Heidi Ayarbe's Blog, page 6

A Back to School Letter ...YOU matter ...

You're going back to school (or have just finished your first week or two).
I know I'm forty. I know I wore your shoes a long, LONG time ago . (Yeah, by the time you get to my age, you're totally cool with wearing ridiculous hats in restaurants. I am an embarrassment to my kids.)





THAT WAS THEN...    
THIS IS NOW ...













I know things have changed. And I know that everything I type here may mean nothing, but I wanted to tell you a few things anyway:

You are not alone. Things will get better.
Your potential is infinite -- far greater than anything you can imagine. You are so much more than a category (pops, fringe, loners, geeks, emos, preps, nerds, bimbos) that others have boxed you into.
Do not believe the horrible things others say. Yes. They hurt. Bad. Words have a way of knocking the wind out of you, and if they are repeated enough, you run the risk of believing them. Do not believe them.
You are not alone. Things will get better.
The horrible things you are saying to that kid is a reflection of how you feel about yourself. It takes cowardice to be cruel, courage to be kind. Find the courage to stop the cruelty. Every time you bring somebody down, you bring yourself down with her.
There is life after middle school/high school. Great and wonderful life. In fact, middle school and high school are distant memories for most of us, memories that pale in comparison to the endless possibilities we face.
If somebody is hurting you -- a boyfriend, a classmate, a teacher, a family member -- find someone you trust and tell him or her.
You are not alone. Things will get better.
Homecoming court, most likely to's ... all that stuff is totally and completely inconsequential. NOBODY CARES or will remember who got what without consulting with the yearbooks that have been collecting dust in the garage.
You have the right to choose: choose kindness, choose to talk to somebody, choose to get help, choose friendship, choose integrity, choose to walk away, choose to live, choose to say, "No." This choice is the most powerful thing you have and is what differentiates you from a goldfish.
There will always be assholes in life. Choose to not be one of them.
You are not alone. Things will get better.
You will mess up. ROYALLY. You will do things you are not proud of. You will embarrass yourself to the point of having burning cheeks hotter than a thousand suns. You will make the wrong choice -- more than once. Take responsibility for what you muck up. Nobody is to blame but YOU. (Not your parents, teachers, peer pressure etc.)
You will learn to forgive, even yourself.
Your body is beautiful. If you treat it right, it will take you up mountains, swim in oceans, run through cities, dance until dawn, play concertos, board the moguls, knead dough, plant a tree. You are SO SO MUCH MORE than a clothing hanger. You are a beautiful, wonderful being.
It may feel like the world has crashed around you, that you're drowning in sadness and pain. If you have fallen, stand back up. Remain standing. Stand straight. Head tall. 
Think of the most valuable thing you can imagine having. Think again. Take that and multiply it by infinity and that's YOU. You. Are. Priceless.
You matter.
You are not alone. Things will get better.


From A Bursting Smile

Fifteen Minutes ...

Honey Boo Boo, The Real Housewives of (fill in the blank), Turtle Man, The Bachelorette ... Everybody's famous. Everybody gets their sound bytes. Everybody is somebody.
And so, in this era of Reality TV, we're all being sold the idea (however much we really, REALLY fight against it) that fame, at no cost, and for nothing but a scripted TV show about somebody's trashy life, is a new ideal to shoot for. Forget about integrity. Forget about quality.
What matters is fifteen minutes.

It's all pretty cheap. (I mean, if all somebody wants is milk for eight kids because they were lame enough to have sextuplets after having twins ...), it's an easy trade. Open our lives. Make shit up. Get filmed. Get through the day and become famous? Fame?
But what's the real cost?
In all the sludge, we're losing perspective. There's this weird spotlight pressure.
I'm trending, therefore I am.
OOOH ... who doesn't want their name behind a # ? It's almost as if we're just bypassing thoughts all together on this one. Who needs a brain with a camera in your face, in living room, in your bathroom???


 

It's more than just a bunch of emotionally abused children forced to dress up like hookers while they are humiliated on stage in front of a bunch of people who should have their parenting licenses revoked.  (Honestly, how these people aren't swept away by social services for the horrors they do to their kids, I don't know.)



People die.
The frenzy for fame kills.
The Virginia Tech shooter contacted the media mid-massacre in which thirty-two young people and their professors were brutally, senselessly murdered, among them Ryan C. Clark, Emily J Hischler, Professor G B Loganathan, Ross Abdallah Alameddine, Brian Bluhm, Austin Cloyd, Jocelyne Couture-Nowak,  Daniel Perez Cueva, Kevin Granata, Matthew Gregory Gwaltney  ...
His face was plastered all over the media, his victims an afterthought.

