tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25545435274346325502024-03-05T14:30:47.807-07:00So Dang BrilliantStaying Smart, Staying Sharp, Staying at HomeHolly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.comBlogger417125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-64853090267266264862014-01-31T10:23:00.000-07:002014-01-31T10:23:38.060-07:00The Dark Side of Dirtiness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7U9FRE9yVNSyu2_uK54v62Y1arjKmZ9sV3nD43RX-FjOJlkm47lGNKtbO4IOnpWUfCqkbqkVrMY9KPOQXkRogJaLsr_7U9PBUYc8U-25YOBhIAwBMN2_qXxrhc_DfNr5vMODzI_ud4Qw/s1600/IMG_0607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7U9FRE9yVNSyu2_uK54v62Y1arjKmZ9sV3nD43RX-FjOJlkm47lGNKtbO4IOnpWUfCqkbqkVrMY9KPOQXkRogJaLsr_7U9PBUYc8U-25YOBhIAwBMN2_qXxrhc_DfNr5vMODzI_ud4Qw/s1600/IMG_0607.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Part of being around small children all day is accepting that you will become a filthy stinkbomb by the end of the day. In even the most innocuous conditions, one's clothes and skin will come into contact with the world's most vile germs and textures. Grossness, stickiness, and spittle are just a part of childhood.<br />
<br />
However, sometimes the messiness on my person is wholly my fault. I am a fantastic water spiller, as well as the queen of toothpaste shirt-spots. I have a handy excuse most of the time: "Oh, the kids bumped my elbow" or "This never used to happen before I started procreating." In my heart, I know the kids aren't culpable for my icky appearance. That doesn't stop me from throwing them under the bus.<br />
<br />
I was in the student leadership class in middle school; I'd aspired to hob nob with the fancy kids and finally got to participate. The class was a Zero Period class, a.k.a. before school officially started. We would meet in a huge room on the second floor of the shop building; I would get there earlier than everyone else because I was so excited.<br />
<br />
Most of the kids made me feel nervous, so sometimes I would make a social faux pas or two. One morning, while I was waiting for the adviser to come, a few of the other students got dropped off by their parents. A girl I admired very much named Erin walked up and said hello; we chatted idly when all of a sudden, I mentioned a white spot on her shirt. She laughed and rubbed at it, saying that it was from her face wash. We started talking about other things and the adviser unlocked the classroom door. I hope she doesn't remember this story.<br />
<br />
Ever since then, any time I get something on myself, I have wished to be as jovially self-effacing as my friend Erin. Instead of fretting that the world will judge me, I am desperate to be able to laugh and explain that I'd been living my life in the process of wearing my clothes. Life happens, sometimes it is messy, and eventually everyone gets a few white spots.<br />
<br />
Today, I am doing the week's laundry. I've been inspecting the stains on my clothes and wondering why I can't get myself together. I should probably forgive myself, but until then, I think I may keep leaning on that Kids Are Grubby thing.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-53905292919463199252014-01-28T13:37:00.000-07:002014-01-28T13:37:43.382-07:00John Green, Veronica Roth, and Me<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">In the midst of a melancholy Friday, I decided to begin reading a young adult novel I had downloaded while in California over the holidays. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: small;">Typically I don't read during the day, since I want to stay focused on the tasks at hand around the house. However, on Friday I read in between talking with the children, eating lunch at McDonald's just to get out of the house, and </span><span style="font-size: small;">waiting for Caleb to come home from work. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I finished the entire book in less than 12 hours. Normally, I would be impressed with myself and brag about it to anyone who would listen. At least, that's what happened when I beat Bobby Wilson in a Goosebumps reading challenge in elementary school. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Once I got to the end of my sad-day book, though, I couldn't push out the thoughts the story churned up in order to let the self-congratulation through. What I'd read was <i>The Fault in Our Stars</i>, by John Green; it's a novel following the lives of several teenagers fighting cancer, but more specifically, it's about two teens who love each other knowing there will be a tragic end. Probably not the best book to read when one's already having a gloomy day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I decided to distract myself from the lingering feelings by starting up another book I had wanted to read. This time, <i>Divergent </i>by Veronica Roth; hardcore battles and self-discovery were what I thought loomed in front of me. I should have known that there was going to be a love story, but I thought it would take a backseat to all of the political dealings I'd heard populated the story. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Divergent</i>, <i>Insurgent</i>, and half of <i>Allegiant</i> later, I realized that I was wrong. Reading almost all of a trilogy in 48 hours is not something I have done in a long time, and I had forgotten how emotionally draining it can be. Veronica Roth did a great job of making the world of the books extremely vivid. But, I closed <i>Allegiant</i> midway through because I couldn't watch anymore people die. Even fictional violence sticks on my bones too much.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I tell you all of that to tell you this:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">I participated in National Novel Writing Month last November, and I only made it 15,500 words into the 50,000 word challenge. Still, I was pleased with my work and decided to let it rest while I was in California. I read it today for the first time in two months, trying to get the emotions of John Green's and Veronica Roth's characters out of my head. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I was pleasantly surprised at how well my story and characters stood up. My plot may be loose and have far fewer twists than the <i>Divergent</i> trilogy. My secondary cast doesn't have the zing of John Green's. But for a first time fiction writer, I didn't completely screw things up. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Slowly but surely, I am beginning to appreciate that I have something to contribute. Maybe I'll actually live up to that something soon.</span>Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-76682869725608368412014-01-27T10:20:00.001-07:002014-01-27T10:20:12.732-07:00The Mysterious Case of the Ill-PlacementThe peephole on my front/back door is easily six inches higher than my tiptoe height. I am 5'5" and my husband Caleb is 5'7"; neither of us, nor obviously the children, can utilize this peephole. <br />
<br />
I say "front/back" because the arrangement of our townhome is such that the door that opens into the living room is on the other side of the building from the parking lot; therefore, when visitors drive to our house, they park and then knock on the nearest door that says "17." That door? Our back door.<br />
<br />
The door leads immediately into our kitchen. We have clunky white tiles that slope downward from west to east; the color choice was not ideal for masking daily dust or how the kids spill. I am not as much of a clean freak as my husband would prefer, but I wish I were every time I open the front/back door for an unexpected visitor.<br />
