Quirky Pickings

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Archives for 2020

Redeeming Love

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Why I wanted to read it: A friend recommended it.

What I liked:“When he smiled at me, I felt it all the way down to my toes.”

Lucky passed on the stew in favor of the bottle of red wine. “If a pock-marked midget from Nantucket smiled at you, you would feel it all the way down to your toes” (p. 72).

“I want to fill your life with color and warmth. I want to fill it with light” (p. 140).

“Are you crying? for me?” she said weakly.

“Don’t you think you’re worth it?”

Something inside her cracked. She writhed inside to escape the feeling, but it was there nonetheless, growing with the light touch of his hand on her shoulder, with every soft word he spoke.

She was sure if she put her hands against her heart, her palms would come away covered with her own blood.

Was that what this man wanted? For her to bleed for him? (p. 152).

“Why?”

“Because for some of us, one mile can be farther to walk than thirty” (p. 164).

“I know what I am. I never pretended to be anything else. Not once. Not ever!” She put her hand on the edge of the wagon seat. “And here you are, borrowing Michael’s wagon and his horses and his gold and using his wife.” She laughed at him. “And what do you call yourself? His brother” (p. 186).

She destroyed his dreams, and he made her windchimes (p. 284).

You are all fair, my love;
There is no flaw in you.
Song of Solomon 4:7 (p. 305).

“I’m not your father! I’m not duke! I’m not some gent paying for half an hour in your bed!” His hands tightened on her arms. “I’m your husband! I don’t take what you feel lightly” (p. 307).

“Show me this father of yours, Michael,” she said, unable to keep the edge out of her voice.

“I am,” Michael said quietly.

“Where? I don’t see him. Maybe if he stood before me, I’d believe he existed.” And she could spit in his face for everything that had happened to her and her mother.

“He’s in me. I’m showing him to you every hour of every day, the only way I know how” (pp. 315-316).

What sucked: The length. Good heavens, Ms. Rivers is verbose, especially in the last hundred pages or so.

Having said all that: I liked it. There’s good stuff here.

Originally published February twenty-second, ‘thirteen.

We Are Okay

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Why I wanted to read it: I was surveying the teen fiction section looking for a title that began with the letter W for Erin’s Book Challenge. This was after I’d gone through and properly merchandised one of the walls of bays because the staff at that particular store have no interest nor any idea how to sell books, apparently… and the obsessive-compulsive gal who once worked as the merchandising supervisor in a bookstore can’t stand to see a poorly-shelved section. Seriously. It irks the bejesus out of me. Anyway. After I’d gone through and fixed the books, I picked out half a dozen or so that started with W and settled on this one, and I am so glad I did.

What I liked: I wonder if there’s a secret current that connects people who have lost something. Not in the way that everyone loses something, but in the way that undoes your life, undoes your self, so that when you look at your face it isn’t yours anymore (page 68).

She leans over our table and turns the sign in the window so that it says closed on the outside. But on our side, perfectly positioned between Mabel’s place and mine, it says open. If this were a short story it would mean something (page 71).

Next door to me, a woman started howling and didn’t stop… I heard something break. It’s possible that some of the rooms were occupied by regular people, down on their luck, but my wing was full of the broken, and I was at home among them (page 182). 

I wish her everything good. A friendly cab driver and short lines through security. A flight with no turbulence and an empty seat next to her. A beautiful Christmas. I wish her more happiness than can fit in a person. I wish her the kind of happiness that spills over (page 192).

What sucked: Not a damned thing.

Having said all that: This was one of those books I read in a couple of hours. The writing is gorgeous. The way Lacour tells the story is pretty near masterful, at least to me. It’s complex. It’s tragic. but there’s goodness and love, and it ends well. I thought it was beautiful. And I don’t say that about many books.

Originally published April twenty-first, ‘seventeen.

Wonder

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Why I wanted to read it: I saw it on the wall of bestsellers near the information desk at Barnes & Nobles. The cover caught my eye.

And the first page: I know I’m not an ordinary ten-year-old kid. I mean, sure I do ordinary things. I eat ice cream. I ride my bike. I play ball. And I feel ordinary. Inside. But I know ordinary kids don’t make other ordinary kids run away screaming in playgrounds… If I found a magic lamp and I could have one wish, I would wish that I had a normal face that one one ever noticed at all… I know how to pretend I don’t see the faces people make… My name is Augustus, by the way. I won’t describe what I look like. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably worse.

What I liked: “Who is your favorite character?” Julian asked.

I started thinking maybe he wasn’t so bad. “Jango Fett.”

“What about Darth Sidious?” he said. “Do you like him?” …

Maybe no one got the Darth Sidious thing, and maybe Julian didn’t mean anything at all. But in Star Wars Episode III–Revenge of the Sith, Darth Sidious’s face gets burned by Sith lightning and becomes totally deformed. His skin gets all shriveled up and his whole face just kind of melts. I peeked at Julian and he was looking at me. Yeah, he knew what he was saying (p. 44).

“We sat together at lunch,” I said. I had started kicking a rock between my feet like it was a soccer ball, chasing it back and forth across the sidewalk.

