public because I can see from statcounter hits people still come to read my weird geekiness about the show DIG (on USA!). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I, however, need a fresh start. I made a big change in 2015, and I have some smaller ones to work on in 2016. If you're interested in reading about that or whatever other strange randomness and/or melodramatic emo-chick crap comes out of my brain, you can do that here from now on:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><a href="http://www.lifelovestorythoughts.com/">www.lifelovestorythoughts.com</a> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have a good one, y'all. May The Force be with you (unless you're involved with The First Order, and then...may a smart/tough desert girl and an ex-Storm Trooper on the lam smite the holy crap out of you).</span><br />
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<br />Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-90691116210933655922015-12-13T22:55:00.001-05:002015-12-13T23:16:50.296-05:00nativity stress.<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Stress. That's the word of the weekend and coming days, Internet. Stress. Things I still have to do:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*a million grades, which must all be uploaded into the system before I go home on Friday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*a holiday chorus thing to chaperone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*student gifts to buy and pull together, coworker gifts to pull together and hand out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*my own Christmas shopping.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*still haven't paid my doctor's office because i still don't own a single stamp...why do they not have an online option?! this is 2015. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*probably 10,000 other things I committed to and can't remember I said I'd do them until someone shows up expecting me to be ready and I'll be all: <i>Oooh, yeah! I DID say I'd do that. Crap! Hold on while I scramble around here like a lunatic and get it together for you. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Holidays are not my favorite. I like Christmas Eve. I like the candlelight service and the quiet when everyone's asleep. Other than that: pfffft. Stick it where the sun don't shine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">C and I decided I'd keep Miss M for Christmas Eve and Christmas. He'll take her the eve before Christmas Eve so she can spend the day with him. Then I'll take her that night for candlelight services (aka: the one time Amy sets foot in a church) and the following day for Christmas.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">She asked if we could, all three of us, wake up together on Christmas morning, and I started weeping. Because she's asked before, and I said no, but tonight it became real, that this would be the first time in 8 years we haven't been together on Christmas Eve and Christmas. Firsts are always the hardest, right? At least that's what I've always found to be true about the grieving process. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Why is Christmas so big? I didn't feel like this on Thanksgiving. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My vision is that, eventually, C and I will be the bestest of friends. He'll meet someone new and I'll meet someone new, and we'll all gather around a Christmas tree on Christmas Day - him, me, Miss M, the new people and any of their children they may have. And we'll sing "Welcome Christmas" like the Whos down in Whoville do it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">....but then this is coming from a person who really wants to walk around barefoot in hippie clothing, playing a tambourine, singing <i>Mr. Tambourine Man</i>. Free love. Free and gentle and all-encompassing love. But without the LSD. And I like to take daily showers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In other news, I went with family and friends to a live Nativity the other night. I really like Nativities; I have two in my house. I'm an agnostic about the Nativity story - don't think it really happened, but I like the symbolism/metaphysical concepts. (I read the Bible metaphysically, not literally.) The Nativity, the birth of a baby who's going to save the world from itself, feels like Hope to me. And I like the idea of being born in a barn, surrounded by gentle animals and fragrant hay (and, yes yes yes...the pungent smell of manure. I can hear you out there correcting me - stop it. Stop crapping on my starry scene of Love and Hope!) And live nativities are fun because they have cute domesticated animals in them. Like a petting zoo, but holier.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">At this live Nativity, there was no touching. And you took a hayride around the Baptist church's amazingly large wooded backyard, in which they'd basically re-built Israel in the time of baby Jesus. Except these are Baptists, so they don't really care about the birth stuff; they're more focused on the killin' and the resurrectin' stuff. Our hayride would stop at various points for the actors in the scene/stage area to recite biblical passages and also we'd listen to a Baptist hymn that went with whatever it was. Each of these lasted about a minute. But at the part Jesus is on a cross, that was 3 minutes. And the part where he escapes from the drainage pipe cave, and is lifted up 500 feet amongst the tall trees on a hydraulic lift? That was a whole 5 minutes, at least. Four and a half being him being slowly raised to Heaven, where he shall sitteth on the right hand of the LORD. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My brother and I are terrible heathens. In addition, I'd like to note we ate at a Mexican restaurant beforehand, I had one Texas margarita, not even the big size, but I think they poured half a bottle of Tequila in it. Now I have some pictures of me and my kid and my niece and nephew and my friends' kids all making duck face selfies with a fake baby Jesus that we passed while waiting in line for 2 hours to see the real Nativity. And because this was Baptist, before we pulled away, we all had to pray but I don't remember exactly what about. I think there was a part in there about bringing the drunk heathens sitting on the middle row of hay, and particularly the one who encouraged the children she was with to do hip hop poses and duck faces with wooden cutouts of the Holy Family earlier, to repent and come to Jesus...but I can't be sure. The tequila was wearing off, but I wouldn't be sober again til the Resurrection. And so I did not close my eyes during the prayer though I bowed my head because I didn't need that kind of judgment from Jesus' people right then. I mean, I love historical Jesus (if there was one) a lot, but I don't think he was magic. I believe in a Something, but I don't think the Baptists would like my version of It. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My brother is just a sarcastic ass, who is always looking for the jokey joke. Seriously, we can't take him anywhere. I didn't see them, but apparently there were apples at The Last Supper scene, and he swears Israel didn't have those in Jesus' time. And he cracked up when the shepherds messed up and you could hear them in their mics whispering about starting over. And he could barely contain himself at the resurrection scene because he swore if Jesus rose straight up out of those bushes...and sure enough, right on cue. Then it took Jesus like a whole 4 minutes to get to Heaven. Which, it seems he'd have been able to go a lot faster. I mean, he's dead/magical Jesus now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It's okay. We know we are not going to enjoy the fruits of Heaven because of our attitudes. Plus, we're Presbyterians.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Confession: I had a really long blog entry here about choices and consequences. But it was discombobulated and sort of preachy. But lately I've been thinking a lot about choices and their consequences. The Law of Physics says for every action there's a reaction, and that pretty much sums up choices and consequences. You make a choice, you get a consequence, so choose wisely. You choose to ask for something, be prepared for anything that shows up, so ask wisely. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Maybe later when I'm on break and have had more sleep I'll dive into it some more. But for now, I need to go grade papers. Oh, and shop the Internet for a beginner's magic kit and something called a zoomer zuppie cat. But if the next two weeks go the way the last two weeks have, I predict I'll be wrapping up a lot of coal instead.</span><br />
<br />Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-33728598590071864742015-12-09T04:26:00.001-05:002015-12-09T05:37:49.665-05:00insomnia rambles.<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Want some insomniac thoughts for your Wednesday (or whenever)? Here's a sampling of what goes on in my mind when unable to sleep:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">1-Well, crap, y'all. I had to close comments again for awhile. Two people left me some thoughts about my holiday struggles. I'm not mad about them, but they weren't really what I needed to see at 3 AM when up with insomnia, thinking about my lot in life. (Both basically said I need to stop this foolishness and go back to my husband. One said do it for my daughter, she needs her father. Basically making a judgment call on me and my life without knowing me, him, or her, or the full nature of the situation. I have written copious amounts of other blog entries about it - had they read those and absorbed them, along with all of my other ridiculous inanity here, I bet they would have understood this is just how things work here and I'm a very this-too-shall-pass kinda gal. However, for now, I think no comments are best.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But you know. Such is the nature of social media and being open/vulnerable on the Internet. I hope this means my skin is getting thicker. I really, really want thicker skin. I sense it'll help me later in life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">2- Mysteriously and without telling you the specifics (because this is the Internet), I got a message from a man the other day on the Internet. He was a stranger, and he wanted to take me on a date. He said I was beautiful. And then he said he changed his mind about taking me on a date, because even though he thought I was really pretty he could never date someone like me. And the reason he couldn't is because, politically, I lean left. And then he went on a really long rant about how leftie liberals are destroying America and the world, and we're the reason for all the bad things. And he concluded his strange rant with: too bad, because I'd totally sleep with you. Message me if you're interested.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Internet, you are a strange, bizarre world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(A) First, what? I bet he's a super fun first date. (I'm being sarcastic.) (B) Second, what?? Why would I want to sleep with someone who thinks I'm the source of all evil in the world? and (C) Third, what??? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm not opposed to remaining single and alone for the rest of my life, if THAT is all I have to choose from. (But it didn't bother me; I really do think my skin is getting thicker. I just deleted and moved on. He'll find his Anne Coulter one day, and they will make hideous Donald Trump babies.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I also think it didn't bother me because...you know what he really sounded like? One of those guys who gets all his information about how women work and how to get women from those misogynistic websites and organizations. You know the ones - they're the ones that tell men women are all bitches, and feminism is why. That you just have to keep your woman in the kitchen and let her know who's REALLY in charge, because that's what women all secretly desire no matter what they actually say. Women were created to be conquered. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(uuuhhhh....NO. False. No, gentlemen. Not even remotely close.) (Unless you are Jamie Dornan...read further.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">3-I went to a former co-worker's retirement party yesterday. Sweet, lovely, amazing lady. Seriously. Like, Martha Stewart and Florence Nightingale and the Melanie Wilkes from Gone With The Wind, all wrapped up on one person. Breast cancer survivor. Artist. Immensely kind human being. The standard to which all humans should strive to be. Kind and creative and beautiful and lovely person. </span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We were both on staff when the place opened, and so I have so so many memories she's attached to...lots of memories. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The sweet lady who was our school secretary when I started there came, and she occasionally reads this blog (hi, M! If you're here!), and she came over and gave me the biggest, longest hug and let me know she understands how this is. Her situation was much harder, and far different than mine. Sadder. But it's all kind of the same, when you end a relationship. Even when it's the best thing to do. And she made me cry. Kindness and love always makes me cry, because my heart...my heart. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyway. She told me to make my own memories now and to stay strong. What she said meant a lot to me. (Sometimes I think we are placed exactly where we need to be, at just the moment we need to be there, with just the people we need to be with. Don't you?) And I think people who are gentle and kind and non-judgmental are the best kind of people to be around. Also: hugs are nice. Way more helpful than anything else. Just be supportive when someone is having a hard time. Hug them. People need hugs and hugs are nice. That's all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">4-I've watched two movies recently that are about sex. Let's get the first one out of the way: <i><a href="http://www.fiftyshadesmovie.com/" target="_blank"><b>Fifty Shades of Grey</b></a></i>. Yes, I admit it: I watched it. But only for Jamie Dornan. And I will ALWAYS watching anything that Jamie Dornan is in now. Oh, Jamie Dornan. Beautiful Jamie Dornan. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I haven't read the book. I refuse to read the book. The book annoys me. How many superbly amazing writers are out there right now, desperate to be published? And some fan fic chick not only gets pubbed but also becomes a famous millionaire on top of it AND Jamie Dornan stars in the movie version of her book??????? Goddammit, Humanity. (There are some very talented fan fic chicks out there who ought to have this happen to them...not convinced E.L. James is one, but then. Confession: I refuse to read her book.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">SPOILER ALERT:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But the movie, surprisingly, wasn't bad. I think because Jamie Dornan saved it. My overall reaction: I would be totally okay with Jamie Dornan's "playroom." And I think Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith's daughter was nuts for leaving Jamie Dornan. At the end (I'm just going to tell you the ending...if this is going to upset you, quickly scroll past all this) (though I must tell you that if hearing the end of this story is going to upset you, you may need to re-evaluate your entire life).........................at the end, she tells him to show her exactly how he wants to punish her. She wants to understand his fucked up psychology. (Girlfriend, he's been slapping at you with whips and a cat o'nine tails for 2 hours. You need further explanation?) So he shows her. And basically, it's that he wants to paddle her behind. He told her exactly how many times he'd do it, and on top of that they weren't even that hard (I could tell they weren't very hard hits because when I was in 1st grade, I got paddled at school) (I know, I KNOW!! I know you want to hear that story, but it'll get us off-track...I'll come back and tell you it this weekend). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At any rate, she gets SO upset about it. She walks away from jet airplanes, fancy cars, expensive dinners, and you know..amazingness. And a man who secretly loves her, just in a really fucked up way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The main problem I had with Jamie Dornan/Christian Grey is that he was too controlling. I have a big, big issue with people who need to control other people. If you need to put someone in a cage to make them yours, then they were never yours to begin with. Constantly calling her, wanting to know where she was/what she was doing, showing up at the restaurant and interrupting dinner with her mom without permission - <i>that's</i> the kind of shit that would end things for me. She loved all that; yet it was a paddling session that ruined it for her. His need to paddle her butt was just too much. But not all the <i>"What was that? That's right: 'Yes, sir.'"</i> and the you-belong-to-ME issues. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Though I'd have kept the car, dammit. That was a nice car. (It's because I'm constantly terrified my car is going to break down on me and I'll have to put $2000 into it to fix it, and I'll be totally screwed.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Also, there are really, really angry people out there who think this book and movie propagates domestic violence. I get it. On the surface, BDSM looks like a strange, effed up mess. I once hung out, reading for a bit, a submissive lady's website. I could never submit like that to a man...I could submit in a lot of other ways. But I would not be okay having a man tell me to clean this up or do your hair like this or I want you in black today. This raises my hackles and my latent anger issues really start percolating. But for some women, this works. I'm not going to judge them. Because I don't think BDSM is really about domestic violence, is it? Domestic violence is unwanted, unwelcome. People get rushed to the ER or die. In BDSM situations, everyone appears to be in agreement, there are safe words, and it's about weird psychological needs more than a need to own another human being because you can't handle your own shit. If this is what brings someone else peace and love, then it's not for us to say what's weird and messed up and what's not...right? I don't eat escargot because eating snails looks weird and messed up to me. Others think snails are incredibly delicious things to chew on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So - and this is probably going to garner me some more unsolicited commentary from Internet strangers stopping by (except they'll have to keep them in their brains because comments closed) - I don't have a problem with BDSM people in general. I think they may need some therapy maybe, but therapy isn't cheap and if this is what gets them from point A to point B to point C in life? Then maybe that IS their therapy, and so it is not for you or I to try to make them feel bad about it. We all have our own little vices, don't we? Some of us binge watch <i>Breaking Bad</i> whenever we get a chance, some of us eat too much brownie brittle (it's a thing now, did you know?), some of us use our credit cards too often and freely, some of us spend too much time thinking about Jamie Dornan...wait, those are my vices. But you understand what I mean, yes?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The other movie I watched was called<a href="http://www.foxsearchlight.com/shame/" target="_blank"> <i><b>Shame</b></i></a> and it starred Michael Fassbender and Michael Fassbender's junk. Here's the thing about this movie: if you're watching it because you like Michael Fassbender (and who <i>doesn't</i> like Michael Fassbender??) and just want to see his junk and/or you've heard there's a really graphic threesome scene and you're all about those because yay threesomes? Then you aren't going to enjoy this movie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">First of all, it's a long movie (about 2 hours). Second, it's a quiet movie, with really long scenes. God bless those actors, they all deserve an Oscar. I get nervous when someone won't quickly take my picture on school picture day; I can't imagine having a camera trained on my face for 200 minutes, while I'm supposed to just use my eyes to express my feelings. These are the kinds of scenes you'll watch in this movie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Also, the subject matter of the movie was disturbing. This is a story about fucked up people doing fucked up things. Fassbender's character wasn't erotic; he was a gigantic mess. The threesome scene wasn't erotic; it was a gigantic mess. I don't mean how it was directed, I mean what and why a threesome happened in this movie. Because this was a story about someone who isn't just occasionally cuddling with his inner demons, this was a movie about someone who consistently allows his inner demons to have their way with him in the most inappropriate of ways until, finally, they just throw their hands in the air and say "Fuck it!" and rape him. This is a movie about sex, but it's not the least bit sexy. Is what I'm saying. <i>Fifty Shades of Grey </i>was also about sex, but they really tried hard to make it sexy. This movie was just about raw human stuff. With really long, quiet scenes in which there was a lot going on. (It was Art, is what I'm telling you...<i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i> was a book-turned-movie. Steve McQueen's <i>Shame</i> is Art.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Having said that, this wasn't a bad movie; it was really well-acted, directed, cinematography was gorgeous. Carrie Mulligan, you can SING, love. And Michael Fassbender can walk through my apartment naked anytime he'd like. Anytime. But not as this character. And also, Michael Fassbender can tell you his feelings just with his eyes, and that's nice. I think more people should do that - talk with their eyes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So here's what happened with these two movies and me: First I saw <i>Fifty Shades of Grey</i>, and I was all: hmmm...BDSM doesn't look so bad, not if you're doing it with someone like Jamie Dornan. Then I saw <i>Shame</i>, and I was all: Whoa! If Michael Fassbender's guy went to Jamie Dornan's playroom, somebody wouldn't make it out alive. So think I'm going to table that for awhile. A long, long while. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(Unless I meet Jamie Dornan's Christian Grey and he takes me to Europe.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">5 - It is almost 5 AM now and my alarm is about to go off. Insomnia, I give up. I'm not even going to fight you anymore. I'm just going to let you have your way with me. Take me to your playroom, but let's not tell the Internet in case the Internet wants to judge us. </span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-3643840342731437132015-12-03T22:22:00.001-05:002015-12-03T22:22:31.281-05:00holiday tears and swears.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENB7AHrlNCgpWN_ijKV0Qfj0TecbkL4QwHWLUjlCS_sczSoFSb3yzVGLpPp4JLt50KyOOOCTcSIQ24C9B5ryiqh3pw59rr7ZayEp5yzOdODH_W4UdvB2y6VmT9-25GfPAVbuaRZkfDp5Y/s1600/xmas+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENB7AHrlNCgpWN_ijKV0Qfj0TecbkL4QwHWLUjlCS_sczSoFSb3yzVGLpPp4JLt50KyOOOCTcSIQ24C9B5ryiqh3pw59rr7ZayEp5yzOdODH_W4UdvB2y6VmT9-25GfPAVbuaRZkfDp5Y/s400/xmas+6.jpg" width="202" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This frickin' thing. Makes me cuss and cry. Every single year.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif; text-align: left;">Miss M and I put up our tree on Monday. I so love doing the Christmas tree. Okay, wait. No. No, I do NOT actually love "doing" the tree. Actually, I cuss a lot and sweat a lot and every year I sit on the floor with pieces of it in my hands and go, "How the hell did I do this last year?" and "Why the hell are there so many goddamn CORDS?!" I've had the same fake tree for going on 12 years now. You'd think, at year 12, I'd be putting up this MF'er easy as cake. You'd think that, at this point, I could do it blindfolded, drunk, and with one hand tied behind me. But no. Every year: a lot of sweat, cussing, and tears. A lot of tensely barked words that send a 7 year old running to the bedroom to cry a lot and yell from behind a closed door that I'm a bad mommy, and Santa Claus is NOT going to bring me any presents this year because I said the SH word five times.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But then it's up, and I'm so proud of me. For the 12th year in a row!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But then we have to decorate it.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisqW2C1cGAxDLuOQeNPvMvkd3FAEStvANAaKCG4-9QwiP2JPr0bXvBtrofBKW2TP5Hb4KWZa3YQSEHmvih7dHAL05aTZZ5euBRgbON57eXNMylgb_C1qrB_7wPOuHte31xf1KeNZarlLT5/s1600/xmas4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisqW2C1cGAxDLuOQeNPvMvkd3FAEStvANAaKCG4-9QwiP2JPr0bXvBtrofBKW2TP5Hb4KWZa3YQSEHmvih7dHAL05aTZZ5euBRgbON57eXNMylgb_C1qrB_7wPOuHte31xf1KeNZarlLT5/s200/xmas4.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiny baby fingers turned into snowmen on a blue<br />ball. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Wasn't sure how that would go this year. Last year when I put it up, things were pretty sad. C and I were down to not only buying our own Christmas presents but wrapping them as well. The wrapping was a farce, because not only does sweet little Miss M love to unwrap her own presents, she loves to watch other people unwrap theirs. I was decorating and wrapping for the child, not for the spirit of the season - Baby had to have her Christmas. This year, I'm less stressed out (...for the moment), and I'm in slightly more of a holiday spirit (...for the moment). So I want the apartment to look Christmas-y. I wanted to have the tree up. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3HGAble_e_GYJrNsv6GRxjdNO7-J9_pji-ZPchj74SslJhvcnEFg8hFEROF8as-VwDBNQfAfWTqlV65fZPCr5dNnGWeGF2Rgp3A7M94YNMvngIfjKJ4Zhrc-WMwD0BRUEBzYL8REKTEP/s1600/xmas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3HGAble_e_GYJrNsv6GRxjdNO7-J9_pji-ZPchj74SslJhvcnEFg8hFEROF8as-VwDBNQfAfWTqlV65fZPCr5dNnGWeGF2Rgp3A7M94YNMvngIfjKJ4Zhrc-WMwD0BRUEBzYL8REKTEP/s320/xmas.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa don't care about your excuses, Amy. Plus,<br />he hears you said the SH word five times.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkrikK2Dw5gsMZusla-ngMCU3vQLS0EE7IHU5fwkMW67qFKoLItzNvNpdjsjBKMX0D4725n3bBQZLUXxXsX0OMULIWldZeQTPpq8gsFcUpSrrvNvicTCJyoZfDmyggjPy27ZYPXxzzFG3/s1600/xmas7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkrikK2Dw5gsMZusla-ngMCU3vQLS0EE7IHU5fwkMW67qFKoLItzNvNpdjsjBKMX0D4725n3bBQZLUXxXsX0OMULIWldZeQTPpq8gsFcUpSrrvNvicTCJyoZfDmyggjPy27ZYPXxzzFG3/s200/xmas7.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So loved.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have this thing for Christmas ornaments. I love them with all of me, to the deepest parts of my heart. Except for the few filler balls and some strategically placed fake roses for glitz and glamour, every single ornament on my tree has an important memory or meaning attached to it. Some have been going on trees literally since I was born - they have been with me my whole life. As I pull out each ornament from the box, I think about the year that ornament came into my life. I think about the person who gave it to me. I think about how that year felt, the circumstances I was in or my family was in, the good things and the bad things about that Christmas. There are decades and decades of memories on my tree, and every year at this time, I remember every single memory. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbtftT8xAG2LdM_DkEmEFrbyZBiOfcMl5nv1nsXbStkRm-U_XadFMgeWV7QPSVFR9aYlNjF03Cnbm3iEDlGV2lo9VjOluwbWkMRIE0vPZ7E_iYviKHVlRe8i7DrnPyIie01qF0VB2pmlb8/s1600/xmas2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbtftT8xAG2LdM_DkEmEFrbyZBiOfcMl5nv1nsXbStkRm-U_XadFMgeWV7QPSVFR9aYlNjF03Cnbm3iEDlGV2lo9VjOluwbWkMRIE0vPZ7E_iYviKHVlRe8i7DrnPyIie01qF0VB2pmlb8/s320/xmas2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crucifix made from Israeli wood. <br />Just like the Romans did it. <br />(ooooh. Too soon? Sorry, bad joke. Terrible timing.)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Memories are important to me. And sometimes, as I pull certain ornaments out, I smile. And other times, as certain ornaments come out, I get teary-eyed. </span><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;">Just depends on my mood, the ornament, and the memories attached, but</span><span style="font-family: 'trebuchet ms', sans-serif;"> I always think about the person that goes with that ornament. Like, I have a thing for Buddhas and for crucifixes; these are all over my home. One of my most precious ornaments came from my friend Carol - it's a crucifix made from wood from Israel. Another is from my brother and sister-in-law - Miss M's first Christmas - who can believe she was ever that tiny?! Another is of me, C, and M on our first Christmas together. There are ornaments that are from Christmases with just C and me, before M. There's one ornament I was given the Christmas C and I reconciled after I left for 7 months. Bittersweet memory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So I wasn't sure what would happen this year as each one came out. I mean, I know me pretty well, so I was aware I'd cry. I just didn't realize...I didn't realize what a cry fest decorating the tree would be this year. I had to stop and just sit with ornaments in my hands and on my lap, weeping over their memories. Buckets and buckets of tears until I was practically dehydrated. Miss M running back and forth to bring me tissues, saying things like, "Mom! STOP crying! It's JUST an ornament!! Santa will bring you MORE!!"