The Pure Awesome of Nostalgia

My generation lost a musical icon yesterday. Prince Rogers Nelson, known by his musical personae “Prince”, passed away in his home in Minneapolis, MN at the age of 57. Fifty Seven Years. A small number. One man. A mighty loss for my generation’s childhood, and my own personal coming of age. He’d been treated recently for flu-like symptoms, had cancelled shows; his plane had made an emergency landing. He went on to perform the night after treatment. No matter how big a public icon, underneath it all, he was still just a man. Talented, gifted, beautiful, flawed. Mortal. Like the rest of us.

It’s times like these that the ones left behind are forced to remember what he meant in their lives. The shock is instant. We just heard he was in Atlanta! We just saw him on TV! Wasn’t that last week? Then, grief. Our grief begins slowly. We peel back the layers as we come out of our stupor and begin to remember. We remember public things. Then, we draw our grief inward and suddenly, the child inside reminds us just why his passing is so important.

My daughter is very young. Michael Jackson’s passing affected her none. She doesn’t understand why Prince is such a big deal. Just like I never understood why my mother lingered long at the front gates of Graceland, her fingers intertwined with the iron bars, her face pressed through so that part of her was inside the actual property of The King. She was revisiting her childhood, in her mind. Something inside her stirred, old feelings of past friends and loves came so close to the surface, it was as if they were right there with her.

In 1984 I lived on an island in the Caribbean. For the first time I had the experience of real acceptance without prejudice. Everyone has their own awkward ugly duckling story. Even though I was an Asian girl in a white bread town, with my own insecurities, I really was no different than anyone else. I wanted to be in with the IN crowd, but for one reason or another, I wasn’t accepted. I wanted boys to like me. They didn’t.

Then we moved.

In the Caribbean, the rules were different. Acceptance was different. I was different. I Suddenly had friends, boys paid attention to me, and I felt a kind of freedom I’d never experienced. At the tender age of 14, I found ME. It was amazing.  The friendships I made were so important that I still remember them, because of the way they made me feel. Accepted. Not different. The Caribbean, popularity & Prince. That was my 1984.

The video store in our suburb had a limited option for American videos: Sixteen Candles and Purple Rain. The former became the Go To movie for parties and sleepovers. The latter became the movie you watched on rainy weekend nights at your best friend’s house with her, her boyfriend, and your beautiful boyfriend with amazing blue eyes and flaxen blond hair. So you watched that movie as many times as possible.

Yesterday I was 14 again.  I could smell the salt in the air, feel the uncertainly of my youth, the excited butterfly ready to emerge from my pupae of adolescence, whether my parents were ready for that or not. I remember the bubbles in my stomach, the tingling in my heart, every time I looked into that beautiful boy’s piercing blue eyes. I don’t care where we go, I don’t care what we do…I don’t care, pretty baby. Just take me with you…

The world lost an undeniable public icon yesterday. Music lost an enigmatic voice. But if you follow social media as I do, you’ll see that Prince gave my generation one last, beautiful gift. Through our shock and  grief, mourning what we lost, we got to be teenagers again. Whatever that means to you, ask yourself for me…..could you feel it? Prince took you back in time.

To My 1984: it was wonderful to see you again.

Thank you Prince.  Rest in Peace (And Happiness)

The Pure Awesome of Weighing In on The American Dream, Apologies to Everyone Else

Last I looked, Freedom of Speech was still in our Constitution. So I’m going to exercise my right, by weighing in on Obama’s weighing in on the Republican rhetoric currently in play during this campaign season. Recently, the following video was shared on my Facebook News Feed:

