A Toast To My Sister and her Fiancé the Day Before Their Wedding - We are Two
We are two. I’m a little more than 2 years older than you but I never remember not knowing you were there and so we always have been and always will be two.
We are 2 who made each other laugh.
You - by making your pig face under the dining room table or tying your hands up in the backseat of the car and mouthing help out the window to passing cars.
Me - by being terrified of Tommy, the little boy who lived in your mouth.
We are 2 who played together; swimming for hours in the deep end, running in the sprinklers, peppering in the yard, making up dances in the empty living room, and playing HORSE on the driveway.
We are 2 who fell asleep together; listening to Mom tell Bible stories, filling up our magic bunny cages with every dessert we could think of, and singing Whitney Houston songs until Dad said “Be quiet and go to sleep!”
We are 2 who covered for each other.
You - by writing my paper on Beowulf for me in the 9th grade b/c, let’s face it, you’re the writer.
You - by paying to get the other girl’s car fixed when I hit her in the parking lot in college so that Dad wouldn’t find out.
Me - by convincing you it was NOT a good idea to go in and say goodnight to Mom and Dad the one time you came home drunk in high school and by paying your speeding tickets a couple of times after college.
We are 2 who touched each other. No. Literally. And actually it was mostly you.
You - by slapping my face to calm my hysteria when we thought we were moving to Dallas, tackling me with a really obnoxious, chicken-shaped, pot holder that I wanted to kill, you by wrestling with me, hugging me huge (b/c you gave the best hugs) and sometimes laying your head on my lap to cry.
We are 2 who went above and beyond for each other.
You - by staying up with me all night and reminding me over and over again what had happened, after I got in that car accident, and couldn’t remember anything for more than 5 minutes at a time.
You - by flying all night to get to us when I put my family in the hospital after leaving the car running in the garage
Me - by letting you scream and cry and vent to me when life is taking its toll on you and all of those deep, intense emotions you hide in there burst through because you just can’t keep them contained anymore.
We are 2 who say yes to each other.
You - when you said “Yes, I’ll be your maid of honor and stand next to you on your wedding day”.
You - when you said “Yes I’ll be with you in the hospital room when Camden is born”. Me - when I said “Yes. I’ll be happy for you with or w/out a wedding.”
We are 2 who understand each other.
You think I’m funny. I think you’re funnier. You think I’m strong. I think you’re stronger. You think I’m pretty. I think we’re pretty. You think I’m smart. Ok, I am smart. ;-) And even though we want the best for each other and we want the other to be their best, the you, right now, and the me, right now, has always been good enough for us.
We are 2 sisters, 2 daughters, 2 friends, 2 fighters, 2 supporters, 2 thinkers, 2 women and we are about to be 2 wives. And then you will be 2 with someone new. And that’s totally OK with me because now you two will laugh together and play together and fall asleep together and cover for each other and touch each other and go above and beyond for each other and say “Yes” to each other.
Here’s to Lindsay and Johnny. Who will be two.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
My advice for my little sis who's getting married...
Technically, i.e. legally, we've been married for 5 1/2 years. Our first wedding took place on October 11th, 2004. It was a secret. Even Linds didn't know about it. We were already planning our wedding and had a date picked out in July but since we were having it in the Bahamas and Michael had lost his visa we had to get married to get married. So on a Monday morning in Vegas we took a limo downtown and got our marriage license and then went to the Little Chapel of the West where they pinned a boutonniere on Michael's shirt and we walked down the aisle to organ music. That wedding wasn't supposed to count. The big, expensive, destination wedding was the only one that was supposed to matter. But when we got to the end of the aisle and the cheesy, little man with the book of vows in his hands said "Please, repeat after me... I, Summer, take you Michael to be my lawfully wedded husband.", we looked at each other and started to cry. Both of us. Because even though we didn't want that wedding to matter, it totally did. We cried our way through the rest of our vows and in some ways that wedding is more special to me than the big Bahamas wedding. It was just for us and we started our life together without anyone else's approval. We didn't need it. We were sure.
I know this is supposed to be advice but I thought you guys could relate to our story a little bit and I wanted to share it with you.
