Calculated Chances: A #LessonLearned by Darlene Steelman

Darlene Steelman grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: a misunderstood kid with a crazy mind. Finally, at the age of 38, she decided to put that crazy mind to good use and write. When she’s not stopping her car in the middle of the road to protect crossing ducks, she passes time with an office job, writing on her lunch hour, and singing off-key in the car.

By night she works on her first novel. (She also plays me at Words with Friends.)

Darlene’s blog is called Living Sober – Life at Full Throttle. You can also find her on Facebook and stalk her on Twitter at @DarleneSteelman.

Click on the teacher lady's nose to see other folks who have shared their lessons.

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Calculated Chances

As I push 40, there are many things I have learned over the course of those years.  Always say please and thank you; hold the door for old people and be very sure to take the trash outside if it has raw onions in it.

But are any of these really lessons? Maybe the last one.  Maybe.

As a kid I (like most kids) did really dumb things. I once roller skated down my grandmother’s driveway straight into the garage knowing I would fall flat onto my face when I didn’t lift my feet over the lip to get into the garage.

I knew this.  But I wanted to know what would happen.  So I kept my skates on the ground.  Those skates stopped propelling forward when they hit that cement lip. I hurled forward, but not onto my face (thankfully!).  I landed on both knees.  My knees screamed in a bloody fashion as I cried for my grandmother.

My grandmother (who grew up a poor, coal miner’s daughter) called me a horse’s ass and said, “Darlene, get up. Stop crying.  You’ll be fine.”

I was an eight year old in shock at that point.

“Get up?” “Stop crying?” Fine?!”

Turns out my grandmother’s refusal to coddle and baby me worked to my advantage as the years passed.

Well, most of the time.  I still have that “ooh I wonder what will happen if I do this?” mentality.

When I was somewhere between eight and eleven years old, I was in the bathroom at my parents’ house and brushing my teeth with Crest toothpaste or something. My parents used Pepsodent, which is the equivalent of brushing your teeth with gasoline.

Pepsodent toothpaste

Pepsodent toothpaste (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My mind started going as my eyes drifted over to the Pepsodent.  Pepsodent.  Hmm.  This stuff is pretty strong.  I wonder what would happen if I put it on my eyelids, like eye shadow?

Yes.  That is a thought process I actually had when I was a little girl.

And to keep you from suspense any longer, I did put the toothpaste made with real gasoline on my eyelids.  It burned like hell.  Yet, there was a cool mentholated feeling.

I really think there was potential there to permanently blind myself.

The next three minutes in the bathroom went something like:

“Owwwww!” as I frantically searched around for a towel or something to wipe the damn gasoline off of my eyes.  It was piercing the lids as it seeped into my eyeballs. As I write this I am laughing because I can see myself with flailing arms (much like Jodi Foster in the dark room in Silence of the Lambs) trying to find a wash rag or towel or something in the bathroom to wipe off my eyelids.

Nope. Nothing.  Had I prepared I would have remembered there was never a towel in the bathroom at my parents.  Never.

“Oh my God, I am gonna go blind!” I whispered to myself as I refused to cry.  I could not cry.  Only sissies cried.  I was no sissy.  Gram would not tolerate me crying.

I managed to get myself out of the bathroom and into my bedroom (which thankfully was right next to the bathroom) and get the toothpaste off of my eyelids.  I was able to see clearly about an hour later.

The lesson I learned was this: take chances!  Unless it involves putting chemicals in a creamy mentholated form on your body, then be sure to read the fine print first.

Calculated chances are important.  They build our character and sometimes we learn that the one thing we feared became that thing we loved the most.

When is the last time you really took a chance at something? Did you succeed or fail? Or did you burn your eyelids?

Oy Vey: What To Give (& Not to Give) For a Bar or Bat Mitzvah

A version of this post originally ran back in 2010, but so many people have asked me what is appropriate to give for a bar or bat mitzvah in the last 6 months, I thought I would revise it and post it again. The timing seemed right. Or really, really wrong.

On October 25, 1979, I celebrated my own bat mitzvah in Syracuse, New York. Back then, my family attended an uber Orthodox synagogue where it was uncommon for girls to get the full bat mitzvah treatment. My neighbor (and most favorite babysitter) was the first girl at her Conservative temple to become a bat mitzvah, and I was only a few years her junior.

At our ultra-traditional temple, I wasn’t allowed to have a Saturday morning service for my bat mitzvah; girls had to wait until sundown on Saturday to get things started. I wasn’t allowed to touch the Torah. Or use a yad (pointer). Instead I read from the Book of Ruth, which had been laid on top of the Torah so as to appear that I was reading from the Torah. Mine was a pretty portion. I liked the symbolism of women taking care of other women, and I can still recite the words in Hebrew today.

