Eat, Pizza, Love

Posted on September 7th, 2012

Love is . . . traveling to exotic places & eating authentic food.

Happiness is . . . sometimes you only have to travel as far as your kitchen to experience this joy.

Of course we use only the finest Italian ingredients, like Trader Joe’s “PIZZA CHEESE” & TWO BUCK CHUCK PINOT GRIGIO.

And you can’t forget to dress for dinner. As they say . . . when in Rome.

For one little guy Pizza Night will never be the same.

Categories: Childhood, Happiness, Humor, Love, Love. Happiness., Parenting

Tagged: Family, pizza, pizza night, travel

Dear Ms. Love n Happiness: The Question of Advice.

Posted on October 23rd, 2012

In all honesty, I am a bit stumped by my ‘Ask Ms. Love n Happiness’ shtick. Should I keep writing it? I mean, what do I know? I can dish out advice, but I am usually pretty slow to take it.

But, the fact remains: I have a soft spot for the advice column format. It reminds me of the old days, when my family actually had the news paper delivered to our house. On Sundays, while someone was frying bacon and making coffee, I would lounge around in pajamas and fuzzy slippers with the only two sections of the news paper I ever read: ‘Living,’ and the ‘Comics.’ I had a very specific routine. First, I would flip to the back of the comics and read The Far Side. After I got my funny fix, I would pick up the living section and carefully pour over my horoscopes. I’m a Taurus-Aries cusp, so obviously I had to read both. After I had sufficiently combined the two horoscopes and reworked their meanings to say, essentially, “Congratulations! All your dreams will come true.” I would move on to reading the horoscopes of all my close friends and probably the boy I had a crush on.

After the divination for the day was over, I would turn to Dear Abby, where I could learn all about fascinating adult problems. There were the more trivial pieces like, “How to Handle Horrible Dinner Guests,” to the heavier hitting, “How Do I Decide if I Should Leave My Husband.” I’d think, “Ooh, this is a tough one,” As if at eleven years old I had a clue! Then I’d read on as Abby proceeded to tie problems into neat little packages of advice. She then presented it to us with a little bow on top, as if to say, “See, there is always a solution.”

With a sigh of relief, I’d place Dear Abby down, and return safely to the relatively problem free comic section. I would read every last comic including The Far Side, again.

Now that I’m all ‘grown up,’ I find that adult problems are certainly not fascinating . . . actually they suck. Despite the appearance in Dear Abby, life’s problems are not so easily solved and wrapped up in little columns of well-meaning advice. But, it sure is nice to be able to surrender our worries over to someone, whether it be a friend, or to the woman on the other end of a computer, and let them take a stab at solving them for us. Lord knows, most of us have carried around far more than we need to, and could probably use a good morning of reading the comics!

So, while I try to figure out what to do with my own lil advice format, I thought I would share a few of my favorite advice columns with you. This week it comes from one of my favorite local writers, Lauretta Hannon! She is the author of the book, The Cracker Queen—A Memoir of a Jagged, Joyful Life (read it, trust me!) And lucky for us, she is now writing for the Marietta Daily Journal. The following is an excerpt from the latest instalment of “Because I Said So!”

Lauretta Hannon: Coping with an abuser, a windbag and a cheater

Q: How should I behave at the funeral of a man who mentally, and at times physically, abused my sister for 40 years? Should I spit on his grave, create a scene, or even attend it? Or be there for the sister and keep quiet, even though all who are there know of his behavior?

A: Your job at the funeral is to support and love your sister. Period.

But that’s not to say that after the service you can’t go home and use his photo for target practice or craft a voodoo doll in his likeness.

In a sense this funeral marks the passing of her old life, so that opens the door to great possibilities going forward. Now that he is gone, focus on how to aid in your sister’s healing. She has a long row to hoe as she begins to examine her choices of the last four decades. She’s going to need you now more than ever, whether she says so or not.

***

Q: What is an appropriate reply to someone who makes a statement that is highly opinionated yet poorly informed?

A: First I consider the source. Then my response depends on my mood and the particular type of ignoramus I’m facing. Sometimes I’ll improv and have fun with it, letting just about anything pop out of my mouth. When the person is especially obnoxious I won’t dignify his remarks with a reply.

