Other Firsts: An Honest Thought

(google image)

The strangest thing happened on my way to work a few weeks ago. I’ll either remember it forever, or I’ll forget about it completely. It’s too soon to tell. 

But here it is: 

I was heading northbound on 315, preparing to switch lanes, when a fussy blue Suburban cut me off. I threw up my hands like a saucy Sicilian grandmother, and the passenger flipped me the bird. 

I was affronted. Nonplussed. And in that moment of indignation, it came to me: The skeleton of a story. 

Every bone was accounted for: Rough character sketches, the main story arc, the makings of conflict, the sweeping sigh of resolution. Plus, the grip of an emotional undertow—a thick red spine knitted loosely through the core. 

I blinked and shook my head. It was the strangest feeling—a buzz, a pulse. Like my mind had been wiped clean to make room for some quick and humming coil of information. 

“I want to write this!” I thought. 

And then, “How can I write this?” 

~*~ 

I had a similar experience once before—two Aprils ago, I think. I was stepping off the elevator and onto the fourth floor when I tripped over somebody’s pen. Suddenly: The blue outline of a story! I could think of nothing else for the rest of the day. 

I even sketched it out for GB that night after dinner. He listened intently, then leaned back in his chair. “It sounds good,” he said encouragingly. “It sounds a little bit like Atonement. Right?” 

I paused. “Atonement?”—the Ian McEwan novel I’d read and reread and read again?—“ Nooooooooooooooo. It’s totally different. See?” I sketched it out again, only this time, I talked with stubborn desperation. Because secretly I knew he was right. The plot wasn’t the same, but the themes were identical. I was a copycat. A thief.   

I decided to write it anyway. Twelve pages in, I closed the file and threw it away. 

~*~ 

There must be a secret all the published writers know about breathing life into a story. I wonder what that ingredient is, and where I can find it, because this grasping I do—this scratching at the surface for something more—is getting me nowhere. So I really just wonder if I can buy it somehow. Take a class. Schedule some sort of creative implantation. I’d do it, I wouldn’t think twice. 

It makes me wish I could scroll back 49 years, creep into Ernest Hemingway’s study and say, “Listen, about ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro’…aside from your obvious genius, how did you do that? Did you drink a magic potion? Suss it out in some sweat lodge? Because I read it, and I wish with all my heart I had words like that in me.” 

That’s what separates the hacks from the real thing. One group tries to write. The other just does it. 

~*~ 

Here’s the thing: I swore I’d start to write without worrying what anyone else might think. I swore I would do that, and I haven’t, and that’s just so frustrating. 

So maybe William Faulkner was right: Maybe courage is the main ingredient—the will to crack open the egg just to see what seeps out.

I haven’t tried to do that yet. Because what if I do, and the egg is empty. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Roadside Shoe! (Double Feature)

Last night was Book Club night. 

That means I may or may not have come home later than usual, and I may or may not have used that excuse to spend the rest of the evening watching HBO’s Boardwalk Empire. Let it suffice, then, that I decided to (almost) take the night off from blogging and let the Roadside Shoes! do the work. 

1)      This Roadside Shoe! arrived by Twitter from my hilarious blogger friend Emily over at Perpetually Peeved (http://perpetuallypeeved.wordpress.com/). I rely on Emily for my daily dose of dry, sarcastic wit. She’s just great. Be sure to check her out today and every day.   

Perpetually Peeved's Roadside Shoe!

 2) My dad sent these Roadside Shoes! from a basketball court that sits squarely between Lincoln and Morrill Towers at THE Ohio State University. He and my mom were either on their way to or from this past Saturday’s Eastern Michigan massacre. (What up, Eagles? How ya livin’?) I don’t know what I like more: That my parents saw these shoes, or that they actually took a picture and submitted it. This Roadside Shoe! game is a family affair. 

My Dad's Roadside Shoe!

 As a side note, I didn’t see a single Roadside Shoe! on our 758 mile round trip to Nashville. (And believe me, I looked, because I’m that OCD.) However I did spy a series of Roadside Hats!: 1) Oakland Raiders, 2) UPS, and 3) Unidentified logo. As much as I wish those hats counted in the quest for Roadside Shoes!, they don’t. The Roadside Hat! thing is a different phenomenon altogether, and one that someone else can tackle. 