Thanks to the Reform Movement, today, girls march right up on the bimah, just like their male counterparts. Girls chant their Torah portions beautifully (usually even more melodically than the boys), and congregants have come to celebrate the special days of both sexes with equal parts joy and pride.

I was 100% ready for my bat mitzvah. I have always been a quick study when it comes to language, and Hebrew was no exception. Add a tune to the Hebrew, practice that tune a gazillion times, promise me a receptive audience, and hellooooo… let’s just say, I was ready to perform.

This is not the case for everyone. For some kids, preparing for “the big day” is really strenuous. For introverted kids, it can be a real challenge to get up in front of hundreds of people and not only speak but sing or chant in another language! And then there is a d’var torah where students prepare speeches meant to explain not only what their specific Torah portion is literally about, but also what it means symbolically, philosophically, and how they connected to the portion personally. I always say if a child can get through his or her bar/bat mitzvah day, there isn’t anything he/she can’t do. It’s a crash course in language study, philosophy, essay writing, public speaking and etiquette lessons – all rolled into one.

Google Images

For months leading up to my bat mitzvah, people kept asking me what I wanted. When I was 12, the only thing I wanted was a horse, so I just smiled a lot. And anyway, I knew what typical bat mitzvah gifts were. Besides engraved Cross Pen sets and Webster’s Dictionaries, everyone I knew got the same thing: money, usually in the form of U.S. Savings Bonds. But it wasn’t polite to ask for money, and I would have sounded redonkulous if I had asked someone to buy me a horse.

As my regular readers know, my son’s bar mitzvah is next Saturday, June 23, 2012, and lately everyone has been asking: What does Tech want for his Bar Mitzvah? It’s a hard question to answer. I have to be mindful. I don’t want to say the wrong thing or get myself in trouble.

Whenever anyone asks me about what is appropriate to give as a gift for a bar or bat mitzvah, I feel weird because there is no short answer. I can’t just say, “Buy him a pair of new pair of jeans,” or “Jewish girls love scented candles” because the bar or bat mitzvah is not like a birthday party. It is the recognition that a child has passed through an entryway to life as a responsible Jew, a spiritual rite of passage that connects one generation to another. The day marks a beginning. The ceremony signifies the crossing from childhood into young adulthood and the emerging responsibility to fulfill the commandments and obligations identified with the Torah, the sacred laws and teachings written on parchment by hand in Hebrew. It’s a bigger deal than a birthday party; Jewish children have studied for seven years, including months of tutoring to get them prepared for their few hours alone on the bimah.

That said, I have decided to boldly go where no Jew has gone before: I’m going to suggest what you maybe-might-possibly consider giving (or not giving) to the b’nai mitzvah child.

(*Insert deep breath here.*)

When trying to determine what to give, you have to first ask yourself: How well do I know this person/family? That’s probably the single biggest factor that goes into the decision. You also have to consider how many people are going to attend to event: One adult? Two? The entire family? It matters. Because you have to consider that your host is feeding you. Are there two people attending or seven? Think about what you might pay to have that same group go out for a nice dinner — complete with appetizers and drinks and desserts.

SIGNIFICANT NUMBERS. The #18 in Hebrew means “chai.” (No, not like the tea.) To create the proper sound to pronounce the word “chai” you have to know that the “ch” sound something like an elderly man trying to clear his throat of an enormous ball of phlegm. The “ai” rhymes with the word “hi.” If you can put that together, you’ve got it! For all the math teachers out there, you might be interested to know that in Hebrew, each letter has a numerical value. Cool right? Kinda like a secret code.

The word for “life” in Hebrew is “chai. The two Hebrew letters that make up the word “chai” are chet and yud. Chet = 8 & yud = 10. Chet + yud = 18 or “chai”. Giving money in multiples of $18 is symbolic of giving “chai” or life, so Jewish people often give denominations of chai. In our community, children attending parties alone often give chai in increments: $18 + $18 = $36 (for double chai), $18 + $18 + $18= $54 (triple chai). Sometimes people get creative: a family might give $118 or $236 or one bajillion and eighteen cents — depending on whose special day it is and the nature of the relationship between the giver and the receiver. Family members generally give more than the average party-goer. That said, in some communities, giving $18 may be considered appropriate. It really depends on where you are how the community celebrates.

