“Typos are very important to all written form. It gives the reader something to look for so they aren’t distracted by the total lack of content in your writing.”
–Randy K. Milholland
Tpyos bother me, mostly when wen they're my own mistake, not anyone else's although I do notice them in porfessional settings, such as formal publications online in a book an email form someone important
I take a second look how did it make it past editors? did anyone proofread?
I'm the type who usually proofreads most days including fly by the seat of my pints text messages and yes, I resend revised messages
auto-correct I HATE it! Fixes words that didn't need fixing and changes the enteir meaning is there a name for that?
If you were to have a superpower, what would it be?
I like to think flying, teleportation, or the ability to predict the future might top my list, but no. The ability to go a whole day of teaching without going to the bathroom might top my list. I think most educators have that one built in, so there’s no need to wish for it. I think about weaknesses that come with superpowers and the downside to having something special so I can’t ever answer this question because I take it way too seriously.
However, I do have a superpower.
I can smell weird things. Weird things other people can’t smell. When I was expecting my first kiddo, I smelled cow manure. My husband and I were driving on the highway and I smelled it. Odd though, there aren’t many cattle trucks around here. Sure enough, a few minutes later, we passed one. I smelled it from about a mile away.
Last week I kept getting a whiff of some grandma smelling perfume. At work. I checked my desk. Is it my lotion? Everything I use is unscented. What could it be? Valentine’s Day flowers are long gone. Did a student leave something? I forgot about it until I sat at my desk this morning.
“Do you wear perfume?” I ask work bestie.
“No, the scent gives me headaches. I haven’t worn it in years.”
“Same,” I agree. “But don’t you smell something perfume-y? Like old perfume? Grandma perfume from when we were kids?”
She comes over to my desk and starts sniffing. “Is it your lotion?” she asks.
“No, it’s unscented, but it does have a cosmetic type smell. Wilhelmina, stop messing with me,” I announce.
“Wilhelmina?”
“Yeah, my class ghost, remember?”
We both start sniffing, like those cartoon hound dogs that put their noses across every surface, going up and down every object on and around my desk. The computer monitor and keyboard. The drawers, open and closed. A stack of papers. Dog man book marks still sealed in the packages. I reach for the ones in the acrylic holder and sniff. Nope.
Sniff, sniff, whiff, sniff…
A stack of books. Maybe it’s a book? One by one, she goes through a stack I’m working on, opening them and moving them to the counter as she eliminates each suspect.
“Aha! This one smells funny. It smells like powder. Is it this that you’re smelling?”
I take a whiff…BINGO!
Never suspecting the book, it never occurred to me to sniff through the stack. I move it to the cart of new nonfiction books, far away from me.
It may take a little longer to nail the culprit, but I’ve still got it.
For the third week, I meant to remove nail color and re-do my pedi. DIY. I don’t have time to mess with appointments. Too many touch-ups to count because late at night, I’m in no mood to inhale sharp nail polish remover fumes before turning in for restless slumber.
This morning, I have to do something. Taking it all off means I have to wear close-toed shoes. It’s a deep shade of red and there will certainly be residual color stains. We’re still at near ninety degree temps, so I’m wearing sandals. Touching up the chipped off parts means uneven color, most of which is now on the sixth (seventh?) coat. From a distance, some color is better than none. Touch-up it is.
I have an hour commute to a meeting downtown. It’s been years since I’ve driven this direction in rush-hour traffic. If you would’ve told twenty year old me how urban sprawl would choke up everything around it, she would’ve laughed it off and said, “Nah, not here!”
I easily slip into a parking space, not bad for being half an hour late. The opening keynote speaker discusses stories. Making connections with people by telling stories is key. It’s Tuesday. I’m reminded to write something tonight. What story will I tell today? The one about why I chose this career? What about my first experience at a library? You already wrote about that. Did I? Telling stories means we become vulnerable. Am I ready to write about a tough conversation I had this weekend? No. Not that. Not yet.
I fuss at myself for not making myself write regularly despite my need for it. Stuck. Blocked. Frozen. Too many unimportant but urgent things needing to get done. But writing is important.
Our closing keynote speaker asks us to discuss the difference between belonging and dignity. That weekend conversation smacks me with meaning. My sisters and I have entered into a space where we’re balancing both, inching our way through whatever happens.
View from 6th floor-Austin Public Library
It’s a warm, beautiful afternoon. From the sixth floor terrace, I see what once was not visible from the ground. Twenty years ago, the space where I now stand was only air. Buildings seem to have appeared overnight.
