Wanted: Mary Poppins, Only Better

In case you missed it, here’s the guest post I wrote for Drama Mama’s site on Monday, using “window” as my one-word prompt. It’s about the first (and hopefully the last) time I had to fire someone. Enjoy!

~*~

It’s June, 2008, and our nanny has quit in a huff. I like to think I’ve treated her well, but she has missed 15 of the last 30 days of work, and now she sits squarely on my bad side. When she gives me her notice, she blurts some strange story about moving to South Carolina. “I plan to drive back here every few days to visit family,” she says shiftily. “If you see my car in my driveway, that’s why.”

It’s a bold-faced lie. She knows I don’t believe her, and she doesn’t care. My boys watch through the window as she leaves without waving goodbye. “There goes Miss Angie.” H says grimly. “Who’s coming to see us too-mah-whoa?”

It’s a solid question. Who is coming? I don’t know, but I want to find someone exceptional. I hate leaving my boys each day. It wrecks me in ways I can’t even explain. Every morning I slide on my guilt shoes as I hand my kids to someone who isn’t me, then blow kisses as I trudge to my car. I thought I’d get used to the separation, but I never have.

My husband and I schedule a series of interviews. Most of the candidates are qualified, but none of them are quite right. That is, until we meet Sara. I like her from the start. She has great experience and the calm personality we need to counter-balance those times when I’m a spaz. More importantly, the boys seem to like her. “I think she’s the one!” we agree. Still, we have one candidate left, and it’s too late to cancel the appointment.

Ashley arrives promptly at 8:00. She’s very tall and very blonde and very, very gregarious. My boys are mesmerized by that tall, blonde gregariousness, and when the interview is over, they beg her to stay. “Wow, they really like you!” I say. “You certainly have a way with children!” We hire her the very next morning.

~*~

From the start, it’s clear I’ve made a mistake. I return home each day to dirt-smeared cheeks and an explosion of toys. “She’s just getting into the swing of things,” I tell myself. “Maybe she’s sorting out a routine. I’ll just have to be clearer about my expectations.”

After a week, the neighbors begin to call. “Your boys were playing by the road today,” Caryn says gently. “I looked for Ashley but didn’t see her. I’m sorry to worry you, but I knew you’d want to know.”

Then this from the boys: “Miss Ashley took us wif her to buy a new phone. We wanted to go into the store, too, but she made us wait ah-wone in da cah wif her new fwiend, Jake.”

Jake? “Who’s Jake?” I ask Ashley the next day.

“Oh, right…” she says cheerfully. “I met him this weekend. He seems nice.”

~*~

My head pounds as I climb the steps to my home office. “Let her go.” I tell myself sternly. “Do it today. Do it right this second.”

“And then what?” I think testily. “Don’t be rash. You need a backup plan first.” I walk to my desk and find Sara’s file. I circle her number and reach for the phone. When I start to dial, Ashley knocks on my office door. “I’m taking the boys to the zoo!” she chirps. “My friends might meet us there!”

“Oh!” I say, caught fully off-guard. “You know, Ashley, maybe you should stay here today.”

“Oh, it’s no problem!” She says sweetly. “I’m getting ready to pack their lunches.” As she retreats down the steps, she throws this question over her shoulder: “Do you have a picnic basket? My friends would think that’s cute.”

I follow her down the stairs and into the kitchen, wringing my brain for the right words to end this awful arrangement. I’ve never fired anyone before…how am I supposed to do it? She cuts grapes and folds sandwiches as I will myself to say the words.

That’s when I notice: the house is quiet. “Ashley,” I almost whisper. “Where are the boys?”

“I don’t know!” she answers brightly. “I think they’re outside.”

I drop the pen I’m holding and run to the living room window. Three-year-old H and one-year-old O are standing by the sandbox, throwing sand at one another’s faces.

“Mrs. _____,” Ashley asks. “Is something wrong?”

I turn to her with my arms folded. “We need to talk.”

I call Sara that night. “I know this is a long shot,” I say. “But if you’re interested in the job, we’d love to have you.”

“Yes, I’m interested,” she says sincerely. “I’d be glad to help out. When can I start?”

