Monday, February 24, 2014


Last night, while we were waiting for the tubby to get ready, The Bird sat on my lap and gave me ferberts on my neck to make "tooting noises".

"Oh no!" I said.  "You tooted on me! Gross!!!"

This made her giggle with the innocence of a kid blowing ferberts and having that be the best thing EVER. Better than Disneyland.  Better than ice cream.  Better than a new dress. She continued to blow ferberts on me and I continued to make her laugh by saying she was tooting on me.

After a while, I started to tickle her when she leaned in to give a ferbert and she erupted in a fit of giggles. This went on for five minutes.  There was so much laughing and bonding... it was a beautiful moment for me.  There was no better place in the world at that moment than sitting in our kitchen, listening to my 4-year-old's laughter, while her sister sat next to us and watched and laughed.  The Bean never made a move to get in on the action, suprisingly.  She just sat there with her blankie and laughed with - and at  - her sister.

After a while, I told The Bird to go give daddy a ferbert.  As she ran off to make toot noises on his shoulder, The Bean climbed on to my lap. She smiled at me and leaned in for what I expected to be a ferbert on my neck.

Instead, she lovingly put her head on my chest, patted me softly on the shoulder, sighed deeply...


A full-on, no holds barred FART.  At first, I was confused.  Did what I think just happened... JUST HAPPEN???

And then she leaned back, looked at me with a twinkle in her eyes... and threw her head back and laughed like the evil genius she is.

Lest I think that it was a coincidence, she did it two more times.  Sheer will-powered farts on my lap.  Followed by hysterical laughing.  Both hers... and mine.

Because I'm a good mom that way.

Later that night, when I was recounting what happened to Benny, I admitted that I really shouldn't have been surprised.  She is HIS daughter, after all. He had the nerve to be offended that I was suggesting that he, himself, was able to toot through sheer willpower.

For about 15 seconds.

Before he demonstrated that it was, in fact, true.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014


Finding my cat's old collar in the console of my car last week got me to thinking about her... and I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.  

I got Nytro from a shelter in Huntsville when I was in college.  My roommate and I both decided that if no one would date us, we may as well start being the Crazy Cat Ladies and really sell the crazy.  And yes, we also started The Boys Don't Like Me Club.  I believe I was President because I was the oldest, and I'm told that's how things work.

It was a good plan.  

Shortly thereafter, I met Benny... who wasn't exactly a fan of Nytro (nor she of him) but because they both loved me, they found a way to make it work.

I had her for 13 years.  She died in 2010, when I was about 6 months pregnant with The Bean.  

A lifetime ago. 

The day after she died, I went to the coffee shop with my laptop and big belly, and poured my heart into a blog.  Cheap therapy.

When I found the entry today, it made me think about things from a different perspective than I had before.  I guess that's what growing up does for you.  

I had Nytro for longer than I've been married, and yet... I got too busy for her.  When I became a mother, she became an afterthought.  I began rushing through so much of my life, that I didn't notice parts of my life were being neglected and withering away.  As I read this, I realized there are so many things in my life that I haven't been attentive to.  When you've got two kids under the age of 4, well, you get caught up in just living that life.  Surviving each day.  You're trying to soak up every moment ... and at the same time, trying not to let those moments drive you insane.  And it just seems like we need to slow down.  We need to take care of the things and people around us who matter.  Who sometimes become a low priority because you've got kids who need you to wipe their butt or their nose, who need you to 'watch diss!', who need you to feed them and read them a story and cuddle with them and take care of them when they're sick.  They're the vocal ones. They NEED to be vocal to survive.  You just can't ignore them because they won't LET you. You're not allowed to have adult conversation in front of them because it's all about them.  But there are others - other people, other things - that don't speak up.  They may not be dying, but you're losing touch with them.  You're losing touch with things that fulfill your soul and help make you complete.  Gardening, reading, writing, date night, girl's night out.  All of these things... you need them in your life. 