Some people say they find it helpful to think of a b’nai mitzvah like a mini-wedding, but I don’t think one should think about a b’nai mitzvah like a wedding when it comes to providing a gift for the child. Wedding couples receive gifts because (in theory) they need items to furnish their new home together. Unless you have had a serious heart-to-heart with the parents of the child regarding a specific gift, in general, kids definitely don’t need more stuff.

Traditionally, Jewish people give money to the bar/bat mitzvah child. Why? Because cash is always the right color, the right size, and it goes with everything. (Ba da bump! *snare*)

On a more serious note, historically the bar mitzvah was a way of helping to establish a young man with some money so that he might eventually be able to afford to make a home for his future wife. Yup, back in the old days, 13-year old boys were starting to think about marriage. These days, parents don’t marry off their sons or daughters quite so young. (We kind of like to keep them around, at least until they finish high school.) But once we move beyond that, the b’nai mitzvah became a way to save money for college. That’s just the way it was. All money went into the bank.

Done deal.

Some party-goers have told me they don’t like hearing that all the money goes into the bank; they fret that the child gets “no real gift.” Trust me. Jewish children understand that their gift is the party. They get to invite and then enjoy being surrounded by the people who mean the most to them. They understand that the party is in their honor and that it represents all their years of hard work and study. They understand that they are considered adults (by Jewish Law), and as such they can consider how, and to what extent, they plan to carry out the 613 Mitzvot which cover everything that one might ever do during one’s life. And for a few hours, they get to enjoy being the center of attention.

Good lookin’ group. Seriously, we looked good in 1979.

SO WHAT ABOUT GIFT CARDS? People often ask if it is appropriate to give the b’nai mitzvah child an iTunes card, a piece of jewelry, or a gift card to a favorite store.

At the risk of sounding ungrateful (which I am decidedly not), I’m going waaaay out on a limb on behalf of all Heebs out there and asking you (in the nicest of ways) to please refrain from giving b’nai mitzvah kids gift cards.

Consider this: bar and bat mitzvah celebrations tend to be large, so…well… if even 20 kids give the bar mitzvah boy $25 gift cards to GameStop, that child would have $500 to GameStop. Would you want your son to have $500 in store credit to GameStop? Who even knows if GameStop will be in business long enough for a kid to spend that credit! I have heard plenty of horror stories about stores going out of business to convince me to never give anyone a gift card for a bar or bat mitzvah.

WHAT ABOUT GIFTS? Gifts are trickier. I know a lot of people who love to shop to purchase special gifts, like jewelry for girls. But would you want your daughter to have twenty-five pairs of earrings? Or twenty-five “Juicy Couture” handbags? If you give a gift, you have to understand it might end up going back. If there is something you’d like to give a child, the best bet is to ask the parents. They might be able to advise you against getting the kid who doesn’t play sports that cool basketball jersey that your son loves so much.

I know I am not speaking for everyone, but I believe the idea is to save the money for the child to use later — maybe not for an impending marriage — but for something significant, like education or perhaps future travel to Israel.

I know bonds are no longer en vogue because interest rates have taken a dive, but back in the 1970s when that stack of savings bonds went into my parents’ safe deposit box, I understood that the money that had been so generously given to me was to be saved for a time in my life when I would be able to use it for something important. And as my bonds came ripe, many years later, my husband and I were grateful to be able to use that money to pay for our first home!

THE REAL ANSWER. The real answer is there is no right answer because there is no right or wrong when it comes to gift giving. The thought behind every gift is appreciated. Jewish parents don’t plan these celebrations hoping to make money. We plan them to celebrate the years of hard work our children have put in to make it to their special day; because by the time our sons and daughters make it to their b’nai mitzvah day, they have clocked hundreds of after-school and weekend hours learning prayers, blessings, rituals, rites, symbols – even a whole other language while juggling academics, musical instruments, sports, and other extracurricular activities. It really is quite an accomplishment.

Bottom line, when it comes to gift giving, you give from the heart. If you are invited to a b’nai mitzvah, know that the people who invited you really want you there. They really do. People should never give more than they are comfortable giving. Invited guests shouldn’t feel like they are competing with anyone with regard to what they give.

Honestly, the best gift really is money. I know, to some people, writing a check seems like a cold, impersonal gift, but if the day really is about transitioning into adulthood, well… it makes sense that part of the event involves learning about deferring gratification and learning fiscal responsibility.

(Even if the parents aren’t practicing for the moment).

So I’ve talked about the verboten subject. How ungrateful do I sound? What do you think about my advice? And how many U.S. Savings Bonds do you think Tech is going to receive?