~*~

Now, almost three years later, Sara’s a member of our family. She’s more “Aunt” than she is “Nanny,” and she’s definitely a sister and friend. When I hear the door open each morning, I shout, “Hey!” as she takes off her coat. “What’s the weather like?” I ask. “And did you watch _____ on TV last night?”

We chat as I flip pancakes and she prepares a bottle for her newborn son. We talk about our weekends or teething or our book club or the boys’ school plans until it’s time for me to head to the office.

I shout, “Love you, boys!” as I walk out the door. And sometimes, I call, “Thanks, Sara!” I still slip on my guilt shoes as I go, but at least now I leave my fellas with someone they love, who loves them back.

What I want to say, what I never say, what I wish I could tell her without embarrassing us both, is that I’d pick her again without hesitation. Not only do my boys have a marvelous guardian in Sara, but I have a wonderful friend. It’s a window of opportunity I almost missed, and it took a string of really bad decision making to lead me to open it.

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

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Fun Ways to Antagonize Friends

Years ago, when I was but a wee college co-ed still trolling through life on my parents’ dime, I joined a social organization we Americans call a sorority. I know everyone loves good old American sorority lore from time to time: The pillow fights; the uncapping of the Sharpies to circle cellulite; the 2 AM hazing with the sheep and the surgical gloves; that scene from Animal House where Bluto climbs the ladder…

But you’re tired of those stories. No need to unpack them here.

Still, there’s one story I can tell you that (barely) applies to the rest of this post. It’s about “Senior Wills,” my sorority’s most formidable spring tradition.

Every May, just a few weeks before graduation, senior girls would give away their sorority paraphernalia in a casual ceremony designed to publicly humiliate pass the social torch to their friends. If, for example, you’d spent the last four years holding a secret for your dearest pal, Senior Wills was a no-holds-barred opportunity to share every reputation-wrecking detail of that secret before begging forgiveness by way of your favorite college sweatshirt.

Fun times, watching your friends die of shame. It was one of my favorite nights of the year.

A few days ago, I ran into something that (loosely) reminded me of Senior Wills. And then today, I ran into it again.

The Memetastic Award!

Jill over at Yeah. Good Times. recently created an award that two of my very dear bloggy friends—Amanda at Life is a Spectrum, and Harsha at H is for Happiness—have passed along to me. I can only assume they got together over cyber lunch to conspire against me discuss ways to honor my greatness, and in the end, I received this button of a tweaked-out kitten:

Kool for Kats!

I’m worried Amanda and Harsha will come after me, pounding their fists like goons and threatening to expose me for the fraud I am unless I promise to follow the ironclad rules that govern Jill’s Memetastic Award. I’m loathe to refuse them. I learned from my last brush with the law that I need to walk a tighter line, so here I am, doing as I’m bloody well told.

The Memetastic Rules!

1. You must proudly display the graphic Jill describes as “absolutely disgusting.” According to Jill: “It’s so bad that not only did I use COMIC SANS, but there’s even a little jumping, celebrating kitten down there at the bottom. It’s horrifying! But its presence in your award celebration is crucial to the memetastic process we’re creating here.”

2. You must list five things about yourself, and four of them must be bold-faced lies. Quality is not important.

3. You must pass this award to five bloggers you either like or don’t like or don’t really have much of an opinion about. As spoken by the great Jill: “I don’t care who you pick, and nobody needs to know why. You can give a reason if you want, but I don’t really care.”

4. If you fail to follow any of the above rules, Jill will hunt you down and harass you incessantly until, according to her, “you either block me on Twitter or ban my IP address from visiting your blog. I don’t know if you can actually do that last thing, but I will become so annoying to you that you will actually go out and hire an IT professional to train you on how to ban IP addresses just so that I’ll leave you alone. I’m serious. I’m going to do these things.”

5. Once you do the above, please link up to the Memetastic Hop so that Jill can keep track of where this thing goes and figure out who she needs to stalk.

The Memetastic Lies! (Plus One Truth.)