After years of trying to help these blowhards become more knowledgeable, I’ve realized that I’m not here to be a windbag whisperer. The ignorant remain that way because they refuse to listen. So now I don’t attempt to edify them.

However, in any situation you can always call forth that enduring nice-nasty Southern phrase and say, “Bless your heart.” That phrase is like the navy blazer in the closet: It’s always in season and goes with everything.

Perhaps the best way we can influence such folks is to work on our own intellectual, ethical and spiritual improvement. Maybe our efforts to become more learned will spark something in them when they eventually run out of hot air.

Lauretta Hannon, a resident of Powder Springs, is the bestselling author of The Cracker Queen—A Memoir of a Jagged, Joyful Life and a keynote speaker. Visit her at www.thecrackerqueen.com.

Categories: Dear Ms. Love n Happiness, Story, Uncategorized, Work, Writing

Tagged: Advice, Dear Abby, Lauretta Hannon, The Far Side

Seven-layer Sonogram.

Posted on October 10th, 2012

This is my sonogram.

It is a seven-layer rainbow cake that I made with my best friend, Rachel, in October of last year.

The date fell in between our 31^st birthdays, which just happen to be two weeks apart. She and I have been best friends since middle school. We used to get drunk and dance on tables to celebrate things, but now that we are getting older, we fancy a good culinary adventure as a means to celebrate. In our 20’s, we confidently declared, “There is NO way I’m gonna be… (Insert, ‘still single‘ or ‘living with our parents’) when I am thirty.” And we meant it. We doubtlessly swore that we would never be so uncool as to stay home and bake. For fun. Ever.

Yet here we are. Each of us armed with a spring form pan that we have borrowed from our mommas. For this occasion, I have purchased a serrated cake knife and a set of 3 multi-sized clear glass stands for proper display. The smallest cake stand will hold our “showpiece,” and we mean it.

We hold a conference in Publix about the type of icing that will provide ample coverage so that the multitude of colors underneath will not be prematurely revealed. Michael’s is the venue for a debate over whether or not the sprinkles should shine in silver or gold. I demand that our cake shimmer all over but not in an obvious way. She feels as though we need a bolder outward decoration. We buy everything we both want to use knowing that we will come to the perfect conclusion together; as a team. But we both walk out of the craft store thinking the other is crazy for their external vision of this cake. We have a very competitive, yet magnanimous relationship.

It is Rachel’s idea to make this cake and my idea to make it our dual celebration, but we both feel as if we need to make this cake. Much more than a tasty treat, it is becoming abundantly clear that this cake is taking on a deeper meaning for the both of us. Forging ahead on this project feels so right, but is this our pinnacle or our rock bottom?

The level of seriousness that envelops this project is pure hilarity. Rachel asks, “What are we gonna do with it? ” I respond without hesitation, “Eat a piece and post it on Facebook.” THAT’S why we are doing this… so that we can share our baking skills with the world.

We are spinning after the hunt for the proper supplies and the endless deliberation on potential sprinkle choices. “Should we have gotten stencils?” The second guessing game is starting to creep in so we decide to indulge in some Thai food and agree that Facebook stalking is the best way to mentally prepare for the creation of our masterpiece.

We notice that no less than four of our mutual friends had either posted a sonogram or the ever-popular left hand photo earlier in the day. We are planning on posting cake.

You see, as she and I have experienced an onslaught of friends getting engaged, married and/or having babies, we find ourselves at that critical point of reflecting on our singledom. It is as if getting married and having children is a club that we have not been invited to join, and we pretend that we don’t want the invitation. But secretly, we do. When we catch ourselves saying, “When I get married…” we quickly correct the birth of that statement with an emphatic “If.” “I mean, ‘If’ I get married…”

Once we nourish our bodies with red curry and sufficiently audit our “friends,” we decide it is time to get to work. It is 10 pm. On a Saturday.

So we bake, and we fight as we try to boss each other around in the kitchen. We always do.

“Don’t put too much blue in; we are going for a seafoam not a turquoise!”

“What are you doing with that icing?!? That’s not my vision!”

“It’s patchy on the left side. Just give me the spatula”

We are completely berating each other while remaining fully aware that this is working… beyond brilliantly. All of our artistic calculations are paying off. We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, but we decide that if this cake is a smash we will be naming our company “Bitchy Bakers.”

