Share a Spoon: Corn Chowder!

Oh my goodness. It's fall. I mean, when you read this it will have already been fall on the calendar for like a week or so. And it's hot and humid and sticky. But last week it was not. Last week it was rainy and cool and totally fall-like.

So I made soup. Not just any soup. My mother-in-law's corn chowder. And if you know me, this is way more than my typical lazy-mom self likes to do. But guess what? It was SO easy!!!

I have had a recipe for this jotted down for years. Yes. You read me right. YEARS. And I was afraid to try it. It was always so good, really GOOD when she made it. I was afraid I'd frig it up.

But guess what? I totally didn't! I rocked it. And you will, too. I promise!

Good Girl Gone Redneck's Mother-In-Law's Corn Chowder

- 4 med potatoes/I used 6-8 small red bliss (peeled and cubed)
- 1 can corn niblets (drained)
- 1 can creamed corn
- 1 can evaporated milk
- 1 can water (I used 1 can of chicken broth)

*optional ingredients that I decided to use:
- 1/2 bag frozen mixed veggies
- shredded roast chicken
- after serving you can add shredded parmesan cheese just to give it an extra kick

Combine ingredients and let simmer for hours. Would probably work very well in a crockpot, as well. SOOOO incredibly good.

Now, my MIL calls for a tbsp sugar, and you can do some salt/pepper to taste, but I skipped that part. She also sautees the potatoes in butter and cooks them before adding them to the soup, but I just let them cook in the pot after tossing them in raw.

And that's that. It's really simple, and I promise it's like the best corn chowder you'll ever taste in your life. Seriously. You could probably toss some bacon in there, if that's your gig. I might try it with turkey bacon next time, instead of the chicken. Yum.

So good luck. And stay warm. And, oh yeah, enjoy!

Friends You Love is back!

Hi, peeps! If you were around last year at this time, you may remember Friends You Love. And if you weren't, well, you need to head on out and check it out immediately.

Here ... click this button:



Go on, I'll wait.

There. Don't you feel good now? Don't you feel happy that you went to see? You must. I mean, all that talk about friendship? It's gotta rub off on you and make you smile. Without a doubt!

We've got a huge kickoff Twitter party happening on October 4th. You can read more about all of our upcoming events on our new and beautifully prettied up website and click here to RSVP today!

We'll have great conversation and incredible prizes, so you won't want to miss it.

And speaking of prizes, we're also having a fantastic contest where you get to sing the praises of YOUR BFF, and then possibly win a prize pack for you both! How amazing would that be? Yeah, I'm pretty jealous - as I'm unable to score that one. But I did write about my best friend last year, if you want to check out what we're looking for.

We'll also be doing weekly blog hops on Mondays with guest posters, a scavenger hung in the web world AND a twitter GALA (you read that right, get out your best party dress and steam clean that baby!) to round off our month of celebrating FRIENDSHIP!

Friends You Love ... it's all about friendship and love. And who couldn't use more of that in their life?

Naked Barbies, Pretzel Ice Cream and why Samuel L. Jackson needs to come to my house

I'm so tired. I'm freaking exhausted. My husband was away for work all last week and my daughter decided to use that as a perfect way to show that she was "sad" and she "missed Daddy" and she just would not go to sleep before midnight. I'm on the fast track to some melatonin here - and it may happen for real soon. And no, I don't mean for me. I already take it on occasion. As needed, and all.

And seriously, people. Will I ever learn to spell occasion on the first try? How hard is it? TWO Cs and then one S. Two first. One next. Sigh. One of these days.

So, today I hung out at Maggie Moos all day. Yep. An ice cream place. We did a fundraiser for the mom's group I volunteer with (read=find my sanity from. And some of my insanity, as well!) and I hung out from about 2-4:30 or so. And I only bought one cup of ice cream. That's pretty impressive for that long a window of time, no?

And yes, my friends. I know that now you're shifting your eyes up to the title of this post. Thinking to yourself - really? Pretzel ice cream? No. No way. What on earth? But yes. It IS real. And it was pretty good! Although I am regretting not adding a mix-in. I should have gone with those M&Ms I was eyeing. Instead I opted for a scoop of that and a scoop of Cinamoo. Any guesses what that one is made of? I did learn that if you call them at Maggie Moos and ask them to get your flavor ready, they'll do it for you. I see visions of gallons of Chai ice cream in my future. As that totally and absolutely rocks. R-O-C-K in the USA. Say what?