Primetime decadence has distorted what matters. What sells trumps all, leaving waves of meaninglessness in its wake. How do we fight this? How do we battle trending? How do we teach our kids that what is seen on billboards, on the news, in the media doesn't matter?

Turn off the TV! Turn off the computer (only, though, after you've read this!) Meet your neighbors; get your kids involved in charity; teach service and create connections, real ones, in which you can go borrow a cup of sugar; say, "hello" to people on the street; hold the door for people; make eye contact. SEE PEOPLE. Bring them back to earth! Give them a place in this world by recognizing the three-dimensional space they occupy, not the one of Mr. Nobody on a flat screen. Let people you meet know, with just a smile, a handshake, or a compliment that they matter.


And when all else fails, write a meaningless rant on the meaningless desire to become famous on a random blog in hopes it goes viral and Upworthy and everybody will pick it up and you get your fifteen minutes. Hey. There are worse things, right?
Have a great weekend!

A great friend of mine write a middle grade story about a young girl's quest for fame.  I love how real her character is as she struggles with the desire to stand out and what is right. This is a great read for younger kids, perfect to talk about the difference between quality and TV! A Summer of Sundays by Lindsay Eland!

Summer Reading Roundup

Everything from the story of an ape to the death of a young mother, a botched attempt at being a flower girl to the bombings in Dresden in WWII, my summer reading included some of the BEST NOVELS I've read this year. Honestly. It was a summer of hot picks, and I will share them with you! (Links to author websites and book sites) (I had to include Junie B because that little girl makes me laugh out loud. Every. Single. Time. Humor, in my opinion, is the most difficult thing to write. Don't worry, I read more to my girls, but I just included my top summer Junie B reads.)

Then I will choose my summer pick -- the book that just hit a chord, touched my heart ... the one I can't get out of my head!
















And the winner is ... A MONSTER CALLS by Patrick Ness. I haven't cried so hard reading a book in a long, long time. Plus the idea behind the novel and all that went into it just broke my heart. It's stunning. Absolutely. Of course, because it's Patrick Ness. (Can this guy write anything crappy? I think not.)

Now ... what to read? What were your best reads this past couple of months?

In Transit

There's something about travel, airports, and being forced to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with perfect strangers that leaves us both vulnerable and open. I suppose we all figure we're hurtling through the sky in a heavy-ass aluminum torpedo-shaped tube with windows, so we might as well take a little bit of time to meet our neighbors. Plus, when we have to get up to the bathroom, it's a community event, shuffling trays, holding up plastic cups of Sprite, and bumbling laptops to let someone "go."
Over the years, I've taken countless planes and have met some people whose stories have touched my life -- glimpses of other worlds, other lives, other journeys that crossed with mine; people who have made me reflect on my own life. Many were nervous, generous, kind.
All of us were tired.



So here's a hodge-podge list of people I've met. No names -- that's part of it. Anonymous strangers who share their dreams for a while then move on. It's rare to exchange information, keep in touch. It's like breaking the crystal ball of travel intimacy.

I've met ...

The first Colombian woman who was ever adopted by foreigners (American missionaries) when she was two and her sister was four and taken to live abroad. She was on her second trip to Colombia, after fifty-five years of not returning. She said, when she first landed the first time, it smelled and felt like home.A family of six (parents, three children, and a grandmother) flying to Bogota to adopt four children ages 5, 7, 12, and 14. The children had participated in an exchange program and had spent a month with this family the year before. They fell in love and were ready to invite them into their family and  take them back to Texas.A young girl obsessed with chickens who showed me, page-by-page, a chicken book she'd just purchased in the bookstore. You'd be surprised about how many chickens there are. Lots of chickens and chicken talk.A federal agent. It took every smidgen of will power to not start acting out parts of Bridesmaids. (Hey not Air Marshall John, wanna go back in that Restroom and not rest. ... I knew it! I got your back, John!) I know. I know. Air Marshalls aren't FBI, but it wasn't too much of a leap to want to start quoting it and laughing.  (Sometimes I laugh alone.)A couple traveling from visiting their son in Honduras, who is on a mission, and heading to Bogota for a wedding. I told them to wear comfortable shoes and get ready to dance.A group of gamers from Brazil going to a gaming convention in Las Vegas. 20ish something guys ready to devour Las Vegas.
These are just the people I've met the past year in transit. I sometimes wonder if I'd met my neighbor on a plane, we'd know one another a little better. I suppose I could invite people in our building to sit in the closet with me, but that would just be too weird.
Fresh from a trip back home after meeting some incredible people, I think I'm going to have to pretend I'm still traveling and open myself up to more people, prepare to meet more wonderful people. There's an element to travel we all have -- time. The minutes drip away ... interminable days. We don't have an excuse to bustle around, walk away. Maybe that's what we need -- not a flying cone but instead an hour or two to just sit. Talk. And share.
Consider me in transit.

