I took my kids to the movies today. Luckily, we scored seats in the very back row, which means mommy can play on her phone….until my 10yo got all preachy about it and made me get off because he was afraid we’d get kicked out. I find that goody-two-shoes behavior ironic when he’s the one who did this magical project in school, which his father and I saw for the first time displayed ON THE WALL at open house this past Thursday. It’s titled (I shit you negative) “How To Be A Pain In The Bum”
DA FUH? Who does that? Thank Jesus and all things holy for 4g or I would have gone rat shit crazy on some people. I was able to do some things with my iphone, but was way more disconnected than I’m comfortable with – in other words – I missed you!
Now I’m back and BUSTING. I’m about to unleash everything that’s been pent up in my head for the past five days, hence the title of this post. Enjoy.
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Literally while on the road I find out via twitter that Inion N. Mathair are spotlighting me on their blog this week! I was gobsmacked (been waiting to use that word)! They are an infinitely talented mother/daughter writing duo who’ve been a HUGE support to me since the very beginning, and who’ve taught me what it means to be a supportive blogger. Please do yourself a favor and explore their wonderful blog, and even better, their books! Nightwalkers: The Secret of Jessup.
From the Dark and Twisted Mind of Inion N. Mathair.
The Perfect 7.
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Both boys were late to school a week or so ago because my 6yo had a last minute outfit dilemma (HAD to wear his red converse which had no laces). Each day when they get home I have to sign their binders which have detailed entries from their school day. That afternoon, this is what I found in my 9yo’s binder when I went to sign it:
makin’ the family proud
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Remember two weeks ago when I went to the art reception and the hubs got me the awesome necklace, but it had to be shipped to me? Here it is. I love its simplicity. It’s a greyish green. Falls just under my collarbone.
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Okay, so this was the annual girls trip I do with my mom and three aunts. Last year was in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. This year we stayed somewhat local and visited Ingram, Texas (just outside of Fredericksburg for those of you familiar with the area). The leaves are just starting to change here so it was beautiful. I always forget how pretty the Hill Country is with all the picturesque small towns, dreamy rivers, and enormous trees that stop me in my tracks and take my breath away. And you know, you KNOW, there were so many laughs. It got down-right crazy more than a few times. There are only three of us who drink, and managed to cash five bottles of wine over the weekend.
*A selection of photos for your viewing pleasure*
Replica of Stonehenge
My climbing tree
In the branches
view from up here
SO, I got talked into (bullied) being the test kayak to go down a very narrow (choked with roots and branches) neck of the lake (stagnant water shit hole) to see if it connected to an adjacent fishing pond. It didn’t. On the way to discovering the dead end, I managed to knock the low lying, dead branches onto myself and my kayak, along with about five hundred (okay a dozen) spiders. The area was so narrow I couldn’t turn my kayak around so I had to stand up and turn around to row the other way back out, subsequently knocking more branches – and spiders – onto my kayak, my shirt, and my hair. During this, two of my aunts were hanging back in another boat saying things like, “You’re doing great!” and “You’re so good at this!”
Whatever.
I wasn’t freaking out about the spiders. Much. I mean, I was squealing and stuff, but that’s all. UNTIL….I glanced over and there’s this freakin’ huge one right next to me coming straight for my shirt – then I just knew they were all over me and I did some sort of Bugs Bunny – Cirque de Solei freak out that I’ll never be able to repeat or explain, and like a cat I flew straight outta my seat and ended up on the end of the kayak balancing on my fingers and toes, but somehow, someway, stayed in the boat. My aunts rowed over and started killing spiders until I felt sure there were none left. I then collected my oar that I’d hurled into the water during my acrobatic maneuver, brushed myself off, and gracefully rowed back to shore as if nothing happened. I’m resilient like that, however, I’ve officially retired as guinea pig.
pre-spider invasion
MY amazing family managed to organize and cook the most incredible Thanksgiving meal in our condo. We celebrated early so we wouldn’t have to all travel twice this month to be together. As usual, they give me jobs like: bring wine. This is wise because I clearly don’t have the skills to pull off what they did. In case you’re wondering, the effins were perfect.
WE went to Fredericksburg’s trade days on Saturday, and while very eclectic and fun, my favorite find was a particular booth that gave me an endless source of amusement while terrorizing friends via text and twitter:
Does my hair look okay?
IF you’ve ever read my comment section after a post about my family, you’ve seen what’s lacking (comments from them!) and put it together that they don’t read my blog. That’s because they don’t know about it. I’ve often been tempted to tell them. I think they’d be mildly horrified, but mostly tickled and proud. I’ll share an enormous secret with you: They don’t even know I write.