Ah, yes. You must be wondering about the whole naked Barbie thing. Yep. She's in that stage. My child. My 4-year-old. I bought her a few "Barbie" type dolls today at a consignment sale (total score that there was one in the BUILDING we play soccer in!) So I gave her one as a surprise when we got in the car. She loved it. Supposedly it was Alex from Wizards of Waverly Place ... go on ... join me now, you know you want to ...

Who says?
Who says you're not perfect?
Who says you're not worth it?
Who says you're the only one who ... something?
Who says, what's the use in crying ... something something something?
Whoooo Says?

Nanananananana! Lalalalalalalla!

Who says?

Yes, I like it. What of it? I am just hoping Selena doesn't go the way of Vanessa Hudgens and chop off all her hair as a rebellion of sorts while her ex-Zac becomes the available eye candy for women everywhere. Or something like that. Poor thing. She was so cute, too. Ah, well.

Now, where was I? Oh, right. Naked Barbies. The first thing this child wanted to do was take the doll's clothing off. I mean straight away. We avoided it until tonight when I got home, but I told her that this stuff was so fitted that I might not be able to help her get it back on poor miniature Selena. Which would not be good for our visit to NY in the future when she would get to connect with my niece's three or four Justin Bieber dolls. No, that wouldn't be pretty at all.

And lastly, if anyone sees Samuel L. Jackson while you're out and about, please ask him if he'd be willing to come to my house. I don't have a budget that I'm sure he is used to, but with fall approaching - or here just not here in NC here - I'm happy to make him some pumpkin muffins, or oatmeal, or coffee, or pretty much any recipe he finds on Pinterest as long as it's 5 ingredients or less. ANYTHING at all. As long as he can help me get my kid the f*ck to sleep.

Writer's Workshop: Where I'm From

I am from television shows before and after school, from onion snacks and pizza bagels bought at Kosher City. I am from always stealing the Doritos after my brother opened the bag.

I am from the warmth of a living room so full and inviting. The feel of plush carpet between your toes. The curve of the couch as the best place to fall asleep.

I am from the grass, the weeds and the caterpillars, the trees, the sky and the night. I am from the ice cream truck in the summertime. Freshly bathed and sitting on the porch while watching baseball while we waited.

I am from my father's whistle heard around the corner. From my mother playing Triominos with me whenever I stayed home sick from school.

I am from drives to New Jersey and stops to get fresh corn on the way and a father who rarely cried. I am from learning to float from a man named Bert while visiting my Nana in Florida. From listening to 8-tracks in the back of my Aunt's car. I am from Aaron and Golda and Pauline and Harry.

I am from the strength beyond words and endless support. With or without tears.

From potatoes growing in my brother's ears and my mother never using her real name when she had to return something.

I am from temple on the High Holy-days. Walking and never driving. From carrying my father's tallit bag home as we walked together. I am from picking apart Babka to break the fast, and fighting with my brother over the cherries.

I’m from Brooklyn, New York, Israel, Germany and Poland. From my father's matzo ball soup, noodle kugel and vegetable cutlets. And my mother's Jewish meatballs and sauce. Her chicken parmigiana and baked ziti. I'm from Chinese food on Friday nights. The diner on Saturdays and Italian on Sundays.

From the (U)SS Constitution sailing from Israel, docking in Italy, and finally making her way to the US of A. The life of a young boy on board a boat with his mother, sister and father. I am from the Grandfather I have never met.

I am from a family who sings. Often and loudly. And dances with abandon whenever we can. From dancing with my Aunt to the sounds of Rise in the living room. My childhood best friend by my side. I am from grass parties and looking up at the sky together. From Jack Wagner concerts and West Side Story. From sitting on my best friend's stoop every Fourth of July.

I am from old, frayed photo albums shelved under the TV in my parents' bedroom. From old home movies on the projector in the dining room, played up against the wall in the dark. I'm from those silent memories where grandparents played with children. Me. Holding me close or smiling proudly as I flipped across the old orange and black carpeting.

I am from love.

This post is in response to one of the prompts today at Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop. Check it out for yourself here and forgive me for whatever liberties I took with the template.

My Pinterest Post-It Notes!

You can find these and more fun thoughts on my The Importance of Words Pinterest board!

And link up today with Post-It Note Tuesday!

Loose Diamonds ~ Book Review

Loose Diamonds ... and other things I've lost (and found) along the way, was an easy read. It was a short book of under 200 pages, which is a nice change of pace for me now and then. Sometimes I'm honestly desperate for something that doesn't weigh me down - - in mind or body!

I will be honest and share that when I started the book it took me quite some time to warm up to Amy Ephron. I started off fidgety. I was working at it, but stayed unsure until around Chapter 6. Labor Day. It's not what you think. It's not the holiday. It's not about work. It's about becoming a mother. BEing a mother.