</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi088N20D6o2EO6do8jIMnGKAjRpBKHlN5uoU-rkXp0_FekHZffX5_bYxuI9a0NalcDJGWe5FbqT2ltJnFMYPM9QiPM_gzcjQVDnrOLptTSyIDFGU1ljVYxHE5HrnDcs9sE0vi-l1OrVcUh/s1600/xmas3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi088N20D6o2EO6do8jIMnGKAjRpBKHlN5uoU-rkXp0_FekHZffX5_bYxuI9a0NalcDJGWe5FbqT2ltJnFMYPM9QiPM_gzcjQVDnrOLptTSyIDFGU1ljVYxHE5HrnDcs9sE0vi-l1OrVcUh/s320/xmas3.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happier times.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But it's okay now. The tree is up, and its lights and colors make me happy and feel peaceful in the dark nights of the encroaching winter, so I'm good...until I have to go pull out the house decorations this weekend and hang out with those memories for awhile.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Oh my god, Internet. That was ridiculously hard. I am haunted by Christmas memories. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0UdcqoZRj38ooieer-Rp0vw6iEwW3d2E9nvOoB_lBWylwYKCEteYNS83CIlWcKcOb9bxK9vFKNgOUG5Fp__t9RNYaiI5DT06jpfEnLmoTRyP5qPvnqkPOcG9tzhQP05GZtRmDbE0P0u2/s1600/xmas5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik0UdcqoZRj38ooieer-Rp0vw6iEwW3d2E9nvOoB_lBWylwYKCEteYNS83CIlWcKcOb9bxK9vFKNgOUG5Fp__t9RNYaiI5DT06jpfEnLmoTRyP5qPvnqkPOcG9tzhQP05GZtRmDbE0P0u2/s320/xmas5.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean, I even still put up all the extreme fisherman ornaments C has been given <br />over the years. And nobody in this house fishes.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-862357232206546792015-12-02T23:53:00.002-05:002015-12-03T06:42:27.037-05:00tragic guns.<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On my father's side of my family, guns are A Thing. My father's family is from the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania, and for fun up there, the best thing to do is shoot you some Bambi. Or The Yearling. Whatever - go kill you something cute and fluffy, then drink a lot of beer. ...This may have changed since the invention of Netflix. And Netflix and Chill, which is a concept I <i>just </i>recently learned about. I am 85% naivete, 90% uncool, 95% old and 100% vulnerable to rabid wolves in the pack. Ought to get a gun, but I'm stubborn. I submit the following:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My great-grandfather owned a grocery store and butchered his own cows. He'd take his shotgun down to the cow pasture, pick out a good one, and BLAM. Then they'd hang it up from some ropes and butcher it. Right there in the dirt road, they'd do it. In fact, on the road to my great-uncle Calvin's farm, at the end of the little lane most of my father's family lived on, is an antique remnant of how people used to once upon a time kill cows, which is two poles in the ground, a pole across the top, from which rope would hang the cow while they butchered it. Very quaint, very 1930s.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Anyway, one day my great-grandfather took his 12-year-old son Joseph out to the cow pasture to shoot a cow for butchering to sell in the shop. While walking down the dirt road, my great-grandfather tripped and fell on his shotgun, which went off and instantly killed him. Right in front of my 12-year-old grandfather. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There are some mumbled family rumors about how in the Sam Hill THAT happened; my great-grandfather was a seasoned, knowledgeable gun owner. Why'd he take the safety off before they got to the cows? (See where I'm going with this? Accidental suicide is where I'm going with this.) Which is horrifying, right? Why in the world would a father even do that in front of his 12-year-old boy? It didn't really seem like my great-grandfather's style. So nobody really knows; it was most likely a really big mistake, unless it wasn't. A tragic accident.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My point with this story is that guns are dangerous. Even the most very knowledgeable, seasoned gun owners can make a tragic, permanent mistake. My family has a history of tragic accidents with guns, and thus we are a testament to how very, very careful and respectful humans should be with tools they create, particularly when they create tools that are specifically designed kill other living things. Since sometimes they themselves may end up being one of the killed living things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was raised by a man who loved guns, who was raised by a man who loved guns, who was raised by a long line of men who loved guns. They were farmers and hunters and soldiers who used them to kill cows and deer and bring home meat for their families and sometimes killed other human beings when their government told them to. The key word here, I think, is KILL. Guns are tools, and they are tools designed and used to kill. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Human beings, by nature, are killers. Some of us are conscientious objectors to it, and we get on Social Media and cry <i>WHY??? WHY?!?!?!</i> when killing happens. And yet, we still all do it, this killing business. We cut down trees to build houses and make books, and so we kill trees. You eat vegetables? Killing plants. I mean, it's just what we do. Survival of the fittest. We must eat to survive, we must have shelter. We are a smart species, we have evolved opposable thumbs and larger brains. But we are still very much cave people, in many ways; our main goal is always to survive the best. And we are not immune to the forces of Nature and other species that also want to survive. You go out in a tornado? That tornado will smack you in the brain with a large, flying object and kill you. You get in the water with Jaws? He's got big teeth he's going to use as tools to kill you. Circle of Life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But this San Bernardino thing...Sandy Hook, Connecticut...movie theater shootings...gas station shootouts...crazy ex-husbands going after wives they abused...acts of passion...someone snaps after years of struggling with mental health and takes handfuls of other human beings down with them. The other morning I saw a local news story about a 7 year old who found her mom's boyfriend's hand gun in their sofa, picked it up to look at it, and it went off in her face, killing her instantly. The mom was interviewed on TV and was so very matter of fact about it. Guns are just in their home. It was a tragic accident. She said. Flatly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Tragic accident. I know everyone handles grief differently, but the woman didn't even have a single trace of affect on her face; this sort of thing just happens where she's from. Just matter-of-fact: <i>my kid was a tragic accident</i>. Jesus Christ.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And yet. I was raised by a gun owners, so I get it, gun lovers. Yes, yes, yes. We're all going to be running to YOUR houses for protection when the Zombie Apocalypse hits. Be assured: I'll be the first one at your door, ringing your doorbell, hiding behind you as you shoot down the zombies. And also please know: there IS a part of me that would really like to go to a gun range and wear some big earphones and safety glasses and feel the sexy power of a Glock in my hands as I shoot at some paper person 50 feet away. I have girlfriends who swear that's better than having an orgasm. I mean...for real?! I can't even. And if that's the truth, then hell yeah. I think about having an orgasm with a Glock once in awhile. What warm-blooded girl wouldn't?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But you know what else I think about? I think about all the times my dad laid out his antique shotguns and pistols to clean them. And I think about how, every time he did, he described in careful detail exactly what a discharged bullet from one of them could do to a human body. And about how you never know if a gun is truly empty...you can never ever be sure, and that's why they have safety locks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Tragic accident.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think about WHY my father would have these talks with my brother and me when we were children. I think about how our gun cabinet - displayed proudly and prominently in our foyer - was always locked but had a glass door on it. And I think about how, after my father died and my mom's house was robbed, that very gun cabinet's glass door was smashed in and every single shotgun in it had been taken out and carefully laid on the floor in front of the cabinet. The thieves had been considering, pondering...how to get them all out of the house? And in the end, clearly decided to leave them - maybe they were in too much of a hurry...or maybe it was just too risky to be seen walking out of a house with a bunch of long shotguns. I wish you could see, in your mind, what I am seeing in mine...the image of all of my father's guns carefully laid out on the floor, and not taken simply because there were too many. Had they been able to figure out how to do it, those guns could have been used for any purpose - robbing, maiming, killing. It was a chilling thing. They carefully laid every single shotgun out; they desperately wanted them. Just couldn't figure out how to do it quietly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Tragic accident.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think about WHY my father, a graduate of military college and an Army veteran of the Vietnam War, raised by Navy veterans of World War II who sat around and told lots and lots of War-Is-Hell stories to the point all my young father ever wanted was to grab a gun and go kill some enemies of the United States...I think about WHY my father would not only never teach his own son how to shoot a gun and kill a deer, but would also actively and vocally discourage him from going to war. From shooting another living thing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Tragic accident.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think about the story my mother once told me about my father, who was in the throes of a very deep and gripping depression as he struggled with alcohol addiction and several bad punches Life hit him with...I think about my dad sitting on the edge of a tub with one of his pistols in his hands, pondering. And telling my mom, when she walked in on him and asked, that he'd just been cleaning it. But there was a stray bullet in the sink. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Tragic accident.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I think about how, after my father died and my mother was cleaning out his closet, she found a pistol on the top shelf of that closet. I think about how bad it scared her just to touch it and that, later, she had the police officer husband of a friend come over to take it down. She wanted him to make absolutely sure it was unloaded before she put it in the gun cabinet. I think about how it wasn't unloaded. I think about how it had bullets in it still. And the safety was off. I think about how many times my father warned me as a child about guns that had bullets in them. And I think about how my father's father witnessed his own father die from a gunshot. And that my father hadn't bothered to put the safety on his own gun. That had bullets in it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Tragic accident.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don't want to take away anybody's guns. I know some people use them to go get meat for their family. I know some people use them for fun and pleasure and kinky simulated orgasms. I know some people are absolutely convinced that, every single night, there are like all these stealth ninjas with AK-47s lurking in their bushes and the only way they'll possibly be able to save themselves and their children is if they own an arsenal of guns. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Yes, I totally get it, gun owners. And I promise, as the child of a gun owner and the granddaughter of gun owners, I WANT you to have access to guns. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But can we agree that 7 year olds shooting themselves in the face isn't okay? Can we agree that people walking into crowded public areas and shooting at random is a bad thing? Can we agree that the answer is actually NOT to put MORE guns into the atmosphere, but maybe to be more careful about who gets them? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(I know...I KNOW. This is where your hackles go up and you grab your NRA paraphernalia/talking points and start handing me inane little facts about people stabbing each other with knives and so maybe we should control knives better. Stop. Just stop it.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's just. I just don't want anyone's mommies and daddies innocently enjoying a day at work to die just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't want that to happen anymore. And I absolutely don't want <i>anyone's</i> babies who are learning their ABCs and just starting to add and subtract to die. As a mother, I cannot even begin to tell you the clutches of fear and anguish this thought sends me into; I can SEE my own child in every single one of those Sandy Hook kids' faces...I can FEEL exactly what I imagine those mothers felt when they were told their little girl or boy was one of the children who didn't make it out alive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I was growing up, we lived in Oklahoma and one of our neighbors in the back of us was arrested because he shot and killed another neighbor over a disagreement about which extra inch of yard belonged to whom. Did you know? Back in 1979, in Muskogee, Oklahoma, somebody once died because he dared to argue about one goddamn inch of grass. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm tired of angry, vigilante assholes being given access to tools so they can play God. And I'm tired of people driving around the streets with guns in their glove compartments, flying into a momentarily psycho road rage, pulling out that gun and doing something stupidly blind and tragic with it. And I'm tired of reading news stories about drive by shootings because a lot of the children I work with deal with this, a lot, and their stories - always told in very matter-of-fact words with a very innocent and naive viewpoint on it - break my heart. And I'm just so fucking tired of guns and our passion for guns in this country. Why are we not as passionate about children living in poverty, why are we not passionate about children who go to bed or wake up with hunger? Why are we not angry and passionate about children who are homeless, living with adults who hurt them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But I get it. You love them, and the Constitution says you can have them. And god forbid we mess with a 226-year-old document that's been already been amended 27 times and is probably due for a few more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A very large part of the problem is that we are a sick country. Our mental health care system is broken. Our justice system is antiquated, racist, and ineffective. We pour money into tax breaks for people who need it least and hoard help from people who need it most. We distract ourselves with dumb issues and pointlessness so we don't have to address the real heartbreaking ones. It's so easy to demand and defend your 2nd amendment right when you're not the one picking out clothes for your child to wear in a coffin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">How does it make me a terribly wrong and misguided person to want like just three more laws controlling how we distribute firearms that aren't designed to kill Bambie or The Yearling, but are absolutely designed to end human life? Why is it bad for me to say: cool, own your guns but why the hell do you need the assault rifle? Put the assault rifle back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Why am I the crazy one to want a few more laws that say: <i>hey, you have to wait a little longer before you can have that semi-automatic...hey, you have to pass this mental health test before you can get that Glock...</i></span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, you want a gun? Well, sure but you'll need to pay gun insurance to own one, just like you pay car insurance...</i><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">hey, you can have an AK-47, a Glock, and a shotgun in your house, but that's all. Why do you need more than that? Are you building your own personal Army or something? This ain't Waco. </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I know there are gun control advocates out there who want A LOT of control. I am not one of them; I'm not saying: get rid of all the guns, America. I know there are assassin ninjas in your bushes and you're constantly being threatened by gangstas in hoodies. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I just want babies to stop dying. And I want gun enthusiasts to acknowledge, goddammit, that if you own a gun, YES. There <i>can</i> be tragic accidents. Just please acknowledge they're weapons of destruction, and if you own one there can be tragic accidents. My very own gun enthusiast father did this all the time, and was almost a victim of it himself. And his grandfather certainly was. Stop acting like just because you practice at a gun range every other weekend that you're a freaking expert on guns. You are not a gun expert; you're a weekend cowboy/cowgirl. And so stop talking like you know EXACTLY what you'd do if a crazed gun man started shooting up the restaurant you're eating at; be real with yourself. Because you have no IDEA what you'll do, exactly, how you'll act until you actually go through one of those situations and god forbid you ever are in a situation where you have to go through something like that. Trained, skilled police officers will tell you they have to LEARN how to control themselves in those highly charged situations, and it is very hard. Stop acting like you think you're Dirty Harry and get real: owning guns makes you feel safer and more in control of a world you're actually quite afraid of, and admit they also maybe make you feel very bad ass. And please acknowledge that you probably have an issue that you might need to address if you keep needing to buy more guns, that two or three just don't seem to be quite enough for you. Even though you aren't a cop, a soldier, or a hired assassin. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Guns are tragic. People are crazy. People love crazy, tragic things. We crave dangerous romance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Which is why the FDA regulates our foods and drugs. And our money is regulated. And how we build roads. And how many safety features our cars have; and now we have laws making us wear seatbelts, or fine us for texting or put us in jail for drinking while driving. And there are building codes so our houses don't topple down and crush us. And we pay good money to make sure we have police protection in case our guns don't stop the ninjas in our bushes, and for firefighters in case the bush ninjas set our homes ablaze. And I know all those regulations really chap some of your asses, especially those of you who love guns, because they're all examples of TOO MUCH GOVERNMENT. (And I also think you're totally missing the point while enjoying a longer and more comfortable life than people had in the Wild West you so romanticize.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I just don't get why asking for some extra regulations on tools specifically designed to end life makes ME the crazy one. Jesus God, I only own knives and numb chucks.</span></div>
Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-29732947065659183672015-11-29T08:13:00.001-05:002015-11-29T08:40:29.785-05:00learned things.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zmPpBrdME6M7kpJgYbPXR_7XlVm8gv-C1LimSf6F8rOujdKO05SBh21eLceZvk_jnbgzat5vjtx2twfjeD4xO37PXB-J_zvg-T0J3i_w_aG3JX2FrPLFFjCprkQaUEQJqOBrG9r80mF9/s1600/stuff4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zmPpBrdME6M7kpJgYbPXR_7XlVm8gv-C1LimSf6F8rOujdKO05SBh21eLceZvk_jnbgzat5vjtx2twfjeD4xO37PXB-J_zvg-T0J3i_w_aG3JX2FrPLFFjCprkQaUEQJqOBrG9r80mF9/s400/stuff4.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I think this picture would be an awesome resource for me when confronted with a problem:<br />just how BIG is it, really? Because I bet most of my problems usually fall between 0-2, but I react like they're<br />levels 3-5. Just breathe, Amy. And give it a level.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've learned some things about me since separating from C in June. Some of the things are things I've always known are true about myself, but maybe are just an integral part of who I am; what makes me <i>me</i> (be they good or bad). It is what it is, que sera sera. Other things are things I've always kind of suspected, but know for sure are true now. And some things are new revelations. I submit the following learned things for the Internet's amusement/entertainment/connection/whatever:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">1. <i>My temper.</i> I have one. Except it implodes rather than explodes. I have a hard (really hard) time expressing anger to anyone other than myself or my child. I was getting there with C before packing up and moving out; the problem with this was that my expression of anger was completely new for him and he wasn't sure how to handle it; he was used to being the one in the indignant driver seat, with me being the object of his indignancy. When the tables turned, it left the whole foundation of our relationship kind of wobbly. People who are used to being super stars don't like to know when they aren't being very, you know, <i>super starry</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At any rate, I think it's healthy to express - explode - every now and then. Over the right things. My issue is I implode, and often over the wrong things. Or sometimes I explode over the right things and then give in to the other person's ridiculous need to guilt trip and apologize when I shouldn't. Or I implode over the right things when I should have exploded and I still end up apologizing. I am the most exasperating, exhausting person I know. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don't know how to change this, but I want to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">2. <i>My impatience</i>. One reason I'm kind of a crappy cook/baker is my lack of patience. Can't I just stick it in the microwave and have it come out looking like it does when the Four Seasons chefs make it? Stupid. It's just going to get chewed up, digested, and pooped out anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm kind of the same way when stuck in traffic, standing in a long line, and anytime I have to set foot in Wal-Mart (omg, I <i>hate</i> Wal-Mart; it is the very definition of "necessary evil"). I wonder if I've always been like this or if it's a learned behavior? I'm having dinner at my mom's today and may ask (if I'm in the mood for a long list of other less than stellar things that I've been like over the years).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">3. <i>My intense guilt.</i> I've learned, since June particularly, I really can't hang with people who do the guilt trip thing. Because listen: I do the guilt trip thing every single day of my life, on myself. Don't need yours on top of it. I've learned people who resort to guilt trips on other people are doing it for the following reasons: power and control. And they always create the very situation they're trying to avoid. Not worth it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But lands, I'm good at guilting myself for everything. I wish I were more Bohemian. It's my ultimate goal in life to be a Bohemian. Seriously. I want to dress like a gypsy every day, walk out of my house barefoot and hugging my tambourine, kiss and love freely and with tremendous abandon, and not give a flying crap what anyone thinks or has to say about it. (In my estimation, I'm about 1/4 there...I think when I stop feeling the need to blonde over my grey hairs and perform major body hair removal will be the day I make to the half-way mark.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">4. <i>My procrastination</i>. Not too much to say here except: it's always been a problem, continues to be a problem, still working on how to make it less of a problem. Like, right now I owe $182 to my doctor's office but I haven't sent them the check. Have the money, have the check, haven't mailed it. Why? Procrastination. I pay bills online, I don't have stamps. Need to go take the envelope with the payment inside to the post office for a stamp. Been procrastinating. Had 90 days to pay the bill, and I thiiiinnk I'm at 120 days. I don't know. I've been procrastinating looking at the bills they keep sending me, asking for their $182.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It ain't pretty, but like my temper and impatience, it's who I am.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">5. <i>My overthinking</i>. EVERYTHING. If it can be overthought, I overthink it. I'm talking about things like deciding which brand of mustard to buy, not even just the big stuff. I'm actively working hard to change this about me; if I'm going to exhaust myself over exploding/imploding angrily at the right vs. wrong things, I'm going to send myself to an early Type A person's grave if I'm also stressing myself out with overthinking. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When it comes to overthinking, I've learned people who do this do it because they like to play psychic and/or armchair psychologists, two head games I happen to be most excellent at. Though I think I'm a better psychologist than psychic, just because I've been through so much therapy in my life. (In addition to Oscar-winning dramatic diva actress, I think my other missed calling is highly-sought after/self help book writer/frequent Oprah guest therapist.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In addition, overthinkers create problems that were never there to begin with and it always, you know...creates a lot of problems. Every single time I've imploded angrily over the wrong things it's been because of overthinking. Every. Single. Time. And every single time I've ended up less than happy with the brand of mustard I've walked out of a store with? Overthinking was the culprit. Every. Single. Time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Personally I think there's a way to be existential about practically everything, and the key to it was written in a really annoying Disney song called<i> Let It Go.</i> The Buddhists teach this as the fundamental core of their belief system and it's why I always tell people I love Jesus and Buddha and so if I have to have a religion, I'm a Buddhistian. I'm only talking about the not-crazy Buddhists, though, because did you know there are crazy Buddhists? Every single religion has crazy people in it, even the religions that teach their people to<i> Let It Go</i>. Because you know what human beings are really crap at (I've learned)? Being able to <i>Let It Go</i>. Also: Is that song stuck in your head yet? Hope so. Welcome to my world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At any rate, I <i>think</i> I'm getting better at Let It Go/Buddhistianity/not overthinking. The key (for me) (besides singing the song <i>Let It Go</i>) has been to just consciously remove my mind from whatever it is by saying: <i>In one week, one month, one year this thing isn't going to matter</i>. And then I remind myself until I haul off and kill someone in cold blood there are no good or bad choices, just choices, and that everything I do, think, and say will land me eventually where I'm meant to be, so just go with the flow, yo. Then I distract myself with something else to think about or do. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That's worked fairly well for me so far, until the moment it hasn't. Everybody slips up now and then, though, I suppose. And I think the key to accepting that is to, um, not overthink it too much. But mostly, I've just adopted an "it is what it is" kind of attitude about everything. I firmly, absolutely believe we are put here to love and accept each other as is; that even the most heinous of us (yes, ISIS, I'm talking about YOU) are here to teach and learn from each other. I've met people I so deeply admire and strive to be just like, and I've met people I never want to imitate in any way, shape, or form. But the most important thing is to accept and love people as is. I</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">f I'm overthinking things I'm not able to do that and that's not who or how I want to be. </span><br />