<br />
When there is a knock at the door, I open it as a show of faith.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>This story has no real purpose. I just wanted to point out that our contractor must have been really tall.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-60661301397637135032013-11-04T09:40:00.000-07:002013-11-04T09:40:21.931-07:00A Night at the Emotional Opera<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
A handful of days ago, I ventured down south about an hour to see my cousin Ben in a operatic performance of "Die Fledermaus," one of my favorite operas. I was able to see my aunt and uncle, as well as visit my former college campus; the night away from being a capital-M mom was also quite nice. The opera was lovely and inspired me, once again, to express myself creatively.<br />
<br />
Afterwards, the whole Ben fan club (consisting of most of my uncle's brothers, their spouses, and his parents) all hung out in an upper-class after party. We chatted about high-minded topics and <i>someone</i> ate animal-style fries, which decidedly brought the whole thing down a notch (it was me, of course). Being in such a fun group was just what I needed to feel like a real person again.<br />
<br />
Ben rode shotgun in my car while we drove around to the various festivities, which gave us a great chance to talk about millennial topics without The Man holding us down. I don't remember which tangent brought us to it, but suddenly Ben uttered one of the bravest things a person can say to another person:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"Your opinion means a lot to me."</span><br />
<br />
How much more baldly can one crack open their heart and invite someone to break it into a million pieces? I would vouch that there isn't much, short of shifting from the metaphorical to the literal.<br />
<br />
Since that night, I have been stuck on that phrase. Every angle I analyze it with has presented a new way to view my interpersonal relationships. To whom does my opinion matter, and how careful do I need to be with them? Who can I pinpoint as someone I should encourage more? Where can I find more inspiration to allow myself to be vulnerable to others? And, whose opinion means a lot to <i>me</i>?<br />
<br />
I am almost 30 years old, and though it sounds presumptuous, I want to be a mentor. Through my example and my thoughtful study, I want to be a source that others can use to achieve their goals. Ideally, I would have been an Italian patron in another life. You need some money to be artsy? Here you go.<br />
<br />
But I don't have money to give.<br />
<br />
The only thing I have is a well-seasoned opinion about what I like, as well as a trustworthy reputation for saying when I don't like something. You can count on me to not slash and burn at your heart, though. That's not my intended business.<br />
<br />
I told Ben honestly what I thought about his performance and the opera in general. We talked about the highs and lows of the night, as well as the performances of the future. Having such intellectual conversation is a welcome relief from the My Little Pony and Super Hero Squad talk that's typical of my days.<br />
<br />
However, what we did not talk about was how impressed I was with Ben's willingness to share his feelings with me. That probably would have been the most important thing I could have said that night, so I am rectifying that now, these handful of days later.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-42445033083789137212013-10-30T15:46:00.001-06:002013-10-30T15:46:19.053-06:00You Must Attend. Yes, You.2006 marked the year of my wedding, and I knew exactly how I wanted it to happen.<br />
<br />
The
proverbial "I dos" were going to be said, my husband and I were going
to ride off into the sunset, and we were definitely, absolutely, NOT
EVER going to have a wedding reception. Why would I throw a party for
everyone else when I wanted to have a party of two? There was not going
to be a reception—no way, no how.<br />
<br />
When I presented my idea to my dad, he did not seem thrilled.<br />
<br />
Usually
our great minds thought alike, but that day, his was great at thinking
differently. My dad told me, "You need to let other people celebrate
you. They want to be happy for you and tell you so in person." Pondering
all of the personal hassle and drama, I hadn't thought about how the
reception's absence would affect others. My then-fiance-now-husband and I
continued on with wedding plans; the reception was the bulk of the
planning and a majority of the heartache, but I was able to see it
through new eyes.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZtPHnAQ6YdkGJoC40xSLk_OY3nXojzrhZxAB3WYaGEg3fnLNqFMUh3dJuIsX7OU31JPHUhofdpe7b1vjDW4rZfZAfIn67XAP1q1EIeOaOXPRvJyz9jzpmRo9cJp6B2mf1WO2YcgLKRYg/s1600/24_514512086669_804_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZtPHnAQ6YdkGJoC40xSLk_OY3nXojzrhZxAB3WYaGEg3fnLNqFMUh3dJuIsX7OU31JPHUhofdpe7b1vjDW4rZfZAfIn67XAP1q1EIeOaOXPRvJyz9jzpmRo9cJp6B2mf1WO2YcgLKRYg/s400/24_514512086669_804_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The other day, I bought a ticket to my 10-year reunion just like <a href="http://sodangbrilliant.blogspot.com/2013/07/musings-of-high-school-reunion.html">I thought I might</a>.
Once it was finalized, I breathed a sigh of relief. I eagerly
anticipated news of what exciting events might occur and who I might
see; I even put some feelers out through social media, though it was
potentially embarrassing. It's not cool to seem too spirited about
something like a reunion.<br />
<br />
But, I was met with radio
silence. A few "can't make it" responses came and quietly left. There
were fence-sitters galore. My settled-upon gang of my high school BFF,
our other BFF, and me seemed to be the only excitement to which I could
look forward. I wondered what I could do to change that.<br />
<br />
I tell you all of that to tell you, the fence-sitters and naysayers, this:<br />
<br />
You need to let other people celebrate you. They want to be happy for you and tell you so in person.<br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Don't deprive others of your presence—you may never know who has you on their Must See list. </b></span> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">There
are some who stealthily follow you on Facebook, but don't feel
comfortable calling you when they're in town. And there are others who
wanted to be your friend in high school, but weren't for all the
sociopolitical reasons that plague teenagers. Others didn't like you
back then and wonder if you've changed for the better.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">I bet you have.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">I've
hit the yearbooks pretty hard, and I know that I wasn't acquainted with
everyone in my graduating class. How could I be? There were over 800 of
us. I wasn't one of the cool kids, and I wasn't one of the jocks. I was
barely one of the Hollys; I was still trying to figure out who I was.</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]"><br /></span></span></span>
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[l8u3].[1][4][1]{comment258432410973476_258449587638425}.[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].[0]">If you still have doubts or wonder if you have anything to add by attending, I quote myself from <a href="http://sodangbrilliant.blogspot.com/2011/04/you-are-important-yes-you.html">this blog post</a>:</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I doubt you know how much impact you have had on those around you.
