What I Learned This Week, or, How Gilligan Got Off That Damned Island

I've been awake for a few hours. It's quiet in my place, save the sound of traffic from a nearby intersection, and the occasional neighbor slamming the door. (HONESTLY with the fucking door slamming.)

One week ago at this time, I was in a recovery room with a team of people surrounding me. I'd been out of surgery for over an hour, but apparently didn't want to breathe. I'm told it would be over an hour and half before I would start to breathe on my own rather than being assisted, and another half-hour before I would decide to join the world again and regain consciousness.

I don't remember anything from those hours, save two separate memories of what most of us would likely call dreams: in each, I sat on a park bench very near the shade of a pink-blossomed tree with a man in a dark, well-tailored suit—the same gentleman in each engagement. Tall and thin, I don't remember his face, other than he was quite handsome, his intelligence obvious, and his demeanor so very, very calming.

We sat and talked. I don't recall what we spoke about in word, nor even theme, but I do know he was my first thought upon waking in that recovery room. My second thought, which I'm told I verbalized with as much force as I could muster, was, "would you stop YELLING my fucking name, woman?”  In a strange side note, it turns out that woman was a cute little blonde thing who bears an uncanny resemblance to my surgeon friend,  Kourtney—who does not practice in Fargo—which set off some internal and short-lived confusion regarding who actually had performed the procedure. But I digress.

I've thought quite a bit about that man on the bench. I'm certain it wasn't one long encounter, or dream, but rather two distinct and separate meetings. Try as I may, and meditate as I do, the content of our time together remains a mystery. The only clue I get has twice been a whispered voice: "Pay attention."

So this morning, as I luxuriate in the day that was supposed to be filled with coffees, lunch, a pedicure, long bath, and packing for a season wrap-up celebratory trip out of town this weekend, I instead sit, PJ-clad, reflecting in my favorite recliner. I know, I know: you really thought I was going to tell you I am sitting here paying attention. Uh … no. I am  not. Reflection is my current method of paying attention. (I have yet to really nail down the concept and practice of being present. I'm always two or three steps ahead, trying to guide and control things to get an outcome that seems to work best for the majority of those involved.)

What I notice is that I've spent the last two years repeatedly saying, "I'm the only one who does what I do," at both my job, and in relation to the Tell. Really hammering it in, ya know?

Ah, the martyr. So capable, so willing, so alone. And I've worn this idea as though it were the mantle of truth: my choice, nay—my DUTY—to stride tall and finish in glory, regardless of the toll.  

With this idea, the first four days after surgery should have been a quick and easy recovery (it was laparoscopic, for Pete’s sake) instead saw me holding things up all based on this one idea of aloneness. Steeped in guilt for not being at work, and not getting things done there and for the upcoming season finale, The Tell Off, I worried myself into a pile. When we factor into that the starkly obvious state of living alone, reliant upon friends and family to stop by and feed and help me out of bed for the first few days, my mental state diminished, quickly and succinctly. I wallowed, my friends. I wallowed hard, sinking deeper, all the while delaying physical healing.

What brought me around was evidence. Evidence in the forms of emails, and Facebook messages from people I barely know, just checking in. Calls from those I do know well, insisting I tell them what I needed. And the tipping point: a friend new to me in the here and now, but who my soul recognizes with a swell of love, gently suggesting that all was not lost, but indeed, was free and roaming as it should … and that taking a shower and putting on clean pajamas would feel really good.

I was forced to ask for help, and harder — forced to accept it.

In the last week, my coworkers came together to figure out how to cover things in my absence, and we're now creating ways to make sure that if I fall off the grid again, everything is covered. Hard lessons learned, but in the end, it all comes to the surface so we can clean it, take a good look at it, and make it better.

My tribe closed in and descended, hands extended and hearts open, to get the Tell Off on its way, with or without me. Plans put into place, ideas brought forth and implemented, and soothing confidence in others instilled.

Last night was one of those nights. Five of my friends packed into my living room, clipboards created out of books, passing a fresh bag of marshmallows for sustenance, working every angle of tonight’s show to make sure it was covered, and that all I have to do is show up.

Reflection upon this evidence today reveals the idea of my solitude to be complete, utter, and disgustingly mired in bull shit.

So whaddya know: ‘turns out, I am not alone.

I am, in fact, a part of a community of people, close to me or not, who care. Who are themselves capable. And who are so obviously willing to be there.

Fuck that martyr business. THIS is right where I want to be. Mired in love, laughter and a metric shit-ton of gratitude.

Amen.
 

Sooner or Later, It All Comes Out

Something about a good show shakes something loose in me. We had an extraordinary night at The Tell on Wednesday, and sure as shit, all day Thursday, I felt something casting off its moorings.

