Dear 15 year old Krysten

Things are a little hectic for you right now. I get that. Your world has been kind of flipped upside down and somewhere along the way you seemed to have lost a part of yourself. I’m here…15 years later…still trying to find it. I figured it’d be best to let you in on some of the stuff I've learned so far so maybe we can meet in the middle somewhere. Sound good?

Yeah, I realize I’m old. And you don’t think 30 year olds have anything good to say but if you’ll just listen awhile you might be better off. Trust me. I know you. Better than you think I do.

That boy you love, you know, the one that breaks your heart on a regular basis, he isn’t the only boy in the world. The heart break will eventually diminish and you will never love another one the way you love him, I promise. It never hurts that bad again. You don’t have to be scared. Oh, it’ll hurt sometimes, but not like that one. But you’ve GOT to stop expecting someone to be your “everything”. It’s too much pressure. It causes disappointment all the way around. You expect too much out of people. There are people who love you at your best and people who love you at your worst but they can’t all be the same person. You need to start filling your life up now with all different kinds of people. You need to figure out that everyone in your life exists for a different purpose and sometimes it’s okay to be still. And don’t count girls out. They might not all be like Tanya, but you’re going to meet some really good ones soon that will change the way you think. Girlfriends really are amazing.

Roxy isn’t so bad. She will become your best friend. I know it’s hard to believe now, but it will happen. Just give it time. It wouldn’t hurt to let her in a little. She loves you. She’s always loved you. You would make things easier on her and make things easier on yourself if you just didn’t fight her every step of the way. She is on your side, believe it or not. She doesn’t actually want to ruin your life, even though it feels like it sometimes. Things get way better for you and way better for her and way better for you and her. Wait until you see what kind of mom she is to you when you just give her a chance. Somewhere between You and Me you end up really needing her and she’s doing a phenomenal job.  

Scott will grow up to be your pal. I know it is hard to feel responsible for him. You aren’t. It’s not your job. He grows up to be a fantastic man. A fantastic husband. A fantastic father. He turns out great. It doesn’t matter that his dad is a scumbag and he’s disappointed by his mom every other day. He takes it and makes the absolute best of it. Wait until you meet his daughters. They are perfect.

The world is never going to hand you anything. That isn’t going to change. The best advice I can give you on that one is to make things happen for yourself. Don’t stop now, you’ll thank me later. Yes, you’re cute. Yes, you can cry on cue. Yes, you can manipulate with the best of them. Those things only get you so far. The rest is going to require hard work. I know you hate hard work. I get that you’re lazy. Save lazy for Sundays. Work hard and play hard and read hard and write hard and love hard and go full force. I need you to understand that people are trying to make you different. You’ve already started to lose spark and fearlessness. DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN. Seriously. It’ll be worth it, especially for me. It’d be best if you didn’t have to wait 15 years to learn this one.

FINISH STUFF. Please. I’m begging you. If you start now I promise to wear a really good night cream and keep your skin as pretty as possible!

Stop holding your breath for your mom to get better. For her to come back. She isn’t going to. At least, I don’t think so. So far…it gets worse. I’ve been trying to get in touch with 40 year old Krysten to find out, but she’s not returning my calls. She’s probably busy with teenagers and doesn’t have time to talk. I’m thinking we should probably both just let that one go. It’ll save us both a whole lot of disappointment and heartache. Remember what I said about Roxy? Yeah? Read it again!

You’re doing a fantastic job. I know people don’t always tell you that. It’s the truth. You’ve made your way through some pretty rough stuff already and you are shaping me, for better or worse. I want you to remember that. It’s alright that you’re scared but don’t let fear take everything over. Please. I found something recently and I want to share it with you. Read it. Know it. Believe it.

Fear can hold us back from anything we want to do in our lives.

It keeps us from loving, caring, committing, deciding, listening, hearing, seeing, bargaining, thinking, acting, accepting and compromising.

It keeps us from asking questions, talking to, saying no, saying yes, standing up, staying silent ~ and letting go.

So tragically often Fear’s intended purpose is lost, and instead of seeing Fear as the lesson in wait that it is, we run from it ~ ever certain that it is not there to serve us, but to swallow us whole.

