I'm playing catch up...my whole week has been thrown out of wack because of my wonky work schedule. To remedy that, I'm combining yesterday and today's assignments to save time and energy.
Hush & Smooth
His name was Brett and he was a commercial fisherman by day, game booth attendant by weekend night. He was older than I was - not by much, a year or so, and he had the smooth voice of a late great blues singer.
And he smelled like salt-water taffy and the sea.
If I could have bottled it up and taken it home with me, I would have. And even though id only known him for four days I knew that life after Seaside would never be the same.
I felt bad for spending so much time with Brett and not spending as much time with Hannah, but she didn’t seem to notice - her attention was so caught up in Sam that she didn’t seem to notice I wasn’t around.
One night after the sun had set, Brett and I were sitting on the beach, the remnants of a bon fire burning low to the left of us, he turned to me and said, "what do you think will happen when spring break is over and you go back to Seattle?"
I shrugged, not wanting to think about because, honestly, it hurt my hurt. I couldn’t fathom going back to my stumbling existence back in Seattle. I felt like up there I was stumbling through life, stumbling from one point to the next, hoping I’d make it through.
That had all changed now. Maybe it was the sun and that the salt in the air, the sea, whatever, but it all seemed clear now. I don’t know how that made sense, but it did. With Brett, things just seemed to click in the place.
As the fading rays of the setting sun caught his hair in the breeze, I really began to wonder what would happen when I went back to Seattle.
I could break up with William, end our relationship and continue seeing Brett, maybe try that whole long distance thing.
I shivered and leaned in closer to Brett, listening to the oceans hushed lullaby, in and out, in and back out, as waves met the earth before retreating into the sea again.
"It will all work out," I told him even though it felt like a lie.
Brett ran his fingers through my hair. "I hope so," he murmured.
The cork slid out of the neck of the bottle with a wet pop. “Here we go ladies and gentleman,” Emma said as she poured a hearty amount of dark red wine into the table’s glasses. “This has been sitting in my basement probably longer that some people at this table have been alive.” She smiles at Hannah lovingly. Hannah reciprocates by sticking her tongue out at her aunt.
The man from Mississippi picks up his glass, gives it a swirl, and shoves his nose into the glass where he begins to make pig like sniffing noises. “This my dear proprietor,” he cries in his thick southern accent, “is the most full bodied wine I may have ever had the pleasure of –“
His wife silenced him with a brief nod. “No need to be so loud, Truman,” she whispered, her accent was dainty and feminine.
I raised my glass and mimicked the man from Mississippi, swirling the wine, smelling it all before taking a sip. I had no idea what he was talking about. It smelled terrible and tasted even worse. I fought the urge to gag as I swallowed and gently set my cup down, pushing it back across the table with two fingers. Wine, I decide, is disgusting. Thank you, but no. From here on out I will gladly stick to Bud Lite in a frosty brown bottle.
Hannah’s face appears to agree. She sips her glass of wine and grimaces, setting the elegant glass down and pushing it towards mine. She looks at me, then nods toward the doorway. Let’s get out of here, the nod implies. I shake my head in agreement and we both excuse ourselves from the table.
A drizzly rain forced Hannah and I back to her aunt's house an hour after we left for the pier. As we ran through the rain, I pulled up game booth guy's face. I wish I had the nerve to talk to him, to ask his name or number or something.
But that was me, chicken shit Connie.
Hannah reached the stairs first and bound up them, stopping at the top she peered down at me. "What's wrong?" she asks.
"Nothing," I reply, slowly ascending the stairs.
"Liar," Hannah accuses.
"Okay, okay," I say relenting. "The guy at that booth, the one with the milk jugs, remember?"
Hannah nods. "What about him?"
For a moment, I feel foolish and say, "Nothing."
Hannah stares at me dubiously then shrugs. "Whatever. I'm beat, let's head to bed."
I nod my agreement and we slip silently into the sleeping house. Bypassing the shower, I slipped my damp shirt over my head and shimmied out of my shorts, hanging both over the shower curtain.
