Writer's Workshop: Burning for Beauty

Image: federico stevanin / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This Writer's Workshop Assignment: 1.) It was a bad burn. Tell about the worst sunburn you ever received. How did that happen!?! Please visit Mama Kat's to participate.

In anticipation of my 30th birthday, when I was still a single woman about the world, I bought myself a round of laser skin treatments. Walking out of these treatments was the only time in my life that my face was burnt and swollen to high heaven, resembling something like a giant tomato. Why, you might ask, would I endure such a thing? Because I wanted to.

Wherever this puts me in the eyes of others, I don't know and I don't necessarily care. I have never been one of those women who modestly forks a salad around on her plate during dinner dates only to go home and scarf down real food when no one is looking. I don't keep my beauty regimen a secret, I don't go on diets and I don't shoot the envious stink eye at attractive women. I do what I want, I say what is on my mind and I am not ashamed of my decisions.

Back when I was stitched up in a fancy suit with my hair cut to my ears, a look that I refer to as Lilith from Cheers, people accused me of being much older than I really was. Today people tell me I look young for my age. In all fairness, bee-bopping around in flip-flops and bright colors probably helps the cause. I can tell you that the lack of my former crow's feet, thanks to my old tomato face, doesn't hurt either.

Whoever it is that you are or whoever it is that you want to be: wear it proudly. I think that is the definition of true beauty.

PLEASE VOTE FOR ME. Vote for my entry "Pleasant Simplicity" at My Michigan Moments.

Your Advice: Sorting Out The Past

My paper photo albums, the visual archives of my life, come to a screeching halt in about 2001 with images of me as a 22 year old living in my first apartment. This was about the same time digital cameras entered the scene and photographs, as we knew it, would change forever. Since then my digital photos have been stored, haphazardly, on a series of hard-drives that may or may not have survived the last decade. It is sad, really.

As I sort through all of my photos, attempting to make up for lost time, I am confronted with the tangible nature of my memories. It is strange to think that I have disconnected myself from my own past by not honoring it, but now, I can see that I have. I had forgotten about that relaxing trip to the Bahamas where I let one of the roadside vendors braid my hair like an island girl even though it made me look ridiculous; I was too young to care. I had forgotten about the sight of an old boyfriend waiting for me at the cruise ship bar, back when the parties were rowdy and long. I forgot about the view of the misty orange sunrise when my puppy and I used to go out for our early morning walks. How modestly I decorated my first condo and how grateful I was to live there, these are all the moments I had lost.

I will be the first to admit that I ran from my past, mostly in search of transformation and happiness. I don't think I realized that by cutting away the bad memories, I was not fully appreciating the good ones. I can no longer edit my feelings. By embracing all of my memories more completely, and allowing all the old emotions to take residence somewhere in my history, I am letting life fill me up. I am letting that girl with the braids, the old boyfriend, the puppy and the new condo, still live inside of me. She was imperfectly wonderful, after all.

My question for you today is: how do your reconcile your past?

Your Advice: How Do You Escape?

Image: Paul Martin Eldridge / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Inside of all the places I travel I catch a reflection of myself. I wonder at what my life would feel like within each new setting. I see myself lounging on a country porch, listening to the rain on the canopy. A vase of wildflowers sits next to me and my dog sleeps at my feet. I see myself among the throngs of the big city. Shopping bags are slung over my shoulder as I rush towards my next destination, a dinner with friends. I see myself relaxing on a sandy beach with a deep blue sky soaring above me. Sinking my toes in the water, I contemplate my future over a frappuccino and a hangover. Every backdrop presents a new vision of what my life might be and who I might be inside of it.

These are all fantasies of course, some of which I have lived and some of which I have only visited. I play inside of them, testing each sensation for authenticity. I marvel at the unfamiliar and take comfort in what feels like home. I am renewed by the realization that all things are possible.

At the end of each trip, I return to my own life like an outsider. I witness the ordinary details that escape me in the everyday. I see the artwork collected from sunny festivals and road trips, and gifts that have traveled from place to place, always finding a special niche wherever they go. I see the worn cookbooks with pages falling out from meals with friends and the gatherings hosted. The old suits that hang in the closet and the old books that line the shelves speak of past accomplishments. The desk that is cluttered with scribbled notes and passages is evidence to new dreams. It is a colorful home that is thoughtfully appointed with pieces of history from an adventurous heart. There I am, sipping from my favorite coffee cup, remembering something funny. Somewhere between the city and the country, my life is small and beautiful.

My questions for you today is: How do you get out of your own head?

Poetic Inspiration: The Party in the Girl

This one is for all my party girls--past, present and future.

Fierce

We were fierce
were we not
fleeting, tempting things
in tall heels
and sauntering hips

Fearless, we were
in curving silhouettes
all promises broken
all advances denied

Bold
in drinking, dancing scenes
over red lips
and inviting glances

In the passing glimmer of an evening
over the ache of insatiable longings
We were fierce
were we not

Writer's Workshop: Why I Murdered my Husband's Socks

Image: Arvind Balaraman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This Writer's Workshop Assignment: Write a funny story involving socks. Visit Mama Kat's to participate.