“She seems very nice.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“She’s very pretty,” Mom said.

“Yeah, I know,” I answered. “We’re kind of like Beauty and the Beast.”

I didn’t wait to see Mom’s reaction. I just started running down the sidewalk after the rock, which I had kicked as hard as I could in front of me (p. 56).

Mom put the book down and wrapped her arms around me. She didn’t seem surprised that I was crying. “It’s okay,” she whispered in my ear. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I said between sniffles.

“Shh,” she said, wiping my tears with the back of her hand. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“Why do I have to be so ugly, Mommy?” I whispered.

“No, baby, you’re not…”

“I know I am.”

She kissed me all over my face. She kissed my eyes that came down too far. She kissed my cheeks that looked punched in. She kissed my tortoise mouth. She said soft words that I know were meant to help me, but words can’t change my face (p. 60).

For me, Halloween is the best holiday in the world. It even beats Christmas. I get to dress up in a costume. I get to wear a mask. I get to go around like every other kid with a mask and nobody thinks I look weird. Nobody takes a second look. Nobody notices me. Nobody knows me. I wish every day could be Halloween. We could all wear masks all the time. Then we could walk around and get to know each other before we got to see what we look like under the masks (p. 73).

I knew it wasn’t a bleeding scream they were looking for. It was a Boba Fett. I was going to go and sit at my usual desk, but for some reason, I don’t know why, I found myself walking over to a desk near them, and I could hear them talking…

One of the mummies would say: “It really does look like him.”

“Like this part… ” answered Julian’s voice. He put his fingers on the cheeks and eyes of his Darth Sidious mask… “If I looked like that,” said the Julian voice, kind of laughing, “I swear to god, I’d put a hood over my face every day.”

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” said the second mummy, sounding serious, “And I really think… If I looked like him, seriously, I think that I’d kill myself… I can’t imagine looking in the mirror every day and seeing myself like that. It would be too awful. And getting stared at all the time…” The mummy shrugged. I knew the shrug, of course. I knew the voice. I knew I wanted to run out of the class right then and there. But I stood where I was and listened (p. 77).

I know the names they call me. I’ve been in enough playgrounds to know kids can be mean. I know, I know, I know. I ended up in the second-floor bathroom. No one was there because first period had started and everyone was in class. I locked the door to my stall and took off my mask and just cried for I don’t know how long. Then I went to the nurse’s office and I told her I had a stomach ache, which was true, because I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut (p. 79).

Anyway, it’s not that I care that people react to me. Like I said a gazillion times: I’m used to that by now. I don’t let it bother me. It’s like when you go outside and it’s drizzling a little. You don’t put on boots for a drizzle. You don’t even open your umbrella. You walk through it and barely notice your hair getting wet. But when it’s a huge gym full of parents, the drizzle becomes like this total hurricane. Everyone’s eyes hit you like a wall of water (page 207).

I read a good chunk of this on a flight to Utah. I had to pause every so often because the tragedy of this boy’s life broke my heart. I also liked that the point of view shifts from August to his sister to his friends and back again. I liked that the story was told by so many.

What sucked: The last fifty pages or so. What was an incredibly touching tale became a really cheesy, preachy one. I was kind of disgusted by the conclusion. Way too schmaltzy. It sort of wrecked it for me.

Having said all that: It’s rare that a book affects me so. And maybe it did this because my childhood resembled August’s in many ways. Maybe I’m overly sensitive and far too compassionate. But even though the ending annoyed me, I’m glad I read this story. Because I like August. He’s a good kid.

I’d read this long before the movie was released. The film is amazing. Jacob Tremblay, Julia Roberts and Owen Wilson are perfect in it. P E R F E C T. And the film’s ending is MUCH better than the book’s. That said… the book digs in in ways the film cannot. Read it. Watch it. KNOW this story, yall. It’s a DAMNED good one.

Originally published July seventh, ‘fourteen.

The World at Sunset

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Home. At the Waterway.

Somewhere in Utah… near Mount Green, I think, on the way to the Abbey.

Savannah. Sneaking a rooftop view.

Annapolis. 

And… on the other side of the world… Madrid… I think.

Home again.

But my favorites are these:

 College Station. Kyle Field of old.

 Huntsville, Utah. The Abbey.

Santa Monica. The Pacific.

Originally published October nineteenth, ‘fourteen.

What’s Cooking Wednesday

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Chicken Spaghetti

Get this:

  • two quarts (thirteen to fifteen pieces) chicken diced
  • four ribs celery, chopped
  • two large onions, chopped
  • green pepper, chopped
  • two cloves garlic, minced
  • sixteen-ounce can Rotel tomatoes, diced
  • can cream of mushroom soup
  • tablespoon seasoned salt
  • teaspoon pepper
  • tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
  • pound Velveeta cheese, diced fine
  • twelve-ounce package thin spaghetti

Do this:

Boil chicken; reserve one quart of broth. While deboning chicken, add celery, green pepper, onion, tomatoes and garlic to broth. Let simmer until tender, increase heat bringing water to a boil. Add spaghetti (broken into pieces). Cook until done (Do not overcook). Add chicken and remaining ingredients. Simmer until cheese melts. Put into greased 9 X 13 inch casserole. Best if made the day before. Heat at 350 until center is bubbly.