CLICK HERE

Now, I don’t care for Obama, never have. I’m a proud Republican, and a Texan, who believes you should work for what  you get. I’m all for helping others, but not to buy booze. I mean, if I give you my beer money…then how am I going to buy beer? However, we’re only jumping from the frying pan into the fire with the current choices for president, and this goes for both sides. How has the American Dream become the right to pursue your happiness, and the understood obligation to share your hard earned happiness with those with no more motivation to pursue anything than to stand in line at the government offices waiting or complaining about their welfare check being late? When will that stop? If I voice my opinion in public, I’m perceived as greedy and selfish. I’m so tired of this assumed entitlement. Hilary will make sure someone in those lines gets half my money, because according to the Democrats, I “have enough” and they have nothing. Trump has already made more enemies than friends and no one came make him look any worse than he already has just by being his obnoxious self. He thinks people take him seriously. Woe unto those who do! I thought we were smarter than to be blinded by the flashy pomp and circumstance surrounding this man of sausage fingers and empty words. A man who went bankrupt three times but is still considered a billionaire. (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!?!) Look, if you thought Obama was Satan then Trump is his Fallen Angel. Beautiful words flow with promises of taking back the country we once knew – music that we’ve all been waiting for –BTW, Lucifer used to be an angel, too. Remember him? Just Sayin’.

So, okay. Call me old fashioned, which is really funny, since I’m a small Asian woman; a naturalized American, who wonders what happened to fighting for Peace, Justice and the American Way? Climate change? I’m sorry, but I have faith that God will decide when the world is over, not us destroying our own climate. I fear too many have lost faith in anything, which is why America looks the way it does. Obama says other countries look to us to be grounded in Science. Did he forget, we were founded on faith, for religious freedom? Yes, science has its place, but that’s not what started this country.

For the other countries shaking their heads at us, I’m sorry you have to see this. America is a great country. Please don’t let the circus arena that is our presidential election season cloud your memories of the more honorable representations of our Great Nation: Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Lincoln, Madison…remember that our country was created by those seeking the truth, and the freedom to worship God as they wished, without fear of persecution. Now the whole country’s gone higgledy-piggledy! Everyone’s afraid to say anything of substance, for fear of offending, being perceived in a certain light, or labeled unpopular! It’s exhausting! I have kids in elementary school. I was already tired when this whole election dance started. I’m too tired to dance. Don’t ask me.

I am just one American. I cannot speak for anyone else. I personally wish we could all remember what our government was founded on, by leaders who laid plans to control government from getting out of hand, and follow the rules set forth and agreed upon by our Founding Fathers. Stop and think about where we started. How we’ve evolved. Where do you think we’re going?

Weigh in. Trust me. No GPS is going to help you with this one. The future is in our hands, America. The world is watching. Let’s not moon them in the process.

 

The Pure Awesome of Goals

Since January 2016 is a third of the month behind us, it’s a good time to reflect on what we had in 2015; our accomplishments, failures, near misses and direct hits and those little gifts called miracles…look back, there really were some! They might be masquerading as things you actually wanted to work out at the time, but didn’t. Now you can look back and smile and say whoa, I missed a bullet! Yay, my team! Or you tried losing weight and actually found a program or eating plan that worked for you – the miracle was that you stuck with it and now your pants are loose!

Good for you! If you’re here reading this right now, congratulations, you made it to 2016!

Throughout social media there are mentions of “Goals for the New Year”. GAG. Raise your hand if you’re tired of the New Year/New Me crap. (Me!) I’m over 40. Let’s not kid myself. Did that work last year? Nope. Will it work this year? Probably not.  Because some things take more than a year.

So take a look at 2015. What goals did you come up with last year? I think I embarked on yet another eating plan and ended up closer to a diabetic coma after I stopped that eating plan due to the expense of it, then picked up my old habits again. This was further exacerbated by the fact that I lost daily contact with many of my friends when our office was closed and we all received our walking papers early in the year. Amid the frenzy of trying to find another job, trying to balance my job search with home and family, which had become as routine as a sluggishly wound clock, and trying to lose weight, I realized I was depressed and missed my friends. I missed them! As much as I did not miss the traffic and early work starting time, I missed the process of going to work, staying busy, having a purpose.

My goals went from the grand bite of “I’m gonna lose 40 pounds!” to, I’m going to stay home and keep my kids entertained so we don’t have to pay for daycare this summer. I was able to milk my severance to keep from having to go back to work at a place I wouldn’t love. I was able to be present for both my parents’ back surgeries. I was able to decide what it was I really wanted to do.

And I realized I didn’t want to work at a desk anymore. I’m in the last 20-25 years of my working career. I wanted to do something I enjoyed. I was never going to be any younger than I am now. If I wanted to reinvent myself I’d better do it now.