Have a Roadside Shoe!? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.   

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Side Story: The Things You Throw Away

It’s 10AM on Sunday, and I’m starting and stopping my hairdryer. Each time I blast it, I hear shouting, and when I turn it off, I hear nothing.

“What’s happening out there guys?” I call.

O appears in the doorway, looking furious. His hands are tiny fists. His face is stern and scolding. “Why would you do dat, Mama?” he squeaks. “H and I are sooooooo mad.”

“What did I do?” I ask innocently, even though I already know.

O grabs my hand and leads me down the hallway. When we arrive at H’s doorway, O joins his crestfallen brother by the window.

“You frew out our drum!” O declares while H shakes his head. “And our Incredibles coloring book!”

“Guys. You haven’t played with those things in ages.” My words fall flat on disappointed little ears.

At this height, we can see the contents of the dumpster in the driveway. It’s full of broken, incomplete stuff, and none of it is of any use at all. But I do know how they feel. Pockets of our lives are thrown together in a heap just 16 feet below us.

We look at each other sadly, our bottom lips protruding, and press our foreheads against the glass together.

~*~

It began with a conversation we’d had at least six times before. This time, GB kicked it off.

“I think we should rent a dumpster.”

I looked up from my laptop and nodded wistfully. “The things we could throw away…”

“That ceiling fan in the guest bedroom.”

“That broken night-stand… that one lamp…”

“That water-damaged dresser in the basement.”

I clicked the calendar on my desktop. “We could rent a dumpster at the end of September,” I suggested. “Let’s just do it. We could throw out the leather chair Bosco used to sleep on.”

It surprised me how much it hurt to say that last part. Bosco was our sweet, old German Shepherd, and she was crazy; I knew this because she used to spin in circles anytime she heard a loud noise, or baseball was on TV. Still, I loved her the way a mama loves a baby. And Bosco loved that chair. The idea of throwing it away felt like betrayal.

Get ready, I told myself. This will be harder than you think.

~*~

I hear the push and pull of a saw: the grip of teeth on wood, the cough of sawdust. I follow the sound and find GB sawing Bosco’s chair in half. He stops immediately. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s the only way I can get it upstairs.”

“It’s ok,” I say, biting my lip and looking around to change the subject. “I think we should chuck this old computer, don’t you?”

“Sure. What about that box of stuff?”

“Let’s pitch it. I mean, we should, right?”

“Probably.”

“Let’s save all the clothes. The strollers. The toys. Anything we can give away or recycle. The rest? Garbage.”

 “I like the way you work,” GB grins. “You’re brutal.”

I’m proud of my façade. Little does he know the storm brewing in my sentimental heart, or the party-of-one breakdown I’m planning to have later.

He places the saw back into position. “Hey, your college stuff is back there. Keep it, or throw it away?”

I look over my shoulder at the giant, green bin o’ my past. “Oh, I’ll keep most of it. But there’s some stuff I’ll probably trash.”

I’m talking to you, old journals, I think. Your dog-eared days are numbered.

~*~

This makes me think of a conversation I had with my mother years ago. She called to say she was cleaning out my childhood bedroom, and she’d found a box of old letters and e-mails I’d kept from my college friends. “Do you want to save them?” she asked, to which I quickly replied, “No thanks. I don’t need proof of what an idiot I was back then. You can toss them.”

“I don’t think I should,” she said. “I think you’ll regret it.”

I rolled my eyes, sighed, and repeated my instructions.

A few months later, my buddy Andy passed away. What wouldn’t I give for his letters now.

Even so, here I am, standing in front of the dumpster with four three-ring binders at my feet—one for every year of college. Each one guards reams of truly bad poetry. Angst-ridden musings. Unsent letters. One-sided assessments of wrong- and right-doings. All scrawled in illegible pencil. All peppered with “creative” spelling mistakes. The thought of my boys reading through these one day is too much to bear, memories be damned.

So I pitch the first one. I send it soaring through the air until it lands with a thump on the top of the heap. I launch the second, then pause before throwing the third and fourth ones. When I’m finished, I wipe my hands in a “that’s that” sort of motion before marching back into the house.