I made it through the workday, cognizant of this thing emerging, ready to fly. Called my cranio-sacral babe (Carolyn over at Relaxation Plus), but wasn't able to get in to see her that night.

SHIT. I was going to have to birth this thing by myself.

For those of you who don't know me well, I'm an angry motherfucker. Like WICKED angry. (Check out what Louise Hay has to say about belly fat; it will all come together.) The reasons for the anger don't matter right now, and may never bear any weight again. Besides -- they're nothing but stories I created around factual events; the meaning I've added.

I damn near lost it in the grocery store. Right. There. In. The. Squash.

Nope. Not gonna happen.

I went into full avoidance mode, calling friends, throwing myself into work, traipsing over to my girlfriend's place, calling more friends, working social media like a rented show pony ... until I just couldn't any longer.

I knew it was the anger wanting, begging, demanding to be released. I took a deep breath and asked, "how do I do this?", and heard, "focus on it."

Are you FUCKING SERIOUS? Do you not know the entire reason I'm funny? Why do you think I commit so fully to being positive in social media? It’s so nobody has to look at it. ‘Focus on the anger?’ PASS: that shit is dangerous.

"Focus on it."

Oh, voice in my head ... FINE.

So I made myself a bath with sea salts, baking soda, and a blend of essential oils I like to call the Smart & Spicy Jesus .... and settled in to tentatively welcome whatever was going to come forth.

It started with recognition of full-body muscle tension, so I worked to relax each muscle in my physical being, one by one.

I swirled around, avoiding my heart and stomach (the pain centers, as I think of them in this case), until I couldn't ignore them any longer.

My focus on the reason for my anger became intense, burning. I could see this person, smell their wretched breath, see the gaps in their teeth, hate the very thought of them .... and then I burst.

Like a soap bubble caught just right by the wind … .

What I thought surely was going to be some sort of verbal version of the Exorcist— 30 years of fuck you—presented itself in hot, exhausted, apologetic tears.

Yes. You read that correctly. Apologetic.

I suddenly found myself steeping in full-body sorrow, of all unexpected things. Regret for the assumptions I make, the roll I play in perpetuating all of this reciprocal bewilderment of feeling betrayed but not being able to give name to it, and the stories I created around the entire ordeal.

My soul called my anger forth … to ask for forgiveness.

I know I can’t possibly be the first person to make this connection.

But you can be damn straight I’ll add my voice to the sound of those preaching about the other side, amen. 

Mama Laura's Sweet Beef

Man, if that post title doesn't bring folks lookin' for porn, I don't know what will. 

Speaking of porn, I posted a photo of tonight's dinner on Facebook because I love me some food porn, and a recipe was requested. I obliged in a Facebook note, but there was a desire expressed to be able to pin that bad boy. And here we are. 

Honestly, given that I haven't blogged in what, months?, I really thought my first post back was going to be a life-story. Like about the storytelling competition I started here in Fargo. Or about Mike getting his first apartment. Or our new kitten, Penny. Or that time I accidentally showed Louie Anderson my lady parts. 

I guess that one will have to be told another time. 

Tonight, I come back to blogging glory to give you Mama Laura's Sweet Beef. 

A conglomeration of hundreds of recipes online, in cookbooks and on that thar tee-vee, we use cheap beef (because we're not the friggin' Rockefeller's donchya know) and there's very little to it—making it a go-to on nights when we're fighting the siren song of fast food. 

• 1 lb beef (eye of round, chuck round; whatever ... it doesn't have to be expensive. Lord knows mine wasn't.)
• 1.5 to 2 T cornstarch

Slice into thin strips, then sprinkle lightly with cornstarch. Don't let the beef sit in the cornstarch for more than 20 minutes or it will get mushy. 

• 1/2 c soy sauce (not that light shit, either)
• 3 or 4 green onions, sliced (shallots or any kind of onion work; 'bout a 1/3 c)
• 1/2 c brown sugar (light or dark) + 1/3 c more for later 
• 1 1/2 T rice vinegar (or regular ol' white vinegar)
• 1/4 t ground ginger (or fresh if you're Martha Damned Stewart and happen to have some laying around)
• 1 t ground black or white pepper

Mix all of this bidness together. Use a whisk if you're feeling fancy. (Tonight, I used my fingers. True story.)

Marinade beef in this mixture for as little as 10 minutes, as long as one hour. Give 'er a stir at some point to make sure the sugar isn't laying down on the job.

Cook over medium to medium-high heat in whatever oil you've got until beef is about 2 minutes from the way you like it. If you're showing off and making veggies as well, toss 'em in about half-way through. Just before it's cooked to the desired "doneness" (I hate that word), throw in another 1/3 c brown sugar in and stir the bejesus out of it. 

