Smiling At Hellmart

I tried a little something new today. I walked into Hellmart for me weekly trip with a smile on my face. Weird, right?

As I pulled into the parking lot, I spied a woman who could have easily been me--nondescript (but kinda beautiful anyway), pushing a cart full of groceries that will contain "nothing good" according to her family, and a scowl on her face. Without even looking in the mirror, I realized I had a scowl on my face as well.

I decided then to smile.

I have resting bitch face--I own that.

Source

I also own the fact that people who smile draw smiles in return, they are less stressed out and less stressful, and they are, well, generally happier. So, I plastered a smile on my face and went grocery shopping.

I smiled at people, I spoke nicely, I really had an enjoyable trip to Hellmart. As my grocery cart (and bill) was piling higher than I would have liked, I smiled anyway and didn't seem stressed out. Whatdoyaknow? It works.

Then I saw her.

Several years ago, I was the target of a cyber, although very public, attack by some small-minded people. And standing before me was the leader of this attack. She was standing there with her boyfriend/husband (whatever) and her child who was in the cart calling out "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" and being ignored. I don't know if she saw me initially, but I saw her--and her resting bitch face.

My first instinct was to stop smiling. But I didn't. I smiled, grabbed what I needed and moved on.

As I headed to the checkouts, she just about ran into me ... not on purpose, though. I widened my smile and said, "Excuse me," as I maneuvered my cart out of her way (even though I clearly had the right-of-way).

Her scowl got scowlier, her shoulders slumped even more, her head dropped and she looked the other way.

I continued smiling as I checked out. I wondered about her and if she was as unhappy as she appeared. (My guess, based on my personal experiences with her, is that yes, she is as unhappy as she looks.)

Then I walked out with a cart full of groceries. I stood beside the car and clicked my clicker. It didn't work. I tried the key. It didn't work. Finally, still smiling, I jiggled the handle to find it unlocked.

It wasn't my car, of course. I realized that when I slammed it shut and walked toward the next aisle over where my car waited for me.

The whole time I smiled. It was the least stressful trip to Hellmart I've ever had.

Source

Life's to short to do anything other than smile.

Learning to Fly

"Move, little birdie," I uttered in vain as I drove the minivan carefully beside the baby bird who was perched in the middle of the road.

"Momma!" Daughter 1 cried out looking back at the birdie still in the middle of the road. "He's hurt!"

"I don't think so," I assured her. "He's just young as learning to fly."

"How do you know it's a he?" she argued.

"You just called it a he," I reminded her.

"Yeah, but, he might be hurt," she said still looking through the back window, rolling her eyes at my gender pronoun choice.

Despite my confidence that it was just a smallish bird who was on his first solo flight, I turned the van around.

"Are we going to get him?" she squealed as I pulled over beside the tiny winged thing who still had visible down on his body.

"No," I said. "We'll just help him get to the side."

We carefully approached the tiny thing and I snapped a picture. Daughter 1 giggled at the sight and then the birdie awkwardly took off flying into the wind. This is to say that he flapped his wings as if he were trying to power a small village and floated backward, finally landing with the tiniest of thuds in the still-green grass.

"Oh my gosh, Momma!" Daughter 1 continued her giggling. "You were right!" She sounded incredulous.

We darted to the spot in the grass to check on the little guy.

We determined after closer examination against the green lawn that he was probably a she. She was probably a cardinal. She was beautiful nonetheless. I named her Rosie the redbird. My camera clicked, Daughter 1 giggled, and Rosie took off again.

She flew longer and father and higher than before. Daughter 1 and I chased after her just in time for her to come chasing back at us, tweeting, as if she were saying, "Where are the brakes on this thing?" She battled the wind and twisted and turned before she landed in neighbor's decorative grass. Or weeds. Or garlic bed. Wherever.

We giggled some more, and she took off yet again, tweeting.

"I think she's telling us thanks for helping her learn to fly," Daughter 1 said as we walked back to the van, confident that the little bird wouldn't be sitting in the middle of the road any time soon.

"I think so too," I smiled.

"I still wish we could have taken her home," Daughter 1 sighed.

My mom, who was sitting in the van watching the shenanigans of her older daughter and oldest granddaughter said, "If you love something set it free..."