Pulling on an old, oversized tee shirt I climb into my bed and turn my iPod on, allowing the rush of music to pound against my eardrums so it can whisk away all the incoherent thoughts bouncing around inside my skull.
In my head, the words melt together and William’s face came to mind as the tingle or jolt or whatever you want to call it washed over my nerve endings for the thousandth time this evening. William never made me feel that way. He was as comfortable as a holey pair of sweatpants and who wanted comfort? Not me, that was for sure. I wanted excitement and unpredictability.
I wanted to wake up each day and not know what was in store, not wake up to face the same routine day after day until it became so mundane that I went absolutely stir crazy.
I think back to the day I told William I was going to Seaside for two weeks. He angrily slammed his fist into the table and with a trembling voice said through gritted teeth, “We were supposed to go to San Francisco to see my brother, remember?”
I remembered, but I really did not want to go to San Francisco with William. I love William’s brother to death – he’s funny, vivacious, and flamboyantly gay, but he’s so…alive. It almost makes me wish he were straight because I could definitely see myself loving a man like that until the day I die. He is literally everything William is not. Instead of telling William this, I gently set my fork down on the edge of my plate and said in an even tone, “I do not wish to go to San Francisco. I am going to Seaside with Hannah and that’s pretty much all there is to it.”
William’s lips moved however, the only sound to escape was an incomprehensible sputtering. I picked my fork up and dipped the tongs into the caramel drizzled piece of cheesecake that was as close to heaven as I’d ever get and broke a piece off.
That was the first and last time we spoke of our plans for spring break. The morning we left, William knocked on the dorm room door and bade me farewell and best wishes for an enjoyable trip. I thanked him, dropping a stiff kiss on his cheek and that was the end of it.
Once more, my thoughts drifted to game booth guy. Find out who he is, my subconscious urges. Go to the pier tomorrow and introduce yourself.
I smile in agreement. It sounds like a good plan, I think. I think I’ll just have to do that.
Here's day eight's assignment: ornament. I had a hard time figuring this one out, but I attempted it, so I supposed that's all that really counts at the end of the day.
“Ornament”
Hannah’s aunt lives in an old Victorian that sat on a bluff overlooking the ocean; it was very Wuthering Heights of her. As I climbed out of the car I half expected Heathcliff to come out of the fields with Catherine following close behind him.
As I stood there, staring up at the estate I feel at peace. The serene feeling from earlier on the highway washes over me and again I feel the shift, the ending of one part of my life and the beginning of another.
“What are you doing?” Hannah asks looping her arm through mine, shielding her eyes with the other.
“Oh just admiring your aunt’s house.” I smile down at my best friend and the two of us make our way up the brick path. “We are going to have so much fun,” I gush.
Hannah laughs and says, “Oh, I know. It was such a long winter – and being cooped up inside was so boring. I want to sit and feel the sun on my skin and bask in the warmth and work on my tan and…”
Hanna trails on, listing the ways she planned to spend her spring break. The front door opens as we climb the stairs, Hannah’s aunt, Emma, stands before us. She smiles warmly, opening her arms wide enough to hug us both.
“Oh look at your girls,” she cries as she rushes toward us. I shy away, unsure. I’ve never met her before and her exuberance is something I’m not accustomed to.
She folds the pair of us into her arms and squeezes. “I'm so glad you’re here,” Emma cries. “So, so, so glad. Come in, come in. I’ll show you your rooms and let you get settled in.”
I follow Hannah and Emma into the home’s foyer and gently shut the front door behind me. If I thought the outside of the house was something, the inside blew me away.
The polished wood floors were warm in the setting sun, a Tiffany lamp with a dragon fly inspired shade sits on a low table casting an aquamarine glow on the pale beige wall. I look around at the mix of vintage and modern décor, amazed at how well it worked here.