I’m glad I wore sandals today. My multi-layered pedi looks fresh. I’ve Got the Blues for the Red. It’s a deep, fall inspired shade of red. I’d call it Glass of Merlot. They go together, the blues and merlot. Stories and vulnerability. Belonging and dignity.
I swore I’d never bring it to bed, but here I am, curled up with it balancing on my right thigh, curling up as well as one can curl up with…a laptop.
I also swore I’d never let the dog on my bed either, but a few weeks ago, I had one of those leave work early because the room is spinning, the light hurts, things smell funny, and I need a nap type of migraines where said pupper jumped right up and helped himself. He wouldn’t budge so I let him be, curled up at my feet. There are exceptions to rules. I didn’t bother to fight either one.
The dog hasn’t jumped on my bed since that migraine ridden afternoon. It’s late and I’ve been post-less for too many Tuesdays. Make an exception, draft something, and move on. Get back on track. No one cares I’m in bed with the laptop, except for the dog.
Where did the day go? It’s book fair week at work, so kids have been coming in and out buying posters, gummy bear-topped mechanical pencils, spy pens, everything but books. Money is tucked away in the safe. A short drive home feels endless. Pups greet me and so does a Taco Tuesday dinner in progress.
Before I have time to talk my way out of it, I change into workout gear and head off the Y for Body Pump. I’ve been going for years, three times a week, but once the pandemic changed all of the schedules, it has been hard sticking to that schedule. How did I ever go consistently three times a week? And the kids were younger? I vow to get back on track. Officially, the pandemic was years ago, but it sometimes still feels like last week.
On the way back home, police lights flash ahead on the freeway. Why did I even get on? Should’ve noticed traffic slowing down. Rush hour should’ve tapered off by now. My exit is up ahead. That’s where the lights are flashing. Can’t do anything but wait. Inching closer, I get into the exit lane. Everyone is moving to the left except for a few people exiting. An officer clears flat styrofoam boards from the highway, chunks flying behind cars that got ahead of it. I exit, grateful no one was hurt in a wreck.
I eat reheated tacos alone. The amped up outdoor leaf blower buzzes annoyingly. On and on with the occasional dog bark. It’s an oversized hairdryer of sorts, styling the backyard, freeing it of leaves and oak pollen that became embedded between blades of grass. When will it stop? I put away leftovers, toss dog toys in between for some play time, and get the dishes clean.
How will I relax this evening? Lights are on in the backyard. Everyone, including the dogs have been fed. Game night? A bit of journaling? Slice! I need to slice. Maybe I should take the day off? I just finished a 31 day writing streak.
Don’t do it! That’s how good habits die. It starts with one day and snowballs from there.
My laptop is open and I look through thirty three draft titles. As I mull around ideas, Dreams, by The Cranberries plays from the bedroom. Getting up, I retrieve my phone before my husband groans in complaint.
I haven’t even had time to relax! Or write.
An alarm is set on my phone for 8:30 p.m. I named it STOP ALL OF THE THINGS! It’s time to wind down. Get into pjs. In my current gym sweat state, it’s a shower first. Take out my contacts. Wash off makeup. Get the dogs outside one more time. Put them away. Make sure teen is ready for tomorrow morning…and I haven’t sliced yet.
It’s easier to skip it, but I don’t want a good habit to die. It counts as winding down.
There’s a pie baking in the oven. Nothing fancy. Not even homemade. It’s a frozen Marie Callender’s Razzleberry pie, a family favorite. Hubster planned on baking an apple pie for Easter Sunday dessert.
Are you set on apple pie or are you open to suggestions? Are you making it or buying it? I sent him a message yesterday while he shopped for today’s lunch. E and his roommate are joining us. I holler at S. to ask to get her opinion.
“Umm, isn’t that more of a fall dessert? I will not eat it. Ask him to do something with berries. Berries are good right now, apples, not so much. But I’ll eat ice cream.”
Coconut cream, he replies.
Okay. Not arguing. She won’t eat that either, but most of us will.
We have lunch and make our way to take pictures in the bluebonnets. Some families are good about taking pictures in them every year. We like the idea of traditions, but sometimes we can’t keep up. Like the one year the rattlesnakes were bad and I didn’t want to chance it. Other years, they weren’t as showy. Then 2020, when bluebonnet pictures were the last thing on people’s minds for fear of getting sick. We skipped them. Not in the mood. Attended Easter service online. One year, the Texas Snowpocalypse ruined them. Followed by another freeze. Then one of those, we’ll get to it, we’ll get to it, but we never got to it.
