Stab. Spare nothing.
I have a lot of ideas
As part of Yeah Write’s 31 Days to a Better Blog series this month, I did a little free writing this week. I learned that I have a ton of ideas. Ideas are literally pouring out of my mind faster than I can remember to write them down. I filled a page of my journal in about ten minutes, and that’s just the beginning.
Here are the ten that I like the best, in no particular order:
1. Why we all should practice Opposite Day — let’s let our kids be in charge for one day of each week and see what happens.
2. Being a mom of three is a lot like living in a video game, trying to get everyone to the finish line at once without getting too distracted along the way.
3. Grandmothers are secret sources of strength for us women, and we usually align ourselves with them unconsciously.
4. How a friend’s death can dramatically affect your life.
5. The most romantic dinner I’ve ever had.
6. How I won over a boss who hated me (I think).
7. Why I tried to dump a friend and how I got her back.
8. I was once in a mom’s group with a bunch of gun-toters, and how I’m not always what I seem.
9. Why Chinese restaurants remind me that my Bubbie hated me.
10. All about my experiences with reiki massage, and where does that energy come from?
So, what would you most like to read about?
Once I hated a girl
I hated a girl once. I almost got eaten alive by my hate for her, until at long last we parted ways forever.
We worked together for two years. I was 23, just out of college. She, too, was 23, just starting out, like me. We first met at orientation on our shared first day. Looking back on it, we had more similarities than differences.
She was startlingly beautiful. She had the kind of looks that made you want to stop and stare at her. She had long silky black curls, large eyes, delicate features. She was small, but strong. She exercised religiously, ate nothing. Her body was incredibly sexy. She had tons of cute clothes. She was Jewish — the real kind, not my sorta kind. She was unattached, no husband, no boyfriend, no girlfriend. She lived in the city with roommates.
She talked, at length, on her phone in her cubicle across from mine. She talked about her exercise schedule, about her dates, about her trips to museums by herself. She flirted shamelessly with my boss.
Now, let me explain something. I flirted with my boss, too. He was just a little older, funny, and hot. But I did it guiltily. I was already engaged. Back then faithfulness was a primary concern of mine. Plus, this was my boss, not hers. She was just removed enough to be able to do as she liked. They bonded over workout tales.
Everything about her ate at my soul. She was the me I wanted to be in so many ways. And she was interesting to me. I wanted her as a friend, as a more-than friend. At the time I didn’t, couldn’t, know it. I only felt, I couldn’t think. My jealousy of her, my envy for what she had made me hate everything about her.
Did she hate me, too? I think so. I think we both exuded a vibe that repelled the other. Perhaps she was similarly attracted to me. Maybe she wanted what I had: a fiancée, a close working relationship with the hot boss, security. Who knows?
Have you ever truly hated someone? It feels like I imagine it would to fall into quicksand. It’s annihilating. Sooner or later, it comes down to an ultimatum: you or it. And if you don’t want to end up in a therapist’s chair, you’ve got to make the call. You.
Just when I’d finally realized that things had to change, she left the company for a better job. It was providential. Once she was out of my life, I felt instantly better. And honestly, I’ve never had a reaction like that to anyone since. If I did, I hope that I would recognize it and confront it. Hatred is a dark dead-end street in a bad neighborhood.
He called me young lady
I got pulled over today. We were driving home from Memphis, and I had just taken over at the wheel. Geoff offhandedly mentioned that he had been booking it at about 85 miles an hour on the first leg of the trip. He assured me that he hadn’t seen any cops out this early on a Sunday morning.
So, I admit it, I wasn’t careful. I was zipping along at 83 miles an hour, reaching for a pretzel when Geoff noticed the cop. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have seen the police car at all until it pulled behind me with its lights on. Damn. The worst part is, this exact scenario has happened at least once before, while we were driving through New York years ago. That makes me extra angry, since Geoff will be adding this to his list of stories that display my poor driving skills.
Okay, so the police officer approached the car, and I was ready with the window unrolled, my license and registration in my hand.
“Good morning, young lady,” he boomed through the window.
Wait. Young lady? The officer was markedly older than me. But still. Is “young lady” a term of respect? Was he trying to be endearing, as if he was my dad or my grandpa? What the hell? Should I be relieved that he didn’t call me “M’am”? At least I look young enough to still be called young lady, but I’m not. I’m turning 36 in a few days. I don’t feel like a young lady anymore.
I was polite to the officer, because that’s how I am. A few years ago, I would have been intimidated. Now I was just ready to get back on the road. We still had most of our trip ahead of us, and with all three kids in the car, I was ready to get moving.
Still, that “young lady” stuck with me all day. It really bugged me. And it’s going to cost me $120.
My kids need a black grandma
(Sorry, this post isn’t politically correct. Please don’t take offense.)