That’s just how it is sometimes. You have to force yourself to cut ties. All those dreams of writing…how I logged my experiences like a narcissist…the way I’m embarrassed by all of that now. Those journals just had to go. It was time.

But the irony isn’t lost on me. This screen is a three-ring binder designed to help hold my memories together. Except that this binder clasps the present, and if my boys want to read it someday, I’ll be proud of that, because it’s for and about them.

It doesn’t matter what we threw away this weekend—broken toys, scuffed shoes, frayed memories. They’re just dusty, jagged remnants of the past.

The things that truly matter—the structure of our lives, the love we dole out and take in—are all captured here, where I want them: In my memory and on a page.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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#13 (Part II): Nashville Sips n Strokes

It’s 7:30 in Nashville, and we’ve just arrived at Sips n Strokes. There are six in our party, and five of us seem nervous. 

Kim is the confident one. A friend introduced her to this place a few months ago, and now she’s a bit of a regular. The owners and staff are glad to see her. They chat her up like she’s a local celebrity. If this were a five-star restaurant, I’d half expect the head chef to step out and shake her hand. 

“So how does this work?” I ask as I look around the studio.  I have a crisp white canvas in one hand, and a paint-splotched apron in the other. 

“Let’s just pick a spot at the end,” Kim answers. “I’ll show you where to get your paints. Then we can get settled and wait for the instructor.” 

Sips N Strokes plus some women I don't know

~*~ 

I’m not an artist. Just keep that in mind. I’ve taken my share of art electives and loved my college art history courses, but a painter I am not. 

I’m also not a drinker. I could pretend I am, but you’d see right through me. There’s probably a whole host of issues I could solve by drinking more, if only I could hold my sauce. I just get too emotional. I either laugh uproariously, or sob giant, boozy tears until eventually someone whispers, “How much has she had?” and someone else whispers “One glass of Sauvignon Blanc.” 

I wish I were exaggerating. 

So here are six sorority sisters in Nashville on a Saturday night. One of them (me) is doing two things she’s just not meant to do. But I’m with friends, and that’s what matters. If this ship goes down, we’ll go down together. 

So we take a look at the template… 

The instructor's version

…and resolve to get started. 

“It’s not hard,” Kim says. “They’ll walk us through it.” 

And they do. Step by step. We have a blast. 

Step one: Sketch your shapes

Step two: Fill in your shapes

Step three: Add some "flair"

Final (totally effed up) painting!

(Yeow. 

At this moment, as I’m posting these photos, my face is patched with hot, blazing streaks of embarrassment. But on Sips n Strokes night, after 1 ½ glasses of the Sayval Blanc Kim carefully selected from a local Nashville winery, I thought this painting was perfection. I just kept giggling to myself with tipsy appreciation, thinking, “Oh, painting. You are so pretty! I can’t wait to take you home.” 

Ah. Wine goggles, I understand you now. ) 

~*~ 

It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve seen some of these ladies. And two walked my old haunts long after I’d pushed off into the glassy seas of adulthood. But when you gather a group of people who love the same places and friends you adore, there’s bound to be an unspoken and lasting bond. 

It makes me grateful that we’re able to create bonds that can sustain themselves. There are old friends to cherish and new friends to be made, and none of us really has to be lonely. 

Our evening ended with hugs and well wishes and promises to join up again in the springtime. I left feeling as though less of me was missing. And that’s finer than any wine I can think of. 

(Special thanks to Kim, DeWana, Carrie, Julee and Michelle for a low-key evening of good music, fun art, and great company. I’d “Oh Pat” you if I could. Let’s do it again soon!) 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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#13 (Part I): Drive to Nashville. Eat BBQ

A few months ago, my friend Jennifer received an incredible job offer—a real “your corner office awaits you” opportunity. After mulling it over, she decided to do three things:  

1. Accept the new gig.
2. Quit the old one.
3. Make a quick trip to Memphis for some BBQ.

That last part really caught my attention. Despite my Food Network obsession, I didn’t realize Memphis was known for BBQ; I thought it was known for Graceland and Elvis, Beale Street and B.B. King. Plus, I’d never considered planning a trip around regional cuisine, which is really sort of brilliant when you think about it.  