Someone, somewhere, has seen you be a good person, even if it was only
that one time. But don't lie, there has been more than one time. I can
be a spiteful, vengeful, caustic individual and even I can admit that
there have been a handful of times that I had the chance to show off my
better side. <br /><br />
People think well of you. People have written about you in their
real-life journals. People admired you but never spoke to you. And
people have been inspired by you. Keep trying to inspire.</i>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Come on, guys: just do it. </div>
Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-70091519795291819242013-09-18T20:02:00.001-06:002013-09-18T20:02:09.114-06:00"Kwantsu, Dudes" and Other Reasons I Work HardAs a twelve-year-old girl, I was obsessed with two things: the movie <b><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0108258/?ref_=sr_1">Surf Ninjas</a></b> and solitaire on my parents' desktop computer. I also thought non-stop about boys, which is pertinent to this story.<br />
<br />
<b>Surf Ninjas</b> is a movie about a teenaged surfer who discovers that he has ancient martial arts powers. The two stars of the movie were father and son: Ernie Reyes Sr. and Jr. Rob Schneider and Tone Loc are also featured, if you're into that. Leslie Nielsen melodramatically plays the evil tyrant to great comedic results. The entire movie is on YouTube, but here is a silly taste of what you've been missing.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/Fwezp9tfG3g" width="500"></iframe>
<br />
My thoughts swirled around every inch of that movie. I memorized lines and considered taking up surfing. Our family rented the VHS over and over again, since its lack of popularity made it impossible to find in stores. Being young and adoring a movie is a part of life, right?<br />
<br />
For that whole summer, I often sat in my parents' room and played solitaire. The real reason was because I needed a filler between my allotted Internet usage; I didn't want to miss a second of that delicious dial-up. Playing digital cards allowed me to stay close to the computer and to be on my own, which was a rarity in my seven-person household. <br />
<br />
Every once in awhile, I would have a reawakening. My pixelated attention would snap back into focus, and I would realize how much time had passed. The futility of my activity would penetrate me and I would think:<br />
<br />
"Ernie Reyes Jr. would never want to be with someone who spent all day playing computer solitaire."<br />
<br />
While the likelihood of our love connection was asymptotic, I was motivated to make something worthwhile in order to be desirable. Because I was a preteen, I merely slumped in despair and continued playing hand after hand of cards. But the sentiment still rings in my head today.<br />
<br />
I have a hard time fully relaxing because I still want to impress Ernie Reyes Jr., or at least his universal equivalent. When I participate in a fruitless activity, such as iPad games, my pressing guilt overwhelms me. I want tangible evidences of my time on Earth and the ability to point to my past as well-spent. It's tough to have that when I watch the same four YouTube videos over and over again. Therein lies my trouble.<br />
<br />
You may be asking why I feel so strongly about this topic and yet can list many time wasters under my interests. When I watch TV or cruise the Internet, I utilize those "wastes of time" to initiate later conversations or to analyze human behavior. Music, memory keeping, and making silly movies with my sisters are shaping what's most important to me over and over again. Almost all of my casual pastimes are means to an end—bettering myself. I better myself <i>for</i> myself, but I still feel those twinges of desire. <br />
<br />
I want to publicly excel. I think about what I can add to my list of achievements. I concern myself far too much with how I am viewed. And I worry about what I am going to leave this world with more often than is healthy.<br />
<br />
As far as I know, there isn't an answer for this. I will try to play more Angry Birds just for fun until I figure it out. There is also still time to take up surfing.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-71209963455505220782013-08-08T09:02:00.001-06:002013-08-08T09:02:15.942-06:00Want to Be My Next Victim? I Thought Not<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Especially lately, my limbic system is easy to anticipate.<br />
<br />
When I am not tending to the daily minutiae of housewifery, my brain and my heart conspire together to be madly in love with something or someone. If I don't have a particular target in mind, my mission becomes finding one. And heaven help my mark.<br />
<br />
The last two months have included rabid interests over:<br />
<ul>
<li>Rap</li>
<li><a href="http://dangerously.bandcamp.com/">Jesse Dangerously</a></li>
<li>Temporary tattoos</li>
<li>Memoirs</li>
<li>Boys in general</li>
<li>Summertime TV</li>
<li>McDonald's Monopoly</li>
<li>Expressing myself honestly through creative means</li>
</ul>
<br />
I have taken each of these things to embarrassing limits; the public displays regarding the first three alone have been Mount Rushmore-worthy. And, to be frank, it has all felt so good.<br />
<br />
Here is a piece of wisdom that has been ingrained in me: there are people who find a stable, even-keeled life to be unsettling. I wouldn't group myself in with that set, necessarily, but I do miss the emotional rollercoaster that my life is lacking. The grass is always greener, et cetera.<br />
<br />
Because of that urge to create those highs and lows, I bury myself in learning rap lyrics and then jump to perform them before I'm ready. The tidal wave of my drool at the concert I attended wiped out tens of nerdcore fans. I seek out the saddest articles and the silliest YouTube videos. I'm desperate to cry until I snot or laugh until I throw up.<br />
<br />
What I am saying is, I have turned into Bella riding motorcycles just to see Edward's face.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-3937120856776801292013-07-11T08:26:00.001-06:002013-07-11T08:26:06.323-06:00Musings of a High School ReunionProverbial wisdom advises one to never meet one's heroes—the experience is usually disappointing, thanks to overblown expectations. Plus, many people's heroes end up being jerks and divas, thanks to the nature of fame.<br />
<br />
But, I can't help myself from applying that adage to attending my 10-year high school reunion.<br />
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<br />
The reunion is set for this November, on the day before Thanksgiving. I'm going to be in my hometown during that holiday week and will have that evening open, so my attendance is not a matter of scheduling. I know of a slew of readily fantastic people who are planning to go, so my hesitance is not based in potential loneliness. And Facebook has made my life visible for all the world, so my flip-flopping is not because I dread the "catching up" between old friends.<br />
<br />
I cannot fully decide if I want to go to my high school reunion because I don't know if I'd rather have my former classmates remember 2003 me or 2013 me. And vice versa, if we're being honest.<br />
<br />
Although my character has become more impressive during these past ten years, my C.V. has diminished immensely. While so many of my peers are graduating law school or leading exciting lives overseas, I have carved out a nice-for-me, boring-for-others life for myself. Stay-at-home mom of two living in Utah doesn't wow the crowds.<br />
<br />
When I was 18, I was involved in every extra-curricular I could squeeze in, I had stellar grades, and I fit in with many different social groups. My personality was explosive and annoying and vibrant. And most of all, I had that body that 28-year-old me could only dream about.<br />
<br />
And I imagine that many of my classmates could echo these sentiments; being young is equivalent to being full of promise, and none of us are as young as we used to be.<br />
<br />
I was such a wild fan of my friends (and non-friends) during my high school years. If I went to Redlands in the fall, encountered one of them, and discovered that they had become a raging maniac, I imagine that my disappointment would be cataclysmic. Would the past be better left in the past, then?<br />
<br />
I had the opportunity recently to reconnect with a dear friend who I had not seen since my high school days; I had heard whispers of his life throughout the years, but being able to ask him questions directly proved the above hypothesis. My memory told me that he was a sweet, gentle guy and reality laid his gruff, distant interior at my feet. I want to cling to that old perception, but the new information keeps poking me in the side.<br />
<br />
Do I want to disappoint others in that way? Does the potential disaster outweigh the potential fun of going to a high school reunion? And, even worse, has enough time passed that no one will remember me at all?Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-14488129662713314072013-07-08T09:46:00.002-06:002013-07-08T09:46:31.951-06:00Soothing the Savage Beasts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I've made a huge mistake.<br />
<br />
I let the children sleep in the grown-up bed. Several nights in a row. All night.<br />
<br />
My unusual soft-heartedness has stemmed from their constant irritability during the waking hours. Lucy and Jacko have been needing hands-on attention 24 hours a day, as well as extreme TLC in even the most benign of situations. Did a fly buzz twelve inches in front of your face? Be jittery for an hour. Are you already sitting on Mommy's lap, but you sense that your sibling might be lurking? Embed your nails into Mommy's neck for maximum grip. Make sure to cry-scream for 72 hours at the prospect of taking a nap.<br />
<br />
Things have gotten so out of hand that Jacko even ignored babysitter Cari for the whole first hour of their time together last week—and Cari is like a magical pegasus in his eyes!<br />
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<br />
I have been bending over backwards in order to right their emotional path. Want to sleep on my pillows? Of course. Both sit on my lap, even though I need to pee? Come on over. Talk to me about how other children wouldn't let you shoot finger guns at them? Poor guy. Read 40 stories in a row with the TV still on and covered in melted chocolate chips? Let me put on my rain slicker first.<br />