The Journalist and the Novelist: Two Writers Talking

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On February 27 three years ago, The Woodlands College Park High School hosted the Montgomery County Teen Book Festival. At the time I was a journalist for a weekly community newspaper and had been selected to cover that event. In the days prior to it, I’d corresponded with a few of the featured authors.

The one I most enjoyed getting to know was Kathleen Baldwin, author of the Stranje House novels–A School for Unusual Girls, Exile for Dreamers, Refuge for Masterminds and Harbor for the Nightingale–several Regency era romances such as Lady Fiasco, and the intriguing Diary of a Teenage Fairy Godmother. Find her on Facebook and Twitter.

When did you discover an interest in writing, and how difficult, or easy if that’s the case, has it been for you to pursue that interest?

As far back as I can remember I’ve enjoyed telling stories and writing poems. Early on my mother and my teachers were convinced I would be a writer. On the other hand, I thought I would grow up to be a heart surgeon. Looks like they won the bet. It’s a good thing, too, because I love writing. In some respects, I still get to work on people’s hearts – just not with a scalpel.

Twenty years ago, I sold a few nonfiction articles and poems, but my real love was short story. Unfortunately, the short story market was dwindling by the time I started submitting. But I kept trying and garnered a tall stack of rejection notices. Later, the humor of Georgette Heyer and Jane Austen drew me to writing full length novels and that’s when I met with some publishing success. My very first Regency romance novel was published by Kensington’s Zebra Books and voted best traditional regency by Cataromance readers.

What do you feel is your greatest honor or achievement, and why?

I am over the moon excited about being chosen for the 2016 Spirit of Texas Middle School Reading Program. The reason is: I absolutely adore talking with young readers and writers. Kids who like to read are incredibly fun to interact with – the astute and quirky questions they come up with amaze me.  Every time I get to visit a school I come home inspired to write more.

What do you love most about writing? What keeps you doing it?

Writing itself is a joy for me. I love developing characters, weaving them into a story and blending in themes that are important to me. I like integrating tongue-in-cheek humor in my books. Humor helps me deal with difficulties in life, and that’s one theme that drifts through everything I write.

Reader letters keep me going, too. It seems like every week I get one or two very emotional letters from readers, readers who are struggling with tough problems in life. They take the time to write me and tell me about how one of my books lifted their spirits for a few hours. If I can do that for a fellow human being I’ll keep doing this the rest of my life. 

What’s been the biggest challenge?

I am a highly visual/experiential writer, which takes and enormous amount of time. This can be challenging when on a deadline. Sometimes it takes me days to visualize a scene before I can write it. Then, I go back in and rework it over and over again until it aligns with my vision.

My second biggest challenge is your next question. 

How do you balance your work as a writer with the other roles, whatever those may be, you play in life?

Like most people, I have difficulty balancing life. I’m married to a man I adore, we have four wonderful kids and I like to spend time with them. Writing could absorb my entire life if I let it, and sometimes it does. There’s a huge danger in that, the danger of writing from an empty place. Living life balanced is essential for a writer, taking time to play – and for me that means getting out in nature – taking time to reflect, spending time with God, family and friends, helping those in need, taking long walks, exploring new places, all these things gives me the depth perspective I need to write full rich stories.

Who are some authors you revere? What stories do you hold close to your heart—What I mean by that is… I am in love with Rainbow Rowell’s Eleanor and Park and Landline, Vanessa Diffenbaugh’s The Language of Flowers, Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife, John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars, Ellen Shanman’s Right Before Your Eyes, Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series and several of Nora Roberts’ novels. These stories bring me much joy. What stories do that for you?

I loved Eleanor and Park, too! and Time Traveler’s Wife and Fault in Our Stars. Right now, I’m hooked on Marissa Meyer’s Lunar Chronicles – it’s almost living inside an anime. I’m blown away by how she weaves multiple story lines together. That’s extremely difficult to do.

I grew up reading Dickens, Alcott, Daphne du Maurier, and Twain. They’re my literary heroes. Mom didn’t allow a TV in our house when my brothers and I were little. Instead, she read to us at night, all those great old classics: Oliver Twist, Little Women, not to mention Heidi, Black Beauty and The Amazing Miss Polifax (I think that’s when I fell in love with spy stories).

In college I read C.S. Lewis, Frank Herbert and Tolkien for pleasure. However, I studied and fell in love the great humorists, in particular O’Henry, Wodehouse and Oscar Wilde. You can see why Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer later became inspirations for my own work.

Who’s your favorite character in your work; in the whole of the literary realm?

That’s like asking me to choose a favorite from among my children. Can’t do it. But I have a really big crush on Lord Wyatt in A School for Unusual Girls.

I still love Heidi. She became my best friend when I was five, and I still love her.

Originally published February twenty-second, ‘sixteen.