Nytro... she was never vocal.  And I lost her.  And in doing so, lost a part of myself.  

I need to remember that.  


November 27, 2010
Dear Nytro,
I wish I had left you there. Under your favorite bush. The one that always seems to be in the direct line of the sun, and you would doze for hours under. The one that also served as camouflage when you didn't want to be found.

If I had left you there, maybe things would have been easier.

For you.

For me.

Even for Benny.

But I didn't. When we got home from our Thanksgiving trip to the farm, we found you laying under that bush, just like you always have.

Only you weren't sunning yourself. It was 30 degrees out. And you weren't moving.

I thought you were dead.

I called out your name, and you didn't even flinch. I touched you, and your tail only lightly twitched. And you still didn't raise your head or open your eyes.

I wish I had left you there. I wish I had gone in, grabbed a blanket and a hot pad... and let you die the way you lived life. Comfortably and on your own terms.

I could have sat there with you in the garden, by your favorite bush.  It would have been a cold, yet peaceful passing.

Instead, I took you from your chosen location, wrapped you in a towel and rushed you to the vet. To the place you hated most in this world. To a world full of stainless steel tables, IV's and vet techs rushing around trying to stave off the inevitable.

Has city living really taken that much of the farm out of me? I grew up understanding clearly the circle of life. I had never seen a pet actually die in front of my eyes, but I have heard the sound of the rifle when a horse had to be put down. I saw  the anguish in my parents eyes when they had to tell us that they accidentally ran over the dog or the cat.

And all of that sucked. But I got over it and moved on.

After all, this is how life works. Rarely did a dog or cat live past five years on the farm. Exposure to the elements, dangers from the highway, coyotes or even neighbors who have too much time and bullets on their hands.... this was all a part of having pets.

But you... you were different. 13 years old. I can't believe you made it that long. I can't believe that the little kitten I brought home from the shelter 13 years ago and who had nothing but attitude from day one was still around after graduation from college, marriage, a new house, a baby and another pregnancy. It was my new instinct to do whatever I could to help you. You were only 13... you still had a few more years left.

On the drive there, in the back of my mind I knew that when older animals are ready to die, they usually find a quiet place to go - like a favorite bush - to make the transition. And I blew it for you. But I wasn't ready yet. One day later and I'm still not ready.

As we sat there with you in the room, and the vet talked about things like kidney failure and total body shutdown, I just looked into your mostly lifeless eyes. You never blinked. You were already gone, weren't you? Your body hadn't quite stopped working at that point, but you were ready to go.

Benny says that you held on as long as you did so that you could say good-bye. I don't know if that's true or not. See, for the rest of my life, I'll believe that I'm responsible for your death. I will never believe that it was your "time to go".

While yesterday was pretty much a blur, I remember the vet asking me when you started to lose weight. He asked how long you had smelled so bad. He asked if you were drinking water. He asked when was the last time I noticed that you were "normal".

I didn't really have an answer for any of those questions. Had I noticed you had lost weight? Yes. On Monday I picked you up and thought you felt lighter. But in my haste of being a Mommy, I attributed it to the fact that my "normal" these days is that of a 28 pound toddler. I noticed that day that you seemed a little sluggish. But I thought it might just be the cold and since you were getting older, it was effecting you more.

When was the last time you were normal? When was the last time I did more than give you a passing pat on the back or rub on the head as I was feeding you? When was the last time I did more than acknowledge your existence when Hazel was petting you before I rushed her into the car to go to the store or school or a play date?



I failed you, Nytro. In the worst way.

While we sat in that room hoping your body would warm up, I rubbed your ears. I scratched your chin. I told you that it was okay if you had to go. That you had lived a good life. Your eyes sparked a little when I scratched your chin. That always was your favorite. You had lost your voice, but it seemed like you were trying to talk to me. But they said that it was just spasms.