<br />
Their angst is visceral, but still quite opaque. I can't crack the code that will set them free from it. <br />
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<br />
I wish I knew how to help them. I pray every night and every morning that my daily parenting will do enough to tweak them back into place. And until I can fix it, I'll keep sleeping without my special sheets and my downy duvet. It's the least I can do.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-62367827732282306002013-07-06T11:51:00.001-06:002013-07-06T11:51:52.591-06:00But Why Pop Culture, Why Now, Why Me?In the interest of time, I am going to fast forward and start my story <i>in media res.</i><br />
<br />
All this time, I had believed that my interests in pop culture had always been all-inclusive and had come from an inherent need to know about everything that exists. The fact that I can chat about Thelonious Monk and America's Next Top Model and 1960s politics at around the same high conversational level made me believe that I was an unchanging vacuum of knowledge. I never didn't want to know.<br />
<br />
But intense self-reflection and hours of poring over journals and remembrances had just shown me the opposite.<br />
<br />
My inhalation of movie quotes from films I'd never seen had been born of my first boyfriend; our dates were filled with him spouting lines of dialogue that left me wondering if he was going crazy. I never wanted to feel lost in conversations again, so I began to voraciously seek out lines and plots from popular movies. I can now have an intelligent conversation and drop in a reference to that one time at band camp, even though I have never seen an American Pie movie. What I thought was just a knack for memorization actually stemmed from my infatuation with a guy.<br />
<br />
The eclectic taste I have in music was not inbred nor was it even wholly from my parents. If anything, it was from my best friend's parents. From a young age and still to this day, my constant stream of music came from her mix CDs that held a mystery compilation of fantastic songs; sometimes there would be a theme, such as "R&B Slow Jams," and other times I'd simply receive a CD entitled "Holly's 23rd Birthday Mix." My BFF's tastes came from her father's rock preferences and her mother's soundtrack love, plus a finely-tuned ear for music you can dance to. I may know which corners of the galaxy to peruse for the latest hits now, but I got the road map from her.<br />
<br />
And my addiction to TV was something I thought I came by honestly enough. It's my entertainment of choice and the more the better. But, you know what I really love? Talking with other people about TV. I have discovered that I watch TV mainly so that I can converse about TV; the water cooler moments and the filler episodes are equally as fascinating to me, and my first instinct when the credits roll is to go to Television Without Pity or Facebook to see what my comrades were watching. My self-perceived devotion to the small screen was actually a lifeline for continual conversation with others; my deserted island would not include a TV, because who would debate season finales with me there?<br />
<br />
So, although I spout more than the average bear about books and celebrities and general pop culture knowledge, what I am really doing is holding up a sign that says, "I am the product of the people around me."<br />
<br />
And my mom has always said that I have great taste in friends.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-9583953626725148092013-07-03T10:11:00.002-06:002013-07-03T10:11:29.244-06:00Adult-Sized ThreatsMy father woke little-girl Me up during the middle of the night; I shared a room with my sister Shelley and was concerned that her sleep would be disturbed accidentally by my dad's angry voice. He was viscerally upset with me and began his late-night lecture.<br />
<br />
He informed me that Shelley had already been awake for awhile—in fact, she'd never gone to sleep. Each time she would be close to sealing the sleeping deal, she would startle awake with the memory of something I had said to her earlier:<br />
<br />
"Shelley, I'm so angry with you that I'm going to kill you in your sleep."<br />
<br />
At most, I was seven years old and Shelley was six. I was too young to realize the heft of my words and Shelley was too young to understand the hyperbole. My dad had woken me up to explain the consequences of my unkind speech, then informed me that I would not be sleeping until Shelley was. After that, my memory blurs and I don't recall whether or not we ended up seeing the sunrise.<br />
<br />
But the moral of the story remains. Shelley lost sleep because of what I'd said to her.<br />
<br />
Lately, I myself have been losing sleep at an alarming rate. This is a new phenomenon in my life—I am the world's deepest sleeper and proud to take advantage of that. At my angriest, my weepiest, my worriedest, I have been able to seek restorative sleep. And I always felt better in the morning.<br />
<br />
But this morning, I do not feel better. What I feel is my body moving through clear gelatin, almost unable to close my eyelids due to the wobbly pressure pushing against my retinas. My hours have been distilled into slow motion film. The only events that have cut through the fog were the several times Jacko threw up last night; motherly instincts don't lose their edge. But dealing with the children's emotional aftermath has been a series of cartoon stills with a piano hanging above my head on a fraying rope.<br />
<br />
Jacko's told me that he hates me approximately fifteen times this morning; Lucy has followed suit in her own obstinate way. But I don't hold it against them. They aren't the only ones that hate me.<br />
<br />
I can't sleep because I feel like parts of my life are saying to me:<br />
<br />
"Holly, I'm so angry with you that I'm going to kill you in your sleep."<br />
<br />
Who is going to lecture them on my behalf?Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-32757883430243980452013-06-05T13:26:00.001-06:002013-06-05T13:26:28.568-06:00Another "Don't Do It" from the Holly Playbook—Love Poetry EditionWhen I was fifteen, I was pursued by a boy for the first time ever.<br />
<br />
After not too long, things ended the way they usually do when you are fifteen and in like.<br />
<br />
He asked me to kiss him, and I said no; although, for years my mother thought I'd said yes.<br />
<br />
I recall the brightly-lit desk in my English class where I happened upon what I thought was the most perfect poem for that time in his and my life. My textbook was filled with poems, but this was the one that I had wantonly opened to; at the time, I thought it was fate. And now I look back, and I am able to view it as a timely coincidence. Most of my teenagehood was both timely and coincidence.<br />
<br />
The poem stood so boldly off the page that I almost ripped it out of the book. My mistaken visual memory of this page is essentially what an illuminated manuscript looks like behind a pane of glass—golden, shimmering, sacred. Instead of defacing school property, I chose to spend that class period copying it with pencil on college-ruled paper. I accompanied the poem with a small note for that boy which read something like, "I thought this might be useful to you since we aren't together any longer."<br />
<br />
I'm sure I worded it much more soothingly, but the essential message was, "WE BROKE UP. I BET YOU ARE SAD." This note got to him somehow, probably through me brazenly handing it to him with nary a smile. I can't remember his reaction to it. I bet he does, however.<br />
<br />
I look back on this time as a teaching moment for my kids when they begin to have romantic feelings for someone or try to end a relationship. Assumptions about the other person's feelings are so dangerous and tenuous that you might end up looking foolish trying to grasp at them. And trying to assuage someone's feelings of anger or hurt that you caused them can feel like a dismissive pat on the head. The things going through other people's heads are none of your business—don't White Knight something that might not be there.<br />
<br />
The poem, by <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/06/02/pablo-neruda-price-killer-murderer_n_3374880.html">recently-exhumed poet</a> Pablo Neruda, is still quite beautiful, though.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>I Can Write</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork">I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. <br /><br />Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,<br />and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance." <br /><br />The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. <br /><br />I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.<br />I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. <br /><br />On nights like this, I held her in my arms.<br />I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. <br /><br />She loved me, sometimes I loved her.<br />How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? <br /><br />I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.<br />To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her. <br /><br />To hear the immense night, more immense without her.<br />And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. <br /><br />What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.<br />The night is full of stars and she is not with me. <br /><br />That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.<br />My soul is lost without her. <br /><br />As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.<br />My heart searches for her and she is not with me. <br /><br />The same night that whitens the same trees.<br />We, we who were, we are the same no longer. <br /><br />I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.<br />My voice searched the wind to touch her ear. <br /><br />Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once<br />belonged to my kisses.<br />Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes. <br /><br />I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.<br />Love is so short and forgetting so long. <br /><br />Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,<br />my soul is lost without her. <br /><br />Although this may be the last pain she causes me,<br />and this may be the last poem I write for her.