Jazz hands, bitches. Jazz hands. 

The One Where My FILDI Is Set Free

Scared.

Worried.

Terrified.

Here I am, facing what could be an amazing opportunity for me and my business, but I’m paralyzed.

My business feels like a relationship I’ve allowed to fall by the wayside—first I stopped calling, then stopped writing, and pretty soon, I didn’t even bother with a Christmas card.

I think about this relationship all the time.

How I really should be trying harder. How I really don’t know what to do or say to get back into the swing of things. How I suck as a human being because I just can’t seem to do anything in the direction of making this one thing great.

I stand just outside of it. Staring. Waiting for the rhythm of the double-Dutch ropes to be absolutely perfect so I can jump back in, both hands up—as though feeling the wind created by the rope whipping by will help me gauge the perfect moment for re-entry.

At some point, I know that if I want to get back in there, I’m going to have to gather my balls about me and just …. jump.

But what if I fall? What if my feet forget what I was doing? What if my brain forgets the words? What if I was wrong and none of the other kids really want to hold the rope for me?

That’s where I am: hands up, gauging the rope-wind.

My brain plays a loop of  a year’s worth of excuses to not work my business. 

But a light shines like a beacon: I know—I feel to the depths of my soul—if I don’t try, I’ll wind up buried alive in a shivering, gelatinous pile of self-loathing.

All of the things I’ve been should-ing on myself with are coming rapidly to a necessity point: the one where I either take great, swift, and concise action—or plummet into a crevasse of crap. The same crevasse—I didn’t know until I was well into my 30’s—I created all on my own.

I instinctively knew this was going to be a year of inertia. In the beginning I embraced it. But the more time that went by, the more my inner adolescent started to worry. The more she started to flirt with self-doubt and then judgment, dancing dangerously close to the edge of giving up the whole idea.

But I’m not an adolescent any more. After years of mulling over the concepts involved, I accept my role in my past and choose to write my future in a language that builds and strengthens, with love for myself when I screw up or chicken out.

I’ve been feeding my FILDI oranges and whispering encouragement to it. It’s ready. It’s time. And it’s allergic as all hell to self-loathing.

So with a big breath, I encourage you to stay tuned for a big announcement.

I’ll see you on the other side … of awesome. 

On Healing

Last year, I posted a reclamation declaration on September 11.

A lot of time has passed since then. A full year, according to my math.

Since then, Matt has met and married the love of his life. Mark's daughter and Trish's son have both grown and continue to delight their families daily.

September 11 belongs to us. Not to pain. Not to the unknown. Certainly not to fear.

Go: reclaim this day.

The original post below can be viewed here.
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Today marks ten years since the Towers fell and our lives as Americans changed forever.

The numbers are staggering.

The statistics from New York Magazine recount the horror, the devastation, the obvious and solid reasons for the fallout of fear and anger even a full decade later:

• Total number killed in attacks (official figure as of 9/5/02): 2,819
• Number of firefighters and paramedics killed: 343
• Number of NYPD officers: 23
• Number of Port Authority police officers: 37
• Number of WTC companies that lost people: 60
• Number of employees who died in Tower One: 1,402
• Number of employees who died in Tower Two: 614
• Number of employees lost at Cantor Fitzgerald: 658
• Number of U.S. troops killed in Operation Enduring Freedom: 22
• Number of nations whose citizens were killed in attacks: 115
• Ratio of men to women who died: 3:1
• Age of the greatest number who died: between 35 and 39
• Bodies found "intact": 289
• Body parts found: 19,858
• Number of families who got no remains: 1,717
• Estimated units of blood donated to the New York Blood Center:36,000
• Total units of donated blood actually used: 258
• Number of people who lost a spouse or partner in the attacks:1,609
• Estimated number of children who lost a parent: 3,051
• Percentage of Americans who knew someone hurt or killed in the attacks: 20

Every September since then, I am sick all over again. My mind is consumed, my body mourns, my soul twists in agony. 

This year, though, I had a revelation.

Today is an anniversary marking other things, too. 

So many beautiful things, not just in my life, but in the lives of those around me.

Events that not just underscore, but really define the joy in life itself.  

Today, for example, is my friend Matt's birthday. (HI, MATT!)

Matty is one of my favorite people. (Please, don't tell him though -- we don't need him getting a big head.)

See that gleam in his eye? 

It's pretty much always there, and it's comprised of the stuff that makes me think, inspires me to action and is usually guaranteed to make me snort-laugh in a most unlady-like fashion. 

Matty is my reason number one to reclaim this day.