So I took the plunge and did it. I said good bye to Corporate America and embraced a new direction for my life. I created a goal for 2016 before the ball dropped on December 31. I also made it a priority to take care of my body and partnered with a doctor to help me manage my diabetes. I exercise a little more. I eat a little less. I’ve lost 20 pounds!!

If you have goals for 2016, that’s excellent! You’ve got a direction for your year. If you don’t have a goal for 2016; if you fly by the seat of your pants and roll with the tides, then I tip my hat to you, adventurer! Your 2016 will hold many surprises and miracles, just wait and see!

When I look back on 2016, I hope at least a few on my goals are closer to fruition. I am excited and nervous and hopeful for my new direction, and I can’t wait to see how it turns out!

Whatever 2016 holds for you, goal oriented or a big surprise gift you open a month at a time, I hope your year is as Pure Awesome as you hoped it would be!

 

 

 

The Pure Awesome of Stories

One of the beauties of being alive, among other living things, is the fact that we all have stories to tell. Each one is unique, and amazing, and personal. Some are pure fiction, some are autobiographical, some are poignant, some are folktales spun from fears and hope and wishes of our ancestors. And some are all of the above…and more.

Why do we tell stories? Even in the age of technology when there are a million things vying for our attention at any given moment, why are we still drawn to a story? Is it the desire to immerse ourselves in the idea of a place long ago and far away, where magic ruled or dragons roared, or beautiful women were rescued by dashing men from their boring, everyday lives, and whisked away to a fantastic castle to live happily ever after, with servants to attend to their every need and a cabana boy that no one ever questioned the existence of, even though there was no pool?

It’s our desires to suspend our disbelief, to places in our mind more mind blowing than any James Cameron epic three-hour blockbuster can produce, that fuel our desires for stories. Perhaps also, it’s the comfort of the story structure itself; a tale in three acts, that allows us a temporary escape from reality – thrusting our imaginations into peril and adventure that will get worse, and then better, and then conclude satisfactorily before the story ends. Whether we use our stories as an escape, a lesson learned, or a cathartic mental journey through someone else’s pain as a means to better cope with our own, I believe that humans  will always have the desire for stories.  The older I get, the more my desire for stories grows.

I’d love to hear yours.

The Pure Awesome of Freedom of Speech – Watch Out For Falling Opinions

Freedom of Speech is priceless – and why we can all write our blogs without fear legal persecution….friend and stranger persecution is a whole other rodeo….

So I want to share my two cents about the outrage against Planned Parenthood.

I know I might lose followers. That’s okay. I’m tired. I see too much of one side of the fight. But who’s there to fight for the other side? The side of the aborted babies.

Look, this would all be a non issue if there weren’t so many abortions in the first place. Abortions have happened since the beginning of time. Secret, back alley, risky, dirty, life-threatening abortions. A very few were performed because the health of the mother was at stake. But let’s be honest – most of them were done because there was an inconvenient baby on the way.

I was going to post this on Facebook, but call me a coward – I didn’t want the fallout. I posted it here instead.

So, Here’s a nice can of worms for you:

     The Internet is full of folks outraged that Planned Parenthood is selling parts of unborn aborted babies for profit.

 

     Where are the folks outraged that abortions are happening in the first place?

 

     I’ve thought about this a lot. Why aren’t we outraged that babies are being terminated in the first place? Oh, right, Freedom of Choice. Well, if you choose to abort your kid, I don’t think you get to decide what happens to it after you get rid of it.

 

     Call me what you will. I do understand there are instances where health of the mother comes into play (ectopic pregnancy, internal hemorrhage, incest, rape) but a baby that is inconvenient at the moment should get thrown away? Well what happens when you throw away trash? It’s taken away and you really don’t know what happens to it.

     If you feel that selling baby parts is abhorrent, then perhaps aborted tissue should be treated with dignity, like a PERSON…uh oh…..then it’s a person, isn’t it? It gets a funeral, right?

     You can say I am oversimplifying things, but consider this – can we really pick and choose what constitutes a human life? Because if you believe in freedom of choice, yet are outraged at the sale of baby parts, then that’s exactly what you’re doing.

     I’m adopted by people who couldn’t have kids. There are many, many, many other couples who’d love a kid who’s inconvenient for you. There’s always been freedom of choice – but there’ more than ONE choice. 