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

The Book Collector: Bar Mitzvah Tales

Two years ago, Tech and I found ourselves parked in a part of Rochester that we don’t usually frequent. A voracious reader, there was a particular title he wanted to read and only one library actually had it in all of Rochester. And that library was downtown. He was hell-bent on getting it, and he knew that I would not rush to pay for a copy at the local bookstore.

So we went on a wee road-trip.

After he checked out the book with his library card, I suggested he check out their YA section.

After two minutes, Tech returned with a frown.

“This is the worst library ever,” he declared. “There are no books.”

He dragged me over to the YA area, and it was true; the selection was dismal.

“Where are all the kids’ books?” he asked the librarian sitting nearby.

She looked at Tech and told him honestly that sometimes people checked out books from the library and didn’t return them.

“You mean people steal them?” Tech was outraged.

“Some kids don’t have books at home, so they take them from here.” The librarian explained. “Once our books are gone, we don’t have the resources to replace them. And of course, some books just get lost.”

Tech Support tilted his head, trying to wrap his brain around the concept that not all children have shelves filled with books in their homes, the way he does.

In the car, Tech Support made an announcement.

“I want to collect books and give them to kids so they can have books at home,” he said. “Can I do that for my bar mitzvah?”

“Sure,” I said as I screwed around with the CD player.

“Will you help me?” he demanded. “Seriously?”

I looked at my son’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

Tech has always been a collector. When he was younger, it was coins and LEGOs and Webkinz frogs. Later, he fell in love with mechanical pencils and magnets and rubber bands. He has a green bowl filled with origami stars and shelves filled with all kinds of weird stuff.

When my son gets an idea in his head, there is no stopping him.

He decided his goal would be to collect 1,300 books as a mitzvah project.

He picked 1,300 because the bar mitzvah usually occurs on or near a Jewish boy’s 13th birthday.

For him, the number 13 wasn’t unlucky.

It was super-symbolic.

I knew the collecting part wasn’t going to be hard for him.

I just didn’t know what we were going to do with them.

I figured we’d let them pile up and figure out that part later.

He started collecting just before Thanksgiving and by mid-April and, with the help of wonderful neighbors, friends and the folks at The Rochester Fencing Club, Tech exceeded his goal.

This picture was taken as an after-thought. After I realized we had boxed up nearly all the books.

One afternoon, we stood in the basement.

There were books in bins and boxes and bags.

Everywhere.

“Mom,” Tech said. “Can you find a place where I can give kids the books?” he asked. “So they can keep them?”

“I don’t know,” I told him.

Because I didn’t think I could.

I really didn’t.

I knew we would be able to drop them off somewhere where adults would sort through them and distribute them to other adults for use in classrooms.

But then I stumbled onto The Mercier Literacy Program for Children.

I called the contact person.  We did a little back and forth, and then it happened: a miracle disguised as an email.

It read:

I’m not sure if you’ve heard of the RocRead program taking place in the Rochester City School District. Children read a book, write an essay on it, and once they hand it in, they get an incentive/prize.

So far, students have read 14,000 books through this program.

The details are being worked out right now – but the preliminary plan for Monday, April 30th is to have an event in the library of one of the schools to announce that every child present will receive a book as part of RocRead – with your son present to distribute books.

How does this sound? 

How did it sound?

It sounded like someone took a cup of totally cool and mixed it with three pounds of awesome.

The following Monday, Tech sat in the front seat of my Honda and I drove to school #41 in a car stuffed from floor to ceiling with books which we had sorted by grade level. When we found school #41, Tech borrowed a cart, loaded it up with boxes, and zigzagged his way back into the school.

The principal appeared. She greeted my son with a hug, and we all headed downstairs to the library. The custodian materialized with the cart and told us she would bring everything to the library on the service elevator. While Tech chatted it up with the librarian, the custodian appeared and I scattered books across two long tables until both surfaces were covered.

And then they came. Wearing uniform red shirts and khaki pants, the children sat crisscross-applesauce. The school librarian introduced Tech and asked him to speak to the students. I was certain he was going to freeze up. We had not prepared for that kind of thing. He did not know how to speak in front of…

…but there he was.

Doing it.

Explaining why he had started the book collection.

And when the librarian announced that each student was going to get to take home two books from Tech’s collection, the kids bounced up and down and cheered.

Tech smiled.

As the kindergarteners walked around the tables, Tech encouraged them to shift the books around and not to only look at the top layer. Once the children made their selections, they returned to their designated areas on the floor and another group came up.

I have to tell you, it was a beautiful sight.

They were all reading!