Because Daughter 1 is sorta a smart a$$ (no comments about genetics, y'all) interrupted her Nana and said, "Then I set my momma free."

"That's okay," I smiled, "I'll always come back to you."

#NaBloPoMo: If I Could Change One Thing About Myself ....

If I could change one thing about myself ...

I wish I were more patient. I have a tendency to want things now--as in RIGHT now. I've always been that way, and I've not noticed this lack-of-patience thing getting better as the years go by. But, it was this persistence, shall we say, that drove me to get my Masters. It was this persistence that helped me decide to elope with Brian instead of waiting around to put on a show have a wedding. It was this persistence that helped me and is helping me secure my dream of being a writer.

So, I think I'd like to exercise. Up until middle school, I played basketball and softball. I loved riding my bike and playing kickball and roller skating. Then, I just stopped. I sorta enjoy walking now, but don't always have the time. Nor do I have the desire. I should do more physical activity, that's that up for questioning. I should be exercising every day. But, I don't want to. And I don't want to want to. (Read that sentence again--it makes sense.) I need to, but I don't want to.

Maybe I'd like to change my best time of day. Right now, I come alive--I fell great and want to conquer the world) at about 8:00 p.m. If I could set my own time schedule, I'd sleep until 10 a.m. or so, I'd take a nap 3:00 p.m. for about an hour. Then, I'd stay awake until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. But, I'd never get to see my family. I'd miss out on my day job and I've kinda grown accustomed to electricity and groceries, so maybe I'll just make due with the routine I've worked out for now.

I could talk about changing my underwear, my hair color, my bra (that one's harder than you know!). I could change my attitude or the channel or the same tired dinner menu.  I could write about changing my diet, my sheets or the litter in the litter box. I could write about changing my clothes in a public area--I have done that, ya know.

Poor guy. I can relate--to him and his momma.
Source.

But I didn't write about any of those things. Besides, that wasn't even the prompt.

If I could change one thing about myself maybe I'd be more decisive. Maybe I'd come up with an answer to a simple question quickly and stick to it.

Or maybe I wouldn't ... Maybe I wouldn't change one thing about myself. Maybe I wouldn't stick with one answer. Maybe today should have been the day I skipped #NaBloPoMo ...

When The Older Generation Tries To Take Selfies

On Saturday, we had a shindig for my momma's big birthday. Almost all of her extended family family was there. We had a lot of old friends show up--and I'm not saying old because they are. And she had a great couple of hours visiting with people she went to school with, family we don't see nearly enough and friends who just love to share in our every day life. It was a wonderful day all around.

My Aunt Kay drove up on Friday from Dallas. She and my mom and their friend Connie had a hotel room and apparently stayed up all night drinking cigarettes and smoking cheap booze while singing their high school fight song and alma mater until they passed out. Or something like that.

My Aunt Kay and Connie are quite a bit younger than my own momma. In fact, my grandmother thought she had a tumor in her belly and had an x-ray done just two months before my Aunt Kay was born. It was at that time that she found out she was pregnant yet again ... just ten short years after her last pregnancy.

As we waited for the party to really get started, my Aunt Kay and my own momma decided to take a couple of selfies. My own momma is still learning how to work her phone so my Aunt Kay said she'd take the selfie and then send it to my own momma. Not that my own momma would be able to retrieve it.

Notice that my Aunt Kay is not looking at the camera but at me.
It's because she could see me better than the camera.

My sister and I giggled at them trying to take the selfie because, from where we were standing, it didn't appear that they were doing much picture taking. 

Finally, my aunt just asked me to take the picture.

"I can't get close enough," she said as if she were a twelve-year-old looking to update her Facebook profile pic, "without putting on my glasses."

And ... that's the real reason why you don't see many selfies of people over 45.

3.5 Billion

There are 3.5 billion girls in the world, give or take a couple. I am blessed enough to not only get to be one of those 3.5 billion, but I also get to parent two of those girls as well.

Today, I had to break one of my girls' hearts--she won't get to take a big class trip with school because we just don't have the funds. This, my friends, is a life lesson. She would have to work for the trip, and she simply didn't have enough time to do that. She's alright with it; and she'll eventually understand the power of saving and planning and accepting the answer no.

