they say rain refreshes
it hydrates the earth
and gives us life
but if you ask me
the sun is where it’s at
when i face it and squint
my body warms
and my soul
like the last time we were together
so unless you are there with me in the rain
dancing with me in the rain
holding me in the rain
unless you are there
give me the sun.
I miss calling you for help,
like I did anytime my car broke down
or all the times I couldn’t stay in school another minute
and I faked sick so you would pick me up,
or that one time I sliced my leg open on a broken flower pot
and hollered for you instead of my momma or my sister or anyone else.
I miss seeing you ride around on your lawn mower
and how you would sometimes let me pretend to drive it,
but never really because you were scared I would fall and lose a toe.
I miss sitting on the cold concrete,
scratching words into the rough surface with brown acorn shells,
and watching while you tinkered away in your shop,
moving junk from one shelf to another and back again.
The way you laughed so hard it came out like a wheeze and turned silent
and you would bury into yourself like a turtle,
the advice you gave about school and work and boys and life,
the stories you told about your father and your farm and growing up poor and loved.
I hate when you ask about daddy
like he’s still here,
not as much because I hate that he isn’t
{those wounds have scarred}
but because I hate reminding you he’s gone
and watching it register across your face,
the embarrassment of how your mind fails you now.
I hate it when you stumble
and I hate it when you stutter
and I hate it when you can’t remember what we were just talking about.
My heart breaks because I know yours is breaking, too.
Last week, I went to a concert.
I borrowed the truck that you can’t drive anymore.
In a lucid moment, you told me,
Have fun and be safe.
I’ll stay here and worry all night.
Like all good men do about their girls.
I know you’re still here.
I listen to you worry about everyone and everything,
what matters and what doesn’t,
about my boss’s boyfriend who got shot last year,
about my best friend’s grades and drinking habits,
about the boys who’s cars you think I shouldn’t ride in,
about me.
I dread the day you no longer recognize my face,
but for now, you are still here.
I already miss you but you are still here.
{And as long as I am still here, I will remain your grandbaby, your girl.}
(Amy Turn Sharp is writing a poem every single day for an entire year. I can't promise that but I will try to write more poems more days. Here is the Facebook link if you want to write along with us.)
That moment when a girl is kissing a boy
in that desperate, frenzied way that happens so fast
she doesn’t even realize she’s standing on her tip toes
and his hands get tangled in her hair.
That moment when she’s soaking in a bubble bath,
sipping a glass of wine and reading
and she suddenly notices the water has gone cold
and her fingers are pruny
and she’s devoured the book through the last page.
That moment when she’s been napping in the September sun,
still hot enough to make her sweat but not miserably,
and it finally sinks low enough to put her into cool shade,
making her skin tingle like electricity.
That moment when she’s run
until her sides are on fire
and she worried she might never breathe again
and she finally takes a drink from her ice cold water bottle
and feels the dampness of her shirt and the burn in her muscles.
That moment when she looks into the mirror,
wearing the eleventh outfit she’s tried on that night,
and she finally likes what she sees.
That moment when she and her best friend have said
the same smart-assed thing
at the same time
and they both erupt into laughter,
not only over what’s been said
but also over the fact that they’ve found a soulmate in each other.
Satisfied.
Content.
The way I feel when you are near.
It’s a little like paradise.
[I promise, after this post, I will step down from my pedestal and return to regular blogging!]
I’m a Black Friday shopper. I’m one of the crazy ones standing in line hours before the stores open, and in recent years, I’ve recruited my sister and her best friend to my Black Friday team. Last year, we made Black Friday music videos, where we re-wrote lyrics to popular songs like Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” and Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” and videotaped ourselves singing the new lyrics overtop of the original recordings. We had a blast, and everyone thought the videos were hilarious.
When Oprah’s talk show aired it’s last episode this past fall, I cried my eyes out. Then, because I’m a huge fan and a dork, I dedicated my Facebook profile to Oprah by posting a beautiful photo of her that I found on Google as my profile picture.
Recently, I took a dive into the world of SmartPhones and butt dials, and more importantly, fancy ringtones. I was sixteen when I got my first cellphone, a flip version with a long antennae and no texting allowed according to Dad’s rules, and now, seven years later, I have a slim little rectangle of a phone that can not only text, but surf the net, load games, show movies, play music, and basically read my mind. It also has a free Android market app that allows me to download popular songs and edit them into clips to make ringtones. I’ve downloaded several of my favorite songs that I first heard on albums I bought either in stores or through Itunes, and now, if you were to call me, I’d do a little dance while singing along with Jason Aldean’s “She’s Country”.