The first line of this chapter states: "There aren't that many things that are a rite of passage, truly a rite of passage." This chapter pulled me in.

She continued, talking about experiences in her life that were and were not such impacts for her. And then:

"But having a child is a rite of passage, a defining moment that puts you in a forever altered state -- motherhood and all the responsibilities that come along with it."

Fabulous. It's possibly (note: just possibly) worth reading the book just for this chapter.

She lost me again, as the story progressed. She shared more recollections of her life that just didn't capture me the way these lines did. I couldn't relate. She shared, but then she didn't share. I connected, but then I didn't. I was, I admit, a bit disappointed in the book overall, but maybe I read too much into the description ... the description of this read being "an engaging collection of essays and observations," that are "... insightful, profound, and just plain funny," were powerful and moving words, but just didn't mesh with the pages I had before me.

I can't say it's an absolute must read, but it certainly wasn't a book I couldn't finish, so where does that leave us? I suppose you'll have to decide for yourself.

** I was not compensated in any way for this post. I was provided with a copy of this book to facilitate my review. **

Bittersweet

Clara watched as the Rabbi walked up to the altar. Her heart beat heavy within her small frame. She swore the person sitting next to her could feel it. What was happening here? Was she so sure that she could ignore this? Or was she fooling herself?

He began to pray. She shut her eyes. Listened to his sweet voice. She was more sure now than ever before that it was him. That she knew this man, this voice. But what could she do about it?

She opened her eyes. Looked towards the front row. There sat a woman with a baby in her arms, and two small children by her side. He’s a father now. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He’s a father. She heard a small sob escape her lips. The gentleman beside her turned, offered her a hankie. She waved him away. Whispering, ‘No, thank you.’ The tears slid down her cheeks. She looked up at him again. Their eyes met. She felt a glimmer of recognition, she hoped? He continued to skim the crowd, his voice stronger with every word.

Clara left the synagogue. She was crushed. Not sure what she truly expected, but knowing what her heart had hoped. It had been years since she had seen Jacob. Years since she had returned to the place she had once called home. So much had happened, so much time had passed. Could he possibly not remember her?

She walked down the street, oblivious to the throngs of people brushing past her. To the rest of the city, it was yet another Saturday morning, but to her, it meant so much more.

This week's Write on Edge prompt requests we explore romantic heartbreak. This post is the first part of something that I have been working on in bits and pieces for a while now, on and off. I thought I'd take a time-out from my first story and introduce you all to someone new. I hope you enjoyed it. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

PPD Story + Mega Mom Support!

I'd like to introduce you to my friend Jodi. Jodi is sharing her PPD experience to help promote awareness and to help support a local organization, Moms Supporting Moms, a part of Postpartum Education and Support.

I had my breakdown a year ago next month. It was a Monday morning, still very clear in my mind, and I was 8 weeks postpartum with my second child. My son was sick, again, and I was crying so hard I could barely text my mom to have her come over immediately. I waited anxiously at the door with a screaming, ill child and greeted her by handing over my son, saying, “I can’t do this anymore.” She had me call my doctor that morning, and I can’t thank her enough for starting me on the road to accepting and recovering from PPD.

The anxiety and depression were both new to me, and I only experienced mild baby blues with my daughter. N was a huge Christmas morning surprise to my husband and me (two pink lines? What?) and nine months later my cute little boy was born, unaware of the challenges that awaited him. He had a very bumpy first three months and was sick often: N had everything from harlequin color change to dairy intolerance. All of this weighed me down, spending countless hours at doctor appointments, pharmacies, and “researching” on the internet. I was overwhelmed. I felt guilty, exhausted, constantly sick to my stomach, and I cried many, many times a day. I didn’t want to show any sign of weakness.

My anxiety came in the form of the clock; it was my worst enemy. I would time N’s feedings with a stopwatch, starting the timer before getting him latched on just to add a few extra seconds. I couldn’t help myself, and I knew it was silly, but it’s just what I HAD to do. I had alarms on when to feed him, when to wake him, when I should wake, when I should sleep, and I was basically driving myself over the edge. I didn’t sleep much, and the insomnia was becoming dangerous: I vividly remember driving alone one night and seriously considering crashing my car just so I could get some rest in a hospital.

My depression surfaced during those long, lonely hours at night. I dreaded the sun going down, because I felt so ALONE, and was I left with my fears and guilt. My husband was fantastic and caring, my parents were helpful, but I just couldn’t shake the darkness that enveloped my life. I felt like I was living in a deep black hole and struggling not to sink deeper. I was scared to be alone with both children, scared to leave the house, and scared to admit that I needed help and wasn’t as strong as I thought.

