"Kwantsu, Dudes" and Other Reasons I Work Hard

As a twelve-year-old girl, I was obsessed with two things: the movie Surf Ninjas and solitaire on my parents' desktop computer. I also thought non-stop about boys, which is pertinent to this story.

Surf Ninjas 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.


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?

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.

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:

"Ernie Reyes Jr. would never want to be with someone who spent all day playing computer solitaire."

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.

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.

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 for myself, but I still feel those twinges of desire.

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.

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.

Let Us Oft Speak Kind Words to Each Other

My therapist was surprised when I told her I wouldn't change one thing about my childhood.

She said it doesn't happen too often.

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.

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:

My childhood home was filled with kind and loving speech.

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.

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.

It can be exhausting.

But it's worth it.

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."

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.

I decided to be proud.

Gifts of a Meaningful Nature

Macaroni and Cheese BFF necklaces by ArtbyAshLigon

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?

And even though I want to put all my mental energy into the people I most care about, lately, I can't.

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.

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.

So, yes, I sent out my entire collection of postcards to people around the country. I insisted that my children mail letters to their friends in order to foster the love of sharing feelings and appreciation. You better believe I pondered my dad's insistence that he misses "[his] friend Mark," so I bought him this linocut-printed pillow for his birthday.

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. 

An 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.

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, Bolero 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?!"

I just turned on Bolero to play in the background while I write this, actually.

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 Gone with the Wind 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.

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.

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.

This woman came to my wedding reception. That is how wonderful she is and how much I value her time in my life.

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.

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."

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:

• A cheerleader
• A guru
• A critic 

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.

Teaching Others How to Breathe

This disguise PDF is still on my to-do list

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Now that you know one of my care-taking secrets, I hope that you can use it on me.

I've needed it recently.

C is for Compliment (and Cookie)

Recently, I got a compliment from someone I really trust.

She told me:

"Holly, you have such a great upper level of logical thinking and rationality; you're able to dissect things. But you also have this well of passion underneath—especially about relationships. It's uncommon to meet someone who has both logic and emotional depth."

I laughed when she said it.

As someone who measures her minutes in "Phineas and Ferb" episodes, I don't often get the opportunity to utilize both my thinking and feeling skills. My children are lovely but because I innately love them, most of my empathy for them comes naturally; they also don't challenge my logic too often.

My mind keeps riffing that quotation around in the musical chaos of my head. Something so simple has made a huge difference.

Remember that when you speak to others—your words carry heft.

What's a thought/compliment/encouragement you think about?

Remember Little Ol' Me?

When the Emmys happened in September, I threw my usual party. I spiced things up by asking my guests to bring their journals along, so we could play "Pick a Page" during the commercials.

The rules are simple:

1. You tell the party guests from which pages or dates they can choose (ex. "1 to 203" or "September 30, 1997 to January 22, 2003").
2. Someone randomly chooses a page number or date.
3. You scan the entry to see if it's something you're willing to share.
4. You read your journal entry aloud, to the delight of the entire party.

My mother introduced me to this game when my sisters and I were little. She is an avid journal writer and has been for her entire life. She loved pulling out her old journals and entertaining us with stories from her childhood and teenage years.

This is such a fun way to relive your memories, and yet enjoy the silliness of your poor spelling or hyper-sensitive issues of years gone by.

I tell you all of this to let you know that I don't believe in writing "Wow, it's been a long time since I've written in my journal" when there's a space of time between entries. I appreciate the kind words and concerns I have received in my blogging absence.

I'm back.

Pro Tip: Cowbell on Your Keys (and Giveaway!)

In my hometown of Redlands, California, there is a yearly cycling race called The Redlands Bicycle Classic; its a yearly fixture in the Chatfield social calendar and my family loves to watch the excitement. Like in snow sports, cycling has a specific set of noisemakers that the crowd uses to show their support.

Enter: the cowbell.

As cyclists rush past you, it's your job as a fan to make an insane amount of noise using your cowbell until you see the last piece of tire tread in the distance. Seeing as you wouldn't be the only fan on the block, you would join a chorus of countless cowbells clanging in harmony. It's fun, loud, and highly-decibeled.