~~Stacey K. Wood

You really are a pretty cool kid. Don’t let them tell you any different. Call your Grandparents more. Give your dad a break. Don’t stop writing. Let people in. Lower your expectations of other people, but raise the ones of yourself. You’ll be surprised what you are capable of. Stop being so angry all the damn time.

Neither one of us has messed anything up beyond repair but maybe if you’ll just listen to me, we can make the path a little smoother.

I love you. Thanks for being you.

See ya in 15 years…

♥ 30 year old Krysten.

My Kids Went To Kindergarten!!

I sent my kids to kindergarten this week.

I know, I know, you’re thinking I only sent one kid to kindergarten. Technically I guess you’d be right, but it feels a little like I sent two.  

Logan and Talyn.

From the very beginning I referred to them as “My kids”. I started taking care of Talyn when she was just shy of six months old. Her mom, Adrianne, and I have been friends for years and while she was finishing school and starting her career at the hospital, I was the one who took care of her during the day. If you know me well, you know that I’m not a kid person. I like my own, sure, but other people’s kids…um, iffy.

But Talyn didn’t count as another person’s kid. She’s always felt a little like my own.

What does that mean? Well, it means that I cleaned the snot out of her nose and changed her butt and fed her baby food and watched her learn to walk. I listened as she learned to talk and talk…and talk. She crawled on my floor and slept in my arms and cuddled with me on the couch. I took her temperature and gave her antibiotics and read her books. She was right beside Logan, playing outside, singing five little monkeys, dancing to the ABC song. I knew her quirks and what made her happy. I put bows in her hair and got excited everyday to look in the diaper bag and see what kind of pink frill I was going to get to dress her in.   

When I asked her, “Talyn, how much do you love me?” I taught her how to stretch her arms out wide and tell me, “Thiiiissss much!”

Some days, she was exhausting. Some days, she kept me sane. Some days, she broke my heart. She’s part mine. She’s got a part of me that not many kids get. I love her. And she’s growing way. too. fast.

Kindergarten went off without a hitch. I was surprised. Surprised at Logan. Surprised at myself. Neither one of us cried and if you know me and my son you know that we’re criers.

He was so excited. He had his back pack on and his lunch pail in hand. He never seemed nervous or worried. In the morning, while he was getting ready, he told me, “If Talyn wasn’t there I might be scared but she’s there so I’ll be okay.”

Funny thing was…I felt the same way.

I sent Adrianne a text message the night before that said:

Tell Talyn to take care of Logan. She’s bigger. She has to.

I know it sounds like a lot of responsibility to put on a five year old, but if you know Talyn, you know she didn’t mind. She’s a lot like her mom that way. She loves to take care of other people. And just like her mom…she’s pretty good at it.

It’ll be interesting to watch them continue to grow up side by side. Taking different paths, making different friends. One day, they’ll figure out that boys and girls aren’t supposed to be friends and then hopefully, they’ll realize that sometimes those are the best kind of friendships. I don’t know if they’ll always be close, if they’ll always be friends, but I do know this:

Logan and I wouldn’t have made it on our first day of Kindergarten without her.

I can’t wait until the day when I get to see her dressed in a cheer uniform on the first day of school. I don’t care what her dad says, she’s cheering.

She’s part mine. I get a vote!   

Rachelle. My Sister. How do I love thee?

As we speak, she and I are sending crazy text messages and posting back and forth on Facebook at the same time. Saying mushy crap in such a way that, if you were listening in, you wouldn’t be able to tell if we were serious or not.

Sometimes, I need a young, vibrant, ornery young woman to BS with at 11:30 at night on a Thursday. Who better than my sister? She understands a part of me that not many people do. And she doesn’t have kids.

BONUS!

Will she one day? Yes. Do I think she’ll make a fantastic mother? Yes. Do I think that’ll happen anytime in the close future? Uh, Negative. She’s got my babies in her life and she’s Gooood. I mean that. She’s the best Auntie in the world. She loves them so hard and so fierce.

On Sunday, after being in the car for 11 hours on a trip back from Las Vegas. A trip that she made after a weekend of doing God knows what with God knows whom. She was probably exhausted and a little hung over. She sent me a text from 10 minutes away asking if Logan was awake. She said she missed him and needed to see him. It was 10:00 at night. (Yeah, he was awake. Sue me. It’s summer. I’m the boss of this house) She’s an amazing Auntie. Sometimes, I think she loves my boys almost as much as I do. Her bonus is that she only gets the fun stuff. The stuff I love and ADORE about my children. The kisses and the inside jokes and the booty shaking. The way they manipulate her in such a way that even with full knowledge of what they’re doing, she can’t be mad. She doesn’t know how. She can’t get irritated. She just laughs and gives it to them. They way that I feel most of the time, when I’m not maybe, you know, a little bit tired and a little bit annoyed.