I also got to sing karaoke with my younger girl. We sang Abba's "Waterloo." We sang as if the entire neighborhood needed to hear our voices ... I'm sure they enjoyed it as well. Who wouldn't? She went to bed still singing "Waterloo." I hope she'll always sing loud and proud regardless of how on-tune she is or much she botches the lyrics, even though they are right on the screen.

My guess is that this scenario is not any different for most of the 3.5 billion girls in the world. I say "most" because I know that not every girl is in a healthy, fun, encouraging situation. I'll offer sincere prayers for them and their situations tonight.

I tell you all of this to explain to you why I didn't write about that horribly horrific (yeah, yeah, yeah--dissect my word choice later) performance by Miley Cyrus and Robin Thicke.

As a blogger, the minute the tweets and updates about the performance hit the social media scene, I wanted to take it on. But there was something in my heart--something in my core--that wouldn't let me. The words that I wanted to say were so deep inside my soul that I had to search for them long and hard.

I thought about going for the laughs; the obvious ones were taken, though, and I couldn't really explain clearly how much I love to joke about twerking. I twerk in my house. I want a pair of twerking shorts and everything--this is not a joke. (Ask my real life peeps.) So when Miley Cyrus made it so yucky, I felt robbed.

I also felt robbed by Robin Thicke. "Blurred Lines" is one of the only songs of his that I really like. Of course, I never really listened to the lyrics. I sang them kinda like this: You're a good girl. blahblahblah  want it. blahblahblah want it. The way you grab me. blahblahblah want me. Don't be spastic. You're a good girl. The fat girl in me thought the song was being sung by a big ol' package of Double Stuffed Mint Oreos. That little scene stole that pick-up lane song from me.

But really, that wasn't what I wanted to write either. I spent the last week or so trying to find the words I was looking for to address the situation.

This weekend, I attended the Arkansas Women Bloggers Unplugged Conference at Ferncliff Retreat Center near Little Rock. I got to dine and chat and walk and think with 100 of the coolest 3.5 billion women on the planet. I recognized some of them who had blogged about the VMA spectacle. I got to listen to a wise woman talk about being true to your own voice. I got to hug the neck of a woman who selflessly brings together women in the spirit of camaraderie. I got to share a ride with a fellow momma who gracefully handles her life and has her family at the front of her every thought. I got to share pillow talk with a kindred spirit and talented worddress (it's like a seamstress for words) who is my bloggy wife. I got to walk with a very funny and absolutely darling friend on a beautiful morning through a beautiful forrest. I got to talk frankly with a woman I've long admired--and not just because she's the mother of twins, but because she has a sweet, sincere and delightful voice that made me want to move her next door to me. I got to sit on a panel of talented authors who made me feel like I belonged with them.

Being in the presence of these (and many other) wonderful women, it became clear. I am angry about the whole hoopla that has invaded our lives since the VMAs.

Really, really angry.

I'm not just enraged because Mylie is a young girl who is going down a road that I don't ever want my own daughters to go down.

I'm not just mad because my love of twerking as a middle-aged woman and a silly little dance song has been tainted.

I'm resentful and outraged because out of 3.5 billion women on the face of this wonderful world we occupy together, we have devoted so much of our words, so much of our time, so much of our energy on a three-minute, crappy cry for attention.

We should have been writing about the girls who volunteer their time at animal shelters and homeless shelters and orphanages. We should have been writing about the girls who carry water on their shoulders back to their entire village and girls who carry their babies to doctors to fight diseases and illnesses and disabilities. We should be writing about the girls who make earrings and lemonade and scarves and hats to benefit girls who have less--significantly less--and whom they have never met. These girls, these girls we already know and love, are worthy of our space and our time.

There are at least 3.49 billion other women who have a story that's worthy to be told. And my space will be occupied with those women. Starting with my deepest love, admiration, adoration, and devotion to these two of the 3.5 billion ...

Tell me about the amazing girls in your life ... Really, I wanna hear about them.

Wordless Wednesday: Daddy Daughter Date

See's Candies--Nom, Nom Nom!

Last week, See's Candies opened a new candy store at Penn Square Mall in Oklahoma City. And before they opened, they invited me to come check them out. They also invited Brian to come check them out as well, which is funny because his blog is all about being healthy. (He totally makes it work, though.)