I found that carrying a mini cowbell on my keys had an extra bonus for me. I tend to carry big purses or diaper bags, so I have a lot of room to lose my keys. With the cowbell on my keys, I can shake my bag and know that they're at least in there. When I am rushing out of my house chasing two little children, giving my bag a shake is a huge time saver.

Also, I could use the bell if I got lost in the wilderness or was about to get attacked. The din of a clanging cowbell is easy to hear! Luckily I haven't had to use my cowbell in either of these cases. But, I'm ready if I do!

While I was in California, my sister Carlie gave me another mini cowbell key chain. It means a lot to me, so I have replaced my former cowbell for a new and improved one.

I feel so strongly about this pro tip that I want to give away a cowbell to one of my lovely readers.

You will love having an aural cue that your keys are SOMEWHERE IN THIS FREAKING BAG WHERE ARE THEY AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

To enter this giveaway, leave a comment on this blog post with your email address.

I love to hear from you anyways, but knowing you share a proclivity for losing keys would make me feel a major kinship with you. Ha!

This giveaway will run until Monday, July 16th at midnight. A winner will be randomly chosen, and if that winner does not respond within 48 hours, another winner will be selected.

Feel Better Healthy with Cori

Hello all! My name is Cori and I am a Registered Dietitian [RD]. I was pretty excited when I learned Holly wanted me to guest post because I am an advocate for doing what I can to get the dietitian name out there. I don't know if it's just me being slow on the uptake or if this is most people, but I hadn't even heard of dietitians until I got to college and began my classes to work toward becoming one! It seems we have been in the public eye a bit more these days, but we have a long way to go.

There is a wide range of jobs, practices, specialties, programs, etc. that dietitians can be involved in, but the most common response I get once people find out I'm a dietitian is some variation of the following:

"So you make sure people eat healthy?"

"Do you make meal plans?"

"I need you to help me lose weight!"

Since this is most of what I hear from people, and for the sake of this post, I am here to tell you what meeting with a dietitian might be like in regards to the above responses.

Let me first tell you a few things I would want to know from you:

1. Why are you visiting with a dietitian? What is it you want to get out of the visit?

2. What have you done or tried [if anything] to help you reach your desired outcome?

3. What is a typical day of eating like for you?

4. What is your activity level, height, and weight?

5. What are some attainable goals you would like to work toward?

Now that you know some of the information I, as a dietitian, would like to know, you are already ahead of the game. I feel it important to say: we are not here to judge you.  In my experience, the clients I've seen appear to be overly self-conscious when I ask them to tell me what they eat, and ofttimes they do not tell me the truth! And it's obvious. Please tell the truth when you come to see us, it's the only way we will be able to really help, and I repeat, we are not here to judge you. That is not why we became dietitians. I guarantee not one person thought, "I want to be a dietitian to judge and make fun of people." We really are in the business to help. With that said, come prepared to be brutally honest with your eating habits, activity level, and your struggles. We want you to be specific, too. What kind of cereal was it? How much of it did you eat? Where were you when you were eating it? What was your mood during that time? Write down everything you eat. Keep a food journal. I promise it will help bring things to light you did not notice before. And if you had that to bring into your dietitian visit?! We would be so impressed.

Some of what you can expect from the dietitian at your visit [this may vary from dietitian to dietitian and what it is you want exactly]: tips including healthy cooking, appropriate portion sizes, individual meal plans, your calorie needs to maintain, lose, or gain weight, suggestions on how to change and how to reach your goals, etc.

If you are interested, you can find a Registered Dietitian in your area by going to eatright.org and clicking "find a dietitian" on the top right. If you're not quite ready to make an appointment with a dietitian, start by answering the questions above and try to keep a food journal. So much of eating right means changing current not-so-good habits into better ones, which is really up to you. We can help you along the way, but we can't make the changes for you.

I hope this has been at least a bit enlightening to those interested in meeting with a dietitian. Feel free to contact me with any questions or comments at feelbetterhealthy [at] gmail [dot] com. Good luck with your healthy endeavors!

Thanks, Holly, for having me! What a treat to be a guest on So Dang Brilliant.