Or trying to.

Some silently. Some aloud. Some to each other.

The local television crews were there. Tech was interviewed three times, and even though he really wanted to downplay his role, he went along with whatever the people asked him to do.

I always knew that there would come a day that I would look at my son — the person who carries 50% of my DNA — and see him as the person he might become.

On that day, I saw my son as a person who doesn’t just have the potential to do good things, but as a person who is already doing them.

And I was amazed.

Because up until then, I just thought he was the boy who forgot his coat in his locker.

The kid who left his water bottle at fencing practice.

The dude who still needed to be reminded to brush his teeth.

But on that day, I saw my son as other people see him.

I realized that he likes to help other people.

And not because I told him to help people.

But because he really likes to.

On that day, I thought about the way he used to put together his elaborate LEGO sets, and I realized his tenaciousness was all about creating a person who would sets his sights on a goal and then surpass that goal.

My son is not finished.

Just today he asked, “What should I do next?”

I shrugged, confident he will figure it out.

Because that’s what he does.

This year, my son reminded me that individuals can repair the world.

I almost forgot.

How do your children inspire you? Have you ever done a community service project with your family? If so, what kinds of things have you found the most rewarding?

Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson

Falling Down: a #LessonLearned by Katie Sluiter

Today I have Katie Sluiter at my place, you guys! You have no idea how long I’ve been following, KT! I’ve been reading Sluiter Nation like… forever. And as soon as I learned what Twitter was I found Katie at @ksluiter. I fell in love with Katie because she was a teacher. And then I learned she struggled with postpartum depression, which I am pretty sure I had after Tech was born. I just didn’t ever get a formal diagnosis. Way back at the end of last year, Katie asked me to write something for her — which was super exciting, especially because Katie is a Big Blogger. (Even if she denies it.) Oh, if you prefer, you can follow her on Facebook.

Click on the teacher lady’s butt to read posts by other people who have written in this series.

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Falling Down
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As a little kid, my dad was the one who taught me how to do a lot of things: ride my bike, change a car tire, fish.

Katie learned a lot from falling down.

He also taught me to ice skate.

I remember being out on our frozen pond, bundled up in my winter coat and snow pants with my scarf covering my entire mouth so that when I talked…or breathed…it became moist and warm.

My dad had helped me lace up my mom’s old skates, took my mittened hand, and pulled me out to the open ice.

I don’t remember much of the logistics of the lesson, but I do remember falling down.

A lot.

Finally I got frustrated and whined that I was no good at skating and I didn’t want to do it anymore.

My dad pulled me up and said, “But every time you fall, you are learning. Just think of how much more you know now than you did when we started.”

I gave him the hairy eyeball, assuming he meant I knew a lot more now because I had fallen so many zillions of times.

“No, really,” he continued. “Every time you fall, you learn what not to do next time. Or at least you should.”

This lesson comes back to me every single time I “fall” in life.

But not until I pout a lot and whine about how I want to quit.

I have tripped, stumbled, and flat-out fallen as a mom. Especially when I was a new, first-time mom.

But it’s something I can’t quit. I can’t just say, “Man, I suck at this. I am done.”

Don’t think I didn’t try.

My older son, Eddie, was a difficult baby.

Ok, actually, “difficult” is putting it mildly.

He was a colicky, digestive mess.

This is Eddie being a colicky mess.

It was totally him. Not his fault, but it was him.

But I didn’t know that. Not at the time.

At the time, it was me. I was stumbling…not able to soothe him, not able to provide him with food that wouldn’t upset his tummy, not able to know what his cries meant.

I was sliding all over that iced pond not knowing what to do to keep myself off my ass and skating straight.

Every time he cried, I wanted to figure out what was wrong and fix it.

I didn’t know that sometimes? Babies just cry.

So I fell down over and over.

And I beat myself up for it. Which really, was another mistake. Another stumble.

This became a pattern with my son.

He is now almost three, and I have fallen down millions of times in my education on becoming a mother.

He has not always been the most patient teacher, but he is very forgiving.

Sometimes, my mistakes…my stumbles…are hard enough that we both fall. We both sit and cry and tend to our bruised bottoms.

But we are learning.

We are making it through.

I had no idea how awesome of a teacher he was until my second son was born in March.

Suddenly all those things that caused me to trip and fall–the crying, the spit up, the time management, the anxiety and depression–they were easier. In fact, some of them were non-existent. I skated right through them.

In fact, I am still up on my skates.

Oh, I have tripped here and there, but I have pretty much mastered the basics.

Now I am able to move on to learning fancier moves: taking both kids to Target, bringing them both to birthday parties, showering daily.