As a angst-filled teenager, my favorite show was Dawson’s Creek. I would watch as Dawson and Pacey fought for Joey’s love, and I’d wish a boy would love me as much as either of them loved her. I cried along with Jack as he was bullied throughout high school. I wanted to be badass Jen, not caring what anyone thought and living life to the fullest and craziest. And even though I’m twenty-three and should be a little more mature, sometimes I go online and look up (all six) YouTube clips that make up the two-part finale of the entire show. You know, the episode where Joey chooses Pacey, Dawson talks to Spielberg, Jack loses Jen to cancer, and he and his boyfriend agree to raise Jen’s daughter as their own. I watch this last episode on my little Macbook and I cry and cry and cry. And then I go back to pretending I’m a big girl again.
PIPA and SOPA would make it so that YouTube could potentially be shut down for featuring pirated clips like Dawson’s Creek episodes, even though the show went off the air almost a decade ago, even though no one’s making money off that YouTube page, even thoughI only watch it once in a blue moon to relive the feelings I was flooded with as a teenager.
PIPA and SOPA would mean that my cool new Android ringtones are illegal because they were not purchased, even though I paid good money for the albums those songs were released on, even though I have bought every album Jason Aldean has recorded, even though I support the artists singing my ringtones by going to their concerts even if they are over three hours away.
PIPA and SOPA would force Facebook to shut down my account because Oprah’s photo is still in my Profile Pictures album, and unless these acts pass, there it shall remain. I love you, Oprah!
PIPA and SOPA would allow any of the artists on our Black Friday playlist videos to sue myself, my sister, and her best friend. Now, Taylor Swift seems like a nice girl, but if Elton John sued my sister for changing the lyrics of “The Circle Of Life” to “The Day After Thanksgiving”, there would be nothing we could do about it.
I am a blogger. I am proud of the things I write. My words are my babies, and if someone wants to share them with the world, not only am I okay with that, but I would LOVE that! I only ask to be credited as the author. I understand the need for better piracy and censorship laws. Stealing someone else’s work, passing it off as your own, and especially generating income from that... that’s wrong. We learned it in church, we learned it in kindergarten, we signed pledges against it in college. But my ringtone? Harmless. My secret, late-night rendezvous with Dawson’s Creek? Not gonna hurt anything but my own little heart. My Oprah picture? Completely appropriate. And our Black Friday videos? Not only was no harm done, but I bet if The Lovin’ Spoonful heard my re-written lyrics to “Do You Believe In Magic”, they’d be calling my cool new SmartPhone begging me to record with them.
[As an aside, think about just how often we use popular search engines that could potentially be shut down by PIPA and SOPA. I just Wiki’d The Lovin’ Spoonful to see if all the members were even still alive, and then I remembered... Wikipedia is blacked out in protest. And good for them. But holy cow, I use the internet a LOT without even thinking about it.]
Watch these videos. Sign the petitions. Contact your rep. If you’re as plugged in as I am, if you can’t imagine life without posting pictures of what you had for dinner last night or writing about how your boyfriend’s cousin’s sister saw Hulk Hogan’s daughter at Walmart last week, if you love your internet, act now. Stop PIPA and SOPA.
For better explanations of PIPA and SOPA, check these out:
And voice your protest!
This is the preview for Hunger, a short film that was written and directed by a lifelong friend of mine, Kimberly Woodruff.
Hunger- Trailer from Brett Mullen on Vimeo.
Yeah, I know, it’s pretty great. You should check out the Facebook page for updates, so you’ll be in the know when it premieres this spring.
(Seriously, check it out. I am SO beyond proud of this girl. We grew up together, riding bikes and chasing boys. Now she’s a big time script writer and movie director, and I’m her friend and that makes me cool by association. She is gonna do big things, amazing things, and you have a chance to watch it all unfold. CHECK OUT THE FILM!)
There are so many things I want to remember always.
A poem I read about a mother’s love and her flaws,
a mama bear
but fiercely human.
The time we went hiking through the woods at night
hoping they were haunted,
laughing and shushing and scaring ourselves silly,
and how young and beautiful we all were
when the clouds let the moon shine.
The way my sister got the scar on her face,
how it took a chain link hook catching her in the lip
for me to realize how precious and small she was.
And how I cried harder than she did
and I wished it had been me.