Friendly Friend

When Bill Cosby's son Ennis was killed in 1997, the superstar comedian lost his only son. But, more importantly to him, he lost one of his greatest heroes; Mr. Cosby admired Ennis' dedication to overcome his struggles (like dyslexia) and his positive attitude. A friend of Ennis' described him: "[Ennis] was a friend to everyone that he'd met and would refer to people as such," said his boarding school classmate and best friend, Phil Caputo, an L.A. attorney, on Larry King Live. [source]

"He'd say, 'Hello Friend.' " Indeed, the greeting has become part of Ennis's legacy."

I was 12-years-old when this senseless murder happened. My family is basically its own chapter of the Bill Cosby fan club, so we were devastated for him, like most of the country. I recall so many of the interviews given and memories shared of Ennis Cosby; being 12 usually doesn't lend itself to tuning in to these kinds of serious matters, but for some reason I knew I had to pay attention.

And 15 years later, it's obvious to me why I was so drawn to that news story.

During the aftermath of his death, I decided to adopt Ennis Cosby's habit of calling everyone "friend." That sounded like an easy way to let people know that I recognized them in this big world and wanted them to know that I cared, on some level. And since then, I literally call people of all walks of life "friend." And not in the sense like, "Some of my best friends are transient hobos."

When I speak with someone at the grocery store or on the train, I refer to them as Friend. At times when I need to reference someone I don't know in public to my children, I say, "Do you see that friend over there?" People that I have known for literally my whole life are often greeted with a casual "Hey, friend." I believe that this habit shows people that I want to connect with them, even if for a moment.

And almost every time I use that moniker, I think about Ennis Cosby. I know that his death meant so much more to so many other people, but if he hadn't died, that People magazine article may not have been written; I would have never made the conscious decision to follow his lead.

I would love it if my legacy were calling every person I met "Friend."

Holly's Summer Manifesto

Photo by Paige Evans

Don't worry, friends—my kids are sick. Again. This time, it's Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease; it's a highly contagious illness that looks like chicken pox, but only around your limbs and your lips. See you in 10 days when the disease isn't communicable anymore.

The words that have been echoing after my sick-kid complaints have been, "Sometimes, kids just get sick. There's not much you can do."

But there IS something I can do!

I am dreaming of the best summer ever, and I'm making plans to put it in motion. Sick kids or not, I am going to make these things happen:

• Write a special summer 'zine made by moi
• Fall in love with Mexican food again
• Rummage through my parents' house and kidnap some treasures to bring back home
• Drink more sparkling pink lemonade
• Make a summer playlist on GrooveShark
• Be rid of full trash bags laying around
• Scrape my knees doing something crazy
• Finally do batting cages for the first time in my life
• Put ice in my water every day
• Create the best Chatfield Sisters movie yet

No matter how many germs get between me and my perfect life, I'm going to be checking these off my summer list one by one. Germs don't know that they shouldn't come between me and my goals. Or maybe I'm too thick to realize that I can't just enable the powers of mind over matter.

To misquote Coldplay: Germs and I never change, do we? Germs and I never learn, do we?

What's your summer manifesto?

 

Summer manifesto idea from Kimberly Adami-Hasegawa

Something to Remember Next Time You Hate Yourself

Stealing from my 2009 self to send out this reminder:

I wish I could remember where I read this mantra.

The things that we hate most about ourselves are our secret superpowers.

That thought just keeps RunningRunningRunning through my head. I want to needlepoint a pillow, cross-stitch a frame, spray paint a wall with that saying. Because the things I hate about myself:

Stubbornness
Fickleness
Incomprehensible surges of emotion regarding seemingly benign issues
Social eating
Getting what I want when I want it because I know I deserve it

They've just got to be superpowers. I just need to harness them for good (and still for a little evil sometimes). 

Stop With the Accusations Already

I am not the most cuddly person in the world.

My round exterior may suggest that I'm a jolly old soul, but I prefer to express myself in sarcasm and sardonic humor. Each of my closest friends know to take what I say with a grain of salt, as do many of my farthest enemies. Even my husband and I are faux bullies to each other sometimes, proving the old adage that we tease because we love.

But I am thinking about changing my behavior, in a way. After having a few things come back around to me lately, I think my new ways may be for the best.

I am done with faux accusations for teasing's sake.