Things My Dad Said ... On Raising Girls

"If you get married someday, your spouse sure as hell better know how to wash dishes."


Dad always said this. When I was little, it didn't mean much to me. I just thought it was a weird pre-requisite for "marriage." I also, for a long period in my life, was determined to marry a black labrador retriever. So ... the washing dishes thing was a moot point.
I have two daughters now. Raising kids is tough. Raising girls has insane challenges. I want to teach them kindness and gratitude. I want to teach them they are important, they're equal to men. I want to teach them that appearance doesn't matter in a city that has more plastic in a square km than in international Tupperware convention; their voice counts in the cacophony of male voices; being strong doesn't equal being a bitch. And to NOT use that oh-so-freaking-annoying habit that women have of raising the tone of their voices three octaves to ask for something. I told my daughter to not do it. And a Colombian friend and I had an argument about it because in Colombia, it's expected.
Screw that. Ask for it. Be strong. And stop with the bullshit voice change. But doing so is considered harsh in Colombia. (I'd LOVE to see a bunch of men bat their eyelashes and say, coyly, 'Please, can I have an extra sugar?')
GAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! *beating head against countertop*
Statistically, though, and on paper, everything I'm teaching my girls isn't "true."  According to statistics taken from 'Girl Rising' (a CNN documentary about the power of educating girls), 66 million girls are not in school, 150 million girls are victims of sexual violence each year, 14 million girls under 18 will be married this year ... the list goes on and on.
So I've thought about it ... a lot. For me to raise strong girls and be able to tell them the truth,  you have to raise strong, educated, aware boys.

 
So ... let's raise a world of amazing females together.
I'll teach my girls that their bodies are their own. You teach your boys about consent. Teach them that a short skirt, too many beers or a bad reputation doesn't mean, "yes." BE EXPLICIT. Rape happens because there are rapists, not because "she was asking for it." I'll teach my girls that femininity and strength aren't mutually exclusive. You teach your boys that feminine doesn't mean weak and strength doesn't mean butch (or bitch). I'll teach my girls they are so much more than the shell that holds them. You teach your boys to not refer to girls as: a piece of ass, a nice pair of tits, a slut, an object ... an object. Teach your boys that every time they look a woman up and down and leer, they've just reduced a human being to the status of a barbecue grill, something to be used. I'll teach my girls to speak their minds, use their voices, say their opinions. You teach your boys to listen.I'll teach my girls they have the same rights as anyone else in this world. You teach your boys that culture, religion, tradition are not an excuse for oppression. I don't give a rat's behiney that in someone's family for the past ten generations the woman had to do X thing. Oppression masked in tradition is still oppression. I'll teach my girls they are capable of doing any job in this world. You teach your boys that women deserve the same wages for the same work.  I'll teach my girls respect, above all. You teach your boys respect, above all. I'll teach my girls how to change a tire, check the oil, fix a leak. You teach your boys to wash the dishes.Wash dishes. Okay, Dad, so I'm a slow study. I get it now. I really do.

In light of this, I have a list of must-reads for both boys and girls. As a writer, I take issue with the "boy book" idea -- meaning if the main character has a penis, then boys will be able to relate. Since I majored in English and had to read all the misogynistic, angst-riddled novels written by aging European dudes you can imagine and got mere tastes of women authors in classes boldly labeled "Women's Lit," I'm going to go out on a limb here and say books and novels and characters that are great are about the human experience. So guys, pick up a book with a female main character. And parents, really, some of these books are must reads for both boys and girls. Read them together. Talk about them.

The Writer's Commandments ...