</span></div>
Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-42488032519926451862013-05-17T09:52:00.000-06:002013-05-17T09:58:10.196-06:00Our Beautiful Twisted Fantasy WeekThough it may sound silly on the glorious day known as Friday, I am kind of wishing that I could have an extra Monday this week. The Flanagan family has had a week full of adventures, and only today am I feeling like I will have time to do responsible things like laundry and child-rearing.<br />
<br />
But despite the lack of grown-up activities, we have all had an enormous amount of fun these last few days. Here are some snapshots of our whirlwind life.<br />
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On Monday, we escaped the insane heat of our home (no cooling system means yucky interiors) by going to our local thrift store (check out that mail holder!), eating our meals at restaurants, and wandering around Target. Our whole day was spent in preparation for the next day—Caleb's 29th birthday!<br />
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Monday night, it was so warm in our townhome (86 degrees at 2 am!) that we all relocated to our basement; makeshift beds and floor fans made sleeping possible, as well as creating our first family sleepover. After a call to the manager confirming that our air conditioning would be installed on Wednesday, we booked a hotel room for Tuesday night.<br />
<br />
Caleb's birthday was a great excuse to have this unusual family excursion. I chose the <a href="http://www.airportinnhotelslc.com/">Airport Inn Hotel</a> because it is conveniently close to our home and off the beaten hotel chain path; the website promised comfy beds, made-to-order breakfasts, and a swimming pool. I packed up the necessities (including the birthday cake!) and the kids, and off we went.<br />
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When we arrived, I was exceptionally pleased; we had walked right into the most pristine 80s cheesiness that I had ever witnessed. Everything was dark wood and ivy, all squished together in economical architecture. As you can see in the picture above and the picture below, the pool was not only indoors, it was IN THE LOBBY. No walls separated the areas, though the short railings demarcated the lobby from the swimming pool. Any raucousness from a pool party would be heard and seen from the leather couches thirty feet away. <br />
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But also, there was only railing separating the pool from the restaurant. The chlorinated smell of the pool readily wafted into the restaurant, meaning that our breakfast eggs and toast felt like a pre-watersliding delight. I was pleased as punch at all of these happenings. The kids, not so much, because Caleb and I felt extremely uncomfortable taking us all swimming in these conditions. Jacko has yet to forgive us of this slight.<br />
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Our hotel adventure ended, and the kids and I were tasked with spending all Wednesday (and surprisingly, all Thursday) out of the house. We did not want to get in the repairman's way, so that he could get our air conditioning in as quickly as possible. Plus, Jacko has a tendency to be a vocal taskmaster to hired help.<br />
<br />
We utilized our <a href="http://www.kidsbowlfree.com/">Kids Bowl Free</a> coupons two days in a row, plus visited several playgrounds and <a href="http://sodangbrilliant.blogspot.com/2012/03/tips-on-keeping-your-kid-from-being.html">fast food playlands</a>; we even made a stop-off at Caleb's office, so that I could drop the kids off and get a new permanent crown in the dental office in the building. Wednesday and Thursday all blended together into a Go-Go-Go chaos machine. <br />
<br />
But most shockingly of all, Jacko and Caleb went to get a haircut this week. Jacko had been growing his hair out to "wear a ponytail," but the summer heat doesn't go well with his thick hair. Since he has gotten this clean-cut look, I feel like I am dealing with a much more adult version of Jacko than before. I'll admit, I miss the devil-may-care look. But as you can see, I still have one child who is still into that kind of image (see: Lucy Goosey.)Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-26231496090660996372013-05-10T10:40:00.001-06:002013-05-10T10:40:26.967-06:00Let Us Oft Speak Kind Words to Each Other<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My therapist was surprised when I told her I wouldn't change one thing about my childhood.<br />
<br />
She said it doesn't happen too often.<br />
<br />
The evidence supports my claim, however, because my parents and my sisters and I form the closest-knit family I have ever known. We are in constant contact, we support each other in every endeavor and trial, and we are incredibly open about what is going on in our lives. I purport that our relationship wouldn't be as healthy if my childhood and that of my sisters was not idyllic.<br />
<br />
In trying to create this kinship in my own little family, I examined the actions of my parents and tried to mimic them. Jacko was a tiny baby when I had an "Aha" moment that I have since followed:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My <span style="font-size: large;">childhood home was filled with kind and loving speech.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The list of no-no words was long, including "suck" and "stupid," and there was more than one occurrence of an impassioned "BE QUIET!" since "shut up" was also verboten. But the house rules weren't solely keeping the negative words out; my sisters and I were encouraged, both directly and by my parents' example, to say positive things about each other and our surroundings. That kind of talk let us learn to express our feelings and be proud of who we are.</span><br />
<br />
If I wanted those things for my children, I knew I had to work hard to instill kind and loving speech in our home. My first decision was to say "yes" to my children instead of "yeah"; the latter could be construed as sarcastic or dismissive, and I wanted to let my kids know that they were being heard and respected. When Jacko became mobile, I decided to tell him "no, thank you" instead of simply "no" (though "NO!" would often come in times of danger). From there, my personal positive-speech practice has grown into hundreds of rules—kindly explaining my reasoning when making decisions, saying "I love you" enough to smother them, vocally admiring the beauty of the earth, pointing out their generous and unprompted service. My whole day is filled with split-second decisions to keep a happy tone of voice and to engage my children in intellectual, positive conversation.<br />
<br />
It can be exhausting.<br />
<br />
But it's worth it.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, at Target, I asked Jacko if he would like to get an Amazing Hulk t-shirt. He responded, "No, I'd prefer something more stylish." A lady in her fifties was on the other side of the rack; she tittered and we exchanged that knowing, adult glance of Aren't Kids Funny. I put the Hulk shirt back and searched for another option. The woman lingered. She looked again at me, caught my eye, and said, "I have been listening to you. It has been refreshing to hear you speak so nicely to your children; I don't often hear that when I am shopping. Many parents are so mean and rude to their kids. You're not. You have restored some of my faith in today's parents."<br />
<br />
Between her statements, I was inserting platitudes like, "Look at these kids, how could I not be nice?" and "They're smart kids, so it's fun to talk with them"; however, she chugged along, trying to let me see how appreciative she was. I finally thanked her and asked the kids to wish her a happy day. My mind turned over what she had said, searching for an appropriate feeling to affix to it all.<br />
<br />
I decided to be proud.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-26797927007092670842013-05-09T14:12:00.003-06:002013-05-09T14:12:57.218-06:00When Jack Attacks (Verbally)<br />
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<br /> <i>When my son Jacko meets people for the first time, he often introduces himself: "I am Jack O. Flanagan. JACKOFLANAGAN." His middle name is actually Hansen. Here are some of his greatest, latest quotations.</i><br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>My son just yelled at me for "making [him] wobble." The Force must be strong with me today, as I never touched him.</li>
<li>My son just told me to "save [my] last words." What a funny menace to society.</li>
<li>Jacko told me, "Mommy, California misses me."</li>
<li>My son just asked me if we could have a conversation about the ideology
of Breaking It Down in another room. The living room was not enough.</li>
<li>Jacko: "Mom, can you help me?" Me: "With what?" Jacko: "Help me...even the odds."</li>
<li>My son just informed me that he doesn't know what a toaster is. This is
how bored he is today—making wildly untrue, mundane statements.</li>
<li><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">My
kids have that Flanagan drive, seeing as Jacko wants to be a
professional Happy Face and Lucy wants to be a professional Baby. Can't
nothing hold them down.</span></li>
<li><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">You
know your day will be filled with mystery when your four-year-old says,
"Mommy, you know what I want to say to you, to your face?