In the meantime, the kids have grown. E has his own apartment. S. is in high school. It’s been a while. Was it actually ten years? Really? I look at social media posts and I think it’s correct. Wow. Ten years of putting it off.
We had lunch and headed out. It’s the sweet spot of the season. They’re popping and in a week or so they’ll go to seed. There will be some places where they’ll last a little longer, but soon they will make way for other flowers to have their turn. There’s no sense in driving out to find the perfect place when there are plenty nearby. We take our Chihuahua mix, Reeses, and Dipper, our newest addition.
Family pictures are hard enough. Add two dogs, one being five months old, along with zooming cars on the highway, and we remember why it was such a chore. We got a few good shots with many bad ones, but that’s where the fun lives. The outtakes of those bad photos are where memories seared themselves into our souls.
The pie is cooling. If we cut into it too soon, the filling oozes out. We can wait though. The kids took the dogs to a dog park and just returned. My Polaroid camera sits next to my laptop. I have 5 pictures left to take. One came out over-exposed, but E. is keeping it anyway. That’s how pictures turned out back in the day. You’d take what you could get, saving film for important moments, we explain. Special moments. Memory making moments.
Taking time to document days like this, in picture-words, brings life to seemingly mundane days. It’s in the mundane where life happens. In the ordinary where we experience the extraordinary. We take slices out of our lives and savor them. Some days, we slice right in. Others, we need to wait, that’s what makes it good.
I like pie! I hear E. announce as a seven year old. We pick up where we leave off. Go back to the bluebonnets to take pictures. Pick up those moments we somehow allowed to escape us, bringing the pieces back together.
There is pie with ice cream, ready to eat. And a new set of bluebonnet pictures, documenting the changes in between.
“Taking time to appreciate three beautiful moments in your day instead of one can be extremely meaningful. In my mom’s famous words, let’s make the most of our time here.“
Paris Rosenthal
You know how algebra includes letters with numbers? (I was never good at algebra.) These equations require words. The idea comes from Paris Rosenthal’s book, Project 1. 2. 3. A Daily Creativity Journal for Expressing Yourself in Lists of Three. Write a list of three, prompts are provided, every day. It was a project she continued resulting from her late mother’s work, children’s author Amy Krouse Rosenthal. She posted her list at 1:23 p.m. every day and began the project on 12/3. Her intention was to post for 123 days, but due to her illness, she stopped on day 61.
Like all other things requiring daily discipline to maintain, I faltered and only completed a few pages. Picking up the book for inspiration this afternoon, I took a look at previous entires (I got the book in 2019) and found this one titled Creative Calculations with the following:
__________x__________ = __________
__________+__________ = __________
__________–__________ = __________
My responses on 11/7/19
ideas x solitude = creativity
pen + journal= story
reading – social media = ideas
Today’s responses:
stories + Spotify = podcast
shopping x teen – money = thrifting
(observation + blog) x (community + comments) = SOL
I don’t know if I’ll continue to go through the book every day. I most certainly won’t have my list completed by 1:23 p.m. because I’ll be bogged down with a million other things at that time. I can toss it in my bag. If I get to it, fine, if not, the world moves on. However, I plan to pop in and use it as needed. At the bottom of each page, there’s space to document the date, which my brain likes for keeping track.
Thank you, Amy Krouse Rosenthal and Paris, for brining this project to life, and helping us focus on gratitude and creativity with simple lists of three.
I joined my local Buy Nothing group several years ago. The official group changed some, so now it’s my community gifting group. The idea is the same. When posting a gift, it’s best to explain why you need it or how you plan to use it. People get creative on selecting a recipient. Some people use number generators, name generators, tell a story regarding the item up for grabs and someone in the family chooses, the possibilities are endless.
Over the years, I have received the following:
Press on nails for my teen with a Mary Kay lotion thrown in because the other person never picked it up
A new roll of upholstery fabric, beige with green flowers, for our kitchen chairs
Wandering jew clippings that looked like they wouldn’t make it, but are doing well
An original painting by a non-famous artist that teen daughter snatched from me for her her bedroom but was supposed to go in my craft room
A Frida Kahlo print–the one one with monkeys–for the same craft room because she’s my spirit artist
Eight pound dumbbells because five pounders aren’t heavy enough
Fresh thyme to make thyme-infused simple syrup for my Thanksgiving cocktail
Fredrik Backman’s A Man Called Ove, because this was a rare for me case of having watched both movies before reading the book and that’s one I haven’t read yet
Two new chew toys because the puppy didn’t have any and we just got into town from picking him up
Calligraphy set consisting of a quill with a jar of ink because not only am I a Potter Head, but I’m also a librarian and enjoy writing
A WORKING PORTABLE VINTAGE TYPEWRITER because I’m a writer, learned to type on a typewriter, I need it in my life, and I can also use it to teach lessons at my school library
I like to think my writing skills have helped me receive these items. I have actually used each gift and appreciate them. The book is on my TBR pile, but you know, TBRs are works in progress.