I love the kind of Auntie she is. I love that I have her at this point in my life, in my children’s lives. She doesn’t get out of bed until Noon. At least. She gets a Venti White Mocha and then eventually makes her way to my house. She gets in the floor and on the swings and in the pool. She makes them laugh and herself laugh so hard that it makes me laugh. It gives me a chance to breath. I sit, quietly, and watch them play. Listen to them laugh. Watch the joy they are able to bring to one another without fear or responsibility or irritation. She reminds me on a constant basis how lucky I am to have the children I do. I know it sounds a little jaded. I can’t apologize about that. It’s the truth. Sometimes my boys wear me out. By noon, I’m tired. I’m stretched thin. I’m a mess. Most days, I still haven’t showered. And then here comes my baby sister, saving the day.   

No matter what’s going on in my life, she listens and reacts. If I’m sad, she’s sad. If I’m excited, she’s excited. If I’m on a mission to cut someone’s tires because they’ve pissed me off, she grabs a pocket knife. She’s always on my side. She’s always in my corner. We’ve never fought. We’re nine years apart. We’ve never had anything to fight about. We’re just enough alike that we understand one another yet just different enough to stay balanced and keep our mother from hanging herself.

She’s all the stuff I miss about being 21. She’s all the stuff I manage to hold on to. She’s the reason Hallmark makes so much money off of “I love my sister” greeting cards. She’s the reason I think it’s socially acceptable to call another woman a hooker and mean it in the best way possible. She’s the one who lets me drive her around at night and listen to Lady Gaga. She’s the one who will go to Taco Bell with me at 2 am. She’s the one I call when I need someone with nothing else to do but talk about stupid crap in the middle of the night.

Is she perfect? Oh, God no. If she were I wouldn’t like her nearly as much.

She’s hot tempered and easily distracted. She’s got the mouth of a sailor and the patience of a two year old. She changes her mind about stuff 20 times a day. She throws tantrums and puts her foot in her mouth on a daily basis. She’s a little bit selfish and a little bit spoiled. She’s been telling me for weeks that she “Wants a freakin’ blog”.

She’s my baby sister.

And I love her like that.

It's not poetry, it's too much Alanis Morissette

It’s probably nice in the light of day

It’s probably sweet to sleep with the sun on your skin

It’s probably not giving you cancer

Hope you don’t get too much color

I’ll be here in the shade

It’s too bad the visiting hours are changing

It’s too bad the doctor is out for the night

It’s too bad I’m still addicted to the medication

Hope you enjoy your recovery and chips

I’ll be here with the monkey

I’m grateful we did Dresden and Munich

I’m grateful for another summer abroad

I’m grateful you took lots of pictures to remember

Hope the jetlag isn’t too rough

I’ll be here polishing souvenirs  

It was nice to pick up trash in dresses

It was nice to hear the piano man

It was nice to dance on the edge of glory

Hope the music still fills the background

I’ll be here with headphones on

It’s strange not calling the shots

It’s strange picking up the pieces

It’s strange being the one who is silenced

Hope you’ve taught me well enough

I’ll be here whispering quietly

Thank you for playing on my weaknesses

Thank you for pointing out my flaws

Thank you for letting me fictionalize my world awhile

Hope you enjoy your ribbon

I’ll be here trying to learn the lesson

I’m glad I could put a bandage on your wound

I’m glad I could be adored for the pieces you choose to remember

I’m glad I could pretend to save you from drowning

Hope you didn’t get too much water in your nose

I’ll be here practicing CPR

It’s good I could keep you company in your misery

It’s good you’re healthy for real, this time

It’s good you won’t be lonely anymore

Hope you had a nice trip down memory lane

I’ll be here

Sometimes, I write short stories instead.

