Step Sixteen: Communicate Your Desires

This one seems sort of self-explanatory, right?

Except when can you find the time in your day to feed yourself, commute to work, blog, do the laundry and all the other myriad of daily, weekly and monthly tasks life has assigned you, much less communicate with your husband. 

Juggling life isn't always easy. But there was one thing that changed my outlook on how I deal with all that: you make time for what's important to you. Instead of saying "I would love to, but I'm so busy right now" try saying instead "I don't want to make time for that". 

Sounds a little different, doesn't it? 

That's really what it comes down to- there are cut and dried priorities in your life (going to work, paying bills, etc) and then there are things that are a little more loose (sleeping 8 hours a night, walking the dog, etc). 

Mr. E and I are in that awesome up-swing of marriage where the other person is top priority. The shoe will drop someday and we may forget all of our tips and tricks for staying happy with one another, but right now we focus on each other: supporting, enabling, comforting, communicating. 

We're far from perfect at this (good GRIEF would you just finish dishes one of these days!) but maintaining communication is paramount to getting what we want. After all, Mr. E doesn't always know what I want if I don't tell him.

Today I squoze squeezed fit in the Five Minute Friday word: Laundry. We're taking ours this weekend to my parents and avoiding that $11.50 charge.

Write #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

I write in fits and starts these days. Time seems to be slipping away from me when before I was drowning in it. It seems like it's feast or famine over here.

This is supposed to be the start of it all. This is the beginning of our real lives, our adult lives, our lives that don't revolve around school or splitting our focus on things that are more or less mandatory but holding us back from what we want to do.

And then the realization hits: I'm holding me back from what I want to do.

I want to be an employee not a temp. I want to help on movie sets and craft all of my Christmas presents for my friends and remember to take the dog for her walk everyday. I want to lose weight and I want to sleep in and I want to write like my life depends on it. I want to have kids.

But you can only pick two of these things (maybe three) and I'm taking the bits of me that are falling to pieces and sowing them in fields far and wide to see what grows. I'm working on my job like my sanity depends on it (because I think it does) and that leaves a tiny sliver of space, a crack, an opening for my words and my thoughts and my voice to thrive.

I'm writing.

True Story

I feel like I cheated, a little bit.

I didn't twitter party last night because Mr. E and I were enjoying our new mounted-on-the-wall TV (new mounting, not new TV) and this morning all I skimmed through was that the FMF word was TRUE. And instead of reading, I wrote. So when I linked up and saw that she asked for "our true stories" I felt like I had cheated her (and you) out of...me.

There's not a whole lot that I don't say on here. I blog my life and the things that happen in it. If I didn't say it here, I might have said it on twitter, but overall you're getting my true story every time you open this page. As I feel more and more comfortable being me, I write a little bit more- revealing myself in bits and pieces, peeling back layers to expose my inner and most protected self.

You'll read things like how Mr. E and I met (over a blind phone date) and how we knew we were going to get married within a month (and only two months before he left for his LDS mission to Kentucky). How we've been married for two years and together for five and a half and I've never found anyone as perfectly imperfect as my husband.

Or things like my dissatisfaction with the career choices I made in college (microbiology degree) and my penchant for sewing and crocheting and cross-stitching and painting. That all of these things- both the artistic and the logical- make me who I am though I have yet to find that balance.

I told you how scared I was to move to LA, but after a two month (and finally successful) job search, I've spent enough time navigating the sights and sounds of the city that I realized I will love this city. Eventually.

I'll tell you things like how our weekend was or will be, and why things make me feel the way I feel. That I'm broken and confused but uplifted and set straight, sometimes all in the same day, and that I am exactly where I need to be right now. That there are seasons in my life that made me cry and get angry, but there's always sunshine after the storm and these things don't last forever and as much as I love the person I am now it wasn't always that way and I still have a ways to go.

I'm the kind of girl who wears capris without shaving her legs and can sometimes go two days without washing my hair because it's always in a bun. I can't hang a picture nice enough for my husband but I can bake a mean pie. I lose chapstick and I break sunglasses so I never buy the expensive kind. I will challenge anyone to a Wii Just Dance-off but mostly I just want to spend my day reading a really good book.