     I expect to lose friends over this. That’s okay. But I’m tired of seeing the complaints over selling baby parts, while no one addresses the fact that there are baby parts to sell in the first place.

     Folks gotta decide what is or isn’t a human, before deciding whether it’s okay to sell parts or not. Because if you abort a non- baby, then you’re not selling baby parts.

   Makes sense to me.

The Birds & Bees…At 40 Mph

My kids know where babies come from now.

This is a discussion most parents dread, myself included. We always think we have more time to read the books by famous child psychologists that explain like a DIY manual exactly what is appropriate to explain to your child, based on their age, and your level of sanity when the question arises. Some parents even make a “date” to discuss this sensitive subject with their children, choose a setting where they will all be comfortable, and perhaps, there’s a cup of cocoa and a glass of merlot within arm’s reach.

But life rarely work this way, unless you are a control freak that makes your family march to your step-in-time like Captain Von Trap marched his children. I can still hear that blasted whistle – reminded me of the hail from the original Star Trek…

Oh. Sorry, I digress…

Last week the boy and the girl were at vacation bible school at our church. They were learning how to put on the whole Armor of Faith, while Jesus was being likened unto a prince who taught the world how to ultimately inherit His Father’s Kingdom. The whole thing was very cleverly presented. Each day they would ride home singing songs they’d learned and talk about their friends, and what was going to be happening the next day.

Until Thursday. I had retrieved said children and was almost to the highway when the girl piped up from the back seat:

G(irl): Mom, babies don’t really pop out of your belly button, do they? Sidebar: Up until now she assumed babies popped out of my belly button, and my response had been ‘yeah, let’s go with that’.

Me: <thinking,’be cool, don’t freak yet’, as well as, ‘I didn’t think this was part of VBS’ > Where do you think they pop out from?

G: I don’t know.

Me: Do you Really want to know? <thinking, ‘this is it, this is the moment.’ Glance back, two eager faces wanting to know the Secret of Life looking back at me>

G: Yes?

Me: Okay, so you know how boys and girls are different….

I proceded to use words like vagina and penis, and how there’s sperm and an egg, and a little pocket inside the woman where the baby grows. Yes, just like a kangaroo. At one point the boy admitted he already knew this, his buddy had told him, and now he knew his buddy hadn’t been lying. This is also when the boy went back to his tablet game, decidedly in The Know about the facts of life.

Meanwhile, the more I explained, in very clinical terms, the more the girl drew up into herself – arms and legs tucked up to her chest, hands almost covering her ears, accompanied by moaning. When I finally explained the mechanics of intercourse, she freaked.

G: Oh Mom, please tell me you did not do this!

As I was now at a stoplight, I spun around and smiled brightly at her and said,

“Twice!”

The girl screamed. “NOOOOOOooooooo!”

She thinks that’s bad, wait until she hears about menstruation.

The Pure Awesome of Pool Renovaton Part 2 – Clean, Prep, Paint…Paradise

I grew up in a home where my father fixed everything. I mean, literally, fixed EVERYTHING. He was a certified electrical engineer, and he loved explaining how things worked. I can credit my misplaced knowledge of physics to him. I suck at math, but I’ve always almost instinctually understood the laws of physics – how an action creates an equal and opposite reaction. Simply put, I break it, Dad fixed it. The bigger picture was always, if Dad fixed it, we had a reliable result and more money in our pockets than if we paid someone else to fix it.

I got my can-do attitude from him as well – if I could fix something then I’d save a lot of money. However, there is something to be said for being able to hire work out – for one, you save your back, your manicure, and your time while someone else works in your pool. But then the bill comes and you wonder what you coulda done with the money you are handing over to Larry’s Pool Contractors. (fictitious company, but you get the drift). New handbag? (I confess I have a bit of a habit) video game console? Downpayment on a new car?

Thanks again to You Tube, I got the wild idea that since we were already draining and patching the pool, let’s go ahead and paint it, too. Make it look all spiffy. How hard could that  be?