Enter Mr. and Mrs. Sorgaard.

Twelve years ago today, they were married. 

photo credit: Gabe Haney

Mark is one of my favorite photographers, and I stalk him on Facebook pretty regularly. (HI, MARK!)

Mark's favorite subject, and his greatest muse, is his daughter, Skylar. Take some time to peruse the gallery on his website dedicated to her, and you'll understand why the Sorgaard family is my second reason to reclaim the day.

Finally, there is Mr. Max. 

Maximillian joined his family five years ago today.

The joy he brings his family is radiant and undeniable.

His mama, my friend Trish, (HI, TRISH!) wanted a shot of both of her kids on their first day of school this year, but Max was having none of it. 

He needed to express something else. 

Something that made a statement. 

Something out of the ordinary. 

Something independent, strong and solid. 

I think he accomplished it, and reason three stands before us. 

There they are. 

The first three reasons I'm choosing to redefine September 11 as my day of joy. 

Will I ever forget the lives of those lost? Of those who willingly chose courage, bravery and a sure death so that others may live?

Absolutely not. 

I will, as long as I am on this Earth this time around, think of them not just on September 11, but most days. 

As an American, it's now a part of who I am. 

And it's as an American that I reclaim this day. 

For the people who make me laugh. 

Who inspire me. 

Who make me think. 

Who make me reach.

And for those who make the people I love laugh, feel inspired, think and reach. 

Who make the world a better place by simply being them. 

Matty? Happy birthday, buddy. I still owe you a birthday girly-coffee, but this time I'm bringing the trivia questions. 

Lara and Mark? Here's to numerous decades more, and millions of loving memories.

Trish? Happy Mama birthday, my friend. Your fierce and abiding love for your children makes the world a better place.  

And to you, sitting at your computer, balancing your iPad on your lap, or scrolling away on your smart phone?

Thank you for being you. 

Thank you for being reasons to reclaim and redefine the day. 

Creativity and An Invocation

My house is in ruins.

OK. That's a gross exaggeration.

It's really just the down-down.

(I'd say the "downstairs," but we have a four-level split, which makes the downstairs the garden-level family room. Which makes the basement the down-down. Clear? I thought so.)

It's funny what allowing myself to be creative has awakened in my Spirit.

Firstly, I find myself wanting a nicer space to live. A more loved space. Something deeper than just lived-in. 

Full disclosure: We moved in 10 years ago and haven't done jack-shit to our home, save painting a whopping six walls of color. I bet you didn't know jack-shit was hyphenated, didya?

I found myself looking around at the evidence of being uninspired and happily found I was a bit beyond the apathy of my surroundings. I was apathetic for a long, long time; I assure you. To be on the other side of it was (IS!) like a clean shower and a cool drink of water after bathing in warm, salty sea brine.

The space in which my creativity was rebirthed is our aforementioned down-down: the most rag-tag misuse of space for four counties.

It is here I shall take the next step in the reclamation of myself.

I've heard time and time again the best way to create a room is to choose one piece and build it from there.

Never one to heed any advice wherein being stingy is celebrated, I have chosen three pieces. They were all created by the brilliant, honest and willing, Ze Frank, of A Show. 

The first, The Invocation, was introduced to me via my friend Becky, formerly of high school, now of Denver. (HI, BEC'!)  The Invocation hits me hard. In the solar plexus. And whisks my heart into a can-do frenzy. 

All artwork property of Ze Frank. Don't try to download it and print it out yourself. That would make you a dick.  And not a big dick, either. A tiny, sad little dick. And let's face it: ain't nobody appreciates a little dick. 

To fully experience the Invocation, I invite you to visit Ze's (because we're on a first name basis) channel on the Tube of Yous. It will be the best investment of your time you've banked today. True story. 

The other two pieces are snippets of the Invocation, but cry to be considered on their own. 

.

Read. Be inspired. Declare your invocation. Amen.

  

The Day I Stabbed The Ceiling

They say most accidents in the home happen in the bathroom. 

Clearly, whomever "they" may be, they've not visited my home. 

Imagine, if you will (and I think you will), a cool, bright spring evening. 

You've come home from a day of work and would like to start cooking dinner with a clean slate. Those clean dishes must be put away. 

You fire up your redneck sound system. (iPod plugged straight into computer speakers atop a shelving unit) and roll up your sleeves.

Now, you've spent all damned winter waiting to see the sky the color it is today. With the music secure, your next priority quickly becomes letting in as much light as possible. 

You reach across your pile of clean dishes and past the magnetic knife strip and, ignoring the dust along the bottom of the fabric, give the rolling curtain a yank. 