Oh, they know I do Nanowrimo, but that’s because it was introduced to me by one of my cousins, so we talk about it amongst family. But they don’t know I belong to writing groups, or have a blog, or have written a novel for Pete’s sake! I’m one of those people who’s pretty private (I know, seems ironic given the blog) and am more comfortable doing something behind the scenes (in case I fail) and then announcing it when I’ve succeeded.
I need autonomy first.
I’m the only granddaughter/niece in the family, so I look to them, study them as women, and often wonder who I take after most. Each of them artistic, strong, giving, talented, smart, organized, unorganized, funny as shit, dynamic, amazing women. This weekend I realized for the first time something that made me very proud. I’m not like one of them. I’m like all of them.
But there’s this one facet of my being that’s unique to me. This enormous, yet fragile writer part. I envision publishing one day and surprising them, letting them into this sliver of my world. Someday it will make sense to them why I’m always staring off into space. Or why I’m so busy doing….what? What the hell does she do in her free time?
Someday they’ll know I’m a writer.
And then I’ll know it too.
Do you keep your blog secret from anyone? Do you think you’re most like one person in particular in your family, or a mixture? I love your comments!
I’m thankful Dracula sees the value in social media. I’ve mentioned before I love monsters, bloodsuckers, and things that go bump in the night. That’s why when the shows Grimm and Dracula started a few weeks ago, I went a little ape-shit. I followed them on twitter. I retweeted some of their tweets. And then this happened. That’s right. Momma got a tweet from Dracula. (sorry so blurry, translation below)
In case you can’t see it, my nerd ass tweeted, “@NBCGrimm @NBCDracula My two dates for Friday night! #biteme”
(Shut up. I told you I’m a nerd)
And then DRACULA retweeted me and said, “It would be our pleasure.” (to my #biteme)
*SQUEEEE*
Dracula won tweets. Forever. *sigh*
I’m grateful for trying new things. Last night the hubs and I were out to dinner with good friends at an amazing restaurant (Meddlesome Moth), and Vanessa mentioned she’d had their mussels and we should get them cuz they were SO GOOD. I said I’d never had mussels before in my life. WHAT?! She couldn’t believe it and said I must try them. So I did.
SWEET BABY JESUS. Next thing I knew, I look up and half the mussel shells are on my plate, empty, and I’m .02 seconds from lifting the bowl to my mouth to slurp the last of the juice.
I woke up wanting mussels for breakfast. This is a problem.
I’m grateful for creatives. Last night we were fortunate enough to be invited by friends (same ones from dinner) to an art reception showcasing the works of around 40 artists. As we walked around I was blown away by the amazing art in that building. I loved hearing artists talk about what inspired them to paint certain pieces, or take particular photos, because there’s a history behind every work…a soul behind the canvas, if you will. I adored seeing their eyes light up, and hearing the enthusiasm in their voices as they talked about their passion.
I get them. I understand that feeling of being compelled to create, but at the same time, not really understanding this crazy-imperative urge. And that need for others to love what you do, but more than that…to understand what you do. It was nice to be around my people is what I’m sayin’.
Plus my husband bought me a kick-ass necklace. You know, to support the arts…
I’m grateful for my hysterical children. Okay, maybe they’re more weird than hysterical, but right now, this very second as I type, my youngest is upstairs singing at the top of his lungs, “My penis is beautiful!”
You can’t make this stuff up, people. (what is it with boys and their thingies??? GAH)
Aside from that, they are so witty and crack me up constantly. The other day we’re all four in the car, and the hubs and I are discussing something about the boys when our 9yo interrupts from the backseat, “Uh…you know we can hear you. This is just offensive.”
I’m grateful for the blogging community. I’m seeing a trend that’s enlightened me to some commonalities among bloggers. Most of them are introverts, or at least were as children; have suffered from anxiety, at some form, at some point in their lives; because of an introverted nature, a yearn to connect or have a feeling of solidarity exists; are extremely empathetic; are incredibly supportive and generous; are smart, creative people who, at the very least, love to write; and who are some of the strongest, funniest people I’m honored to call my friends. I don’t think I’ve ever been more pleasantly surprised by anything as I’ve been by bloggers. I learn from and am inspired by them each day, and couldn’t be more proud to be a part of this crazy-wonderful tribe.
I’m grateful I have access for my friend’s memories My memory is fried. Between motherhood and anti-seizure medicine (a.k.a. migraine meds) I’m a zombie – so when I don’t remember…oh, say…yesterday, I rely on others. This came in handy yesterday when I had no idea what to wear for the aforementioned art reception, and was on the phone with bestie, Robyn, warning her of my impending outfit dilemma and the downward spiral that was sure to follow. The following was our conversation, to the best of my memory:
Robyn: How ’bout a dress? Why don’t you wear a pretty dress?
Me: I don’t own a dress
Robyn: Yes you do. What about that pretty silver one, don’t you have a silvery/grey one?