And here's the thing. Life is stressful. Marriage isn't. Be a team. Tell each other when you're stressed out and why. Don't ever assume that you're doing the other person a favor by trying to hide your stress or deal with it yourself. I know it's a cliche but a problem shared is a problem halved every time. Sometimes it makes you feel better just to get whatever it is off your chest. Sometimes the other person will have a perspective you haven't thought of that either helps resolve the situation or just makes it seem not so serious. And sometimes they can't help at all but because you tell them everything, even the hard stuff, you're building a life long trust. That's the most important thing we've learned.
The second thing is that Michael tells me every single day how sexy I am and how much he wants me. He even told me when I hit 210 lbs at the very end of my 2 pregnancies. I knew I wasn't, but it didn't matter because he made me feel wanted. I've still got 30 of those pounds and when I get upset about it he doesn't give me a lecture he says "You look great Babe." Every single time. And I tell him every day how handsome he is and how lucky I feel to be with him because I do but also because I know he feels like he's getting old and looking old sometimes. I don't see it. I still think he's the handsomest man in the world. Cheesy, but true.
I love you both. I am so excited for you. Marriage is awesome. Truly. Enjoy each other.
I know this is supposed to be advice but I thought you guys could relate to our story a little bit and I wanted to share it with you.
And here's the thing. Life is stressful. Marriage isn't. Be a team. Tell each other when you're stressed out and why. Don't ever assume that you're doing the other person a favor by trying to hide your stress or deal with it yourself. I know it's a cliche but a problem shared is a problem halved every time. Sometimes it makes you feel better just to get whatever it is off your chest. Sometimes the other person will have a perspective you haven't thought of that either helps resolve the situation or just makes it seem not so serious. And sometimes they can't help at all but because you tell them everything, even the hard stuff, you're building a life long trust. That's the most important thing we've learned.
The second thing is that Michael tells me every single day how sexy I am and how much he wants me. He even told me when I hit 210 lbs at the very end of my 2 pregnancies. I knew I wasn't, but it didn't matter because he made me feel wanted. I've still got 30 of those pounds and when I get upset about it he doesn't give me a lecture he says "You look great Babe." Every single time. And I tell him every day how handsome he is and how lucky I feel to be with him because I do but also because I know he feels like he's getting old and looking old sometimes. I don't see it. I still think he's the handsomest man in the world. Cheesy, but true.
I love you both. I am so excited for you. Marriage is awesome. Truly. Enjoy each other.
Friday, May 28, 2010
The Mass
It's strange how the small details are the ones that stick in your mind after a stressful event. I remember calling Dr. Lee's office and being told that I'd have to wait 6 weeks for an appointment. I remember being annoyed. I remember that the woman on the phone didn't care that I was annoyed and told me that I could see a nurse practitioner right away if I didn't want to wait. I didn't want to wait, but I also didn't want a stranger feeling me up and looking up my hoo-hoo. But, because I am impatient, and because my husband was 43 at the time and because I was pretty keen to get a clean bill of gynecologic health so that we could have another baby I agreed to see the NP.
I knew I didn't like her the moment I met her. Does that make me feel like a bitch? Yes. Yes it does. But I didn't like her and I still don't. That being said... I don't think she liked me either. Or maybe she's like that with all of "her" patients. I say "her" because I'm pretty sure she gets all the impatient, high-maintenance women that would rather be seeing their own doctor but settle for her. That might make me come across like an unsympathetic bitch too. She didn't smile. She got right down to business. Blood pressure, hoo-hoo, breast check, in that order. It was the breast check that threw me. She's squeezing and grabbing and massaging my left breast and then she's squeezing and grabbing and massaging my right and she says, "Ok, there's a mass in your right breast. I'm going to write you a prescription for an ultrasound where they will take a closer look. But you need to schedule it for 2 weeks from now."
Ummmmmmmmmm......... "A mass?" I say. "What does that mean?" "Here." she says and she takes my hand. "Feel this." And she pokes my breast with my right hand. "Feel that mass?" There's that word again. "No. I don't feel anything." "Here." She says with a note of exasperation and she takes my left hand and places it on the same spot and pushes down. "Right there." First of all, I'm in shock. Second of all, I really don't feel anything. Third of all the word "mass" evokes visions of mounds and hills and giant tumors and I really don't feel anything resembling a giant tumor so I tell her so. And she says "Well, there is a mass there. Here's your prescription." And she's gone.
In a screenplay I'm pretty sure I would write something like "End Scene"
here and start Act II then cut to me in my car in the parking garage hysterically crying while dialing my husband at the office and telling him the whole story which went something like this.