1. I look exactly like Russell Brand.

(via collider.com)

2. No, scratch that. I look exactly like Russell Stover.

(via commons.wikimedia.org)

3. No, wait. Wait. What I meant to say is I look like Russell Simmons.

(via sojones.com)

4. No, I’ve got it. Russell Crowe, circa The Gladiator.

(via solarnavigator.net)

5. I actually don’t look like any of the above. Because I’m a girl. Now hand me some lilies and a glass of Chablis.

The Memetastic Award Winners!

I bestow today’s Memetastic Award on the following lucky recipients because they live too far away to egg my car:

1)      Sunshine of Sunshine in London

2)      Erin of Legally Delish

3)      Jacque of Freedom in a Cup

4)      Angie of Thoughts Appear

5)      Jane of PlaneJaner’s Journey

…All wonderful, entertaining bloggers who deserve heaps of praise but will probably hate this award and retaliate by casting the old Sicilian malocchio in my direction. (I’m willing to take the risk, because of those goons I mentioned earlier…)

Enjoy, my memetastic friends. My most heartfelt congratulations to each of you.

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

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JayZ and I have something in common…

JayZ (from drwizard.files.wordpress.com)

We have a running joke in our house about rappers who disappear from the scene, then appear on some glitzy awards show a few months later with an “I’m Back!” tribute to themselves.

It drives GB crazy.

“Back from what?” he asks the TV. “Where did he go? Did he go somewhere?” We both scoff happily because please, how ridiculous.

So. [Clears throat.] How’s it going.

Raise your hands in the AAAAAAAIR. Because I’m BACK!…from 36×37 assignment #24. [Cue backup dancers.]

(I’m also back from assignments #25 and 26, which I’m hoping to write about later this week.)

While I’m putting those thoughts to screen, I hope you’ll enjoy the guest-post I wrote last week for my wonderful and esteemed writer-friend Amanda (of Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages). Special thanks to Amanda for publishing it, and for introducing me to her loyal readers, all of whom I look forward to visiting in the blogosphere as soon as I catch up from being away.

(If you haven’t had the chance to stop by Amanda’s blog, please do. Not only is she a fantastic and inspiring writer, she’s also a cool chick with a quick sense of humor and a salt-of-the-earth personality. She’s an excellent read, and I do hope you’ll visit her often.)

(Also, my warmest thanks to last week’s guest bloggers. Sunshine, Todd, Wendy, Jane, I’m truly grateful you were willing to share your words on these pages last week. You were exemplary house guests, and I’m glad you ate the ice cream, although I’m not surprised you left the Riesling poached pear sorbet. I’m with you…it sounds better than it tastes.)

Anyway, without further ado, here’s the piece I wrote about finding inspiration in unexpected places…

~*~

The Cub and the Ad Girl ~ by 36×37

I remember meeting Jennifer. I liked her right away. When I walked into these sprawling corporate offices for the first time, there she was, tapping her pen against her notebook. She was short like me, with curly hair, a friendly, bespectacled face and an opening for a position I really wanted.

We shook hands and chatted about the summer heat as she hustled toward a table. We talked about the job, of course, but mostly we talked about writing. Tone. Style. Voice. Pace. Active voice vs. passive voice. In her notebook, she sketched an organizational diagram and told me how writing played a part in this corporate culture.

My ears hummed happily. I sat up straighter and tried to look professional.

“We follow the AP Stylebook,” she said brightly. “I know you know what that is!”

I had no idea what she was talking about, although I suspected it had something to do with the Scripps School of Journalism. We were both Ohio University J-school brats: she’d spent her years there as a journalism major; I’d spent mine in its advertising program. Until now, I didn’t really need to know AP Style, but given the look on her face, I could see it would be best not to disclose that.

So I think I nodded a little.

She grinned. “Good. We live and die by the AP Stylebook here. It’s the corporate communicator’s bible.” She said my second interview would be a series of writing tests, so I bought the Stylebook that day and studied it feverishly.

I received the job offer over the phone while I was on vacation, eating sugar cereal at a beach house on Hilton Head Island. After shrieking my acceptance, I hung up, walked onto the balcony overlooking the sea, and dialed my then-boss. “I resign, Bill,” I said. Then I laughed and wished him luck.

It was a proud moment. I quit a horrible job for a great one, and I did it while gazing, suntanned, at the dunes and rolling tide. Everyone should have that experience at least once.

