This Girl Just Wants to Write

My mom saved this first "story" of mine. It's hardcore evidence that even at a young age I wanted to be a writer. Fortunately my spelling has come a long way. It also demonstrates that my love for animals and all living things began early on. We were still living in the bayou (Houma, LA) when I wrote it, and I believe the turtle's poor sense of direction led him into our yard. Mom had enough to deal with and ultimately Yertle the Turtle and the risk of salmonella completely sent her over the edge. We released him back into the bayou where he hopefully found a friend.

I'm not here for the followers, which isn't to say that I don't adore you, because I do! I'm not here to play games. I'm here for me because I love to write. I need to write like I need air, water, and donuts food. When I don't write, I start to suffocate and feel like the walls are closing in on me. It really is that simple.

I have a difficult time trusting people. I loathe drama and confrontation; I run the other way, fast. Unlike my life, My blog is drama free. This is my space to share my thoughts as I travel the road to my writer-y roots.

In first and second grade, I was bullied by a girl a year older than I whose name was Melanie. She had straight, dark hair atop a stocky body, a mean grin on her face, and dirty scuffed-up shoes. Every day at lunch she came over to casually peruse the contents of my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box. I remember I looked down at the rocks on the playground as she approached. I couldn't look at her face. Her shoes announced her. She took what she pleased. I didn't stand up for myself. I just let her.

When I was in sixth grade, there was a close-knit group of girls who weren't very nice to me. They had their own little clique and I wasn't really allowed to be a part of it. They bullied me not by stealing my lunch, but by saying nasty things to my face and behind my back. This time I tried to stand up for myself, but wasn't successful. I was relieved to graduate high school and start over at college where no one knew me.

This pattern has repeated itself throughout my life in various circumstances, but I'm not going to stand for it anymore, especially when it comes to me and my blog. Blogging to me is not about gossip, mud-slinging and nasty comments; it's about reading, writing, sharing ideas, giving constructive criticism, and letting my writer- self out of her shell where she can dare to share her innermost thoughts and stories.

I am standing up. I am not shutting it down. I will continue to write for me. As I have always done.

I'm just gonna write on.

Write On, 2nd Edition: I'm the Queen of Interrupting

Howdy folks! It's time for the 2nd edition of Write On, a new tradition over at Nicole's blog, Tattoos and Teethings Rings. Hop on over to her place and join in the fun! The prompt I've chosen for today is:

Write about your worst personality trait or bad habit. Be honest; none of this "My worst habit is that I'm so kind to everyone...blah blah blah." Time to fess up! (And, since you are aware of this bad habit or trait, is there a reason you haven't changed?)

Although the jury's still out on this one, I'd say my worst habit is frequently interrupting people. I simply can't keep my trap shut wait to interject my brilliance into the midst of whatever conversation happens to be taking place. While I possess a plethora of positive virtues, patience is not one of them, which means it's essentially impossible for me to "hold that thought."

If your kid is 6+ months old and you are whining about getting up with him/her in the night, I will make sure to interrupt and tell you to begin the CIO (Cry It Out) process. Before you can open your mouth to object, I'll shove my dog-eared copy of Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth in your diaper bag. I'll blather on about how if we could listen to our two screaming banshees for five nights in a row, then surely getting your one child to sleep through the night will be a piece of cake. Hell, I'll even offer to come do it for you!

When I asked The Father Load about my bad habits, he was a tad more specific and suggested that it's not my mere interruption that's annoying, it's the fact that I finish his sentences for him.

The Father Load often comes home and starts telling me about the difficult surgeries he's done that day. He'll complain that the old mannish compression stockings he's wearing haven't helped his throbbing legs and feet because he only sat down once for five minutes to scarf a tuna sammie for lunch. I promptly interrupt him and say sarcastically, "Oh so you had a crappy day, too?" quickly followed by, "I'm-sorry-your-day-was-hellish-can-you-please-let-the-dog-out-he-has-to-pee-and-will-you-just-wipe-Izzy's-bum-real-fast-she's-in-there-pooping-and-I-hope-you-don't-mind-leftovers-for-dinner-because-my-day-has-been-horrible-and-I'll-be-damned-if-I'm-setting-foot-in-the-kitchen." He's only just walked in the door and I'm throwing a thousand requests at him and asking for help with the girls. While I know he's been hard at work all day, so have I. I just don't get any respect a paycheck for what I do.

If you even start to say, "I wish I had more time to work out, but with the kids I just..." I will interrupt you, raving about my love for Jazzercise, and promptly drag your ass to class with me. We'll shove your kids and mine in the babysitting room and enjoy an hour without fighting and hair-pulling, even if it means actually exerting ourselves and God forbid sweating. If you dare to say, "But I can't that day," I will slap you upside the head, promise I won't embarrass you in my leotard and leg warmers, and will reward you with alcohol afterwards. Or you can just bring your kids to my house and we can let Jillian Michaels' 30-Day Shred kick our asses. Then you have no excuse. We have a shitload of toys in the basement and the kids can even do the dvd with us if they want. No babysitter required. Abby and Izzy love jumping jacks and push ups. Biddy Boot Camp, anyone?