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<i style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">(Caveat: if someone shows you they're deeply troubled and/or abusive and/or not right for you, it is okay to send them light and love from afar and not have anything to do with them ever again - you do not have to repeatedly expose yourself to something or someone that stresses you out, and this includes family members. It is okay to do this. Be loving and kind to YOURSELF first and foremost; doing this will make it far easier for you to extend love and acceptance to others. And if, for whatever reason, you find you're unable to extract yourself from a particular relationship at the moment, it is okay for you to keep that person at extreme arm length emotionally and stop letting them in so much, so far. It is okay to protect yourself. You can protect yourself and still be a loving, kind person. In fact, you'll be more loving and kind in the long run, because you take care of YOU first; that's the key to loving and accepting the world as is - put YOUR oxygen mask on first, then start helping others.)</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Also I would like to note I get the overthinker trait honest: I come from a long, long line of overthinking females. Maternal side. It may be in my DNA. But I've heard you can even overcome that. If you think about it hard enough. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Last, this has nothing to do with my learned things, although I guess they're kind of things I've discovered how I feel about after two-plus-decades teaching elementary age children. So can I express some thoughts about these pictures? I saw them on Pinterest the other day and I feel these are things that need to be addressed:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Who the hell has time for this AND to teach? I see stuff like this on Pinterest and just think:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">somebody either doesn't have a social life or someone has a full-time teacher's aide. I see things like this and think: Holy crap, our fire marshall would have a fit and give us a ten page violation write up for that. The fire marshall is the elementary school teacher's nemesis.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"> Although in fairness to the hard-working fire marshalls of the world, a friend of mine once</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">had a mentor teacher who'd always say sage things like "Cute don't teach." </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">THIS is what she was talking about, exactly what she meant.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is what they want kids to do today when they read. As a writer, I do this with a lot of things I read - I highlight things that really move me or make me go WOW, I write notes in the margins about character development or what I think the theme here is or why the writer chose that phrase or whatever. Or just thoughts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So making kids do this isn't a <i>bad</i> thing. But what age are we making them do it? Because I'm doing this in 2nd grade, and it's the hardest thing to frickin' teach. And whenever I find myself going: <i>this is the hardest thing to frickin' teach</i>, the thing I think I'm learning about 21st century/Common Core-centric teaching is that if I'M having a hard time communicating it to them and/or THEY'RE having a hard time understanding it, then it's, you know. TOO FRICKIN' HARD. Which means it's probably beyond their developmental level, which means it's inappropriate for their age group.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Also, sometimes I DON'T make notes in the margins when I read stories. Sometimes I just read a book because it's nice to just enjoy a good story. When did "just enjoy a good story" become a dirty thing to suggest doing in schools? Can kids have some down time? I mean, they're <i>kids</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'd put reading for enjoyment at a Level 0 on the <i>How Big Is My Problem?</i> list.</span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-83597482598742997042015-11-28T17:40:00.004-05:002015-11-28T18:01:54.784-05:00stupid romance advice: a PSA.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I saw this on Pinterest the other day, and am compelled, as a PSA for all (heterosexual, but I bet homosexual couples can relate to some of the ridiculousness here) couples but specifically males since that's who the list is aimed at, to address the most egregious items of stupidity on the following Romance Hack:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This mess. This whole 31 item mess. Let's just analyze what the hell is going on here, because I really think people who come up with lists like this are fucking it up for perfectly good people in perfectly fine relationships. Expectations are a hell of a drug, and they're always the reason you're unhappy, I swear it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The following are the items from this list I have the biggest issues with:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#3: I mean, yeah, if she knows you're in the room and it's possible you may do that. I mean, don't sneak up on her or anything. What if she has a hot curling iron in her hand? That's an ER visit right there, yo. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#4: I think you'd really need to evaluate your girl and the nature of your relationship before embarking on this journey. Leave her text messages AND voice mails EVERY DAY?? Doesn't that seem a bit obsessive? I like to get text messages from my friends every day, and some times more than once. But if I don't hear from them for a day, then I don't lose it or anything. And I don't have a problem sending them a text message making sure they're okay. Maybe the girl can do that for you, too. (Here, my inner Gloria Steinem is showing.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#5: I dunno. Really? Wrestle/Tickle war seems like something I do with my 7 year old or that I liked to do WHEN I was 7 years old.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#6: Wouldn't it depend upon the nature of the relationship you now have with your ex? If you're friends, just friends, and your girl is secure with herself and with her relationship with you, then this shouldn't bother her at all. There are these things mature relationships have called "trust" and "communication." When you have those two elements, it doesn't really matter who hangs out with who, when, where, or why. In fact, if you wanted to have sex with your ex and you're open and honest about it and your current girl is okay with it? Then more power to you guys. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#7: Stupid. Just insipid and stupid. Scroll down below for my thoughts on #29. Who the hell wrote this list? I'm beginning to suspect a jilted girl, not a guy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#8: Just make sure your notes are short and to the point and not too sappy. Nobody wants to start a day off with a lot of sap.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#9: Well, I mean, IS she your girlfriend? Have y'all had a formal "hey, let's be boyfriend/girlfriend" talk yet? If not, I'd hold off on #9 for a bit. If you have, and you're both in agreement you're boyfriend/girlfriend-level status, then this tip seems sorta <i>well, duh</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#10: Okay. I'm down with #10. It's the single item on this list I'd without any reservation tell any man: <i>Yes, do that. Oh my god, <b><u><span style="font-size: large;">yes</span></u></b>. DO THAT.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#11: WHAT?! No. NO!!! First, she is not an infant. Second, you're going to break your back. Are you kidding me?! This screams <i>IMMEDIATE ER VISIT</i> all over it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#12: <i>sigh</i>. If you feel it necessary to do this, then you're either insecure and need to grow up, or you're with someone who's on purpose trying to MAKE you insecure and needs to grow up, or you've got some serious issues with ownership. You are in a RELATIONship, not an OWNERship. Act accordingly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">If, however, the guy is threatening your girl or a strange man touching her in her bathing suit areas, then by all means yes: get upset. Call the bouncers/security over. And as they're dragging that douchebag out of the establishment, scream all kinds of nasty names at him so you're her hero (without getting your nose smashed in). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#15: Really? REALLY?? Somebody's mad at you, and you think kissing/hugging is going to fix it? No. Nein, nyet, non, nope. Stop the invalidation and just effing discuss the issue.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#17: I had the biggest, most visceral reaction to #17. No, I will NOT hug a stuffed animal from you every time I go to sleep, because I am not 2 years old. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Full disclosure: I do actually have a stuffed animal I SOMETIMES hug (for comfort) to go to sleep, but I've been hugging it since I was, why yes - 2 years old. And my Uncle Joey gave it to me for Christmas. And I keep the stuffed animal in a hidden place because it's just a soothing thing I have. But if given a stuffed animal as a gift by a grown ass man to a grown ass woman? No. Just NO. It's...NO. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Jewelry is nice...if you're THISCLOSE to being married. Otherwise, it's too much/too soon and thus either really creepy or trying waaaaayyyy too hard. And if things go awry, it's the first thing going to the pawn shop, I swear it. T-shirts/sweatshirts sprayed with cologne...this sounds like something teenage girls do when they want attention from One Direction - write a fan letter, spray it with some body spray by Britney Spears, and kiss it with lipstick on. But for a grown up? NO. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And giving a grown woman all of these things<i> together</i>?Oh my god. Listen to me, just do this: just take her out for a nice dinner and maybe a walk in a moonlit park, man. Hold her hand, have a deep talk about something that matters to both of you, listen to her, don't judge her, make her laugh, laugh at her jokes...I mean, is it just me? Does it really have to be this hard? If she likes flowers, get her some. If she likes live theatre, take her to a play. IT'S NOT HARD. Just...oh god, please. NO STUFFED ANIMALS.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#21. I LOL'd the longest at #21. "Kiss her in the rain (girls love this)." Hoo my. I just...I can't even. Listen, gentlemen: most girls, in the rain, are like: aaaggghh! my hair is getting wet! i'm going to look like a drowned rat!!! I hope my make up doesn't run!!! I mean, if it works out and you end up kissing in the rain, it's romantic, yes. But you know where kissing in the rain is usually romantic? Under an awning. Just make sure your girl isn't getting drenched when you kiss her in the rain. And don't - DO NOT - ever put in ( ) what girls love. You totally look like an amateur. And that goes for you too, missy, the girl who probably wrote this list.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#'s 23-26. Oh, of course! All girls love to listen to YOUR music. Why not do this: find songs you BOTH like. BOOM, instant connection. #'s 24-26, well, duh, Captain Obvious.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#27. But what if she wants $10 million? Or a 5 star trip to Fiji? This seems far too open-ended for a list of this nature: Here is exactly, precisely what will make your gal happy. This, this, this aaaaannnd...oh hell, just give her whatever she wants. (Like a one night stand with Channing Tatum?) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#29 First, refer back to what I said regarding #6. Second, go meditate on #12. Last, sweet, dear gentlemen: if you are with a girl who has a problem with you hugging other girls, or with you hugging your friends who are girls, in front of her? You are already 3/4 of the way to a majorly bad break up. Probably because (a) you read - and buy into - lists of this nature, and (b) you got yourself a girl, and not a woman. A woman doesn't care who you're friends with, and she's secure enough with herself that she doesn't care who you're friends with. I like both men and women, and I think friendships with each kind have benefits. I would never, ever tell my partner who he can/can't be friends with. That's not a relationship; that's a guilt-trip prison.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">#31 Just ending the list with (totally) said it all. (Totally.)</span></div>
Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-56920657091833345442015-11-25T03:22:00.003-05:002015-11-25T03:45:18.761-05:00home.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I closed this blog a few weeks ago. Firmly and with great resolve. Something bad happened to me while I was blogging here - a lot of really great things happened, but the other thing was so big and fucked up...it just felt like I needed to start over. This place felt tainted. It felt sad. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So. I re-opened another blog, <a href="https://lifelovestorythoughts.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><b>HERE</b></a>. But I'll be honest: that blog feels foreign and unnatural. That blog has cooler features - like I can do those <a href="https://dev.twitter.com/cards/types/summary-large-image" target="_blank"><b>Twitter card thingies</b></a> on Wordpress; and I can write something up, hit publish, and everything just automatically...<i>goes</i>. Goes to Facebook, goes to Twitter, goes to Google+ (who the hell ever uses that place??), goes wherever I've checked a little box telling it to publish to. LOOKS awesome. Very fancy pants; could never figure out how to do it here because I just don't have the HTML skills. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And yet. That new blog just doesn't FEEL like "home." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And I really need to be somewhere right now that feels like "home." So much as happened over just the last month, I really really really need to be somewhere that feels like home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When I started this blog two years ago, I was in my old house, where it felt like home. And so when I come here, it feels comfortable and familiar and I feel like I'm home. I need to be somewhere where I can write, not caring about who the hell is reading what I type because when I started this blog, I really didn't care who the hell read what I typed. I was typing down the bones, for me. I was here for ME. It was never about other people, and somewhere along the way, it changed. It became about other people and who was reading or may read what I typed. And so maybe that's why the other place doesn't feel quite right. I set it up because I was going to use it to write for other people, and not me. I set it up because I was being defiant, and forging on. Or wherever my psychology was at when it told me: <i>Let's start fresh! Let's start fresh and shiny!</i> But that didn't feel like home. Because I am not fresh, and I am certainly not shiny.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I would like to write about what happened to me in great depth, because I have lingering ick about it, but I have a feeling that's a bad idea I need to save for a really rainy day years down the road. I think the person has finally gotten the message and (hopefully) has moved on or is currently moving on. I don't bear ill will toward that person; I hope they find their happiness and someone more suitable to draw their energy from. Taught me a lot about what I <i>don't</i> want in a friend, as I'm sure it taught them. Still. It was an experience that has altered me drastically - I am still trying to decide if the altering is a good or a bad thing. I feel like I'm sort of forcing a lot of what I do online now and that wasn't the case even a month ago. A month ago, if I felt a feel, I wrote about it. Sometimes I was completely wrong about my feel, and then I felt really dumb. But other times, my feels were right on target and that's always good. Which is the whole point of this place - to live my life out loud, and whoever wants to grab some popcorn and be entertained, great, or maybe someone will see something and recognize it and feel less alone. Now I measure what I say out loud, and that's never been who I am, really. I'm someone who strives to be authentic; what you see is what you get. So other than carefully being careful not to say or write anything that would get me fired? I said whatever was in my brain, I wrote about things that mattered to, or bothered, or angered, or helped, or elated ME. And now I don't know how well I'll be able to do that, but it's important to me to keep trying. However, I now think about things like audience - what person may be reading what I'm writing, and what intentions might they have? I'm only saying this out loud because if I ever come across weird or paranoid or bizarrely skittish, that's why.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And that's something that has drastically altered me in my online interactions but also offline to a certain extent...and I am still sorting out how I want to feel about <i>that.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At any rate. I am not the same person who was writing here a year ago, or even two months ago. I am skittish. And weird and paranoid. I can be overly dramatic in ways that are extremely unattractive...I really feel like, up until about a month or two ago, this trait was fairly cute and one of my more endearingly quirky qualities. But now I think it's a little darker, maybe? On Facebook recently, I unfriended two people, two really nice and perfectly lovely people, over a couple of things of a political nature - one person I disagreed with, and one I agreed with but who disagreed with my mom in kind of a rude way. I mean, yeah, what you said was true but that's my MOM. Only *I* get to be rude to my mom. I think that, now, after the stalking (and it WAS a stalking), I just feel like: hmmm, how well do I <i>really</i> know you? If I don't know you all that well, and this internet area is for people I actually know, then...bye. But they were perfectly safe and fine and I completely over-reacted. I did the same thing on Twitter - if you freaked me out in ANY way, shape, or form at the height of that shit fest? Blocked. And I feel really bad, because I know for a fact I really hurt one of the people's feelings. (This would be the online version of what the military calls civilian casualties during shock and awe.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This totally bites, you guys. And I've certainly altered how I look at social media and who I interact with on it and how; I no longer see it as silly and ridiculous and a place to meet a lot of potentially nice friends. I mean, I do...but I also see the slippery and diabolically seductive darkness to it, and I now completely understand - and believe me I write this with the deepest and utmost sincerity - why notable people, be they actors or singers or authors or whatever, refuse to acknowledge every individual's attempt to get them to interact with them. People are scary AF. I have met some really lovely, awesome people on it. I have made some friends I'd invite into my home without a second's thought. But going forward, that novel's probably finished. Because people can be scary AF. The end.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So I'm going to re-open this blog, simply because that other place didn't feel right and I need to feel that I'm somewhere that's home. I need to be able to type and spew and vent my spleen somewhere that's simple and mine. I'll forego fancy pants for awhile, because fancy pants feels forced and unnatural. I may change my mind (are you getting that this mind changing thing is a big problem for me?) a few months down the road, but this is where I'm at for now. I'm at a place in life I need people to be consistent with me, because <i>I</i> need to be consistent with me...and changing a whole bunch of things feels wobbly and unstable and inconsistent. This place feels homey and consistent, and so I'm going to park my ass right here and write. It's where I've thought out my thoughts best, for over 2 years. This place holds MY thoughts, MY stories, MY history, however screwy and tainted and misguided and totally off course and weird that may be. I like it here, and so I'm coming home. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Scary people can come hang out and read however much they like - enjoy it, drink it all in, get your daily or weekly or monthly dose of whatever fucked up energy you feel is necessary to continue your process. If I'm somewhere I feel safe, then. Scary people aren't real. I'm also at a point where I quite frankly don't give a single flying fuck what other people think or how other people feel about anything I do be it online or offline; I question and hyper-criticize my own self enough every day, thanks. Be assured whatever negative, judge-y thought you may have about me I've already had myself, and about ten times before you thought it. Or maybe you're not judge-y and negative at all. We're all just living a life, right? Making choices that take us left or throw us right or send us deep into the murky wells of our deepest lows or lift us up to our highest highs. I've chronicled all of mine here, and decided I'm going to keep doing that until I no longer feel like it. Most blogs last about 5 years, I've read...I bet I've got about 3 more years of oversharing my emotional wranglings out loud here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Hoping that, 3 more years from now, I'll be back to the more open, carefree kind of girl I was...and I'll be somewhere that really feels like home. (And there, in that last bit, I am not talking about online anything.)</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSXbItGWmfOpzaPUGEy6tiGVUtXQlqIGLk6p4EQZi1YxKgdsy1cDWtnEaWyp6sScyqS_uhutmtJDIKKUj7-4V6OHiRGXNRLNGPrk3SZhdu32RVPNT1ofWZ1Lea5UoLnQKh_tXo2gDA5p9/s1600/comforting-home.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSXbItGWmfOpzaPUGEy6tiGVUtXQlqIGLk6p4EQZi1YxKgdsy1cDWtnEaWyp6sScyqS_uhutmtJDIKKUj7-4V6OHiRGXNRLNGPrk3SZhdu32RVPNT1ofWZ1Lea5UoLnQKh_tXo2gDA5p9/s320/comforting-home.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This pretty much sums up what I need right now.</td></tr>
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Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-27091542560627592622015-11-04T18:12:00.002-05:002015-11-04T23:09:16.174-05:00last one.<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've had this blog since 2013. Quite a long time for me, someone who in the past liked to start, stop, and then restart blogs elsewhere. Like, all the time. I have a lot of memories here. This blog has kind of been my baby. It's chronicled who I am, where I'm at, what I'm going through...for two years. I've written silly ridiculous things, because at heart that's who I am. I've written about my little girl, who is my everything. I've written about the pain and sadness of endings. I've written about friendships and politics and crazy ass New Age stuff and all kinds of things. I wrote about the show DIG (on USA!) and my favorite actor Jason Isaacs visited, and liked what I wrote. And I've written about light and love and kindness, three things that matter so much to me. Even when these are not extended to me, or I get to a place of sheer rage and anger...I always return to light and love and kindness (eventually).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But mostly, I've just been here for a very long time, just sharing my life with whoever stumbles by. If this is you, thanks for reading. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm going to say good-bye to this place. Partly because I just don't feel like blogging anymore; the joy has been sucked out of it for me. This blog feels tainted and sad. I actually don't feel like writing either, but I'm assuming once this tremendous ICK has subsided I will get back to work on that. But blogging? I dunno. It's a crapshoot; this place served me well for a good two years - I took some risks here, I know, but I'm not someone who's willing to live her life holed up in fear. (Full disclosure: currently, I'm living my life holed up in fear.) Because I'm a single mother now with a young daughter, and I need to feel safe and I'll be flat out honest with you guys: I do not feel safe on the Internet right now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The other day, I sat on the phone and cried in the ear of a police officer taking a report from me, relieved that I had a professional, official paper trail started but terrified I'd be in a situation at some point to have to actually use it. I'm currently researching temporary restraining orders. So you'll understand why an experience like that would kind of suck all the fun out of writing for a person, yes? You just have to be careful on the Internet, Internet. You can see I've removed all of my social media buttons...because they are all private now. As I will be on the Internet. For months and maybe years to come. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But my memories are here, and they matter to ME. I decided to leave this blog public because words are important, and our stories are real, and it all means we matter. Even the worst, most frightening parts. Because I firmly believe this: w</span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">e are all beings of Light, even the most deeply disturbed and demented amongst us. We are ALL beings of Light. Some of us are lost in the dark, but there's a dim light in there somewhere. And those of us who aren't lost in the dark? We can love those who are...without having to talk to them ever again or agree to a lunch date. And if YOU are ever in a situation in which a part of the Internet scares the living daylights out of you, or someone you thought you knew takes a very ominous turn, please know you (1) are not alone, and (2) there are people and places you can seek out for help, and things you can do. And also know, and please burn this deep into your heart: you are here as a spiritual being, a being of light, having an experience. You don't owe anyone any explanations for any choices or decisions you make, and you don't have to prove who you are or how worthy you are, no matter what anyone says to or about you. Don't ever be manipulated into thinking you aren't kind and good and perfect, just as you are. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Take care of your Light. Stay safe in </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">your</i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> Light. Don't let anyone else try to turn it off just because theirs did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Many blessings to you,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Amy</span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-88704396265983895522015-11-01T19:21:00.000-05:002015-11-01T19:33:46.764-05:00colorful psychology.<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, it's November 1. Three things about today: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. It's the month of being grateful. Noting your blessings is important, and so I think every time I come here (in November), I'll start off with one thing I'm grateful for. For example, today? I am grateful for family and friends. I have a great support network of people I can turn to and be all weird around and because they're weird, too, they totally get me. And they make me laugh. And they're really sarcastic. Like, we can make the most gallows humor, hysterical jokes out of some of the most unfunny things. I love people like this. Thank God for them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. It's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month - 50,000 words in a month). I will not even remotely be attempting it this year. Last year I wrote 5,000 words and Life exploded (as it usually does) and I drifted away from it, just like the adult-onset ADD victim I am. So how about this. How about I write 1 short story by Nov. 30, and send it somewhere or to several somewheres. <i>That</i> I can do. Thinking about writing 50,000 words in 30 days makes me want to crawl under my bed covers and never ever come out. (Thinking about writing 10,000 words in 30 days does the same thing. So this will be a very SHORT short story.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. I have another writing challenge, from my 30 (or more) Days of Writing Challenge. Here it is:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><b>My Favorite Color and Why:</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I actually have two - blue and green. Did you know that most people pick blue or green as their favorite color? And did you know that the reason they do this is because the colors blue and green remind most people of summertime, when most happy memories are made? (Blue reminds people of blue summer skies and water, and green makes them think of summer leaves and mown grass.) I also like the color purple (both color and movie version). Purple is the color of mysticism. Purple is magic and wisdom and mystery. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There's an old pop psychology quiz you can play with people (and I usually do, when I want a clue into their psyches) to learn more about what makes them tick. It goes like this (and if you want to get to know yourself better, get some paper, answer the questions, and then scroll down to see what your responses mean):</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">Choose a color, the first color that comes to mind.</span><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">Once you have that color, list three descriptive adjectives that describe it.</span><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">Choose an animal, the first animal that comes to mind.</span><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">Once you have selected an animal, list three descriptive adjectives that describes it.</span><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">Choose a body of water like a river, ocean, sea, or lake. (IE Niagra Falls, Mississippi River, etc.)</span><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">Once you have chosen a body of water, list three descriptive adjectives that describe it.</span><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><br style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;" /><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; color: #141414; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">Let's say you are in a white room with no windows nor doors, list three emotions that you are feeling.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141414; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">*<br />*<br />*<br />*<br />*<br />*<br />*</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141414; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">DOOOON'T LOOK!! (Are you looking?? I bet you're looking.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141414; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fcfcff; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 20.5333px;">*<br />*<br />*<br />*<br />*</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So here's what your answers mean: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. Color - how you see you want others to see you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. Animal - how others actually see you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. Body of water - what you're like in bed</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. White room - your feelings about death</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I originally took this, my answers went like this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. Red - hot, passionate, exciting</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. Dolphin - cute, smart, friendly</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. Lake - deep, mysterious, lovely</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. calm, peaceful, claustrophobic </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Today, 23 years later? I'd give the exact same responses, except for color. I'm going to ruminate on why that is. Why did I change my favorite color? And why do I now have 2 favorites and a spare? (I've actually been doing this a lot lately, ruminating on why things are. Why not add some color to it?)</span></div>
Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-4215283091608404522015-10-31T07:37:00.001-04:002015-10-31T07:48:18.703-04:00writing challenge: 5 (spooky) problems with social media<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Hi, Internet. Just so you know: I kinda hate you at the moment. You're on my Shit List. But I'm back to blogging and tweeting and all that, so obviously we're still speaking. No, I don't know why. We just are. Because I'm too addicted to you right now, and my Writer's Block is in full-on choke mode. Maybe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">....remember when people met at ice cream socials and/or bars? Back before smart phones, I met all my lunatics at bars, and all my best friends at ice cream socials. The more I grow up, the more I say we should have a total society overhaul and go back that route. And hell, while we're at it, let's clean up global warming and go back to riding horses everywhere and crossing oceans on pirate ships. (Have you ever seen M. Night Shyamalan's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0368447/" target="_blank">THE VILLAGE</a>? That's kind of where I'm at right now. Let's all just go full-on Amish, and later we can let one of our blind children and a mentally disabled one go into the woods alone even though we've scared the freaking shit out of all of them that there's a horned beast in it that wants to eat them.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So one of the 30 Day Writing Challenges was to write about 5 problems with Social Media. And I was all: JUST FIVE??? But it's fine. I've whittled it down:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">1. <b>Living out loud</b>. I've written here extensively about how important doing this is, because connecting matters. I think the more honest and open you are about who you are, what's happened to you, and how you feel about that will only be cathartic for you and bring relief to who knows who out there. We all have stories, and by sharing these stories we can make connections to other people. We can give hope, heal, laugh, cry, be furious, incredulous, scared, amazed, love, and hate...all together. Connections (and Love) are real, and to social animals such as ourselves, they're important. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So whenever I make statements like: I<i>'m off this fucking grid! Heading back to Amish Country! </i>(No, seriously...my mom's family is half Pennsylvania Dutch - they'd totally let me in), I know that's pretty impossible now. Social Media is how we connect these days. And so you connect...sometimes to good people, sometimes to bad people, sometimes to very confused people, and sometimes to people who will scare the holy living shit out of you just because they're psychos and bored. It's all experience, growth. But some of it is terrifyingly hard.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I mean, you can still meet people and experience a lot of terrifying growth from people you hook up with at ice cream socials or bars on Friday nights. But why do THAT when you can do it while lying in bed with your phone or laptop, while eating chocolate mint ice cream in your most tattered pajamas and your geekiest glasses and most hideous look? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">2. <b>Seductiveness</b>. Don't be fooled: the Internet and its Social Media are seductive. Don't believe for one second the NSA isn't watching you, Google hasn't tracked and sold your website preferences, and your mom (hi, mom!) isn't going to argue with you out loud in front of all your friends on Facebook and call you on it every time you go to her house for dinner. Social Media is full of 93% normal people and 7% socio-pyschopaths who'd sell their own grandmas down a river if they thought it would get them ultimate power. (Alternately, these same people usually run for Congress. If they're unsuccessful, they always get themselves a radio talk show or start a website WITH Social Media presence.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">3. <b>Not being able to move on.</b> Sometimes shit just happens. Friendships run their course. Divorces are finalized. Whatever. Back in 1999, when Steve Jones broke my heart into a tiny million pieces, there was no Facebook. There were no smartphones. There weren't even any flip phones. The computer was just a place you went to and hung out on IRC or sent emails or whatever. And there was that dial up tone, that crazy weird dial up tone, to connect to the wired world. So if something broke or fizzled or went up in flames, you just licked your wounds and went for a drink at Johnny's Hideaway to pick up the next ride. Which is what I did. Except I didn't go to Johnny's Hideaway. I'm not going to tell you where I went, but now I have a daughter and a looming divorce. So see? There's an angle that <i>can</i> be worked, and once upon a time Humanity did it offline.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Later, after I'd moved on and created a Steve Jones-free life for myself, Facebook became huge. I went to Facebook and looked up Steve Jones. Yup, there he was. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Had his Facebook page set to Public. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Still using the same email address from 1999. Still telling the same old jokes. Still wearing that one dumb shirt. But now I could see he was a racist, a Sarah Palin/Rush Limbaugh fan, a Bible-thumping Jesus freak, and (therefore) a complete and utter hypocrite. Had I known all of THAT in 1999, I'd have shed this many tears over losing him: 0.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thus is the problem with #3: if you want to torture yourself over someone who's moved on without you, head to Social Media. (On the flip side, you may find out they support anti-abortionists and the 2nd amendment, and you'll breathe a sigh of relief over the gigantic bullet you dodged on <i>that</i> hard lesson.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">4. <b>Ridiculousness, but the bad kind.</b> Social Media is full of it. People hawking their wares online and not even trying to be smooth about it. I'll be honest: I suck at self-promotion. I have no idea how to do it, it's not natural for me. I'm too self-deprecating, all of this (THIS being Life in general) is just ridiculous to me. WE are ridiculous. So I just write these blog entries, link them on my public Facebook writer page which then automatically cross posts to my Twitter, and if a Hollywood producer wants to stumble on my foibles and come find me and ask me if I'd like to write a TV show for them or let them turn my life into a screenplay, then have at it. I believe in Fate. (I also believe in hard work, and staying grounded in reality, and do realize this will never ever happen.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">5. <b>The Nefarious.</b> You, Internet, are full of The Nefarious. When you came into being, you were the first place all the creepy bottom feeders living in their moms' basements, subsisting on Cheese Whiz and Mountain Dew, went to hang out. And you know those guys who used to come out of their houses once in awhile just to yell at kids to get off their lawn, and then they'd go back inside their dark holes and stand growling and muttering and touching themselves from behind a drawn curtain in their front room watching the kids play across the street? Yeah, those guys are all on Social Media now. When the Internet opened, they all ran out and got computers and an internet connection. When Social Media took off they couldn't believe their fucking luck. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What I'm saying is: Social Media is a Child Molester's wet dream. It's the Playground of the Psycho. The lair of the Keyboard Cowboy/Cowgirl. It's where - if you're going to meet someone creepy and fucked up - this is where it'll happen. You are the dark, dank basement of all of Society's nightmares, Internet, and I'm absolutely paralyzed about letting my daughter start interacting with other humans on you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And yet your cat and laughing baby videos. And WebMD. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You, Internet, are just like religion: good in theory, always poorly executed. A useful tool, if only humans weren't in charge. And THAT, in a nutshell, summarizes the 5 problems with Social Media: too many goddamned humans. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Happy Halloween.</span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-48052171098306092032015-10-30T05:59:00.001-04:002015-10-30T06:11:49.013-04:007.<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dear little Miss M,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First of all, you are no longer that little. But you are still Miss M, and you will always be Miss M. When you were first born, I started calling you Miss M, or sometimes just "ma'm." You seemed like such an old soul in a tiny little body, and needed something far more formal than the name we'd given you.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6gEe9mxIDHHnYVb2u1RCfp1a48xTPDFxEtuwcIIymMMbWMzOeYQ4pdyMi9_1Hz7mDSaXqIGrzzn1UP0bTkPq9NrLj5q6BjSRTopfiDRMCx9qgEA4YWBrVQHUFbnw7ORiMi6UCBqCsc8a/s1600/Miss-M-indignant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6gEe9mxIDHHnYVb2u1RCfp1a48xTPDFxEtuwcIIymMMbWMzOeYQ4pdyMi9_1Hz7mDSaXqIGrzzn1UP0bTkPq9NrLj5q6BjSRTopfiDRMCx9qgEA4YWBrVQHUFbnw7ORiMi6UCBqCsc8a/s320/Miss-M-indignant.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still does this, but in bigger PJs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You were indignant and angry from the start. I remember every night you'd cry from 6 pm-8 pm. Every single night. Two hours straight. Angry, balled up fists in the air. Mad at only god knows what, for god knows what reason. And you hated sleep; you didn't want to miss a thing (you are still like this). The moment you took your first step, I felt a rush of relief - you were free, FREE! But also a deep sadness...the first step is the beginning of the end of babyhood...toddlerdom...childhood. It's been 7 years, and in another mere 9 you'll be driving. It goes so, so fast. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You are a strong-willed, determined little girl. You like girly things like cheerleading, make up, nail polish, dancing, One Direction, Nick (and Joe) Jonas, sparkles, the color pink, Disney princesses, Disney's <a href="http://movies.disney.com/descendants" target="_blank">anti-princesses</a>, and you'd really really like to go on a date with a boy except I can tell: you don't even know what that really means or entails. But you also like boy things like skateboards and scooters, Star Wars, soccer, Sunday night football (which you understand so much better than I do - thank your father, he's just made you cool with all the jocks), worms and roly poly bugs, all things gross, and fart jokes. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPYrtyAUisdZw2Ww7950yao3_yHV687wgSivx3AznoVCvYldz62OqyxYl584kActRDm84P3A2g9wENjOC-cmOLUwTjy9rJDpdAB40BUzUgaFtl012oKT6mEObIFpCZXHCf63RPK478xZd/s1600/Miss-M-Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPYrtyAUisdZw2Ww7950yao3_yHV687wgSivx3AznoVCvYldz62OqyxYl584kActRDm84P3A2g9wENjOC-cmOLUwTjy9rJDpdAB40BUzUgaFtl012oKT6mEObIFpCZXHCf63RPK478xZd/s320/Miss-M-Party.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loves to party. With sparkles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You are a becoming a mini-me, but with a lot of good balance from your dad's genetics. You are highly imaginative and in your own head a lot (me); yet you're a total social butterfly who can't say no to a good party (your dad). You love stories and music and creativity (me); yet you're analytical enough to be one of the best mathematicians in your class (your dad). You're disorganized (me), but you can clean like nobody's business when necessary (your dad). You're all emotions (me) but really logical (your dad) (emotions + logic = bless you, my darling...you got a looooong, crazy road ahead of you trying to marry <i>those</i> two character traits). You are stubborn (me) but not unreasonable (your dad). You have an illogical issue with shoes and clothes (that's all me...and you got nothing from your dad to counteract that, sorry).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yesterday, I completely lost it with you. In public. I am sorry, sweet girl. When things like that happen, where afterwards I am filled with guilt and What-The-Heck-Is-WRONG-With-You-Amy?! thoughts, I always hope it becomes a memory that gets buried deep deep down in the recesses of your brain. And I'm sorry I've taught you cuss words. I'd honestly intended to wait until you were at least 10. (I'm sure by now you get it: mommy's got a temper, and now you know why you do, too.) </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqIM_kYpdZF8nYjkPw5qdSNNOEgUxoejyLysb_y6LQMTnX4tcg_HB_hGIwmUiFjCgXxcGJmtazM_sYvPxFc72MvDVtN-PoYNkpFkzckG3EZvMkWz8CvQnWqOzJzQ4uDODpNbE3GH5c6ZF/s1600/Miss-M-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIqIM_kYpdZF8nYjkPw5qdSNNOEgUxoejyLysb_y6LQMTnX4tcg_HB_hGIwmUiFjCgXxcGJmtazM_sYvPxFc72MvDVtN-PoYNkpFkzckG3EZvMkWz8CvQnWqOzJzQ4uDODpNbE3GH5c6ZF/s320/Miss-M-3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">....and/or she'll be running her own small country.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometimes, because you <i>are</i> such an old soul and also very tall for your age, I forget: you are only 6 (now 7), just a baby. And I am having a hard life, and so are you. You cry a lot and ask why daddy can't come over for a sandwich, and why we can't be together as a family anymore. You asked, for your birthday this year, if you and I could spend the night at daddy's house, and all three of us sleep in the same bed like we did a long time ago. You are sad when you're with daddy because you miss me and worry I'm lonely without you. You are sad when you're with me because you miss daddy and worry he's lonely without you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Your tender heart breaks mine a lot; I have tremendous amounts of guilt about what I did this summer. But I also did it because I deeply felt that, in the long run, it would be the very best thing for all three of us and I never ever do anything without weighing all the possible best/worst case scenarios and being prepared to accept any and all consequences that follow every choice I make. I feel like it's really important you know that...on the first birthday you've had not waking up in a house that has both me and daddy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFEU_m-bKmec29YkF-pIl053JuncjHsXlrled7-7PFWciH8ukWbv2ryY6mGGCO5OqWhH2_UfMr1gsftyY-ztdXMU7Au9CXoIIH3ZwbbMeZ-12Eb-dxML_JVKNTZyTuY-tNwxH5H01an2R/s1600/Miss+M2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFEU_m-bKmec29YkF-pIl053JuncjHsXlrled7-7PFWciH8ukWbv2ryY6mGGCO5OqWhH2_UfMr1gsftyY-ztdXMU7Au9CXoIIH3ZwbbMeZ-12Eb-dxML_JVKNTZyTuY-tNwxH5H01an2R/s320/Miss+M2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheerleader. For dolphins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At night, you like me to make up stories for you in which you are rescued or whisked away by Harry Styles of One Direction until you giggle yourself silly. Then I draw pictures on your back and sing <i>You Are My Sunshine</i> or <i>The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow</i> or <i>Somewhere Over the Rainbow</i> until you fall asleep. And after you are asleep, I stare at your profile, and I can <i>still </i>see the little face from the ultrasound images 7 years ago. Isn't that amazing? From a side angle in the dark, you are still a mysterious part of me. I remember I couldn't believe you were actually inside of me. And even now, years later, I can still feel the surreal, freakish sensation of having your tiny feet swipe at my insides when you were finally big enough to make your presence known. I watch you sleep and think about how small you once were, how your entire body fit perfectly on my chest, and I remember how we'd defy all the What Not To Do parenting articles and risk it just to lie together, napping...me on the sofa, you on my chest. Really, it was the only way you could sleep. You have been sleeping on top of me ever since, often with a foot in my face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But mostly I just look at your sweet sleeping self a lot of nights and think the same thing I thought when you were lying in the bassinet next to me in the hospital: I can't believe my body made you, and that you picked <i>me</i> to be your mommy. You are the happiest and saddest and most exciting and silliest and angriest and scariest and hardest and best thing I have ever done, and ever will do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVChHdw2EofyQIo-OJUUCSP3crUvDM1KOv4q6i1lMphkE52VxlxgjmCMtNc1l5Ks7HUDoUdkvGtEUU3lus_eX0fuUQZSP1uldgKZ6_H0-KY6wR_fRDWxQeJWQVI3LxNbVhvBK9jQA1wT-/s1600/Miss+M.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlVChHdw2EofyQIo-OJUUCSP3crUvDM1KOv4q6i1lMphkE52VxlxgjmCMtNc1l5Ks7HUDoUdkvGtEUU3lus_eX0fuUQZSP1uldgKZ6_H0-KY6wR_fRDWxQeJWQVI3LxNbVhvBK9jQA1wT-/s320/Miss+M.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My most favorite thing ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Happy 7th year on Earth, little Miss M. I'm so lucky I get to be YOUR mommy. You are my favorite, my most favorite little girl, on the WHOLE planet. There is no other little girl I love more than you, no other little girl I ever want to hug and kiss and fight and laugh and sing and cry and watch movies and dance and take nature hikes with. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I hope you are growing up with more happy moments than sad (but I think some sadness is good for you, too - so you can appreciate the happy), and more than anything else that you know how tremendously loved you are. Every single night before you fall asleep, after I sing <i>You Are My Sunshine</i> to you, I say: "You are my very best blessing." I made a conscious choice when you were 2 hours old to do that, to make sure those are almost always the last words you hear before you fall asleep, no matter what kind of day you or I or we have had. It's the most important thing to me that you know you are a blessing, that you are worthy of love, that you are perfect just as you are...because one </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">day you will encounter people who will make you question that, and doubt yourself. Which is why </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">my biggest wish for you, every day, is that as you grow up you'll encounter far more of the OTHER kind of people, the ones who will see who you </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">really</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> are and love even the darkest parts of you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I send prayers to the Universe, on a consistent basis, that you are one day in a home of your very own, one that you'll fill up with things that bring you peace and happiness and inspire moments of creative abandon full of wild recklessness. I write daily requests to Whatever is listening, that you'll find something to do with your life that brings you joy and makes you feel good, and that you'll be surrounded with people who help you and support you through the gloomiest bits while bringing your life a little weirdness, a lot of extraordinary, and great gigantic gobs of blessings and love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You are the all the very best parts of me and your daddy wrapped up in one beautiful place, in one growing and magnificently magical child, and more than that, you are my very best blessing of all. I love you, sweet girl. Happy birthday. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Love,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mommy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">October 30, 2015</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWGbKbSkS-NVtwG5HHApWyCnhP3YlmTzIUZFXTL29RvE7s_LzlFgkEavXcgFqhQBtKSb-VBO-lrKZcK9AXb-gLs6JH6cbbPruixwq2bzHRD4Unwa6sOGmYbaDP8sB4oVi9QfBSe6qhUDy/s1600/Miss-M-today.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWGbKbSkS-NVtwG5HHApWyCnhP3YlmTzIUZFXTL29RvE7s_LzlFgkEavXcgFqhQBtKSb-VBO-lrKZcK9AXb-gLs6JH6cbbPruixwq2bzHRD4Unwa6sOGmYbaDP8sB4oVi9QfBSe6qhUDy/s320/Miss-M-today.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss M likes zombie eyes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtEFMaOnAy8KPDhuaBpt7RqrDy7TSh5wwJUrxbZW5NtPZaVwIHAHy2KPDgGrcsV3Yiz_n_d4p87UVDnVdFRFOZGPnOJk6yPpJbw6P15t4uE_wx_wQ3DITJOjzQ_8TTmaaT8AsEoVxqhAz/s1600/miss-m.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtEFMaOnAy8KPDhuaBpt7RqrDy7TSh5wwJUrxbZW5NtPZaVwIHAHy2KPDgGrcsV3Yiz_n_d4p87UVDnVdFRFOZGPnOJk6yPpJbw6P15t4uE_wx_wQ3DITJOjzQ_8TTmaaT8AsEoVxqhAz/s320/miss-m.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My very best blessing. Thank you, Universe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-36876535528085005752015-10-25T19:24:00.001-04:002015-10-25T19:50:04.409-04:0030 day writing challenge: clothes schmothes.<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am eating cheese and cashews right now. Drinking La Croix coconut water. This is what my dinner consists of tonight: nuts, cheese, and fizzy coconut water. That's pretty healthy, right? Totally natural, except for the fizz in the water. Tomorrow morning, I'll have coffee and a protein bar. For lunch, I'll probably eat a peanut butter&jelly sandwich and a side of baked potato chips and an apple. For dinner, I'll have a baby spring lettuce salad with blue cheese crumbles/walnuts and balsamic vinaigrette, with some tuna salad on crackers. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have no time to eat these days, but when I do I eat like a 6 year old and/or someone at a cocktail party.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Have I ever told you I used to run 5 and 10K races? I mean, put " " around the word run, but I did. And I've run<a href="http://www.atlantatrackclub.org/2015-peachtree" target="_blank"> Atlanta's Peachtree Road Race </a>3 times - have all the shirts (somewhere) to prove it. But then I got pregnant, had a C-section, and my body was destroyed. Right after my career, my bank account, education reformers, insomnia, stress, the Tea Party, xenophobia, bad drivers, the weather, and people who leave angry, ridiculous and racist/chauvinistic comments under news articles on the Internet, for the last 7 years, my body has been my biggest complaint and the one thing - other than a pervasive inability to stay focused and get a single thing done - that's the most frustrating thing about me, to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'd like to run again. I mean, put " " around run, but I would. Getting re-started has been a challenge, though. Timing is a factor, but not as big a factor as physical and mental motivation. I know I just need to (as Nike would tell me) Just Do It. But I'm a procrastinating excuse-maker. No joke - if there were a career for that, I'd be at the top of my field right now. I'd be traveling the world doing motivational speaking about the newest techniques in procrastinating excuse-making, and I'd have won a Nobel Peace Prize in it for all of my innovative research and techniques. (Oh, the humanity that this is not a real career.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Which leads me to today's writing challenge, which wasn't much of a challenge at all and this is good because I need to finish up the rest of this week's lesson plans since I've procrastinated doing them all weekend with a lot of excuses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">30 Day Writing Challenge #27: What I Wore Today.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Basically, if I could just go everywhere in pajamas or yoga pants, I would. Jeans are my next choice, but nothing beats comfy PJs and yoga pants. And long shirts. Anything to hide the havoc a child and my own procrastinate-y, excuse-making laziness has done to me. And if it weren't for the havoc bearing a child and my own sheer laze has inflicted upon me, I'd probably sleep naked and hang out naked when alone, because research says it's healthier. (I am NOT making that up to titillate or excite anybody -<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/why-you-should-sleep-naked_56006681e4b00310edf8233a" target="_blank"> <b>see HERE</b></a>. Plus, if you could see what I see in the mirror every day, rest assured: nothing exciting to see there, move along.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At any rate. To address today's writing "challenge." </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Today I wore jeans, a long grey/striped shirt that has holes in it because I've had it for going on 5 years now, and slip-on black shoes that are now getting holes in them because they're cheap. I buy all my clothes from either Target or Old Navy. If I find something I like, I literally wear it until it disintegrates. Sometimes I wear underpants, sometimes I don't, and I rarely wear socks. Today I wore neither of those things. And if I could get away with going barefoot all the time, I would. Socks, underpants, shoes - all clothes that are overrated. But not bras. Bras are good - ironically, I feel overexposed and under supported without one, so much so I sleep in them. I am odd and strange when it comes to clothes. I like them - I'm not someone you'll ever see signing up to go vacation at a nudist camp, because I feel uncomfortably exposed without clothes on. It's just...I just think certain kinds of clothes are less necessary than others. But clothes are good things. Unless they're skin colored tank tops and polyester biker shorts and you're seriously 500 lbs and you come to school to eat lunch with your child and then get all offended when the children start screaming because from behind you look completely naked. Then I think humongous cloaks like ancient Druids wore to conceal their identities are good things, and maybe also cloaks of invisibility, like in Harry Potter. (Get on that, Science!)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">....Good god. I'm so sorry. Who put this on this list as something to write about? This is the most boring thing on the entire list. Apologies. Hope you weren't incredibly busy or anything. (Did you read the entire thing? God bless you.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm going to abruptly end this so I can go do some laundry. I've made a dozen excuses for why I could procrastinate doing it this weekend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Happy Sunday.</span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-67667004271878856542015-10-24T08:18:00.002-04:002015-10-24T10:56:37.852-04:00writing challenge: 5 fears.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgHi1hvjCzsCgl2735Qzh0vyp2yY_30-MLCErG8aeX6CAqCfvew-sz9rTGHC8B0OCjwqTvae7aboGw1n4QeyzyR-8ddkfTXo6KtGNmdh7-CEFZVhsQU7NJYl-hO8fG7n8FWqSmc6zDDIz/s1600/fear+dark+side.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSgHi1hvjCzsCgl2735Qzh0vyp2yY_30-MLCErG8aeX6CAqCfvew-sz9rTGHC8B0OCjwqTvae7aboGw1n4QeyzyR-8ddkfTXo6KtGNmdh7-CEFZVhsQU7NJYl-hO8fG7n8FWqSmc6zDDIz/s320/fear+dark+side.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love Yoda. Yoda is Love.<br />