~*~

Jennifer cut her teeth as a cub reporter at a suburban news publication here in Columbus. When I say she was gifted, that’s what I truly mean. One local community loved her so much that it hosted a celebration in her honor. (I’m not kidding. They called it “Jennifer W______ Day.”) She’s the only person I know who actually has the key to a city. When she left the newspaper for a corporate gig, she brought her reporting sensibilities with her.

Everything I learned about corporate writing, I learned from Jennifer. And trust me, she had her work cut out for her. When I started the job, my writing was a mess, both on the job and off. It—or maybe more accurately, I—was trite and undisciplined. I hated everything I penned outside of the office, to the point where I’d stopped writing altogether.

So Jennifer set to work. She established a rigorous “EYES2” program, which involved reviewing every single last thing I wrote under her tutelage. My pages came back bleeding under the merciless scrape of her flowing red pen. My skin was thin. Those critiques ripped me open.

Over time, though, my pages stopped hemorrhaging. The bleeding slowed to a gush, then to a trickle. Occasionally, Jennifer would stop by my desk, hand me a client letter I’d drafted, and say, “Fabu!” Then she’d nod and walk away to grab some tea.

If the page was completely ink-free, that was the best compliment I could ask for.

~*~

That was eight years ago. After three years, we both left the department for jobs with more reasonable hours. We still work for the same global bank, but I manage a small team of editors now, and she oversees a large team of writers. We had the chance to work together again last year. Now that she has moved on again, I miss her even more, because this time, we parted as friends without hierarchical boundaries.

In April, I started a blog because I wanted to write for myself again. After 10 years of packing away my creative side, I donned the clothes of a creative writer, just to see what would happen.

It was strange. My old voice was gone, murdered in its sleep.

The new voice was patchy and unsure of itself, but still it was there. I pulled it over my head, snuggled into it and liked how it felt. And so I wear it a little more each day.

Writing feels better these days. It feels familiar, like stepping onto a sunlit balcony and watching the tides while you say to someone nameless, “I quit, and now I’m free of you,” then hang up the phone to write some more.

It’s a proud moment. Every writer should have that experience at least once.

~*~ Find me on Twitter: @36×37
~*~ Visit http://36×37.wordpress.com

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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
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Other Firsts: Biggie Smalls Gets Cheesed

Update: This post was featured on Freshly Pressed, the WordPress Homepage, on September 9.

~*~

If you’ve read this blog for a while, you may remember a story I posted in May (#3: Mama Just Can’t Say No) about my younger son, O, being sent to the preschool director’s office for bad behavior.

Let’s just say his “Tuesday Tots” class was not his favorite thing.

And so we talked a lot this summer about how to be brave and sit still and listen and meet new friends in school. Maybe I brainwashed (“You will love school. School will be awesome.”) more than I instructed. At any rate, by the time orientation rolled around yesterday, he seemed ready. And now today he’s all smiles as we rush across the parking lot.

We hit a sunny patch with pretty landscaping. Since he’s already smiling, I pull out my camera. “Look at me, Smalls!” I say, using his long-standing nickname that has too long a history to explain.

O’s not a big fan of the camera. He ignores me at first.

“Will we have Cheez-Its for snacktime?” he asks.

“Maybe!” I answer. When he smiles, I snap this photo:

The sun makes him squint, so I lead him to a bench in the shade. He sits obediently, still smiling over the prospects of a handful of cheesy deliciousness.

“Smalls! Look at me, buddy! Look at the camera!” I say.

He smiles quietly at his feet.

“Come on, buddy, look at me!” I repeat. He shrugs his shoulders and looks happily at his hands.

Meanwhile, another mom—a woman I know—approaches with a child on each side of her. “Hi, Maura!” she calls. “Hey, O! Smile, kiddo! What a good boy!”

O shoots her this look:

And then everything changes. It’s like a sea tide; suddenly, O is swallowed by a wave of self-consciousness and worry.

So he collapses, turtle-like, into himself.

Months of hard work, gone in an instant, all because a well-intentioned, kind-hearted woman has shouted a few words of encouragement that ultimately translate to added pressure.

He cries a bit, then, quietly. I have a picture of this, too, but it breaks my heart too much to post it.