For someone who fires on all cylinders when teasing, this is a big step for me. I don't believe that I can rescind all of my teasing ways, but I definitely feel that the accusations need to stop.

I vow to stop telling people that they left me out, when I know I don't need to be involved in everything. I vow to stop saying that someone has let me down, when I know that they did their very best. I vow to stop wondering out loud why all of my unnamed expectations weren't met, when there are times someone was only trying to do something nice for me. I vow to stop asking my children why they are bugging me, when I know that they are still learning how to act thoughtfully. I vow to stop vocalizing my failure when faced with another's success, when I know I should be celebrating them instead.

When unsuspecting friends and family hear my "silly" accusations, there is a good chance that they see something behind the jokes. I know when these things are said to me, I am left with a bad taste in my mouth. A few of these "jokes" have soured my opinion of some people; even if I don't detect any malice in their words after close inspection, I conclude that the person who "accused" me isn't aware enough to know how their teasing came across.

These types of faux accusations run especially rampant on the Internet, where sarcasm is hard to connote anyway. Commenting negatively on any social media platforms or websites can be a slippery slope—it's best not to give people a good reason to anonymously harass you.

Though I may continue teasing people to make them feel included or joking around with someone who needs some distraction, I know that I am done with pointing the finger at someone just to get a laugh. As a child, I even bristled at being accused (in sing-song) of stealing the cookie from the cookie jar. Why should I joke about someone else stealing cookies from the cookie jar, especially when they are simply getting one to share with me?

Have you felt the sting of joking accusations? 

Who's with me in renouncing this behavior?

The Art of Gushing

Caleb's recent birthday has gotten me to thinking: I am going to continue my mother's supposed life work.

I know that makes it sound like she has died, but she hasn't. Or, to use her own terms, "It's better to be a number than in the box." I have always thought that made her sound like a farm hand.

Anyway, my mom has always been a vocal proponent of Gushing.

Gushing is being effusively thankful and loudly happy to the people who love you.

When my sisters and I had birthdays, my mom would remind us to gush to our guests. She wanted us to help each person know that their presence (and presents!) was valued beyond measure. Gushing can come in many forms; repeated long-form thanks and sincere flattery seem to be my go-to gushing methods.

I'm 27 years old, and my mother still has to remind me to gush sometimes. It can be hard to gush when you're not in the mood, but pushing through that disinterest produces mood-enhancing results. I promise.

I feel that gushing helps both the gusher and the gushee. When you are in the habit of gushing, you generally become a more grateful person; seeing all of the good around you, big and small, makes the bad things around you seem more palpable. And of course, the gushee will love hearing that they have made you happy.

Gushing can also be done to those that you don't know so well. The gushing level just has to be taken down a notch—can you imagine talking to a parking attendant like, "OH MY GOSH. Thank you sooooooo much for giving me change. YOU. ARE. THE. BEST!!!!!!!" He would be super freaked out. I tried this at Wal-Mart yesterday, and I ended up saying to the cashier, "I could not be more grateful than you can imagine." ...What? That doesn't even make sense.

So, what I'm saying is that you should become a gusher. Be extremely grateful for the good things in your life. You know me, I wouldn't suggest anything that I wasn't willing to do myself.

What life lessons from your parents do you intend to carry on?

Come On, Let's Zentangle Again

To cleanse my mind of the boredom blues, I decided to take Maryam's challenge to get my zentangle on. Her Easy Art tutorial about it can be found here—I can attest to its easiness and to its artsiness.

And let's not get it twisted: I ain't no artist. I feel so self-conscious about creating fine art that I even talked about it on Maryam's blog once. The blog post title? Holly From So Dang Brilliant Sucks at Art. I'm keeping it 100% at all times.

Per Maryam's suggestion, I chose to zentangle on a simple magazine page; I ripped this trippy football one from Caleb's ESPN the Magazine. I went through my scrapbooking supplies and found a black Sakura Glaze pen from four or five years ago (Side note: when searching "Glaze pen" on amazon.com, the book Zentangle Untangled came up on the first results page. Crazy!)

With a few episodes of Star Trek: Voyager accompanying me, I was able to just sit and doodle. I felt totally engaged in the project, but was able to let my mind wander while I did it. And my mind needed to wander. This was a really great project—don't be upset if you receive one in the mail from me sometime, because I think I want to make about a million more.