And shank the ever living shit out of the ceiling. 

Tell you what, that ceiling hasn't back-talked me since.

Nope. Not a peep.

Passing On A Belief: Creativity

I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I spent the better part of a decade working in different aspects of advertising, and in each of those jobs, I held jobs that were not considered creative. So much so that at the last one, I would not be invited to meetings, my ideas would be shit on, and I would even be told on a very regular (almost daily) basis that, I was not just "not a creative," but, "Laura, you're not creative."

Don't feel sorry for me because of someone else's words, but instead, kick my ass for believing it.

That's right. I spent ten years believing I am not creative.

I believed it so much it became a part of me. I told myself the same thing, in agreement with the theme, over and over so that it was, indeed, my story.

And then something interesting happened.

I got laid off.

And I started pushing, in tiny ways, my creativity.

I wrote.

I consulted.

I brainstormed.

And people paid me to do it.

"Well, fuck YOU, lady who fed me the non-creative line every damned day of my life," I started to think on a daily basis.

Then I let myself get really mad.

And I stayed mad for a few more years. (You know, 'cause we have nothing but time to fritter away being mad. What can I say? Sometimes, I'm a total dumb-ass.)

Then I noticed that Crystal spends the vast majority of her spare time in creative pursuits (often with amazing outcomes), as do Sarah and Maria. (HI, GIRLS! I LOVE YOU!) (HI, GREENER! I LOVE YOU, TOO ... YOU'RE MY FAVORITE SCIENTIST! EXCEPT FOR MAYBE THAT HOT GUY THAT KNOWS STUFF ABOUT PEOPLE BEING INFESTED WITH BUGS AND SHIT, 'CAUSE HE'S HOT. EVEN IF HE IS CANADIAN.)

Sorry. I don't know why I yelled for so long. I really just wanted the girls' attention. I love them. In fact, I love them like I love mocha cappuccino peanut butter.

OK, so ... the people I spend the majority of time with were expressing themselves in the fresh, fearless ways, and I was fucking playing Tetris.

Yeah. That needed to stop.

So I started blogging here in earnest. (Aside: Just typing his name (I know it's a homophone, calm down) makes my heart squeeze a little, thinking about Mr. Borgnine. I'm gonna miss those crazy-ass eyebrows and public declarations of frequent masturbation.)

But blogging was a little too personal. I wasn't ready to really open 'er up, and at the time, I felt like I needed to. (Lucky for you, I now realize sharing is a choice, not a directive.)

So I got a camera to hide behind.

And 365 was born.

Then I got a job.

And it became more like 195 Snapshots.

Photography is fun, but the process of lighting, aperture, filligree, pedigree and whatever else bedknobs and broomsticks mumbo-jumbo that goes into a great shot proved to be much too tiring to do daily, especially whilst holding down a job I dig. And taking 75 photos in a day and going through those 75 photos is a crevasse I dare not look down while crossing.

Right around this time, Lee started creating wooden frames out of reclaimed wood. They have a palpable honesty to them. They're beautiful. They're artful. And I was inspired.

One day, on the drive home from a visit to Maria's store, Eco Chic, I had a vision. It was a wooden bookmark, wafer thin and engraved with witty sayings, or perhaps just sanded silky-smooth and sealed. Bad Diddy was born. I make reclaimed wood bookmarks. And signs. And I LOVE it. Best of all, I'm not mad any more. I realized that in order to push me into doing something that's really and truly an expression of me, rather than a mere reflection of the world around me, I had to get mad. I had to look it over, turning the mad in my hands, inspecting it from every angle like a Rubiks Cube in order to push myself. 

One night, as I was Dremeling my little heart out and mentally solving the creativity Rubiks Cube, I was working on four specific angles: where it comes from, what turns it up, what shuts it down, what keeps it going.

And I realized that for me, it was about belief. Faith, even.

Faith that I was created to create. And if that was the one abiding tenet, then my marching orders were clear: Wade in, dummy!

I also realized that I never stopped being creative. Every time I've ever been witty, every word I've ever written, any time I've ever handwritten a card in cursive ('cause it's not a waste, CRYSTAL!) or any time I've ever "Weird Al'd" a song ... that was creativity. If we factor in the new and exciting ways to curse, well, hell on a biscuit; we're talking non-stop crea-fuckin'-tivity. 

Which got me to thinking about where and why my beliefs regarding my own innate creativity went askew.