Emma led the way up the stairs, motioning Hannah and I to follow. “I have two couples checking in tomorrow,” she says over her shoulder. “But aside from that no other guests. Do you girls have plans yet?”
Hannah and I shake our heads no in unison. Yes, we had plans to veg on the beach, but other than that, the next two weeks were ours to do with as we wished.
“Well you should think about visiting the pier tomorrow night. That’s always fun. Oh and there’s the aquarium, and the boardwalk – there’s a lot of cute shops on the boardwalk. All kinds of fun stuff, if you girls are interested.”
“Thanks Emma,” I say as we stop in front of what I assume is our room. “We’ll have to check that out.”
That night, Hannah and I head out for the pier. There is tinny carnival music pumping out of speakers mounted to light poles. People are shouting, glasses are breaking, games are dinging; the cacophony of noise assaults my ears and I flinch, slowly trying to take it all in.
“Come on!” Hannah grabs my arm and the massive crowd quickly swallows us up; it moves as one – one heartbeat, one pulse, one mind. It would be interesting if it weren’t so damn terrifying. I am, as if you hadn’t already guessed it by now, more of a keep to myself and avoid large crowds kind of girl. I prefer quiet places like the library or bookstores, even an occasion coffee shop occasionally.
With her hand still firmly wrapped around my arm, Hannah drags me deeper into the crowd, right into the heart of it. For a moment, there’s this stillness where it’s calm almost. I can hear the rush of the ocean as the waves pound against the sand before being whisked back out to sea.
Then, as if I'm in a vacuum, all the silence is sucked away and the noise descends upon me once more. We break free from the crowd and I look up. Hannah and I are standing in front of a booth where milk bottles are set up in tiny, opaque triangles at the back of the booth.
“Come on,” Hannah says tightening her grip on my arm. “Let’s play!”
I follow, unwillingly, behind her mostly because if I don’t, I fear she will rip my arm off; that’s how deep her nails are embedded in my skin. I manage to free myself, standing back as my best friend brazenly approaches the counter, handing the boy leaning against the wall a crumpled dollar from her back pocket.
“Connie,” she calls. “Get up here and give me a hand.”
I slowly sidle up beside her and pick up a baseball. The leather is smooth from the thousands of fingers that have run over its surface. I want to lift the ball to my nose and inhale, just to see if it still has the leather smell that always reminded me of my father.
The guy running the booth smiles at me. It’s a wry smile, almost as if he can hear my thoughts. I slowly lower the baseball and shoot him a timid smile. He responds with a more encouraging smile and I take it as a sign. I toss the baseball without much pomp and circumstance, an errant pitch that goes far left completely missing the milk bottle set up.
Hannah laughs and hands me another ball. She attempts another throw and misses. This time I focus on the milk bottles and aim the ball at them, mentally willing the ball to knock them over. My arm goes back and as it comes forward, the ball glides off my fingertips hurtling toward the bottles.
It spins in the air like a white striped Christmas ornament caught in the wintry gust blasting through the open front door. The ball hovers there for a second before it connects with the milk bottle display.
Hannah jumps up and down and lets out a little holler. “You did it!” she shrieks.
I nod and step forward to collect my prize. The guy behind the counter smiles at me as he hands me a stuffed dolphin. The light catches his eyes; I stare for a moment as a gentle flutter in my stomach makes me feel sick.
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking the stuffed animal from him. My fingertip[s brushed his. The jolt was incredible, unlike anything I had ever felt before.
“Any time,” he replies with a smile. “You ladies have a nice night.”
Hannah drifts away from the booth, chattering away in her usual fashion. I follow her, a dreamy look pasted on my face. As we head in the direction of the Ferris wheel, I risk a glance over my shoulder. The guy from the booth is staring at me. Our eyes meet and he winks, my face floods red and I quickly turn around.
“You okay?” Hannah asks, to which I respond with a nod.
I think that for the remaining days of boot camp I am going to keep adding onto whatever I write here. Make it a little novella or what have you. Should be interesting. Playing catch up now, so without further ado, day seven of creativity boot camp.