So I made a note-to-self: “Drive to Memphis. Eat BBQ.” I should have written that down, because my brain somehow turned “Memphis” into “Nashville.” In my defense, I’m a northerner, what do I know? Both cities are in Tennessee, both have an expansive musical culture. Plus? Adorable accents. See? The confusion is easy.  

That line of thinking will get you into trouble. It’s like saying Columbus and Ann Arbor are the same because they’re both Big 10 college towns. To that, I’ll respond (through gritted, gritted teeth): No, they most certainly are not.  

Nashville, I owe you an apology. 

~*~ 

I’ve been to Nashville before. Two springs ago, we stopped at the Hilton or some such place while on our way to my sister-in-law’s wedding. We saw the road leading to the hotel, the road leading away from it, and the first Starbucks I’d seen for hundreds of miles. By my rules, that trip doesn’t count (although the coffee certainly did).  

My friend Kim lives just outside of Nashville. She’s hooked on something called Sips n Strokes, which is basically an evening art class made richer by wine and a good group of girlfriends. When she asked if anyone wanted to join her for the September 18 class, I raised my hand with four of my sorority sisters. To me, it was the perfect excuse to see old friends, eat southern barbecue, and complete another 36×37 assignment.  

When I told Kim I was planning to make the trip, and I was bringing my guys with me, she generously volunteered her family as our tour guides. I don’t have space to write about everything we did, including a visit to the incredible Adventure Science Center and Sudekum Planetarium, but I feel I’d be remiss without posting this:  

Made of paper, I am.

A picture of Origami Yoda. As if you needed more proof, that guy is everywhere.  

~*~  

Downtown Nashville (Via Webshots Blog)

Here’s why I love Nashville: On Broadway, the bars prop their doors open wide to showcase the live entertainment: incredible musicians, one after the other, filled with the hopeful, gritty spark of talent waiting to be discovered. I dig that about Nashville. I love how it’s coursing with the hunger of ambition. It has a vibrant energy that springs, Phoenix-like, from the fire of a dream.  

Plus, Nashville is totally different than I expected it to be. I assumed it would be glitzy and teased up, all blood-red nails and high-heeled boots, concert t-shirts and tight, tight jeans. I don’t know how it is at night, but by day, that’s not Nashville at all. It’s laid back, like the cool kid in the back of your high school art class: boots propped up on the table, hat tipped over a slow and confident wink.  

I was surprised. Nashville took my northern smirk and wiped it squarely from my face.  

~*~  

Broadway in Nashville (Google Image from PubClub.com)

Anyway, on with the assignment.  

Confession time: When I was planning this trip, BBQ honestly was on my agenda. But by the time Saturday rolled around, I just wasn’t feeling it. I’d been sick all week, and because I hadn’t fully recovered, sauce-slathered pork no longer held the same appeal. So I called a last-minute audible: Skip the BBQ. Eat the cornbread.  

Sorry friends, it was the best I could do.  

It’s was a good call, actually. You have no idea how much I love cornbread. Plus, GB was still committed to the task at hand. He tried the BBQ everywhere we went, and gave it a “two-thumbs-up” assessment.  

Jack’s Bar-B-Que – Packed. We made an earnest attempt, and even waited in line for a while. But when you’re standing with three tired, hungry little boys, you start to look for fast solutions. Eventually, we cut our losses and crossed the street.  

Rippy’s – Our server was a nice guy. He had The Next Country Music Star written all over him. I ordered corn cakes and they were great, but they barely registered with me. That’s because I started talking to Kim’s husband, Mason, about football, and we ended up talking about politics. From him, I learned that Steelers fans and Bengals fans really can be friends—as long as they sit on the same side of the political spectrum.  

B.B. King’s Blues Club – This place is ten different kinds of fantastic. First, the atmosphere is just cool. Funky. Artistic. Totally its own animal. Plus? Former B.B. King guitarist Carl Stewart was on stage. Wow, that guy is smooth. (Don’t doubt it. Just listen.) I ordered corn muffins, and I have no idea how they tasted. I was too caught up in the place. There’s just nothing like sitting in a blues club with friends.  