When the vet was finally able to get an IV in after 30 minutes of trying due to your collapsed veins, I started to think that maybe you were going to pull through this. You always were a fighter. You rarely backed down from a fight with the neighborhood strays that sometimes ventured onto our property. Of course, you also knew that in any fight, Benny or I would soon be bursting through the door in our bathrobes ready to take out whichever cat was messing with you that night.

So, when you started to perk up after they got some fluids in you, I felt myself relax with relief. You were going to be okay. Just had to get some fluids in you... maybe some meds... and pamper you for a little while.

I thought that we had dodged a bullet.

As the vet talked about what was possibly going on with you, you started to struggle... like you were trying to get up and move.  At first I thought: There's my girl. Hates the vet!!

But then, I knew... something wasn't right.

"What's wrong?"

The vet listened to your heart. There was a rapid heartbeat, but you weren't breathing. Suddenly, you gave one last huge exhale. Your eyes dilated. Your heart stopped.

And that was it.

You were gone.

Just like that. Right in front of me.

Words continue to fail me when I think about witnessing that event. When I think about what you went through in those final moments... when I think about the relief I felt mere seconds before you died... my heart breaks into pieces.

I remember looking at the vet and asking him if he was sure you were gone. I couldn't believe it. Just like that. So fast. Gone.

It's so unfair.

I want a chance to make it up to you. I want the chance to sit with you on the porch and rub your belly again. I want the chance to take you to the vet the second I noticed your weight loss. I want to hear the little bell on your collar jingle outside the door to remind me that it was 5 minutes until dinner time and you wanted to let me know that you knew this.

I want you to meet our new baby in February.

I could have prevented this. And I didn't. Because I was busy. Because I felt like you could take care of yourself. Because life got in the way.

And for that, I'll never forgive myself.

After you passed, we were left with the decision of what to do next. It's too cold here to bury anything in the ground, and I decided I didn't need your ashes. I wouldn't know what to do with them. I said good-bye to your spirit... I was in the room when you made the transition, and didn't need anything else. I even refused the paw-print ornament that they offered to make. I don't know why... other than the fact that I already have a lifetime of memories of you, and more pictures than I know what to do with. An ornament doesn't really seem your style, you know? A framed hairball seems to be more you. But, I'll settle for your collar and bell.

It breaks my heart to know that when we go out in the mornings to get into the car, Hazel will look for you, and you won't be there. She will never again point at you, say "Kee-Kee!" and then excitedly walk over to you while you are eating and softly pet you. She won't remember you. She'll never get to laugh at you when you get another haircut in the summer. She'll never get to snuggle with you and hear you purring.

But, I'll remember all of that. I'll remember those 13 years with fondness. Both the good and the bad.

I'll remember how you never wanted to drink out of your water dish... preferring instead my glass of water. I'll remember how you never ever got aggressive with us... but let us know of your displeasure by peeing in our shoes or the closet. I'll remember how when you were little, you would wait for me to get home from practice and hop in the shower, and would then jump on the counter, grab my elastic band I had just taken from my hair and take it to my closet and hide it in an old pair of shoes I never wore. I found those hair bands 9 months later when I was throwing those shoes out. I'll remember the exact day when I realized that I didn't own a cat, but that my cat owned me. It was the day I ended up apologizing to you for yelling at you for knocking over my drink. I'll remember the first night I brought you home and you snuggled up in the crook of my neck and slept there all night. I'll remember how you were a one-person cat who didn't really need anyone else in her life. I'll remember all the days we made fun of your cow bag... especially after a haircut. I'll remember how much you hated getting a haircut, but how much you enjoyed it after the fact. I'll remember how you used to look out the window at the birds and smack your lips. I'll never have a Christmas where I don't remember you sleeping under the tree for a month. I'll remember when you caught a baby quail and brought it into the house to play with... and then got bored. Watching me chase that baby bird around the house was definitely entertaining for you. I think I even saw you smile, before regaining your composure and feigning indifference. I'll remember the day I found a rat in the house... a rat that was bigger than you.  You took one look at it, then me standing on the bed with a broom over my head screaming... and then slowly turned around and left me to fend for myself.  I found you later on the couch dozing.  I'll remember how you never got too excited or upset about anything. EVER. You had the most calm demeanor of any cat I've known... except if dinner was late.

