My love for index cards has been rekindled

I was trying to think of a way to better organize my stories, and sadly via watching the new hit t.v. show "SMASH", I remembered that I have a box in the downstairs bathroom full of old index cards that I never managed to use when I was in college.

I'll take this time to explain two things here:
1)If you haven't yet discovered the show "SMASH", and adore Marilyn Monroe, musicals and Debra Messing as much as I do, this is the show for you. If you are wondering about the index card reference; in the show they use them and a huge bulletin board to make a storyboard of where to put the songs they've written for the musical being produced within the show. It's absolutely fabulous. (The show and the storyboard idea...) Love love love it!

2) While in college, I would  use tons and tons of index cards to study for exams and I happen to have several left over. Why were they located in the bathroom you ask? That, I couldn't really tell you. The point is, they were there and they are no longer going to waste.

Yipee!

So anyway, now that we are on the same page, this is what I've created so far:

It's not much, but it's a start. There is no actual bulletin board as of yet; right now they are just lying on the carpet in our living room.  I'm just excited that some sections have been decided upon within the book and several chapters have got a rough draft in motion. There's a plan and some organization now so it's all starting to become a little more real.
Scary.
I just might do this after all...

Damn You Jen Lancaster. Damn you.

Andrew left to go to his parent's for dinner about an hour ago and I was voicing my distress to him about how I keep freaking out about feedback results and who has and hasn't responded and how I know none of this really matters but somehow does in my world because I'm a worrier and want to be "liked" and loved by everyone, regardless how I personally feel about them and that I know I just need to shut-up and write because otherwise all of this effort is in vain and blah blah blah.....

He politely listened to me rant, as he always does and simply asked me if I had ever thought about emailing Jen Lancaster about networking and the process of getting published and such. (He's so sweet that he knows she's one of my favorite memoir writers/bloggers, so I couldn't help smiling at the fact that he knows me so well....sigh He's so very awesome.)

I then proceeded to go into another rant about how, yes. I had thought about doing this but sometimes she can be mean, in fact that's one of her qualities that she's known for through her writing and though I find it funny when it's about someone else, I would be devastated if she were mean or sarcastic towards me and I know I would not handle this well and cease all writing from then on out.

Then I randomly went to her website and found the FAQ section on her blog. I stupidly began reading it out loud and found this:

http://www.jennsylvania.com/jennsylvania/contact.html (See section entitled:

"Do you have advice for someone who hopes to be a writer?")

She totally called me out and she doesn't even know it. Thank you Jen Lancaster for both being one of my heroes and for kicking my ass back into actually writing via your words alone. 

And thank you Andrew for not telling me "I told you so."

You both truly rock. 

My Parents

Today I have been thinking and writing a lot about my childhood. I have so many wonderful memories of both of my parents ranging from movie dates with my Daddy to gardening and yard sale hopping with my Mom.
They have a form of parenting that is so unique. I have yet to be able to compare with any other form of parenting I've seen. 

No. They aren't perfect.

They of course made their hand full of mistakes but they were always, and still are always, willing to listen to our side of the story. Even if they don't understand, they try to respect our views and decisions to the best of their ability, us knowing that it can't have always been easy for them to do so.

I'm really lucky.

We just helped celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary last year and even though I know they have had their share of problems throughout the years, they're love for each other was strong enough to have stayed together through it all. Not everybody can say that about their parents and I know these days, it's not the norm. But their strength and their love is what, I believe, helped my brother Pat and I each choose the right person as our spouse to be with for the next 40++ years.

We are both still very new, me more so, at this whole marriage phenomenon, but we had our parents as guidelines to learn from, taking with us the lessons from the good and the bad times between the two of them. They gave us a fabulous childhood regardless what they might or might not have been going through. And I will be forever grateful for this.

So thank you Mom and Dad.

Thank you for the family vacations and the often rained upon camping and hiking trips. Thank you Daddy for all of the piggy back rides to bed each night and for making up voices for all of my stuffed animals. Thank you Mom for introducing me to my love of Audrey Hepburn and Rogers and Hammerstein musicals. Thank you both for having such great taste in music, old movies and t.v. shows, Doctor Who, Andy Griffith, Elvis and The Beatles included among my favorites. Thank you Mom for blueberry muffins and Saturday morning cartoons  and Daddy for the best french toast ever on Sunday mornings even after you'd worked a full night's shift the night before. Thank you for all of the notes left in lunchboxes. Thank you for always listening, supporting and loving. Thank you for yelling when we deserved it...and even when we didn't. Thank you for letting us get away with certain things, choosing your battles as you went, letting us be kids and allowing us to make our own mistakes.

I'm only lightly touching on many of the things I remember from my younger years. You guys are the best and I love you, not just because you're my parents, but because you are truly wonderful people.


"Before the mountains call to you
Before you leave this home
I will teach your heart to trust
As I will teach my own
But sometimes I will ask the moon
Where it shined upon you last
And shake my head and laugh and say
It all went by too fast"
Dar Williams

The Perfect Match

I love you because you get me.

You understand the humor in a huge statue of Jesus that has no feet or making the pets talk in funny voices. You laugh along with me when I am laughing so hard that I can't even speak up to tell you what it is I find so funny.

We don't call each other honey, baby or darling. It's just "booskie"...simple as that.

Quackie and the purse guy don't confuse you. You just go along with it. This understanding even stretches far over the bras and panties guy and the roller coaster factory comment.

You think it's wrong for anybody to steal a cross.

There's no bullshit from you. You tell me like it is, regardless if I want to hear it or not. You give me space when it's needed and cease comment when I just want you to hold me. With one glance, I knew you were it. We have our own language that others can see, even if they don't understand it.

Many times they don't...and I love you for that too.

Sometimes I forget we aren't the only two in the room. I'm so enthralled by everything you do, even if it's just talking to yourself.

We have full conversations with the pets....even if the other person isn't home to listen to the conversation. Regardless, we always fill each other in where needed.

You've taken over cleaning the litterboxes.(Sorry. I'll try to get better at that...)