I know, I know. Just as somebody says, THERE ARE NO RULES! I come up with a list of ... ahem ... rules. Guidelines, I guess. I posted these in January over at Scene 13 but feel like it's not a bad thing to remember.
A dear friend of mine did something extraordinary this week ... her first book hit the shelves. And she felt deflated. It's a hard business. And publishing isn't "the end of the road." In fact, it's just another part of the road. So I thought I'd revisit these writer commandments ... things I try to live by as a writer; things that help keep me grounded in the madness of it all.
*cue trumpets here*


Are you feeling totally illuminated now?
As a writer who wants to keep sane, I resolve to …
Write what I love.Never write to the market. Even though my books don’t have hot love scenes, paranormals, dysfunctional future worlds with archery experts or anything that is really HOT right now, I won’t write to the market. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.So … I will write what I love.Care about the difference between lay and lie and make sure I apply said difference to my writing.Never compare my successes (or challenges) as a writer to others. There will always be others who are more successful, and others who are less successful. There’s room for everyone. Even me.Listen. Listen. Listen. Listen to critiques (from good critique partners). Listen to speakers at conferences. Listen to TED lectures. Listen to conversations in cafes, Taco Bell, in lines at the airport and supermarket. There are writers’ jewels everywhere.Allow myself to write badly. Write horrible first drafts. Then revise.Be a writer’s writer. Buy my writer buddies’ books, request them at my libraries and bookstores. Pass out bookmarks and postcards. Re-tweet writers’ reviews and contest information.  Do random acts of publicity, including friends’ books and other favorites. Word of mouth is POWERFUL. I will do all I can to make sure the world hears about the wonderful things the people I know are writing.Never turn down a writing assignment. We’re not all James Patterson with a writing empire. We are minions. I will write. Write about dog food and trailer jacks. Write. Write. Write. Remember that “publishing” isn’t the “end of the road.” There’s NO end … which is pretty great. Writers that I know write because they love words and have stories in them. It doesn’t end with a signed contract. There’s a silent drive in a writer’s world that makes this happen. Publishing is FAR from the end of the road.Read, read, read, read, read. Never stop reading. Read best sellers, award winners, my librarian’s favorites … everything I can.  I won’t only read in my genre. (I kind of recommend NOT reading in your genre when you write. It’s so easy to absorb another’s writing style. So I almost strictly read non-fiction when I’m mid-project.)Be proud of my novels whether they’re best sellers or considered “mid-list” novels. There’s SO nothing wrong with being a mid-list writer. Dude, I’m writing. I get to WRITE! I mean, how cool is that? So, get over the ego and keep plugging away.Remember I’m not the John Green or Maureen Johnson of social media. They’re virtual gurus and can sell out Carnegie Hall. I will do what I can, what I’m comfortable with. I won’t get bogged down on a thousand sites. I’ll do one or two and do them well. Same goes for blogging.Take bad reviews with grace. Hell, at least they took the time to write a review!It’s a SMALL TEENSY WEENSY TINY BUSINESS. So, go back to number five.  Keep things quiet, under my hat. I won’t talk bad about editors or agents or other writers. Aside from being unprofessional, it’s ungracious, catty and juvenile. I definitely love having heated debates about books. But I will always keep it professional.I will be GRATEFUL for Twilight and Fifty Shades of Gray and those other books I might have wanted to growl at. Because of these mega-hits, editors can pick up projects they love, projects they just believe need to be published, be on the shelves. So I tip my hat to the big names and thank them. Because of them, I get to write the books I love (books that don’t sell millions).Keep learning and keep perspective when I get eight page singled spaced editorial letters. I will always remember that there’s this amazing person wanting to make my book the best it can be.Make sure my copy editors know I LOVE them. They make me not look like a total moron because they catch canon ball and change it to cannonball. JMake every book my best. No. I’m not saying I can pull off As I Lay Dying  or A Hundred Years of Solitude.  I mean … hello. But I CAN write like ME and write my best book every time. Every word, every page. It’s a royal pain in the ass and takes commitment and guts because it means cutting lots of “love passages” that add nothing to the plot. It means working my tail off. But that’s why I’m here, right?Remember WHY I do this. I have a story to tell.  Many stories. That’s what it boils down to. And I have to remember to have the courage to tell the story MY way. That’s the beauty of this business. Yarns and tales, magical worlds and ghetto streets – those pages can be filled with the world I create.
Keep at it. Keep your head up. Write. 

Yes, I'm flying with a five-year-old AND 17-month-old. You MIGHT want to change your plans.