But I'll never forget the fact that you were there for me during some rough times in my life. When all you had to do was curl up in my lap and start purring and I knew that things would be okay. The weekend when both Benny and my roommate moved away.  When I was broke as a joke and couldn't afford to fill up the car with gas, much less give you as much food as you wanted. As long as I had you, everything was fine. The therapy you provided me in those days was amazing and those who don't have pets... will never understand.

I'm sorry that I failed you in your time of need, Nytro. I will never not feel guilty about the role I played in your passing. And the fact that your passing wasn't what you had hoped for.

But thank you for hanging on long enough to say good-bye.

I will always love you.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

The Styrofoam Perspective

The morning started off a little hectic.  Someone didn't like that we were having Cheerios with milk.  And she also didn't like that she had to wear a nice sweater with 3/4 sleeves, rather than the tank-top she had her heart set on while it was 30 degrees outside.  So, when Mommy turned her back, guess who accidentally-on-purpose spilled her milk ALL OVER HERSELF?

Someone else was upset because she wanted 500 ponytails, and Mommy only gave her two.

Someone else was upset because he'd left his car at the office and couldn't get out of the chaos sooner because he needed a ride to work.

And then someone else was all:   "What's the big deal?  I call this a Tuesday!"

Luckily, things calmed down rather quickly (as they always do on Tuesdays) and we piled in the car to head to day care.  I had forgotten that it was Show and Share Day, but The Bird had apparently remembered and Daddy had helped her pick out something to take.  Can't remember to put on underwear every day, but totally remembers Show and Share Day every Tuesday...  but, whatever.

We were almost to day care when The Bird started screaming and sobbing. I looked in the rear view mirror and... yes, yes indeed... her face is melting off.  This isn't exactly out of the norm for her, but it wasn't clear this time what the deal was until Benny turned around in his seat to address the face melting.

"It's okay, sweetie!  Look!  Now you have two pieces of styrofoam.  And two is better than one!"
"Um... styrofoam?"
"Yea.  It's Show and Share Day."
"And you gave her styrofoam?"
"Hey!  She picked that piece out all on her own!  What's the big deal?"
"The big deal is that it's styrofoam.  And not even a solid piece of styrofoam!  No... it's two pieces of broken styrofoam!  Who brings broken styrofoam for show and share?  I normally don't care what people think, but surely we can do better than two pieces of broken styrofoam! PEOPLE WILL TALK!"

"No way!  She loves it!  She wants to share it with her friends."
"She is NOT sharing styrofoam at Show and Share."

And thus began the mad scramble of digging through the console of the car to find something acceptable to share with The Bird's class.

Found:  Half bottle of tums, knock-off Louis Vitton clutch, phone charger cords for phones we no longer own, a half-dozen receipts for airport parking, the collar my cat used to wear which I've been apparently holding on to since she died 3 years ago, a Cadbury egg that someone had hidden from me at least 2 years ago, one earring, a kids toothbrush, STAMPS!, a baby sock, half-eaten bag of Jalapeno Cheetos, parking ticket from WSU, a DVD of an ultrasound of The Bean in the womb, an empty CD case, a wash cloth, Bonnie's fish collar from when she was just tiny and didn't make my brain bleed, MY DISCOVER CARD!, 87 cents in pennies and nickles, a looney from our trip to England 7 years ago... and Jimmy Hoffa.

I know. It's a big console.

Not Found:  Anything "shareable". better believe I sold The Bird on taking Bonnie's collar to class.  "Look!  Look at the fishies on her collar!  Those are Daddy's favorite animals! Can you remember when Bonnie was so small that this fit on her neck?"