You drove with me all the way to Pensacola to go to a friend of mines' wedding, not even having met him, putting your life in danger via choking on a kit-kat and dealing with me trying to hold back my laughter from the delirium. You stayed there with me for less than 24 hours and ordered me a pizza after there wasn't any vegetarian options at their ceremony and I was starving.

You look at old picture albums with me...even still, and you've looked at them dozens and dozens of times.

You have fabulous taste in music.

And I love that you sing to yourself in the bathroom...even when there is a full room of people outside who can hear you too.

You've watched all of the Twilight movies with me.

You love Harry Potter and Doctor Who as much as I do.

You're OK with just staying in on a Saturday night, watching a John Lennon documentary while I write a blog about how much you mean to me.

This really only lightly touches on my feelings for you.

Thank you for finding me. Thank you for supporting me. Thank you for letting me be myself. Most importantly, thank you for not only loving me, but for liking me too...and for being my best friend.

Thank you for being you.

"Two drifters, off to see the World..."
Moon River

Reflection

I stare across the room and meet the eyes of a stranger. It’s funny how you think you can know a person so deeply, only to find that you know absolutely nothing about her at all. I have known her my whole life, been there to hold her hand when no one else would, wiped her tears, talked her out of hitting or cutting or hurting herself in any other physical way she might have come up with. The only thing I was never able to reach was how she was feeling emotionally. It’s easy to grab someone’s hand away to physically stop her from doing something harmful to herself, but when it comes to the emotional turmoil we are all somehow capable of creating, no one can stop that but the person who is experiencing it. No matter how hard we try, you can’t fix something you had no idea was even broken.

I’ve carried this conversation in my head for years and I’ve never had the nerve to tell her how I feel. No matter how many times I’ve heard myself or other people tell her how beautiful she is, both inside and out, how thin she is, how creative and talented she is. She never listens. She always has a quick comeback whether critical or comical, the compliment is never taken.

I have watched the look on her face suddenly change from a girl having a good time, to complete distress because someone else in her group just commented on how skinny another girl in the room is or how the dress she just tried on shows off her curves. “I don’t want curves”, she exclaims, and the comment is ignored or laughed off because she’s being silly and must truly know how any 30 year old woman would kill to have her body.

I listen to her stories of one failed relationship after another and how she thought this one was “the one” and how she never meant to cheat….”Is kissing another guy, while dating a different one considered a form of cheating?” I never imagined her type of girl to cheat on anyone or to even get past second base before marriage.

I realize why she enters one relationship after another, knowing full well that the reason she chooses the types of guys she dates is because they all have some sort of issue(s) that needs to be worked through. “I want to help him. I can change him. I know he’s a good person inside. He’s got so much potential. “

I’ve heard every excuse.

And the truth is, the only reason she dates these guys is because it distracts her from focusing on herself and her own problems that she needs to face.

But I keep quiet. I don’t tell her that. I just sit there beside her and hope that one day, she will learn before it’s too late.

But it’s almost too late. She’s at a crossroads and she has to make a decision. Will she stay or will she go?

I look across the room and I don’t recognize this girl anymore. I’ve known her my whole life and she is nothing but a stranger to me now. I look down at the wine glass in my hand and before thinking; I throw it straight in front of me, smashing the mirror that was once staring back at me.

I don’t want to know this girl anymore. We are no longer as close as we used to be and yet somehow, some way, she keeps trying to contact me and all I want to do is yell “GO AWAY!!”

Go away stranger….

And never come back. 

"And they rise in the morning
And they sleep in the dark
And even though nobody's looking
She's falling apart"

Lisa Loeb

I Want A Writer's Nook

This post really has nothing to do with the book that I am in the process of writing, but I suppose the inspiration for it does.

Andrew and I are moving in a couple of months and my dream is to have an area in our new house that I designate only for writing. Currently, I find myself writing while sitting on our couch or on our bed before I call it a night and go to sleep. There are too many distractions in both of these places and I'm finding that I need a place that I can call my own when it comes to being able to "disappear" for a couple of hours a day.

It doesn't even have to be a whole room. It can merely be a corner that I am able to put a smallish antique desk to place my laptop on. On the wall directly in front of me, I envision a HUGE bulletin board where I can tack up pictures and quotes that inspire me. I would also like to have a magnetic poetry board that would basically serve the same purpose but would add a little more depth to the scenery.

It would also be nice to have an area outside as well where on pretty  days, I can sit on the back porch, sipping a glass of wine and reminisce about days gone by. I imagine myself doing this, suddenly having a beautiful memory and then forming an intelligible story surrounding my thoughts and words.

It's not as though I can't or don't do any of this now in our current surroundings of which I have one kitty resting on my stretched out legs, another in front of the space heater by my feet and another sitting beside me on the couch. If I had my dream writer's nook, I'm sure my situation would be the same. Still. It's a nice thought and a nice idea to work at accomplishing.

And I know one day I will have such a place. As for right now, I should probably stop procrastinating and write something more meaningful than the dream of one day having a writer's nook....

Focus Mary. Focus.

The Ones That Stay With You

I woke up this morning thinking about teachers. I have a handful throughout my entire school career of whom I will forever be grateful to. It was these, who taught me it's OK to think outside of the box and who encouraged me to dig a little bit deeper when it came to...well, everything.

Mrs. Hollar and Mrs. Cheek were my 3rd Grade teachers. They were the very  first  who made me feel like I was something special. I'm not even sure what it is they did in particular. Perhaps it was simply their presence and how they seemed to empathize with my shyness Neither ever tried to change me via getting me to speak up more.  They embraced my unbearable fear of talking in front of a classroom full of people by engaging me in the topics I was most excited about.

I have always been a lover of books and English. Also, from the age of zero, I have been a lover of cats. I will never forget the day that we had show and tell and I managed to dig up enough nerve to read one of my favorite children's books called "The Curious Little Kitten". I always dreaded show and tell because I didn't like to talk in front of people. I still don't. My knees lock, my throat dries up and I get this sudden urge to vomit.

I actually did vomit once.