Why?
Because it's fun. My Blog. My Rules.
Here's one.

~~~

Curls 

Heather’s hair is naturally curly. The kind of curls she doesn’t have to fight for. They effortlessly frame the baby fat left on her face. No halo of frizz, all perfectly spiraled and light. I watch her get ready sometimes, sitting in the bathroom floor, picking at my toenail polish. I tell her about last night’s episode of Blossom or how I have a crush on Mr. Basil. I tell her how I hate Danielle Fleming for getting to date Colby Bright and how I know, for sure, he would like me better if he would just figure out I exist. How Colby and I both love Green Day and The Offspring and how Danielle Fleming probably only listens to stupid music like Ace of Base.

She stares at the mirror and shakes her head and flips it over and scrunches. She owns a pick. She is the only one I know who owns a pick. My mom and I use paddle brushes. She knows it’s better for her curls if she doesn’t use a blow-dryer, if she just lets them fall naturally. Towel dried and setting themselves without any help. She says the blow-dryer makes her feel like everyone else and she likes the sound it makes when it ticks itself cool. Her mother bought her a diffuser so at least she won’t ruin her curls all together.

Last summer, she talked her mother into letting her get a perm. She begged and cried and stomped until her mother was finally defeated by the ridiculous request. She smelled like chemicals for days and days and couldn’t go swimming with me. She sat on the side of the pool, her feet kicking the water, watching me do flips and handstands. Sweat beading up around her temples and the back of her neck. The perm made her curls look exactly the same.

She likes to stay the night at my apartment before dance competitions. My mom sets my hair in sponge rollers, tugging and spraying and winding each one individually until my head hurts and my eyes are tight. Heather clicks an empty pink sponge with her thumb, open and closed, open and closed, until my mom needs it. Before we put a bandana around the sponges, Heather reaches out and touches them and tells me how she’s jealous because my curls will wash out tomorrow afternoon.

We talk about boys. She likes to talk to my mom about boys. My mom doesn’t think boys are a big deal. Heather can’t talk to her own mother about boys, but my mom laughs and giggles and understands. She doesn’t use scary words like pregnant or dangerous. My mom only uses words that sound like kissing and twitterpated and knows to be excited when Heather tells her about Mike Rich reaching over and holding her hand.

Once, we heard the word orgasm and didn’t know what it meant. My mom told us it was like the part in her supermarket paperbacks where things get really, really good. She told us it would probably be best to learn about them on our own for awhile before we tried to learn about them with boys. She says boys are different and they don’t always understand. You have to figure out who you are, she tells us, before you can teach someone else.

Heather and I wear the same size but we don’t borrow each others clothes. Mine are made up of plain cotton and denim and hers flow and pop with patterns and textures and layers. She never wears the same outfit twice in a month. She has a clipboard hanging on her closet door and before she goes to bed at night, she assembles an outfit and writes it down in pink and purple ink. Shoes and headbands and bracelets and earrings. Her closet smells like name brand fabric softener and her hangers are all padded and scented like rose petals. Left to right, light to dark, all the same distance apart. My hangers are plastic, multi-colored, and the empty ones stick out and point themselves in different directions. My closet smells mostly like color safe bleach and the sandalwood that drifts down the hallway. I don’t have a clipboard. My closet doors are covered in song lyrics and snapshots and quotes I write in black Sharpie.

When we spend the night in Heather’s room, we paint our fingernails pink with sparkles. When we spend the night in my room, we listen to music and talk to boys on the phone and lie on our backs putting foot prints on my wall. If Heather’s room is messy, her mother yells. If my room is messy, my mom just closes the door.

In the mornings, while we walk to school, she tells me about the names she likes for her future children. Taylor or Morgan for girls. Tyler and Benjamin for boys. I tell her I’m not having kids but when I get a dog, I’m naming him Lloyd Christmas. He’s going to be a Saint Bernard and sleep on the other side of my big, big bed. She doesn’t live in an apartment so she already has a dog. A poodle. Her name is Claire and her mother takes her to get her toenails clipped.  

In math, I copy the answers from her. In English, she makes me re-write her essays. We’re both fine in science. We spend most of that class talking about Mr. Basil. She thinks Mr. Basil is old. I think he’s not. His wife is ugly, though, and the picture he has on his desk makes her look fatter than she is. I like the picture.