Also, I am sorry Star Wars nerds, for tormenting you<br />
about watching all the episodes in numerical order.<br />
I'll use the Force for good, and honor George's wishes, and watch them<br />
in the order He commanded us to.<br />
...unless you're my brother. And then I'm going to watch them in<br />
numerical order and force you to watch me do it.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I didn't go to sleep until 3 AM. I slept - hard - for about 3 hours. Now I'm awake again. I have brought home work to do this weekend. I need to clean. My little girl is with me. We have 2 big commitments this weekend to attend. One is on Sunday and my fingers are crossed really hard I don't have to stay at it with her, and can go get some stuff done.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Number 19 on the 30 Day Writing Challenge is to write about five fears. Fear is a thing with me. I'm trying really hard to grow a thick skin, to recognize things I really DO need to be afraid of (sharks eating me, asteroids crashing down on my head) and things I DON'T need to be afraid of (sharks eating me, asteroids crashing down on my head). The thing about Fear is this: none of this is real. My spiritual teachings and learnings tell me that none of this is real. We are beings of Light, and Love is the only real thing. There are beings who have lost connection with their Light, and have forgotten how Love works. Or they've twisted it. And those people scare me. But I also know they aren't real, because they've lost touch with what is real.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's very coded and philosophical, so...let's do this. Let me just share my 5 basest fears. My truest, realest fears are that I will never be enough, I will never get my act together, and I will flounder forever and eventually end up 95 years old drooling on myself in a nursing home, having accomplished absolutely nothing beyond navel-gazing and no one will come visit me. Those are my core, deepest and darkest fears. Or that I'll end up living with a hundred cats and eating canned cat food, sitting in pools of my own filth. And that it'll all be recorded on a reality TV show. And Donald Trump will host.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But here are 5 fears that are easier to address:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. <b>Sharks.</b> You know what I'd like to do to conquer this fear? Swim with dolphins AND sharks at the same time. Because one time I saw Jaws 4, and that's what happened. The dolphins protected the humans from the psycho Jaws shark. I'm pretty sure that's the only way you can survive a swim with sharks - make sure dolphins are around you, because sharks don't mess with dolphins. According to the film industry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. <b>Being destitute and homeless. </b>This is kinda sorta like the nursing home and/or hoarder cat lady scenarios, but in this fear I'm also living in my mom's basement and she's telling me what to do all day. The good thing about my mom is she's got a great sense of humor, so I can joke with her like this and she won't throw me out on the streets to fend for myself. Also, she makes really great spaghetti. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3.<b> Ghosts. </b>Ghosts are REAL, reader(s). I want to talk to a paranormal expert (preferably Jason Hawes) so I can understand them. Because at some point, I may be one and so...I just like to have all the facts. Is all I'm saying.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. <b>Death by fiery plane crash.</b> I'm a bad flier. I like airports. I like the process of flying. But being on the plane, 50,000 feet in the air hurtling through time and space? So so BAD at that. If you're on the plane with me, outwardly I look nonchalant and calm: I am reading, I am resting, I am doing whatever. But inwardly, I'm listening for every single weird sound and nervously watching the flight attendants for signs of fright. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want to travel overseas to visit all of Europe and the Australian continent one day. But I'll be honest: I'm going to need a lot of sleep drugs to get me over the Atlantic, and enough to kill a baby elephant to get across the Pacific. The worst things in the world for me are articles (WITH PICTURES) of what happens to people when they're tossed and smashed onto the ground from a plane 50,000 feet in the air death spiraling downward. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. <b>Terrorists</b>. Terrorism, I'm learning as I grow up, comes in many different forms. Terrorists can be the scary guys who abuse and misuse a religion to further their political agendas and blow up other people or ram planes into skyscrapers. Or they can be that neighbor across the street who stands in the middle of the road at 5 AM shooting at squirrels while laughing maniacally and muttering about his ex-wife. They can be a stranger driving in a car in the lane next to you, or someone you once loved a lot behaving in really scary, confusing ways. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And, I'm learning as I grow up, the only way to drive out fear is through love. In my experience, true Love is gentle and kind. It doesn't try to control anyone. It doesn't make demands or use shaming or manipulation to get people to do what it wants; those are terrorism tactics. Love just is. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a lot of love in my life - I have a mom who knows how to make great spaghetti, friends I can meet for dinner and coffee/wine dates who totally get me, a sister-in-law who's more sister than in-law, a brother who makes me laugh and laugh, a niece and nephew who make my heart ridiculously happy, a little girl who's growing up into a really lovely if-a-little-indignant person, and just...I know so many people who are full of support and love. I cannot tell you how quickly someone's support and love can relax your scariest scares. If you are not surrounded by people who are gentle, supportive, and understand how real Love works, please find you some. I would offer to be that person for you, but I'm on the need-to-receive end right now...I'll let you know when I'm back in the ready-to-give end. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If it's really real, true love is gentle and kind and undemanding. And I'm pretty sure terrorists don't know how it works, which is why they're terrorists. I'm reading PETER PAN to my class right now, and Captain Hook is filling up my brain - there was a character who craved love but had no idea what it really was. But dolphins have an idea. And most moms understand it. And Jason Hawes gets it. Journalists publishing horrific plane crash pictures don't get it, but that's because Love doesn't sell magazines and newspapers. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the next several weeks and months, I'm going to really focus on ignoring scary pictures/news articles, terrorists, sharks, and staying away from reality TV shows unless they're about ghosts (and Jason Hawes is the host). </span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-19481101821023548262015-10-22T20:55:00.002-04:002015-10-22T21:28:43.640-04:0030 Day Writing Challenge #1: weird traits.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPQccOkzUBiM6eyN0WKmPbdO1uNis4W5WtqqCZV6I4-5FNSW1c3HlUSatUhQIVFeVZJuKVON8HFdAXq6-_ighPLhGIbduW8_PfhuZE2hZhvjsMyHb0UogDN41NjyjjdG3d0xqFFPNsDWJ/s1600/30+day+challenge.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPQccOkzUBiM6eyN0WKmPbdO1uNis4W5WtqqCZV6I4-5FNSW1c3HlUSatUhQIVFeVZJuKVON8HFdAXq6-_ighPLhGIbduW8_PfhuZE2hZhvjsMyHb0UogDN41NjyjjdG3d0xqFFPNsDWJ/s400/30+day+challenge.png" width="343" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Miss M is at her dad's for the week...I have laminating to cut out and grading to do, but I have just spent $100 on sparkly shit at Justice for a certain big girl's birthday present next week. Now I don't feel like doing any of that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead, I'm starting the Thirty Day Writing Challenge, wherein I pick a topic from this picture I stumbled upon on the Internet and write about it. I could go in order numbers 1-30, but that feels like following rules. And I don't follow rules. I make up my OWN constitutional by laws. I'm a renegade, a runaway rogue, a loose cannon rolling down a hill. Take your rules and stick 'em where the sun don't shine, Mr. Man. Rules are for <i>fools</i>, tools. (Okay. I'm done now.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's what I'm writing about today: #25 - Four Weird Traits I Have.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know. I KNOW!! Listen: it was reeeeealllly hard to narrow it down to JUST four. But I did it:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. I talk to myself. Sometimes? I answer too. But as myself. Don't judge. I can sense you're judging me. I do not care. Because look - me and myself have some really great conversations, true heart to hearts. I am my own best pep talker, my very best psychotherapist. And I can be refreshingly honest and frank with myself when I'm in tough situations. And I'm always super super supportive of me when someone's been mean to me - <i>that asshole! You're GREAT, Amy-self!</i> <i>They're totally jealous because they know they suck</i>. And me and myself are just awesome excuse makers/partners in crime AND! We're hysterically funny comediennes - we make us laugh all the time. At really inappropriate things.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But sometimes, when I'm really sad, I'm really NOT the right person for myself to hang out with. Me and myself can really envision the entire planet in its soon-to-be apocalyptic state, zombies eating our face and everything, and we just want to crawl under the covers and stay there for 9 million weeks. That's when I turn on <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RPZsdeUIpM" target="_blank">Damien Rice's song AMIE</a>,</b> and pretend he wrote it for me but accidentally misspelled my name. (I will forgive Damien Rice a billion things, just because he sings my name out loud.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But when me and myself are in the car? We are THE best drivers on the road. And we make sure all the other drivers and themselves know it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. I'm pretty much a walking dichotomy. Like, I'm a feminist...who likes to be dominated. And I don't do romance, but if you show up with one of my favorite kinds of flowers just because, my heart pretty much melts. And I'm not really much of a risk taker...but I crave adventure. And I can fall asleep so easy - I've literally fallen asleep on people...but I can't stay there; I wake up and can't go back to sleep. I have infinite patience for people who are 12 and younger, ZERO patience for people who are 13+. And I absolutely believe in magic...but yay Science. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm all about the yin to my yang. (I think that's actually who's talking to each other every day: my yin and my yang.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. Long lines freak me the hell out, and I would rather turn right and then do a U turn than try to wait for the perfect opening to turn against traffic during rush hour. I will also travel 50 miles out of my way if it means not having to sit in a traffic jam; I am always looking for an escape route. (I think that last phrase is really paramount to #3: I AM ALWAYS LOOKING FOR AN ESCAPE ROUTE.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. I live for the eccentric. The more eccentric the better. I like to talk to eccentric people and listen to their weird takes on life. I like being around people with 10,000 tattoos on them, because I know every single tattoo has a story to it, and I want to hear every single one of them. People with facial piercings fascinate me. People who live off the grid on purpose fascinate me. People who think they're real witches and vampires fascinate me. I once took a writing class with a man who swore he could talk to animals (no, really - like if he got in the ocean with whales, he knew whale song...he chirped at birds and oinked at pigs and stuff)...he was my absolute favorite in the whole class (until he revealed himself to be a raging chauvinist, but that's a different blog post). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anybody who doesn't live under the culture-at-large's social norms fascinate me. I think it's because I kinda sorta want to join them, but I'm too boringly normal (other than, you know, I guess having philosophical conversations with myself). So thank god for vicarious living, and quirky character traits. </span><br />
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<br />Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-15698997268324983772015-10-21T21:03:00.001-04:002015-11-02T21:32:09.866-05:00hi, internet. (are we still friends?)<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Oh hai Internet. It's me, Amy. How have YOU been? I've been...okay. Hey, remember that last time I was here and <a href="http://amywritesthingsfromherbrain.blogspot.com/2015/10/no-and-you-win.html" target="_blank"><b>I went off the handle</b></a> (in genuinely real, sheer terror I will add in my defense) and said I was done blogging for awhile? And then I came back and deleted the blog post I wrote in response to it? And then I re-posted it because I decided it mattered enough? And then I deleted again because the problem kinda/sorta was resolved? And just now I re-posted it because whatever. It was where I was at at the time, and sometimes I like to review this blog to see where I was at at certain times. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Yeah about that...I am no longer in sheer terror. What I am right now is hypervigilant, but no longer terrified. Things were straightened out (mostly), and I am moving forward. ONWARD. I have to write; if I'm not writing...SOMETHING...I am not okay. I am just not. I am not. And this blog helps me get a lot of my ick and strangeness out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I saw a great idea in my Facebook news feed I'm going to try here, just to give me something to talk about other than ick...at some point this week. Thirty Days of Writing. Don't even have to come up with the topic; they are already outlined for me. I'm going to try it. It may take me 60 or 90 days, depending on my free time issues, but I get to give my opinion 30 times (YAY!) and you get to read it, 30 times (or 300 times, if you want to come back and re-digest my incoherent rambles) (YAY AGAIN!). I bet you guys are very very excited and cannot WAIT for it.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKruPFb19L5P6obOuZpfPS_F5eSXILKuOR5KUBDTBzzaw9VJTijdbPpvHxWYIOjJ2V6ELw5a16DkWL8nf-WaPkx5pTO77KhkYq2t3ByHdg9_P61NQjpb4W65sVFktFGX-kpyDvPtzlC1H/s1600/30+day+challenge.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEKruPFb19L5P6obOuZpfPS_F5eSXILKuOR5KUBDTBzzaw9VJTijdbPpvHxWYIOjJ2V6ELw5a16DkWL8nf-WaPkx5pTO77KhkYq2t3ByHdg9_P61NQjpb4W65sVFktFGX-kpyDvPtzlC1H/s400/30+day+challenge.png" width="342" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I do love a good challenge. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Yesterday, I got 2 Needs Developments on an 10 minute evaluation. My small group lesson was fine - I got 2 Proficients for that. But my darlings at centers were off task. And by off task, I don't just mean not really focusing. I mean: literally behaving like monkeys - throwing letter tiles at each other and playing, actually playing. As in not looking like they were hard at work. (Play? PLAY??? Who has time for THAT kinda learning nowadays, silly goose!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In their (and my) defense: we'd<i> just </i>finished the 2nd day (out of 5 days) of our 3rd standardized test in a row. So they were a little spunky coming down off the test stress high, and quite frankly I don't blame them. And I am too exhausted, after giving 3 standardized tests in a row, to really care to manage their pinging spunk right now. And plus also there might have been a full moon and NO Scientists I don't care if that's folklore or not. You come do what I do on a full moon day and try to tell me it's not real.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And all this data and negative feedback is making me feel like a really, really, really crappy teacher. Clearly, I have chosen the wrong profession. Ten years ago, I was in the right profession. Ten years later, I suck at it. No, no. I know you're protesting, and you're going to tell me I'm a great teacher...it's just the times. Well, the times are warranting data success, and children working busily at all times, and teachers keeping up with mounds of paperwork and data and deadlines and due dates and meetings and technology and materials and testing...and I suck at all of this. I like to read and write and tell stories. All that other crap? Pfffft.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So I'm going to give my opinion about this Needs Development thing, and I don't care whether I get fired or not for saying it out loud (Mom, clear some space in your basement, please): I don't mind getting Needs Development. When it's for something I need developing in. Because I'll just be honest and tell you that I simply don't understand how to do the Workshop Model of things. I get the overall concept; I don't understand how to manage it or what it looks like. I need someone to actually hold my hand and walk me through this. For one whole school year. Because this is what they want in Public Education nowadays: Workshopping. Everything. I understand how a Writer's Workshop works for adults; I do not understand how to make it work for little kids. I have asked for staff development on it; what I am told is to find an Instructional Coach and have them tell me, or someone from higher up comes in and, in a mere 45 minutes or so, attempts to throw at me an entire semester's worth of information. Meanwhile, I have 100,000 papers to grade or turn in to someone, and about 3,000 other things that are due. And 5 meetings to attend. And a bunch of data to enter somewhere. And my classroom's a mess.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In public education, we are taught to teach like this: I do, we do, you do. This is how most (normal) human beings learn - I do, we do, you do. In other words: I teach, then we practice it together, then I release and you have a go. Hands on practice. Sometimes your results are really bad, and so we go practice again. Other times, you fly. And the more you practice, the better you get. Teaching 101. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I do not understand why or how people running schools these days don't get this concept and do it with the adults they are in charge of. I am in charge of children. They are in charge of me. And we are ALL learners. Life Classroom. How do they not understand how people, regardless of age, learn?? (Possibly because 90% have never actually taught. But that's just one theory I've got.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I just want to be able to see what they want me to do in a real classroom setting. But with kids who come from backgrounds <i>my</i> kids come from. This is all I want. Hands on training. Can I get some hands on training? Teaching is a craft, and I need to learn from some masters who are actually in charge of real classrooms and real children, who are doing the craft of teaching every single day. This is all I want. I'm actually terrified to go to another school right now, because professionally I feel undeveloped and I don't know how the heck to develop myself without some support I feel safe asking for. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But you know, whatever. It's cool. I'll take the Needs Development, and I'll revamp and find something that works for me - I always do. Plus, I'm going to have some help. Today I let my sweet loves know: Y'all got me a couple of Cs on my report card. They were bereft and sorry. And really impressed I prefer to get As and Bs (not all of them really care that much, and I don't blame them one bit...you don't HAVE to be an overachiever to be happy in life. In fact, most overachievers are utterly miserable). And so they promised me: the next time an adult walks in our room with a clipboard or a notebook, they are going to SNAP TO and look very very serious and busy. My little co-conspirators. I do love them so. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Also, I told them if I get all As and Bs on my next evaluation, I'll bring them cupcakes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is what Life is all about, sweet Reader(s). Teamwork. Dodging The Man. Making amends. Being real. Having each other's back. (I've run out of cliches. If I think of more, I'll come back and add them.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As a slightly related side note, today I got to have a pumpkin spice latte with two sweet, dear friends who get how crazy Life is, and I was reminded that what I REALLY need to do when I'm down and out is put on some Damien Rice music. My one friend observed that whenever I am sad, I seem to listen to Damien Rice. He's my sad jams. (I'm actually not listening to Damien Rice right now, though. I am listening to Ed Sheeran. Ed Sheeran must be my Fuck This Ridiculous Shit jams.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">See you in a couple of days (or so) with the first of 30 inane thoughts. (Possibly from my mom's basement.)</span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-2505572831771341432015-10-18T18:07:00.000-04:002015-11-25T02:29:18.111-05:00NO (and you win.)<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I deleted this earlier, because it is a form of contact and that is what the individual wants. But I am going to repost it, because I have had to make my Twitter and Instagram accounts private, and at this point, I am now literally terrified. Happy early Halloween to me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And so I'm going to post this, and then I'm going to stop blogging for awhile. I am not sure how long. You win, scary guys. You win. I'm going to go write some stories instead. Catch up on some reading. Really do some deep cleaning and stuff. Keep all my doors and windows locked. And I just had a really intense Stranger Danger talk with my daughter today. Thanks so much for putting us through all that. Happy now? You win.</span><br />
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I am not advertising this post. I am posting it (in addition to the 40 goals post I just posted and DID advertise) because I have reached a limit and need to say something. It is the only and last time I will speak about this publicly and then I am moving on and pretending like this never happened.</i></span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">I have broken someone's heart. I never, ever want to be the source of pain for another human being. I feel tremendously bad and guilty about having to do this. But I am also going to be very firm and protective of myself, because the person is not well and I can't help them. At some point, you have to be kind and loving to yourself, and hope and pray the other person will find a way to be kind and loving to themselves as well. But for you, moving on is the best and only choice.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">Can we talk about the word NO for a second?</span><br />
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Dear Men of Planet Earth:</i></div>
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></i></div>
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">When a woman says NO, she does not mean NO (not now) or NO (maybe later) or NO (unless you manipulate my heart strings). She means NO. NO because you scared me. NO because it was abusive. NO because it is over. NO because I don't want to. </i></div>
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></i></div>
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">When you hear a woman tell you NO and you continue to try to change her mind, or ignore it when she says NO LEAVE ME ALONE, you are being abusive. And you are scaring her. Please stop doing this, men of planet Earth. Please stop. Please stop.</i></div>
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></i></div>
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Sincerely,</i></div>
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<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Women of Planet Earth</i></div>
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">Several months ago, I wrote here about going to see<i style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"> Mama Mia</i> at the Fox Theatre. I got lost and parked too far away from the theatre. Then I got lost trying to walk to the theatre. A lone man saw me walking and tried to talk to me. When I ignored him (said NO) and kept walking, he continued to try to talk to me and started following me. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">I'm sure, when I wrote about it here, I was very jokey jokey about it. It's what I do when I'm feeling uncomfortable or awkward: crack jokes. Total defense mechanism. So I don't know that I did a good job communicating how very terrifying that experience was, actually. I remember I got my car keys out and held them between my fingers, because I've read you can do that - you can use your car keys as sort of daggers like that. If you have to. And I remember trying to remember about all the soft points I've heard about - like, how you're supposed to punch up and then in, on someone's nose - it'll break their nose and then the upward movement will send shattered bone into their skull, killing them. If you have to. I remember thinking about all of those Self Defense techniques that I've read or heard about, walking through sketchy Midtown Atlanta with a strange man following me, continuing to try to get me to stop and talk to him. All the way, until I ran into a female police officer and was able to get directions and there were other people around. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" />The world can be a terrifying place, if you're a woman.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">Listen. I really like men. I like men who are bigger than me, who can wrap me in their arms. And I like this (I think) because there's probably a little bit of a need for danger in my psyche (though I'm terrified of heights and sharks and death by fiery plane crash)...so when a man who's bigger than me wraps me in his arms, I think it's this psychological thing where I know he could hurt me but I also trust him that he won't, and so strangely I feel endangered but really safe. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">Isn't that weird psychology? I think that's weird psychology. I'm a feminist who likes to be dominated. Is what I'm telling you.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">And this extends to mentally as well. I like men who are confident and bold - I don't mind a man telling me how many different ways he wants to fuck me as long as I know (A) he's not going to abscond on me if that ever does happen, (B) he's earned my trust and proven to me he's not a mentally unstable individual with emotional issues, (C) he's not a selfish prick, and (D) if I say NO, he'll stop immediately. And also: keep it classy. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">All of this only works with a man I absolutely, completely trust. If it's a strange man I don't know, well then. We're talking horror movie-like levels of terror. And if it's a man I think I know but who's proven several times he's not trustworthy, then that's a deal breaker. I have to know I can trust someone before I let them all the way in. If I've let them all the way in, and they suddenly begin showing me why that was a mistake on my part, then I say NO. And the door is quietly shut closed, locked, key thrown away. I think that's just normal, good, sound common sense. For any woman.</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">At any rate. My point is: men are (usually) bigger and stronger than women. You are more powerful, physically, and there is also a psychological aspect to your power that you need to be conscious of, at all times. When a woman says NO, it's the end. It is over. It doesn't matter what she said 2 hours, minutes, or seconds ago. As soon as that word NO leaves her mouth, the end. Stop. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;"><br style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);" /></span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; color: #333332; font-family: "slab serif" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 26.25px;">That's all I'm going to say about this. It is not a funny post. It is not a reflective post. It's a If You're a Man and a Woman Says NO and You Don't Stop, Then What You Are Doing Is NOT OKAY and Wrong post. </span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-5339671035429955002015-10-18T08:24:00.004-04:002015-10-18T09:17:34.457-04:0040 goals: revisited.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64rRBRzL6kqiCpbA0ujRvip2kkRo06wegyDSwoRj-zNRYwhLod4c3OJqElPg8IPbr-eS9L8uw2-ZKeiF2cfphWbhMDzY7B38Y390i9f_ZTxh69aLYGXRxIc3uPquXx5z752qlt4jpsD1_/s1600/sanity-list.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64rRBRzL6kqiCpbA0ujRvip2kkRo06wegyDSwoRj-zNRYwhLod4c3OJqElPg8IPbr-eS9L8uw2-ZKeiF2cfphWbhMDzY7B38Y390i9f_ZTxh69aLYGXRxIc3uPquXx5z752qlt4jpsD1_/s400/sanity-list.jpg" width="370" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was reviewing, the other day, a list of <a href="http://amywritesthingsfromherbrain.blogspot.com/2015/01/40-goals.html" target="_blank">40 goals</a> I set for myself in January that I was going to meet in 2015. We're about 2 months or so away from the end of 2015, and I thought maybe now would be a good time to start getting it all in. (This is how I do everything, by the way: wait until the last minute - I work on deadline. With EVERYTHING...laundry, returning phone calls, bills, grading papers, making dinner, getting ready for house guests, leaving to meet friends for dinner...EVERY. Thing.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lands, Internet. Per my usual, I am behind. So I'm re-posting the entire list, with commentary about how that's worked out for me. (This is more for me than for you, by the way. I think it's about time I start getting my ass in gear and re-focusing. Meanwhile, you're welcome to be entertained by my tragic inability to consistently be all that I can be.) </span><br />