"Fly"
The road stretches out before me shimmering in the afternoon sun light as if God himself planted tiny diamonds just below its tar-like surface. For a moment, the glitter distracts me, for a moment. I focus my attention on the miles and miles of road stretched out before me.
In the passenger seat, Hannah stirs, blinking her eyes slowly before looking at me, a sleepy smile on her face. "I guess I fell asleep," she says.
I give her a wry smile and say, "Yeah, I guess you did."
"Sorry," she replies sheepishly. "I hate long trips in the car; I get bored."
I nod, fiddling with the radio. I was sick of Beyonce. Seriously sick of her. Stations skidded across empty radio air before landing on the smooth styling’s of Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. I sigh, finally at peace. Hannah wrinkles her nose as she turns away from the radio.
"You're so weird," she says her voice bored and uninterested.
I don't bother answering, I already know why she thinks I'm weird, and really, I don't care. I like who I am, whether she approves or not.
"How much further until we get to Seaside?" Hannah asks.
I shrug. "Fifteen minutes or so. Did you make all the arrangements with your aunt?"
Hannah nods, which surprises me. Don't get me wrong, Hannah is my best friend and I love her to death, but her memory is a bit, well sketchy. She has forgetful tendencies, her ability to be told something and then forget it ten minutes later never ceases to amaze me.
However, I do not say anything. I smile and keep driving. Part of me wishes we had flown, but there’s something about flying, about the act of going to the airport and sitting in crowded lobby while weary travelers shuffle by you, their multitude of suitcases being dragged lazily behind them. It felt impersonal and uneventful. At least to me. I preferred the great American road trip, from packing the car to making wrong turns and parking on the side of the road with a map spread out on the hood of the car. You were free to go where you wanted, to see things that you normally wouldn’t give the time of day to. The trip was more personal when you drove.
But really - and I will never admit this to anyone, out loud, ever - I wanted to drive so I could spend more time away from William. College was ending soon; just a few short months left, and I knew what the next step would be for us. I mean, there were really only two things we could do. We could be engaged or break up. I was somewhere between the two. I loved him, but William wasn’t someone I could see myself spending every day of the rest of my life with. Maybe the next six months, but the next eighty years? Yeah, thanks but no.
Up ahead the green highway sign informs me that the exit for Seaside of three miles away. On the radio, Ella finishes her song and Frank Sinatra pours out of the cars stereos as Ol’ Blue Eyes asks me to come fly with him.
There’s an overall feeling washing over me as I hum along. Things are going to be different after Seaside. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, I just now that a shift has begun and there is no going back.
Day six here in creativity boot camp land. Again, struggled with today's word. I don't know why, but it made me stop and go, "hmm."
So without further ado, here goes nothing.
"Fluid"
I travelled south, snow white nothingness spread out for miles and miles in front of me. I felt myself gaining momentum as I slid down a small hill, flying toward my unknown destination.
Peering behind me, I see another tear cresting over the edge of a freckle spotted cheek. I had no idea where I was headed as a chin rushed toward me. I flew off the edge and hung in the free space motionless for a moment, my view of the world unobstructed and I took it all in. then I fell, the floor rushing toward me, the world a brown blur.
If I had a voice I would have shouted, the rush, the exhilaration was too much to take. I wanted to shout with glee.
I am a tear.
A small inconsequential drop of liquid. I express you fears and frustrations. I carry your burdens and whisk them away so you feel better.
Today’s Creativity Boot camp assignment was to let the phrase “grow” inspire you. Here is my work for the day.
Growing, Growing, Growing, Gone
We grew apart. That much was clear in the way she looked at me. I secretly wondered if she had met someone else. If she did, it wasn’t obvious; there were no missing chunks of unaccountable time, no longing looks across rooms when we went out.
Maybe it was just me. Maybe I was just boring, maybe she just outgrew me.
Maybe.
Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe we outgrew each other, maybe she thought I was having an affair, or I was boring or I outgrew her.