"Sob, hiccup, Hoooooney, it's me. This mean woman at the Dr. says I have a mass in my breast. (Hysteria rising, voice getting dramatically higher pitched) A MAAAASSS."
"What mean woman?"
I love my husband. His first instinct is to defend my honor. The breast cancer thing will register in a minute.
"The nurse-practitioner."
"Why did you see the nurse practioner? Where's Dr. Lee?"
"Sob. Hiccup. I don't know. I couldn't (hiccup) get an appointment (hiccup) for 6 weeks so I had to see this woman. And she says (sob) that I have a MASS (note of hysteria) but that they can't ultrasound it for 2 weeks because of (hiccup) my hormones or something."
"Do not drive. Stay where you are. I'm calling Dr. Lee. I will call you right back." Click.
So I sit. And I wait. And the phone rings 5 minutes later. "Dr. Lee is going to see you in the morning. Are you calm?"
"No."
"Do you want me to come get you?"
"No. I'll get myself home."
"Ok. Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing."
And surprisingly that made me feel better. Michael has that affect on me. All you women's libbers out there, judge me if you will, but he makes me feel safe and like he can handle anything and the woman in me finds that ultra-attractive.
So I pondered how the phone conversation must have gone when he called. I mean, Dr. Lee couldn't get me in for 6 weeks but Michael with his cute english accent calls and either flirts his way through or threatens a law-suit (neither of which are out of his repertoire) and voila the elusive Dr. Lee is magically available. I pondered but I didn't care.
So at 9 AM the next morning the 2 of us walked back through the sparklingly clean double glass doors of the Dr.'s office and waited to see Dr. Lee. She was on call that day, so even though the nurses rushed us into a room (making it relatively clear Michael had chosen angry-law-suit-guy not charming-flirty-guy) we waited 2 hours to see Dr. Lee. Pretty sure she ran across to the hospital to deliver a baby while we were waiting but God love her, when she walked in the room she said "Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know what she said or what she thought or where she thought she felt the lump." SEE! Already... "lump" is a reasonable word whereas "mass"... well we've already seen how that word affects my emotional well- being. She opened my gown and performed the breast exam on both of my breasts. I waited. We waited. She did a really thorough job. (Lawsuit?) But she was kind and she smiled and was matter-of-fact and said, "I don't feel anything. You have fibrous breasts but nothing I would call a lump. Nothing we need to worry about." "Really?" I said. "Really. Now let's talk about fun stuff. Next time I see you, you going to be pregnant?"
And like that, it was over. I'd never been able to empathize with cancer patients, cancer survivors or the family members of those people before and though my brush with it was very short-lived, the stress it caused gave me a very real and very new sensitivity toward actual cancer patients, survivors and their families. Michael and I talked about it over a celebratory bottle of my favorite red pinot noir at lunch.
Six months later I was back at Dr. Lee's office having my ultrasound and there was definitely a mass. But she was in my belly and had a strong heartbeat and was born healthy and happy in December 2008.
I knew I didn't like her the moment I met her. Does that make me feel like a bitch? Yes. Yes it does. But I didn't like her and I still don't. That being said... I don't think she liked me either. Or maybe she's like that with all of "her" patients. I say "her" because I'm pretty sure she gets all the impatient, high-maintenance women that would rather be seeing their own doctor but settle for her. That might make me come across like an unsympathetic bitch too. She didn't smile. She got right down to business. Blood pressure, hoo-hoo, breast check, in that order. It was the breast check that threw me. She's squeezing and grabbing and massaging my left breast and then she's squeezing and grabbing and massaging my right and she says, "Ok, there's a mass in your right breast. I'm going to write you a prescription for an ultrasound where they will take a closer look. But you need to schedule it for 2 weeks from now."
Ummmmmmmmmm......... "A mass?" I say. "What does that mean?" "Here." she says and she takes my hand. "Feel this." And she pokes my breast with my right hand. "Feel that mass?" There's that word again. "No. I don't feel anything." "Here." She says with a note of exasperation and she takes my left hand and places it on the same spot and pushes down. "Right there." First of all, I'm in shock. Second of all, I really don't feel anything. Third of all the word "mass" evokes visions of mounds and hills and giant tumors and I really don't feel anything resembling a giant tumor so I tell her so. And she says "Well, there is a mass there. Here's your prescription." And she's gone.