Through an online moms forum, TriangleMommies.com, I read about Moms Supporting Moms and was willing to give it a chance. After sobbing my way through my introduction and hearing others talk, I felt so comforted knowing that I wasn’t crazy and that there were moms there that *got* my feelings of guilt, anxiety, and depression. If it weren’t for the caring and understanding moms I met through MSM, along with my wonderful family, I wouldn’t have been able to heal like I have. It’s been a long road, but light and happiness now fill my life, and I say yes, I can beat PPD. So can you.

If you live in the Triangle area and you'd like to participate in a walk to support PES and postpartum depression/anxiety awareness, please look here for more details on their upcoming Strollerthon!

This Magic Moment ...

... so different and so new.

Please tell me I'm not the only person in bloggy-land to know this song?

Have you checked over at Shell's place yet? She's got another incredible linky going on, and I'm definitely jumping in to play. It's about magic moments. Could you tell?

Here are a few of mine:

~ New love ~

~ First time at the beach ~

~ Strawberry Picking ~

~ First MLB game ~

~ A perfect kick ~

Before Y2K

Sometime in the late 1990s I sat at my cubicle, behind three short walls, staring at my computer.

What's this?

HELLO!

Copy this entire e-mail and change all the answers so they apply to you. Then send it to people you know, INCLUDING me. You should get back a lot of e-mails and you'll learn a lot about your friends that you maybe didn't know.

FULL NAME: Andrea E.

NICKNAME: you know my nicknames, YOU sent this to me!

BIRTHPLACE: Brooklyn, NY

HOME TOWN: Same as above! Oh, do you mean where I live now? NYC.

CROUTONS OR BACON BITS: I guess croutons. I donno. I don't do enough salad, I guess.

DRESSING: Again with the salad? Lite Italian.

HAVE HAD YOUR APPENDIX AND TONSILS REMOVED? Nope.

SHAMPOO OR CONDITIONER: Both.

HAVE YOU EVER GONE SKINNY-DIPPING: Negative. I grew up in Brooklyn. Where exactly did you expect I would DO that?

DO YOU MAKE FUN OF PEOPLE: I try not to, but sometimes people tick me off. Then I do.

ON-LINE FRIENDS: A small handful of people I have just started to connect with on a diet and nutrition community.

ONE PILLOW OR TWO: Two.

PETS: One cat. Shakan.

FAVORITE TYPES OF MUSIC: Anything I can dance to!

LEAST FAVORITE TYPES OF MUSIC: Country, techno and heavy metal.

DREAM CAR: One I can drive!

TYPE OF CAR YOU DRIVE NOW: None.

WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CAR: Matchbox or Hot Wheels. Do those count?

FAVORITE FOOD: Pizza.

DO YOU GET ALONG WITH YOUR PARENTS: Yes, definitely.

FAVORITE TOWN TO CHILL IN: Who says chill, anyway? What are we - ninety? The city.

FAVORITE PLACE TO VISIT: California cause I get to see Lisa there (and she sent me this).

FAVORITE ICE CREAM: I seriously am a huge vanilla fan, but Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby is a current fave.

FAVORITE SOFT DRINK: Now that I've given up Diet Coke I'd say Ginger Ale. But only if it's Seagram's or Canada Dry. And yes, I can tell the difference.

FAVORITE GAME TO PLAY: Pool.

WHAT IS YOUR BAD TIME OF DAY: 3:30 - I need something to wake me up. It's hit the vending machine time.

FAVORITE TIME OF YEAR: fall.

ADIDAS, NIKE, OR REEBOK: Neither. New Balance.

FAVORITE PERFUME OR COLOGNE: Beautiful.

FAVORITE SUBJECT IN SCHOOL: English.

LEAST FAVORITE SUBJECT: History. Oy. Although philosophy came in pretty close to that.

FAVORITE MOVIE YOU HAVE SEEN RECENTLY: Armageddon.

FAVORITE MOVIE OF ALL TIME: Dirty Dancing.

FAVORITE ALCOHOLIC DRINK: Malibu Pineapple or Amaretto Sour

FAVORITE SPORT TO WATCH: Baseball.

ANYTHING "DIFFERENT" ABOUT YOU: I'm blind as a bat without my glasses/contacts.

SAY ONE NICE THING ABOUT THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU: She's there when I need her.

PERSON YOU SENT THIS TO WHO IS LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND: There are so many!