Every layer is dyed, baked, and cooled. Each equable sheet then carefully transported from our cooling station to our cake plate. As each color is stacked, it is becoming a rainbow of pure satisfaction to our souls. A blanket of icing is gingerly applied to ensure that no colored crumbs are lifted into the glistening white treasure that is becoming our cake. We decide to give the top of the cake an understated glimmer of clear sprinkles (that I choose) with a light dusting of silver powder (that she chooses). And finally, our cake is done!

It is magnificent. Stunning, really. And it is 3:30 in the morning.

But it is official.

This is our pinnacle.

The fact that our cake garners the label of “super-photogenic” by our standards means that we need to get to work. So begins the cutting of our showpiece…

Altercations about slice size quickly lead us to the big picture.

If we screw up the cutting of this slice, we are over. OVER.

The pressure is on, and the tension is palpable.

My cake knife’s moment is upon us. “You do it,” “No, YOU do it” is our back and forth. Both so scared to actually cut into this cake. What if we fail?

I cut and she lifts our showpiece onto the smallest cake plate for proper presentation. There is no banter or breathing until the slice is set. And there it lays, resplendent in all its glory. We did it, and it is perfection.

We adjust lighting, calibrate cake plate heights, and tinker with different lens and film combinations on Hipstamatmic. After a twenty minute photo shoot, we have our shot, and we post it. When the “likes” and comments start flowing, we are feeling pretty awesome about our lives.

But there is no party or shower thrown. There are no brides or invitations with birds or baby announcements to celebrate our life choices.

A few months before this cake came into my life, I literally had to ignore the fact that about eight of my friends were simultaneously procreating. The baby announcements and shower invitations were out of control. I was completely overwhelmed, and I dreaded going to my mailbox. What do I do with them? Is your baby cute enough to make my fridge? And if so, how long should I keep their sweet face up there? At some point they are ending up in the garbage. I thought it was the trend for all young families to be “green?” Well, green equals paperless. Do we really need to kill a ton of trees to announce little Madison’s pretty princess party?

The truth is, I can’t afford eco-friendly baby toys right now because I desperately need a new dress for my date with David.

It’s not that I begrudge anyone their happiness, or resent their life choices. I guess I just wonder: When do we get to celebrate mine? In the meantime, I choose cake, seven magical layers of rainbow cake. It’s my sonogram. Look what I created.

Sarah Blackman is an Atlantan who works as an actress, model and dancer. She has had a lot of writing ideas swirling around in her head for years, and they just started to drop. Here goes…

Categories: Girl(friend) Power, Go Ahead. Be My Guest (Writer)., Humor, Love, Relationships, Story, Uncategorized

Tagged: babies, baking, Dating, Facebook, married, single, sonogram

A Girl & Her Greek Heroine.

Posted on October 9th, 2012

The Corinthia Café is where it all started. I’ve spent the last fifteen or so years of my life popping in and out of the “industry;” that’s restaurant speak for the restaurant and bar business. I’ve done everything from cooking, cleaning, chopping, counting money, managing, planning parties, slinging drinks, and serving food. Sure, I take little hiatuses, to chase other dreams, but I seem to always be drawn back to the four walls of a restaurant.

The four walls of the Corinthia Café are no longer standing today, but when they were, I could walk there from the house I grew up in. The summer I was sixteen, the combination of boredom and my sweet tooth found me there devouring baklava. Sitting there, with my nose in a book, letting myself be enveloped by the exotic smells coming from the kitchen and occasionally gazing at the photos of the Greek cost line that grace the walls.

“Girl! You daydream too much!” shouts the little Greek woman who owns the café.

By now, I know that this woman always shouts. It’s not that she is angry, or even hard of hearing, she just seems to be one of those people born with their volume turned way up. None the less, I had been daydreaming so I was a bit startled.

“Huh? What?” I ask, jumping a little in my seat.

“I said you dream too much! You need to do more and dream less!”

“Oh.” I said, staring down at the phyllo dough in front of me.

“Why don’t you come work with me?” She asks. “I need waitress. You need to do something.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve never been a waitress before . . .”

“And I give you all the baklava and lamb you can eat.”

“Hmm, well I do love your lamb with mint jelly.”

“How such a tiny thing eat so much?” She asks, shaking her head and walking away.

“You start tomorrow!” She turns to shout before disappearing into the kitchen.