But not that day. That day, I had the courage of Wonder Woman, knowing that because my two favorite teachers believed in me, I could accomplish any feat no matter how small or large it was in my world. I read the whole story to my classmates and I didn't mess up once. When I was finished, the whole class stood up and cheered "bravo, bravo" and clapped their hands until they hurt. And they tossed beautiful roses at my feet as I stood there grinning from ear to ear feeling elated at the experience of being so loved and adored.

This didn't really happen but it's how I prefer to remember it. In reality, I did read my story very well and
my best friend Megan even passed me a note later in class, exclaiming how she really enjoyed it. But outside of my teachers, this was the only praise I actually received.

It was enough.

It gave me a small bout of confidence that I had never felt before. It was a huge and memorable experience that I will forever be grateful to; more so, I will forever be grateful to the two teachers who stood by me and who not only believed in me and what I could accomplish, but helped me to believe in myself.

They were the first, but not the last. I had several teachers, mainly in high school and college, who helped me to push my limits. It takes someone very special to have enough dedication to do this. So many teachers don't get enough credit for what they do on a daily basis. I think many of them get dragged down by what's expected of them and become numb to the fact that they are helping to mold young minds. Some may even be apathetic, but now all.

And it's these that I remember most.

It's these minor few that helped create the person I am today. So thank you. Thank you Mrs. Hollar and Mrs. Cheek. Thank you Mr. Lackey and Mr. Nolan. Thank you Mr. Caldwell, Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Weaver. Thank you Heather Vaughn. You all hold a special place in my heart.

"It might have appeared to go unnoticed
But I've got it all here in my heart
I want you to know, I know the truth, of course I know it
I would be nothing without you"
Bette Midler "Wind Beneath My Wings"

The Boyfriends

There were many.

I used to keep count of how many boys I had kissed. Then I stopped once it reached over 15 because it made me feel like a slut...or a player...or some other not so good term used when it comes to dating. 

It didn't start until I was a freshmen in high school. My first boyfriend was a wonderful guy who treated me really well. Our "relationship" lasted from September 15th to April 4th. Not bad for him being my first boyfriend and all. Is it sad that I still remember the dates so well? He was my first kiss; my first "I love you", my first broken heart...of course I remember the tiny details.


When we broke up, I was devastated. I remember sitting out in the hallway outside of my parents bedroom, contemplating suicide. (Not really, but this was the most "depressed" I had ever been and I couldn't think of any reason at the time to keep on living. My Dad walked out into the hallway, took one look at me and simply proclaimed, "I wish I could tell you it all gets better from here, but I would be lying."


Ouch.


Why did both my parents always have to be so honest?


It turned out that it was the best thing he could have said to me in that very moment. That one statement gave me the strength to get off my ass and move on. Sure, I still moped around, listening to sad songs ("What Might Have Been" and "Just When I Needed You Most" were my two favorites...I still have a hard time listening to either.) And it could have been so much worse. I know this now. He was never mean to me and always treated me with respect and honesty. I have no animosity towards him and  I think it might be possible he feels the same way about me. I was lucky.


Then, not so much. I traveled down a road of bad boyfriends, dating guys who weren't very nice but of whom I knew I could "change" or "fix" because I knew that they were "good people". What gave me the right to think that I could help anyone?


I couldn't even help myself.


And I think many of them knew this and took advantage of me. (Sadly, I hadn't come to that realization until now. )

One guy I dated several years back, I didn't even know his last name and I almost gave up my virginity to him because he told me he loved me. He didn't love me. I'm not sure if he even knew the meaning of love. I'm not sure I did either. It was when I lived in Florida...and I knew he also had a girlfriend back home. I'm not proud of this. In fact, I still feel so ashamed. Maybe I deserved the way he treated me in the end. I often wonder where he is now, not because I miss him, but because I would like to show him that I still turned out OK despite how he looked at me and treated me. He often used the stories I told him of ex-boyfriends and my low self-esteem to his advantage. He was an asshole, plain and simple. But I didn't think I deserved any better.


Maybe I was just too scared to actually search for anything real. I often found myself basing relationships on drama and sadness. After all, misery loves company right? For the most part, it's all I knew of love outside of the first puppy love that I had experienced when I was a freshmen in high school. So when it visited me again, a few months after I had returned from Florida, I thought "this is it" and got engaged to the guy only 2 months into our relationship.


Josh was never a bad guy. We had our occasional arguments but he was really too much of a teddy bear to ever really fight about anything, so I usually won the battle with my stubborn hard hardheadedness. He didn't even try to fight for me when I started to drift away from him, knowing that we both wanted different things in life. I wanted to travel and see the world. He wanted to stay home. still living with his parents, playing video games.


He didn't even try to fight for me. I wasn't worth the effort. And even though we eventually ended on good terms, I don't think I ever got over this. I was willing to spend the rest of my life with him, knowing I would never really get to do all of the things I wanted to do. I loved him so much that I was willing to give up so much of myself to be with him. He wasn't willing to do that for me and once I realized that, the hurt was too great to keep on trying.


I hit another bad patch after that. One bad boyfriend after another. One claiming he had to break up with me because he felt like God was disappointed with him for being with someone "like me". (What does that even mean? I never really figured that one out.) The next one, Brad was a manipulator who fooled everyone into feeling sorry for him, even when I figured it out before everyone else and left him for his best friend. (Sounds like a bad t.v. movie right?)

It gets worse.


James is a story within a story within a story. I still have a hard time going there with words so I will leave that for another day.


Poor Jason was the rebound from James...I don't think he even saw it coming. I didn't. So why would he have? I have since convinced myself that he always had a hidden agenda of his own. I don't think I will ever know if that was truly the case or if I was just so scared of getting hurt again that I had to find something wrong.


Josh revisited for a very short time after that. I was going through the whole "what if?" phase and was presented with a second chance at old love.

Sometimes you have to learn the same lesson more than once. 


And then....



The choir sang and there was Andrew.


We all know the end to this story. And for those of you who don't, he is now my husband, whom, as my dear friend Gwynne has bluntly proclaimed:" fattened [my] spark with a foot on [my] ass pushing [me] into the light". I couldn't have said it better myself. 