The Pejoration of Privilege

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Last night, I watched a video of a man intimidating a white woman into kneeling on a sidewalk and apologizing for her white privilege. That man has NO knowledge of her story. NONE. She is white, and therefore she is the cause of his sorrow. She is. This woman he does not know. This woman he’d not met until that day. This woman who has now been humiliated on national television to appease some need in that man for vengeance. I was mortified for them both, the man and the woman.

priv·i·lege

ˈpriv(ə)lij/

noun

  1. 1.a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group of people.”education is a right, not a privilege”synonyms:advantage, benefit; prerogative, entitlement, right; concession,freedom, liberty“senior students have certain privileges”

Let’s talk about privilege, yeah? I keep hearing people use that word, and the way it’s thrown around these days you’d think it’s as vile and offensive as a four-letter word that begins with c and rhymes with punt.

My ancestors are Welsh, Irish, Scot, English and Austrian. The Welsh culture and history was all but obliterated by the English. The Irish and the Scot have struggled to own their identities and be seen as separate from England for what seems like centuries. And when people think of Austria, that’s that country that essentially started World War One.

I am the middle child of an upper-middle class couple — high school sweethearts who attended the same university because my father couldn’t bear to be too far from my mother. My father likes to joke that he wasn’t the smartest one in his class but he was smart enough to marry the smartest one. He played football and was in band (and bands) and a fraternity. She was in band as well and a sorority. They became teachers. He became a school superintendent. They had my brother, who seemed to be pretty perfect. And then they had me. All that sounds SO rosy, doesn’t it? My mother had two miscarriages — one before my brother and one after. Her father and sister were alcoholics. His brother was. Their firstborn son was. And me? Oh I made things interesting.

Let’s talk about privilege. My face has been cut up three times. My stomach and left leg have been cut up once and my right leg twice. If it weren’t for my parents’ love, if they hadn’t wanted a daughter so badly, if my mother’s parents hadn’t been a doctor and a nurse, if she hadn’t helped in her father’s clinic, if my father hadn’t attained a master’s degree in special education… if my body had demanded more medical attention than it has, I could be rotting away in some institution the doctors suggested my parents place me.

Let’s talk about the patches I had to wear on my face or the metal braces that were on my legs for God knows how long during my infancy that my mother threw away the moment I didn’t need them anymore. The times I’ve had people ask me if I’m talking to them when I’m looking right at them only it doesn’t look like I am because one eye’s off in lala land.

My eyes? They used to look this lovely. I had surgery the summer I turned thirteen to make them prettier. I was so eager to see them look better that I forgot that it wasn’t going to be instantaneous. The moment those patches came off and the doctor cut the stitches thad had been keeping my eyes closed so they could do their thing… I was eager to see the results. I looked like Frankenstein. It took months to heal from that. And I couldn’t swim. Swimming was what saved me back then. Swimming brought me peace.

Let’s talk about the number of times people have asked if I’ve Asian heritage because my eyes look like they do now–small and somewhat slanted. The times I fell off curbs in my youth because I couldn’t see. The times I’d be walking… just walking and something in my leg would snap or slip just because, the way I’d crumple, clutching my knee and screaming obscenities because the pain was immense. The times I’ve had to glue myself against an aisle in a grocery store or the wall dividing the dining area from the ordering stations in Chic-fil-A because I’d lost all cognizance of space and my place in it and felt like I was spinning and about to tumble… and maybe break something else… because things in me break so easily.

Let’s talk about the times people stare at me like I’m a freak. The number of times they ask me What the hell is your problem? And driving at night on a freeway? That’s fun stuff. Really. I love it. I do it because I have to, because damned if I’m going to stay home when I want to be out. But it was a whole lot easier when my town had twenty-thousand in it instead of a hundred thousand. It was a whole lot easier when people could give each other some room. People don’t know the meaning of personal space. ANYWHERE. And I rely on that space something fierce.

Let’s talk about the times my teachers assumed that because my father was who he was I would be this exemplary student — well-behaved with strings of A-pluses in their grade books. I would make them look GOOD. I didn’t. And when I didn’t, their response was to recommend I be placed in special education or relegated from honors to level classes.

Sure, if I came home without my books on the weekends, my father would haul my butt to school after Sunday Mass, unlock the place and practically drag me to my locker. He would not be happy about it. Sure, my mom would bench my butt at the kitchen table to work on an assignment that was due the week before because she was so pissed at me for being so thoughtless and disrespectful… and lazy.

God knows if my father hadn’t been who he was, the peers who’d bullied me in my youth would’ve done a lot worse. With the exception of one altercation in fifth grade in which a boy jabbed my face with one of my perfectly sharpened pencils that left a permanent mark, they never touched me. I think they were too afraid to do so. But you can maim a person’s spirit with words, and those wounds never heal so well as the physical ones do. Hell, if it weren’t for my folks, I doubt I’d be here today, banging on these keys.

You think because my skin is white that I can’t know tragedy?

Let’s talk about the time I came home from school sobbing and telling my mother I wish I could tear my skin off. Or the time a teacher put my desk in a refrigerator box so she wouldn’t have to look at me because she couldn’t bear the sight, because she didn’t want me in her classroom but was forced to keep me because I was too smart to be in a different one.