This blog is my story. My true story.

Don't be afraid to share yours.

True #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

"Your turn."

The girl from 501 smiled shyly. She ran her fingers through her touseled hair and picked at something sticking to the bottom of her shoe. She sat directly opposite the red emergency light and it lit her face like fireworks.

"Okay. Um..." She held up one finger. "I've broken every bone in all of my major limbs." She held up a second finger. "I had a one night stand with a Harry Potter film star." She smiled and held up her third finger. "I can brush my teeth with my toes."

The other girls tittered. They sat cross-legged, leaning against the mirrored walls, everyone sharing a Nutrigrain bar one of them found in their purse. The air felt close and muggy.

"Eight-oh-eight. You're next."

Their eyes were bored and curious at once. This was the fifth game in as many hours.

She took a deep breath.

"I know how to skin and de-bone a rabbit in two minutes."

There were a few gasps.

"I have built a natural resistance to most man-made poisons."

They started to exchange looks with one another. In the dim light, their eyes seemed huge, their features unnaturally sharpened.

Now that she had their attention, she whispered.

"I rigged this elevator to fall in three...two....one."

The lights cut out and the girls started to scream.

She #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

It’s a Tuesday.

She always wore red on Tuesday

She had little pig tails tied with little red ribbons

That flopped as she ran to catch the morning bus

Her bright red backpack bounced with each step

She was always so curious

She asked why some stars were brighter than others

Or where snails bought their shells

She was too curious

She saw a cat laying in the street

And ran quickly to see if it was alright

The cat was wearing red too

Red spilled out from the fur and onto the gravel

The neighbor never watches where he drives

No more Tuesdays

No more curiosity

No more red

This week was written by Mr. E!

Mercy #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

"Look, Michelle, I've told you what I expect from you. It's up to you, now. Make the right choice," he said with a smug tone from behind his mahogany desk. The lamps were dim and the room smelled of expensive aftershave- the kind that made her first trimester all the worse.

"We can't possibly get the goods to you that fast! I need time- I need more people! You have to give me something!" she pleaded. She snuck a glance at the clock. Four more minutes. She just needed to stall for four more minutes. 

He regarded her quietly before heaving himself to his feet- all three hundred pounds of him. He unfolded his pocket square, patted his neck, and casually folded the small piece of linen back into his breast pocket before his mouth turned into a sour sneer. 

"I could have reported you the minute I knew what you were up to, Michelle. But I didn't. Think about that. Think about that before you tell me what you can and can't do."

"That's not mercy, Nic, that's blackmail. You of all people should know the difference," she spat at him. And began to walk backwards. You never turned your back on Nic.

Then--WHAM.

The look on his face as the SWAT team sent the doors flying open was one she would tell her children for years to come. 

Red #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

I licked my lips and studied myself in the mirror. The carpet felt dirty underneath my feet and the mirror was streaked with cleaning fluid, but the picture was clear. This was the best this dress was going to get.

When I stepped out to show it off I tried not to let my body aversion get the best of me. Twenty years of wishing my thighs had the skinny gap and flexing my stomach as flat as it could go- still I hoped the draping chiffon covered the bits of me I wished people would gloss over.

My hair was cut short, leaving my shoulders exposed to the beaded straps, apple green and shimmering, but green wasn't her color. It was mine.

As the salesman drifted over, tutting about store sizing and hems, he zoomed in and frowned at my chest. Too small, you'll have to stuff.

To my credit my cheeks didn't turn. I brushed it off and laughed with them, participating in the age old custom of bodily misdirection: focus on something else to hide what's truly bothersome. And when the order was placed I refused to react, despite the fact I find it harsh and boisterous and too loud.

"Seven dresses in candy apple red."

Worship #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

It was the first time in years that I had bought a dress for myself. It was white, with blue pinstripes and a huge navy blue bow in the back whose ties draped down much longer than needed. I was nervous about the exposed shoulders, though, so I bought myself a lacy white cover.

