Journal Therapy

When I was a junior in high school, Mr. Harrison made us keep a journal. I found writing cathartic, as I do now. I never looked at that black and white composition book as homework. I regarded it as an extension of my brain, my heart. I could be creative or sassy or impudent. I wrote with unabashed flair about my crushes, my longings, my worries. I didn't care that my English teacher was reading. I got lost in a world that was 100% my own.

My pen my voice, my paper my therapy. And being the anal perfectionist that I was (rather, am, ahem), I used lined paper only. Still do.

One of the most simple exercises I'd write every so often was a list of 10 things that made me happy and 10 things that made me shudder. It's been a good 20+ years since I've done this, but here goes:


10 Things That Make Me Smile

1. The sound of Whoppers when you shake them in the cardboard container. Try it. It will make you want to dance.
   
2. Smores. Preferably cooked over our outdoor fireplace, with the boys and I eating the marshmallows before they hit the graham crackers.
   
3. The sound of my Bird when he says "Bye bye, Mommy" as he ambles out of the car to school in the morning.
4. I'm Not Really a Waitress on my toes.
5. Chai, the homemade kind with honey instead of sugar.
6. Deal's voice when he mispronounces his "l's" and turns them into "w's."
   
7. Mac Daddy when he sends me a text message just to tell me he loves me.
8. Fall cooking; nothing like the smell of root vegetables roasting!
9. Indulging in People magazine and not having to pretend to be erudite and deep at the coffee shop.
10. Discovering blueberries in my freezer.
    

10 Things That Make Me Gag

1. Ill mannered people.
2. Spam, in my inbox and the icebox.
3. Camel toe and Tammy Faye mascara clad women at the gym.
4. Discovering snot or other bodily juice on my shoulder...at the end of the day when I'm changing out of my clothes.
   
5. Hearing "Stop that or I'm going to spank you" in the grocery aisle.
6. Men who leer and can't make eye contact.
   
7. Gum stuck under the restaurant table.
   
8. My kid rolling said gum around in his hand.
9. Fathers who call parenting their own children "babysitting."
10. The smell of my car when it rains: a most unfortunate lingering effect of leaving my sunroof open during a torrential downpour.
    

So tell me, what makes your Smile/Gag list?

Boob Slang as Explained to My Boys

As some regular readers might know, I'm doing the Race for the Cure in a couple weeks. Our fantastic team name is Stop the War in My Rack. I know, I know. I'll wait while you recover from your eyes aglow of cleverness. I was all "Yeah, I'm part of the cool team." Harumph. Harumph. Gloat. Gloat. Sure, it's the first time I've ever been in the cool kids club. Nevermind that it took 40 years. I've been basking in glow of my rack.

And then the T-shirt arrived on my doorstep.

A pink camo number with the words Stop the War in My Rack emblazoned across the front. My sons are naturally drawn to anything camoflauged, and I was suddenly flirting with being in their version of the Cool Mom Club. Bird, who's starting to read, sounded out the words. Quizzically he asked, "Stop the war in my rack? I don't get it. What's a rack?"

I subconsciously peered down at my own rack. Hmmm, not bad after 40 years, two kids, and two surgeries.

Now was not the time to explain puns to a five and three year old so I went with the obvious. I explained slang words for breasts. That required a quick anatomy refresher. I went on to explain that "rack" was another word for "breast," though not a polite one we would use at school or in the company of anyone with the title Pastor, Father, or Sister. I could not, of course, say this without grabbing my Girls with an emphatic squeeze.

Then the boys asked me for more synonyms for breasts. I obliged, even though I recently yelled at Mac Daddy for teaching the boys slang words for "bottom" on a particularly long and painful car ride. And so now Bird and Deal know such terms as Girls, boobs, boulders, and of course, rack.

So yeah, my parenting can be rather redneck at times. White Trash Mom doesn't call it Trashy Thursday for nothing. I figured it was way easier to hoe the path of titty slang than to explain the real deal of breast cancer to my sons.

Word Up

I hereby present to you a challenge. A word challenge. Insert evil laugh here. Bwahhhhhh!

Following are Bird's spelling words from the Word Puzzle Box in his kindergarten class. Use them in order in a sentence. I'll award the winner bragging rights. Consider it my MasterCard gift to you; it's priceless.

Now tie on those thinking caps and get ready to write!

Shell
Mucous
Land
Foot
Tentacle

The Birth of a Writer: On Why I Blog

I've been blogging at Dirt & Noise a little over a year now. I started just to have an outlet to write and get thoughts out of my head and onto paper. Well, proverbial paper. I missed my gig at the local newspaper and figured a blog was the next best thing. Soon I learned that blogging was even better. My readers are my editors. And my fans, my cheerleaders, my challengers.

Then blogging became a part of me. An addiction if you will. It also transformed me.

I think it's safe to say that all the crazies having a dance party in my head were causing a fair bit of anxiety in my overall being. I often felt overwhelmed and underwhelmed at the same time; a strange paradox of an existence. I was full of energy and ideas. And admittedly full of piss and vinegar. I was a veritable rolodex of zany ideas and blasphemous thoughts. I was all dressed up for the dance, but there was no high school gym decorated for the big event. And so there I sat alone with my thoughts, billowing tulle falling at my ankles, patent leather slingbacks slung through my manicured fingers.

And so I created my own dance party.

I blog for the obvious reasons. It's fun. It's an exercise in writing. It's a storytelling wonderland. It's a walk down Memory Lane. It's a way to share out of the ordinary anecdotes with friends and family. But it's so much more.

Blogging is therapy, but a whole lot cheaper. And thankfully for Mac Daddy, it's also way cheaper than retail therapy. Blogging forces me to dig deeper than I would otherwise let myself go. I come face to face with some buried emotions and experiences. I reflect on my own brand DNA, my shortcomings of motherhood, my worries, my celebrations, my fears. Some things I've seen crop up in my head are still too painful or controversial to manifest into words. But thanks to blogging, they're there, off the so called back burner and poised for capture and introspection.

Blogging also makes me think. I see life's events great and small through a different lens now. Rather I see them through various lenses. I can leverage my words to share ideas, heartaches, causes, or simply reflections. I can even use my words for good. Through my writing I vent, rant, judge, wail, and whine. I also use my cyberspace real estate to inspire, promote, tease, and tickle.

I have always aspired to be a writer. When my hopes were dashed to get into medical school, I turned my dreams to writing. Then the real world whacked me upside the head and forced me to get a job. A paying job. After years of building a retirement nest egg from the tender age of 22, funding an obscenely expensive graduate school run, and starting a family, I have decided that now is the time. The time is now to put my writing goals in overdrive. So my blog provides me with fodder for that book deal I covet. I won't see my name embroidered on a lab coat but I just might see my name on a book jacket. A girl can dream, right?

And so, my blog gives me a voice.