For me, I believe it was a lack of communication along the way. I don't know that among the years of just trying to survive, to make sure everybody made it through the day, not a ton of importance was placed on making things. That's not to say we weren't allowed to create things. We certainly were. If we asked, we were told we could bake, sew, paint and draw to our hearts' contents. My older sister, (HI, BEESWAX STINKO!) danced. I have a very specific memory of Heather, my little sister, (HI, DAHLING!) making all sorts of things with popsicle sticks, glitter and muffin liners. (Kitty party hat, anyone?) I think it wasn't pushed because things like eating, getting to school and being kind to one another were of greater importance in our day-to-day. Of course, it could be that I'm a middle child and need constant reassurance. (This is the part where you feel sorry for my husband, trust me.)

Thinking about my childhood made me think about one of the little girls in my life, our niece Bergen.

She has wonderful parents. Attentive, encouraging, loving. That kid is never going to think she's incapable of doing anything because of those two. It makes me smile just thinking about it.

But what if?

What if, as little girls, we all had a front and center daily reminder that could grow with us as we became women?

And another idea was born.

So with one of my photos of a peony from our backyard, a frame from Lee, and a vinyl print from Shortprinter, I made B. a gallery wrap to hang on her bedroom wall. Something I hope she reads every day of her life. Something I hope she hangs up when she gets her own place, and holds to her heart when someone tries to lie to her face and tell her she is less than. So that she never believes them.

Hey, You GUYS ....

Hola!

¡Buenos dias!

Come esta?

¡Mui caliente!

Oh, crap.

Now I've backed myself into a corner, because what you read there is pretty much all of the Spanish I know.

Sorry. I didn't mean to lead you on.

Were I Robert Palmer, I would tell you I didn't mean to turn you on.

But I'm not Robert Palmer.

And I don't speak Spanish.

I hope we got that cleared up.

I also hope you have a song stuck in your head at this point.

So why did I summon you here?

To invite you to a party!

Wait.

That's a lie.

After the Spanish Robert Palmer business, I realize I need to be careful here. Respectful of your trust.

I want to ask you to come on over to my other, much more active blog, and follow me there.

Pack your bags!

Grab your passport!

Get ready for a good TSA gropin'!

We're off to 365 Snapshots!

For ease of navigation, I'm goin' old school and presenting the link in plain web English:
http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/

I'm looking forward to seeing you there.

¡Gracias!

(Well would you look at that? I DID have one more up my cerebellum's sleeve!)

A Worthy Cause ... AND Cheesecake!

OK, So Here's The Deal ....

I can't write here right now.

I know, I know ... transparency.

I lied.

Well, maybe not LIED, per se.

Or maybe I just lied to myself.

Things are ... uh ... squishy in my house right now. I need to find a great job and SOON, and that whole money thing riles up something worse than Hagrid's Fluffy in me. It's not a good feeling, and since I refuse to whine in public (oh, my shrink is going to LOVE this) I'm shuttin' 'er down for a while.

I'll start posting again one day, just not today.

Of course, you're always welcome to comb through the archives. This is a good place to start.

When you're done there (or if you've got crazy mad multi-tasking skillz), please join me over at my photo blog. It's a place I don't feel pressured to keep tidy or explain very well. Some days I have words to go along with the images, and some days I don't. Some days I use a good camera, and some days I don't. Some days the photos are good, and some days they aren't. 'Just depends.

I've learned that I need to express myself in some way, and for me, blogging is a great solution. But when words weigh too much, I find photos feel much better. So, you know ... it's something I can do. Something I can handle.

See ya on the other side, mi amigos!

Foiled Again

Ladies, you know how some days you just don’t feel pretty? Noteworthy? Like a freakin’ super model?

Right. I know. Some of us have those days more than the other kind … the good kind. The kind of day where you KNOW you are crackalackin’, lip-smackin’, dingo-ate-my-baby delicious.

For me, yesterday was (finally!) one of the latter variety.

I looked GOOD, y’all.

Clearly, the planets aligned, because the hair was just right, the eye makeup went on as it should, the girls were hiked up to their proper position, and no grunting occurred when the jeans were zipped up. Glorious!

Apparently though, all that gorgeousness comes with a time-related price.

I left the house in a rush, heading to lunch with a friend. (Hi, Chris!)

Now let me tell you something about Chris: the man is a punctuality freak stickler.

Seriously. Tardiness does NOT fly with him. His scorn, while moderated by his Scandinavian roots and therefore undetectable to those not familiar with the signs, is palpable if you know what to look for. (As innocuous as it sounds, Scandihoovian scorn is to be avoided, trust you me.)

So I sped. 

As I zipped in and out of interstate traffic, a cute fella in a nice car took advantage of my mad Nascar skillz and tucked himself in behind me. I’m sure he figured I would get ticketed, rather than he, should we be caught.

As I exited, so did he. A stoplight impeded our progress, and I took advantage of the pause in motion to repair a poor lip color choice made before the final wardrobe change of the morning.