I don't know why I haven't changed, but I definitely recognize the problem. When The Father Load points it out to me, I become extra cognizant and careful for two days a little while, and then I fall off the wagon again. But it's a double-edged sword sometimes...because if we're in a group and everyone's talking over each other, I don't even try to get a word in edgewise. Then The Father Load accuses me of being anti-social and shy and then some people interpret this as my being stand-offish or not-so-nice.

I guess what I'm saying is that sometimes I'm afraid if I don't interrupt, I won't have a chance to talk. Or I'll forget whatever amazingly insightful thing it was that I was about to say.

So now that I've dished, what are your bad habits? Trust me, I have plenty more, but Nicole only asked us for the worst one. I could go on for days about the rest.

Write On: How I Met My Husband, or, Chivalry Isn't Totally Dead

Tattoos and Teething Rings gave us some writing prompts for her new Write On gig. Tats is one cool chick and she recently sent me a neat book, Judaikitsch: Tchotchkes, Schmattes and Nosherei, just because she's nice like that. Thanks, Tats! Go check her out and link up!

Anytats, the prompt I've chosen to write about is:

How did you meet your husband/wife (or boyfriend/girlfriend)? Was it love at first sight? Did you think he/she was completely obnoxious? Maybe it was your worst date ever?

In October of 1999, some friends asked if they could set me up on a blind date. I reluctantly agreed. George and Laura are dear friends and a darling couple, and for years I baby sat for their three daughters regularly. As most of you know, I am Jewish by birth, but until I met George and Laura I didn't really begin to embrace my Judasim. They inspired me to start learning everything I could. They included me in their weekly Shabbat dinners, invited me to services with them, and I often celebrated Jewish holidays at their home as well.

George is a surgeon and one of his interns,"D," also Jewish, was lonely single and asked him over the high holidays if he knew "any nice Jewish girls." George replied that as a matter of fact, he did. Laura scribbled my name and digits on a tiny piece of paper and discreetly pressed it into D's palm. He still has the small scrap stashed away somewhere. She also wrote my age and that I was a grad student.

D called me soon after and he we talked for an hour. At the end of the call, he asked if I'd like to meet him for dinner. I quickly agreed and grabbed my planner so we could discuss dates.

"How about tomorrow?" he suggested.

Whoa, Nelly. I squashed down the fear that had catapulted itself into my chest and squeaked out, "Sure!"

Fast forward to the following evening. A black Honda Passport pulled into my driveway promptly at 7:00 p.m. I'm dressed in a grey twinset and a navy blue skirt, but my hair is still dripping wet and my dog, Keats, is having a coronary at the prospect of company. I'm flustered and answer the door leaning over to hold my dog back and afraid to look D in the face.

"Please-come-in-make-yourself-comfortable-excuse-my-dog, he-will-calm-down-after-you-let-him-hump-your-leg-for-a-few-minutes. I'm-going-to-finish-getting-ready-now, mmm-kay?" I say in a breathless rush as I dash back to my bathroom, closing the door quickly behind me and letting out a giant sigh of relief all at once. He's cute!!

Once I've finally managed to stop sweating under the blow dryer make myself presentable, we leave my apartment. D actually has a nice car which may as well be a Mercedes compared to my ex's 25-year old heap of green he affectionately called "Esmerelda." D takes it up another notch by gallantly opening my door for me and closing it once I settle myself in. As he walks back around the front of the car, I suddenly know this is a man---not a boy---that I am going on a date with. My stomach starts doing flip flops.

During dinner at a quaint little Italian place, D tells me his entire life story regales me with tales of his childhood over soft candlelight. I try to ignore the Eggplant Parmigiana (my favorite) on my plate because I'm too nervous to stuff my face in front of someone I've just met. The check comes too soon, and D refuses my offer to split the bill. More brownie points for D!

Big score for this guy so far. Not only did he come pick me up in his nice/clean car, he opened the door for me. He let my dog hump his leg and then he paid for dinner! This guy is a keeper!

I'm not sure I knew immediately that he was The One, but it didn't take long. I'm lucky he didn't dump me after our second date, when he took me to see American Beauty on its opening night. I was worried it would be sold out, so en route to the theater, I told him, "The speed limit is 40, but you can go 50," and he laughed at me while he gently accelerated.

As we shared popcorn and peanut M & M's, I kept stealing sideways glances at him. I liked what I saw. When he dropped me off after the movie, he was apparently going to let me go inside without a kiss. But I wanted him to know how I felt, so I planted a big one on him. Yes, I kissed him first!

I suppose that first kiss sealed the deal. We got married on December 1, 2001!