In a screenplay I'm pretty sure I would write something like "End Scene"
here and start Act II then cut to me in my car in the parking garage hysterically crying while dialing my husband at the office and telling him the whole story which went something like this.
"Sob, hiccup, Hoooooney, it's me. This mean woman at the Dr. says I have a mass in my breast. (Hysteria rising, voice getting dramatically higher pitched) A MAAAASSS."
"What mean woman?"
I love my husband. His first instinct is to defend my honor. The breast cancer thing will register in a minute.
"The nurse-practitioner."
"Why did you see the nurse practioner? Where's Dr. Lee?"
"Sob. Hiccup. I don't know. I couldn't (hiccup) get an appointment (hiccup) for 6 weeks so I had to see this woman. And she says (sob) that I have a MASS (note of hysteria) but that they can't ultrasound it for 2 weeks because of (hiccup) my hormones or something."
"Do not drive. Stay where you are. I'm calling Dr. Lee. I will call you right back." Click.
So I sit. And I wait. And the phone rings 5 minutes later. "Dr. Lee is going to see you in the morning. Are you calm?"
"No."
"Do you want me to come get you?"
"No. I'll get myself home."
"Ok. Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing."
And surprisingly that made me feel better. Michael has that affect on me. All you women's libbers out there, judge me if you will, but he makes me feel safe and like he can handle anything and the woman in me finds that ultra-attractive.
So I pondered how the phone conversation must have gone when he called. I mean, Dr. Lee couldn't get me in for 6 weeks but Michael with his cute english accent calls and either flirts his way through or threatens a law-suit (neither of which are out of his repertoire) and voila the elusive Dr. Lee is magically available. I pondered but I didn't care.
So at 9 AM the next morning the 2 of us walked back through the sparklingly clean double glass doors of the Dr.'s office and waited to see Dr. Lee. She was on call that day, so even though the nurses rushed us into a room (making it relatively clear Michael had chosen angry-law-suit-guy not charming-flirty-guy) we waited 2 hours to see Dr. Lee. Pretty sure she ran across to the hospital to deliver a baby while we were waiting but God love her, when she walked in the room she said "Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know what she said or what she thought or where she thought she felt the lump." SEE! Already... "lump" is a reasonable word whereas "mass"... well we've already seen how that word affects my emotional well- being. She opened my gown and performed the breast exam on both of my breasts. I waited. We waited. She did a really thorough job. (Lawsuit?) But she was kind and she smiled and was matter-of-fact and said, "I don't feel anything. You have fibrous breasts but nothing I would call a lump. Nothing we need to worry about." "Really?" I said. "Really. Now let's talk about fun stuff. Next time I see you, you going to be pregnant?"
And like that, it was over. I'd never been able to empathize with cancer patients, cancer survivors or the family members of those people before and though my brush with it was very short-lived, the stress it caused gave me a very real and very new sensitivity toward actual cancer patients, survivors and their families. Michael and I talked about it over a celebratory bottle of my favorite red pinot noir at lunch.
Six months later I was back at Dr. Lee's office having my ultrasound and there was definitely a mass. But she was in my belly and had a strong heartbeat and was born healthy and happy in December 2008.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Inspiration All Around
Everywhere I look lately people close to me are pursuing their dreams. My sister is doing research for an historical fiction novel based on the lives of some of our not too distant relatives. My mom is getting her Masters degree. She's 54. My Dad and "not-brother-in-law" are investing in the invention my Dad has been working on and have started a company together. One of my best friends, who I can't name because she'll kill me, has made it through 3 rounds of auditions for a television program, that I can't name because she'll kill me, that is not only reputable but could make an already successful career even more rewarding. I am proud of these people. I love these people. These people inspire me.
But then I looked around and realized that there are a lot of people NOT close to me pursuing their dreams as well. Don't hate me, but I love American Idol. I L-O-V-E it. And yes, the people that can't sing are funny, but I truly admire every single person that gets up in front of those judges and sings for them, good or bad. I would throw up. I would throw up and I would shake like I had had ten red bulls AND there is NO way I would ever remember one word that I intended to sing.