Corinthia Café is owned and operated by Odette Papadopoulos. Odette is an eighty-two year old force of nature. She rises at the crack of dawn to whip up moussaka and roast giant legs of lamb. I stumble into the kitchen my first morning feeling like something someone scrapped off their shoe. What am I doing up this early? And why have I been in trusted with sharp objects and food? I stare dumbly as Odette dances around her kitchen, she resembles an aged Hollywood star, clad in a timeless A line dress, long jet black hair swept up on her top of her head, she sings a tune quietly under her breath and while she works her wrist full of gold bracelets chime together. Her effect is mesmerizing; I stand there fidgeting awkwardly with the strings of my apron and wondering: How can anyone seem so alive?

“Come, girl come!” Odette shouts. She tucks me under her wing and shows me spices like cardamom and sumac, which she sprinkles with such care she seems as if she is casting a spell. I learn to roll out pita dough with religious fervor.

And for two summers, and weekends during the school year my days are spent with Odette in her kitchen. After a morning of cooking and an afternoon of serving guests, Odette and I sit down to a heaping plate of roasted meat, potatoes, and yogurt. Odette keeps an old record player in the café and our meal time is always spent with Frank Sinatra. Odette sighs happily, sinks into her chair, and lets the musical notes fall all around her.

Odette shows me pictures of her and her husband when they emigrated to America. I’m blown away by the beauty and bravery of the woman in the picture: a new bride in a new country. She tells me of all the family they left in Greece and the war that was landing on the shores of her homeland. She tells me of the baby boy that she lost and of her first restaurant that burned to the ground. She speaks to me about her passionate love for her late husband and the joy they found in traveling. She asks me about the things I want in life, she listens, and then she serves me more rice pudding.

“Eat, girl! You are too tiny, Mou!”

When the time comes for me to leave the sleepy beach town for the big city, Odette shoves an Evil Eye charm into my hand.

“Keep this with you, Kopela Mou!” She shouts.

She pulls me in for one of her crushing hugs and I am surprised to find that her cheeks are moist.

“Be good, Mou. Marry only for love, life is too long to marry for anything else. And don’t spend all you time up here!” She says rapping me on the skull. “It’ll make you crazy, living in your head like you do!”

I nod sheepishly, she knows me so well.

“Make sure you do something with these!” Her shouts growing louder, as she pulls my hands towards to her. “They will keep you young.”

And off I went, for my own little slice of life. Years later, I yearn to go back in time and spend just one more day in the kitchen with Odette. Now, when I’m in my kitchen, relentlessly chopping vegetables, or when I stand in the restaurant and I feel the energy buzzing around me, I look down at my out stretched hands. I know that it’s just food. But, it’s really much more than that. It makes me feel so alive.

Categories: Happiness, Story, Uncategorized, Work

Tagged: alive, Café, food, greece, Greek Food, hero, mentors, restaurant

Fashion is Weird.

Posted on September 18th, 2012

As a woman, I am sort of a disappointment in some areas. Fashion is one of them. I mean, I don’t think I am a walking fashion disaster, not like someone you would see on People of Walmart, but the truth is many of my garments came from Walmart’s classier cousin: Target.

I don’t know squat about fashion. When the topic comes up, I gaze at what are probably considered really out dated shoes, and shift my weight from foot to foot until the subject is either changed or people walk away because they suspect I am brain-damaged. I would be hard pressed to name more than five fashion designers, unless they have had a line at Target, then I’ve probably heard of them . . . maybe.

I think fashion just requires me to exert too much energy. My creativity regarding my outfits went the way of Contempo Casuals, it does not exist anymore. I’ve been told I have a “look.” It usually revolves around dresses, boots and some kind of jewelry I found in the bottom of my drawer. While I appreciate the sentiment, my “look” is really more of a uniform; it requires as little thought as possible. I mean, a dress is practically the equivalent of a baby’s onsie, but for a grown woman.

It’s not that I don’t want to look good and buy new things; it’s just that shopping makes me want a drink. And once I get that drink, well I would prefer to just hang out and shoot the shit than shop. I’ve put one of my most fashionable friends, Shannon, on notice that when I get rich she has to quit whatever she is doing and come be my personal shopper and stylist. I’m not sure, but I don’t think she is banking on this career move.