In P.E., we jog slowly behind everyone else so we can talk about Colby Bright and Mike Rich without being overheard. Sometimes, we talk about Danielle Fleming, too, but not as much. I hate her but Heather doesn’t want her to know that. I probably don’t either. She always smiles at me and once, she let me borrow her extra set of running shoes when I forgot mine at home.

Tonight, I’m sleeping at Heather’s. My mom is out of town with her new boyfriend. Her mother cooks us dinner on the stove and her father drinks milk from a frosted mug. They all close their eyes and say grace. I just close my eyes.

We’re supposed to go to a party tomorrow for Mike Rich’s birthday. She asks me what to wear. I tell her to wear the outfit she wore to that midnight bowling thing last month. I tell her it makes her boobs look bigger. She looks at me like I’m stupid. I look at her like she is, too. We both laugh and she says she’ll just ask her mother to buy her something new.

When we lay down to go to sleep, I have to throw pillows on the ground. There are always too many pillows on Heather’s bed. We’re both wearing old dance competition t-shirts. I beg her to turn on her clock radio so I can sleep to music and she tells me if her mother gets mad, it’s my fault. I’m okay with that. Her mother won’t actually yell at me. Her hair is piled on top of her head but there are curls springing out everywhere. They smell like strawberries. I reach over and tug on one and I tell her how I’m jealous because hers won’t wash out tomorrow afternoon.   

Ah, Jeremy. My Husband.

When Jeremy and I had our first big fight, I ran to my friend Lauren’s house. I cried and smoked cigarettes and called my mom. She was heartbroken for me. She was heartbroken for herself. She told me how she hated the lesson I had learned from her about relationships was, When things get rough, run.

I hated it too.

It wasn’t the only lesson I had learned from her, but it was one of them. Up until that point, it was all I had ever done. And I had sabotaged every relationship I ever had by running. Granted, I was a baby, barely 21, but relationships before 21 and relationships after 21 aren’t really that different. In fact, the ones when I was young were important. Those were the ones I needed to show me what love could feel like before it got steady. Before I learned to navigate fear and made my way to committed. Before I learned how not to run.

I cried and smoked some more and talked Lauren to death. Then, like I always do, I called Jeremy. We discussed things, in regular English. We talked and cried and yelled and talked and cried some more. We got through, got to the other side. The committed side. The beautiful side. The really, really good side of what relationships past 21 look like.

I asked him, “Can I come home now?”

He said, “I never asked you to leave.”

Ah, Jeremy.

My Husband.

He’s never asked me to leave, not once in all these years. He’s never said it loud or quietly. He’s never sent subliminal messages. He’s never pushed me away. He’s loved me so steady from the very beginning and it’s never scared him. He’s never had more important things to do. Oats to sow. Questions to answer. He never put me on the back burner to find himself first. He’s never doubted it. One day, after only a few weeks of dating, he introduced me as his girlfriend and that was it. He never thought about it again. Not once. That means something.

It means a lot of something.

We instantly and seamlessly fell in love. It was not the stuff regular fairytales are made of, but it was one to us. Not the stuff Nicholas Sparks’ books or Eminem’s love songs are written about. No questions. No turmoil, no confusion, no over thinking. He entered my life at a time where I had been let down and disappointed and neglected. He immediately made me feel safe, secure, wanted, adored.

He still does.  

I never had no one
I could count on
I've been let down so many times
I was tired of hurtin'
So tired of searchin'
'Til you walked into my life
It was a feelin'
I'd never known
And for the first time
I didn't feel alone

 

It was the most natural thing in the world to us, even though once or twice I pretended like I was going to run.

Blame my mother. I do.

I was never really going anywhere, I just get dramatic sometimes. He loves me anyway.

It has always been the kind that I knew was going to last 50 plus years. The kind that when you asked my grandma “How have you and grandpa been married so long?” Her answer was, “We just don’t get a divorce.”

Smart woman, my grandma.

Did she get aggravated? SURE! My grandpa was a pain in the butt. He was grouchy and bossy and always pronounced her name “’Viirra” instead of Elvira. He used to come down the hall in his underwear and yell at us to turn the TV off and go to bed. Of course she got aggravated. My grandparents had 11 kids. 11 KIDS!! She probably walked around in a constant state of aggravation. My grandma was a wonderful, feisty, funny, smart woman, but a saint she was not. She used to make fun of him when she thought he couldn’t see. It always cracked me up. When she wasn’t looking, he would often aim these googly eyes at her across the room and you could literally feel how much he loved her. He always held her hand. Always.