I actually have dreams about it. Scratch that. Nightmares. I have a nightmare that I'm on stage auditioning for American Idol (sometimes it's So You Think You Can Dance) and I'm never prepared and I never know what I'm going to sing (or dance) and usually I'm wearing a bikini and pearls. Pearls? WTF? Anyway, it takes guts to get up on that stage. It takes guts to pursue any dream. Guts I usually don't have and haven't needed up until now because I never had a dream. Seriously, I never had any idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. And then I grew up and I still didn't know. I wanted to do something I loved and I never tried anything that I loved enough to pursue, which is why I kind of followed my Dad's advice and went into software. Parts of it interested me. The process, the big picture, the logic behind the code. But that was it. Nothing to wrap my arms around. Nothing to love.
And then I started to write. And I really like writing. I would like it even if no one were reading it, but people are reading it. People close to me and a few not so close to me and now I'm inspired by them and their encouraging comments and their support. It took guts to publish the first one of these and I got butterflies in my stomach before I clicked "Publish" all 5 times I've sent this blog into my cyber social network, but what I've realized is that the nerves are a good thing. The nerves mean that for the first time ever I care. So for the first time ever I can truly say that I have a dream. I want to be a writer. I love writing and I love it that the people around me inspired me to try. I don't even have to be a successful writer. It's reward enough knowing that I'm going to have something to show for myself at the end of my life. And at the end of the day if I can inspire someone else to pursue doing something they love then I've got even more motivation to keep pursuing this dream and THAT is something I can totally wrap my arms around.
But then I looked around and realized that there are a lot of people NOT close to me pursuing their dreams as well. Don't hate me, but I love American Idol. I L-O-V-E it. And yes, the people that can't sing are funny, but I truly admire every single person that gets up in front of those judges and sings for them, good or bad. I would throw up. I would throw up and I would shake like I had had ten red bulls AND there is NO way I would ever remember one word that I intended to sing.
I actually have dreams about it. Scratch that. Nightmares. I have a nightmare that I'm on stage auditioning for American Idol (sometimes it's So You Think You Can Dance) and I'm never prepared and I never know what I'm going to sing (or dance) and usually I'm wearing a bikini and pearls. Pearls? WTF? Anyway, it takes guts to get up on that stage. It takes guts to pursue any dream. Guts I usually don't have and haven't needed up until now because I never had a dream. Seriously, I never had any idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. And then I grew up and I still didn't know. I wanted to do something I loved and I never tried anything that I loved enough to pursue, which is why I kind of followed my Dad's advice and went into software. Parts of it interested me. The process, the big picture, the logic behind the code. But that was it. Nothing to wrap my arms around. Nothing to love.
And then I started to write. And I really like writing. I would like it even if no one were reading it, but people are reading it. People close to me and a few not so close to me and now I'm inspired by them and their encouraging comments and their support. It took guts to publish the first one of these and I got butterflies in my stomach before I clicked "Publish" all 5 times I've sent this blog into my cyber social network, but what I've realized is that the nerves are a good thing. The nerves mean that for the first time ever I care. So for the first time ever I can truly say that I have a dream. I want to be a writer. I love writing and I love it that the people around me inspired me to try. I don't even have to be a successful writer. It's reward enough knowing that I'm going to have something to show for myself at the end of my life. And at the end of the day if I can inspire someone else to pursue doing something they love then I've got even more motivation to keep pursuing this dream and THAT is something I can totally wrap my arms around.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
My weekend - Saturday's blog
2008 was an awesome year for us. Michael started a new job under a new boss that he actually liked and got along well with, we bought a gorgeous new house in Brookhaven, and our second little girl was born, healthy and beautiful, in December.
So where 2008 was pretty stellar, 2009 really kind of sucked. Everything got hard and without going into too much detail we ended up having to "downsize". What led to the downsizing caused a lot of stress and it's at times like these that marriages really get tested. Egos really get tested. And loyalty really gets tested. I'm not going to lie. We had our share of screaming matches. He's a red-headed, english, hot-head and I'm a foul-mouthed, liberal, hot-head so not only were these fights loud, they were often pretty "adjective-intensive". But, to our credit, these fights never involved blame and NEVER required us to sleep in separate beds. They were more a result of the toxic stress eating away at us under the surface. Committed or not, that stuff boils over once in a while. I have to say though, that in all the knock-down-drag-outs we've been in I've never questioned my choice and I've never questioned our commitment. We've been married for 5 years and we're in love. Even in the midst of the downsizing we still save money and make the time for "date night" because I still enjoy his company more than anyone's.