I’ve buried a brother, a man I spent a decade hating. I carry that guilt with me, and it weighs on my heart something fierce. I have lived my life without ever hearing a man other than those in my family say he loves me and mean it. I battle some godawful mental demons on pretty much a daily basis.

Tragedy doesn’t play favorites. It cares not for race or creed or culture. It doesn’t give a damn about color or shape. It’ll screw with you regardless of whether you’re single or married, rich or poor, black or white, fat or thin, kind or callous. It. Does. Not. Care.

I don’t presume to think that my experiences are greater or lesser than yours. I know damned well they’re not. My parents made sure of that. They’ve spent years, YEARS telling me I wasn’t any different from anybody else. I’m not. I know the ways in which I have been blessed. I know the ways in which I have been burdened. My limitations may be different from yours, but the fact that I have them… we all do. Every one of us. I wish we could be more tolerant of each other. I wish we could be more considerate.

The day I originally published this I learned a couple flying from Sacramento to Philadelphia were booed by passengers in first class because the pilot had requested that couple be allowed to deplane first so as not to miss their connection. So as not to miss their flight to Dover where they were to claim their dead son, a soldier who’d been given a Gold Star for his service. The folks in first class booed them because of how inconvenienced they were at having to wait, that someone in coach should receive preferential treatment when they’d paid the exorbitant costs of flying first class so they could be more important.

The pilot gave that couple a privilege. Because if ever there’s a time one should be given it’s then.

This is America. Land of the free, home of the brave. We are for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness here. We are for life. We should be helping each other live and love. We should be helping each other. We should be building each other up, not forcing them to the ground and setting things on fire to assuage some need for repentance. I saw an article the other day about protestors setting a building on fire WITH PEOPLE INSIDE and then BLOCKING the firefighters sent to put out the flames. A child was in that building. A CHILD would have died were it not for those firefighters’ persistence to save those people within.

If you want racism to end, stop throwing it in people’s faces at every available opportunity. I don’t treat people differently because of the color of their skin. I know how much it sucks to be mistreated. I strive to be good to everyone. I’m not perfect. I make mistakes. Sometimes I really miss the mark. But I strive to be good, to put good in the world. It starts with ONE. And that one can have monumental ripple effects. Let them be good.

I’ve had the Youngbloods’ in my head so often lately. Come on people, now. Smile on your brother. Everybody get together. Try to love one another right now.

Originally published November twenty-first, ‘sixteen.

Forty in Forty

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One. Sometime’s crying’s a really good thing. It gets results. Like when I was a baby and my hips were fucking with me. I cried. A lot. And eventually, the doctors figured out why and fixed it.

Two. Some doctors actually give a shit about their patients. Find a good one. And cling. So what if he’s not in your network. He’s good to you.

Three. Brothers are nifty. Play!

Four. It’s okay to move around in life. Sure, you’ll miss people. But you’ll meet people, too. And maybe in moving, the ones you’ll meet will be the ones who can help you when the world’s more turbulent.

Five. Those play carpets on the Kindergarten room floor (Do they even make those anymore? Because all I remember of my Kindergarten class is my teacher and the hopscotch blocks on the carpet). Anyway. It can’t all be fun and games. It shouldn’t be.

Six. It’s great to have girlfriends. Never, NEVER take them for granted.

Seven. So you can’t hit a ball very well. Or throw it. Big deal. You can run really fast. And maybe they won’t pick you first for dodgeball. But cat and mouse… that’s a different game entirely.

Eight. Boys ARE stupid. But don’t throw rocks at them.

Nine. Never be ashamed to share your talent. Yeah, they’re all staring at you. And yeah, they may laugh at you if you screw it up. But there’s that small chance of success. And maybe you’ll surprise them instead.

Ten. The number of people who do or don’t come to see you while you’re in the hospital… this shouldn’t mean much. Numbers have a way of lying. It’s not how many people care for you. It’s how they care.

Eleven. There are too many teachers out there who can’t be bothered to teach. Don’t be one of them (And yall, we’re ALL teachers in some way). Don’t let one of them negatively influence your self-worth.

Twelve. People are gonna be mean to you. Don’t be mean to them. And don’t let them win. You can let it hurt. You can cry about it. You can let them knock the wind out of you. But get up afterward. Get up. 

Thirteen. Sometimes a fresh box of crayons and a new coloring book are the best remedy.

Fourteen. Size matters not. It doesn’t–I’ve got a poster of Yoda saying so. Like when you’re standing on the blocks and the girls to your right and left are lots taller and much more muscular? Maybe they’ll win. Maybe. But it’s passion that gets you through the water. And anger? Sometimes she’s the best motivator.

Fifteen. Brothers can also be a HUGE nuisance. Punch them if you need to. Like when one’s charging up a flight of stairs, red-faced and sobbing from anguish (admittedly because you hit him where you shouldn’t have). By all means, aim the heel of that boot at his forehead. Don’t worry about the grandfather clock your great uncle constructed from scratch that’s on the landing. It’ll be alright. Boundaries have to be set. Firmly.