So I won't even try. 

And with that, here is a lyric from Aimee Mann. I dedicate it to all of the boyfriends from the past, some more than others...cause "that's just what you are..."

"Acting steady always ready to defend your fears
What's the matter with the truth, did I offend your ears
By suggesting that a change might be a thing to try
Like it would kill you just to try and be a nicer guy
It's not like you would lose some critical piece
If somehow you moved point A to point B
Maintaining there is no point changing 'cause
That's just what you are
That's just what you are"
Aimee Mann

School Dances

The other day at work, I heard a Bryan Adams song on the radio and it made me want to slow dance at arms length apart. The first time I ever danced with anyone was my 8th grade year of middle school. It's not that I had never been to dances before. It's just that I always politely declined when a boy actually asked me. My first actual school dance was in 6th grade and I was terrified. Of course, I wanted to be asked to dance but I wanted to be asked by the right person.

Here's a freebie boys, no matter how often a preteen girl tells you how gross you are, she means the exact opposite. In fact, the grosser she claims you to be, most likely the cuter she thinks you are. (Unless your name is Slater Moody, Jonathan Guy, or Brian Maltry )...I really did think you were all super gross and I still have nightmares of you chasing me on the playground. [insert exaggerated shiver here].

The first boy who asked me to dance, I told "no thank you" and later found out he was crying in the boys bathroom. (I am still so sorry for this D.J. Thank you for putting this behind you and for friending me on Facebook.) I didn't mean anything by it. I just didn't want to dance with him; didn't want to lead him on in any way. I had a firm belief that if you danced with someone, it automatically made you a candidate for a serious relationship. I never liked playing the game. This theory of mine carried on drastically through my teens and early twenties. I always felt like I had to work so hard in a relationship because I didn't want any of it to be in vain. The thought never occurred to me that it was OK to just go out on one or two dates with a person and end it there.

I never claimed to be normal and I stand by this.

Anyway, back to the topic at hand. My first dance was with Matt Lewis and he did ask me, considering I would have never ever had the nerve to actually confront him and ask him myself. I later found out that my best friend at the time had told him I liked him and that he should ask me to dance.


I. Was. Mortified.


And she ceased being my best friend for at least a day. If I could only go back and tell that little girl how truly oblivious she was. Reguardless of the fact that someone else told him to ask me, he still didn't have to, but he did anyway. AND, he danced with me during the whole song, LESS than a full arms length a part.


Scandilous, I know.


But not everyone got to dance a full dance with someone. Andrew told me on one of our first dates that he had asked a girl to dance to Extremes "More Than Words". During the middle of the song, she told him she didn't want to dance with him anymore and left him standing there alone on the dancefloor. When he told me this,  my heart broke for little Andrew and I immediately found the song on my iTunes and asked him to dance with me. (I know what you're thinking, "Oh, Mary. You are so sweet." Or perhaps, "Really? You have Extreme on your iTunes?...." Don't judge me.)



Everyone deserves to dance the full length of a song.


I hated the girl for doing that to him and I don't even know her. I at least had the decency at that age to simply tell a boy "no" instead of getting his hopes up.

Stupid bitch.


Now, when I hear certain songs, I think back to the days of school dances and all of the "he likes, she likes" crap. It all seemed so important back then. Still, it's nice to reminisce. More so, it's nice to finally have someone to dance with, knowing that neither one of us, will ever say"no thank you".



"More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
'Cause I'd already know" 
Extreme

My Form of Critical Thinking

I tried something new today.

 Apparently, I do my best thinking while in the shower (or any other place that isn't instantly computer or tape recorder friendly.)So I placed my computer outside of our bathroom in order to be more prepared,  knowing that I would think of something brilliant to write about whilst shaving and having a Lucy from Charlie Brown "That's it!" moment.

So here I am, minutes later, sitting  on our bed in a towel, freezing because our hot water heater sucks, and bleeding due to a small nick from an old razer... (That reminds me. I need to go to Target.) not wanting to miss out on the golden opportunity of getting something down on paper before it disappears into the unknown.

Wait. Where was I going with this?

Shit.

Back to the drawing board.

The Cabbage Patch Kids

I wrote a story the other day dedicated to my love of cabbage patch kids when I was younger. I have kept them all through the years along with an original Teddy Ruxpin bear a handful of pound puppies and also a hug-a-lot bear whose heart only stopped beating a year or two ago.

No. I'm not crazy. Let me explain to those of you who weren't born in the 80's. Hug-a-lot bear was a semi-large stuffed bear whom upon squeezing his chest made a "thump-thump-thump" sound like a heart beating. He. Was. Awesome; Unlike my Teddy Ruxpin bear who could have been just as awesome if not more so, but ended up never working properly. This was the beginning of the innovative-ness of talking toys and instead of him talking in his sweet, positive (possibly gay?) voice that I knew and loved from the cartoon, he sounded more like a possessed pedifile who wanted to eat my brains like a zombie.

You may wonder why I would keep all of these treasures years later. You might even think that I've kept them for nostalgia alone or even to have them to give to my own children. I'm not sure if any of these quite describe the reasoning behind taking up too much closet space. Here is the real truth behind the matter:

Creepy? Yes. And....

I. Don't. Want. To Die. 

Never will I risk the chance of giving these things away and later waking up one night with one or all of them leering over me with a knife. I'll take my chances with keeping them safely stored in my great grandfather's old trunk. At least there, I know where they are...

 "My Name is Talky Tina and I am going to kill you"

"Twilight Zone" Living Doll

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I'm frustrated.

I've had a lot of distractions this week ranging from "Oh look, there's a hole in my sock", to a work meeting that made me take everything said personally (even though I don't think I was the culprit that brought on the conversation...who knows. Communication there is less than zero...), to "Oh dear, One of the cats I'm pet sitting  just decided to have a seizure on my watch."