My fellow mom winces and mouths “Sorry!” as she leads her children through the entryway. I wave goodbye, then turn back to my sweet, sad Smalls.

So I scoop him up and rock him for a moment before uttering these magic words: “You’ll be ok, buddy! I’ll come right back for you. You’ll have a great day! And maybe you’ll have Cheez-Its! Remember?”

And the wind shifts again to tacit anticipation:

With that, he shakes himself off and marches his way to school.

We wait in the hallway for his teachers to open the door, and when they do, three other children fall to pieces. I give Smalls a hug, he covers his ears as he gives me a kiss, and he walks right through the door without looking back.

It’s as hard as I expect it to be—letting him go, watching him turn his back, walking away as he smiles sweetly at his teachers. I want to hang out for a bit in the hallway, wait until the teachers close the door, then peer through its window. But I don’t. Instead I walk to the car, slide behind the wheel, close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and switch on the ignition. And then later, I return to pick him up. In the end, we both do fine. O especially.

At snacktime, he has cookies. Which means there could still be Cheez-Its waiting when he returns to school tomorrow.

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

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#8: Be Published! (Aka: Epiphany at the Airport)

This post was featured on “Freshly Pressed” on July 29, 2010.

~*~

I’ve parked in the Red Lot and am riding the shuttle to the U.S. Airways concourse at the Columbus Airport. Despite my “no small talk on public transportation” rule, I’m somehow chatting wholeheartedly with what turns out to be the loveliest couple. He’s warm and animated. She’s soft spoken and sweet. They took the same shuttle yesterday, hoping to fly to LA for her brother’s funeral.

Delta delayed their flight “indefinitely,” and when the couple decided to drive back home to Cincinnati and try again today, they were told they wouldn’t receive a refund or a transfer.

“We worked it out, but it was a nightmare,” he says. “I sat on the phone for an hour. The hold music was just so irritating. Nobody apologized for anything. They didn’t like that we’re from Mumbai.”

How ridiculous, I think to myself. A woman should be able to attend her brother’s funeral without hassle. Her husband must be thinking the same thing; he’s shaking his head frowningly, arms crossed.

“Well,” I say, encouragingly. “Here’s to a smooth flight today.”

“And to you, too, dear,” she says. “Just make sure you don’t fly Delta.”

~*~

I’m lucky when it comes to travel. The airplane gods must like me, because my flights are never delayed. Once, my bags were lost on the way back from a business trip, and the only thing truly bad about that was when a male coworker—whose bags had also been lost—offered to pick up my bag for me then promptly went through all my stuff.

But listen: Luck can make you weary. You start to wonder what bad news is lurking. So you start hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. Lately I can’t shake the feeling my hot streak is about to end.

Well, you can see where this is going. I end up missing my flight. It’s a long story, but it has something to do with me reaching the security check point, opening my wallet, and discovering my driver’s license is missing. After a series of frenetic calls to GB, he finds the license, piles the boys in the car, and they all come to my rescue. Within 45 minutes, I’ve booked the next flight to Philadelphia and resolved to find a decent way to kill the next 2 hours.

Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the book I’m reading, so I find the airport bookstore and browse with low expectations. Most of the selections are crap. Beach reads. Chick lit. Badly written murder and intrigue. I’m about to give up when I spot Lit by Mary Karr.

I have no idea what it’s about. But Mary is a Guggenheim Fellow in poetry. She has won the Pushcart Prize, and she’s the Peck Professor of Literature at Syracuse University. That’s a nice little pedigree, so I drop $15.00 on the counter and the book is mine.

~*~

I promise, this story has a point. And I promise I’m getting to it.

Usually, I don’t put much stock in the idea of fate. I really don’t. I like to think we get to where we are because of the choices we make, or the rational ways we react to the things we can’t control. Lately, I’ve given a lot of thought to throwing this blog in the water, watching it sink, and pretending it never existed. I don’t know why that is, exactly, although I’m sure it has to do with the voice in the back of my head telling me my perspective isn’t compelling. I’m not taking it far enough. Or it’s too hard to put this much of myself on a page and then read it back.

But.