PERSON YOU SENT THIS TO WHO IS MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND: Randye (My roommate.)

FAVORITE COLOR: Green.

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN CONVICTED OF A CRIME: Nope.

TOOTHPASTE: Colgate.

WHAT IS YOUR BEDTIME: Late.

FAVORITE WEBSITE: eDiets.com. They have guest boards for free.

MOST HUMILIATING MOMENT: **It hadn't happened yet**

CRAZIEST PERSON OR SILLIEST PERSON YOU KNOW: My brother.

WHAT IS YOUR LATEST THING TO DO: ??

WHAT DO YOU LOOK FOR IN THE OPPOSITE SEX: Honesty. Laughter. Support.




I must confess something. I actually have a string of this ridiculous email in my inbox. From my very first personal email account, where I've saved so many memories from back in the day. Sadly, I had not yet learned that I could CC myself on my own responses, so I recreated those here. I hope you enjoyed some insight into Andrea of the late '90s.

It's Been Ten Years

And I can't even believe it. I'm writing this post before the actual anniversary and my heart breaks as I think back to that emotional and horrible day in America's history.

I can't believe it's September already. September 2011. Ten full years have passed. So many memories have been made, so much love, so much growth. And then, on this day - above all others - we stop to remember. We never forget.

September is a month of beginnings. It's a month where the weather starts cooling off, people relax a little bit as the heat fades away. For many, like myself, we celebrate the Jewish New Year. We wish sweetness and blessings upon our loved ones with joyful treats like apples and honey.

But when I look back to a September ten years ago, there is so much I remember and will never forget. So much that I can't begin to describe. To find the words to do it justice. And yet - every single year since - I try.

The change in skyline.

That single spot where two bright lights shine into the sky on the anniversary of the day we lost so much. The towers fell. My daughter will never know the skyline as it used to be. That day, in September 2001, I spoke to my sister-in-law and we imagined how we'd explain what was before to the children we didn't yet have. I still haven't figured that out, and my daughter is four.

The emotion. The memories. The loss and the love.

I think that much of America froze that Tuesday morning. Our bodies stilled. Our minds did not. Our minds raced. We thought of everyone and anyone we knew. In New York. In DC. In Pennsylvania.

Did we know anyone flying that day? Working downtown? Near or in the White House? The Pentagon? What on earth was happening? And then it sunk in. A plane? Into a building? Not just any building? The World Trade Center? What? Both? The towers? Gone? Gone. Simply gone.

Our hearts burst.

Our eyes flooded.

We were in shock. In awe. In pain.

We banded together. Somehow more than many would have expected.

And we continue to do so. Every year. In honor and memory. With respect of those gone and those who remain. Lost without their loved ones. We try to remember, with a trace of time that cushions us. Let's us forget just a little bit.

And we hold our loved ones closer, if only for the day.

We talk together. Remember where we were when we heard the news. Those of us close by. Those of us at home, turning channels, making phone calls. Those of us walking the city streets towards a home forever changed. Together. Listening to televisions in store windows. Watching fighter planes fly overhead. Wiping tears. Holding one another up. Today we reflect. I reflect on that day. Those moments.

Remembering as history changed forever.



I thought I'd take a moment or two to add to this, as I am posting it now, live ... on the actual morning of September 11, 2011. I am feeling heavy-hearted this morning. I feel sad. My eyes are on the verge of tears as I skim some posts of remembrance. Some tweets from the memorial or from those watching. I can't do it. Not today. I'm blessed to have a four-year-old who I would love to shelter from this experience and exposure as best I can while I still can. There will be plenty of time for her to learn that there are bad people in this world. And that so many lost loved ones because of them. And that her mommy and daddy were there. And that her daddy saw the second plane fly past his office window. And that her mommy watched the second tower fall in the same room as a co-worker whose son was in there. Lost in the rubble.

My beautiful four-year-old is the reason I changed the channel as I listened to the names. No disrespect intended. I will watch the memorial service when I am ready (that's what DVRs are for). When she is not in the room.

There is no harm in our moving forward today. Loving those we love. Calling those who mean so much to us just to remind them. And holding our children, our loved ones, our memories - all of them - closer to our hearts today.

Because I, for one, know that I will always remember. I will never forget.

How could anyone possibly?

Today. What I'm thinking.

We woke up this morning, got ready for soccer, headed out and made it there in the nick of time. It was so crowded I stood for most of the session. It was fine, though. I'm cool with it. I did tell my husband - when he reminded me that my ILs will probably see our daughter play when they come through here in October - that we won't be one of those families who take up the whole bench with 4-5 family members seated at a time. I mean, maybe if you have a ton of kids. But five adults to one child that's out on the field seems a bit much to me. But I'm nice.