~*~  

So there you have it: Nashville by Day.Now read Part II for a glimpse into Nashville by Night, Sips n Strokes style, where I learned the true meaning of the phrase “beer goggles”—or “wine goggles,” in my case. I’d love to explain that now, but I’ll save it. It’s a good story, complete with photos. I can’t wait to tell you about it.  

(To Kim and Mason: Thanks so much for showing my guys your town. I’m even more excited for Vegas in October, and I’m totally up to your “high-roller challenge.” And to Ryan: H and O are already plotting your visit. There will be Legos involved, I’m guessing, but they won’t tell me the rest of it.)  

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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#13 is Coming. (In the Meantime: Seaside Shoe!)

I have so much to tell you about my weekend trip to Nashville  for Assignment #13. It’s just that I need more time to write it out. That’s why I’m so grateful for what I found in my inbox yesterday morning: 

Roadside Seaside Shoe! …courtesy of my excellent (and lifesaving) friend, Harsha, from H is for Happiness. 

First, what you need to know: Harsha began her blog when she moved from Singapore to Goa to be closer to her parents. She writes about her culture, her travels and her adorable son, Ishaan. She’s a beautiful writer with incredible spirit—a truly wonderful read any day of the week. Be sure to check her out. 

Anyway, Harsha found this Seaside Shoe! while cruising the Panjim shoreline Saturday morning. Jealous? 

Seaside Shoe from Harsha at H is for Happiness

In her words: 

“Here’s a slipper I found today on our morning drive along the beach…it seemed so forlorn, sitting on the red brick wall that separated the narrow slip of beach from the heaving Arabian Sea, all grey and surfy from the monsoons, as if waiting for someone to come and claim it, show it some love, give it a home or a foot in this case. Thought I would send it along.” 

What a picture. One of the best things about Harsha is that she never takes these kinds of scenes for granted. 

Come back tomorrow for Part I of 36×37 Assignment #13. And then come back Wednesday for Part II. (And then come back Thursday and Friday and every day after, just because I like the company…) 

Happy Monday, all! 

Have a roadside shoe? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.  

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Tag! You’re it.

(google images from http://www.psdgraphics.com)

When I was growing up, the kids in my neighborhood spent many a summer night playing a game called Sardines in a Can. It was the exact opposite of playing Tag, and it was better than any other game we knew.

We’d start by assigning one kid to be the IT. He’d hide while the rest of us counted to 10. Then we’d scatter like billiards to find the IT before any of our other friends could.

It would all break down like this:

You’d find the IT, you’d stay with the IT, and together you’d wait and wait—until a pair of giggling players would swish through the grass to stand, puzzled, 10 ft from your hiding spot. You and the IT would shush each other excitedly and just loudly enough for the others to hear. Because, secretly, you both wanted to scoot over and let the other kids join you.

There’d be five of you suddenly. Seven. Then eight. Until just one poor kid would be left, shouting, “Guys! Where are you?” So you’d take pity on her and cough loudly until she’d stumble right into your spot. Everyone would laugh like crazy for a while then agree to play again.

That was a great game. As soon as my kids are old enough, I’m going to teach them how to play.

~*~

Now there’s a new game of Tag. I’ve seen it on a few of my favorite sites this week, and now the delightful, witty and always clever Wendy over at Herding Cats in Hammond River has tapped me on the shoulder to say it’s my turn. I’ll gladly play, because I’m a sucker for answering fun questions, and I feel like I owe her since I liked reading her answers so much. When I’m finished, I’ll tag eight other bloggers to play along, then I’ll direct you back to Wendy’s site. She really is an extremely fun (and extremely well-written) read, and you’d be doing yourself a favor to check her out.

1. If you could have any superpower, which one would you have and why?

I am fully prepared for this question. My boys discuss this topic daily. They’ve trained me to throw out quick, basic answers like superflight! superstrength! Tony-Stark-like superintelligence! And while those all sound supergreat!, none of them could possibly be my real answer.