Needless to say, I've lost my focus this week. I was trying to explain it to my husband Andrew last night and only got more frustrated. It's not his fault that he's my biggest fan and has something positive to say about anything he reads of mine. And I can only imagine his own frustration with me as he listens to me rant on and on about how I'm never going to be a writer or accomplish anything. In those moments, I get so lost in what's really bothering me that I don't even pay attention to the words coming out of my mouth.

But that's what's really bothering me...the words, or rather, the lack there of.

My brain is so filled with story upon story just dying to get out and it all makes sense in my head. But my job, as a writer, is to portray each story to the best of my ability. And I need words to do that. My struggle is that I focus too much on trying to input the right words the first time I literally stop writing for a few seconds, over-thinking the next sentence and the one after that and the one after that. (I'm even doing this right now...) If I could just spit up everything all at once and then go back and make changes later, that would make this whole process so much easier. But I'm so intent on making it perfect the first time that I lose part of the story.   Sometimes, it's like my hands are numb to typing the ideas and portrayals of what's really going on inside my mind. They just freeze up. Andrew told me last night it's because I've put a mental block up.

Damn you for calling me out Andrew! Damn you!

The worst part of hearing this is that it's true. I have put a block up and I could offer up excuse upon excuse as to why I've done this to myself and future career of being a writer, but I have nothing. Maybe it's because I'm trying to fit 30 years into one book of stories and I've found, no matter how uneventful or boring a person's life is, 30 years is a whole lot of information.

So I'm overwhelmed with the fact that I'm actually challenging myself to write, not one, but many memoirs. I can't seem to get organized. I will be writing one story about a time I went to the movies with my Dad and then suddenly think about an ex-boyfriend and lose the sweet affect of representing a fun outing I shared with my Daddy as a little girl.

I wish I could find a way to shut my brain up. It's so random in it's thinking and often makes me feel like a crazy person screaming as loud as she can into a pillow. (Which I am not above doing by the way.)

At any rate, I have set aside a huge block of time today to simply focus on my writing with no distractions. (And by "no distractions", I mean as little distraction as possible with 6 pets and a work at home husband whom I love very very dearly.)

So, hear it goes....wish me luck.

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."

Ernest Hemingway

Hello Past Self, Who Are You?

On a much lighter note than my previous post (because I have to have some balance of funny and serious:). I found this in my book of poetry:

One Wish
I'm sitting here looking out the window
It's so peaceful and serene
As I glance out into the beautiful vacant world
Though it's raining
It's still oh so full of life out there
So free and breezy
I can only imagine the feeling of fresh air
The sky is a mixture of blue and white fluffy clouds
The trees sway with the breeze
Such a soft and gentle sound
I imagine myself as one of those trees
Without a care in the world
For who would dare critisize a tree?
Who would place a tree in one specific social group
Or make it an outcast to all the others?
A tree doesn't have to sit and wiat for its soul mate
It's one true love to come and sweep it off it's feet
It doesn't go through the pains
Of being left out
Not good enough
Or forgotten
As I'm sitting here watching the cool gentleness
Of the world outside
I wish I were a tree

Now, you might be asking yourself why I find this particular piece of work so humorous. It just goes to show that I was an equal opportunist in how I portrayed my animosity in those days, not only to my superiors but also to myself.

I was such a hypocrite, one day fretting over how the world is so cruel and terrible and the next day, looking out the window, seeing all of the beauty that laid before me. Yet, I was still wishing and hoping for more.

I just want to tell this girl to stop taking life so seriously.Stop worrying. Stop wishing you were someone or something else. Stop wanting what you can't have. Just stop.

And the bitch in me wants to tell her, if it were possible for her to be a tree...someone would end up just chopping her down e because she's so annoying and only disturbing the peace within all of the other trees...

In fact. I would be more than happy to do it myself. (And I am a lover of trees).

And the rattlesnake said,
"I wish I had hands so
I could hug you like a man."
And then the cactus said,
"Don't you understand,
My skin is covered with sharp spikes
That'll stab you like a thousand knives.
A hug would be nice,
But hug my flower with your eyes."
 Kimya Dawson

Life Lessons

I have racked my brain over and over again tonight, trying to think of something interesting to write about. I've started to write about past teachers and friendships. I even tried to write about that infamous question we all find ourselves asking some time or another, "What if?"

Nothing was speaking to me so I started reading my old ramblings from years gone by. (Wow, that makes me sound old...)

This is what I discovered.

I used to be so angry; questioning every authority figure from my parents to politics to God. I just wanted answers to all of the many questions that haunted me throughout each day. It was infuriating that no one seemed to understand or even care what I was going through...what I was putting myself through.

It started when I was in 8th grade, though I don't think I realized that until recently. It was this time in my life that everything began to change. My school went to Washington D.C. that year to see, first hand, all of the history that is our country.

Most of the kids were just excited to be away from their parents for a whole 4 nights and 5 days. I was just excited to see a part of the world I had never seen before.

It was a rude awakening.

So vividly, I remember looking out the bus window, not seeing the rows and rows of columns from all of the huge buildings and monuments, but rows and rows of people lying on the pavement, some with blankets, many without. I didn't understand. The President lived right down the street. Why would he let so many people freeze and starve?

I just didn't understand. Years later, I still don't get it.

Everyone who knows anything about me, knows first and foremost that I am a deeply sensitive being. This was just too much for my 13 year old mind to handle. I almost preferred to be that naive, small town girl... and to stay that way forever. But after that experience, I would never, and have never been the same.

We all have our coming of age stories; something that occurs in our lives that makes us start forming opinions and thoughts of our own. We no longer rely on our parents and teachers to give us the answers because we soon realize that they are just as clueless as we are. It's a hard lesson to learn.

I think I held my feelings about all of this "reality" in for so long that it began coming out in spurts years later. I was a hippie who wanted a revolution of change, but found only frustration in not being able to create that change myself. So I got discouraged and tried to understand society and life better through writing bad poetry, listening to Ani Difranco and wearing patchwork pants.

Nothing could reach me and I could reach nothing. I was a lost soul of sorts trying so hard to resist conforming into what I knew "everyone else" wanted me to be. I fought for this "unknown" for so long and for awhile suddenly became apathetic; almost zombie like.