Have I confirmed for you all that I'm a soccer mom?

Bwahahahah!

But I am. I mean. I'm a mom. And my daughter plays soccer. So there's that, right?

Or no? Do I have to drive a minivan to make that an accurate label? Or, I suppose, I should have to drive at all. Right?

But then there's that Mommy Blogger terminology, as well. I'm a mom who blogs. So therefore, I must be a mommy blogger, yes? No? Does anyone really know? Does anyone care? I don't mean this with any sarcasm nor am I being facetious. I wonder, to whom the term matters more. Women who are mothers who blog, or women who call themselves mom bloggers, or what, exactly?

After soccer we went for lunch at IHOP. It really is one of the greatest places on Earth, I tell you. Oh, is that supposed to be Disney? Sorry. I might have mixed those two up. Just a tad.

And speaking of, we're home now. And my husband said to me, 'I recorded U-P.' And I took a moment, and said, 'So did I.' Great minds and all. I laughed to myself. Did I record it upstairs and he down? Did I go to record it, see it was already set and think I'd done it earlier and forgotten? Any of these could be the case. When you're getting on in years as I am who knows, right?

And so my daughter is watching it right now. Which is the only reason I can write this at the same time. And I'm not watching the opening scenes, because though I haven't seen the entire movie these early spots bring me to tears. Just can't do it. Oh, and the movie is UP, in case you didn't catch that earlier.

Oh! And let's talk for a moment about getting on in years. We went to a birthday party today and the young lady (ha! Girl!) at the play place who worked there, after she asked me how old my daughter was, proceeded to tell me she is 18, and her mom is like, oh ... wow. We chatted some about her being in high school, applying for colleges, and how the essays suck. I remember that well. I offered support and thought to myself that I am exactly twenty years older than she is. Dear G-d. When did that happen?

Anyway, right now I'll say bye. Sign off and wait for the Papa (John's - that is) to bring us pizza for dinner. $11 for a large pie with up to seven toppings. Why is it that when there are such deals I can only think of one or two that I'm in the mood for? I mean, tomatoes and extra cheese of some sort. What else really would I want on my pizza. Except for broccoli. It'd be nice if they started carrying broccoli there, like Domino's does. Ah, well. Another time, perhaps.

I hope you all are enjoying your Saturday, and that you squeeze your loved ones tighter and give them all an extra hug or two tonight before bed. I've got lots to say tomorrow, and I have some of it drafted, as I've mentioned, but some of it is just laying there. Still. Dormant. Waiting. Deciding if it should or shouldn't bubble up to the top of the still surface. I suppose we'll see.

It's in my genes ...

It's the start of the school year (though my daughter isn't in school and it doesn't feel like fall) and I think back to corduroys and turtlenecks. No matter how warm it was.

I called my mom last week, 'How was your first day at school? Did you wear your corduroys?' We laughed together.

I rarely remember wearing jeans as a child.

Maybe that's why I don't buy them for my daughter. I hate how they fit. When she was little and teeny-tiny, they always bit at the belly and met at the feet. My opposite. Mine are always large at the waist and long at the leg. That's what happens when you're 5'2-1/2" and a plus-sized momma. And they don't always make "ankle length" jeans for you.

And yet, sometimes there's nothing like a good, old comfy pair. I have a few like that. A few I hold onto, despite the hole in the back of the leg, right under my butt cheek. You know the pair. The one you'll never wear again because even a patch or a stitch wouldn't fix them.

Then there are the pairs that sit, neatly folded, at the top of my closet. The pairs that don't fit. Haven't in years. But they were favorites once. One pair with light pinkish-purple flowers on them. And the other a dark, dark blue. The dark ones get on, but don't close. Do I think they ever will? Probably not. But for some reason I can't let them go just yet. I've tried. I promise.

The most insane pair of jeans I can remember is a two-toned pair. I'm dating myself, but I can see the picture of me. In my new jeans (I was never really one for acid wash, these pre-dated those) standing out in front of my parents' house. In front of my mother's car. Posing. Proudly.

It was possibly taken after I had lost 40 pounds on Weight Watchers, but that might be my mind playing tricks on me. Surely I hadn't been on WW that young? Or maybe I wasn't actually that young. Was I?

The picture is packed away along with other memories. I don't still have THOSE jeans, but I do remember them.

It's amazing how a pair of jeans can make you feel. Horribly fat and huge if they are stiff as a board or don't close. A little bit lighter if the waist happens to breathe some. A few inches taller if they're just the right pair to wear with heels.