Because honestly? I’d like the power of persuasion. I could get used to conversations that consistently go my way. Like this: “I think a totally unrealistic $50,000 raise is in order.” “The money is yours.” Or: “Officer, you’re mistaken. I’m not driving 85 mph in a construction zone.” “My apologies, ma’am. I must have misread my radar gun.” Or: “I look just like Gizelle. Just. Like. Gizelle.” “Of course. Your first-class tickets to Milan await you.”

While we’re doling out the superpowers, I’ll put my name down for Wonder Woman’s invisible jet. (And yes, SC, I’ve heard the joke about Wonder Woman and the Invisible Man.)

2. Who is your style icon?

Sex in the City’s Charlotte. The older I get, the more pearls-and-heels I become.

3. What is your favorite quote?

I have two three.

A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid. ~ My boy William Faulkner

Every last line of Bull Durham.

No, wait! Every last line of Office Space.

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?

The looks on my kids’ faces when I come home from work are better than any words in the English language. (Although “conundrum” and “apocryphal” are pretty good.)

5. What playlist/cd is in your CD player/iPod right now?

Check out my Spin It page—it has YouTube videos for the best songs I’ve heard this year.

6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?

I’ll take whatever sleep I can get. But I’ll write all night if given the chance.

7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?

Dogs.

(Don’t tell O. It will crush him to the bottom of his feline-loving soul.)

8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?

I’m 36, and I have 36 things to accomplish before my 37^th birthday. Clever!

But honestly? Not so clever. Because now I have to figure out what I’ll do on my 37^th birthday:

• Change my blog name to 37×38?
• Keep “36×37” but add a disclosure?
• Drop the blog, follow Radiohead.

It’s a conundrum, I tell you.

Anyway.

Here are the eight 13 bloggers (yo, I make up the rulz on these here pages) I want to tag, because I think they’ll throw down some clever answers. (If I haven’t tagged you, it’s because: 1) I’ve tagged you for something before, 2) Someone else has tagged you for this particular game already, or 3) We both know you’re not into this kind of thing. It’s cool. I get it. It’s like talking on the phone; not everyone enjoys it.)

• Harsha from H is for Happiness
• Amanda from AmandaBroadfoot.com
• Sunshine from Sunshine in London
• Carol from Crazy Notebook
• Shannon from Written Permission
• Betsy from Supergoddess Me
• Amanda from Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages
• Jacque from Freedom in a Cup
• Rachel from One Glass of Water
• Ms. Pearl from Pearls and Prose
• Laborious Living
• Perpetually Peeved
• Melissa from Confessions of a Dr. Mom

Thanks again, Wendy over at Herding Cats in Hammond River, this was fun!

By the way: I’m just one day away from completing my 13^th 36×37 assignment. It will involve assembling a group of women who haven’t seen each other in far too long, then handing them wine, then asking them to paint a picture. Intrigued? As am I! Maybe it will prep me for my Vegas trip in October, no longer a wolf pack of one.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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My (Second) List of Ridiculously Great Things

GB went to the store yesterday.

Usually, that’s my job. I make the list, stroll through the aisles, laugh at the magazine headlines at checkout, and then try like crazy to remember where I parked.

Then, as I’m putting away the food, there’s always that period of discovery where I realize I’ve forgotten the eggs (always the eggs!), and can now add yet another case of bottled water to our accidental stockpile.

When GB goes to the store, however, his list is exact, and he comes home with precisely the right things. Plus, he has a habit of sneaking in a few unexpected, well-received extras, like these:

Those brown things atop the floral notebook? They’re Oreos. Shaped like footballs. Love.

They made me think of that List of Ridiculously Great Things I compiled a few weeks ago. It’s time to add to it.