It's ironic how many of us fight so hard for peace. It soon becomes a war in itself.

I still find myself fighting the same battle from time to time. It's definitely decreased in intensity but it still lingers. And I still want answers. I still want to save the world.

I've just learned to not let it take complete hold of me, even though some days, I still just want to scream out...

"WHY?"

"Imagine all the people living life in peace."
John Lennon

Just Keep Swimming

I have been staring at a blank canvas of a computer screen for the past half hour. I've checked my email and facebook pages at least 3 times...nothing new to report. Now I'm listening to Simon and Garfunkel's The Boxer.It's one of my favorites. Great lyrics, wonderful writers....

I suck.

My mind is frozen to any sort of creative writing today and I'm frustrated. Like anyone, I want instant success and have to keep reminding myself that I just started this project only a few weeks ago. In my ideal world, I imagine all my friends and family gathering in their homes, having deep conversations about my blog and what I'm trying to accomplish through my writing.

"Oh. Did you see Mary's blog today? It was superb! I don't know where she gets it from."

(In my mind, they are also drinking tea, eating crumpets and speaking in British accents though I know of no one in this list of people who would ever actually be doing any of these things. Perhaps this stems from all of the British t.v. Andrew and I have been watching over the past several months. )

Or they are having this conversation:

"Oh my God. Who does she think she is? She's not a writer. I spit on her words and ideas that make no sense and I wish she would stop sending me links to her blog site and stupid book idea. She can't write a book. She can't even write full sentences."

(In this image, I imagine lots of leather jackets, smoking and motorcycles. Again, not many, if any, people I know have these attributes.)

In all reality, I'm sure neither of these scenarios are even close to true. I realize people have more important things to do than to read whatever randomness I choose to write about for the day. I have several supporters out there whom have contacted me multiple times on the subject and I will always be forever grateful to these people especially. I strive on feedback so when I don't receive any, sometimes my confidence falters. I know this isn't fair and I need to find some other source of motivation...

I just want to be recognized.

I'm putting my life stories out there and I want people to connect, but I know I can't expect this from everybody or even anybody. All I can do is keep trying and not give up. I have to keep telling myself that some days, I won't receive any feedback and that's OK. This doesn't mean that people aren't reading what I'm doing. I can't expect any of this to matter to anyone else but myself. It's my passion. Not anyone elses so I need to just shut-up and write and just see what happens.

If someone connects, that's great. If not. Who cares, right? Why does it really matter?

I'm suddenly reminded of a fictional story I wanted to write several years ago. It was going to be a murder mystery, the main character being a small town girl who had never been anywhere who lived next door to a cocaine dealer, unbeknownst to her. One day, she needed a cup of flour...and so on. I pitched this idea to my brother and of course he knew where I was going with the story. "Someone dies from a cocaine overdose, right?"

Damnit. Why does he have to be so smart?

He had no idea and I know he didn't mean to, but his one statement made me stop production on the story all together. It wasn't his fault. I just needed to broaden the idea a little bit more. And that's just what it was...an idea. Only two of the characters had even slightly been formed and I just gave up.

I was stupid.

And I can't do that anymore. I have been talking about wanting to be a published writer for as long as I can remember. I still have stories I wrote from when I was in elementary school. They're all about cats, but that's beside the point.

The point it, I was born to do this. I can't let anyone bring me down.

I can't let myself bring me down.

In all honesty, and I'm sure it's the case for most of us, I am my worst enemy.

So just SHUT-UP Mary!

Just write....

"I am just a poor boy, though my stories seldom told"
Paul Simon

The Age of Innocence

I was digging through some old poems, songs, short stories and other such writings and came across this lovely piece of work:

Drugs: 
By Mary and Bethany

Drugs make you feel bad,
Depressed and sad
They make you angry
Even mad

You never have fun
Or get things done
You're always upset
With everyone

Chorus:
Don't get addicted to drugs
(Baby)
Don't get addicted to
Dru u u u ugs
Don't get addicted to drugs
(Baby)
Don't get addicted to
Dru u u u ugs

Think smart and
Don't start
The pressure's on
Today is like
Any other day

Believe in yourself
And be happy
Say yes to your friends
And family

Repeat chorus

Keep working hard
To reach your goals
Always remember
To say no

And you will be
At peace forever


Repeat chorus

My best friend in middle school and I wrote this when we were in 7th grade.

We. Were. Awesome.

And thought we were rockstars...

And had a strange obsession with The Brady Bunch.

Not to mention the fact that we named everything (animate or inanimate) "Herman"...but that's irrelevant. 

We had never ever ever had any sort of exposure to any kind of drugs that were "bad". That's what it was like then. There were a few kids who would disappear behind the dumpsters and come away a few minutes later laughing hysterically and craving Cheetos, but we were oblivious.Any sort of experience or lesson we had on the matter was via Nickelodeon and the random songs kids would sing during commercial break from Are You Afraid of the Dark?

We were innocent.

(And on a side note, I'm pretty sure my brother Pat was influenced by this song later on in his writing....No, I don't mean the drugs part. I am strictly referring to the overuse of the word "baby".)

And though I look back and laugh at this oh so beautiful and talented song we wrote...sometimes I miss that innocence, even crave it.

I wish there was a way to hold onto it somehow. Perhaps that's the reason I've kept these silly writings tucked away all of these years. It's a memory of a time that was simple.

"The innocent and the beautiful Have no enemy but time."
William Butler Yeats

Conflicted Ramblings

For the first time in about four years, I received an email from an ex friend/lover.

Honesty is hard; especially when you can’t find the strength to be honest with yourself.

The email stirred up so many memories, good and bad and I found out, once again, how easy it is to feel that old familiar hurt again.

He wants to talk on the phone and be friends once more. Am I ready for this? Can I just let it go? More so, can I really bring myself to talk about our past and then to write about it for the entire world to see? That’s what I asked for right? So why is this so hard?