Did someone say banking? Oh, that brings me to my next fashion fear: the price tag. Look, I realize I was primarily raised by people who were products of the depression era and that I might have inherited some sort of cheap skate gene, but I when I see a pair of shoes that cost about as much as most people’s mortgage, I turn into that guy from Sanford & Son and start clasping my heart.

My inaptitude for fashion really is a bit of a handicap. While getting ready for an event, many women think to themselves, “What will I wear?” and by that they mean: “Which of my cute and utterly appropriate for this event outfits will I rock this evening?” Me? I am literally thinking of who I can call to borrow a dress and wondering why in the hell a thirty-something year old grown ass woman does not own a pair of black pumps? Something needs to be done.

I am going to go cry in my closet now, but I leave you with this. This is what I love and adore about fashion, it can get really weird:

Categories: Crazy Shiz, Fun & Shenanigans, Humor, Uncategorized

Tagged: Fashion, fashion disaster, fashion week, people of walmart, Target, vivienne westwood, weird fashion, zoolander

One of Ten Callings

Posted on September 14th, 2012

So I’m writing a book, but what will I do after that? Riches are rare in this line of work, so I figure I may as well start planning my second career now. Here is one of the top ten callings I quite possibly will heed . . . maybe . . .

1) A Private Investigator

In my mind, it looks something like this:

I probably read too much Harriet the Spy & Nancy Drew as a kid, but for as long as I can remember I longed to be a spy of some sort. While my friends were playing with My Little Ponies & braiding each others hair, I was snooping through my Grandparents’ filing cabinet & lurking outside closed doors. I wrote entire letters to my best friend in a “secret” code and I practically had a conniption fit when Invisible Ink became available to the public. I believe that all of this goes to show that I must have been some sort of espionage prodigy who tragically missed her calling. Or, that I was a paranoid child who grew into a delusional adult. Take your pick. None the less, some facts that cannot be disputed are:

a) Everyone looks amazing in herringbone and even better in a trench coat. This guy is so happy he became a male model!

b) There is a serious lack of frosted glass door-window thingies these days.

c) A monocle makes the perfect (creepy) accessory.

d) It should really be foggy more often.

e) Not quite of the same genre, but who did not want or want to be one of Charlie’s Angles? Preferably, Jaclyn Smith.

f) The movie Dick Tracy is worth adding to your Netflix que.

g) I was so over Jude Law . . . until Watson.

h) When, er if, I become a spy, I will make it a point to attend every one of Liam’s school career days:

“What’s that Soccer Mom? Sorry, PTA President. I’M A SPY!!! Bam!”

Categories: Crazy Shiz, Fun & Shenanigans, Happiness, Uncategorized, Work, Writing

Tagged: calling, Charlie's Angels, detective, Film Noir, Jude Law, male model, monocle, Private Investigator, second career, secret agent, Sherlock Holmes, spy, trench coat

Wake Up Singing.

Posted on September 6th, 2012

When I awake each morning, I feel as if I have just crawled through the pits of hell on my fingertips. My body feels like I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life. I am confused and vulnerable, like I have just Quantum Leaped into my bedroom and I need a moment to figure out what is going on. Monday through Friday, my alarm goes off at the same time every morning, yet every morning, my heart practically explodes and I think to myself: “What the hell is that crazy noise?” For the record, my alarm is set to play tranquil cathedral bells.

My morning issues have always been somewhat of a novelty for those who live with me. As a teenager, my family thought it was funny to play “wake the sleeping bear.” They would sneak in my room at ungodly hours to tickle the bottoms of my feet, pull the covers off of me, and laugh as they squirted cold water in my direction. This would typically result in me cursing a blue streak and throwing whatever happened to be on my bedside table, a paperback book, a box of Kleenex, a glass of water, right at the offenders head.

Husband does not suffer from any morning ailments, unless you count the fact that his wife is somewhat of a morning monster. He bounds out of bed with the enthusiasm of a drooling puppy. He used to try to amp me up, dancing around in his underwear and singing silly songs while I just looked at him darkly. Sadly, I have had to swat the puppy with a newspaper a few times. Now he understands that for me, waking up in the morning is liken to time traveling and the last thing I need is someone jumping on top of me when I am trying to figure out where the hell I am. We have now reached somewhat of a compromise on our morning routine: I wake up slowly. He looks on cautiously.