The truth was though; I missed her every single second of every day. I liked to come home early from work and stand in the mudroom, listening as Susan cleaned, humming along as she ran the vacuum down the hallway, or scrubbed the bathrooms. I liked the innocent way she was when no one was around.
It made me long for the days of old, when we would drink red wine of the porch in the early evenings of the summer or take random road trips where the destination is unknown.
I sighed when I really wanted to scream, though screaming would have been unsuitable for a man. So I stayed quiet and just sat back and let forty years of marriage circle the drain.
Destruction was easier, especially when you had no idea how to fix the problem, let alone what the problem was.
When I first thought about the phrase “heavy metal” naturally the first thing that came to mind was very literally heavy metal music and I thought, boo, how obvious, so I dove into my mind, searching for something that could be twisted into fiction and suit the phrase, “heavy metal.”
Almost instantly, something came to me. I almost did a happy dance. I probably would have if I hadn’t had such a horrid day at work. But letting the idea brew got me through the day and I’m excited to share it with you all.
"Heavy Metal"
When I was eighteen, I met a guy who was really into cars. Well, not cars really, just one car; the Trans Am. His dream was to recreate the Knight Rider car, KITT.
One night, after coming home from the beach, my friend Stacy and I decided that it was too early to go home, so we drove by Mike’s house to see if he was home.
We found him under the hood of the Trans Am, coveralls pulled down, hanging low on his hips as he slid out from under the car.
“Mikey!” I shouted out the window as he sauntered down the driveway, a cheesy smile on his face.
“Jules, what’s up, chica?”
“Nothing much,” I said hopping out of the car. “We were down at the beach, about to head home now. How’s it going?” I pointed toward the hulking, hollowed out shell of the Trans Am.
Mike shrugged, running the back of his hand across his forehead. “She still won’t start.”
“Show me?” I asked leading the way toward the car. Mike followed, wiping his hands on a rag hanging out of his back pocket.
We stood side by side, so close we were almost touching, the sparks between us lighting up the summer night like a miniature fourth of July fireworks display.
“Not much to show,” Mike said as he angled the light over the engine. “I think the fuel pump is bad, but really, I have no idea.”
I nodded, liking the way his hand brushed against mine as he spoke. Truth was, we loved each other, always had, probably always would but we were both too stubborn to say so, so we pretended that we were content being just friends.
When he finally got the Trans Am working a few months later, we took it for a drive where it broke down five miles from his house.
Mike got out of the car and popped the hood of the Trans Am, peering down at the silent engine. I sidled up next to him, looking down. “what’s wrong?” I asked.
Mike shrugged. “Again, I have no idea. I’m amazed I ever got it started. Guess we better start walking.”
I gazed down the unlit five-mile long stretch of road and sighed. Mike pocketed the keys and reached for my hand, his fingers entwining with mine. We walked in silence for a mile or so when I finally slid my hand out of his, shoving it into the pocket of my shorts.
“What’s wrong?” Mike asked reaching for my hand again.
“Nothing,” I said kicking a rock with the toe of my flip flop.
Mike reached for my hand again. “Are you mad because the car broke down?”
Shaking my head no, I kept walking.
“What’s wrong then?”
I glanced at him briefly, then turned my eyes back to the road.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know the car would break down. It’s a stupid hunk of metal that just quit working.”
“Mike,” I said softly. “It’s not that. We’re friends. Why go ruining that over something like this, something that might not even work in the long run.”
Mike and I walked silently back toward his house. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. You’re too good for my heavy metal heart anyway.”
Its day three of creativity boot camp and the random word of the day is multilayered. So without further ado, here goes nothing and my interpretation of the word "Multilayered."
Multilayered Monstrosity
When my daughter was getting ready to turn five, she had a deep-rooted obsession with all things princess. Her room was decked out in princess style everything. For her fifth birthday I spent hours crafting princess inspired invitations, putting together princess worthy gift bags and designing her birthday cake. It was going to be a huge feat, but I had faith that if I woke up early enough I could put together a castle cake that would make even Cinderella jealous.