Maybe I didn’t think he, of all people, would write me back. Why should he? Not that I was the one who broke his heart…he broke mine. But why would he even remember little ole me and the crazy, unstable person I was back then?

Funny how it seems that’s not how he remembers me at all. We were both in a bad place at that time and for one brief shining moment, we allowed ourselves to get caught up in each other.

I still want to call him an asshole…

Which makes me feel guilty because I know he’s not really an asshole but in order to be sincere with this part of my story, I need to be able to portray what I was feeling at the time…which was anything but happy.

I’m conflicted.

If I choose to pursue this friendship and make amends, what happens when he reads the book and finds out how I really felt? Does it even really matter? I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but in some cases in order to succeed in this endeavor, I will need to write everything out in order to get the whole story across. And this means I have to include the bad parts too.

It’s not as if I didn’t realize this in the beginning, but now it’s a reality because someone of who I shared more than a friendship with actually wrote me back.

He says he wants to be in the book as long as I keep his name out of it which is fine. I understand wanting to keep things private in some respect. But in turn that makes me feel even more guilty for having to portray my anger, hurt and sensitivity to the situation. I don’t want to jeopardize any friendship with any person in my life. I don’t want to hurt anybody either. That’s not what this is about. It’s about finding the truth within myself and journeying back to understand more clearly a time in my life when nothing was easy to understand.

I care too much about what people think and I am highly aware of this. Another dear friend of mine, whose opinion I hold very highly, recently wrote me about this. She told me, and I quote:  “Not everybody is going to like the things we do, say, write, etc.  What matters is that there are plenty of people who will and do”…In other words, many people probably can empathize with my struggle in wanting to be sensitive to other peoples feelings but also in wanting to be true to myself and how I am feeling.

I suppose this is what truly matters. It still doesn’t make it any easier…but no passage in life comes to us freely.  


"You were looking for an orchid. And I will always be...a dandelion."
Antje Duvekot

Facing the Fear

I came to the conclusion while just in the shower that I, am a coward. I can't tell you how many times I have wanted to get my writing"out there". I have quit jobs in the past in order to focus more on my writing,only to turn around and get a job at Walmart. Now tell me, how is getting a job at Walmart in any way an inspiring tale in the life of Mary? (Though I do have some good stories of which I hope will make it into the book...)

My point is that I run away from any sort of opportunity to receive feedback,good or bad. I don't take criticism well and any form of negativity creeps into my skin like an unpleasant rash. Even now, ever since I sent out mass emails to friends, old and new, I cringe when I check every day to see if anyone has written me back.

Obviously, I want people to write me back and I want your  feedback. That is the whole point of doing this in the first place.  And so far, all of the emails that I have received in turn have been nothing but positive. I run upstairs in joyous tears each time to read to Andrew all of the beautiful words that you guys have written to me in tribute to this project. I feel so supported and so very loved. I can't begin to express how awesome that makes me feel.

But I'm sure the day will come when I don't receive such positive feedback and though it shouldn't matter, somehow it does. I know I won't hear from all of you and I'm sure not all of you have just nice things to say about me. I am in no way shape or form, a saint, nor have I ever claimed to be. And more than anything, I want nothing but honesty to pass between us within our conversations. I just have never taken rejection very well and in putting myself out there like I have...I know it's only a matter of time until the tears I'm crying are anything but joyous.

It's fears like these that often prevent me from writing in the first place. For example, I'm off every Thursday.  Every Wednesday night, I make a to-do list of things I need to get done. 9 times out of 10 "writing" is on that list. I go to sleep thinking about all of the stories I can compose, trying to focus on one topic. But my head is like a tilt a whirl of thoughts and I often struggle to center on one subject in particular.

This is why I spend the majority of my Thursdays doing laundry, watching old re-runs of Felicity and Ally McBeal and playing spider solitaire.

Sad? Yes. But so completely true.

This morning when I woke up, I dug out all of my old short stories, poems, school papers and  journals that I have written throughout the years. I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't love to write....and I've kept it all. I've been reading over teachers comments on papers that I wrote and have made an epiphany. My best grades were made when I wrote about fictional characters. Any time I tried to write about myself, knowing that the reader would know it was about me, I closed up. I left out important details. I was sloppy and I blocked out any sense of real emotion.

Ironically, most of my short stories have had bits of me within the characters. No one would ever know this unless they knew me really well.  I was able to hide these traits through giving them different names and personality's that were not my own, hiding bits and pieces of me here and there in hopes that the reader would never figure that out. 

Here's the thing, I have asked for your honesty so I promise with everything in me that I will provide the same honesty to you. We've all had a connection in some way or another whether we are still close or not. I promise to deliver my stories with the truest conviction. Because in a way, they aren't just my stories, their yours too. I'm just writing my side of it. I'm still afraid of what I might find in taking this journey and  who knows? I might even fail.

But at least I can look back and say that I faced my biggest fear.

"Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to"
Anna Nalick

James

This week, I have been thinking a lot about a particular relationship/situation I was in for about 3 years. James. Or to most who know of him,,,"He who must not be named". (Special shout out to all of you Harry Potter fans out there!)

Please just let me go ahead and state that by thinking of this person, I only mean in the most relative sense. In doing this blog, I know I am going to have to frequently walk down memory lane. I also know that some of the roads I re-visit are not going to be the most pleasant.

He is one of those roads.


I wrote this morning about an experience we had very early on in our relationship and it's funny the things that come out in writing when you actually sit down and start forming sentences. Most of the time, everything is so jumbled up in my head that I rarely am able to figure out what it is exactly that I'm feeling about any given situation. This morning, my voice came out in my writing and feelings that I never knew I was feeling spoke to me in ways they have never spoken to me before. I'm not sure if it's because I'm in a different place now or if it's because I've had time to reflect.

Maybe both?

Not to keep you all in suspense but I'm not quite ready to make these experiences publicly known. In ways, these wounds are still in the early stages of healing and they are still so deeply my own.

I hope to find through my writing of these chapters in my life, some sort of means to an end. I am traveling down treacherous ground with this one, both emotionally and mentally. I know I am a stronger person now because I'm a survivor, but this doesn't mean it no longer hurts to think about such things.