If you want to see more of my Easy Art attempts, check out my Blind Contour painting of Jacko.

Wishes for Holly — A Party Game for All Ages

I'm not a baby, guys.

Not anymore. Not like before.

That's why I turned Lil Sugar's idea for an heirloom baby shower game into a Big Girl game for my birthday party last month. They had a cute PDF that had swirly letters explaining that the prompts given were wishes for the impending baby.

"I hope you become __________________"
"I hope you learn to __________________"
"I hope you aren't afraid of ____________"

The idea was so sweet, but the portion of the PDF that specifically said "Baby" on them didn't seem to fit the theme for my party. You know, Happy 27th birthday Holly and all that.

So Caleb typed out the questions and printed off several for my party guests to fill out. Funny, meaningful, a mix of both—all answers were accepted in this questionnaire. Many of the kids who attended the party even penned some really great responses.

The instructions on the original idea site say that you should read the answers aloud at the end of the party, but I am selfish and kept them for myself to read when everyone left.

To rectify my rule-breaking, here is a smattering of responses that made my special day even better.

My friend Teri hopes I learn how to fly. She's especially silly with her wish, but I like it.

Teri's little daughter Kate hopes I become a special girl. This one made my heart beam—I really, really like it.

My twenty-something cousin Ben hoped something for me that's a little more career-oriented.

My cousin Cari's response to this prompt reminded me of how much I am going to miss our little Utah clan once everyone disperses. Awwww, family, don't go.

If you look at the first and third responses from Shyla, you'll see that she and I have differing tastes in children's television. I've converted her daughter Eden to the church of Yo Gabba Gabba, and I refuse to be baptized into the boring Kipper religion. See? No Kipper respect from this side of the fence.

My BFF Megan is two months younger than me, so obviously her answer wasn't self-serving.

Julikins, my sister, makes a good point. R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Little Lia Gibbons, first-grader in a Chinese immersion program, wants me to grow up to be a dancer. Big Holly Flanagan, mother of two and professional pen twirler, also wants me to grow up to be a dancer.

And I just had to share my cousin Trevor's signature. I laughed and laughed, because don't you remember when we would all sign our names with these things after it? Peace, love, and happiness! Any guesses at how old Trevor is? Your clue is that he is not in the eighth grade (which was my prime note-writing age!).


These prompts are fabulously fun and amazingly meaningful to me, even the silly ones. If you're not a link follower, I'm going to post the prompts image below. You can fill out one or more of them in the comments for me as a late birthday present.

Pop Culture Love: Adele Live at the Royal Albert Hall

This past November, I was told by a few people that I should consider going as Adele for the coming Halloween. The reasoning most people had was that I look like her, but my personal belief is that they think I sound like her.

I have written about my Adele love before, but thanks to my recent birthday present, I may want to take everyone's advice and fully immerse myself in her, if only for a night.

The DVD of Adele Live at the Royal Albert Hall is a recording of Adele's most recent concert tour when she performed at the famed Royal Albert Hall in England. All of music's biggest names have performed there, and Adele is visibly overwhelmed that she has joined their ranks; her remarks upon the matter have their fair share of exclamatory curse words.

The 99-minute movie covers all of Adele's recent hits from her phenomenal album 21, as well as songs from her freshman album 19 and a few cover songs. I would love to point you toward my favorite songs, but the best thing about this concert DVD is letting her music envelope you for the whole experience. Her music is oddly compelling as workout music, soothing as distraction music, and perfect for singing in the shower.

Adele's humorous anecdotes between songs and explanations of how the songs were written are beyond captivating—you feel like you know her and wish you could buy her a drink at the local pub. The reason her music is so relatable is evident when you see her get embarrassed by her friend in the audience or get red-faced with anger over an ex she hasn't forgiven yet.

My main recommendation regarding this DVD is that you should buy it, as it comes with a CD of the live recordings from the concert. If you are unable to buy the DVD, check out the performance on YouTube; as far as I can tell, the entirety of the concert is there, starting with the clip below.



When you have watched it (partially or wholly), come back and tell me all about your chills/thrills/laughs/cries.

And I will agree with you every time.