As I pulled out my gloss, I noticed cute driver guy watching me with what I took to be a flirty grin on his face.

Well then. Looking for a show? Here ya go, big fella—enjoy!

I proceeded to take my time doing the sensuous gloss application, complete with an arched eyebrow for emphasis. You ladies know what I’m talking about. It’s bullet-proof as long as you’ve got all your teeth and no signs of lettuce or legume skins stuck anywhere.

The light turned green, and I scurried straight on through the intersection as driver guy made a left.

I was smug: I looked good, I’d gotten to lunch on time and I’d come off as desirable in the eyes of a complete stranger whom I would never see again. 

Then I glanced down at my dashboard.

And it hit me: cute driver guy wasn’t grinning at my obvious hotness.

Oh no, he was laughing at me.

'Turns out my left blinker was on the entire drive.

The Unmasking

When I began this blog, I masked the players—well, the human ones, anyway—in nicknames.

It’s bothered me ever since.

It felt fake, inauthentic.  

GACK.

So now that the BoyRD is eighteen and graduating high school, I’ve asked the various people I hang out with if I may use their real names when I post, and they’ve all graciously agreed.

So here it is:

The big kid towering on the left? That’s Mike. Or Michael James. Or Monkey Pants. The BoyRD is actually a nickname we’ve had for him for years. It’s based in my husband’s addiction to nasty canned pasta. I won’t go into detail here, but suffice to say the stuff makes me gag. It does, however, make for a mighty adorable nickname.

And the tall guy on the right? That would be KittyDaddy. His Mama named him Lee. KittyDaddy is also a legitimate moniker; the man never had a pet until he met me, and since I couldn’t be without a cat in the house, he was (initially) forced to become a cat person. Now, I can’t imagine he would ever choose to be without feline companionship again. (I would like to officially go on record with a great big, "told you so!" at this time. Thank you for your understanding.)

So there you have it. That's my son and my husband, revealed. 

Say hello to my tall, tall friends .... 

Call Me Crazy

I don't always have time, or--let's face it--the gumption to write.

I do, however, find myself snapping at least one photo a day. Sometimes it's on my mobile phone and sometimes with my digital SLR. And when I'm feeling cuh-razy I'll actually use my Flip!

Thus, I have created yet another site to share those photos. I've enjoyed other folks' "year o' photos" postings on the various social sites we enjoy in this modern age, and have chosen the same time frame for this project.

Will I update daily? Maybe not.

I will, however, take a photo of some sort every day, then upload them by date to the site as time--and that darned gumption--allow.

Hop on board; it's bound to get interesting!

And really? Thank you for coming along for the ride. I love having you here.

Duuuude ...

Sweet, what does mine say?

(Five points for the movie reference.)

It's cuh-razy busy around here as of late. And when it's not, I am trying to impress every sight, every move, every sound and each and every scent (well, maybe not EVERY scent) my only child has to offer and pack them safely into my memory.

That's right, the RD is graduating high school.

I know, I know ... we've got months before college starts. Don't ... (hic) ... get ... me ... (welled-up eyes) ...  started. (wail)

Y'all, he has access to a vehicle.

And a job. (sniff)

And a life (hic) outside of MY home.

He's going to pack up his stuff. (a single tear escapes, coursing down my cheek)

Store some of his stuff. (snot flowing)

And go to college. (WAIL!)

To what far-flung land is he traveling in pursuit of his dream in technical theatre, you ask? Moorhead State. Yup, just across the river in Moorhead, MN.

WHUT?

(defiantly wipes nose on shirt sleeve)

Don't look at me like that. He's. My. (limb-shaking breath) BABY.

I'll try to keep my keening to a minimum.

The graduation party is this weekend. Actual graduation is next weekend. Mix in there family visits, putting the house on the market right after graduation and avidly looking for my next awesome employer, and well ... yeah. Duuuuuude. There's a lot going on.

While I'm off being super woman, I offer you two more pictures from our trip out West.

The first is the Boy RD being accosted by a five year-old. We went to visit some adopted family (you know, the kind you've known since their parents were THIS big and you love the whole brood like they're your own?) and this guy took one look at the 6'2" RD and decided he needed to take. Him. DOWN. Note the look of, "are you sure about this?" on the RD's face. And the RD's hat head -- it's so RD! Also, note the little dude's brother in the background, waiting for bloodshed. Such a good brother.

This next shot is of pie. Why pie? Because pie is good. DUH.

Suh g'on now, git yerself some puh. It's good fer ya!

Arizona -- The Mobile Phone Photo Tour

When Dad had a heart attack just over a month ago, I flew to Arizona. 