Then there were the college days. Jeans and boobie shirts. Bodysuits. We were girls, women - wearing bodysuits that snapped at the crotch. Big girl onesies! Can you imagine? I know you can. Some of you, anyway. Sometimes I tossed a flannel shirt on over them. Sometimes not. Amazing what the mind and body remember.

My hair, longer than ever back then. Crazy wavy. Chunky-heeled shoes. Or boots. How I loved to wear jeans with boots.

Or the pair I wore on a weekend away with my husband. We went to Lake George, horseback riding. My jeans ripped as I mounted the horse. Mortifying! Now that I think about it, those might be the ripped under the butt pair I mentioned earlier. See? Wouldn't that just be me? I hold onto everything that holds sentiment. Even a pair of jeans.

I can't help it. I'm just like my mom. It's in my genes.

What to talk about?

I wrote a reflective post last week (I think) and was not planning to post it ON September 11th here in my hood. It will go live on another blog I write for that day, but I just wanted to hold this in reserve. And then I read it just now. Today. September 8th. And I realize, I don't have that many days left before the anniversary. Before I should probably hit publish and make this go live. And I can't figure out when the best time to do it will be. The day before? It's right or wrong? Today? It's still too soon. Is that crazy? It's just too soon for me to post this a few days before the actual anniversary. And so, I wait. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. Maybe when I'm ready.

Maybe I won't ever be ...

I'll wait until I wake up on the morning of September 11, 2011 and I'll open my eyes. Roll over and kiss my husband. Walk to my daughter's room and peek in. Or - who am I kidding? I always sleep later than everyone else on the weekends! Rewind and try again.

I'll open my eyes. Wipe the sleep out of them. And listen.

Will it be quiet? Upstairs, maybe. Will I hear them? I'll listen as I hear my daughter and husband downstairs, talking, chatting, laughing, playing. Watching TV. I'll hear the start of a brand new day. And I'll trudge downstairs, itching for some lovin'.

And I'll walk over, give my baby a squeeze and remind myself that this ... this is why we wake up and face another day. Despite the sadness and lost we will remember. Despite the emotions we feel, as we did the year before. And the year before that.

And then I'll look back into these eyes, and at this crazy hair, and burst into giggles. Or tears. Or both.


And that'll be OK. Whatever I choose.

So much

Twitter and Bloggyland have been abuzz of late.

I find myself overcome with the emotion, frustration, the angst of it all.

I took a few days of nothingness and yet I read and I read and I read. And I watched.

I watched a video about how a beautiful woman was made to feel like sh!t because Southwest Airlines couldn't get themselves together. So they had to embarrass her and her family instead. Just ridiculously awful. And I seethed.

I've read about Trey Pennington, and incredibly well known social media man who tweeted the following on September 4th:

"Sure am thankful for online friends who are real friends offline, too. Love you."

And shortly after that he took his own life.

My friend Kimberly posted about National Suicide Prevention Week in this raw and emotional post in her 'hood: You are worth the fight and it brought tears to my eyes.

She reminded me about an incredible effort for the week spearheaded by The Band over at Band Back Together.

A few words from their important reminder how just a few words from any of us could, in fact, save a life.

"Here’s the message to Tweet, Tweet and Retweet now through September 10 – World Suicide Prevention Day:

I’m talking to YOU. #youarebeautiful #youareloved #youareNOTalone #StopSuicide please RT

You never know who might see it, who might really NEED to see it at the very moment you are tweeting it. Let’s use our power of social media for good. Lots and lots of good.

You just might remind someone of who they are and how much they are wanted.

You just might save a life."

Look over at my friend Suzanne aka Pretty Swell's place and find her coordinating efforts for a friend who has been through the unfathomable. Two babies born too soon and taken away even sooner. Have you donated yet? Could you? She isn't even asking for something for nothing. Click the button at the side of my blog, donate $5 and you'll be entered into an incredible raffle. The donations are pouring in. They'll never make up for the loss, but if we can ease the sorrow just a little bit by helping, why not try?

Top that all off with the incredible women of #PPDChat and the ways that they form an army and band together whenever one of them is in need and I'm all sorts of emotional of late.

But one thing that I do find incredible is the power of the online world. Despite the way many may say this cannot take the place of the people who surround you in real life and support you when you need them (and I do agree, we all need proof that we are worthy and loved, and we need real life, face-to-face connections, as well as those we form in our virtual and online bubbles!) this community finds themselves connected and together like no other. We are an incredible force - and one not to be ignored.

I'm kind of in awe of the way the internet has connected so many together during times of need, support and then some. And I'm proud to be a part of it all.