Last night was date night. We went to our new favorite place. We've been 6 times in as many weeks. Michael and I are nothing if not consistent. We find a place we like and we go there every time we go out until we get invited somewhere else we would have never tried on our own and that becomes our new favorite place. We do it with everything. We find a new recipe we love and we'll have it 3 times a week until we never want to eat it again. We hear a song we like on the radio and we download it to our iPod, buy the CD and put it in the car and listen to it 10 times a day until we get to a point where we swear we never liked that song and can't figure out who bought the CD for us. We find a new drink, like we did this summer (sweet tea vodka and lemonade) and we drink so much of it that (for me anyway) I feel queasy at the mere mention of sweet tea anything.
I don't know what this says about us. Are we afraid of change? Disappointment? Obscurity? Obscurity... See part of the appeal of going to the same place again and again is the "Norm" factor. Everybody knows our name. OK, not mine so much as Michael's. But still. We walk in together and my glass of pink bubbles appears from behind the bar. We decide to duck in last minute at 8 on a busy Friday and magically never have to wait for a table. We always get something for free and never ever pay our full bill. It may be shallow and it may seem highly unimportant in the midst of all the tragedy going on in the world right now, and it is, but in a year defined by downsizing, date night with my favorite man at our favorite place helps me feel a little less down.
So where 2008 was pretty stellar, 2009 really kind of sucked. Everything got hard and without going into too much detail we ended up having to "downsize". What led to the downsizing caused a lot of stress and it's at times like these that marriages really get tested. Egos really get tested. And loyalty really gets tested. I'm not going to lie. We had our share of screaming matches. He's a red-headed, english, hot-head and I'm a foul-mouthed, liberal, hot-head so not only were these fights loud, they were often pretty "adjective-intensive". But, to our credit, these fights never involved blame and NEVER required us to sleep in separate beds. They were more a result of the toxic stress eating away at us under the surface. Committed or not, that stuff boils over once in a while. I have to say though, that in all the knock-down-drag-outs we've been in I've never questioned my choice and I've never questioned our commitment. We've been married for 5 years and we're in love. Even in the midst of the downsizing we still save money and make the time for "date night" because I still enjoy his company more than anyone's.
Last night was date night. We went to our new favorite place. We've been 6 times in as many weeks. Michael and I are nothing if not consistent. We find a place we like and we go there every time we go out until we get invited somewhere else we would have never tried on our own and that becomes our new favorite place. We do it with everything. We find a new recipe we love and we'll have it 3 times a week until we never want to eat it again. We hear a song we like on the radio and we download it to our iPod, buy the CD and put it in the car and listen to it 10 times a day until we get to a point where we swear we never liked that song and can't figure out who bought the CD for us. We find a new drink, like we did this summer (sweet tea vodka and lemonade) and we drink so much of it that (for me anyway) I feel queasy at the mere mention of sweet tea anything.
I don't know what this says about us. Are we afraid of change? Disappointment? Obscurity? Obscurity... See part of the appeal of going to the same place again and again is the "Norm" factor. Everybody knows our name. OK, not mine so much as Michael's. But still. We walk in together and my glass of pink bubbles appears from behind the bar. We decide to duck in last minute at 8 on a busy Friday and magically never have to wait for a table. We always get something for free and never ever pay our full bill. It may be shallow and it may seem highly unimportant in the midst of all the tragedy going on in the world right now, and it is, but in a year defined by downsizing, date night with my favorite man at our favorite place helps me feel a little less down.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Unfulfilled Potential
Unfulfilled potential. My curse in life. I was supposed to go to Stanford. I was supposed to be some kind of entrepreneurial genius and wear designer suits and have a penthouse in Manhattan. I was supposed to rule the world because I'm pretty, I'm smart, and I'm confident.
I used to be able to do some serious math in my head on the fly. No more. I used to read 3 books a week. Mmmmmm, now it's more like a month. I used to have engaging conversations with adults about subjects, like politics, religion, and more importantly, those entrepreneurial dreams of mine. I always had an idea that I wanted to turn into a business.
Examples: I wanted to start an after school program for the kids of parents that want them to learn about all religions and their history. One hour a week to give kids a more well-rounded education and a historical perspective that isn't being taught in public schools.