I'm revisiting one of my posts from a few years ago ... back in the day I thought traveling alone with a two-year-old was a challenge.
Now. I've amended a few things (see cross-outs), added another kid (so not an amendment so much as an addition??), and am REALLY hoping that you're patient with my family when we fly the "friendly skies". Right? Friendly. Right?
(Technically, I'm traveling with my family tomorrow, but the return trip ... will be AS WRITTEN BELOW. Add a night in Las Vegas ... gah!)



Okay. Don't think I don't see the eye-rolls, hear the grumbles, and can't smell the sheer terror on you when I walk into the boarding area. It's like your pheromones are secreting fight/flight through your pores.
Yes. I'm on your flight.
A bloody long one.
With a two-year-old. With a five-year-old and 17-month-old.
And trust me, I'm not having a pleasant day myself.
I write this because Monday tomorrow, I'm about to embark on another journey to the states with my daughters just the two  three of us. It's about a twenty-four hour trip, door-to-door. Yep. 24 HOURS. And Jack Bauer thinks he has long days? He hasn't seen the first of it. Try MY day with a 15-month-old that has an intestinal virus and blow outs we haven't seen since they did nuclear testing in Nevada (last year's (four year's ago return trip to Colombia). Beat that, Bauer.
Freaking pansy.
Anyway, this is the thing: Traveling is hard. Traveling alone with a baby/toddler is a full-blown logistical nightmare that not even Robert Michael Gates could wrap his mind around. We've got twenty-four hours of possibilities -- limitless ones -- to plan for. And all of these possibilities have to be packed in one backpack.
Why one? Because if you pack more, you have to carry two backpacks, a kid, two kids and manage the stroller, too.
Yep. One pack. One day. Endless possibilities. What could possibly go wrong? (If you need to ask you didn't pay attention to the swampy diaper issue from last year.)

So what's the point of the blog? An apology? Nope. Here are a few things to keep in mind before you roll your eyes at the haggard looking mother and children that will be boarding your plane:
I'm in hyper-mom mode -- all senses are go. So if anybody even looks cross-eyed at my kids or heaven forbid offers her them a candy, I will overreact and super-sanitize her them, keeping the candy to take the CSI lab when I arrive home. (This is why I have that crazy, blood-shot eye look about me)I am dehydrated. I haven't had a drip of water because that would mean I have to pee at some point. Relieving myself would mean either a) leaving my daughters on the plane alone which would cause either 1) a meltdown the size of Chernobyl or 2) dread because I have seen Flightplan or b) bring children with me into plane bathroom. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Two Three people in one plane bathroom is only good for one thing. And that's not peeing.I won't even talk about food.This is a twenty-four hour trip. Luck might have it you get to sit next to us on hour twenty-one. No toy, sticker, game, cajoling, candy, crayons, bribery or anything will calm my children down because she's they're tired. She They didn't sleep on the red-eye because the drinks cart practically knocked her off the chair slammed the little one in the head, causing a pseudo-concussion. I haven't slept either. So if the only thing that keeps her them happy is singing the Wheels on the Bus, you get three hours of Barneytime. Consider the alternative.Guess what? Kids cry. Sometimes they're just tired. Sometimes hungry. Sometimes bored. Sometimes all of the above; sometimes none of the above. Bottom line, kids cry. Moms want to cry, but we're the grown ups so we have to wait and cry when we get a chance to go pee at the end of the trip. Plus, we haven't hydrated, so our tear ducts have dried up. There are no tears here. Any liquid will come out in the form of urine after a 24-hour hiatus.If we are coughing, we are probably sick. Yes, I'd like the luxury of canceling trips at the last minute but simply can't afford it. It's a thousand dollar ticket home. Changing only makes things costlier. So there are few things that will keep me off the plane. I will do all I can to contain the germs in the meantime, but you seething at me doesn't not help the situation and only makes me want to not cover my mouth when I hack.If my kid is happy playing on what looks like the filthiest floor on the planet, I'm cool with that. At hour  10 (Ha! 10?? Let's get real, first airport, first few minutes) all scruples are off, and they can play in a cesspool of e-coli if need be. We take sanitizing day-long showers upon arrival. So ... yeah. I'm THAT Mom that lets her kids in festering pools of filth. They're happy. I'm happy.  YOU'RE happy.And finally, no matter HOW LONG your flight seems because you're stuck next to a five-year-old and sixteen-month-old who's just plain-old had it, my day has been MUCH longer. Trust me on this one. Bearing the weight of three-hundred plus angry passengers is not pleasant.You've been warned. If you proceed with your travel plans and are stuck singing If You're Happy And You Know It with us, thanks for singing along. Maybe we can even do it in rounds! (And feel free to spritz me with water ... I'll need it ... just not too much. We don't want to go overboard on the hydration.)