Me: I’ve never had a silver dress in my life
Robyn: Yes you did. You wore a pretty silvery dress on a date with Jim like a year ago…with red flats.
Me: Red slacks? What are you talking about?
Robyn: Yes, I remember it. Go look in your closet. You wore it with cute little red flats. You sent me a picture of your outfit that night.
Me: Are you saying slacks? Like tights? *walks to closet*
Robyn: No, you idiot. Flats, like shoes. (she’s sweet)
Me: *Lightbulb* OH MY GREY BANANA REPUBLIC DRESS!
Robyn: There she is….
Thank you, Beanie, for your steel trap of a memory, and for staying on the phone with me for 45 minutes while I tried on that dress with two different pair of tights, two different pair of shoes, and choosing the accompanying cardigan, and waiting while I texted you photos of all of them for your approval. Once again, you saved my ass.
I’m grateful for rule breaking. Cuz this is TEN things of thankful, and although I’m thankful for a million things, this post is getting too long so I’m stopping here. LIKE A BOSS. BOOM. EPIC AND SHIT. HOLY SHIT BALLS (<that one was for you, Amanda) and all those other sayings I like.
When I was a kid I thought…
HUBBA BUBBA bubble gum (GRAPE to be exact) gave me super powers
SUPER BETH!
Specifically the ability to be outrageously fast. This was important because at my daycare all the girls were constantly chased by a dastardly villain named Lukey Dukey, a moniker he earned by being such a royal shit. He mercilessly chased us during recess, driving some girls to tears. But not I. Because if I reached in my pocket and got my grape Hubba Bubba,
Unleash The Power
and even just smelled the wrapper….I was g-o-n-e like a flash of lightning!!
Lukey Dukey never caught me, much to his chagrin.
*P.S. This is a story my husband has requested I not share at his work functions any more. In my defense, it was an office baby shower and there happened to be frickin’ Grape Hubba Bubba for a party game. WHAT ARE THE ODDS?!
*P.P.S. My husband would like me to add that he’s not a douche nozzle. It’s just that this particular function was the first time his work people met me, so he thought I should save such stories for when they knew my “unique” personality better. *eye roll*
If you’ve been to this blog before you’ve probably seen one or two photos of me floating around somewhere. THEY’RE ME. I swear. That’s something I’ve actually had to say to my family.
I think they look exactly like me. I’m mean, it’s frickin’ ME. I turned the cell phone around and snapped the photos myself – that’s how I know it’s not an imposter. That’s also why it shocked me when my husband AND CHILDREN repeatedly swore the photos didn’t look like me.
uh…how am I supposed to take that?
After hearing my husband say it again, I had to ask him: in what way do they not look like me? Like, they are pretty photos and I’m a barker in real life? Or, they are awful and I’m prettier than that? Or, they are weird and not a representation of me at all? WTF?
He said, “You look sexy. You have on lipstick and stuff.”
ME: “Oh” *puzzle pieces click* “You mean I usually don’t look that made up?”
HIM: “Not really. If you have a bra on in that photo…that would pretty much be our wedding day.”
Well shit. I realize I’m a low-maintenance, crunchy granola type gal, but it’s more than a little disconcerting to know I could disappear into the witness protection program with a little mascara. I mean, I put no effort into those photos.
No really. I took my hair out of a ponytail and put on tinted chapstick. And my children think it looks like someone else. Some other lady.
ahem. Perhaps I should put more effort into my everyday appearance.
*braids hair* *climbs into tree house* Nah.
The 6yo has a strange habit. A collecting habit. But he’s not collecting toy cars, or video games, or baseballs. No, that would be too…predictable. He’s just collecting.
We’ll be at the park/zoo/beach and he’ll run at me with feverish intent, only to hand me a small length of broken shoe string, or a feather, or a bottle cap. “Here, for my collection,” he’ll say before running away. He collects anywhere inspiration strikes. Small piles of these random accumulations sit in various bowls, drawers, and niches all over our house.
There seems to be no specific criteria for what makes it into his trash hoarding stockpile: anything goes. He’s even handed me wet, wilted reeds from the bottom of pools. When asked what purpose these items serve, he answers simply, “To remember.”
I’ve come to realize these tiny tokens enshrine moments. They are his way of keeping memories alive, which makes the piles around my house (and bottom of my purse) like little photo albums, filled with special snapshots of his life.
Well damn.
That tugs at my heart a little. I might even be tempted to use the word endearing.
And then I recall that this is the same child who – at the age of four when I told him he couldn’t have candy at the checkout counter of Target – screamed repeatedly, “YOU’RE A PENIS!”
Not so endearing anymore. Nope. Notsomuch.
Oh, please share with me your kiddo’s worst, most embarrassing tantrum! Mine have done it all…and I mean ALL. I LOVE hearing from you! You all make me laugh more than anyone!
Beth Teliho 