.............Steak."</span></span></li>
<li><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Jacko, upon playing fairy world: "Would you like to eat this smurf chef, Mom? He died in 1987, but he's freshly burned!"</span></span></span></li>
<li><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">When
asking himself the question, "What is a blow-out," Jacko responded the
only way he knew how: "A blow-out is when something is really great and
blows out your mind."</span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">I
kept a straight face when Jacko told me, with tears in his eyes, "Mommy,
you not letting me sit on your lap broke my heart. Come back to me,
Mommy."</span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">As Jacko reminded the Target cashier who said that he didn't have anyone to celebrate Valentine's day with: "Valentine's day is a day for people you care about. I hope that there's SOMEONE you care about in the world!"</span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
<li><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Upon meeting a cute girl at the McDonald's playplace today and introducing himself, Jacko continually asked her, "Have we met?" He told me in the car afterward that he was certain he remembered her
from a previous meeting because "she was really beautiful."</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></li>
</ol>
Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-63161151697629904742013-05-07T10:22:00.002-06:002013-05-07T10:22:37.334-06:00Holly's Secret Secret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
There are probably more.<br />
<br />
But I know of only one specific, life-changing moment in my life that I have never shared with another person before.<br />
<br />
There is no descriptor, no time frame, no setting that I have ever revealed about this frozen piece of my history. The moment is not secret, and it is not sordid. There is no formal cause for my unusual privacy. The memory is so intimate that I fear someone may crush it, even as they are delicately examining it once told.<br />
<br />
I once considered putting it into a fictional story I was writing, but I felt it was glaringly obvious that the event was ripped from the headlines of my life. The option to put it on a Postsecret postcard felt too reductive. To appreciate this memory, one would have to know me, but if you know me, I am never telling you this memory.<br />
<br />
This non-unveiling may seem like I am waggling a treasure in front of you. I may seem to be passively begging you to ask what this crystallized scene in my head is, but that is only as it seems. I am not. I am simply examining that even the most Open Bookish among us still has a few postscripts written in invisible ink.<br />
<br />
And no, it's not Star Wars-related.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-1908584981039314052013-05-04T18:19:00.002-06:002013-05-04T18:19:40.956-06:00A Different Kind of Science Class VolcanoIn eighth grade science class, I once made a disparaging comment about the company 3M. For the life of me, I cannot recall what the comment was or why I was such a corporate expert. It's possible that 13-year-old me was a know-it-all. More like, it's probable I was.<br />
<br />
After class, my dear friend Mark got up in a huff and left the room at light speed. I chased him down, asking if he was okay and why he seemed so rattled. Yes, our teacher <i>was</i> pretty strung out and of course, the rotating schedule made our young lives <i>difficult</i>. But what was the problem?<br />
<br />
He whirled around to face me, all six feet of him, and said, "3M is a great company because my dad had a heart attack, and they helped him out. I can't believe you said that about something so important to my family."<br />
<br />
The remark I made did not cause a permanent rift in our friendship. I barely remember if it made a dent in our general congeniality towards one another. But the brief few minutes of this exchange is ground into my brain. Saying something so seemingly benign and having it affect someone on such a personal level taught me an insanely important lesson: Words can mean everything.<br />
<br />
No particular event caused me to share this story, not even a particular person. We actually bought some Scotch tape today for Jacko's Star Wars Angry Birds character list; 3M's logo is etched on the back of the package. Today's remarks were brought to you by the fact that I read the packaging on the items I purchase.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-12226122736220649362013-05-02T09:38:00.001-06:002013-05-02T09:38:17.462-06:00Gifts of a Meaningful Nature<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibkXli5AD9PKo66oIIQnI1ZnOX099HiEQNlmLrq66zEB710wctrFnmpm58-aqi4MlvpEil40GIaiVclVGEZS4YnqaUFTtKARugvXqj4kJT0NNbupR5eJkMNOOP175IcIjmkScoCa9fXh4/s1600/il_570xN.337480599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibkXli5AD9PKo66oIIQnI1ZnOX099HiEQNlmLrq66zEB710wctrFnmpm58-aqi4MlvpEil40GIaiVclVGEZS4YnqaUFTtKARugvXqj4kJT0NNbupR5eJkMNOOP175IcIjmkScoCa9fXh4/s400/il_570xN.337480599.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Macaroni and Cheese BFF necklaces by <a href="http://www.etsy.com/people/ArtbyAshLigon?ref=pr_profile">ArtbyAshLigon</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Starting in a few days, I am hitting my Spring wall of gift-worthy events: many birthdays, Mother's day, graduations. As usual, I have been approaching the shopping for these gifts with a hellbent focus on being thoughtful. What has this person mentioned to me within the last year? Which gift is something they would never buy for themselves? Who is creating something that my loved one doesn't even know exists, but would love?<br />
<br />
And even though I want to put all my mental energy into the people I most care about, lately, I can't.<br />
<br />
My mind has been clouded and my heart heavy for the last month or so. Without too much detail, my feelings have been deeply hurt and my expectations have not been met. Because of those ever-increasing troubles, I have been putting off the most basic activities and exerting myself beyond my presupposed limits.<br />
<br />
And yet, I desire to show friends and family in my life that I wouldn't have even come this far without having them around.<br />
<br />
So, yes, I sent out my entire <a href="http://sodangbrilliant.blogspot.com/2011/10/postcards-and-people-who-love-them.html">collection of postcards</a> to people around the country. I insisted that my children mail letters to their friends in order to foster <a href="http://sodangbrilliant.blogspot.com/2011/11/gift-ideas-love-notes.html">the love of sharing feelings and appreciation</a>. You better believe I pondered my dad's insistence that he misses "[his] friend Mark," so I bought him this <a href="https://www.etsy.com/transaction/129622346">linocut-printed pillow</a> for his birthday.<br />
<br />
Some of those envelopes may have been tear-stained, and I was interrupted writing those postcards by having to call 911 for my sick husband. But no matter what is going on in my personal life, my loved ones deserve to feel my love. Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-73364993989318634732013-04-02T10:52:00.002-06:002013-04-02T11:08:03.700-06:00An Ode to High School English Teachers (with a Bonus Life Lesson)Walk down memory lane with me, and there will be some treasure at the end of the road. <br />
<br />
Pat Sertic was an exuberant, gifted teacher. I recall the entire reading list of my ninth grade year, because I can pinpoint his dramatic readings of each text—leaping, shouting, and sinister whispering were par for the course. He had a stutter that paused the madness, at points. His aged, small frame could sometimes be found hunched outside to his classroom, smoking a cigarette discreetly. During typically quiet times of writing or test taking, Mr. Sertic would turn on the local university's classical music radio station; there was one particular song, <i>Bolero</i> by Maurice Ravel, that he would quiz us on every time it rhythmically started. I had more than one essay that was marred by a pencil scratch due to a yell of "Who can name this piece? Who is it by?!"<br />
<br />
I just turned on <i>Bolero<b> </b></i>to play in the background while I write this, actually.<br />
<br />