After shoveling the remaining debris out of the bottom of the pool, I used a bleach wash to kill any remaining algae. I used a bleach sprayer and a bleach cleaning solution I got from my favorite store, Home Depot, in a 1:4 ratio. I wore a paint regulator mask and latex gloves. The spraying went fairly quickly after I got used to walking on an uneven surface. Sidebar: if you ever want a great calf workout, wander around in an empty in-ground pool shell for 5 days.

At one point during the bleaching process the Hubby came out and remarked how strong the bleach smell was. Thanks to the regulator, I couldn’t smell a thing. I wear glasses, so my eyes were not affected, either.

Another Sidebar: If you are wondering where the Hubby was during this process, I can tell you he was here – but this was a project I chose to take on. When we purchased this house I said I would manage the pool. Had I asked for assistance he would have helped – but I am a bulldozer when it comes to projects, and by the time he was able to clear his schedule (he often works from home after hours) I’d be past the point of needing his help, through devising an alternative work around.

After the bleach wash dried I sprayed the entire pool down and removed the water, and allowed it to dry. During this time I spent almost a day attempting to make the pool light work, and concluding that it was not a bulb failure but the entire unit that had failed. A mountain for another day.

I used to be the kind of person who was ashamed to ask for help. I admit it, I thought I could do things all on my own. As I grew older I realized it was actually good to ask for help, to realize I could only do so much. So I enlisted a friend to help me prep and paint the pool. She taped the tiles and jets while I repaired the 19 tiles that were previously missing from under the slide – and recovered in the debris in the bottom of the pool. I also patched some spots in the bottom of the pool with plaster. Then it was time to paint.

Working from the far end backwards towards the steps, my friend and and my daughter painted the pool with rollers while I did the trim and the crevasses near the stairs. It took about 30 minutes to cover the entire pool. With the leftover paint we touched up where the paint had begun to sink into the concrete. In some places the pool could have used more paint, but the overall effect 30 minutes later, when it was dry to the touch, was stunning.

I am proud to say that I am a testament to the adage, ‘If I can do it, Anyone Can!” All it took was a stubborn refusal to give up when things got hard. Also, don’t discount the value of friends and kids when things get tough.  It’s good to get support and a helping hand.

Find your paradise this summer, even if you choose to create it yourself.

The Pure Awesome of Pool Renovation – Part 1 – Sump Pump

Like the bear arising from its long winter’s nap to emerge from its cave with a yawn, a stretch, a scratch, and a smile to greet the new dawn of Spring, we, the smartest animals on Planet Earth, also find ourselves awakening to the season of renewal with a yawn, a bit of scratching, maybe some calisthenics, (in my case…bwahaha!) and approach the new year with optimism and hope.

And …..holy cow, what happened to my pool!?!

While we were  sleeping, apparently so were the pool maintenance fairies. You just can’t get good help these days.

As I happened  to have found myself with time on my hands, I decided to attempt to chemically rescue my pool.

A month later, I had learned enough about the relationship between bases and acids to make my junior Chem. prof proud, but my pool still looked crappy.

After spending so much time at the local pool supply store that I felt like Woody walking into Cheers, I decided to drain the pool.

YouTube can make you believe you can do anything. it made me a believer. And the next store that became familiar with me was Home Depot. After learning my main pool drain did Not plumb to the storm drain in the street, but drained back into the skimmer, I rented a sump pump from HD. All was swell until the thing shut down two feet from the bottom of the water, in the bottom of the pool. Even though it was 8:45 PM I hauled it back to HD and got a replacement rental. Then I sat in the dark and watched the pump go until, 18″ from the bottom it stopped due to its inability to suck any lower.

I decided to purchase my own pump. And here’s where it really got fun.

I purchased a small submersible pump that had a float as a switch. The idea was that if the water was deep enough the float would cause the pump to come on. I secured the float to the handle of the pump with zip ties so all you had to do was roll it over and the pump would start. I thought the pump attached to a garden hose – but upon opening the box, it did not. However, the hole was large enough for my pool hose, so I shoved that in there as far as it would go, and wiggled it for good measure. Then I crawled out of the pool.

The kids, in their efforts to HELP, fought over who was going to turn on the pump. The girl won. I told her that when I said go, she needed to roll the float over the top of the pump and it would start. I plugged the extension cord into the pump and gave her the thumbs up.

The next part happened in what seemed like slo-mo but in reality was less than 5 seconds:

The sump pump’s pressure was too much for the hose.