So, the whole family got to enjoy a private event at See's where we learned about the company--it's a wonderful family company that's spanned generations. We discovered that See's uses absolutely no preservatives or manufactured foods--this is why their candy so yummy. And we got to experience See's generosity. For example, did you know that every visitor to their store gets a free sample and that every year, they give away a million pounds of candy in this way? I'm pretty sure that night, my family ate about a quarter of a million pounds.

Plus, the highlight of the night, we got to play like Lucy and Ethyl, which was filmed in a See's factory.

See's Candies sent me home with enough chocolate to add an extra butt to my backside. And I wanna share the chocolate wealth with you!

I'm giving away three items:
A box of See's Candies Lollipop (which are only 2 WW points per lolli), a signed copy of TMI Mom Oversharing My Life and a signed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul-Parenthood.  Click through my Rafflecopter and get yourself registered!




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And Then She Was A Tween

"If I'm clearing the table," Daughter 1 announced one day after dinner, "what are you going to do?" Then she huffed, "I'm the only one who does anything around here."

At the time she was 6. What can I say? She was advanced--she acted 13.

Five For Friday: Things Imma Do To Celebrate My Birthday

Happy birthday to me! Today I turn a year older than I was this time last year. Okay, fine. A word problem: If a train leaves a depot traveling east at 65 miles per hour and a bus leaves the station traveling north at 88 miles per hour and a cat delivers six kittens on the third of August and I was born in 1970 and twenty-three campers pitch four tents six yards from a river traveling at 18 knots, how old am I?  (There is no prize for getting it right.)

Here are five things I'm going to do today to celebrate my birthday:

Five For Friday: My Summer Bucket List

Today is the first day of summer. I have, however, been enjoying summer for almost a month now. Since it's officially summer, though, I believe it's time I got to work on my summer bucket list. These are five things I will do this summer.

Then and Now: A New Year's Eve Countdown

I thought it'd be fun to look back at how my life has changed; not just over the last year, but the last twenty years ...

New Year's Eve 1992: I will eat my weight in barbecue meatballs so I'll have something on my stomach when I start chugging Bartles and James coolers.

New Year's Eve 2012:  I will eat my weight in barbecue meatballs while swearing to start exercising twenty-six hours a day nine days a week.

Get it. Get it now.

The weather is turning chilly. Be sure to download my ebook so you'll have something to read this weekend. You'll be glad you did. You'll also get to see some cool NYC pics from my iPhone AND you'll get a bonus chapter from my new book, Oversharing my Life, which debuts this spring.

Get TMI Mom Bites the Big Apple for your Kindle or your Nook.

Great Friends

The past few weeks have really shown me who my friends are. My friends have sent me emails, texts, messages. They've posted on my Facebook wall and tweeted and retweeted me and my tweets and offered their congratulations on my national TV appearance.

My good friends made videos for me national TV appearance. They entertained my kids. They offered rides to the airport and even offered to go to Hellmart for me. They offered quotes on my behalf and got their hair done by a real beautician and everything. My good friends offered honest opinions on outfits, hair color or lip waxing. "Go with the removal cream." Truer words have never been spoken.

But my great friends... My great friends put together a fabulous goodie bag celebrating my 15 minutes of fame that included chocolate and pictures and wine.

But what made these friends really great is that when I mistook a WIG for the wine, they didn't even laugh. Much.

I bit the Big Apple

A nationally syndicated talk show contacted me about three weeks ago. They apparently had been following this blog and my Twitter and my Facebook. They liked what they read. They thought I was funny, and they wanted to feature me on their show about women who overshare their lives on the internet.  Weird, huh? Was I really an oversharer? I mean sure, I talk about bladder control and my cup size and my lack of razor-meeting-legs, but oversharing? OK. Fine. I see their point.

Why I love The Dad

The Daughters packed their own bags for our recent family reunion.  The Dad and I packed our bag together.  We were going to be gone just two nights.  I pulled out the smaller suitcase, and The Dad quickly informed me that it wouldn't be big enough.