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<u><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">THE LIST</span></span></b></u></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">1. See (in a theater) 5 movies that do not involve cartoons, singing animals, or princesses of any kind. <span style="color: purple;"><b>I have no idea how many movies I've seen in the theater. I know the last movie I saw was animated (<i>Hotel Transylvania 2</i>, wait for the DVD). I think I've seen 3 movies that are for grown ups. After work this week, I'm taking myself to see <i>Crimson Peak</i>, because Jessica Chastain and Victorian ghosts. So that'll be 4. I have two more months to get the last one in. I'm going to put this in the I (Almost!) Did It! category.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">2. Write 1 book review, and try to take it seriously.<span style="color: purple;"> <b>Nope. But there's still time!</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">3. Write 1 movie review, and try to take it seriously.<span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. But there's still time!</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">4. Go back to the </span><b style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;"><a href="http://www.atlantahistorycenter.com/mmh" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Margaret Mitchell House</a> </b><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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.) <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope! And it's the Margaret Mitchell House's fault. I haven't seen an ad for one person I'd want to hear talk. So I'm putting this in the There's Still Time But It's Not My Fault category</b>.</span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope! But there's still time. I did try to read some erotica on the Internet. Internet erotica is crap, lowest common denominator crap. I would like to be a bit classier with my smut, I guess? I'm working on it. I think, right now, my plan is to write a short story or two and put them on amazon.com even though I think amazon.com is kind of diabolical. You have to start somewhere. With your classy smut.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Going to count <i>Crimson Peak</i> as my horror movie this week, and check this one off as DONE!</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">7. I'm going to write 1 short story and submit it somewhere legit. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope! But there's still time. (Does self-submitting to amazon.com and wattpad.com count? If so, DONE!) </b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">8. I'm going to take a weekend away for myself, and do nothing but write. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. But there's still time! (If I can find the money.)</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">9. I'm going to start a writer website. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. This may go into the FAILED category. Websites cost money.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">10. With a logo. <span style="color: purple;"><b>See #9.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">11. On May 2, 2015, I'm going to shop at one (or five) local, independent bookstores. Apparently, this is now a thing: </span><a href="https://twitter.com/bookstoreday" style="background-color: white; color: #2288bb; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><b>National Bookstore Day</b></a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">. <span style="color: purple;"><b>FAIL. I don't even remember May 2, 2015 getting here. Was there a May 2, 2015? I'm sure I was distracted and/or in tears, mourning my life.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">12. I'm going to start trying to interacting with more bloggers--writers and non-writers. <span style="color: purple;"><b>I think I did this. I think. Mostly? Somewhat. </b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">13. And I'm going to start trying to guest blog and host guest bloggers here. (Wanna write with me??) <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. Maybe in 2016.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. Maybe in 2016.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">15. I will look into becoming a Huffington Post occasional blogger. Because why not? <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. Maybe in 2016. (Really, I think my issue with this is that I could send them some of the entries from this blog, but this blog has devolved into little more than a whole bunch of whiny, theatrical navel-gazing. And so I feel like I need to either start a DIFFERENT blog, one in which really just focuses on one kind of topic and stays there...and ha, we all know how that'll go...or re-focus this blog, send HuffPo something then cross my fingers and pray like crazy anyone who clicks over here doesn't start snooping around to see what else I've been writing about.)</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">16. I will join some type of writers' association. <span style="color: purple;"><b>HA! I don't have time to go mingle at writer's association meetings. I must have been on crack when I added this to the list.</b></span></span><b><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /></b><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">17. I'm going to enter one (or more) piece/s of writing into a contest. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Maybe in 2016.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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.) <span style="color: purple;"><b>DING DING DING!!! I did this! I have totally returned aaaallll of my public library books on time. But then again, I sort of didn't do this, because one reason I returned all the library books on time was because Miss M and I didn't really go to the public library this summer, so there were no library books to return.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">19. I'm going to interact more with more published, established writers (famous and not so famous) on Twitter. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Sorta kinda, yes. I made some new writer friends, so I'm counting it as a success.</b></span></span><b><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /></b><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">20. This summer, I'm going to commit to a minimum of 500 words of writing per day. June-July. Every day. <span style="color: purple;"><b>sigh. No, Internet. This was a FAIL. And it's the worst fail of all on this list. I had one job. ONE JOB. But I let extraneous bullshit derail me. Like ALL THE TIME. Crap.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">21. I'm going to go on a writer's retreat. You know where I'd really like to go? </span><a href="https://hedgebrook.org/" style="background-color: white; color: #2288bb; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><b>THIS</b></a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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.) <span style="color: purple;"><b>No. I did not do this. This will be a 2016 goal. Because money.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">22. I'm going to find a website that's content driven and apply to write for them (I know, I KNOW!</span><b style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;"> <a href="http://amywritesthingsfromherbrain.blogspot.com/2015/01/rainbows-of-neuroticism.html" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">I just wrote about what a snore bore content driven stuff is</a></b><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">...but it's part of my building my published works scheme and there seems to be no way around it). <span style="color: purple;"><b>Fail. But because I've changed my mind about this. I don't want to write content driven crap for advertisers and businesses on the Internet. Saying NO to The Man on this one.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">23. I'm going to find an online writing community to join. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Do they have these? I'm going to change my mind on this. If I can barely find time to write 500 words per day, I don't have time to hang out online talking about writing and not actually writing with other people who are talking about writing and not actually writing. </b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">24. And an offline community. <span style="color: purple;"><b>See #16 and #23.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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 (</span><b style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;"><a href="http://awwproject.org/" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">awwproject.org)</a> </b><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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?) <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. But there's still time! AND! The AWW Project follows me on Twitter now. I really love them and what they do. Thank you, Jason Isaacs, for introducing me to their existence.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">26. I'm going to randomly leave some books I loved reading in various locations, like coffee shops. Just to share my book love. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope, because I totally forgot I said I'd do this. There's still time! </b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">27. I'm going to promote the crap out of other storytellers, in as many ways as I can. <span style="color: purple;"><b>I think I successfully did this, when I wrote and wrote and wrote and researched and researched and researched the TV show DIG. If that's not promotion, I don't know what is. And I still do it on Twitter, whenever I find a storyteller I think really rocks it.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Money. Money is always going to be an issue with this. I may just have to take her to The Margaret Mitchell House and call it a day.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. Because I have no idea (A) how to do it, (B) where these take place, or (C) any ideas.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">30. I'm also going to participate in artsy-oriented twitups, which are like meetups but on Twitter. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. Because I have no idea when/where these twitups take place. But there's still time!</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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.) <span style="color: purple;"><b>Again, with the money thing. (At this point, I'm starting to see a pattern - are you? <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZFQlSOoXRI" target="_blank">this song is what's going through my brain</a>.</i> Hope it sticks in your brain now, too. You're welcome!)</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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.<b> <span style="color: purple;">I wish you could see how hard I'm laughing at me right now: clearly my 2015 theme was: Champagne Goals, Beer Budget.</span></b></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">33. I'm going to create a vision board/s for a story/many stories I want to write.<b> <span style="color: purple;">I love vision boards. Why don't I do these all the time, for everything? Putting this in the There's Still Time! category.</span></b></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">34. I'm going to see at least 5 plays. In real theatres. With actors and stages and...and...</span><i style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">everything. </i><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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.) <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. There's still time, but not for 5 of these. Can I revise it to just one? Maybe 1 play in a theatre, before December 31. A cheap play. Or on a date with a rich man who pays for everything. Since it's a rich man's world. </b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;"><span style="color: purple;"><b><i>Edit: my sister-in-law just reminded me I saw a high school production of The Wizard of Oz earlier this year. But of course! Okay, I'm counting that as 1 live theatre play. Now I'll try to see 1 more live theatre production.</i></b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">35. A lovely writer who taught me in two writing classes has a writing business now called </span><a href="http://www.storybuildingseries.com/under-over-on/" style="background-color: white; color: #2288bb; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><b>Under Over On</b></a><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">. 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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>Nope. And this is a time issue, in that I've had Miss M on all the weekends. (How did THAT happen? Weekends are prime time...we're going to adjust that schedule.)</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">36. I'm going to take Miss M on a MARTA ride. Because character fodder. And it'll get her out of the house. <span style="color: purple;"><b>I can do this! I totally forgot I said I was going to do this, and this is a super easy and cheap goal I can totally do before December 31 gets here. There's still time!</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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.) <span style="color: purple;"><b>Well, I've done a lot of wine tasting myself. And had a lot of dramatics. Just nothing formal, in a classroom. Will stick this in the Revisit in 2016 category.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>I'd have needed to find a FREE online class. Most people want like $350 per class to distribute information I bet I could locate online myself. And that makes me smell suspicious charlatan.</b></span></span><b><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /></b><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>I have a meetup.com account. The problem with this is (A) time - coordinating when I will and won't have Miss M, and (B) finding a group that seems like it'll fit me. I may have to start my own, but meetup.com wants money. Money, money, money...it's a rich man's world.</b></span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;">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. <span style="color: purple;"><b>I did this! Does reading a Mary Oliver poem count? I will write a poem and read it out loud on YouTube. Or read the one decent poem I've written. Or the poem about my brother I wrote decades ago, which will embarrass him (win win!). I can totally do that, before Halloween even gets here.</b></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Consolas; font-size: 17.6px; line-height: 24.64px;"><span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-59011741008479746582015-10-15T23:34:00.003-04:002015-11-25T02:29:33.976-05:00sing your song.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSZxmZmBfnU" target="_blank">L. Frank Baum would be proud</a>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's been a weird week of twisty, fucked up turns. I'll be honest: I've had the holy living shit scared out of me, and the experience turned me weird and skittish - quite frankly, I'm not sure who to trust right now. I <i>am</i> still trusting in people to do the right thing, but on a constant, contingency plan basis. Waiting for the other shoe to drop and somebody to take off a mask and reveal the Scream guy underneath. And we've still got about 2 weeks till Halloween. Maybe it's just this month. Maybe in November, the month of Gratitude, the feels will be on nicer things. And in December, the month of Light, they'll center around hope and spirit. (Kumbayah, my mofos.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But this last week. Jesus god. Holy nefarious, Batman. At this point, I completely get why (for example) on Twitter well-known people not only get to get themselves a little blue check but often also refuse to interact with other Internet people on a regular basis. It's dicey out there, sweet Reader(s). Live your lives, but don't let anybody in too far until they really, truly prove to you who they are and exactly why they want to know you and what their intentions are.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">For someone who got to deal with a crazy Internet stalker 10 years ago, I've been pretty open to people and fairly unafraid to be real on this blog...I try to use my best judgment on what to tell you, how much to share, and how to do it in a way that won't land me on the 5 o'clock news or in court. I have regularly opened myself up here to judgment, scrutiny, mocking, enemies disguised as friends/friends disguised as enemies, the mentally unstable and the absolutely disturbed, and all the ass crazy, fucked up Internet stalkers planet Earth has to offer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Because I refuse (REFUSE) to be forced into silence. I will NOT live my life in fear, though I do regularly make sure all my doors and windows are locked and all my important accounts have secure passwords. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I just think all the stress and freaked out moments are worth it in the end if something I say or share connects to or helps someone else out there. We are a storytelling species; I don't know any other way to be and quite frankly if I'm NOT writing or telling my stories, I'm very serious: I'm not okay. So I come here to tell stories, my stories, and whoever decides to stop by can read about what's going on in my life if they're interested, as well as how I'm dealing with all of it and the thought processes - however messy or all over the place dysfunctional - that are sorting it all out in my brain. I put it all out there knowing whoever stumbles upon me and my writing can judge me, hate me, love me, (mis)understand me, or find me ridiculous and pointless and go get some fresh air. I think Humanity is a big, stinkin' mess. And I like it like that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That's the whole point of blogs, and writing. Vent your spleen. Be openly ridiculous. Haphazardly joyful. Live freely. Ask for help. Plead for mercy. Try your hand at comedy writing. Be dramatic. Write down some of your own little soap operas. Make mistakes. Make friends. Make enemies. Earn fans, score haters. Gain stalkers. ...All of that. Isn't Life one big, glorious chaotic mess? I do love it with all of me, even the moments that find me sobbing uncontrollably in a fetal position clutching an empty tub of Sea Salt caramel gelato and/or a half-empty bottle of wine. I don't like them as I'm working through them, but when they're over I appreciate them for the spiritual muscle-building moments they are.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And if you - like me - are an expressive creative and so inclined, you can live it all out loud on a blog and occasionally social media if you can be concise. It's why Al Gore made the Internet, sweet people...He did it for all of <i>us.</i> (Blessed be his name.) (Where IS Al, by the way? I hope he's well and busy at work creating the next big thing that will guide us all to more navel gazing and the leaving of sociopathic-level comments in comments sections of online news blog articles, comments that clearly indicate we didn't even read the whole article because who has time for reason when psycho judging is so much fun?) (Sorry...I was reading some comments sections of education articles on HuffPost earlier today and lands, fellow Internet users. Logic is your friend, use it.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">...Though I've heard some people start blogs to earn money and/or gain notoriety and fame. Which is not why I started this blog. Because you have to get enough readers (which I do not).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So. Whoever wants to can come here and read, judge or not judge, like or dislike me, wish good things for me or cast curses upon me and all my descendants. Doesn't bother me, because ultimately I'm going to keep on keeping on. I've spent a long, loooong time working hard to figure out what matters most to me and who I am. I know myself. I know my quirks, I know my pathologies, I know where I usually flunk at Life and where I tend to soar. At the end of the day, I'm a nice person; I am who and what I say I am no matter what you decide to think. If someone wants to hurt me or hate me or wish me ill because they didn't like something I said or did or whatever their reason/s, that says more about them than it ever will about me. You shall not destroy my faith in Humanity's ultimate goodness or the power of connection via storytelling. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(That all sounds very dramatic and cryptic, I'm sorry. But it's how I'm doing things right now. Dramatic and cryptic.) (We are now in Phase 3 of Amy's Big Life Changes, FYI.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Can I tell you a story that I love a lot? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There are a people in Namibia, on the continent of Africa, called the Himba. The Himba believe a person's birthday isn't the day they're born or even the moment they're conceived. When a Himba woman decides she wants to have a baby, she goes away from the village and sits under a tree (or wherever she will not be eaten by a lion). She doesn't move or leave that spot until she hears her baby's song. Once she knows the song, she goes back to the village and to the man who'll be the baby's father. She teaches him the song, and they make love, singing the baby's song until it's created. And even after that, they sing the song to the fetus as it grows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When the baby is born, everyone who helps bring that baby into the world sings the song. As a Himba child grows up, people in the village constantly sing the child's song to him/her - if they fall down, they are picked up and their song is sung. When they get sick or scared, someone sings them their song. As they grow, they constantly hear their song - through every milestone, every rite of passage, every sickness, every celebration, every sad moment, every happy moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And, as a Himba tribe member lays dying, every person in the village who knows their song will come to their side to sing it to them as they leave the world. So, in Himba culture, your song is sung to you at every moment, from the time before you are even conceived, to the moment you take your first breath, to the moment you take your last. And even after you are gone, those who remember you will sing your song. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Another time the Himba sing someone's song is when a tribe member does something that upsets the balance. If a member of the tribe steals something, hurts someone, or violates any other societal norm, they are brought to the center of the village and everyone who knows that person's song stands around them in a circle and sings it to them over and over, until they are brought to their knees in repentance. Because the Himba don't believe in good or bad, sin or salvation. They believe that, when we do bad things, it isn't because of a God or a Devil or because people are bad or good. It's because they believe that when people do bad things or make poor choices, it's because they've forgotten their song. Because their songs are who they are; their songs are their souls. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You are your song, your song is you. What's your song? Mine is <i>Somewhere Over the Rainbow</i>. It defines me, it has been with me for a very, very long time, it is almost a part of who I am. I chose it for myself when I was seven, from the moment I first saw Judy Garland sing it on my family's 1970s television. I was spellbound and it was stamped on my soul for life. When I hear it, all of the happiness and goodness from my childhood wrap me up and make me feel safe and hopeful and loved and warm. Any version of it - the original movie version, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z26BvHOD_sg" target="_blank">Israel kamakawiwo'ole's </a>version of it, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rBsAmx_bl_o" target="_blank">The Ramones'</a> punk version, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZKCZh5HPVk" target="_blank">Jimi Hendrix's</a> rock star god take, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Up6xS_BiOfY" target="_blank">Ray Charles's</a> blues-y interpretation. When I hear that song, no matter what box it's wrapped up in, I feel love. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You know what's really interesting to me? The Wicked Witch doesn't have a song. She's the only main character in the movie who doesn't get a song. I think that's kind of important, for some reason. If you don't have a song, you ought to think about maybe finding you one. I asked Miss M the other day what she thinks her song is and, after dealing with a lot silly flippancy and ridiculousness and one gigantic emotional power struggle meltdown, she decided she liked <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGYAAsHT4QE" target="_blank">Three Little Birds</a>. Good choice, though I do not anticipate this sticking as her song...I bet she's going to finally end up with Madonna's <i>Bitch I'm Madonna</i> featuring Nicki Minaj which she likes to watch on YouTube over and over until I have to beg her to switch it to Katy Perry or One Direction. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At any rate. Stories matter. Not living your life in fear matters. Being real matters. Being kind matters. Being careful and protective of yourself also matters, too. Staying open matters. But so does quietly closing a door if you discover you've opened it to something unsafe. And songs matter. So go get you a song if you don't have one, and sing it or listen to it sung to you whenever you need to feel safe or loved or remember Who You Are. Don't forget that Wicked Witches never win, and that a single, well-placed kiss and a comfy pair of sparkly red shoes can have more power over all the fucked up evil in the world than the entire nuclear arsenals of all the countries in the world. Or that sometimes all it takes is choosing a good song that speaks to your soul to remind you who you are and why you're here. It's all good, because we are Music. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Unless you're a Wicked Witch. (But this a water-y planet, sooo...we'll see how that works out for you.)</span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-28244010153100973642015-10-11T20:19:00.003-04:002015-11-25T02:29:42.859-05:003 beautiful things.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It has been a weird, sad day Internet. My home feels happy (except for the potato chip crumbs Miss M has left all over the floor, and the markers and the electric outlet plate she miraculously chipped a giant piece off of this morning with her 6 year old thigh of steel). I fixed my bedroom curtain rod (until it unfixes itself). I have cleaned and done laundry. I have called the apartment complex and had them fix my air conditioner leak for the 2nd time since moving in, and now the bedroom carpet can dry again and be re-padded for the second time, and I can hope and pray there will be no molding issues (they did spray something). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is my safe and sacred space, and I think I am going to buy some sage from amazon.com and smudge all the negativity out. I only want peace and love and happiness to be here with the falling curtain rods, chipped outlet plates, leaky air conditioning unit, re-padded a million times bedroom carpet, and random art materials strewn everywhere. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But I have spent today very sad. Distressed, worried, and sad. And discombobulated. And yet blessed and grateful. And very very detached from it all, yet sad. I am all over the place, emotionally. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So Miss M and I went to Starbucks and then my 2nd favorite outdoors space. I'd have gone to my 1st favorite one, but it doesn't have a playground and my 6 year old doesn't enjoy long hikes. I went there today because (1) I'd been on a phone or a laptop all day...literally, from like 9 AM to 2:30 PM or whatever, and that's not healthy, and (2) I was sad, and (3) I remember Elizabeth Gilbert telling me a story about a time she was incredibly sad, so sad she didn't think she'd make it out of the post office she was in, and then something inside her (God, her soul, her inner Oprah, whatever) told her: <i>Liz, go find 3 beautiful things. It's okay if you want to mourn your life and be sad, if that's how you want to spend your time today, but you're not allowed to until you find 3 beautiful things.</i> And she did - she walked out of the post office and 3 gigantic circus elephants walked past her (nothing magical; the circus was in town and it was a city-approved parade) (also, Liz didn't really tell ME this tale, she told me and about 20,000 other attendees at the Oprah's Live Your Best Life seminar last year). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So this is what I did today. I took my daughter to my favorite natural space, and I requested the Universe please help me find 3 beautiful things. This is what I found:</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAcF_D2y9lBTdLLq8fYIof3cKXPhX-FVPTAbf9Rx9um62i5sZh6MjU1wscb_t8g_OflSe6h-lvp0TVuHuGjm1FhfbBa3mj33pd46p-dV5-az_qcXD9z5Dwmusb50uK_YMN7j22OFjlhAkt/s1600/mushrooms.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAcF_D2y9lBTdLLq8fYIof3cKXPhX-FVPTAbf9Rx9um62i5sZh6MjU1wscb_t8g_OflSe6h-lvp0TVuHuGjm1FhfbBa3mj33pd46p-dV5-az_qcXD9z5Dwmusb50uK_YMN7j22OFjlhAkt/s320/mushrooms.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">These gigantic orange mushrooms. There were many others,<br />but this cluster was amazing. How does Mother Nature come up<br />with bizarre shit like this? And they are blooming because of<br />all Her rain. I was gobsmacked by them, and She is totally forgiven.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mSSagQFcexcfzohH3-qJ78CBlelZALclhUPS-p97Q7zjFXBwFrD5al8EXRUUeqtJgkpPGgTV-Lg3TJ0JCYH80cmaXm8gKc-i9SbVDHETDfXR_KbtZ4zRIBrsejzKhMuxhagVtpvspTbf/s1600/tiny+waterfall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mSSagQFcexcfzohH3-qJ78CBlelZALclhUPS-p97Q7zjFXBwFrD5al8EXRUUeqtJgkpPGgTV-Lg3TJ0JCYH80cmaXm8gKc-i9SbVDHETDfXR_KbtZ4zRIBrsejzKhMuxhagVtpvspTbf/s320/tiny+waterfall.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">This tiny waterfall. If you go to my Instagram account<br />(social media links up on your upper right), you can<br />hear it via video. Waterfalls make me happy.<br />The big ones are powerful and majestic and good for blowing<br />your mind; but little ones like this make me think of peace and<br />fairies and how gentle Mother Nature can sometimes be<br />and how everything (EVERYTHING) must keep flowing, keep moving on.<br />Water constantly changes and flows, and so must we.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibkTK1ms_9UMB76wOphQKbG7phVfI2C01wIGwg2lKOYeQuce-sVOvhgHWlojYC8GAJJJsj1OipgG88o3qJWyzElPwyduZr7BxMd34Jwr0yuKiw6zpRHuM2zcO54JBGxIde1Ai93qd6gu0Z/s1600/miss-m.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibkTK1ms_9UMB76wOphQKbG7phVfI2C01wIGwg2lKOYeQuce-sVOvhgHWlojYC8GAJJJsj1OipgG88o3qJWyzElPwyduZr7BxMd34Jwr0yuKiw6zpRHuM2zcO54JBGxIde1Ai93qd6gu0Z/s320/miss-m.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">And then I could not find a third thing. I kept looking and looking, thinking:<br />well, maybe how the sun plays on the leaves; that's pretty beautiful. Or maybe these leaves<br />that are just now beginning to turn colors, that's quite lovely. Or maybe those clouds up there,<br />that look like wisps of cotton moving across the sky; well done, Mother Nature.<br />And then I looked up ahead of me and saw HER, and thought: Oh, well of course.<br />She's the most beautiful thing in my life, and I never have to go far to find her.<br />Ta da! Third beautiful thing. Mission accomplished.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here's the deal McNeals: I have no idea who I am right now or what I want. I think I want to have sex with someone, and then I decide nope - too messy and complicated. I think I want to be open to new ideas and all kinds of people, and then I decide nope - people are fucking exhausting. I think I want to start up an exercise program and then I just laugh and laugh at myself because Life and work schedules and Insomnia. And then I cycle back around, and go: just shut up, get over yourself, and make it happen. It'll be fine. And then something else will happen and I'll be all: fuck this shit. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I just want off the roller coaster at this point, I think. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So after M and I got back from our Nature Quest, I sat down with a new notebook I bought today. I decided I shall flood the Universe with requests until It starts to cooperate with me. (The Universe actually always cooperates with you; it's just that It does it on Its own sweet time and sometimes what shows up doesn't look precisely like what you requested, but fair enough...it'll do. Which is why I advise you to always keep your Universal requests simple and to-the-point, or very very precise and detailed...and then be prepared to accept whatever shows up.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I will write letters to It, confessionals and notes of gratitude and lists of things I want. Some of it I may share here, because my very nature is to share and do it as brazenly and as publicly as I can. I keep saying this is because I think sharing our experiences and stories connect us, but maybe I'm really just an attention whore at heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">What I am certain of, that's been a standard certainty going on 4-5 years now is the following:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1. I want to be peaceful, loving, and kind. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">2. I want to be loved and treated kindly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">3. I want to be able to know who to let in, and who not to. Trust issues are tremendous psychic blocks for me, and I'll confess: I have no idea how to work through them. I give up, Trust Issues. I have no idea who to trust now. I'm a runner; if I even sense you may leave, I like to leave first. But because I've been abandoned so many times by so many people who promised they'd never leave? I am always ready to be abandoned. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I would like to find a Master Teacher who will teach me how not to do this. I think I keep looking, but maybe I'll just sit back and let the Universe bring him or her to me. I think if I keep asking, It will. Hopefully before the end of the decade.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">4. I want to be open to all kinds of new experiences and people. Trust issues make this fairly impossible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">5. Eventually, I do want to love another man again. But I want that man to be kind, funny, smart, open-minded, non-judgmental, not critical, emotionally available, real, whole, artistic/creative in some manner, honest, loyal, confident, tall, and good in bed. Is that too much to ask? I will not settle for less. I am determined and ready to be alone forever if I can't have every single thing on that list.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">However. Because I've done the Oprah Create Your Best Life seminar, I am painfully aware that before I can have anything on that list, I need to resolve my trust issues. And then learn how to be whole and love myself. I have no idea how to start this. So I guess I'll just ask for help. Please help.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And I'll keep going outside, looking for 3 beautiful things each day, and write letters and notes and demands to whatever may care or be listening and cross my fingers that there is such a thing out there, listening and caring. Because I DO believe in magic, I guess. I mean, my god. There are gigantic mushrooms in the world. There HAS to be magic as well. Right?</span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-23175261537877100372015-10-11T01:29:00.000-04:002015-11-25T02:29:50.746-05:00peace and light friendships.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is what Love looks and smells like.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You guys, I just hosted my first ever dinner gathering! All by myself. I made baked ziti, because it's the one thing I know how to make that I am certain will not kill or cause illness in any innocent dinner guests. Ladies I've worked with since the late 90's/early 2000's, and for some reason we've never ever disconnected, came for Amy's Totally and Stunningly and Completely Safe Baked Ziti tonight. They are precious pieces of my heart, and I love them with all of me. Sadly, one of the three of them couldn't make it tonight because Georgia currently has some kind of ridiculous flu bug going around and she had to do battle with it. But the other two ladies...oh my god, Internet. The happiness and peace I felt as I got ready for them? Inexplicable. And then when my first friend showed up - I cried. Her hug, her presence...I just...it felt so good having people in this space who really know me, who get me, who love me as is and never ask anything of me other than: "So when's our next dinner get together?" was just. I can't even. Seriously, I go for weeks, for months, with nary a phone call or an email, and then we get together and pick right back up where we left off. I can't even really describe it, actually, the feels I have for these three people because they're simply too big. But I think having good people energy come over tonight was way better than burning sage because they left behind residuals of their sweetness and love, and this is filling me up with peace. Yes! Right now, as I'm typing this. Nothing but peace and calm over here, sweet Reader(s).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When we're together, we talk about all kinds of things - we kvetch about the school system (they're all teachers/former teachers) and its current insane inanity, we talk about our families, we talk about our hobbies, our health, where we want to go/do/be eventually. One of us is a Tai Chi master who always teaches us something new about our chakras or whatever they're called in Tai Chi...tonight it was about how Tai Chi literally opens up all your energy spots. (And oh, by the way, all your life energy is centered in your lower belly...be good to your lower belly, or you'll die. Literally.) So before you get in your car after doing Tai Chi to go back out into the crazy, psycho world, you have to clap your hands together and rub them til they're hot; then move them around your body, to smooth out all the open energy and re-align it so it can feel safe among the psychos out there. Going to try this without Tai Chi, every day before I walk into my workplace.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Also, one of us will be moving back to her home state of Louisiana when she retires at the end of this school year. (God, I wish this was me, but it is not...it is not.) But no worries! We'll just take our dinner gathering to Louisiana once a year. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">C is our Tai Chi/spiritual master. She is Unity and Light and all things that are Good and Kind. She's also a master storyteller, but I don't think she knows it. (C, do you even know what a weaver you happen to be? I can sit, spellbound, listening to you tell your tales of spiritual adventures for hours.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Here's what I learned from C's sweet heart tonight, and I'll share it with you because I think it matters: did you know you can ask the Universe for a teacher? And that one WILL show up? And did you know that we are all beings of Light? And that there is a woman right outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico right now who lives in the desert hills who is an Enlightened Soul, a spirit guide, who will help you understand Who You Are? She's not a psychic; she's not going to predict your future. She just needs your name, and then she knows how to explain you to you. Because she's filled with the Light of God, and that's what people with God's Light can do: break shit down for you. I think living in<i> Breaking Bad </i>territory may also have something to do with it, but I do promise there is not a single ounce of meth involved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Also, now I need to go to Albuquerque. Right now. I would like to be in the presence of someone filled with the Light of God. And also I want to take a <i>Breaking Bad</i> tour.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Basically, we are beings of Light. And all of the rest - our bodies, our experiences, our opinions, our needs, our insecurities - those are mere illusions. Our true essence is goodness and light. That is who you are, you are light, and you know what THAT means, don't you? We are all connected. We are made from the bits and pieces of stars, and we are all connected.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I'm writing about all this because this visit was significant on a couple of different levels. First, I've been having a hard time emotionally lately. I just needed some light and love in my home. Mission accomplished.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And second, I had to end a friendship today and it was not taken well. And hearing C's story about people being Light and all the other stuff is mere illusion, confirmed some things for me and helped me understand why I feel strangely at peace and completely fine about what I did. There were various reasons why I was compelled to abruptly end the friendship, and I feel a tremendous amount of guilt and responsibility for not being stronger sooner when I originally needed to do it. But last night, I just knew it was time. Nothing really earth shattering happened to cause this, there was no conflict at all to prompt my decision. Just a phone conversation where maybe months and months of energy drain built up and built up and I could feel myself getting angrier and angrier and angrier over nothing, really. But I became so furious I had to stop the phone call. I couldn't breathe, and the sheer amount of anger I had was upsetting and shocking to me. After I hung up I had to sit, taking deep breaths, for a long while, and synthesize it. I had to really think about things that were said over several months, and I really considered what lots of friends have suggested and/or expressed concern to me about. I really weighed the consequences before acting. Because with every action, there is a consequence...did I want to accept the consequence(s)? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I love this person, tremendously. They've helped me through some really dark moments, and I promised them I'd always be there to help them through theirs. But I can't be friends anymore. It's too draining. I am too drained. I need peace. I need to not overthink and over-analyze anymore, about anything or anyone. And I don't want to be angry anymore. Anger is okay sometimes, but the way I was treating my friend wasn't me. I don't want to be angry. I don't want to say harsh things. And so yes. I am accepting the consequences. The hurt, the anger, the nasty text messages, the accusations, the word attacks on my character that happened when I tried to offer some closure today. All accepted. Because I know I did the healthiest thing. The hardest, most hurtful, most confusing thing. But the healthiest. I just need to be at peace, and I can't do that with someone else's expectations draining me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So I am surprisingly and strangely fine right now. I felt horrible about the decision, yet I also feel like I can breathe again. And I am not angry. And that's really, really important, you guys. I'm not sure if you can really understand how important that is to me right now: I am not angry. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sweet friends, please believe me when I tell you: if there's one thing I've learned from my unsuccessful marriage, from my years of longing for and chasing people to the point of self-hatred, from the consequences of some of my less than enlightened choices...it's that you can't hold onto people; you can't make them be who or do what you want. That's not how people work. Love is love is love is love. If you truly love someone, when they tell you they feel the need to go, you say: <i>Of course. I love you, and I wish you well.</i> If their need to go creates a violent emotional response in you and you begin calling them names, then that's not love. It's not. It's not. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And so the one lesson I think I will take away from this friendship is that expectations are a horrible thing to hold over another human being. We are beings of Light and Love. And if you're really full of Light and Love? You don't need someone else's love to make you feel better, and using love as a leverage tool is psychic abuse. And that's absolutely not how love works.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">C brought me a candle for my apartment tonight. When C brings you a gift, her gifts always come with a story. This gift-story is that it's a candle made by a couple who gave up everything to open an apothecary shop to make their own candles and soaps. It was handmade with love, from soy, and the scent is called Bamboo. This is the lightest, loveliest scent they have - as close to sage as she could get. Because she wanted to bring me real sage to smudge out the negativity in my home and lighten it, but she was worried my neighbors might think I'm a pothead. (So I told her about my sexy time next door neighbors who sing bad 80s post-coital pop songs right up against my head some nights, and we agreed: those guys probably don't mind potheads too much. Next time, she'll bring sage.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I am burning her candle right now, and the light, lovely scent of Bamboo is filling up my living room. I am thinking about people who give up everything so they can create apothic things with love, and I'm thinking about how hard it is to let go of people even when you know it's the best thing for both of you, and I'm thinking about what real love looks and feels like. I think it's gentle and understanding, there is no need involved, and expectations are minimal if they exist at all. I think it feels like stories told over plates of pasta and glasses of wine, and long hugs from people who get you. There's a lingering good feeling it leaves behind it when the door closes. There's a quiet that doesn't need to be filled with talking or music or background TV. I think it looks like a gentle, flickering flame in the dark, and it warms and fills up every corner of a home with a light scent of Bamboo.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Love isn't complicated at all; people just make it so.</span><br />
<br />Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-11399014311049065622015-10-09T20:08:00.001-04:002015-10-10T08:06:43.582-04:00pointless narcissism.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzsnJDlPiL-HrfuE9TW7jvj4d2QOJupSkp9-2r41moePCEM1j24iJUBUQZS7J6b2jUzEY58u7ag6YH10a2SmWDwOqJviqeI17lcwG1XM1XypYzV4r1_awi21yWTjRy4gKADYr_w7nGHkn/s1600/1070075_10152020762758458_2123399543_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqzsnJDlPiL-HrfuE9TW7jvj4d2QOJupSkp9-2r41moePCEM1j24iJUBUQZS7J6b2jUzEY58u7ag6YH10a2SmWDwOqJviqeI17lcwG1XM1XypYzV4r1_awi21yWTjRy4gKADYr_w7nGHkn/s320/1070075_10152020762758458_2123399543_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HA! Get it?! Bison. BiSON. Bye son. Heh. (sorry.)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Hi, Internet!!! How was your week? Mine was gloomy and sunny and hot and cold and damp and dry. A week of opposing conditions. With a forecast for rain. (No, seriously...it's supposed to rain this weekend. AGAIN, goddamit. I've about had it with Mother Nature and her emotional issues. I'd break up with Her, but last time I tried she sent a hail storm and clonked me in the head with a sharp, golf ball-sized piece of sky ice.) Since I have nothing earth-shattering to share or be dramatic about tonight, can I do a questionnaire? A get-to-know-you questionnaire, one of those one-sided conversational thingies all over the Internet so people can navel gaze which is the whole<i> point </i>of the Internet anyway? I love interviewing myself...I think you should try it, because you always learn so much. <i>(sometimes you also figure out or discover or decide things you weren't prepared to figure out or discover or decide. but such is life.)</i></span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">1. “What is something you have tried, but will never do again?”</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 25px;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">Living to make someone else happy. Something I've learned: you're responsible for your own happiness. If someone else ever says to you, "You make me so happy," this is a lie. You cannot make another person happy. For that matter, you can also not make another person mad, sad, worried, reluctant, jealous, in love, horny, disgusted, drunk, crazy, sympathetic, compassionate, bored, or interested. Good people of planet Earth! Stop trying to control one another! People decide and choose how they'll behave, feel, and live. That's on them...you do YOU, let them do THEM. And keep reminding yourself: what others do or don't do is not a reflection on you, as much as it just says that's what they're doing. It is what it is. Stop chewing on it, you'll grind your teeth to nubs. </span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Moral of this tale: if you get mad when someone won't do what you think will make you happy? You've got an awfully bumpy, dark, twisty road ahead of you, my friend.</span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">2. “What quirky habit do you have?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Just one?! I talk to myself. As in: walk myself through tough issues, rehearse hard conversations, talk to drivers in other cars as if they can hear me. (No, seriously. I really like to think their psyches can and do hear me, and that sometimes what they learn from me about driving rocks their worlds.)</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">3. “Who is your best friend?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I would say that's probably my sister-in-law. It's one of those "We're sisters by marriage, friends by choice" kinds of deals. I can tell her anything, and even though she's a bit of a Bible thumper, she doesn't judge me...too much. Also, she's an amazing planner. She can't walk soberly on a flat surface without tripping and spraining something, but she can plan shit like nobody's business. Like, if you're orchestrating a 500 person major event of some sort? Put her in charge. She's magical.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">4. “What is the one thing you did in your past you wish you could undo?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Just ONE thing?! I regret who I gave my virginity to, and why. Girls: listen to your mothers. He's probably not going to be your only one (oh god, PLEASE do NOT marry the first man you sleep with!), but he's going to always be the<i> first</i> one. Make it somebody you won't think about 22 years later and go: <i>....the fuck?! Surely I was on crack at that time.</i></span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">5. “What is your biggest fear?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Losing my daughter. If something bad happened to Miss M, I would not be okay for a very very very very very long time.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">6. “What is the one place in the world you wish you lived in?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Just ONE?! Key West. It just seems real laid back and...beach-y. Also, there are 6-toed cats running around, and roosters. And, apparently, there's a clothing-optional bar somewhere in town, but only upstairs. And Cuba is next door. And Ernest Hemingway. And bungalows.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">7. “Would you rather be loved or have a lot of money?” </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'd rather be loved. Money is the root of all evil. (Though I'll be blunt: if I could have BOTH, I think I'd be as happy as Donald Trump's combover on a non-windy day.)</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">8. “What is the happiest memory from your childhood?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Just one?! I have lots of happy memories, actually. Running around the neighborhood well after dark descended on a summer night, catching fireflies, ringing the mean neighbor's doorbell and then running like crazy and hiding in the bushes like spies while he prowled the neighborhood trying to catch us, climbing the wire fence that separated our backyard from the cow pasture behind us so we could play amongst the cow patties, writing and performing hybrid plays based on Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica episodes, putting on concerts for nobody in my bedroom and parents' garage. I was an eccentric child, and preferred hanging out with eccentric children. And still do, to this day.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">9. “What is the most embarrassing moment of your life?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Just ONE?! I have so many embarrassing moments, day to day. I actually can't think of THE most embarrassing. Maybe the time I inexplicably somehow ripped my pants in the grocery store, had no underwear on, and had to somehow make it from the deli section back to my car in broad daylight. That was pretty awful. I feel certain there were at least 2 horrified mothers who saw me and about 5 delighted men, but I can't be sure. I was in a hurry.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">10. “What would your dream date be like?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I don't have a "dream" date. I'm fairly low maintenance about these things ('cause I'm HIGH maintenance in so many other areas). Chinese take out, some beer/wine, a Netflix movie, and jokey jokes all night long make me pretty happy. But I'm also good with nice restaurants. And I'd like to go see some live theater. I've been to Broadway musicals, but it's been a long long time since I've seen a real play, by live actors, in a real theater. </span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ooh! WAIT! I've got it: Chinese restaurant with beer/wine, jokey jokes, live theater, then back home for a Netflix movie. Ta da! Dream date.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">11. “What would you change about your personality & look?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I actually like my personality. It's been a long, windy road to get me here, but I'm pretty okay with my personality at this point. I think I'm a bit too melodramatic at times about things I can't change, that I need to just let go of. And I think I'm far too nostalgic for my own good. But other than that? I am me, all that you see, and if you don't like it go fuck yourself. (Sorry, I bet you thought that would rhyme.) </span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Looks? Oh, I've got a LIST. Do you have 30 minutes?</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">12. “Who has influenced you the most in your life?”</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Well, my parents, duh. Who hasn't been influenced by those people? I think everyone we meet and become even a little close to influences us, actually. People will teach you lots of things if you'll stay open to the lessons. Some will be hard things that will make you cry but stronger in the end, some will be upsetting things that will teach you who and what you DON'T want to be, and some will be beautiful, lovely things that will stay with you for a very long time, even after the person has moved on or away or, you know...died. Or something. We're all teachers and students, and vice versa, to one another. It's really the best and worst part about being human.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">13. “What is something you used to do as a child that you wish you could still do?