I did not want to be one of those wives that tortured my husband's bachelor lifestyle into submission from the word go. That plan of attack sounded painful, even for me. I will admit, however, that the ol' Hubs had some caveman like habits that sent my inner clean-freak into severe panic mode. The merging of my pristine household with his free wheeling, anything-goes-anywhere approach was chaotic at best. He accused me of being neurotic. I accused him of being a slob. Somewhere in the middle was the truth.

My domestic strategy has been a slow and deliberate conversion so as not arouse any suspicions. If you have a reformed caveman in your future, you may want to take some notes.

First 3 Months: The Great Purge. Anything with an excessive amount of pit stains or a history of explicit bachelor behavior was tossed. This included the worn out party couch that had witnessed one too many indiscretions.

3-6 Months: Everything finds a home. Wherever it is that you found it, that is where it goes when you are done with it. PS Sneakers and counter tops are not meant to be friends--ever. And for the love of God, if it stinks, it goes in the hamper.

6-9 Months: Clean, clean, clean. Like the little train that could.

9-12 Months: The end of the bachelor laundry system. We do not need to hoard enough socks to outfit a small village. If you can't fit it all into your dresser, you have too many.

Progress Report: After 9 months of marriage, I finally murdered my husband's heap of stray and disintegrating socks. They had been taunting me this entire time, poking through the crevices of his half-closed drawer and marinating in the funk of his never done laundry. A few days ago I confessed, "some of your socks went to heaven, honey." To this, he grunted his acceptance of the inevitable and I reveled in my small domestic victory.

If the Hubs happens to come across this post, I am sure that his dirty undies will retaliate.

I Need Your Advice: A Love that Grows

Image: dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I love my husband. I don't have to fart rainbows or vomit sunshine to prove it. You can find that crap anywhere. Rather, my husband is the most important person at the center of my life. That fact alone should speak volumes above any candy hearts or chocolate bunnies I try to blow up your behind.

I have always found the overly one-dimensional, sugary sweet portrayal of love to feel incomplete. It reminds me of the preordained response we are expected to regurgitate when prompted "how are you." "Good" is the thoughtless answer that rolls off our heads. It is the fastest and safest way to answer the question, even though "good" can be the most insubstantial version of the truth.

From my perspective, love is a much deeper organic force. It is a movable changeable thing. You can nurture it or betray it. You can grow it or kill it. You can embrace it or push it away. My standard for love holds people accountable for not just how they feel for one another but how they care for that bond. For any man that ever "loved" me and walked away, I would argue, he did not love me completely enough. Better that he moved on to fart rainbows elsewhere.

Every day we dedicate to one another feels like forward momentum. I feel more in love with my husband all the time.

My question for you today is: Can you grow to love someone?

A Love Letter to my Readers

Let me begin by saying thank you for stopping by this little ol' blog. I never would have guessed when I started blogging that I would have so much to gain from my supportive community of readers. Your posts and comments have become a part of my daily banter, my education and my dinner time conversation.

If you are one of the few that has been following me here since way back when, I owe you an especially big thank you.

It is time to recognize my fellow bloggers who have been so gracious as to give me an award.


Thank you Peggy for sending me the Versatile Blogger Award. You can find Peg over at Square Peg in a Round Hole. I adore her blog name.

Thank you Rachel from The Diary of a Dreamer for tagging me as A Blog With Substance. It is always fun to connect with a fellow dreamer.

Thank you Mademoiselle Poirot for the Premio Dardos Award. This award acknowledges bloggers committed to spreading cultural, ethical, literary and personal values. Mademoiselle is a kindred spirit and her visual perspective is stunning.

Thank you to (Not So Ex)Grad-Student Girlfriend for sending me a second Blog With Substance award. This Non-Student writes a diary blog on being young and in love. Her confessions are addictive.

Here is a list of some of my fav blogs I am nominating for any of the above awards. Pick your own poison, people.

Food blog

Me, Myself & Pie: What is not to love with a blog name like that? Her writing style is engaging and she pulls you into the preparation of each recipe.

Mommy blog

a belle, a bean & a chicago dog: Her recent post of her toddlers video taping one another had me in stitches. You will love it too.

Diary blog

Amber Page Writes: She is courageous in her honesty and her writing resonates with me. Did I mention she is funny?

Outrageous blog

Handbags & Handguns: I love a good rebel. I didn't even like celebrity gossip until I visited this blog.

Visual blog

Not Your Average Ordinary: Guaranteed eye candy all day long. I go here for visual inspiration.

Travel blog

Magical Places on Tuscany's Coast: Whenever I need a mental vacation I go here. Elvira is an incredible photographer.

Happy blogging, everyone.