Do I get aggravated? SURE! My husband can be down right infuriating. He leaves newspapers EVERYWHERE. He still hasn’t finished the fort in the backyard. He falls asleep watching TV. He falls asleep eating dinner. He falls asleep when I’m having conversations with him. (So what if its one o’clock in the morning? That's when I feel like talking!) He always lets me have the first cup of coffee. He always kisses me goodnight. He tells me he loves me every. single. day.  He laughs at Cougar Town, pretends to be interested in Grey’s Anatomy and touches my butt every chance he gets. He talks about the game of football like he wants to see it naked. He talks about me like he wants to see me naked. He always looks stoned in pictures.

When I change my hair color, he notices. When I’ve spent all day cleaning the house, he notices and says thank you. When I’m still in my pajamas when he gets home from work and I haven’t done a single thing, he kisses me and asks me if I need a nap. When I need to write, he lets me. When I decide I want to take a cross-country road trip, he starts helping me dream about it. He looks at maps and figures out mileage. When I tell him I’m going back to school, he says “whatever you want, babe”. When I tell him I don’t want to go to school anymore, he says, “whatever you want, babe”.  He never calls in sick. He rarely complains about anything. He works on my car and sings the lyrics to most songs incorrectly. He is happiest when I am happiest. He always holds my hand. Always.    

Sometimes, I don’t understand steady. I. Am. Not. Steady. I don’t know how his brain works and how he never questions me. I’m nuts. I’m impossible. I’m selfish and self-centered and exhausting and I question everything. All the time. I’m never satisfied with an answer for very long.  I change my mind about which direction I’m taking my life every five minutes and he comes along for the ride. I’ve made his life a wooden, crackly roller-coaster and he puts his hands up in the air and pretends to be excited with every turn. I’m inconsistent and sometimes, kinda mean. He loves me anyway. He loves me so steady. He knows me better than I give him credit for. I like to pretend that I’m way complicated and mysterious. I’m really not. He knows that. He does joke, though, about not being able to get in my head because there are already too many people up there. He’s pretty funny, my husband.  

You stand by me
And you believe in me
Like nobody ever has
When my world goes crazy
You're right there to save me
You make me see how much I have

I wanted to get married in Vegas. I wanted to elope and ditch the whole wedding scene. I wanted to wear a trashy dress and fishnet stockings. I was anxious about all my family being in the same room. He knew that, but he told me no. He said, “Over the next few years, all your friends are going to get married and every time we go to a wedding, I don’t want to hear you say, ‘I wish we would have had a nice wedding, too’. So, no. We’re having a wedding. Like it or not.”

He was right, and our wedding was perfect.   

When I ask him why he loves me he says, “I just do.” He’s not much for a monologue. That’s okay. I talk enough for the both of us.

And I don't know where I'd be
Without you here with me
Life with you makes perfect sense
You're my best friend

I did, once, get him to give me a list of reasons why he loved me. He would kill me if I shared the whole thing but just know it contained phrases like: Groggy morning face, pajama pants & animal slippers, I LOVE YOU FOR YOU and Your smile, frown and Yahtzee cheer.

Followed by “…reasons I know without a shadow of a doubt that we WILL celebrate our 50^th anniversary together.  I already started planning it.”  

Good to know, babe. I’ll be there. But let’s renew our vows in Vegas, huh? It’s my turn. I’ll be the one down front in the trashed up wedding dress and fishnet stockings…     

On Writing.

When I came to writing to cry about my relationship with my dad, the relationship became peaceful. When I came to writing to talk about my screaming kid, his screaming became endearing. Someone even called my letter to Brodie upbeat. It ended that way, sure, but I was not upbeat when I started writing. I was super serious about sticking him in Pops’ studio. I could hear my husband telling my sons in the other room, “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll leave your mother alone and let her write.”

Smart man, that husband of mine.     

Writing is my friend. It doesn’t get busy. It doesn’t have kids or a fiancé. I can’t wear out my welcome here or go straight to voicemail. It doesn’t pass judgment, lets me figure stuff out on my own and by God if it doesn’t have the answers, it helps me look for them.

Subtly as possible, it suggests what I’m worried (scared, irritated, nervous, whatever) about might just be a style issue. Maybe I should just rearrange the paragraphs.

I like friends like that.