Two kids? I think I can.

(What? That was difficult the first time around!)

I still fall down from time to time.

But that’s okay.

I’m in this for the long haul.

I’m a life-long learner.

What are you still figuring out? What are some of the best lessons you have learned as a parent that you wish you had known earlier?

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Tweet this Twit @rasjacobson & @ksluiter

Channeling Atticus Finch

Nearly 13 years ago, I was very pregnant. And as my 9th grade English class watched a scene from the film To Kill A Mockingbird, I got all weepy. It was a scene in which Atticus, the perfect father, sits on his front porch swing, instructing his daughter, Scout, about something or other, and it occurred to me in that moment – in a very real way – that soon I would be a parent, instructing my own child about life, its soft places and its hard edges.

I started to sob.

How would I ever do it?

Atticus had all the answers.

He had the right words.

Even after the movie ended and somebody had turned the lights on, I kept sniffling while conspicuously chomping on potato chips.

Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but I had a soft spot for one of my freshmen boys and, as my shoulders heaved and I wept hysterically, he pondered aloud:

“I wonder what she needs more: tissues or a salt lick?”

I choked on my snot.

Everyone laughed.

Class ended, and I went to the bathroom to pee pull myself together.

As a parent, I’ve always channeled Atticus. A defender of justice, he fought for it even if he knew he would be beaten in the end.

Atticus argued for big principles like equality and duty, but he never lost sight of the fact that, in the end, it’s human beings and their choices that make equality stand or fall.

And he tried to instill the values in which he believed in his children.

These days, I watch my son and his friends walk to school, and I swear they come home taller each afternoon.

I have done the best I can do with Tech, who just six months ago asked me to stop calling him Monkey.

Lord, give me strength because his questions are becoming harder.

And I am no Atticus Finch.

As I look outside my window this morning, I’d like everything to stay. The trees are undulating softly, and the light reflecting off the leaves is making me squint. Right now, everything is green with possibility. The sun fills me with hope and reminds me of the goodness to come.

Is there a particular scene from a movie that stays with you? That you associate with a time in your life? That has helped you to parent?

Tweet this twit @rasjacobson

Wanna be a WANA?

I landed in the blogosphere at the right time. I met a group of writers who told me about this chick Kristen Lamb, and how all the cool kids were reading her blog.

Kristen talked about this thing called MyWANA which stands for We Are Not Alone, the title of her #1 best-selling social media book.

I read Kristen’s archives. I taught myself how to use Twitter so I could use #MyWANA in my tweets.

I was amazed how adding that one simple hashtag often doubled the traffic to my blog.

Seriously, wouldn’t you follow her anywhere?

This Little Lamb is pretty smart, I thought to myself.

I stuck to her like a chigger and started commenting on her posts regularly.

There was no way she was going to shake me.

The more I read from Kristen, the more I realized I wanted to be her when I grew up.

(Except I am older than she is. Whatever.)

In the meantime, I started to look for other WANA writers, and I quickly discovered that the type of writing produced by a WANA writer was of a different caliber. These people dared to call themselves writers. They dared to declare putting the pen to the paper was their profession and that it needed to be taken seriously. And they made time to do it everyday – groceries be damned.

I joined Kristen’s Warrior Writers Boot Camp where aspiring writers have the opportunity to experience Kristen’s process. I got to learn a secret handshake and abbreviations like EVOS and BBTs other things that normal people wouldn’t care about.

One afternoon my phone rang. It was Kristen. We over-talked each other for an hour. (Girl might be from Texas, but her mother was from New York.) She told me all the places where my story was solid and the many more places where it had holes so big there was water pouring out of the bottom of the bucket.

She made me whine and stomp my foot.

But she also made me believe that my book had potential.

So I had to go and fix. And keep writing.

Meanwhile, I kept visiting WANA blogs and networking with many fabulous people. None of this connection would have been possible without WANA but especially Kristen, the beautiful, brainy girl with the big ideas. Kristen makes people feel like our dreams really can come true if we just work, if we don’t fear failure, and if we keep trying.

WANA has always featured creative professionals dedicated to serving and supporting one another. WANA understands that life as an artist is hard, and is often lacking support from family and friends. WANA is about serving others first and trusting that good always comes from love.

By now, many of you have seen Kristen’s post on how she plans to take over the digital world with WANA International.

Just kidding.

No, seriously.

She is.

We are.

As Kristen says:

“These days, creative professionals all need more training than ever before. Writers are not the only creatives who must learn to use social media in order to stand apart from the competition and to help lay the foundation for a career.”