Regardless of where I am waking, or what I am up to any given day, this morning shock has been pretty much a constant throughout my life. The only exception to this I can recall was when my son was a baby. Liam would wake up singing, and before he could sing he would wake up cooing. I’d creep into his room in the early dawn and find him in his crib smiling wildly into thin air and just singing with the pure excitement of being alive. Those mornings were magic. I could sit there for hours hypnotized by his happiness; I knew exactly where I was meant to be.

Now Liam is approaching his fifth birthday. While he is still much more of a morning person than I will ever be, I can see my morning morose creeping into his nature. When I look down at my sleeping child, I am no longer greeted with the sight of a peaceful angel. Instead, I find him in a crumpled heap at the bottom of his bed, with his stuffed animals strewn all around him. He wakes up, much like me, with a dazed expression on his face, his hair pointing in a million directions, and trying to hit the snooze button by asking, “Momma, can I have just one more minute?”

We do our best to get out of the door on time, because adult life seems to require rushing and rush hour, and hurry up and wait. More often than not, our morning routine consist of coffee guzzling, lip pouting, pleading, threatening, and me doing what I swore I would never do as a parent: counting.

“Liam, I’m gonna count to three and you had better be getting your teeth brushed by the time I get to three.”

Ugh, I hate myself the moment these words come out.

Eventually, I get where I was going, the caffeine sets in, and the pout subsides into a granola bar encrusted grin. A moment of calm settles around us and I wonder what all the drama was for in the first place. In the morning light I watch my growing son as he walks ahead of me into school and I think about the things we lose, or at least misplace, as we grow. I close my eyes and see all the mornings that stretch out before my son, and wonder how I can keep him waking up and singing, just for a little while longer.

Categories: Childhood, Family, Love, Moms, Parenting, Uncategorized

Tagged: Children, growing up, morning, morning routine, Quantum Leap, singing, time traveler's wife

Make Good Art.

Posted on August 30th, 2012

After my rant, Writer’s Remorse & Bucket’s of Pig Blood, about the sometimes painful path of following your dream, I wanted to offer up one of my favorite antidotes, a commencement speech by Neil Gainman. Many of you have probably seen this, it went viral back in May. If ever I am down in the dumps or in of need encouragement, I watch this. If it’s been a particularly bad case of ”what am I doing with my life” then I follow the speech up by heading straight for a Margarita and cheese dip. Usually, that does the trick. Oh- and please substitute the term “arts” or “writing” for whatever your dream is: synchronized swimming, opening a candy shop, or becoming a wax museum tycoon, they all apply.

Neil makes five key points that stand out for me:

1) You have no clue what you are doing. Neil says when we embark upon a career in the arts, we are clueless, and as it turns out, this is a good thing. If we don’t know what the rules are, then we are free to break them. If we don’t know that something is impossible, then there is nothing to stop us from doing it.

2) Keep Walking Toward the Mountain. Neil says, imagine what you want to do in this life, and imagine this thing as a mountain. Now you keep walking toward the mountain. Opportunities may arise while you on your way toward the mountain that seem amazing at first glance, but on a second review, turn out to be taking you away from your dream. Don’t go that way. Keep walking toward the mountain.

3) The Problems of Failure. You need to be thick-skinned. A free-lance life is like putting messages in a bottle and hoping that somewhere, across the seas, someone will find your bottle, approve of its contents and send you a bottle back. You have to accept that you may put hundreds of bottles into the sea maybe only receive a few of them back.

4) The Problems of Success. I’d never heard of “imposter syndrome” before I heard Neil described always fearing: “there would be a knock on the door, and a man with a clip board – I don’t know why he had a clip board, but in my head he always had a clip board – would be there to tell me that it was all over, that they had caught up with me and now I’d have to go and get a real job, one that didn’t consist of making things up and writing them down. . .”

I could completely relate. Whenever I have experienced even the smallest victories, I think, “Who do you think you are kidding?” I can only pray that I get to experience this syndrome in all its neurotic glory, problem’s of success sound lovely.

5) Make Good Art. (I Love this part!) Neil says:

“When things get tough, this is what you should do: Make good art. I’m serious. Husband runs off with a politician — make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by a mutated boa constrictor — make good art. IRS on your trail — make good art. Cat exploded — make good art. Someone on the Internet thinks what you’re doing is stupid or evil or it’s all been done before — make good art.”