The more I think about it, I'm not sure why I was so upset by the styrofoam.  I mean, the woman writing this?  As a little girl, her parents brought peacocks to Show and Tell when she was in 1st grade... Live peacocks.  Plural.  More than one.  And she then had to help chase said peacocks down when they got loose in the school.

The SAME little girl also introduced her school to lice in the 2nd grade because her parents had caught a rock chuck and kept him as a pet... and did you KNOW that animal lice can live on humans, too?

(Side note:  When The Biologist I Sleep With heard this story, he told me to change rock chuck to yellow-bellied marmot because it's the same thing as a rock chuck, but sounds soooo much worse.  "I mean, WHO KEEPS A YELLOW-BELLIED MARMOT AS A PET, BABE?"  I told him he was getting to biologist-y on me, and people around here?  They know what a rock chuck is... and they'll be asking themselves the same. exact. question.)

You know what?  Styrofoam would have been absolutely fine. 

Sunday, February 9, 2014

One Billion Rising

I've had a lot of response from friends about performing in the Vagina Monologues.  Most of it centers around the:  "That is so cool!  I would never dare get up in front of people to do something like that!" variety.

I don't blame them.  Truth be told, I'm absolutely terrified of doing it.  For one, I've struggled with a slight speech impediment my whole life.  Most people don't notice it or if they do, they pretend that they don't... because they're nice people.  But I know it's there.  And I work hard to make sure it doesn't slip out when I'm speaking in public.  Most of the time I'm successful... but sometimes the lisp shows up and I suddenly sound like I'm drunk... and you're my new best friend.

Secondly... well, I've never been on stage before.  I've gotten up and spoken to rooms full of college coaches and AD's and it's no problem.  Because I speak their language.  I have played basketball in front of thousands of people and that's no biggie either... because I grew up on a basketball court.  But a stage? OMG. Do you know that they shine bright lights on you on a stage?  And that everyone - EVERYONE - is focused on you on the stage?  There's no hope that they're looking at your coach or your teammate.  There's no chance that they won't notice if you pick the wedgie out of your butt. 

It's just you and the audience.

And I should probably stop because I'm about to talk myself out of this.

But with all the congratulations and words of encouragement my friends have expressed, no one has ever asked why.  Which is totally understandable.  I mean, how much of a douche do you have to be to go up to someone who is currently trying to grow, and be all:  "Why are you doing this? Why 'grow' in this way?"

And the very simple answer to the question no one has asked is this:  I have daughters.

Do you realize that 1-in-3 women will be beaten or raped in her lifetime?

That's 1 billion women.  That's so many zero's I'm not even going to bother and figure out how many.  But I do guesstimate that that number is only slightly less than the amount of questions my 2YO can ask in one day.

I have never been a victim of physical violence.  But, I have friends who have been.

Too many friends. 

Women who I admire more than they will ever know... who faced horrors that no one should ever have to experience.  Most people who know these women will never know what they've been through, and I'm blessed that they felt enough trust to share their experiences with me. And humbled.  And honestly?  More than a little pissed off that they were ever hurt in such a way.  I want to throttle the people that did this to them.  I want to set their faces on fire and kick them in their polar vortex. 

So, when Good Company Theater asked me to appear in a production of The Vagina Monologues, how could I say anything but yes? 

Eve Ensler, the woman who wrote the Vagina Monologues, based it on dozens of interviews with women.  Her play addresses women's sexuality and the social stigma surrounding rape and abuse. In 1998, she established V-Day, which advocates that violence against women and girls must end. To do this, once a year groups around the world are allowed to produce a performance of the play, and use the proceeds for local charities and programs that work to end violence against women and girls.

Enter Good Company Theater, stage right.

And the beneficiary of the proceeds, YCC, stage left.

Add a few professional actors and a couple of complete novices who just happen to visit the coffee shop where the owner of GCT works on the side... and BOOM!  You have the ingredients to change your little corner of the world.