So what’s new? WANA is branching out. WANA International is ready to teach creative professionals how to marry technology with humanity to build effective online platforms. There is instruction about craft, business, social media, and more.

I hope those of you you are interested in learning more about what WANA has to offer will click HERE.

***As a longtime English educator, I am looking forward to teaching a few courses later this year.***

If you are a wanna-be author who needs help with creating a blog to showcase your talent or a self-published author who needs to know more about all this confangled social media, or whether you seek information about how to design a book cover or need to figure out if you need an agent… be grateful that you are here now.

Because everyone who knows everything is gathered in one place.

And remember – as Kristen says: We Are Not Alone!

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Helplessly Hoping David Crosby Notices Me

Back in May, Kevin Haggerty asked an intriguing question in a blog post: “If you could talk to the you of 5-10 years ago, what would you say to yourself?” (Both Leanne Shirtliffe and Jessica Buttram wrote a gorgeous letters to their 20-year selves. Kevin later went further back and wrote a letter to his 2-year old self.)

I, of course, had to go in a different direction.

Instead of talking to myself, I decided to write a letter to David Crosby in December of 1967.

In real life, I would have been 1 month old. But for the purposes of this exercise, I am going to ask you to suspend your disbelief and please pretend I am 21 years old. You know, so this doesn’t get any creepier than it already is.

• • •

Loved him then…

Hi David. I know that you have this thing for Joni Mitchell and everything, but the thing is that I have been crushing on you for a really long time. When you sing “Guinnevere,” I tremble.

Wait, you might not have written that song yet.

Let me check.

No, you didn’t write it until 1969.

But that’s good.

Because now I’m sure that when you sing about how Guinnevere has “green eyes, like yours / lady, like yours,” I am certain you have always been talking about me.

And when you wrote “Triad,” I know you didn’t really want to have a ménage a trois. You were just restless. You wanted out of the Byrds. You were just pushing the envelope. It was the era. Everyone was all about free love and stuff. I like to push the boundaries, too. Everyone once in a while I like to be naughty. Sometimes I sunbathe topless in my backyard or dance on tabletops in bars.

But that Joni? She’s just going to hurt you, David. She’s going to fool around with Graham Nash and Jackson Browne and a lot of other people, too. Because she’s a hot chick with a cool vibe and a guitar. And she is ambitious, David. She’s like a wild horse: beautiful — but you are not going to get that one to settle down.

I know that there are going to be some tough times for you. Unwelcome events like car wrecks which will leave you wanting to escape. I know you will want to pull away from everyone during these times. That you will seek comfort in needles. And being “Wasted on the Way” might work for a time, but I would follow you into the “Cathedral” and hold you while the demons swirl around us.

I know you love to sail. You have seen “The Southern Cross,” floated all along “The Lee Shore,” and have seen time stop on the “Delta.” I’m a Scorpio, a water sign: the most passionate sign in the horoscope. I love to write the way I imagine you love to compose music. I understand the magic of putting words together, how even cigarette smoke can smell beautiful sometimes – if you lay it down just so.

Oh, David, if you pick me, I would dance for you — the way I have since 1982.

So pick me, David.

Let me be your “Lady of the Island.”

Your “Dark Star.”

I’ll be “Helplessly Hoping” forever.

Love him now.

The last time I saw you perform, you recognized me. You waved, whispered to Graham, and then you dedicated “Guinnevere” to me.

“To the girl in white,” you said.

So I’m telling you, David, that I’ll be at CMAC on June 12th, wearing white – along with my magic beads — like I always do.

And when I smile, you’ll know it’s for you.

Only for you.

If you were going to write a letter to someone famous upon whom you’ve always crushed, to whom would you write? And what would you say?

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Blogoversary Winners Announced

Click on picture to see original photo by alibree at flickr.com

Whew! It’s been one heckuva month!

There are now 21 days until my son’s bar mitzvah.

Can you hear me sing, “Awwwww. Freak out?”

Anyway, thank you all for playing with me in May and allowing me to give back some of the good stuff that you give me!

What?

You just want me to tell you the winners?

Okay.

The winner of The Write-Brain Book is: Cupcake @VivaAmaRisastall

The winner of Kasey MathewsPreemie is: BaseKamp

The winner of Elena Aitken’s Sugar Crash is: Annie from Six Ring Circus

The winner of Tyler Tarver’s Letters To Famous People is: Brown Road Chronicles

The winner of HotDog Yoga’s Rollpack is: JM Randolph

The winner of Tingo & Other Extraordinary Words is: Astrea Baldwin

The winners of handwritten cards from me are: Julie Davidoski, Kimberly Moore & Amber West.