That doesn’t mean I don’t ask for cosmic signs—brief, unexplained zooms of encouragement—to help keep my motivation afloat.

Twenty pages into Lit, I’m hooked. Mary’s a jaw-droppingly great writer. Talk about putting yourself on a page—her story is a frank, unapologetic recount of her experiences. She’s as luminous as she is gritty. She’s beautifully flawed. But her writing is absolutely perfect. From every single angle.

And I think that’s because, as much as she doubts her writing, she believes in it, too.

So I’m thinking: If we’re driven to do something, then we really just need to do it. Even if that means clawing at something raw, announcing our imperfections and embarrassing ourselves in a very public way. Even if that means sticking with it until we fail miserably. Because that’s so much better than not trying at all.

For me, I guess that means I’ll keep chipping away at this project, just to see what happens in the end.

If I hadn’t forgotten my August book club selection, if I hadn’t missed my flight, if I hadn’t wandered into this book store, maybe I never would have found Mary. Two points, then, for fate. One point for me recognizing it.

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

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Sporties for Shorties

A few weeks ago, a good friend told me she’d hired a personal trainer to help push her workouts to the next level. “It’s totally worth it,” she said. “It’s expensive, but I’m afraid to back down from whatever he has me doing that day. Have you ever used a trainer?”

“Oh sure,” I said. “I have two. They work for free. But they’re more like drill sergeants. Plus, they’re a lot younger than me. Best workouts I’ve ever had.”

~*~

“Mama, I’m HOT!”

“I know, kiddo. Drink your water.”

“There’s no ROOM in here!”

“H, scoot over and make room for O.”

“It’s too HOT!”

The stroller comes to a halt. We are exactly three miles from home, and the boys are *this close* to a full-on meltdown. I understand. I’m close to a meltdown myself. It really is hot, and the boys are just slightly too big for this monolith of a running stroller. Still—and if this sounds selfish, so be it—it’s been a week since I’ve squeezed in my last work out. If I don’t get exercise today, I’ll be tired and cranky. Tired. And. Cranky. Trust me. It’s better for everyone if I finish this.

“H, move over a little. O, sit up, buddy. That will help.”

“WE want OUT!”

I sigh and take a knee so we’re on eye-level. “Listen, guys, I’ll make you a deal. Let’s keep going. No complaints. And when we get to the park, you can tell me how fast I should run.”

“How fast?”

“Yep. And you can tell me how to run, too—circles, zig-zags—anything you want.”

They look at each other, smiles creeping across their faces. Then they look back at me.

“It’s a deal, Mama.” H says.

~*~

The next two miles are peaceful. The boys talk quietly without ever breathing my name. No complaints about the heat. No complaints about the close quarters. When they first see the park, O shouts “Now! Go, Mama!”

Well, it’s earlier than I intended, but since they kept their end of the bargain, so will I. I pick up my pace.

“Is that the best you can do?” H shouts. I go a little faster.

They laugh devilishly. “Fast, Mama, FAST!” O demands.

So I sprint.

“Keep going, Mama! Zig zags!”

I’m sprinting and zagging and they’re laughing uproariously. “Maybe I should slow down?” I gasp.

“NO!” H barks. “Keep going, Mama. Quit your compwaining! You can do it.”

~*~

Merciless! By the time we finish at the park, I’m a wheezy, winded mess. My face is hot and flushed, and I’m far sweatier than I’d like to admit. It’s like I’ve never run a day in my life.

“You did great, Mama!” H says. “That’s the fastest I think you’ve ever run.”

For the record? I’m happy for my friend. She feels good about her workouts because she has a personal trainer to cheer her on and make sure she’s pushing herself. That’s awesome. But I feel like I’m getting the better deal. For the past 15 minutes, I heard nothing but laughter. Most of it came from my boys, but some of it came from me.

And I didn’t even have to pay for it.

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

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Guest Blog Post #3: The Drill Sergeants

Now drop and give me 20.

 

Look, I’m a tightly wound person. Stress gets to me, so I work out a lot. Lately, I’ve been training with these two guys who really are more like drill-sergeants. Plus, they’re a lot younger than me. And they work for free. Best workouts I’ve ever had. 