Happy Travels To You ...

TIPS & GREAT TOYS FOR TRAVELING WITH TODDLERS
Dental floss (you can't imagine how FUN this stuff can be! Mint, of course.)Sticker books/albumsCrayons/paperA surprise baggie of "new toys"Snacks (dehydrated fruit, raisins, cereal, water, water, water)Laminated photos of people they love. Wallet-size. With NEW wallet to boot.Favorite Books (not NEW ones, necessarily because you're gambling they won't be into it)Ripping airplane magazines and doing impromptu ticker-tape parades for little people.Songs, songs, songs ...Mini play-doh packsColorful pipe cleaners. Oh the joy.Glitter glue. Lots of glitter glue.Blow-up balls for the airport layovers. The beach at the airport. Imagination ... PLENTY OF IT. NOW is NOT the time to shut that part of the brain down.

I will NOT write on the toilet ...

As a writer with two daughters (one just a toddler), a husband,  my other jobs, and countless other things that seem to suck my days away in vacuum time, I live the MAJOR TIME CRUNCH. So, I like to read about what other writers do to fit quality writing in their days.
While browsing through articles telling me about how much of our time is wasted ... um ... browsing through articles on the internet  ... I found one (after reading through a thousand, since I have so much time to do so) with one of those nifty pie charts about average time each person spends each day doing each thing. I felt vindicated, like somebody had charted my life (glossing over my social media time suck moments).
So, after processing the pie chart to understand where all my time goes, I continued reading, kind of excited about the possibility that this article would give me the ROAD to time management. And this article (note, no link to it because, well, I lost it in the thousands), suggested I WRITE IN THE BATHROOM.
Huh?
And it had people talking about their success about WRITING IN THE BATHROOM. It also had people saying they would get up a half an hour earlier, cutting into their 5 hour sleep night to WRITE IN THE BATHROOM.
Okay. They didn't get up early to write in the bathroom, but where's the first place you go after getting up? THE BATHROOM. And now, what are you going to do in the bathroom? WRITE.
I was dejected!
Horrified.

I felt lazy, totally uncommitted to the task at hand, like my career didn't matter. I was literally flushing minutes away -- quality writing minutes. How many hours, days, weeks have I wasted in the bathroom, minutes that could have been productive ...  Um. Twice.
Another woman bragged that she, instead of getting up at 5:30 in the morning for her 45 minute run, which had been a ritual for fifteen years, she got up at 5:00 and cut her run short 15 minutes.
Wow.
Another wrote in her car. At traffic lights. Or during traffic jams. (She didn't mention whether she seemed to be the cause of said jams ...) anyway ... I guess she has good insurance.
I started feeling like I wasn't making writing a priority because those who do make writing a priority WRITE IN THE BATHROOM.
After reading the article, digesting the words (glaze-eyed after reading through so many, spending countless minutes, even up to an hour reading about how not to waste time on time management ...), I got pissed. And, NO, I didn't go and WRITE IN THE BATHROOM about it.
Honestly, has it gotten that ridiculous? Like carving a time out for writing or anything has to be done on a toilet? Haven't these people heard of DOWN TIME? Of course not. Because they're also writing at stop lights.




And it hit me what bothers me so much. Nobody's just where they are anymore. Nobody's just out to dinner anymore. We're at dinner with in-laws while simultaneously conference calling with associates in Detroit and Papua New Guinea while texting with a friend who's at an Eagle's reunion tour and Henley's singing Learn to Be Still simultaneously browsing through the photos said friend posted on Facebook while backstage. This is all while telling the waiter we don't want the Caesar Salad unless the anchovies are eco-harvested and no dolphins have been harmed while fishing for them ... in French because we're at a Hatian restaurant and we have a translation app. All the while enthralled with our father-in-law's anecdote about the TV he had that had a dial and no remote control that turned fuzzy after 11:00 at night.
Nobody is NOW. 
I met an American traveling in Colombia the other day, and we laughed about how easy it is to talk in present tense. I said jokingly, "Language learners are Zen. They're not yesterday or tomorrow, what could be, should be ... They ARE.
We giggled. But it got me thinking about the way we've managed to work our lives into frazzled nonsense. Just nonsense, really. And the magic of every day life is lost to white noise and apps.