Mr. Sertic fueled my passion for academic writing and reading. When before I had just considered reading as a pathway to general knowledge, I began to appreciate the journey of wading through a text and observing the storytelling methods of syntax and pacing. If I had felt that writing for a class was previously a slog, he twisted each writing assignment into an exploration of the treasures in a novel. Each essay was required to have an illustrated cover and a whimsical title—my sweepingly epic <b>Gone with the Wind</b> essay cover is still imprinted in my mind. Pat Sertic taught me editing tricks that have helped me impress professors and employers alike (start from the last word, so your brain will focus on punctuation instead of the words!). If he were alive today, I would be yearning to give him a high five right this very moment—that is how pumped I am feeling after recounting our journey together.<br />
<br />
For my next two years in high school, I was in the capable hands of Jody Bradberry. If Mr. Sertic had ignited a fire under me, Mrs. Bradberry adjusted the knobs until I was at the perfect temperature. Tall, fierce, bawdy, and undoubtedly sharp, Jody Bradberry did not suffer fools. She probably still doesn't. In my tenth grade English class and my eleventh grade AP composition class, she challenged my writing and my text interpreting until I had no choice but to give my best one hundred percent of the time. She scared the living daylights out of me, at first; now, she is my ever-loving teacher hero.<br />
<br />
My mid-grade effort usually matched the near-best of my fellow English classmates, so I often underutilized my talents. All of those shenanigans stopped once I began to repeatedly receive 8 out of 9 points for each essay I turned in; many of the others around me were achieving perfect scores or even were ecstatic about reaching an 8. I can't recall if I finally approached her or if she decided to shake me into awareness, but Mrs. Bradberry revealed to me that she was purposely giving me a lower grade so that I would actually try my best. She knew that my aggravation would cause me to ramp up my skills and focus on hitting a home run every time. Jody Bradberry drilled vocabulary, sentence structure, and academic seriousness into my head. But then she'd go and spend a whole class period helping my classmates create a list of Must-See Movies for me when they discovered I hadn't seen any PG-13 or R movies up to that point. I still remember her starring a few particular movies, scribbling "Hard Watch" next to gory or titillating ones.<br />
<br />
This woman came to my wedding reception. That is how wonderful she is and how much I value her time in my life.<br />
<br />
My senior year English class was not as joyous or as intense as the previous high school years had been. My teacher, who shall remain nameless, decided that I was the bane of her existence and treated me as such. The AP Literature class that she taught had been her longtime gig, along with teaching at the local university. After being celebrated in my other classes, this teacher consistently smacked down my thoughts during class discussions and pulled me aside to speak with me about my "inappropriate" behaviors. For some reason, my brain tricks my memory into believing that the lights were always off in the room. Together, this teacher and I trudged through two semesters of bickering and mutual hatred. I had the highest grade in the class, nonetheless.<br />
<br />
Reviewing these formative years, I realized an important truth about the people one has in his or her life. There are individuals one has around simply to amp them up; it's typically a friend who constantly invites you to crazy activities or calls you to exclaim over even the most minute thing. One can also pinpoint the intense, intelligent pal who is available to constructively critique or pull you along to a make-up counter or nutritionist because it's for your own good. And there are always people in your life who live to knock you down, no matter what your actions are; the common vernacular label for these people is "haterz."<br />
<br />
And each of these types are necessary. You must have them in your life. To build character and earn respect, these three personalities must envelope and entice you, enrage you and engage you. To be the best you, you need:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: large;">A cheerleader</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">A guru</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">A critic </span> </span></li>
</ul>
<br />
I don't have contact with any of these three teachers anymore, but I have filled their positions with others. The "cheerleader" and "guru" titles are strewn around prodigiously; the "critic" ones come and go. But I am acutely aware that there is a place for all of them in my life, because I am absolutely set on becoming the best Me I can be.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-774403746903820772013-03-09T15:55:00.000-07:002013-03-09T15:55:15.981-07:00SLC Y.U.M.When I find myself in new environs, I like to immediately find the things I need: grocery stores, parks, gas stations.<br />
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But there is something I have to seek out even before all that: FOOD.<br />
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I have a few restaurant types that are necessities. And in Utah, that unfortunately doesn't include Mexican food (growing up in southern California has made me a major Mexican food snob). <br />
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First, I have to find the best Chinese food restaurant. We visited <b>Ho Ho Gourmet</b> after our first day in our new place, and I was near tears after every bite. It was so good! And they give 10% off every take-out order. You know we will be returning sooner than later.<br />
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Next, I have to find the best donuts. We had a few fabulous options when we lived in Riverton, but this food type proved more challenging in our new digs. We were able to seek out <b>Parson's Bakery</b>, though—they have some delicious desserts, as well as fancy donuts. Wouldn't you know, it's in the same shopping center as <b>Ho Ho Gourmet.</b><br />
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And of course, you need a good hamburger. As luck would have it, we are less than a block away from <b>Atlantis Burger</b>. We visited there before we unpacked one box, and they have the best variety of American food ever—plus gyros, people!<br />
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<b>What are your Must Have Restaurants in your area?</b></div>
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<b>Utah locals, what restaurants do you suggest? </b></div>
Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-24411402229308589562013-03-05T15:23:00.001-07:002013-03-05T15:23:40.074-07:00Just North of Salt Lake City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am a major squinter.<br />
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Thanks to my distress at being beholden to The Man, I take off my glasses whenever possible. And my poor eyesight plus my desire to see equals some insane squint wrinkles just north of my nose. I am totally okay with that.<br />
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We have moved into a three-level townhome in North Salt Lake City; the proximity to Caleb's work has already proved helpful (we visited his office when we didn't have Internet) and the sprawling space has made the transition extremely easy. We have enough extra storage room that we have two whole closets empty!<br />
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As a bonus, Caleb and I are already feeling the effects of going up and down stairs all day—my calves are going to be rock hard by this time next year. The kids are roaming free and yelping with glee every time they discover a new nook or cranny. The benefits for each of us are endless, and this new house is somewhere we can spend many years happily. <br />
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The townhouse windows are east/west-facing, which means that I'll be squinting even more than usual during sunrise and sunset. I am totally okay with that, once again.<br />
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<br />Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-16041096148326215832013-02-26T17:53:00.000-07:002013-02-26T17:53:20.324-07:00Moving Time #7<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We're packing up and moving North, as one does when winter is almost over.<br />