I hope you’ll get as much from this as I do, and I hope Neil Gainman know that so many are grateful for his inspiration.

Keep this close, I promise you might find that you’ll keep coming back.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikAb-NYkseI

Categories: Happiness, Uncategorized, Work, Writing

Tagged: a life in the arts, inspiration, Neil Gainman

Adventure Bound & Other Horror Stories.

Posted on August 27th, 2012

I like to think of myself as a bold adventuresome woman, but in reality I am a paranoid ninny. Well, the actual truth may be somewhere where in between. After I hit thirty, I realized I just don’t bounce back as fast as I used to. And besides, being reckless past the age of thirty isn’t cute anymore; it’s kind of scary. Add to that the fact that I am mother and the term “fly by the seat of your pants” now describes leaving the house with only one diaper and change of clothes, and no longer means drinking too much Soju with a handsome stranger. So, in short, I like to have fun, I’m just a lot more careful about my fun now.

Clearly, my husband is more fun than I am. Some may argue that he is too much fun. Once, while dressed in a pink bunny suit and standing outside a Tiki bar, he got into a wrestling match with a friend and came home with a black eye. That was before I married him.

Needless to say, when we chose our honeymoon spot these things came into consideration. We wanted to go somewhere we could have adventures and fun, but we also wanted to relax. If I had a show on the Travel Channel it would probably be called: The Cautious Explorer. Riveting, I know. I also thought it wise to keep Husband away from Tiki bars since they just seem to have a strange effect on him. So, after much research we chose the U.S Virgin Island of St. John.

On our second day in St. John we booked a trip on a sail boat called the Kekoa. We were all set for a day of high seas adventure and rum punch. Being the cautious explorer that I am, upon arriving at the dock, the first thing I did was whip out the sunscreen. A beautiful and bronzed crew member stops me to explain that our sunscreen, the aerosol spray kind, is a not allowed on the ship. Apparently the spray causes the deck to be slippery which is not good considering the vast amount of rum punch this charter has promised us. She explains that we are welcome to use the “approved” sunscreen they will provide on board.

Once boarded and settled in with our beach towels and first round of rum, we go in search of the approved sunscreen.

“All Natural?” I ask.

“SPF 30?” Husband wonders.

Punch, sunshine and the glory of the high seas are calling our names, so we slather up and head for the deck, putting the pesky thought of sun protection behind us.

What follows is an amazing day of sailing, punch, snorkeling and more punch. We anchor off the coast of a British Virgin Island called Jost Van Dyke. This place is spectacular. JVD is like something off the cover of a travel magazine you glance at and think to yourself, “My God, anyone who gets to go there is one lucky asshole.” There I was, the luckiest asshole of all, squinting my eyes in disbelief. There is no dock, so you have to swim through aqua blue water, zigzagging through million dollar yachts, to a shore dotted with nothing but a few beach bars and hammocks. We went to a bar appropriately called “The Soggy Dollar.” Here is where they created a drink that is delicious, notorious and in hindsight, telling. It’s called the “Pain Killer.” I spend hours here, soaking up the sun and rum, playing horse shoes with millionaires and wondering: How I will ever manage to live another day that does not consist of just this?

Back in St. John, I am regaining my land legs and some level of sobriety; I look closely at my husband who is now pink like a shrimp.

“Uh- Oh.” I say. “I think you got a little too much sun, baby.”

I stretch out my arm and admire my bronze glow.

“Poor thing,” I think to myself, “he got it so much worse than me.”

The next morning I wake up to find my husband staring at me with a horrified look on his face.

Suddenly, without all the rum to dull my senses, I can sense what feel like a thousand hot needles pressing into my skin. My head feels like a balloon which someone is slowly inflating and on the verge of popping at any moment. My hands reach for my face.

“Oh. My. God.” I cry.

“Is it as swollen as it feels??”

Husband only looks at me with remorse and shakes he had saying, “Damn all natural sunscreen. We need chemicals in the Caribbean.”

I slowly drag myself in front of the mirror.

“Holy. Shit. My face!” I sob.

My tears sting my raw face, which only makes me cry harder.

My second day as a wife and I looked like a blow fish on steroids. We spent the entire day in bed reading The Hunger Games on our Kindles. Occasionally, Husband would apply a thick layer of aloe to my body while I winced in pain. Talk about a sexy and adventuresome honeymoon.