My childhood hamster’s funeral,
when my dad said a prayer for Honey
as we laid him to rest
in our backyard behind the clothesline.
And the way my dad held us
and didn’t ask us to stop crying.
The first kiss from my first love,
and how it really was like ecstasy because
I've been chasing that dragon for years
and no other kisses were ever as good
as the first time his teeth hit mine and he suckled my bottom lip.
My grandfather’s love for old time music,
and how any random word could spark
the memory of some ancient-to-me bluegrass tune
that he would start singing, so loud and with such gusto,
and trying to continue the conversation was pointless
so I would stop talking and just
listen
until his ohhh susannah mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm melodies
had me in a fit of giggles.
A book I read when I was seven,
and a song I heard yesterday on the radio that made me cry,
and the time when a little girl told me she wished I was her mom
because I acted like one and I loved her better anyways.
So many things.
I know I will get old one day and it will all start to just
fade
like the blue in my eyes and the sounds around me,
it will all fade away.
I write so that,
when the fog sets in,
I will remember.
Forgetting is so scary
when there are things I want to remember always.
Stop biting my nails. Floss every day. Lose weight. Be a better person.
I make these same resolutions every single New Year’s Day. And then... I stop biting my nails for a week. I floss for about two days in a row. I work out almost daily for a month, maybe. And I stop cursing at cars that cut me off in traffic and start recycling plastic bottles. That lasts about as long as... well, until someone cuts me off when I’m in a hurry or until there are no recycling bins around when I finish a drink.
I’m a New Year’s Resolution Failure.
I typically throw in a few other, more unique resolutions, hoping those might stick better. Last year, I resolved to start cooking (I learned that raw chicken disgusts me and quit that one by February). The year before, I resolved to drink less and study more (still graduated a year and a half late, and still love tequila). This year, I’ve added a few things (accept and follow through with a real date, learn to walk in heels, take a photo every day, write weekly) to the resolution list. And I’ll probably follow through with those about as well as I’ve stuck to all my other New Year’s resolutions.
I hear so many jokes about people like me. There are those who say that people like me, we can’t take a hint. We can’t see that history repeats itself. We don’t realize that doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome is... well, stupid. They say that we are silly for believing that this year might be different, for believing it might be better than the last, for hoping the best is yet to come.
To the naysayers and the resolution haters, I say... You. Are. Wrong.
I believe a new year really is a clean slate. A blank page. Like a small spark, just waiting to burst into a big, hot flame. And those of us who hope for bigger things, we are the kindling to build that fire. Whether you make new year’s resolutions or not, there is no denying the beautiful energy of a new year. Everyone feels it. And we dreamers are the ones who keep that going, year after year after year.
A lot can happen in 365 days. This time last year, doctors said my grandparents wouldn’t make it to this Christmas (they opened gifts with us last week). I wasn’t sure if I could make it through yet another semester of college (I graduated last month). I thought I couldn’t love anyone else as much as I loved my niece and nephews (and then my sister had another little girl, and my heart expanded). I had my share of good and bad, as does everyone. But I swear, if you look hard for those blessings, the good will outweigh the bad every time. And if you really believe the next year can be even better, then it will be.
Remember when you were five and you could call do-over whenever you wanted? You were trying to show your sister how you could cross the monkey bars two at a time and you fell to the ground. Do-over. You ran to the edge of the water and leaped in, hoping to showcase your new cannonball move, but bellyflopped instead. Do-over. You played checkers with your grandfather, sure you’d get him this time, but instead, he double-jumped your kings and you lost again. Do-over.
Last year was a roller coaster ride, just like every year before it. I laughed my ass off. I cried my eyes out. I hurt people I loved. I felt heartbreak. I felt joy. And I know this new year will bring the same things. I can take a hint. I can see history repeating itself. But I don’t think it’s silly to believe that the best is yet to come. Every new day brings something to smile about. And every new year brings that blank page, that small spark, that chance to call a do-over. As one of my heroes, the wonderful and wise Oprah Winfrey, said... Cheers to a new year and another chance to get it right.
So I’ll renew my gym membership next week. And I'll pull some new recipes off Pinterest. It’s technically January 2nd, and I didn’t take a photo today, so I’ve failed one resolution already. And I’m okay with that. I’m writing and I flossed tonight and I believe that this year will be better than the last. Because here we are again. A new year. Another chance to get it right. Adios, 2011, it's been real. Hello, 2012, and welcome. I’m calling do-over.