Sixteen. Don’t let a boy get his hands on you unless you really crave the boy, the touch. Not because you need to be touched, but because you want to be.

Seventeen. If you want something, don’t wait around for someone to give it to you. Go. Get it.

Eighteen. Sometimes mama has really good ideas. Don’t be so quick to shrug them off because they’re hers.

Nineteen. Sure, reading’s important. But so are your studies. Your professors assign a text because something about it has merit. Be curious; find out what it is.

Twenty. People will be wrong about you. You will know it in your gut. Do your best to prove them wrong. Don’t give in. Don’t assume because you can’t accomplish a task quickly enough, because you haven’t succeeded yet that they are right. They aren’t.

Twenty-One. You don’t need alcohol to have a good time. In fact, if you’re relying on that stuff to make a moment memorable, ask yourself why you’re in that moment in the first place.

Twenty-Two. You don’t need to drink twelve Cokes in a day. Yes, they taste good. Yes, they will make you fat. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon…

Twenty-Three. When you have that strong impulse to cut all your hair off SHORT (to be read, buzz-cut), the urge WILL pass. Let it. Because growing your hair out again… that’s not fun.

Twenty-Four. And hair-dye? Bleach? It’s okay to have fun with color. But don’t go crazy with it. And when I say crazy, I mean bleaching it, then dying it black three weeks later.

Twenty-Five. Be careful with love. She’s tricky; she wears all sorts of masks just to trip you up. Try not to confuse one for another. Try not to stumble.

Twenty-Six. When you do, forgive yourself. It’s gonna happen. Blaming yourself for being clumsy ain’t gonna help you heal.

Twenty-Seven. Single roses are better than a dozen of’m. And simple flowers are SO, SO much better than fancy ones. Ranunculus, girls. Ranunculus means You’re radiant with charms. Who wouldn’t want to get those??

Twenty-Eight. If you think you may be losing the boy, you’ve already lost him. Let him go.

Twenty-Nine. Speeding is dumb. You’re not gonna get there that much faster. You will, however, stand a good chance of catching the attention of that highway patrolman you just passed going sixty-five in a forty-five. So it’s a straight shot from points A to B. So the road’s wide and well-maintained, and wonder of wonders, you’ve got it all to yourself (or so you think). So it’s a BEAUTIFUL day out. So you’re late to work. That trooper? He’s not gonna care about any of that. (And let’s not hate on the guy who calls you out for your doing wrong, yeah? Own your mistakes, people.) That ticket? You’re not gonna like paying it, and your insurance company’s not gonna like that you were so stupid.

Thirty. Sometimes death is a blessing. My older brother? I would not want to see him waste away. I would not want to watch alcoholism make him uglier and uglier. It’s like what Annelle says in Steel Magnolias: she will always be young; she will always be beautiful.

Thirty-One. Don’t live beyond your means. And don’t go for the flash (I mean this literally and figuratively, yall). It’s called flash for a reason.

Thirty-Two. Horrible bosses are everywhere. If you love the work, if you’re confident in your ability to do the job well… don’t let an evil bastard distort your view of the workplace. Buck up. Focus on the work, not the workers.

Thirty-Three. It’s okay to take a day and do nothing. But just one. Not several in a row.

Thirty-Four. Kicking the nicotine habit’s a bitch. But it can be done. The money you’ll save in dental work alone is worth the effort to quit.

Thirty-Five. It’s easy to hide in your room, just you and your computer. And yes, sometimes the quiet is necessary. But so is the chaos that comes when you’re out there, interacting with the world.

Thirty-Six. Friends are supposed to make you feel good about yourself. Not great, not grand. But not small or insignificant, either. If you ever feel as though you are less than special around one of them… if there ever comes a time, no matter the moment, where you don’t feel comfortable in that friend’s presence, for whatever reason, don’t sit on it so that it’s stewing and simmering. Don’t think that it’s nothing. It’s something to you. Something should be said. Soon. And if that friend can’t respect you for having the decency to stand up for yourself, for saying I don’t appreciate this… then that person’s not that good a friend. Also… stop unfriending people on Facebook. Grow up. They’re your friends. Love them, despite their differences. You’ll be better for it in the long run, and so will they.

Thirty-Seven. Speaking of Cokes… it IS possible to limit your carbonated, caffeinated beverage intake to three per year. I highly recommend striving to reach such a seemingly lofty goal. Once you have achieved it, don’t go back to the routine.

Thirty-Eight. Forty-five minutes is much too long to wait for a dinner date. Twenty tops. If he’s not there by then, he’s not a man you need to know. I only say this because you may be tempted to sit at the bar and drink a couple of martinis while you wait–sounds like a good idea. Yall, nothing, NOTHING good will come of that.

Thirty-Nine. On a date, never split the check.

Forty. This milestone… the big four-oh? It sucks. I’m not a fan. Just be aware. Thirty? it’s got nothing on forty. NOTHING. Forty’s when your body starts saying, Okay, you can stop now.