Let's just say it did not go so well.
Why? you ask. One word.
Well, actually two.
My husband.
He decided that he knew how to make a princess cake better than me, so he took over and began hacking up the sheet cakes I spent all morning (and I mean all morning, the scent of yellow cake and butter cream frosting was permeating the air at three thirty in the morning as Michael Buble crooned dreamily on the radio, his deliciously smooth voice keeping me company as I worked) making. He had no idea what I was doing, or even how I was going about it.
Angrily, I stepped back and watched as he hacked and destroyed, piling drifts of thick frosting onto the haphazard, leaning stacks of cake, all the while thinking to myself, what in God's name does he think he's doing?
After several minutes of unsuccessful frosting, Steve put down the spatula and turned to me, eyebrows knitted together in unspoken frustration and said, "I give up, you can do it."
I looked at him, appalled. I could do it; I could try to fix what he screwed up. I wanted to hit him. I don't condone spousal abuse, but this one time I could have just decked him and not felt guilty. He did, after all, deserve it.
I took the spatula from him, turning my back so he couldn’t see the angry tears spilling down my face. I tried to fix it, tried piecing the cake back together but it just looked...well, if I'm being honest, horrid. It was a multilayered monstrosity. a layer of cake here, a glob of frosting there, another layer of cake tossed on top. so I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed the trashcan and pressed the lever. the lid swung up swiftly, anxiously anticipating the delectable treat I was about to toss into its waiting mouth. then I swept the mess into the trashcan, watching as what could have been tumbled over the side of the island, bits and pieces breaking off and falling to the floor as the cake tumbled toward the trashcan.
Steve came back into the kitchen, standing in the doorway a look of horror on his face. "What are you doing?" he cried.
I bit my tongue, swallowing the angry stream of vulgar profanities that fought their way back up my throat. Instead, I looked at him and said, "It was never going to work. Kenzie!"
My giddy five year old bounced into the kitchen, looking around, her eyes searching the counters for the princess cake that would not be. "Mommy can't make the princess cake. How do you feel about Sponge Bob instead?"
"I like Sponge Bob," she said and skipped out of the kitchen.
I breathed a sigh of relief, that was too easy, I thought as I started pulling out the necessary ingredients all the while ignoring my hover husband.
"Are you mad?" he asked me.
You bet your ass I am, I thought. I looked, smiling sweetly and said, "No, why would I be?"
"Just wondering," he said and ambled out of the kitchen.
The Sponge Bob cake turned out beautifully, but I was left with this ache in my stomach. My daughter wanted something that I was unable to give her, all because my husband decided I was too...I don't know, daft to pull off a castle birthday cake.
It's been almost three years since that birthday party, and never once have I told my husband what he did to me that day.
It's okay though, because he no longer comes into the kitchen when I bake birthday cakes.
*This is a fictitious take on a real story, there was supposed to be a castle cake, it did not work out, and was later turned into a sponge bob cake. *
I have to say I was super excited to see that today's topic was picnics. Yesterday's submission for Creativity Boot camp was a tough one, but today flowed out of my fingers faster than I could type it. Again, sticking with writing as my medium, I wrote a super short story. Please don't forget to head over and check out some of the other submissions these very talented folks have submitted over the last couple of days!
"Not Your Average Ordinary Picnic"
"I love the way you smile at me. I love the way your hands reach out-"
I reached out and jabbed the button on the radio in anger; or maybe it was frustration or sadness. The kids sat sulking in the backseat as the rain pounded away at the windshield, the wipers swishing back and forth hypnotically, lulling the car to sleep with its steady lullaby.
As I crossed over the bridge, ten-finger death grip on the steering wheel, I hit a pothole, the same one I hit every time I crossed this darn bridge. The picnic basket in the cargo area of my ancient Blazer popped up, its wooden handle peeking over the top of the back seat before landing again. The scent of fresh cut fruit - pineapple and strawberry, watermelon and banana combined in the confined space of the car creating a heady, tropically intoxicating scent.