My pace has changed since the girls came. It takes me a half an hour to walk a block because we have to stop and look at every single ant. An errand that once took twenty minutes, now can stretch into an entire afternoon. My girls don't know what yesterday means or tomorrow. They just ARE.
So. I've learned that I DO have time for everything that matters. Writing matters.
I find a way to work it into a schedule. But trust me. I WILL NOT, NOT NOW, NOT EVER NEVER, EVER WRITE ON THE TOILET. Criminy, it's the only time of day I actually get to SIT. Justifiable sittage. And MY time.

Sheesh.

Here are some books I LOVE on writing and the craft and how to feel like a human being while, like Hemingway said, "bleeding on the page." (Yeah. Yeah. So King DID write in the bathroom. Or a closet. But i don't think it's the SAME THING. It was a makeshift office.)

http://writerunboxed.com/don/

On Being American (Or ...just hand over the Cheerios)

"You are not very American."
I paused when someone said this to me recently.
"It's a compliment, you know," he said.
I don't know how to respond to that. What does that mean?

A very weird part of living abroad and being American is being American. If that makes any sense. At all.

"Americans! Bah! Mickey Mouse and Coca Cola." (A French cousin said this to me. A lot. Thankfully he didn't know about my Cheerios fixation.) 
"Americans take up too much space."
"Americans are ignorant, kind of stupid."
"You are not very American ..."
hmmmm

My paternal grandparents, French Basques, immigrated to the US in the early 1900s. My grandpa was a sheepherder and miner. My grandma was a maid. My maternal grandparents were children of Norwegian immigrants. My grandpa was a farmer. My grandma, too.
I grew up taking Basque dancing lessons and making chorizos in the garage. I ate lefse and Basco beans, learned how to make kringle and (later) Picon punches and homemade hooch. (Yeah, you KNOW you want that recipe). No, we did not have a still in our backyard, though we had an old wine press. 
My friends, instead of Basque dancing lessons, went to Greek, Italian, and German festivals. We all seemed to have relatives from far away who liked to give sloppy cheek kisses and too-hard pinches.
I love peanut butter and baseball movies; I cry when I hear The Star Spangled Banner. I know how to dance the Texas two-step and swing, salsa and merengue. When my girls were babies, I used to sing them The Gambler and Stand By Me because I didn't remember the words to any other songs.
My heart aches when I watch how senseless violence and shootings are so commonplace that my nieces have to go through "shooting drills" at school. I am horrified with super-sized anything (really ... there is such a thing as too many fries) and find the idiosyncracies of my country too absurd for fiction, both tragic and funny as hell.

I grew up in the perfume of sagebrush and snow-capped mountains, and every summer we visited my grandma's farm in North Dakota ... fields of golden sunflowers, flax, wheat. Flat, flat, flat. In North Dakota you can watch your dog run away for three days. 

I'm an expat. Sure. Visions of Hemingway and Stein changing the world with their words while getting stoned over bottles of French wine come to mind.
I'm not that kind of expat. I fell in love with a Colombian, and we decided to build our life here. I spend my days chasing after two little girls who, by the way, don't like peanut butter (I've utterly failed to inculcate them with American-ness 101.) They barely take notice of the Cheerios (from my Panama contact) in their bowls. I've actually stopped giving them Cheerios. They don't appreciate that unsinkable taste.They'd rather eat empanadas.
My oldest speaks English with a Spanish lilt and the little one definitely is going down the expressive, gesticulating Latina route. They're both Colombian Americans ... two nationalities, two passports, two cultures, no peanut butter.

What is American?

Maybe my five-year-old said it best the other day.
A: Mom, you know that thing where you won't let me wear a bikini or get my ears pierced?
Me: Yeah.
A: *accusatory tone* It's because you're American, isn't it?
Me: *silent for a bit* I guess it is.
A: *shrugs and walks away*

Yep. I'm American. (My daughters don't realize it yet, but so are they -- peanut butter failings aside.) And, from far away, this 4th, I'll celebrate with my annual burger, beer, and a slice of watermelon. What could be more American than that?