Fancy Tommy and a few good people

I spent the weekend at the OWFI annual conference.  It was my first time to be at the conference, and I had a great time.  I won third place for my picture book A Walk With Mother Nature.  More than anything, though, I appreciated the opportunity to meet and get to know some fabulous people.

I gained valuable information from top-notch people in this industry like Lela Davidson and Chuck Sambuchino. 

In one of my sessions, I met a sweet older couple who came into the "Socialist Media Panel" to learn all about "twitters and email."  I served as their interpreter - no lie.  At one point the sweet female member of this couple said, "What does hashtag mean?. She also said to her partner, "Someone needs to teach me how to google."  And for the rest of the session, I sang (in my head, of course), "Teach me how to google! Teach me how to google! Teach me, teach me, teach me how to google 'cause all them bitches love me."  I was straight-up Oklahoma Swag District, yo.

I roomed with my friends Marilyn Boone and Denise Jarmola.  Every morning we woke up screaming and hitting the deck because we thought we were under attack by Diet Coke cans rupturing in our way-too-cold fridge.  Call me Kilgore, but I love the smell of exploded Diet Coke in the mornings.

I met a fabulous friend, Mari Farthing, whose blog I'd been following for some time.  OK, I didn't realize it was her until I got home and checked my blog roll and then realized it was her.  We're dork sisters and proud of it.  We've got some great things in the works together, including but not limited to a saucy 5K in September.  Don't worry, you'll get to hear all about it!  She promises to not let them pack up and go home until I finish.  Isn't she the best?

I ran into a real, live Ghostbuster.  Twice.  I saw him once with Mari at lunch and once on Sunday morning as he was checking out of the hotel.  I'd have rested a whole lot easier if I had know a Ghostbuster (or at least some guy with a real, live Ghostbuster costume) had been under the same roof with me.  I might not have jumped so high or screamed so loud during the morning Diet Coke bombings.

Finally, while lunching with Mari, we were introduced to the finest server Zio's had to offer:  Fancy Tommy.  Fancy Tommy intrigued and enthralled us.  He wrote his name backwards and upside down with TWO crayons in ONE hand.  We called him Fancy Tommy throughout our entire meal, but he only knew about it as we were paying our bill.  Very humbly, Fancy Tommy asked what we were doing in town - honestly, I'm sure he was looking to score with two 40 somethin'-year old mommas, but we're committed.  Sorry, Charlie!  Fancy Tommy!. 

We told him we were at the writing conference.  Then, in true beggar's form, I whipped out a bookmark and said, "Here's what I write!  Please follow my blog!  Please tell your momma and your aunts and your older sisters!  They'll love me, Fancy Tommy! They'll love me!  You?  Probably not so much."

None the less, I promised to write about him, and I always keep my promises.  I'm sure that Fancy Tommy bragged to his fellow Zio-ites because after I passed off my bookmark, we were offered more bread and more water (even though our glasses were full) and more anything at all.  We were impressed with their fruitless efforts to get a blog post devoted to them.  However, Fancy Tommy had our hearts with his service, his smile, and his offers to give us forgotten take-home boxes even before he knew I was a not-so-famous blogger.

Don't worry, Fancy Tommy!  When we run our 5K, we'll be back to carb load with you, my friend!

Oh yes he did, Part II

Last week, after The Dad pronounced my outfit frumpy (he hates that I keep saying that), the next day we went to the mall.  That's right.  We went to the mall on a Friday night with The Daughters.  (That sentence could easily be used to prove our lack of competency.)  We strolled into a typical mall clothing store and began our night of torture.

Listen To Your Mother GIVEAWAY!

Yesterday, I went to the readthrough for Listen To Your Mother in Fayetteville, AR.  We'd all "met" each other on Facebook and Twitter and a few of us actually knew each other, old school (ya know, face to face).  But this was the first time that most of us were able to be in the same room at the same time and for that, I brought out the clinical strenth deodorant.  I'm not great at meeting new people (in fact, I'm really sucky at it), but to meet new and talented people was nothing short of nerve-wracking for me.

Resolutions are for wusses

Last weekend, we headed south to The Dad's folks for our Christmas celebration with them.  The Dad was in charge of packing the minivan since he had the day off and The Daughters and I were still in school.  Now, I'll only admit this one time, so listen closely:  I'm a tiny bit of a control freak.