Becoming Your "You Know Me, I..." Self

My go-to phrase recently has been, "You know me, I...." Everything starts out that way, and sometimes even ends that way.

"You know me, I love bold-colored hair."
"You know me, I can't live without my jock jams."
"You know me, I love being right."
"You know me, I wish I could rock drag queen makeup all the time."

And every time I say it, I am positive that the recipient does know me.

Nothing I say is a surprise. Not because I am boringly predictable or flatly simple, but rather because I want to share myself with the people that I love—warts and all.

Once I realized that my vernacular had been overtaken by this phrase, I started to wonder to whom I could truthfully say "You know me, I...." The list was filled with some obvious results: my husband, my parents, my sisters, my dearest friends. But I was surprised to also add a few aberrations: my doctor, my high school teachers, my enemies, and you, my blog readers. I want everyone to know me, because I feel like I am worth knowing—even the parts of me that would rather proof-read an essay rather than frolic outside or choose a documentary to watch on a Just Me night.

But there are always people who don't deserve to know the whole you. Those people want to manipulate the kind parts of you, alter the moral parts of you, or break the fragile parts of you just to watch you crash. Knowing who those people are is incredibly difficult. My perspective is usually that everyone is innocent until proven guilty, if that helps at all.

And there are also people with whom I wish I could share more. I dream of reaching out to people I admire and connecting in a "You know me, I..." way. I desire to reconnect with people I used to love and rekindle that "You know me, I..." fire. There are fleeting times when I think about forgiving those people who have hurt me, because our "You know me, I..." times were so good when things were better. But I am not made of stronger stuff—I let my fear get in my own way.

Are there people you can be your "You know me, I..." self around? 

I want to hear those stories. I want to bask in the glow of your "You know me, I..." happiness. Heck, I want to be one of the people that you can say "You know me, I..." to.

Is there someone you wish you could "You know me, I..." with?

I have four fingers up on my hand right now of people I want that relationship with. How many do you have? Can you start that transformation today?  I don't feel like I can, but maybe I could. I definitely have faith in you, that you can do whatever you put your mind to—you are awesome.

You know me, I have a big ol' crush on you. I'm your biggest fan.

Linked Up Round Up & Catching Up With You

Hello, friends!

I am now a full-fledged member of the Internet again, and I am so humbled that so many of my pals were willing to fill in for me while I was gone. If you missed any of the brilliant posts that were contributed (or even if you want to reread the ones you already saw!), here are the links:

• Being Internet Cool with Nova Rella
• Eye-Catching Color Combos with Vanessa
• The Zombie Job Survival Pack with Pocky
• Teach Me How to Rat Terrier with Kelsae
• The Hairstyle Saga with Cari
• Loving Live Music with Megan
• Handmade Dolls with Olivia
• Becoming a Right Now Writer with Megan O.

My trip to Texas was due to some sad recent events, but the trip itself was magical. I will rehash some more of it later (prepare for the slideshow of your life...or not), but suffice it to say that I gained five pounds. Texas food is no joke. I'll keep California, though, thanks.

Pacific Ocean by Paige Evans

 And because I know you love a good rambling, here are some things I have been thinking about recently, in no particular order.


*My breast reduction seems farther away than ever. I feel like I have to potty train Jacko first, have to lose weight first, and have to do my chiropractic sessions as close together as possible first. If you want to talk about self-defeating, I am your woman. Bummed out doesn't cover how I feel.

*Speaking of self-defeating, I have not felt full in about a month. I have definitely felt the feeling of "Whoa, I ate too much," but even then it wasn't a satisfied sensation. Because I have done the weight loss thing before, I know exactly what works for me and exactly what I need to do to achieve it. But never have I ever felt like a bottomless pit before. I am not sure what to do to fix that.

*Humidity is not my friend. The Gulf of Mexico-adjacent trip I just took schooled me in regard to big-A hair and my affinity for drier climates. If Caleb gets any funny ideas and wants to move to the Midwest, he had better be aware that if I can't beat humidity, I'm joining it—Dolly Parton hair will be alopecia comparatively.

*30 Days of Lists is almost upon us. This will be my third round of daily list prompts, awesome giveaways, and inspiring classmates. If you are willing to give up one day's worth of fast food, you too can afford to jump in feet first. For realsies, y'all, this is my favorite Internet collaboration ever. A total ball.