Nationality, culture, ethnicity, religion ... identity. It's a loaded thing to be called something. And I understand that so much of how we view other cultures, how we come up with our sweeping generalizations, comes from the media, past experiences, and expectation. (Honestly, I don't know a single Colombian who doesn't cringe when somebody makes the typical "cocaine" joke.)
But in every country, there are pockets of grace and tragedy; places of shame and joy. I kind of think there's a little "American" in everybody because "my America", the one I love and believe in, was built on a dream, a fight, ideals, intentions, failings ...  hope. That's what makes me American.
So, instead of deciding how someone is, discover how someone is. Be surprised. However, if you insist on making assumptions, at the end of the day, all I ask you to do is hand over the Cheerios.  Colombia's great failing is the lack of Cheerios.
I know. How do I survive?

Here's a list of "American" books I love, love, love. All of these capture snapshots and vignettes of "Americanness." Jigsaw-puzzle pieces of culture, adaptation, rampant madness and more. What books would you add? How do you define your "Americanness", Canadianness, Colombianness, Englishness, Israeliness, South Africanness, Austrailianness, Chineseness ... wherever you're from?

40 Things I've Learned in 40 Years

Okay ... Certainly I've learned A WHOLE LOT MORE THAN THAT. But if I were to make a list about everything from drinking from a cup to blowing my nose, it would lose the whole whimsical point of a "what I've learned" type of blog post.



Ahem ... that said, I'm going philosophical (kind of) here and am going to take the time to reflect on 40 life lessons I'd like to share. (In no particular order.)

1. Family first.
2. Friends are family you choose.
3.The most significant thing that will ever happen to you is being loved, completely, by a child.
4. Wear comfy shoes. Always. (Comfy is the new sexy.)
5. You don't have to share your sea salt dark chocolate candy bar with your husband or children. Hide it. Hoard it.
6. Go out of your way to step on crunchy fall leaves.
7. Parenthood is a whole new realm of gross happenings that you have to deal with without gagging until you're alone in the bathroom.
8. Shouting doesn't necessarily mean you'll be heard but it sure helps.
9. Marry your best friend. "Forever" is a long-ass time when it's 3:00 in the morning and you're arguing about who should get up to change the baby. Only friendship and laughter will get you through this. And beer. Beer is always good.
10. Burn all parenting books.
11. Never lose your sense of wonder at the world -- the ocean, the mountains, drops of rain and snowflakes, glaciers, wind, canyons, rivers, deserts, forests, red woods, lagoons, old civilizations, skyscrapers, bridges ...
12. Laugh hard. Laugh loud. Laugh, laugh, laugh. (The biggest risk you take is taking yourself too seriously. No one else does, so ...)
13. When traveling in China, never take a sleeper bus. Trust me on this one.
14. Surround yourself with people who inspire, believe in, and motivate you. Negativity sucks.
15. Listen. Listen. Listen.
16. The essence is in the details.
17. When traveling with children, look as flustered and exhausted as possible (not hard to do). Make eye contact with young couples. You have now curbed the future world population problem.
18. Take time to chase shadows and rainbows.
19. Tell the people you love them that you love them every day. Show them you love them every day as well. 20. Say something kind to someone every day. Every day.
21. Stand up for what you believe in even if it's not popular.
22. Be honest. (Sounds like a no-brainer, but it sure is damned tempting to pretend you know stuff you don't in a crowd. Just say, "Nope. Never heard of that. Didn't know that.")
23. Be useful.
24. Choose happiness.
25. Love your country. Be critical of it. VOTE!
26. Don't use doctrine to justify hate. Hate is hate. Period.
27. You don't have to share the same political or religious views with your friends or family. Get over it. Love them and eat cookies together.(And change the subject!)
28. It's totally okay to say, "No." And NOT apologize for it.
29. Your children are a mirror of you. This is why they say "shit" in context in public. Shit.
30. Traveling on ten dollars a day for three months is a GREAT way to test whether or not a relationship is solid. Do this BEFORE having children (which is the maximum test of patience for any relationship.)
31. Take a chance. Jump. Failure is inevitable. But living a lifetime of ho-hum is the alternative.
32. Get a yearly checkup.
33. Sit down and eat together as a family.
34. Read. Read. Read. It'll make you a better person.
35. Leave your comfort zone. Visit a place that you've never been (anywhere from another country to a homeless shelter to a convent) and instead of judging it, see how others live, love, study, survive.
36. To learn the best obscenities in any language, attend a soccer match.
37. Teach your children respect. RESPECT above all.
38. Dream big. Then work your tail off.
39. Have a mantra. Ours is: love, peace, health, happiness, gratitude.
40. Unless you believe in reincarnation, this is it. You've got one life. Make it matter.