The next day I was well enough to go out under a huge hat and sunglasses. I just imagined I was some Hollywood starlet hiding away on St. John, and continued to drink rum. The day after I had resumed to normal except I had these slightly swollen lips, which I told myself looked kinda hot in an Angelina Jolie way.

Thankfully, I recovered just in time to head out on our next adventure: snorkeling in a remote corner of the island while tropical storms loom in the distance. First, I am stung by a Portuguese man ‘o war. Husband says it was only a jelly fish, but what does he know? Then, once the monsoon begins, we were stranded in the only structure we could find: a fly and poop infested out house. I stood in the stench, while the whole left side of my body felt like it was on fire, with my nose sticking out a crack in the door, muttering under my breath, “I am fun! See, I am adventurous!”

Ah, the life of the restrained wanderer. Makes me think, what I would get into if I really just threw caution to the wind.

Categories: Fun & Shenanigans, Happiness, Humor, Story

Tagged: adventure, British Vigrin Island, Honeymoon, Jost Van Dyke, Pain Killer, St. John, Sun, travel, US Virgin Island

Writer’s Remorse & Buckets of Pig Blood.

Posted on August 27th, 2012

Recently a friend asked me if I ever get ‘writer’s block.’

“No, but I do get writer’s remorse.” I replied.

“What in the world is that? Do you drink and then write regrettable things?”

“Well, I suppose I have done that from time to time.” I laugh it off and say, “Let’s just say sometimes it would be easier not to be a writer.”

I spent years feeling as if I was ready to punch the next person in the face that told me to: “Find your passion.” See, I already knew what my passion was. In fact, I’d known since I was a tiny tot that I wanted to write books. The problem was that I was really good at avoiding this truth.

In school, instead of writing, I studied other people’s writing. During college, I thought I might make a career out of the restaurant industry where I watched some of the best chefs turn sustenance into an art and learned from many talented people whose craft is the experience. Upon graduation I went to work in the legal field, a place where surprisingly a lot of would be poets pull in six figure salaries. I dreamed of starting up a non-profit for every cause you could imagine, from needy ponies to lovelorn lady bugs, I wanted to make dreams come true. Yet, I never regarded my own dream, to write, with any seriousness.

Why? There is a mammoth industry pumping out books, tests, coaching, and classes all to help people discover their dream. Why on earth would I bury my dreams while so many others are trying desperately to uncover their own?

Oh, wait. I know. Because, sometime following a dream is scary as shit.

My dream of being a writer entails: A) Write a lot of things that don’t utterly suck. B) Put out all your dirty laundry. Pour out your hopes, dreams, and mistakes in to a few sentences that you’ve slaved over out there and stand back while everyone judges not only your writing, but you as a person.

Awesome.

That’s where the writing remorse comes in. It’s a generalized sense of anxiety accompanied by a really bitchy voice in my head that, sounding suspiciously like the voice in the movie Carrie, screams “They’re all gonna laugh at you!” (And not in a “Your writing is really great and makes me chuckle,” kind of way. It’s more like a “you suck and no one likes you,” kind of way.) Sometimes, I can kick this feeling relatively quickly and just get back to work. Sometimes, it results in a few days of being really down in the dumps. I think to myself, “Why on God’s green earth couldn’t you have picked something a little more sensible to do? Why couldn’t I have become something like a nurse, a teacher, or a lawyer?” Christ, some days I’d rather be a butcher, a baker or a candlestick maker.

Then I remind myself of the near decade I spent avoiding writing and how much that sucked. On even the best of those days, I felt like I was under a constant fog, and I was running into endless dead-ends. Some parts of writing feel so natural to me that when I am not writing, I feel like I am walking around with no pants on, or with a limb missing.

Now, at least I’m sitting here with my pants on and I feel like I am moving in the right direction. What of this other pain, the writer’s remorse? I figure it’s a growing pain that everyone who is living a life they create, instead of the one that was laid out before them, has to face. I tell myself that the occasional pain and the periodic blinding fear of failure is worth it, because when I wade through all the feeling muck, on the other side are the things that I have created. These things are infinitely satisfying, and for some crazy reason, worth the risks.

Categories: Story, Uncategorized, Work, Writing

Tagged: anxiety, Carrie, Fear, writer's block, writing