I'm not sure the hurt will ever completely go away....I'm not even sure if I want it to.

I've found it's good to remember as long as you don't dwell on the bad stuff for too long or even on the good  that isn't a part of your life anymore. It's a fine line and some days, I'm not strong enough to stay on the right side of it. Some days, I just want to forget it all but then I'm reminded that it was a huge chunk of my life and though, not all of it was good, in fact most of that time was anything but, I can't justify forgetting because then some how it would all be in vain. It needs to be acknowledged because I learned so much from mistakes I made over and over again. And because of this, I will never forget the day when I finally said "ENOUGH!"

This in no way means that I'm proud of it or that I don't recognize that I wasn't the only one hurting. It just means that it happened and I can't forget that it happened because it's a part of me.

And on that note, this lyric is for you James, wherever you are:

"One last thing before I quit!
I never wanted any more than I could fit into my head!
I still remember every single word you said,
And all the shit that somehow came along with it!
Still, there's one thing that comforts me
Since I was always caged and now I'm free"
Foo Fighters

Brain Storming

So, the more I think about this idea, the more I'm leaning towards making it into a book. About 2 weeks ago, I sent out another mass email to friends, family, ex-boyfriends, ect. It was basically the same thing I had sent out to my family with the same information provided on this blog about what this project is essentially about. One of my dearest friends Gwynne wrote me back immediately with all of the love and support she could hold. She presented me with the idea of just writing and filling in the blanks later. This got me thinking as to how I could so this and make it into a somewhat organized blog.

So this is what I'm going to do.

There is no way that I can focus on just one part of my life (i.e. childhood, teenage years, rebellious flings, ect ect) for weeks at a time. My brain is too much one that goes all over the place and some events, I simply don't remember all of the details as of yet and others are just too painful to dwell on for long periods of time.

So each time I feel motivated and inspired to write about whatever event my random mind decides to choose that day, I will post a small blurb on this blog about my feelings towards journeying down memory lane.

I still want your ideas and input. And I still would love for you to share this blog with your own friends and family if you think it's at all interesting. I've just decided to keep the actual stories mine for now as I start to assimilate them and form them into something the public eye might deem worthy of actually reading.

As always, I thank you all for your support.

"There are two mistakes one can make along the road to truth…not going all the way, and not starting."
Buddha

Family First

The following email is what I wrote to my closest family members. (i.e. Mom, Dad, my brother Pat, his wife Jenn and of course my husband Andrew:) The referred attachment is a replica of the first post I put on this blog.

OK. You guys should feel super lucky because you are the first 5 that I am pitching this idea to. (Andrew already knows most of the details of course but I wanted to include him in this anyway because he's my biggest fan...thanks boosk!:)
As you all know, I have always wanted to become published but have never had the nerve to pursue it. Well, I have this new idea and I would love to have your feedback on it. I have sent the attachment with all of the details. Please let me know if it doesn't make sense or if you have questions. All criticism is happily accepted...just don't be mean:). But seriously, I need all of the feedback I can get.
My hope is to start this project off as a blog and than get noticed by someone and essentially make it into a book.
What do you think?
All feedback is welcome.All I ask is please, please  PLEASE be honest.
Thanks for taking the time out to read this! LOVE YOU GUYS!!!

Mary
P.S. Mom, you might need to just open the attachment and read it with Daddy...or show him how to do it:). I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have gotten replies from 4 of the 5 and have been promised that the last one is on it's way. Seriously, I am so very lucky to have such support from the all of the people I hold so close in my heart. Thank you guys!! You have given me a small shove in the direction of truly following my dreams. 

Introduction: i.e. What this blog is all about...

Memoirs of a Small Town Girl

I’ve been on a memoir kick of late, reading everything from Jen Lancaster’s funny tales of big time money-maker to unemployed funny girl, to Carolyn Jessop and her Escape from the FLDS community. I find so much emotion in reading about other people’s lives, normal people, and I often find myself wondering if anyone else might feel the same while reading stories of my own.

I mean, in all reality, nothing truly interesting has really happened to me. I worked at Disney World for 5 months, seen Bob Dylan in concert 3 times, and been in countless failed relationships…but is any of this really all that entertaining to the public eye? I guess it’s all in how it’s written and projected out into a readers mind…but I think I can do it.

As of right now, I envision my stories to be broken down into separate sections, from childhood to married life with a lot of stuff in between. My main worry is that I won’t have enough stories to compile for each section. I remember a lot of bits and pieces and often find myself scrambling for the details.

That’s where you guys come in. If you can remember any time that you have spent with me, something that somehow has stuck out in your mind throughout the years, email me at: leiradog@gmail.com with your rendition and I will blog about it. This will help me get a clearer idea as to what is memorable/entertaining to you guys (since you will be doing the reading). It can be funny, sad, angry, disappointing, anything you can think of and I promise not to pass judgment because I was there too and would love to get everyone else's side of whatever story you decide to share with me about well…..me. (And selfishly, it will give me a better understanding of how I am viewed as a person in general so seriously… no pressure).

This is how I’m thinking this will work. If you have a memory of an experience we shared, just email me. It doesn’t have to be super detailed or grammatically correct. My main purpose for this exercise is to boost my memory and to have more stories to write about. I promise to keep names confidential if you wish for them not be shared and to offer up the utmost respect. Essentially, I am researching my life because through the years, some of the details are a bit fuzzy.  

I have always wanted to be a writer and have many times been reading a book, any genre, and found myself telling myself that I can do this. And I think, no, I KNOW that I can.

But I need help.

I need an audience. And since all of you know me in some way or another, I would love to hear any criticism you may have, good or bad. It would be awesome if you shared any or all of these stories I’ve yet to write with your friends and spread the word. I guess one could say that I’m networking my life.

And I need all of the support I can get.

So follow me, share me, whatever you have to do to get my writing out there would be very much appreciated.

I love you all and thank you for all of your time, love and support.

Here’s to the next chapter. (Hopefully it will be interesting.)