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This new three-level townhome will be our first non-apartment, our first multi-level abode, and our seventh place of living since Caleb and I were married. As someone whose parents have lived in the same house for almost 25 years, I never anticipated that my adult life would mean becoming an expert packer. Luckily all seven of our places are within an hour drive from top to bottom, so our scenery has never changed drastically.<br />
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Jacko is traumatized to see all of his treasures in boxes, while Little Lu finds the cavernous, empty rooms to be her own little playground. Caleb is stressed to the max, which happens when minute logistics are your job.<br />
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As for me, I am just happy to be heading to a new place—we'll be closer to my beloved cousin Cari, nearer to a ton of culture for the whole family, and nowhere near a third floor apartment. Herding two little ones up three flights of stairs will not be missed by this girl.Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-33031583646363081682013-02-22T17:50:00.002-07:002013-02-22T17:51:42.556-07:00Pop Culture Love: Frank OceanLoving 2012's breakout hip-hop star Frank Ocean is not new or unique on the Internet.<br />
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My late entry into the world of his album "<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/thinkin-bout-you/id541953504?i=541953590&ign-mpt=uo%3D2">Channel Orange</a>" is only rectified by one thing: I have primarily listened to it (over and over) on the hour-long round trip to my weekly therapy appointments. I believe Frank Ocean would approve.<br />
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My favorite track of the album is a gem called "Thinkin Bout You"—a slow-pulsing jam about ex-love and his former lover's low self-esteem. The hook is five notes long, but it runs through my head all day and all night.<br />
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With lyrics like, "<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Lyric"><span class="line line-s" id="line_16"><i class="smline sm" data-meaningid="1728">No, I don't like you, I just thought you were cool</i></span>/<span class="line line-s" id="line_17"><i class="smline sm" data-meaningid="1728">Enough to kick it</i></span><i>/</i><span class="line line-s" id="line_18"><i class="smline sm" data-meaningid="1734">Got a beach house I could sell you in Idaho</i></span>/<span class="line line-s" id="line_19"><i class="smline sm" data-meaningid="1734">Since you think I don't love you, I just thought you were cute</i></span><i>/</i><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_20"><i class="smline sm" data-meaningid="1734">That's why I kiss you," </i><span class="smline sm">how can you say no? My ideal lover is definitely someone who is crazy about me, but isn't afraid to tease me for my blonder moments.</span></span></span><br />
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Lyric"><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_20"><span class="smline sm"><br /></span></span></span>
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Lyric"><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_20"><span class="smline sm">And on a purely platonic level, this song makes me think about all of the people in my life who haven't felt deserving of my esteem. I have a strong passion about interpersonal relationships; when I feel connected to someone, it is almost tangible for me. I talked more about this feeling a couple of years ago, when I confessed that <a href="http://sodangbrilliant.blogspot.com/2011/04/you-are-important-yes-you.html">I think about all of my past friends all of the time</a>. </span></span></span><br />
<span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Lyric"><span class="line line-s hover" id="line_20"><span class="smline sm"><br /></span></span></span>Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-83209471784491055472013-02-21T09:27:00.000-07:002013-02-21T09:27:13.713-07:00Jackos Say the Darnedest Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="userContent"><i>Little Jacko is now four years old, and he is as gangbusters as ever. Here are some funny things he has said in the last few months. </i></span><br />
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<span class="userContent">When asked what made him like "The Real Ghostbusters," Jacko responded with the obvious answer: "Logic."</span><br /><span class="userContent"> </span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">As Jacko reminded the Target cashier who said that he didn't have anyone to celebrate Valentine's day with: </span></span><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">"Valentine's day is a day for people you care about. I hope that there's SOMEONE you care about in the world!"</span></span><br />
<br /><span class="userContent">"Did you come to my second birthday party? In 1987?"</span><span class="userContent"></span><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"> </span> </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">My cousin Cari: "Hey, do you go by Jacko these days or do you go by Jack?"</span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"> Jack: "I call myself Jack Flanagan sometimes."</span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"> Cari: "Do you remember your middle name?"</span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"> Jack: "O. Jack O."</span></span><br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><br />At the risk of sounding uncouth, I present
Jacko's ending to the sacrament meeting coloring book: "And so, Jesus, I
wish you good luck."</span></span></span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"> </span></span></span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">"The louder you are, the quieter my show is. I'll only be sad for you if I can hear my show."</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">"Tell mom my heart hurts without her, but I will be brave so she doesn't worry."</span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">"Mom, why do you and daddy have two kids? At least, two kids who are talking to you."</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br /><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent"><span class="userContent">Jacko ran up to me and mechanically said, "Initiating Tattle Sequence.... Lucy opened the peanut butter."</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2554543527434632550.post-81966952925973372592013-02-20T17:47:00.000-07:002013-02-20T17:47:51.861-07:00Teaching Others How to Breathe<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/96273477/operation-incognito-pdf-pattern?ref=pr_shop">disguise PDF</a> is still on my to-do list</td></tr>
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I wish I could remember where I learned this technique, so that I could link to it or give credit where it's due. But I can't. I would if I could, but I can't.</div>
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When you're hugging or snuggling someone who is upset, a non-verbal way to get him or her to calm down is to slow down your own breathing. Unconsciously, the friend being hugged will follow your lead and take slower, longer breaths—a key component to becoming less panicked and more in control.</div>
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One might suppose that I learned this through a late-night newborn-baby session or when pulling my hair out over my three-year-old's chaos.</div>
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But I remember being a newlywed, sitting in our four-foot-squared hallway, hugging my husband who was having a hard day. No talking involved, no saying the wrong thing, no "I know how you feels." Just a hug, some conscious breathing on my part, and a lot of love.</div>
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Now that you know one of my care-taking secrets, I hope that you can use it on me.</div>
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I've needed it recently.</div>
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Holly F.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01300828364190306390noreply@blogger.com1