*Joining the Flanagan family years ago meant that I learned the Family Card Game, a.k.a Hand and Foot. I wouldn't say that I am a terrible player, but fate is not on my side when I play it. Ultimately, the best thing about playing this rummy-type card game for me is the peanuts and dinner mints that always find their way to the card table.

I have missed you all!

Now it's your turn to ramble at me—what have I missed in your life?

Becoming a "Right Now" Writer with Megan O.

I don’t understand why more people don’t write novels. 

And yes, Holly, this means you. 

So many times, when I tell people that I write novels, the response is, “Way to go. I have always wanted to do that. I love writing.” 

To all “someday novelists” I’m issuing an official throw down: “Well...why don’t you?!” 

And before you start with your excuses, let me identify a few I get regularly: 

1. “It’s such a competitive market, and I don’t think I’m good enough.” 
When I was in college, I sang in a group called Concert Choir. I was honestly astounded that I got in, because it was a group with pretty rigorous standards, and I’m serious when I say that I spent every practice just grateful to be there. A few weeks before one of our concerts, our amazing conductor announced that she’d be holding auditions for a solo on one of the pieces. I loved the piece she was talking about, and wanted to sing it, but I knew I wouldn’t get it, because there were about 50 other extremely talented women in the choir. 

I auditioned anyway, because my mama didn’t raise no quitter. I’m not going to lie: it was really intimidating. I didn’t go into a little room and sing for my conductor privately. Instead, she had us all line up and sing one after another -- and these girls were GOOD singers. The one who went before me nearly knocked me over with her voice, it was so amazing. After she sang, I almost put my music down and walked out. Seriously. But I didn’t. I stood with wobbly knees, squeaked out the part, and sat back down. 

I got the solo. 

I was not the best singer, and that isn’t false modesty. The solo called for a simple voice, and mine fit the bill. Had we been vying for an operatic aria, I would have been the last choice. 

Don’t think about writing as a competition with every other writer out there. That’s not a healthy way to look at writing, or life for that matter. Focus on your own work, and don’t be overly harsh with yourself! Just like my little weakling voice could be perfect or disastrous depending on the piece, I believe there is a space where every kind of book can shine. 

2. “I don’t have the time. Someday.” 
We do ourselves a disservice when we choose to believe in the idea of the starving artist. I always picture Thoreau, isolated in the silence of his little cottage at Walden Pond; listening to the forest, meditating, and always writing, writing, writing. How many novels could I churn out if I was left to my own devices for 24 hours a day??? For the majority of us, this is a far cry from reality. But that shouldn’t discourage us. You don’t need to live the life of a starving artist to feel like you’re legitimately creating. I wrote my first novel over the course of a year, by writing for about 30 minutes a day (or night, after my baby was asleep). Do yourself a favor: that image of the wild-haired, solitary genius whose office floor is covered in crumpled paper? Throw it away. Better yet, replace it with a picture of yourself, typing out a few paragraphs on your laptop before bedtime. That is a novelist. 

3. “I’ve written a lot of shorter pieces, but a novel feels overwhelming.” 
This was my situation, too. I’d racked up tons of short stories, articles, poetry, even a couple of monologues. I didn’t trust that I could keep a plot consistent and engaging for 300 pages, which is about how long my novel turned out to be. 

My advice would be this: start your novel-writing process with a planning stage. Deliberately carry a notebook and pencil with you wherever you go. I always have one -- even when I’m on the treadmill. (Believe me, I’ve gone cross-eyed trying to decipher my squiggly writing once I’m home.) Write down even the smallest ideas: a quirk some character has, or the name of a city, or little fact that would help your timeline...it’s all important, even the things you don’t end up using. Remember word webs from 3^rd grade? Yeah, I did a lot of those. 

Then, one day, make the step. Start writing! People do this differently -- some like to just write and see where it takes them. I would not recommend this. Revising your novel will be a LOT easier if you know where you’re going before you start. I would brainstorm, plan, and then write. 

And then email me and I’ll read your manuscript.  :) 


I offer more in-depth suggestions for the writing process on my blog. Come check me out. 

Megan O. is a long-time friend and a dang good writer.