I have also gifted items: a shadow box style end table for a baby’s room, girl’s rain boots with white daisies, Spider-Man sleeping bag, cardboard egg cartons fresh from the recycling bin, a tie-dyed backpack, Easy Bake Oven-only used twice, new black steel-toed work shoes, bag of women’s clothes, bags of kids’ clothes, bedding, fluorescent light bulbs, a sparkly mermaid fish tail blanket, other items I can’t remember.
They say it’s better to give than to receive, but in this case, I think it’s both.
There was a hole in the boxspring under my twin-sized mattress.
A king-sized bed sat across from mine, resting against the wall. When will this house be finished so I can have my own room? No privacy whatsoever. My younger sisters shared the larger bed. I was lucky to have my own, the perks of being a first-born.
I picked at the hole a little every night. I don’t know why. If Mom were to see it, I’d probably get in trouble. She wouldn’t know because as long as I kept my bed made, changing my sheets every Saturday morning, she’d never see it. No one but me knew it was there. A little private secret kept to myself.
Eventually, the hole became large enough, but not too large, for me to drop small things into it. But could I take them out? I’d have to place them carefully. Deciding not try my jewelry, I chose something useless. A pencil.
I left a pencil near my bed one night to test out the treasure chest of sorts. This is nothing like the movies. Why can’t I have a normal house with my own room and a loose floorboard where I can hide things? (I watched too many movies, read too many books.). Lights out, I waited until I knew the other two were asleep. They conked out right away. Sleep has always eluded me.
I pat around for the pencil. Finding the hole, I slip it in, holding it between my thumb and forefinger. I tap it up and down. Move it side to side.
Flip.
I lost my grip.
Gasp!
It’s just a pencil. I’m relieved it wasn’t my good pen. How do I take it out though? Feeling for the hole, which was smaller than my hand, I popped in my forefinger. Even though the middle finger is longer, I may be able to grip it somehow. Sure enough, it dropped straight down to the boxspring lining. Dragging it toward the side rail, I carefully pulled it up and my thumb soon entered the rescue mission. Grasping the pencil, I pulled it straight out. A buzz-less game of Operation–I was good at that game.
Success!
I hid a pencil for a few minutes, until I almost panicked about losing it. You don’t even like pencils!
My mind got busy dreaming up what I’d hide there: my favorite Teen Beat posters, so my sisters wouldn’t claim them and put them up on their side of the room. Piles of 80s style folded notes (is there even a name for those? Umm, yeah, folded notes, IYKYK). Neon colored jelly bracelets I hated sharing. The possibilities were endless…
Yeah, until there’s too much in there that you can’t take any of it out. Then the liner starts sagging and tears, dumping everything under the bed. That’s the first place they look for stuff.
Eventually, the hole grew enough form me to slip in various items without much effort.
And then there was my black spiral. It lived under piles of other school spirals and books and gossip-less folded notes, Seventeen and YM magazines, graded papers. I hid it well. That’s where my secrets lived. In that spiral, I wrote thoughts I dared not to share.
I tried those little diaries with locks and tiny keys that always got lost only to find out you can poke anything into the dumb little lock to open it. And there was a teensy amount of space for each day. Even my boring life needed more than five little lines. Those teen crushes were real, more than five lines real.
After some writing, I placed my spiral near the top of my stack. At night, I’d maneuver the relocation. Lights out. Wait. Slumber in the king sized bed. I rolled up my spiral into a tube and slipped it in.
Gasp!
It slipped in, but how do I take it back out? Surely, it’s flattened back out.
It’s okay. I took out the pencil, I can take this out too. In went my hand. Managing to roll it up, I pulled it out.
Success!
I tried it a few more times and left it there. To keep it safe, it wouldn’t have companions. Grinning to myself and knowing my thoughts were safe, I closed my eyes and sleep found me.
Nerds Beget Nerds 