Forget The Shred. See what these guys have in mind. Visit www.bondwithkarla.com right this moment for my weekly guest blogging gig, and I’ll tell you the whole story…[read now] 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37     

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Other Firsts: Maura Vs. Wild – Watch Out, Bear Grylls (Part 2! And Part 1!)

Is the tent too close to the bonfire, do you think?

I married an outdoorsman. 

When a little boy is born on the Chesapeake Bay, that’s what he’s bound to become: the rugged type. In GB’s case, he spent his first six years catching Maryland Blue Crab in great steel pots; poking at jellyfish with long, dull sticks; and playing in the sunshine until his hair bleached white. 

When his family moved to Kentucky in 1984, he searched the ground for shoreline, and finding none, took to the woods. That’s why our basement is like an Orvis store: Backpacks, fly rods, tackle boxes, tents, army surplus sleeping bags. There’s a kayak in our garage; he launches it on warm Sunday mornings and returns a changed man, with pictures of large-mouth bass on his Blackberry. 

He tells our sons about the places he’ll take them when they’re older—out west, up north, through mountains, down streams—and thinks I wouldn’t want to join them. He sees me at home curled on the couch with a book, or out with girlfriends, or relaxing in a pedicure chair. 

What he doesn’t know is that he married an outdoorswoman, too. I’ve never been fly fishing, but I still can cast and reel with the best of them. Just ask all the bread bags and shoes I caught from the Scioto River as a child. And then there was the night of my junior prom, where I slept on the deck under the stars because I couldn’t find the key to the front door. So see? I’m no stranger to nature. Obviously. 

I’ve hidden my love for fresh air quite on purpose. That way, no one would ever expect me to be a proper gardener. I like a good pillow and a hot shower and a quick swipe of lipstick in the morning. Even so, give me a tent and marshmallows for toasting, and I will not say no. 

~*~ 

This past Saturday was the National Wildlife Foundation’s Great American Backyard Campout. I had big plans for the three guys in my house: cook out, pitch the tent, unfurl the sleeping bags, roast marshmallows, catch lightning bugs, and finally prove to GB that his prissy wife can survive a night in a tent, exposed to the elements and away from her iPhone. 

All went almost according to plan. The event began the way every campout should: With a grill full of brats and a table full of bacon-laden German potatoes, sweet corn, and big, leafy salad greens.    

Clockwise from left: SC (brother), Gus (dad), H (son, 5yrs), GB (husband), O (son, 3yrs)

When dinner was over, my dad headed home. SC, GB and I pitched the tent around two excited little boys… 

 

 …who learned to toast the marshmallows themselves (with heavy supervision), and then stack them with graham crackers and chocolate for one enormous, delicious bite. 

 

They proved to be stealthy lightning bug hunters, too. 

 

I inspected my brand new sleeping bag, carefully selected by one GB (who, after witnessing my profound tent-building skills—sans instructions *ahem*—finally agreed I can hang when it comes to outdoor livin’). The bag is luxe, for sure. I kinda think the old boy still likes me a little. 

“Ok!” I said. “It’s late. Time for little boys to use their sleeping bags.”   

Cue thunder, of course, and the gathering mass of storm clouds I’d hoped would pass. “I think we’ll be fine,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. As long as we’re dry, we should just stick it out.” 

That’s when lightning cracked its whip across the sky. 

~*~ 

We spent the night curled up in sleeping bags on the living room floor. The boys watched fishing shows with GB, and marveled at the giant catches. I closed my eyes and listened to happy whispers, and in the morning, listened again as my boys rehashed what they called “the best night ever.” 

I still have mosquito bites up and down my legs, and we were all exhausted on Sunday. But I tell you, I would do it all again, 1,000 times over, just to hear those happy whispers in the dark. 

When I checked out the tent the next morning, it was completely dry. Which means we can strike out into the actual wilderness next time—a place with giant bugs and bears and rocky terrain and no showers to speak of—without any silly fears of the rain. We’ll cook a whole meal by campfire. Maybe hike a little. And maybe GB will have a chance to launch that kayak somewhere new. 

I’ll have my guys all to myself. Off the grid. Uninterrupted. And I honestly cannot wait. 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37    

~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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