I walked on unsteady heels, clenching his hand tight, the 9 AM sun already making his glasses transition to shades. He smiled, a big skinny grin and my heart flip flopped. 

I was going to church for a boy.

We followed his mother in as she sashayed, petite and perfect. Then his father, a powerful presence with a one-track mind. The congregation mingled and hummed as I tried to sneak to my seat in the family pew, smiling blandly at all of the unfamiliar people. This had never been done before and I was rigid with nervousness.

He squeezed my knee before he got up. Perhaps he was trying to prepare me in some small insignificant way before he embarrassed me in front of all those people. You could have heard a pin drop. 

"There are two things I turn to when I am upset or frustrated. The first is scripture. The second knows who she is."

That's when the entire church turned in their seats and stared. At me.

Sorry about the duckface...YOUTHS.

Last #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

He sat down with a huff and tipped all of the pens onto the desk and proceeded to organize them by color: black to blue to red. This was the worst part of the night. The flourescents overhead gave him a headache by 7 o'clock and the constant driving back and forth from the office to the movie set didn't help either. But the fridge was stocked and he had finally adjusted his chair to the perfect resistance, so four more hours wouldn't hurt.

"Hey," Jen whispered. "Hey, you!"

Dan cocked his head and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The production office was nearly empty and he was pretty sure he was the only guy in the building. Their eyes met and Jen frantically gestured with her free hand as she reached into one of her desk drawers.

He looked around at the hollow offices and empty chairs. They were supposed to be waiting for the call from set to let them know when shooting was over, but someone always forgot. The last item on the end-of-the-day checklist. *He glanced anxiously at the phone, willing it to ring, beep, anything to avoid a confrontation with his supervisor. 

She grabbed what must have been keys since they jingled as she walked past his desk, tapping his chair on her way to the unused stairs. The production company leased the lower level of a five story brick building downtown, across from a Presbyterian church and a Starbucks- the lifeblood of America even in the city of dreams. Dan hung his head and followed her, certain she was going to let him know in excruciating detail all the mistakes he had made that day. The coffee without creamer? The 100 extra copies he made? The wrong size shoes he picked up for the props department? The movie business wasn't as easy as he thought.

He trudged up the steps after her, their sneakers scuffing in perfect tandem up five flights, but he stopped short when he reached the last step and the open door. Before him was a summer evening's paradise: a sky electrified with colors and clouds and the whole twinkling city before him. It seemed to stretch forever, melding at the horizon into the fading sun and beginning again as cloud formations built across the sky.

"Pretty snazzy, huh?" Jen grinned.

"Yeah...It's incredible."

"I have my phone connected to the landline- as soon as they call I'll get it on this so we don't have to go back downstairs." She shook her iPhone in reference.

"Do you do this every night?" he asked, turning slowly to soak in the 360 degree view.

"Every night in the summer. It's the only time that everyone's out of the office when the sun sets."

"Wow. This is great."

She fell into one of the plastic lawn chairs littering the roof. "Don't let today get you down. We all start as assistants- unless we're suck ups. We know where you've been, how you feel. This is one of the only jobs you can get fired for guacamole when the boss asked for nacho cheese. But things like this make it worth it."

"This and the movie, right?"

"Yeah, but sometimes the movie is a piece of crap. But you do it because it's what you want to do. Every project is a step. And every step gets you closer to where you want to be." She gestured to the chair beside her.

"Where do you want to be, Dan?"

*Soooo that was a little longer than five minutes. But once I started I couldn't stop. At least there was no editing! Go on, Greg. Find a spelling mistake. I dare you.

Small #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

Sometimes, when we speak, we substitute words. You learn synonyms (cinnamon) and antonyms in grade school and as you grow your list of interchangeable words does too. When you write or blog or essay the words come, sometimes rushing quickly onto the page and you're already on the next paragraph racing just to keep up. Other times it's a slow painful drip, agonizing over each word and use and connotation.

Sometimes we forget in our effort to use the best words, the most descriptive, the most appropriate, that our vernacular has caused words to evolve. And not always for the better. Just the other day Google approved a definition for "literally" as "figuratively". Who decided that one? Sometimes you need to go back to the starting word, the fundamental, and..re-start.