Originally published November fifth and sixth, ‘thirteen.

Girl, Wash Your Face

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I wrote this a while ago. Just a heads up. 

I’m writing this even though, at the moment (twelve minutes past three p.m. — hi, Bubba — Sunday, May tenth), you can’t read it because I freaking forgot about paying for the fucking domain name so my blog is, at present, invisible. I’m writing this because I am confident that at some point I will right this situation, even though I’ve yet to figure out how.

Why I Wanted to Read It: Because I figured I should.

What I Loved: SO much. I marked a LOT of pages, yall… and even if I end up not going through and sharing every page, because usually when I go back to revisit a page and determine what made it noteworthy to me I end up not being as impressed by the words… but in the moment, I must’ve appreciated something, there were GOBS of moments like that for this book. Did you follow that? God, I hope so. Anyway, I might not share ALL of them here, but I go and reread the pages, and just reading them again is sometimes enough.

If you’re unhappy, that’s on you (page 5).

You are in charge of your own life, sister, and there’s not one thing in it that you’re not allowing to be there (page 9).

If you constantly make and break promises to yourself, you’re not making promises at all… How many times have you bailed on yourself to watch TV? How many times have you given up before you’ve even started? How many times have you made real progress, only to face a setback and then give up completely? How many times have your family or friends or coworkers watched you quit? … When you really want something, you’ll find a way. When you don’t really want something, you’ll find an excuse (page 14).

Whatever standard you’ve set for yourself is where you’ll end up… unless you fight through your instinct and change your pattern (page 15).

“You’ve lived through tougher things than this. Don’t give up now!” (page 39). 
I made this so big because, right now, I’m really needing the reminder. I’d never understood why people would battle depression for decades, only to toss the towel in their forties and fifties. I get it now. I. GET. IT. It’s not successful you feel for withstanding but pathetic and foolish and why the hell did I try? and a whole lot of other pitiful emotions that are now heaped, H E A P E D on top of the bullshit.

I heard God very distinctly say, “Imagine all of the things you would have missed today if you’d only been out here for yourself” (page 39).
One of the best days I’ve had was standing near the finish line, often alone, because I wasn’t on the patio of some restaurant or bar but beside the parking garage, at the top of a long incline, which I knew for an IronMan Triathlete would feel like a slap in the face after doing ALL the things. I stood there for HOURS, screaming at the top of my lungs, “You’ve GOT this! Get UP here!” And one of those athletes was a gal with whom I’d worked while at Pottery Barn Kids. And she stopped at the bottom of that incline and hollered back at me, and then she ran up and hugged me, and it was SUCH an AWESOME feeling to have been there for her. But even better… and I can’t remember if it was the same race or not, but… another coworker from my days as a journalist, her husband had tried to do the IronMan last year but timed out, and so he was at it again, and I later learned, she’d thought he’d given up at one point but he hadn’t. Yall, he was the LAST one to come through in time to cross the finish. The. LAST. One. I didn’t know it was her husband at the time. I said to him, “You’re almost done. Three turns to the finish, and two of them are right there.” And he was BEATEN, yall. He was thinking he wasn’t going to make it. He was thinking he would time out AGAIN. And he said, “Are you kidding me?” Because I know LOTS of people say, “You’re almost there,” when they’re not. I jogged beside him and insisted… and he made it. And I was so, SO glad I could be there in that moment. I can’t run that race. I will never be able to do a small fraction of what these people do, but I LOVE that I could be there.

I don’t know the central tenet of your faith, but the central tenet of mine is “love thy neighbor.” Not “love thy neighbor if they look and act and think like you.” Not “love thy neighbor so long as they wear the right clothes and say the right things” (page 40).

Judgment comes from a place of fear, disdain, or even hate… Do you know the number one thing that I hear most, get emails about the most, get asked for advice on most? Friends. How to make friends. How to keep friends. How to cultivate real, valuable relationships (page 41).
I wish I could tell you boys are meaner. I wish I could tell you the most horrible moments in my life are caused by men–and yall, men have caused some HORRIBLE moments. But they’re not. Girls are MEANER, yall. We learn it at a YOUNG age and have perfected it by adolescence. And I’m just as capable, if not moreso, of the nastiness.

Usually our judgment and gossip come from a deep well of our own insecurities (page 41).

I didn’t cry when I wrote the chapter about my brother’s death or the pain of my childhood–but this? This flays me. I am so sad for that little girl who didn’t know better. I am devastated that nobody prepared her for life or taught her to love herself so she wasn’t so desperate to get any form of it from someone else. I’m sad that she had to figure it out on her own. I’m disappointed that it took her so long (page 49).

I saw that phrase and platitudes like it scattered like mortar shells over the terrain (page 51).

What if life isn’t happening to you? What if the hard stuff, the amazing stuff, the love, the joy, the hope, the fear, the weird stuff, the funny stuff, the stuff that takes you so low you’re lying on the floor and thinking, How did I get here?… What if none of it is happening to you? What if all of it is happening for you? (page 59).