I wanted to start a concierge business in Buckhead for people who needed their dry cleaning picked up, or couldn't sit around all day waiting for the cable guy, or who couldn't get home at lunch one day to walk their dog because they were stuck in a meeting. Hire cute college kids in matching t-shirts and provide a whatever/whenever service for everyone.
Then there was the nail place. I hate getting my nails done. It's like a chore. It takes forever and it's never fun because you sit there with an awkward smile on your face while a woman intimately touches and massages your feet. So you either hide behind a magazine the whole time, embarrassed, and feeling guilty or you try and make small talk with her while she pretends to care that your best friend got a boob job and now one of her nipples points due north. I wanted to open a nail salon that was more like a spa with chairs that had their own TV screens with headphones, wi-fi in the whole salon and a strict "no-talking" policy so that no woman would feel guilty for not making the aforementioned small talk.
But instead of Stanford it was UGA (Go Dawgs!) for me. I graduated, worked for a while, talked about all of those great ideas and yet never did anything important or even memorable, partied my ass off, got married, partied some more and then became a mom. It's been 6 years since I held a full-time job and I feel like it's been that long since I've used my brain. My brain is mush and other than the couple of times a week I bamboozle myself into thinking I can beat my husband at Jeopardy there is no brain building/expanding/training going on in the Gilgallon household. And I heard somewhere that people that do not actively keep their brains engaged are at a much greater risk of developing Alzheimer's Disease. Downer!
I felt for a long time that I had let people down by never achieving any of my "supposed to's". I felt I had let myself down and my Dad and even my sister a little bit even though her only motivation is to see me be my best. But this is what I realized today: All of those "supposed to's" weren't MY "supposed to's". I love being a Bulldawg. I hated corporate life, I'm a big ideas person, not a "run-my-own-company" person and after living in New York, San Francisco and San Diego at different intervals I ALWAYS come back to Atlanta, because I love it. So instead of feeling guilty and feeling like I've wasted my potential, I am now going to write my own "supposed to's".
I am supposed to be happy. I am supposed to do something I love. I am supposed to be a good wife, mother, sister, daughter, granddaughter, friend and I am supposed to fill up my own potential. The end.
I used to be able to do some serious math in my head on the fly. No more. I used to read 3 books a week. Mmmmmm, now it's more like a month. I used to have engaging conversations with adults about subjects, like politics, religion, and more importantly, those entrepreneurial dreams of mine. I always had an idea that I wanted to turn into a business.
Examples: I wanted to start an after school program for the kids of parents that want them to learn about all religions and their history. One hour a week to give kids a more well-rounded education and a historical perspective that isn't being taught in public schools.
I wanted to start a concierge business in Buckhead for people who needed their dry cleaning picked up, or couldn't sit around all day waiting for the cable guy, or who couldn't get home at lunch one day to walk their dog because they were stuck in a meeting. Hire cute college kids in matching t-shirts and provide a whatever/whenever service for everyone.
Then there was the nail place. I hate getting my nails done. It's like a chore. It takes forever and it's never fun because you sit there with an awkward smile on your face while a woman intimately touches and massages your feet. So you either hide behind a magazine the whole time, embarrassed, and feeling guilty or you try and make small talk with her while she pretends to care that your best friend got a boob job and now one of her nipples points due north. I wanted to open a nail salon that was more like a spa with chairs that had their own TV screens with headphones, wi-fi in the whole salon and a strict "no-talking" policy so that no woman would feel guilty for not making the aforementioned small talk.
But instead of Stanford it was UGA (Go Dawgs!) for me. I graduated, worked for a while, talked about all of those great ideas and yet never did anything important or even memorable, partied my ass off, got married, partied some more and then became a mom. It's been 6 years since I held a full-time job and I feel like it's been that long since I've used my brain. My brain is mush and other than the couple of times a week I bamboozle myself into thinking I can beat my husband at Jeopardy there is no brain building/expanding/training going on in the Gilgallon household. And I heard somewhere that people that do not actively keep their brains engaged are at a much greater risk of developing Alzheimer's Disease. Downer!
I felt for a long time that I had let people down by never achieving any of my "supposed to's". I felt I had let myself down and my Dad and even my sister a little bit even though her only motivation is to see me be my best. But this is what I realized today: All of those "supposed to's" weren't MY "supposed to's". I love being a Bulldawg. I hated corporate life, I'm a big ideas person, not a "run-my-own-company" person and after living in New York, San Francisco and San Diego at different intervals I ALWAYS come back to Atlanta, because I love it. So instead of feeling guilty and feeling like I've wasted my potential, I am now going to write my own "supposed to's".