~*~

Maura’s (Second) List of Ridiculously Great Things

1. That moment when a parched, brown summer disappears into a windy, dripping, moody autumn downpour, so you scrap what you’re doing, open all the windows and decide to make some tea and read the paper.
2. People who hum to themselves.
3. The fact my Irish mother’s lasagna is better than any other lasagna in the world. (Don’t question me.)
4. Slim T for Men! (Funny. I had no idea men worried about this sort of thing. Plus, the fake six-pack? So brill.)
5. A vote of confidence from your boss.
6. The way I can close my eyes and tell my children apart by the way they smell: H smells like summertime, O smells like cookies.
7. When kids draw pictures like these:  
8. When you’re in the middle of a story, and you say something like, “I was watching a movie, and it had…oh, that one guy…you know, from that one movie that was so popular a few years ago…Why am I blanking??? Who is that guy?” And your significant other says “Hayden Christensen?” and you’re all, “Yes! Hayden Christensen!” Spousal mental telepathy.
9. Leslie’s brand new book club, and all the ladies in it.  
10. The way my grandmother used to tell me the same stories over and over and over, and how I’m so grateful for that, because I can recite them to myself now that she’s gone.
11. My (5 month old) buddy Landon’s two bottom teeth, and how proud his mom Sara is of them.
12. Teaching a child about the physics of flight by rolling down the car window, telling him to reach into the air with a flat hand, and watching his face light up while the air forces his palm upward.
13. Skipping stones. Thumb wars. Paper/scissors/rock. Flashlight tag.
14. The movie Amelie. (Here’s part I, with English subtitles.)
15. Gorilla Vs. Bear.
16. When you loan a friend one of your favorite books, and she actually reads it, and she returns it to you with a Post-it note about how great she thought it was. And instead of nodding in yes-this-book-is-excellent agreement, you think about how nice it is to have a friend like that.
17. Stereogum’s 40 Best New Bands of 2010. I have not yet had the chance to check this out, so I can only assume it is 40 different kinds of fantastic. I can’t wait to listen.
18. Those new Pretzel M&Ms. Sweet baby Haysoos, the deliciousness is unstoppable.
19. Knowing you’re just a few days away from heading south to eat BBQ with old friends.
20. Celebrating somebody else’s birthday.
21. (You had to see this coming:)

Roadside Shoe!

This one comes to us from the excellent Elizabeth from repletewithclass.wordpress.com. I love her blog, and her Roadside Shoe explanation, so I’m using her words exactly.

“I happen to have a shot of some abandoned Navy Mid issue white shoes. My brother graduated from the Naval Academy in May. Commissioning is a day-long event, most of which is spent outside Navy-Marine Corps Memorial Stadium. So, the Mids (midshipmen) congregate outside a gate until it’s time to move inside. The crowd thinned and the parking lot cleared and this lonely pair of shoes was all that was left! I mean, how do you lose shoes like that? At your Commissioning? Surrounded by hundreds of other Mids who already have those shoes on?! Anyway, sending it along. Hoping you’ll post it with other roadside shoes!”

Have a roadside shoe? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too. 

What’s on your list of ridiculously great things? Leave them in the comments.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Story: The Science of Ambition

Just so there’s no confusion, I know three Kims: My wonderful sister-in-law, my fabulous college friend/sorority sister, and the Kim you’re going to read about today…

~*~

Kim opens the door in an exuberant rush. “You’re here! You caught me in the middle of getting ready. Come in! Come in!” She’s smiling, brimming with Southern poise as she walks hurriedly away from the door. 

For the record: I don’t think I’ve ever really caught Kim in the middle of anything. She’s the sort of person who is always seven steps ahead of everyone else. She plans to the letter. To the minute. To the millisecond. If there are things still on the to-do list for today’s party, it’s because she has a very good reason for it. 

“I’m sorry I’m a little early,” I say. “I never know what traffic will be like on my way here.” Immediately, I wish I could back-reel and uncast my words like they’d never been spoken. The last thing I want is to remind her how late I was last time. 

“No, this is good! I need some help setting up. It’s so windy outside. I figured we should wait a bit so nothing blows away.” 

So she sets me to work cutting orange paper into squares and placing them atop two lime-green tablecloths. Within moments, her friend Tammy arrives, and we get started on this: 

 

A science lab, with Tammy providing today’s scientific instruction. It’s maybe the coolest science lab ever for eight small birthday party attendees, ages 3-6. 

~*~ 

Rewind five years to an afternoon in October. In this memory, Kim and I still work together for the same company that employs me now (just not in my 2010-and-far-more-flexible department). We’re sitting amid a sea of empty tables in our building’s deserted North Café. There are two different strands of energy coursing through this atmosphere: Her snap of enthusiasm and fortitude, and my dragging exhaustion. 