The kids were fighting. Gabe smacked Anna, and she was crying, milking it as usual. The tour guide, a grandmotherly black woman, came over, concerned.
“You don’t hit your sister like that,” she said, serious. “You’re the man,” she said to Gabe. A look of surprise passed his face, then he smirked at me, embarrassed.
Just as quick, the tour guide lightened up. “But I saw you messing with him,” she laughed, looking at Anna. It was obvious that she wasn’t angry, just admonishing. She turned to the baby in his stroller. “And you? Are you stayin’ out of it?” she asked. Nate grinned.
When I was little, my mom and I lived downstairs from a very kind black woman. She had a grown son and no grandkids of her own, so she sort of adopted me. I remember spending a lot of time with her. She was large and soft and often laughing. Black ladies like that just ooze love. But here’s the thing: There’s something in their size, their strong voices that commands respect.
Kids know this. They take one look, and they feel the dichotomy of fear and attraction. They want the laughter and they need the authority. They want the unequivocal love they find in her gaze, the soft squishiness of her hug, even the strictness of her directions.
A black grandma preaches it like it is. She doesn’t try to win favor and she’s demanding. Kids never get the better of her. But she always cuts her edge with a smile or a treat. She has a thing or two to teach the kids and she dives right in. Then she hugs, she kisses, she tickles. She’s an expert at bandaid application. She sings. She shows you God. She refuses to take any crap. She feeds your soul.
Do you have a black grandma?
More Memphis scenes
Memphis, day one
Elevator pitch, take two
Yesterday, I gave you the cocktail party version. The one I’d tell to my friends or acquaintances, or to a bunch of other English majors or art students.
But, so what? I forgot that this is also a marketing spiel. I’m no salesperson, but I need to write this version too.
I’ve been away from work for five years now, raising my kids. I’m ready to return. Not because I have to, because I want to. I won’t squander this opportunity, and believe me when I tell you that this IS an opportunity. I’m not going to waste it by handing you a boring piece of paper with a gaping hole in it. I’m going to fill you in on the details, in full color. I’ll show you that what I’ve been paid to do is only a shadow of what I’m capable of. I’ll demonstrate the skills I’ve picked up as a mom.
I want this blog to become my resume. It will be my writing portfolio. I’m going to give you my words, and I want to collaborate. In my imagination, it’s awesome. This is starting as a conversation. I hope that it will lead to a book deal, a creative writing job, or both. I want to get paid to do what I love.
I was crazy when I wrote this
Earlier this year, I had a weird experience. And I went (a little) crazy. I was diagnosed with hypomania, which on the spectrum of mental illnesses, is really not awful. It’s main symptoms are increased energy, motivation, and creativity. It’s almost funny, except that it’s not. I am terrified of mental illness, even the good kind.
Luckily, my husband, Geoff, noticed the changes in me almost immediately — most notably sleeping only three hours a night — and he insisted that I see a doctor. I did, and hopefully my hypomania will never develop into full-blown mania or bipolar disorder.
Going crazy, for me, felt like someone had laid a subway map over my mind. All of a sudden, I could see a ton of different connections without even trying. It was both cool and disconcerting. I started to make notes of things all the time. For a short time, I made the notes on Post-Its, until Geoff commented on how crazy that seemed. Then I bought a notebook. In my notebook, I made a list of advice for myself, which at the time felt somehow essential. I felt that if I did not write these things down, I might actually forget them. Looking back at this list, it seems obvious yet a little strange to me. What do you think?
1. Start out small.
2. Get a nickname. Get many names; use them all, but only be you.
3. Read.
4. Know yourself. Learn to trust when you are right.
5. First, become whole. Accept yourself. Then divide and piece yourself back together.
6. Do what you need to do.
7. Try.
8. Answer your own questions.
9. Never be afraid to be wrong. If you are wrong, admit it.
10. Don’t close your mind.
11. Love.
12. Forgive yourself for what you regret. Redeem yourself by doing the opposite.
There you go. I can’t say whether I recommend taking my advice or laughing about it. I was crazy when I wrote it, after all.
I’m building a better blog this month over at Yeah Write. Come check it out!
The elevator pitch
I have a sick need for critique. I inherited it from my mom, along with her diamond earrings. That lady gave it to me straight. And I haven’t found anyone else who is that genuinely critical since she died. Bad haircut? She’d tell me. Pants that looked cheap? She didn’t spare my feelings.
I’ve been without an editor for six years now. I’m doing okay, but life is boring. I need to change it up. I want to tell you my stories, the secret ones. The ones that have been simmering and growing into their own. I want to tune into my private radio station and retrieve those old tales, and I want you, dear reader, to listen. I want you to critique. Tell me what I need to add, take away. I’m baring myself to you and I’m asking you to take your best shot. Trust me, it will feel like love to me.
Let’s do something interesting together.
Written for Yeah Write’s 31 Days to a Better Blog.