I am supposed to be happy. I am supposed to do something I love. I am supposed to be a good wife, mother, sister, daughter, granddaughter, friend and I am supposed to fill up my own potential. The end.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
How to Write the Great American Novel
No. Seriously. How DO you Write the Great American Novel? Do you start with "Once upon a time..." and end with "...happily ever after"? Not unless you want Disney to sue your ass. Kidding. But I actually want to have something published someday so that strategy probably isn't my best.
Do you start at the beginning and end at the end? What if you get stuck in the middle? What if you never get to the end? What if you get to the end and realize that you're writing about something entirely off topic than what you intended in the beginning and now nothing makes sense? Breathe.
Is there a "How to Write the Great American Novel for Dummies?" I Googled it. There is. It's actually called "Writing a Novel and Getting Published for Dummies". Don't judge me. I think I'm going to read it.
If you asked my mom, who is a 6th grade language arts teacher, she would tell you that it's as simple as having a beginning, a middle and an end. "You have to do a plot outline. I make all my 6th graders do that." Hmmmmmmm. It's my Mom. I'm predispositioned to tune that advice out however sound it may be.
If you asked Dan Brown he would tell you it's as easy as having a winning formula. If you've read more than one of his books you'd know what I meant. They're all the same. Generic protagonist, maniacal stereotype of an antagonist and horrific foreshadowing including phrases like "Little did he know...". Come ON Dan Brown! "LITTLE DID HE KNOW..."???
If I EVER write anything as heinous as "Little did he know..." you all have my permission to publicly ridicule me until I beg for mercy. Except now I'm paranoid. Is "beg for mercy" a cliche? I did use a cliche yesterday. Bad bad and I knew it and my little sister, who is a real writer, pointed it out to me and she was right. I could have taken a few minutes to come up with something more original than "heart in my hand"... but I digress.
I've heard that the best writers write about their own personal experiences. That sounds like good advice except that my favorite authors definitely were not writing their memoirs. I mean even though Tolkien may have had hairy feet, I'm pretty sure he never lived in the Shire and I know for sure that T.H. White never turned a young boy into a fish in order to teach him that knowledge is power. So, where does that leave me?
No idea. If anyone has some good advice I'm all ears. Ugh. Cliche. "Hello. Amazon? Please send me one copy of "Writing a Novel... For Dummies" STAT.
Do you start at the beginning and end at the end? What if you get stuck in the middle? What if you never get to the end? What if you get to the end and realize that you're writing about something entirely off topic than what you intended in the beginning and now nothing makes sense? Breathe.
Is there a "How to Write the Great American Novel for Dummies?" I Googled it. There is. It's actually called "Writing a Novel and Getting Published for Dummies". Don't judge me. I think I'm going to read it.
If you asked my mom, who is a 6th grade language arts teacher, she would tell you that it's as simple as having a beginning, a middle and an end. "You have to do a plot outline. I make all my 6th graders do that." Hmmmmmmm. It's my Mom. I'm predispositioned to tune that advice out however sound it may be.
If you asked Dan Brown he would tell you it's as easy as having a winning formula. If you've read more than one of his books you'd know what I meant. They're all the same. Generic protagonist, maniacal stereotype of an antagonist and horrific foreshadowing including phrases like "Little did he know...". Come ON Dan Brown! "LITTLE DID HE KNOW..."???
If I EVER write anything as heinous as "Little did he know..." you all have my permission to publicly ridicule me until I beg for mercy. Except now I'm paranoid. Is "beg for mercy" a cliche? I did use a cliche yesterday. Bad bad and I knew it and my little sister, who is a real writer, pointed it out to me and she was right. I could have taken a few minutes to come up with something more original than "heart in my hand"... but I digress.
I've heard that the best writers write about their own personal experiences. That sounds like good advice except that my favorite authors definitely were not writing their memoirs. I mean even though Tolkien may have had hairy feet, I'm pretty sure he never lived in the Shire and I know for sure that T.H. White never turned a young boy into a fish in order to teach him that knowledge is power. So, where does that leave me?
No idea. If anyone has some good advice I'm all ears. Ugh. Cliche. "Hello. Amazon? Please send me one copy of "Writing a Novel... For Dummies" STAT.
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