The Broken Road

When someone breaks your heart you go through so many changes.

Emmalynn sighed loudly. "What crap," she muttered, tossing the book toward the trash can beneath her nightstand.

She knew that Vi meant well, but all of this - this crap - she couldn't do it. Especially after the other night. She shook her head. "I don't need to remember that. It was a sign of weakness," she stood, facing the mirror, brushing her hair out of her face, her eyes staring back at her, pensive and deep. "It's over. Still over. No matter what happened."

Em trudged around her bedroom. She'd been there for a few days. Sulking. Moping. Sleeping. Crying.

What had she been thinking?

She hadn't - of course. When it came to Matt she lost all sense of thought. All grasp on reality. She didn't think it through. She just lusted. Lunged. Went for it.

Who was she kidding, though? So had he.

"I don't want to either." She heard his voice whispering. As if he were still there. She turned quickly and banged her thigh on the foot of her bed. "DAMN IT!" Tears stung her eyes as she bit down on her lip to ward off the pain.

This should be it, she thought. She felt it this time. There were no more packages to drop off. No more memories to rehash. No more sex. Good lord, the sex. No more, though. She couldn't do it again. She had to purge herself from every trace of him. Remove him from her home, her life, her heart.

She started to pace. Her breath quickened. Pulse raced.

"That's it," she said, boldly looking back at her reflection. "I'm done."

And with that she started stripping the sheets from the bed. They had been her favorites once. No more. They had to go. She looked over at the pile of clothes she had sorted for Goodwill. Bunched up the sheets in her hand and started to laugh.

She kept laughing as she tossed them out the open window. Just because it felt good.

Damned good.

** Prompt this week: write about a season of change for your character or you. It can be literal or metaphorical. For more on this story please feel free to check out previous posts by clicking HERE and let me know what you think!**

Writer's Workshop: What I Remember

I can remember the outside of her building, but not the lobby or the hallway.

I can remember what it felt like walking into her apartment, but don't actually have pictures of the inside. The only ones that exist are filed away in my mind.

I can even remember the smells. Chicken soup on the stove. Probably my dad's, but she prepared it as if it were her own.

I remember tootsie rolls. In her purse. Always.

I can remember the days she would sit on the couch. At my parents' house. My house. Teaching me the Yiddish words for the parts of my face.

Ear. Earring.

Cheeks. Chin.

Eyes. Mouth ... mouth. Why can't I remember the word for mouth?

Her smile. Eyes sparkling. Cheekbones high. I have them, too. My father's. His mother's. I don't see them on my daughter, but my niece carries them well. They live on.

Her perfectly kept hair. Her kerchief. Several. I still have some.

And then, when she no longer remembered.

I can see her crunched up in her apartment. Fighting. Battling. Behind a door? In the bathroom? I can't place her. I know it happened. I feel like I was there. I believe it. And yet ...

We moved her to a home. The most difficult experience our family had weathered. She walked at first. We walked the halls with her. Keeping her mobile. Her strength unwavering. She never let go of our hands.

We sang. In whispers. So as not to disturb the other residents.

** Side note: omg, I was trying to find some Yiddish spelling and I found one song, in complete written Yiddish lyric and translation. I am sitting here holding my breath as tears fill my eyes. **

When she could no longer walk, we pushed her wheelchair around the nursing home hallways.

Still singing. Or my father would push as we held her hands. My brother and I. Or my mother and I. G-d, she held on so tightly. Even when her body refused to allow us to know that she recognized us. Even on those days when her eyes betrayed what we knew was there. Her hands. Her grasp. The grip she held on us proved the rest of her wrong. She knew us. She held onto us with all her might. Those last years. So so many years. She fought and held on. We went every weekend. My father nearly every night. He'd swing home and pick me up to bring me with him. I needed to be there, too.

Amazingly enough, in all that she could not remember, she knew the words to the songs of her childhood. Of her life. She knew the Pledge. Yes, seriously.

I miss her terribly. And I think about her often. There is so much more to her story that I haven't even touched on here. How she traveled from Israel with her husband and two children - by boat - to the United States. With a stop in Italy (Italy!) for a few months. All after living in Germany and having her son (my father) there. There is so much more to say. So much I don't even know. I just know I miss her. And that my daughter will always know she carries her name - - her middle name is after my grandmother. My Bubby.

And I'll forever think of her when I say the words: "I pledge allegiance, to the flag ..." because this was her America. Her words. To become a citizen of one of the greatest countries on earth. And this month I need to remind myself of that. And I think of her. And I remember.