I've read all of the scripts and there were some that were just... well, it was too hard to think about my friends going through what was so plainly written on the paper.  It was too much.  So, I chose something that I could identify with. Somewhat.  Maybe next time, I'll have more courage to step into a role of which I have absolutely no experience with and speak their truth.  For now, I'm still adjusting to the fact that I'm on stage with a group of amazing women who are going to kill it... and I'm just hoping I can keep up.

The Vagina Monologues and the One Billion Rising movement are important.  They're important to everyone... not just survivors.  They're important because of friends that were abused... the ones we know about, and the ones we don't.  They're important because of our daughters.  Daughters who have so much that they'll already have to overcome and fight for in this world simply because they're female, that adding the threat of violence against their bodies and their minds is appalling.  They're important because of our sons.  The boys we raise alongside our daughters, and what we teach them at home... what society teaches them... what their friends teach them when we're not looking about what it means to be a man.  It's important to all of our children to see us treat each other with respect, and stand up for ourselves... and for those too hurt to do it for themselves.  

If we do that - if we change our culture in our little corner of the world - it will spread.  And it will make our world better.  

That 1 Billion Rising?  It starts with one. 

Thursday, February 6, 2014

How You Can Tell If Your 2YO Is A Sociopath

During dinner last night, I was visiting with the girls about what they did at school that day.  Usually, the answer is "nothin'"... when I KNOW that they painted with apples, or played tagged or poured water onto their bed and got sent to timeout.

So, lately, I've been changing the questions to spark their memory.

Me: "Bird, what was your favorite thing you did at school today?"

The Bird:  "I made a heart and colored it.  

Me:  "Oh yea?"

The Bird:  "Yea.  But I didn't get to paint it (quivers lip). Miss Jennifer said I couldn't paint it today.  And I couldn't put stickers on."

Me:  "Oh.  Maybe you can do that tomorrow?"

The Bird:  On the brink of tears... "Maybe."

Me:  "Bean, what was your favorite thing you did at school today?"

The Bean:  Slyly looks over at her sister before announcing "I made a heart AND painted it AND put stickers on."  Continues munching her carrot as though her sister's face isn't melting off right in front of us. 

At this point, not sure if I'm more concerned at the delight that The Bean takes in her sister's misery... or the fact that she COMPLETELY MADE THE WHOLE THING UP.

Sunday, February 2, 2014


I'm a little late on posting my resolutions for 2014.  Every time I sit down to think about what I'd like to accomplish this year, someone needs their butt wiped... or has spilled some milk... or is mad because someone else is looking at her.

But to be honest, I'm just not a big fan of the idea that I need a list of things that I need to accomplish in 12 months to make me a better person...a happier, more fulfilled, slightly less heavy person.  Look, we ALL know that there's no way I'm going to stop popping my zits, no matter how many times I end up looking like I got hit with shrapnel getting ready for work that morning.  We ALL know that I will continue to procrastinate... because at this point, it really is an art form.  We ALL know that keeping up with the laundry is for women who I simply can't be friends with.  We ALL know that I'm not going to give up chocolate or Coke or any of my many other "vices".  Because deep down?  I really don't want to.  I love my vices. 

So, no lists.  

But, that doesn't mean that I haven't been thinking about my life.  About where I am, where I thought I would be and where I want to be.  And I keep thinking of the typical resolutions and how it's so easy to get overwhelmed by lists and goals.  Please.... I know me and I know that within a couple of months, I'll forget my resolution.  Probably because the kids will be fighting and all semblance of self-control will be out the window and I'll find the nearest mirror (preferably in my own home, but it could be at Target) and start popping zits.  Resolution be damned.

The other day I ran into a woman, a Presbyterian minister, who told me that her resolution this year was to live ferociously.  Ferociously. Wow.  What can anyone say about that?  Nothing.  And you know why?  Because it's perfect.  She's out there living her life... ferociously.  And we should all take note that we, too, should be living ferociously.  If only to say: "Hi, I'm living ferociously!  And you are....?"