The hose blew out.

Bilge water shot like Old Faithful straight up in the air and cascaded down on the girl, who screamed “IS THIS WHAT’S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN?!?”

Meanwhile, the boy scrambled out of the hole with me screaming “unplug it unplug it!” While I shouted to the girl to STEP BACK and get out of the algae infested water.

But wait…there’s more.

After recovering from the initial shock and drying everybody off, I decided to go back to HD for the attachment to convert the hole to garden hose size. The girl was wrapped in a towel, and mostly damp at this point – but agreed to go to the store with me for a Dum-Dum(TM) sucker.

When we got to the aisle in HD where I had purchased the pump, I started looking for the attachment while the kids milled around. Right next to the pumps was a box on the floor with a sign on it in huge black letters: SUMP PUMP HOSE & CLAMPS, $10.39. The boy pulled a bag out of the box:

“Hey Mom? Here’s the hose.” Oh no. In my assumption that the pump attached to the garden hose, I had neglected to even look for a hose for the pump. My bad.

I looked at the girl.

She shot me a SEETHING look and said “ARE YOU BLIND!?!”

I had no words, I felt so terrible. But it was so dang funny that I could only snicker and apologize with noises that sounded half-hearted through my laughter but really were sincere,

When your adult children end up in therapy and you are thinking, “I thought they had a happy childhood”, it’s times like these, when angst is made.

At least we got the pump working. And the girl dried out. Eventually.

February 14th … The Pure Awesome of Perspective

Valentine’s Day Sucks – Or, so I’ve been told…..

Today is February 14th. Being married, and a mom, you’d think I’d have an abundance of quotes and sweet stories about my family and how the trials of everyday life have taught me important lessons about the value of togetherness…how fleeting the time between child and adulthood feels, even when you’re right in the middle of it.

That would be pure awesome, if I didn’t already write about that stuff every day. And speaking of days, this is just like every other day, you know?

When I was dating the Husband he was never one for a tradition or greeting card company telling him what to do, what to buy. He was not  the guy who sent flowers to the office so my co-workers could oooh and aaah – that just wasn’t him. He was a geek, and WYSIWYG. I learned this quickly and I was okay with that. I’ve had boyfriends in the past who were that kind – the “woo her wine her and dine her” type who swept me off my feet and made me feel fantastic, like I was the best thing since sliced bread. Then a few months later they’d break up with me via AOL IM…..crushing my heart, my spirit, and forcing me to question my judgment on all relationship scenarios. I tend to make everything a teaching moment (just as the Husband and the Kids) and those teaching moments were complete and utter suckage. But, because I am a die-hard optimist, I kept taking the risk, rolling the dice (one of my favorite phrases) and praying I didn’t get snake eyes.

As my friends all know, the dice role eventually paid off and I lucked out. But even though I am now at a nice place in my life, I remember and sympathize with all my friends who have expressed their own personal hatred for a day commonly known in the U.S. as Valentine’s Day, February 14th.

When you are a young girl, Valentine’s Day perception is developed by everything around you – your parents, Hallmark commercials and teenage romance novels, as well as the romance happening all over your school. When I was in junior high, I had two guy friends who enjoyed picking on me – one Valentine’s Day I got a red carnation delivered by the Student Council to my 6th period class (the STuCo had sold these as a fund raiser) – the card read “We decided to waste a dime on you” and they’d signed their names. They thought it was a funny, cruel joke. I thought it was fantastic. In their eighth grade minds they were being mean but what  they were really doing was thinking about me. Silly boys. In high school we were all actually good friends, and I remain their FB friends to this day. Hey dudes, you know who you are! Yeah, you! Silly, silly boys.

I have friends today who, for one reason or another, hate the supposed significance of this day – the friend who made a grand effort to a man who completely missed the boat and the point  (I’ve done the same thing myself, and the dude STILL had to ask me what I meant by sending him balloons tied to a golf mug); the friend who fell in love with someone who couldn’t love her back…(done that too…but what’s so wrong with meeeeeee?) There’s absolutely nothing wrong with us. We are human, with basic desires to be close to other people. What we tend to forget, especially on days like today, is to to take a look around ourselves and see the people who are already close to us. Our friends and family, who choose to  associate with us because we’ve already shown them our awesomeness. And guess what? They choose that every day. And we can thank them, appreciate them, every day. That’s our choice, and we don’t need a special day to remember it. We are reminded with each text message, phone call, email or tagged post on Facebook.