I’m starting to think self-discovery might happen when I don’t know I’m looking for it. It might even be the stuff I find when looking for something else entirely. I’m sure someone else has said that already. It doesn’t matter. This is my brand of writing. There really are no new ideas.

~~

The first CD I ever owned was The Bodyguard Soundtrack. Does, I will always love you, ring a bell? Yeah, well, it was a cover. Dolly Parton recorded it in 1974. 18 years before Whitney Houston rocked my world with it. Now, I adore Dolly Parton, but I didn’t really fall in love with her until The White Stripes covered and released Jolene in 2004.

I love Lady Gaga. Like, love, love. That didn’t happen until I was introduced to her by a still unknown Haley Reinhart on American Idol singing You and I before it was even released. Until I heard a piano only duet of Poker Face on Glee.

Kurt Hummel introduced me to Barbra Streisand. The Dixie Chicks introduced me to Fleetwood Mac. Motherhood introduced me to Megan. My 5^th grade teacher, Mrs. Brandon, introduced me to writing.

Writing is introducing me to, me.   

See how that works?       

I was accidentally encouraged by a book called Armageddon in Retrospect recently. It was written by Kurt Vonnegut. It was published after his death. The introduction was written by his son, Mark, also a writer.

Mark said of his dad,

“Writing was a spiritual exercise for my father, the only thing he really believed in. He wanted to get things right but never thought that his writing was going to have much effect on the course of things…Anyone who wrote or tried to write was special to Kurt. And he wanted to help…The most radical, audacious thing to think is that there might be some point to working hard and thinking hard and reading hard and writing hard and trying to be of service…He was a writer who believed in the magic of the process—both what it did for him and what it could do for the readers.”

Mr. Vonnegut is one of my friends and mentors now, but only because I first fell in love with the version his son wanted me to know. His son’s cover.

I was written about recently. Being written about by someone else was a gigantic boost for my ego, but not in the way you might imagine. Please don’t misunderstand me, the accolades are nice. Especially because Megan, part of my collective muse, and my brother, Austin, picked some of my rawer, non-generic characteristics to sing praises about. I’m glad they didn’t have to wait until I was dead. It makes me feel I might be doing something right. It’s nice to receive a compliment for doing something you didn’t think was a big deal, a “thanks for being you”. I’ll be honest, feeling that way is amazing! But I’m writing this because Megan makes me want to talk. Because Austin told me “You’ve inspired me to write.” That means something. It means a lot of something.

Especially because their writing is really, really good.

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I feel better when I’m not telling someone what to do. Oh, don’t mistake me, I tell people what to do all of the time. I’m a woman, wife, mom, big sister, friend. I might even be telling you what to do right now. But I feel better about myself when I think I’ve accidentally encouraged them, instead. Encouraged them to do something they wanted to do anyway.

Lady Gaga wore a meat suit. A lot of people think she’s too weird. A lot more don’t. She’s an amazing song writer and I swear she stole some of those lyrics from me. Kurt Vonnegut wrote a book about, in part, aliens from another planet who laugh at the idea of free-will. About a man who becomes “Un-stuck” in time. It’s about as kooky as they come. I like kooky. It teaches you something, but in a crazy, weird way. I don’t want to wear a meat suit and I don’t think I want to write about aliens. That’s not the point. The point is they accidentally encouraged me by being just brainy enough and just ballsy enough to become pretty great versions of the people they already were.

So, here’s the lesson I’m learning today.

Ready?

WRITE.

Crazy people don’t sit around and wonder if they’re crazy, but usually writers sit around and wonder if they’re writers. Some of the really, really good ones, in fact. There are lots of quotes about it. I looked them up. Writers love to hear the sound of their own voices. When I get unsure about loving the sound of my own voice or wonder if I’m really  a writer. When I get a little scared…fine, a lot scared, I’m learning to rearrange the paragraphs. Even though I met writing in the 5^th grade and we’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship for years, there is still so much to learn. And somehow, it feels exactly the same.

I listened to Barbra Streisand and Kurt Hummel sing, As if we never said goodbye, today and I’m pretty sure it changed my life. Barbra Streisand is deathly afraid of being on stage. But, when she’s up there…

oh. my. god.

P.S. If you know my friend, writing, and wonder if it’s time to get back in contact. You’re probably right. Make sure you mention that Krysten says Hi. And Thank You.