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Sing and dance and put on plays and concerts in my bedroom and/or parents' garage. Not have to get up at 5 fucking AM to go do a job. Wear inappropriate clothing and have people giggle affectionately instead of judge. Believe, utterly believe and not ever even question, the reality of magic. Not have to worry about my car breaking down and not having any way to cover the repair costs. (I think I was supposed to just write about someTHING, singular. But there's so much about childhood I miss! Kids these days. They don't even know what they've got. I tell my little loves all the time: <i>Love it now, my darlings, when you grow up it gets REAL hard. Really REAL</i>. And they aren't even listening, I can tell. And that one kid who always sits in the back is going to GET it when we go back to our seats...drawing on the carpet with marker, like he paid for the place himself.)</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">14. “What is the worst thing about dating?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Well, I'm not dating. Legally, I'm not even supposed to be entertaining the idea. And emotionally, I simply couldn't deal with it right now. I've been to OKCupid.com, I'll confess. I set up a profile, just out of curiosity. Within 5 seconds of me clicking SUBMIT, exactly 200 men had looked at my profile, 75 liked it, and 20 left me automessages I could tell they leave for the other 5 billion women on that website. I think 2 messages may not have been automessages, but one of them wanted me to drive down to Florida and tie him up with rope and kidnap him. </span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Frightening, is what I'm saying. Frightening and depressing and unnerving. Is what I'd say the worst thing about dating probably will be. When I get to it.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">15. “What is the one career you would love to enter?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Writer/storyteller, duh. (Or millionaire blogger. Either one would work.)</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">16. “Are you close with your family?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I love my family. I don't talk to or see my family as much as I should and could. I've promised my mom to call her once a week, because she worries. But I see my brother and his family a lot, because I deeply love my sister-in-law and my niece and nephew are the closest things to siblings Miss M will ever have. And they're just cool kids on top of it. My niece is a younger, smarter version of me in many ways (I think), and my very rules-oriented nephew makes my heart happy. I think my most favorite thing in the world is listening to a conversation between Miss M (flippant, silly, quirky child) and T (serious, knowledgeable, professional child). Yes. Totally close to my family. Love them to pieces, they are my rocks.</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">17. “What is the one movie that influenced your life the most?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Wizard of Oz. Living Out Loud. (Go </span><a href="http://amywritesthingsfromherbrain.blogspot.com/2015/10/living-out-loud-in-some-red-sparkly.html" target="_blank">HERE</a><span style="font-weight: normal;">.)</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">18. “Where is the one place in the world you feel safe?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Probably my home. I'm still getting used to it, this apartment. The hardest part is going back to my old house to pick up or drop off something when C is out of town. It's very different there now: he's repainted the downstairs, bought industrial-like furniture from West Elm, and has weird choices in artwork. So it doesn't LOOK like my home. But it still FEELS like my home. And this is hard for me. But I'm usually okay within 24 hours of being back in the apartment. Because it has warm, soothing colors that make me happy and soft, big furniture I like and artwork/decorations that reflect what matters to me. (If only I could keep it clean now.)</span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">19. “What is the one thing you want to experience before you die?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Well, I want to travel to a lot of different places. But I also want to be loved by someone who never judges or tries to define me. Soooo....taking a trip around the world with someone I love who never judges or defines me. </span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Oh, and! I want Barry Manilow to sing <i>Could It Be Magic</i> to me. And only to me. Okay, fine. Maybe Miss M too, since she loves him as well. </span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: 25px;">20. “What is your ultimate goal in life?” </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">To be where I need to be, doing what I need to do, and feel good about whatever that ends up being. To watch my daughter grow up healthy and happy and strong. I know I'm doing better than a lot of people out there right now. But mostly I just want to be at peace, be completely open to new experiences and people, and to know the people I care about and love best in the world are happy. And also I'd like to be able to eat as much chocolate/peanut butter fudge and drink as much Riesling as I'd like and never gain a single pound. </span></span></h5>
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Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-86881424576992791742015-10-07T20:29:00.003-04:002015-11-25T02:29:58.978-05:00vlog on my blog<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Alrighty...I've had enough people come to me to express concern. Sometimes things get lost in translation, or I do a sucky job at really communicating what I'm trying to communicate, or tone of voice is lost. At any rate, I had the thought today: what if I SPOKE? What if...I...used my real face and voice and intonations to reassure everyone, shit's just fine over here? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I just have been feeling a tad dramatic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I'm putting a V-log on my B-log so you can see: just a little bit more bizarre and melodramatic than usual, but I'm actually doing just skippy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">........not at 5 AM though.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.......or on Monday mornings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.......or on rainy/gloomy days.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">........or at 5 AM on rainy/gloomy Monday mornings. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But other than that, woo! I got this. Here, <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5wp0xQeauU" target="_blank">watch</a> </b>(oh, and! I read you some poetry, too. You're welcome!):</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/K5wp0xQeauU/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/K5wp0xQeauU?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-54945279061861351272015-10-06T17:48:00.002-04:002015-10-06T21:00:23.638-04:00living out loud in some red, sparkly shoes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYmyU8SiBt9DplFjXvtSEMGVuq-TMXTl_W05Z_8oG7If2hBEbK785i950ybNM0XNCZhlD3obTQRWGWsNob8Nu6bo_BHgUxrAyEj-LFOO6QlS7DmF3PXhRiDFAEegs0AbHAnCe100TIbQu/s1600/youve-always-had-the-power.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYmyU8SiBt9DplFjXvtSEMGVuq-TMXTl_W05Z_8oG7If2hBEbK785i950ybNM0XNCZhlD3obTQRWGWsNob8Nu6bo_BHgUxrAyEj-LFOO6QlS7DmF3PXhRiDFAEegs0AbHAnCe100TIbQu/s400/youve-always-had-the-power.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Before I start, I want to share the website/organization information I was given to start the process of...dismantling...whenever I'm ready to start that process. Just in case anyone reading this or stumbling upon this is in a similar situation, go HERE: <a href="http://www.visionsanew.org/">www.visionsanew.org</a>. They have lots and lots of resources to help you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Okay, that's done. Next!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've put my underpants on backwards two times this week and three times last week, Internet, and not noticed until well after 9:00 AM. I left crucial items for science experiment lessons at home. Yesterday, I almost walked out the door with only one earring in. I think it's safe to say my mental state has been somewhat frazzled.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'd also like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to every single one of you who reads this dreck. I'm sorry for all the existential bullshit your eyes and brain have had to endure over the last several weeks. If it makes it any better, please know it's not exactly been a wildly fun party on this side of the screen either. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm just going to chalk it all up to Growth Phase Part 2 (Growth Phase Part 1 being when I initiated the separation). Let's all pray Growth Phase Part 3 is less fucked up AND I'm able to dress myself for public consumption more appropriately.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Have I written here about my most favorite movie for grown ups of all time, <i><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120722/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1" target="_blank">Living Out Loud</a></i>? I think I have, but a long time ago and I bet it was very discombobulated. I re-watch/review it every time I need a reminder about what matters most in Life (foreshadowing: not what other people want). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So the story is about Judith, a 40-something, recently divorced nurse, who gave up every dream she'd ever had to help her unbelievably douche-y douchebag of a doctor husband achieve his. And then he left her for a younger woman and that woman is having the life Judith dreamed about but was asked to sacrifice it all for someone else's happiness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She meets Liz, a jazz nightclub singer, and Pat, the doorman of her swanky Manhattan co-op. She strikes up a friendship with Liz who teaches her about strength, and Pat who teaches her about true friendship. But ultimately, Judith learns how to love and forgive herself by making peace with the damaged child within, and when she does that she figures out who she is and where she needs to go next. And she does.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The story was written and directed by Richard LaGravenese, who has said it's based on two short stories by Anton Chekhov, "The Kiss" and "Misery." Film critic Roger Ebert (may his lovely soul RIP)<a href="http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/living-out-loud-1998" target="_blank"> loved it to pieces</a>, and if Roger Ebert loved something, then I love it too. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>(Side note: if you write and/or love short stories, you should see this. Character and dialogue matter most, and every reviewer who's ever reviewed it always makes some comment about how it's like watching a short story in motion.)</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I first saw this movie in 1998, I was no where near married; I think Steve (he of the box of darkness) had just broken my heart, and so maybe that's why I was drawn to it. It was about a woman done wrong, and I most likely felt I'd identify. But sitting there in the theater, I remember thinking: <i>oh. oh, this movie is going to stay with me for a long, long time.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What's funniest to me about the fact this movie has meant so much to me is that, in 1998, I had absolutely no way of knowing that one day I'd be in situations like the one scene of the film where Judith is drunk, on the floor of a nightclub bathroom, telling Liz: "I am soooo tired of agreeing to things I never should have agreed to." And, back in 1998? I had no way of knowing that, one day, I'd be in situations where I'd have to make tough decisions and let go of things I never thought I'd ever have to let go of. Isn't that funny? How things like this are brought into our lives, and then they stay with us for unknown or un-thought-of reasons...and later on, we find out how insightful and meaningful they were all along? Things like this are what convince me Something Greater Than Ourselves is at play in our world; whether It cares or not is up for debate. But I do often feel like It's moving things along on Its schedule, as It demands they move if for no other reason than just to keep the order of things fluid and constantly propelling forward through time and space.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are only two movies that have ever done this, that have stayed with me for almost a lifetime or half a lifetime, as Whatever It Is has propelled me through this life I am having: The<i> Wizard of Oz</i> and <i>Living Out Loud</i>. And I've been thinking, lately, about why that is - why THOSE two films? I decided it's because they're both growth movies; <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bildungsroman" target="_blank">bildungsroman</a> tales. (A bildungsroman is a coming-of-age story.) And what's most fascinating about THAT to me is that both of these bildungsroman tales are female-centered (which is very unusual in the world of bildungsromans - most of these stories are male-oriented) and both are stories written by MEN. And what's fascinating about THAT to me is that both of these bildungsroman tales written by men are about journeys, and finding out where your core center lies, and doing what's best for YOU...in the end. They are both empowering stories, full of the message: Don't listen to what other people want you to do or have or give...go do what's right for YOU. And that's big, because this planet loves to tell its females they're doing it wrong if they aren't constantly giving in, shutting up, and being a good little girl so others can be happy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I've loved <i>The Wizard of Oz</i> since I was 7. I lived it, I dreamed it, I breathed it, and it anchored my soul all throughout my childhood. In my saddest moments, there was always the thought, the knowledge, that Somewhere Out There, there <i>might</i> be an Emerald City. The background music of my childhood is <i>Somewhere Over the Rainbow</i> and <i>We're Off to See the Wizard</i>. The colors of my childhood are technicolor yellows and greens and blue gingham. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I've loved <i>Living Out Loud</i> for almost 20 years, and have loved it long before I knew that one day I myself would be a divorced woman who'd be sitting on floors in tears, beating herself up over and over for agreeing to lots of things she never should have; who'd given up some dreams along the way to make other people happy or because she didn't really trust or know herself; who'd one day have to start picking up and re-gluing the fallen pieces together. And this would be HARD, Internet. Oh my god, this is so incredibly hard. I can't even tell you. (But I do! And I do it here! Airing out my dirty laundry, including backwards underpants, for all to enjoy on a regular basis.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Fascinating.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At any rate, that's where I'm at currently. My status update is: re-gluing together the fallen pieces. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sometimes you sacrifice things that make you happy so someone else can be happy; the world says that's what real love is. But I disagree, dear Reader(s). I think that's the worst kind of sacrifice to make; that it is not what real Love looks like at all. I'm not talking about not going on a fishing trip because your spouse broke her foot and won't be able to take care of a 4 year old by herself (or, you know, whatever...go ahead and go on your trip anyway, don't mind me. I'll just be icing my 5th metatarsal for 10 weeks)...I mean sacrificing what matters most of all to you, being asked to change your very essence and being told that's what people who love each other do. Which is a lie. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Love is gentle and open, kind and honest. It's not demanding; it lets go when it needs to, because it trusts that whatever it let go of will come back if it's meant to be there and if it's not,then real Love just releases the object, the person, to the Universe and lets that bird fly free. Love is deeply wishing for someone else's happiness, even if that means you don't get to be a part of it. And that is not a sacrifice; that is simply...letting go. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so. If you are asking someone to sacrifice their own happiness so you can have yours, why not just go ahead and stab them in their soul repeatedly with a homemade shiv while you're at it? That's not love. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Also: Love isn't heroic; it doesn't save anybody else. It doesn't fix anything. All the love in the world cannot unfuck up the fucked up. Love just IS. And you let the people around you fight their OWN battles, and stop trying to fix other people. I mean, you can hand them water and wipe the sweat off their brow now and then. But their fight isn't yours, and that goes for your children as well...let your children fight their own fights. You can only fix yourself; when the oxygen masks drop take care of yourself first - you're no good to anyone if you're passed out dead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When Dorothy says after fighting to get back home, "If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I shouldn't look farther than my own backyard," I don't think she means: stick with what you know and is safe and give up; I think she means: listen to your own heart; be true to yourself. Because Dorothy always had the power to get herself where she needed to be; she just needed to learn how to do it herself. And I bet, I just bet, if Dorothy decided her heart's desire was still in Oz, she'd be on the next cyclone or traveling carnie worker's hot air balloon to go get it. Your home IS your heart. And that's where your power is. Take it with you; use it wisely.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is what I have learned. Because when I reconciled with C in 2007, I remember thinking: <i>Oh this is nice, I'm home, just like Dorothy; I'm not going to go looking further than my own backyard from now on</i>. But that didn't really work out, did it? That's not what was actually going on, was it? Because, again, I was sacrificing to make someone else happy. And Whatever It Is that's driving this big boat we're all on was propelling me onward to where I am now, just as It's propelling me forward to where I'll eventually end up six months from now. And so I couldn't stay where I was, because I hadn't really learned what I wanted, or what I needed, or who I was, or what really mattered to me. And when I get to where I'm going, there will be more to learn, and more challenges to endure. Because this is the process of learning and growing, and hurting and healing. But I couldn't stay where I thought my home was, because my home was and is and always will be my own heart. And my heart was always sad, and still is, when it's in a home that doesn't fit it well.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so here I am: Back at the beginning of the Yellow Brick Road, trying to figure out how to get to the Wizard...who's probably going to screw me over and take off without me. Sitting, drunk, on the floors of nightclub, in tears, smacking my forehead for once again agreeing to things I shouldn't have agreed to in the first place. Looking to other people or things to make it better, to fix it. Or! Maybe it's finally sunk in. And I'll just...let go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here is what else I have learned, Internet: In the end, there's really nobody but yourself who knows how to find your own heart's desire and nobody but yourself with the power to get whatever those desires are. And that's the central, driving theme to both of those movies that have stayed with me throughout my childhood and then my adulthood. My soul chose stories that are about longing, and journeys, and believing in your own powers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(This is what I think I need to do, is what I'm saying, Internet. I think I need to figure out what my heart's desire is, actually, and then summon forth the power to go get it.) (If it involves a pair of sparkly red shoes, then awesome! And all will make sense, this journey of nearly 40-something years.)</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqhuDinrOloFqJjDJmNdE_J03K3QMLeeIkLztFS_O1C0EbCkGYjzDgGdVBu95QOna-3vnz1uR5MiRK23GWaTD8Z6wPeA-PhqOR5reHSZjX2SBivJ-uN7JvOzEJgQ0Ud74GhOofrst4uTV/s1600/past-wounds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIqhuDinrOloFqJjDJmNdE_J03K3QMLeeIkLztFS_O1C0EbCkGYjzDgGdVBu95QOna-3vnz1uR5MiRK23GWaTD8Z6wPeA-PhqOR5reHSZjX2SBivJ-uN7JvOzEJgQ0Ud74GhOofrst4uTV/s400/past-wounds.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I kind of like the idea of sticking my hands in my own gore<br />
to make peace with the pain of the past.<br />
I bet this would be like combining Halloween with Valentine's Day:<br />
a dripping, still-beating heart in my hands, but with love.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160508396970152855.post-74940287912140227652015-10-04T01:03:00.002-04:002015-10-04T11:07:46.780-04:00beginning of autumn summary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO6SQcsUwTzE-a9Y2_bJXp-At2i-IBm41LS-HAmXsQQnaSAk7bXXYQm0VgM-i5EJyQURdoDHt1021C6QrPsYpUgtdaWswf6lrXdF5cuFVlUXN04s4IlYIUrmeYOKW2TnENyEqmrhTzbBeN/s1600/life-plans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO6SQcsUwTzE-a9Y2_bJXp-At2i-IBm41LS-HAmXsQQnaSAk7bXXYQm0VgM-i5EJyQURdoDHt1021C6QrPsYpUgtdaWswf6lrXdF5cuFVlUXN04s4IlYIUrmeYOKW2TnENyEqmrhTzbBeN/s400/life-plans.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have insomnia, Internet. And I am drinking Pinot Grigio to counteract it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But please know I'm in a better place (for) now. I cleaned my whole apartment today. It took, literally, 4 hours. Which sounds like an awful lot for a small-ish 2 bedroom/1bathroom place. But I deep cleaned it, and the level of deep I had to go to in order to do this was astonishing quite frankly. Guess it's been awhile since I was able to motivate myself to really focus and clean, wow. Anyway, I had to take breaks. So like I'd deep clean the bathroom. Then I'd sit and check Twitter. Then I deep cleaned the kitchen and ran a load of laundry. Then sit and mourn my life a bit. Then clean, then sit, then clean, etc etc til it was finished. Probably wouldn't eat off the floors if I were you, but this place is presentable AND livable again, and that feels good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did it partly for me, and partly because 3 of my very dearest friends are coming to visit me next Saturday. We're having a dinner party. I've known these ladies for almost 20 years; they are precious pieces of my heart and we meet for dinner at least 3 times a year. To catch up, to vent, to rejoice. So I said: you know what? This place needs good memories added to it. I need to have some people over. I could burn some sage and do some magickal incantations and whatever, but why not just invite some precious pieces of my heart over for baked ziti and wine and whatever else they'd like to bring and bring in some laughter and hugs and good vibes? I really believe in a home being a sacred space. Seriously, y'all: don't invite anyone into it unless they've earned your trust. The amount of sage you have to burn when baddies leave is exhausting and expensive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then I took Miss M to Old Navy for some pants, because it's getting colder and so the time for shorts wearing is over. This is a sad time, when we put away the shorts and the flip flops. A grieving, really. In addition, Miss M abhors pants and finding pairs she'll consistently wear is exhausting and will cause a mother to snap in public. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After I snapped, I took her to see Hotel Transylvania 2. Where I snapped in public in a crowded cinema 3/4 of the way through, because the story wasn't that great and I was cranky because she was cranky. I'd tell you I felt guilty about being an inappropriate cinema patron, but the mall theater we were at was filled with gangstas and people on their cell phones...I think one was recording the entire film. So we were the least offensive people in the place, and I just needed her to stop digging in my purse and focus on this movie I paid $20 for her to see.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In other news: I've decided I'm going to stop focusing on people with Y chromosomes. And people with two X chromosomes. Peopling is hard. Mind reading is exhausting. I do give a fuck, I give a lot of fucks actually, but I am simply too tired to sort other people out and/or figure them out, really. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually the Universe will bring me exactly who and what and to where I need; every person and experience is flung into our paths for good reason. So I think the best thing for me to do right now is just focus on me and Miss M. I've been rather emotionally messy lately, I don't know if you can tell or not. But I've done some very hard thinking over the last couple of days. And mourning my old life. Letting go is hard for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was a hard summer. Autumn has started off rainy and gross, which never ever helps my mood. I have been sad and angry and fine and happy and weird and exhausted and stressed and judgmental and laid back and on edge and then full circle back to sad. Over and over and over, since June. Tonight, I counted how many bottles of wine I've gone through since moving in four months ago: 12, Internet. Twelve bottles of wine. All by myself. And there was also a lot of beer. But I don't save the beer bottles so I don't know...maybe 48? (I started saving the wine bottles because my inner Crafty McCrafterson thinks she's going to find time and non-existent crafting talent to turn them into a candelabra. You know, just so visitors really understand THIS is the home of a committed wino.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also want to announce that I hate softball. Miss M isn't really that interested in it, but she seems to like it okay. Mostly she's there for the socializing aspects. But I am NOT a fan of this sport. I mean, I see the value in it: the cute little girls making friends with each other, singing sing-song-y chants and cheers in the dugout to both encourage their team mates and psych out the opposition. I think the ruggedness, the team spirit, the toughness are all great things for little girls, even if they are dressed in pink. I heart all of this. But I hate softball. First off, there are about 10 million practices each week. Second, the practices sometimes don't finish until 8:30. Third, there are 5 million games. On Thursday there was a game at 7:30 plus an hour-long practice before hand at 6:30 and it all finished at quarter to nine. On a school night. And the umpires had to just call it because the game wasn't actually over but our team had 1 point and the other team had 14 and it was a school night, sooo...game over. Or we'll be here til 11 or something. Miss M didn't get to sleep til almost 10. I'm not feeling real friendly toward softball at the moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />Also, the dugout parents are supposed to encourage the girls to do cheers and chants for their teammates. I don't know any softball cheers and chants; I am the opposite of a cheerleader. On October 13, I'm supposed to be the dugout mom. What the hell am I going to do, sweet Reader(s)?! I'm going to call the snack mom and ask if she'll switch jobs with me. C is out of town or he'd do it; he's far better at cheerleading than me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But mostly I need to focus on me and my girl. I have not written anything beyond these blog entries, and I owe my two co-collaborators the skeleton script for Act 1 of our TV show idea so we can start doing dialogue. I have 4 books waiting for me to read them, and I need to finish book 1 that I've been reading since May. And the day I was sick, I addicted myself to <i>Breaking Bad</i>. Walter White! A fine example of why we ought to pay teachers better in this country. But now that's on my list of To Dos.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I guess the theme of this blog is: Autumn has rolled in (all doom and gloom and rain outside), but I'm doing okay. Except when having to deal with other humans. I think you should probably wait for Hotel Transylvania 2 to come out on DVD; don't be desperate to see <i>that</i> movie. Have a stash of sage in your sacred space; when dear friends come over, act mysterious about what it actually is so they think you have a marijuana problem. Don't stress about having to wear pants; it's really the socially acceptable thing to do in public. Trust the Universe, It knows so much more than you do. Softball sucks monkey balls. Request the Universe scour it from the face of the planet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thus concludes my Beginning of Autumn summary. </span>Amy http://www.blogger.com/profile/07774609869170895676noreply@blogger.com0