You have to shout out your hopes and dreams like the Great Bambino calling his shot. You need the courage to stand up and say, “This one, right here: this is mine!” (page 60).

Don’t tell me you don’t have it in you to want something more for your life. Don’t tell me you have to give up because it’s difficult. This is life or death too. This is the difference between living a life you always dreamed of or sitting alongside the death of the person you were meant to become… If you’re lucky, your legacy will be a lifetime in the making… Your dream is worth fighting for, and while you’re not in control of what life throws at you, you are in control of the fight (pages 66-68).

Don’t you dare squander the strength you have earned just because the acquisition of it was painful. Those are the most important stories to share (pages 68-69).

When a voice of authority says it’s taking too long, you’re too “fat, old, tired, or female” for it, or your trauma is too big… do you know what they are giving you? Permission to quit. You’re already scared, you’re already second-guessing yourself, and when someone or something comes along and speaks into that exact thing you were already questioning, you think, Yep, that’s what I thought. I give up… You do not have permission to quit! …Your perception of what’s holding you back is currently big and bad and terrifying, but those obstacles are only real if you believe in them (page 69).

It’s your dream. Your own special wish your heart made long before you were ever conscious of it… They’re your dreams, and you are allowed to chase them–not because you are more special or talented or well-connected, but because you are worthy of wanting something more. Because you are worthy of not letting your past dictate your future (page 70).

Sister, please, please, please stop allowing your fear of getting it wrong to color every beautiful thing you’re doing right (pages 96-97).

So for them, birthdays served as a reminder of all the things they hadn’t achieved… each year they didn’t reach preconceived destination was a harsh reminder of the promises they were breaking to themselves (page 104).

Nothing is wasted. Every single moment is preparing you for the next. But whether or not you choose to see this time as something wonderful–the time when God is stretching you and growing you or maybe forging you in fires hotter than you think you can withstand–all of it is growing you for the person you’re becoming, for a future you can’t even imagine (page 106).

The most beautiful things in my life were never on my to-do list… Focus on what you have done… Celebrate the small moments. They’re sacred, even if they aren’t stepping stones to something else. Nothing is more important than today… Write yourself a letter about your tenacity! (page 110).

I have so many goals and dreams for myself, and not one of them is small. They’re big and wild and full of hope. They require faith and courage and a whole lot of audacity. I cannot get there, I will not get there, unless I start embracing every side of my character–including the sides of me that make other people uncomfortable… I cannot continue to live as half of myself simply because it’s hard for others to handle all of me… Do you really think God made you–uniquely, wonderful you–in hopes you would deny your true self because it might be off-putting to others… Have you spent a lifetime muting yourself for fear of what others will think? I believe that you are not a mistake–and feeling guilt about who you are (working, staying at home, overweight, underweight, overeducated, uneducated, emotional, bookish, street-smart, or whatever) does a disservice to yourself and the Creator who made you. There are hundreds of ways to lose yourself, but the easiest of them all is refusing to acknowledge who you truly are in the first place. You–the real you–is not an accident… You were not made to be small (page 129-130).

Someone else’s opinion of you is none of your business… So, sister, if you’re going to work that hard on a project, do you really want to allow it to be blown apart by something as flimsy as an opinion? (page 147).

You were forged in a fire worse than this (page 156).

I want you to see someone who kept showing up again and again, even when it was tearing her apart (page 173).

Eat every last cookie. Eat everything in this room. Eat until you’re ugly and worthless and the outside finally matches the inside… My weight was no longer just a part of me like hair or teeth; now it was something that defined me. It was a testament to all the ways I was wrong (page 178).
Sixty-eight pounds I weighed my freshman year in high school. Sixty-eight pounds on a fine-boned, five-foot-one frame. Yall, I ATE. ALL THE TIME. Because I hated my body. I hated that I couldn’t make it fatter, and OH, how I tried. I know this mentality well. It’s persisted, only now it’s one hundred pounds greater, and now I’m definitely not eating to gain weight, but the punishment’s the same.

Your Creator delights in the intricacies of you, and He is filled with joy when you live out your potential (page 182).

Childhood trauma is not a life sentence (page 182).

Please stop telling yourself that you deserve this life… Get out of the fog that you have been living in and see your life for what it is (page 183).

Every year you close a new chapter in your story. Please, please, please don’t write the same one seventy-five times and call it a life (page 205).

The very first half marathon I ever signed up for was a Disney race… We were one giant, sweaty mass of hope, made up of people from all walks of life who’d dreamed this dream and found themselves on the road together. With that many people, it takes a while to make your way to the start of the line, but when my queue was called up, they started playing “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes” from Cinderella over the loudspeakers. I know it sounds cheesy in the retelling, but, y’all, I was bawling by the time it was my turn to run. I kept thinking, This is a wish my heart made! And for once I didn’t beg off or get lazy or stop trying… I did it! (pages 209-210).

What sucked: Nothing.

Having said all that: It’s a FAST, easy, friendly read. Pick it up!

In other news… I have jumped ship from Blogger to WordPress. I will bring posts over from the old Picky pages as throwbacks as I see fit. But for now… this is all you get.