Gazing into the rear view mirror briefly, I saw the disappointment etched into the faces of my two children. The picnic was something we did every month. We marked another month gone by without Jim by having a picnic and not letting our grief swallow us whole.
Try as I might I felt the grief start to wash over me, the stress of raising two kids on my own, working a full time job and juggling bills, a mortgage and a million other things all beginning to wear away at my carefully crafted façade of happiness. I wanted to close my eyes, to press my fingertips to my temples and rub away the fear and sadness.
Instead, I gave myself a firm mental shake, shedding the coat of self-pity. Where is it written that you have to picnic outside? I thought. Hell, who says the sun even has to be shining for a picnic? We can set up a blanket in the living room, push all the furniture out of the way and have an opposite day picnic. It’s already raining, we can eat dessert first, then our sandwiches and vegetables. Play board games, but celebrate the winner before we even play.
The little voice in the back of my head whispered to me softly, "You can do this," she says. "You've always been able to do it." Then the song from that Nemo movie popped into my head and I said in a soft voice, "You know what you gotta do when life gets you down? Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do we swim, swim, swim."
I stifled a giggle and let out a long exhale as the car tires bounced onto the smoother surface of the highway, the grey sky cloudy behind me. I glanced up in the rear view mirror again and said, "Who wants to have a wacky picnic?" in a voice full of honest to goodness cheer and happiness.
Helen and David looked up, their interests piqued. "What's that?" Helen asked.
David’s eyes shone with definite interest. "Can we make a tent and watch movies and eat lots and lots of snacks until we feel like our insides are going to burst?"
"Sure," is what I said, "no way mister, I don’t think so," is what I thought.
"Awesome!"
"How about it Helen?" I asked, meeting my daughter’s gaze in the mirror. She gave a tiny smile and nodded. "Well that settles it then. A backwards picnic it will be!"
As I signaled and exited the highway, I realized that you had two options when life handed you lemons. You could peel the rind and take a bite of the bitter pulp, make the face and vow to never again eat a lemon, or you could cut them up and make yourself a refreshing glass of lemonade, sit back and adjust your perspective.
Credits:
Opening line is a line from a Sarah McLachlan song titled, “Elsewhere.”
And of course, the song from Finding Nemo, I don’t know who wrote it but Ellen DeGeneres sang it in the movie.
I thought long and hard about whether or not to take this plunge, but like I said...I'm not happy unless I'm overworked and underpaid. This experience, however, will be rich in rewards so I went ahead and decided to go for it.
Today's topic was the word, Ivory. I decided that my medium would be writing since that is what I'm best at...and since I had a super hard time with this word I wrote a quick blurb on my lunch break.
Imagine you and me
Vacant heart's
Our tears combining into one
Reminiscent of days gone by
Years fade...wonderment of what could have been
I'm not a poem writer, but I gave it a valiant effort.
because I am the kind of person who always has to be doing something
I signed up for this a week or so ago..and it starts this Sunday..
I am sooooo excited to begin this creative and expressive journey...I have always been a creative person...always doing something..finding some way to make something and as I've gotten older I've really gotten into different mediums...I taught myself to sew, knit and crochet..I write, I doodle (not very well) and I've even gotten a job that forces me to flex my creative bone every minute of my ten hour work day...I am a photographer (and I feel like a fool for saying that...it seems like everyone says they are a photographer) maybe I should clarify...I am a portrait photographer trapped in the corner of a Belk inside of a mall...and I love every second of it.
So needless to say...totally stoked for this course to start!
On a totally different note...I checked my email when I got home from work and I have an email from the people who do those "aha moments" commercials..they are coming to Jacksonville (where I live) and want me to record a "defining moment" to share...I'm contemplating doing it, but I have to work that day so we'll see..either way it's a great opportunity.