OMG.  That - THAT RIGHT THERE - is poetry.  In word and in action.  POETRY.  I'm a big fan of this woman already.  She took one word and has owned it.  She has let it guide her in her decision-making process and it is helping her break down walls that she had up before deciding to live ferociously. 

So, I started thinking about the one word that has kept coming up in several areas of my life lately, and I've decided to follow her example and harness the word that I can't seem to escape as my word for 2014Grow.

I know.  Pretty anticlimactic compared to "ferociously", but screw it... that's my word and I'm sticking to it.  

I often look at myself and see a one-dimensional being.  I can do a lot of things well, but those things all have one thing in common:  athleticism.  I can do some nice things with a basketball or a volleyball and have played both competitively.  I can swim, run and bike and have competed in enough triathlons to make me seriously question my sanity.  I can pick heavy things up and put them down, which makes me feel uber feminine.  And I can catch a dirty diaper thrown 90mph across the room with my left hand, while I stir marinara on the stove.  For the love of Pete, I even work in college athletics because that's what I know... it's what I have the skills for. 

But those are things I've been doing since I was a kid (minus the dirty diaper skill... that's a newly aquired skill).  And they come very easily to me.  The old saying if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got rings so true for me.  And in the past, I haven't dared step out of my comfort zone to try something new.  If something intrigued me, I was fine to acknowledge that I was intrigued, and then go play some volleyball.  I would blow it off as not worthy of my time or energy to try.  Because, you know, I might not be good at it.  I might fail.  I might fall so hard on my face that it leaves an indent in the floor.  And for me... failure is not an option. Ever.  

No more.

In 2014, I'm going to be open to any and everything.  I'm going to reach.  I'm stepping outside my "normal" and not letting fear stop me.  How can I tell my daughters to grow and try something new... if I won't?  They see thatThey see everything.  They know that I only do the things that make me comfortable... where there's no room for growth.  And I have a healthy suspicion that that is why they won't eat their broccoli.

To that end, I've been asked to perform a reading in the Good Company Theater's production of The Vagina Monologues this month. All proceeds go directly to the YCC.  If you are interested in tickets, go to the Good Company Theater's site.  The show runs February 20-23, and I am in the Friday/Sunday cast.  I'm so honored and proud to be a part of something that empowers women and does so much good for our community.This is so far outside my comfort zone that I'm not sure we're even in the same galaxy.  And falling on your face in front of a room full of friends and/or strangers... well, you know what they say:  Go hard or go home.  I'm going hard.


I read this article today and it spoke to my soul.  Especially these two quotes: 
Most of us become mothers before we become ourselves. We don't grow into our minds, hearts or bodies until our 30s when we've already been parenting for years.
I feel like I'm failing as a mother most of the time and I'm not succeeding as myself either.
 I could have written those words. I should have written those words.  For years, I have been subconsciously fighting a... well, a calling.  For some reason, I have found it unacceptable to acknowledge that I want to write... that I think I have important things to say.  I read too many blogs and question whether or not my voice matters.  I have made excuses as to why I haven't been writing: writers block, don't have enough time, don't want our friends to see how crazy I really am, no one cares what I have to say or what I think, how can I compete with all of those amazing women writing blogs?  But, in the last few months, a few friends and the man that I sleep with have been prodding me to make a decision on this little hobby of mine.  Fish or cut bait, as Benny would say.

I have never thought about writing as a career... but maybe I should.  Stranger things have happened, so why should I limit myself?  To that end, I'm going to say out loud - for the first time ever - my dream truth.  

I'm a writer.   


I'm making a personal commitment here and now to dedicate more time to my craft... my passion.  Who knows what it will bring?  Maybe nothing.  But I am finally acknowledging that I never will know unless I put my neck out there and...