I need your addresses. Please send them to me here.

Congratulations to all the winners.

{But, of course, you are all winners in my book.}

{But then again, I haven’t finished writing my book, so what does that really mean?}

Seriously though, winners should contact me via email, so I can collect the information necessary to stalk you forever deliver these goods to you.

*collapses on the floor*

And now, back to your regularly scheduled program.

Leaving My Safety Net: A #LessonLearned by Shannon Pruitt

Shannon & her kiddies

I “met” Shannon Pruitt from MyNewFavoriteDay at a Super Secret Underground Facebook Society. I still can’t even believe she noticed me. I mean Shannon is a machine. She has this super huge Facebook presence with sixty-four bajillion followers, but we started chatting and she asked to interview me for her blog. Whaaaat? Interview me?

But that’s how Shannon is. She makes everyone feel noticed. Special. Recognized. Affirmed. Her goal is to have people recognize the most precious moments in their lives so that time doesn’t pass us by. She wants us to appreciate all we have in each day. And she succeeds.

Like the sound of that? Read her blog and follow Shannon on Twitter at @newfavoriteday.

{Oh, and if you want to read the interview Shannon did with me at her place, click HERE after you read her fabulous, nostalgic post.}

Click on the teacher lady’s elbow to see other folks who have posted in this series!

• • •

Leaving My Safety Net

I remember Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway” was playing through the computer speakers when J came to sit down behind me.

A look of concern had been the constant mask glued to his face as of late. I knew he knew something was wrong, how could he not know?

He shifted my hair across my back and put his hands on my shoulders.  I stared at the screen in front of me, scared to move, scared to speak.

The words were there on the tip of my tongue.

I have always been impetuous in some ways. When I spontaneously changed my major to Japanese my Sophomore year in college because I thought it would give me an advantage over all the other business majors, I didn’t think through the ramifications:

1) I would have to stay in school an extra year,

2) I would then need to spend some time in Japan to make it all worth it, and oh yeah

3) You had to be in class 5 days a week, and I was already paying for school and working full-time.

It would seem my impulsive nature was code for “not thinking things through.”

J quietly shifted in the chair and said, “What’s wrong?”

I choked on the lump building in my throat.

“It’s us. We are what’s wrong.” I whispered.

His hands fell next to his side.

“I’m not happy.  We’re like roommates, best friends but roommates. We’ve only been married four years. I don’t want to be just roommates.”

The words tumbled out of my mouth and I knew in my head and, in my heart, I wouldn’t turn back now.

J was my safety net, a sense of home, a rock in what had always felt like a tumultuous sea of self-preservation.  He stepped in, became a real love, a love that I could call home. When he asked me to marry him I was 23 years old, and we’d only been together for 6 months.

I said yes.

He moved to Japan to be with me and we stayed there for another 18 months. When we came (to where) so I could go to graduate school, he went back to manage the restaurant where we had met.

And I started to sprout wings.

Little by little, year-by-year, my little bird-wings strengthened. And, with each year I flew slightly further from the nest, from home, from him. I was full of passion and excitement about life.  J loved me so much, he would do whatever I wanted, go wherever I went, and love me no matter what.

But I longed for life and experience.  I wanted to fight with him sometimes. I wanted him to fight with me. I wanted him to fight for me.  To tell me No! I couldn’t leave. Nothing was wrong with “us.”  It was me.  I could be happy with him, we just had to try harder.  He did not say these things.

He let me cry. He cried too.  He let me leave.  He let me walk away.  I walked.  Had I not, I wouldn’t have the wonderful life I have to today with my husband and children.  In that moment, had he fought, perhaps the impetuous me could have been tamed for a little while, and the lesson could have been a different kind of growth.

Instead, I reached out eagerly to a new experience 3,000 miles away in Los Angeles.

Some days, I still miss the nest. But I am glad I followed my heart; for had I not, I would have missed all of this life.

Have you ever had to leave someone you love to find freedom?

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Below My Husband’s Belt

My husband might divorce me.

Because I wrote about his man-biscuits.

Yup, I wrote about my husband’s balls.

And you can read all about them too — at Aiming Low.

Because obviously, I aimed below the belt.

Click HERE to read “How My Husband’s Vasectomy Almost Killed Me.”

Note: This is my first post at Aiming Low and I really want to impress, so I’d love it if you would leave a comment over there.

But please come back and offer me a creative PG-rated suggestion regarding what I might do make things up to the Spouse.

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