Kim is teeming with ideas, and she uses her fingers to sketch invisible lines across the tabletop. I, on the other hand, feel like that old Bugs Bunny cartoon—the one where Bugs holds his eyes open with toothpicks until his lids grow heavy and the toothpicks snap. I don’t know how there is such a difference in our energy levels. Kim is no stranger to midnight feedings, and I suspect she gets even less sleep than I do. 

Also in this memory, we’re both new mothers. Her son has celebrated his first birthday, and my sweet H is just 6 months old. Kim and I are here in this ghost town of a café to brainstorm ways we can mold our careers to fit our new parental obligations. She wants to strike out, be her own boss. I want that for myself, too. But as I listen to Kim talk, I come to know two things: 

1) Nothing is going to hold Kim back. She’s just that sort of person. When she says she’ll do something, she does it. Joyfully, and to perfection. 

2) I’ll be the first to dream a big dream, as long as the risks are small. Plus, I’m tied to a steady paycheck. The end. 

Eventually, Kim takes the leap. And if she ever looks back, she never says so. 

~*~ 

 

Now, five years later, we’re both mothers of two small boys each. 

Plus, I’m helping Kim execute this birthday party. But we’re not just celebrating her older son’s 6^th birthday—we’re also staging a photo shoot. (More to come on her big news later!) 

Meanwhile, here are the ones I took with my brand spanking new camera (and they’re actually in focus!): 

The science of an ice cream sundae bar

Monogrammed lab coats

H20 and CO2

You know that business Kim hatched in the quiet of the North Café? It’s now The Celebration Shoppe, a wildly successful online business that offers custom invitations, table décor, and a “planning and idea center” with blog stats that make me want to weep with envy and pump her for strategic insight. She has been featured by some truly notable national magazines and well-known blogs, and has some very exciting opportunities on the horizon I totally wish I could spill here, but I don’t want to give away state secrets. 

I could go on, but I don’t think Kim would like that. She’s extremely humble. I’ll respect that, and end my gushing by pointing you to The Celebration Shoppe’s “About  Us” page, in case you’d like more information. 

~*~ 

Finally, this: 

Five years ago, Kim was a sharp, savvy Investment Marketing Manager. And she was great at it. If her name came up in conversation, you’d see nods of appreciation and hear nothing but praise. Her job came to her naturally, and she worked harder than most people I know. 

When she became a mother, that drive and ambition didn’t change. It’s just that it switched directions. And mine did, too. We knew we couldn’t continue to work the way we had been now that we were moms. So she became her own boss, and she excelled at that. Me? I moved to a department and a management team that let me carve out a career where I could write and write and write all day, and still see my fellas at lunchtime. I’m certain my former manager would have wanted that for me, too, if only it had been part of our culture in that department. But it wasn’t, and she couldn’t and I knew that without asking. So: Switching jobs answered those needs I’d laced together so earnestly: To write, sometimes at home, for a trustworthy company.

So let it be said: We parents—we do whatever we can for our kids. We just do. If that means walking away from a job to stay home, or finding a role that better fits, or working our asses off to provide, or building our own empires, we search our great big dreaming hearts and find a way to do it. The end. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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(Sleep Deprived) Roadside Shoe!

I fell asleep while writing last night’s post. When I awoke, I laughed at it—and that’s not because it was funny. Or well written. Or even comprehensible. 

So I’m going to work on it some more—smooth it out, polish it up, decide if I should keep it or throw it away. In the meantime, because it’s Friday, and because we all need something with our coffee, I give you this: 

A new Roadside Shoe! 

SC's Roadside Shoe!

My brother sent me this Roadside Shoe! last weekend. He spied it while walking into an Old Navy in Columbus, OH. By the looks of it, this shoe’s former owner feels the same way about shoes that I feel about cars: Drive them until they fall apart—no matter how bad they look—and then leave them, unclaimed, in the parking lot. 

(I’ve never actually done that last bit, although I’ve thought about it. I’m looking at you, midnight blue Saturn sedan from 10 years ago.) 

Have a roadside shoe? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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