I didn't know if I'd be able to put it all into words; that was a task just too daunting to consider. Instead, I snapped photo after photo on both my mobile phone and my "real" camera. 

Let's get started on your own personal tour of the trip from departure to return, shall we?

I noticed this as Kitty Daddy dropped me off at the airport, laying in the passenger pick-up/drop-off lane here in Fargo. It was the first time since getting the call that I remember having a total "real life" moment where my mind wasn't going over and over and over the condition of my Dad. It also made me look at KD and say, "Did I pack my toothbrush?"

Little sister, H, and her saint of a man, D, flew in to 'Vegas from North Carolina about a half-hour before I got there from North Dakota. The first thing we noticed? It was warm enough for us to wear sandals! (Sorry if you're one of those anti-foot folks. Not having to wear socks and boots is a big deal when you live in the freaking tundra. You learn to embrace nearly-nude feet!) (Guess who has translucent skin and two thumbs? That's right! THIS GUY!)

This was the room Dad was in at the CVICU. In deference to his privacy, I won't be sharing details of his condition when we arrived. I will, however, tell you that it was one of the most terrifying days of my life. I think he got me back for any of those times he had to rush to MY side at a hospital. (That is my reflection on the right; little sister H's man, D, sits next to me. This was his first time to meet the family. That man made the best of a shit situation, and I will always be grateful to him.)

On the first morning, I went in with coffee for my sister, and immediately abandoned that idea to go find a camera. How could you see THIS and not think, "this needs to be on the internet"? There's also a photo somewhere of D's arm around the dog, because he woke up and found a warm body next to him, only to discover that warm body was quite furry. Turns out H. had gone to the shower and Jake, Dad's big ol' Heinz 57 dog fancied a snuggle. I'm telling you, D put up with a lot on this trip. 

H & D (and sometimes Jake the dog) got to snuggle, but I was on my own. That is, until Dennis came home. Dennis is Dad's roaming kitty, and he showed up every so often just long enough to say hi, catch 38 winks and run off. He has that little boy kitty body and high, squeaky voice I'm a total sucker for. We bonded. 

I made breakfast. This is a baked French toast dish to which I added blueberries after consulting with my foodie buddy Chris back in Fargo. (HI, CHRIS!) We decided that berries would hold up to the heat and brown sugar. Holy cow, was I ever glad we thought it would work because it. Was. AWESOME. (I should tell you Chris is a blueberry whore fan the likes of which you have never seen. It would not surprise me at all to learn he's got a blueberry burger in development. He's like that.)

Two days in, Kitty Daddy and I decided to bring the BoyRD out. I needed one of my boys with me, and it made the most sense to send out the RD. Even under the circumstances, it was some of the best time I've ever spent with my son. To pick up the RD at the airport in 'Vegas, we had to cross the Colorado River, formerly over Hoover Dam. But guess what? The bridge is done! Here is the one shot I got of it. (It rained later in the trip, ruining more chances for photography that trip.) I have no idea who those people are. I say we refer to them as Larry, Mo and Curly. Hey, Curly? Nice wedgie, dude. 

Somewhere during the week, I realized the RD is an adult! Needless to say, that meant he bought a lottery ticket and scratched his way to ... nothin'. I'm assuming he learned his gambling-related lesson. 

Being in Kingman, AZ, I figured I was in for culinary blech for a full week. Much to my delight, my childhood friend, Theresa, brought us to a sweet little coffee shop downtown that had carrot/ginger soup! Talk about feeling like I was back in civilization. (HI, THERESA!)

One day, the RD and I drove up to the Hualapai Mountains. It was a lovely afternoon, but we'll save the pictures from that trip for another day. 

Shucks, we missed it!

I was able to take my son places I used to hang out as a teenager. Many an evening hour was spent solving the world's problems on this beach as a teenager. I went on to work at this hotel/casino in Laughlin when the RD was a small boy, and the poignancy of being there with him wasn't lost.  

THIS is where Kitty Daddy and I met. No, really -- that exact spot. 

And when we all lived together, this is the apartment complex pool we used to go swimming in. Boy RD was about four years old and he would beg Kitty Daddy to "go slimmin'?" 

I did have one afternoon to myself out there. Needless to say, I took my butt straight to a Sonic. Ahhh, cherry limeade. I love you like no other. 

As the RD and I were driving back to 'Vegas to head for Fargo, I took this cloud break to mean the storm was over.

Thus concludes the mobile phone photo tour. I'll show you what we came home to in the coming days. 

Wherever you are, be glad of it. 

Whomever you're with, make the most of it. 

Time is short, life is fleeting. 

Live it. 

Glad to be here with you, 

Mama Laura