If you have romantic plans tonight, that is pure awesome! I hope you have a wonderful time. I hope you revel in the specialness of your significant other! If you are out with friends, take a second to remember why they’re so awesome in the first place. We all have a story about how we became our awesome selves. Back in 2000, I met an awesome guy at at New Year’s Eve party. He met me when I was working on my 2nd bottle of Asti Supmanti (times we tough in 2000), and was the ONLY guy I did not kiss that night.

15 non Valentine’s like Feb. 14ths later;He’s the Husband, I’m the Wife and we made 2 kids…today we’re all going to ride a train and eat lunch with jaguars and gorillas in a Rainforest owned by Landry’s. …Today, my Valentines Day looks like this:

Yes, that’s about the size of it.

Happy Saturday, folks. Make it awesome!

The Pure Awesome of Confessions

Confessions are cathartic, like a really, good, cry. They’re good for the soul. Secrets, like grudges, get incredibly heavy if you carry them too long; they don’t have handles.

Sometimes confessions can be huge, like revelations, and when they happen, some people might be hurt, some might be shocked, but to the confessor, ultimately, it’s as if a weight has been lifted.

That being said, I have two confessions.

Confession one: Since I have been off work, I’ve become a domestic goddess. I don’t feel guilty for it, either, even if I should. I am fortunate to have a great severance and this time to get know myself again, aside from roles as wife, mother and AP Analyst…Deep down, I am a writer. An artist. Where a painter sees a meadow on a large expanse of canvas, where a sculptor sees David in a block of marble, I see a story, anywhere, everywhere. I can paint a picture for you in your mind, just read my words.

Having this blog has gotten me back into writing – before my children were born I had 13 chapters of a novel, and the ideas for a trilogy hastily scrawled in notebooks, backs of band fliers and post-its, then transcribed into my old computer. All of it now resides on an external storage drive, just waiting, waiting until I’m ready to get back to it. Sometimes I read it over, and realize I miss these characters. I can still hear the voices I conjured up for them, how they spoke to me and narrated their story, I was simply the scribe that had to keep up. Until I abandoned them. But, though they may not  believe me, I will come back. It could be sooner than they think. Having this blog is the oil in the rusty cogs of the machine that is my creative brain. Writing takes practice. This is me, practicing. I’m practicing all over the place – reading, writing this blog…..observing, listening, growing, learning. Processing. Oh yes, I will be back. Sooner than they think.

The other confession I have, some people already know. But, I’d like to officially come out now, on the record.

During and since college, I’ve had an interest that some might find peculiar, ridiculous and downright, odd.

I FRACKIN’ LOVE Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles!! And don’t they look completely boss???

Laugh. Go ahead. I can take it. What I can’t tell you is exactly WHY I love them. Except, that I am passionate about animals, I love justice and I think turtles, real turtles, are the bomb. They’re the Air Streams of the animal kingdom! They can breathe out of their butts! And these turtles love pizza! Oh, and they can fight!

My favorite is Michelangelo, AKA Mikey. I think I love him because he has a silly sense of humor, finds the pure awesome in bad situations that are generally his fault to begin with, and “keeps it real”. He lives for the moment, doesn’t sweat the small stuff, values the safety of his pizza among all else, except maybe his brothers, and  April O’Neil.

He’s not broody like Raphael, girl crazy like Donatello, or control freaky like Leonardo. He just wants to chill, eat some pizza, and play video games, and he will defend his right to do so. Yeah, Mikey is my kinda Turtle.

We all have our Happy Place. Confess. You’re thinking of yours right now. I am personally happiest when I am writing. When I am stressed, I enjoy looking at the tummies of baby animals. That makes me happy.  How can you not look at a puppy with a fat tummy and not smile? When I want a superhero action movie that doesn’t have anything to do with Tony Stark, my NYC of the TMNT Universe is My Happiest Place on The Planet.

(Ha! Can’t sue me for that, Disney – you freakin’ Mouse).