Small does not mean insignificant.
Small does not mean unimportant or overlooked or brushed aside. It is more than cute or handheld, more than little or tiny or lost in a sea of bigger (not better) things.

Small is a start. A place to grow. An unfurling, a contained self, a beginning.
We all start with small steps and lead ourselves to our personal achievements- big achievements because they're ours and we conquered them.

Small does not mean it wasn't enough. Small means begin.

Lonely #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

Thumping basketballs outside the window and down the street. Leaves swish and clack as the neighborhood dog walkers bustle through on their phones- taking even the most mundane and relatively stress-free activities to a whole new level. 

We're only a mile from the freeway and the constant hum of cars sings us to sleep at night and jars us awake in the morning. People coming and going, working and playing and existing within arms reach. A stone's throw to one of the most densely populated places on the planet.

And I'm here. Eyeballing picture frames (don't tell my husband) and stroking the puppy to sleep, her little pink belly marred and inked by a little blue incision. It's muggy in this apartment because we've closed the windows and the door. We've shut ourselves away from the world and we live content, minute to minute, enjoying the presence of each other after a long day away.

Broken (pt. 2) #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

I'm still packing here in Orange County. I'm sure I must sound like a broken record by now but the A-lister inside of me has been planning this move for weeks and now that it's finally (sort of) here I feel like I still don't have enough time.

I've gotten all of my tools out in preparation. My hammer- for all those pictures I hung with our without (and then again, with) my husband's help. My spackle- for all those damn holes in the wall, some from us and others a legacy we inherited. My paint and primer- because I was positive I'd go crazy with white walls but now that we have to repaint I'm fairly sure I would have done just fine. My boxes and my tape and my packing paper.

Mr. E and I are playing an exhausting game of Hide and Seek. I drag myself home each night in the summertime heat, weary and wilted, ready to sit down and veg out to some New Girl. Mr. E slouches in some five hours later, just as tired. We'd really love to hang out or watch a movie or run errands for pete's sake! but all we can do is revel in air conditioning and a soft bed and a puppy between us.

And that's okay. I'm tucking each piece of our lives away in boxes, carefully, carefully, so they won't break and he's breaking in our new car and generally sweating about messing up at his first job- but we're doing it for each other and that's what makes it worth it.

Belong #fivemiutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

I'm packing tonight. Nursing a root beer and serenading my dog to feel a little less lonely. The paper towels are peeling off of rolls, the packing paper is in piles and my beautiful china sits nestled in a box that is destined for storage.

I'm not stranger to this dance of stuff to stay and stuff to go, the sloughing off things that we've gathered over the last two years. This isn't my first rodeo. In fact, I think it's my twelfth. And this next one still won't be a forever home. 

In between the moves, the disassembling and the reassembling, the friendships tentatively made and subsequently lost, I've realized that I never needed a place to feel like I belonged there. It's never a house I remember, or a neighborhood. It was things like tupperware cereal bowls filled with Cheerios and raisins and honey. It was playing musical chairs with my parents' bedroom set because their room was too small to house it all.

It's the frames we hung on the alter on our wedding day. The Alice in Wonderland tea-mug from my world-travelling bestie. The road-sign that reads "NO STOPPING ANY TIME" we hung above the desk to inspire our inner writer.

I am the sum of all my memories. My experiences define who I have become, but sometimes it's the "things" in our life that have a meaningful impact too. Packing my great-grandmother's china isn't pleasant, but my inheritance keeps me grounded. Let's me know that I belong here, too.

In the Words of Mr. E: For Brie

Mr. E shows his head! His agreement to post once a week didn't quite come through, but his voice is still heard. These are his words: mostly true, sometimes made-up, always awesome.

So this week I thought I’d set aside 5 minutes and write for myself for once. But I’m not sticking to the theme because I already have something I want to write about.

I tell her all the time, probably 6 or 5 times a day, but I only tell her because it’s true: My wife is awesome.

It’s always a sobering reminder when I open up her blog to catch up on her posts (at least the ones I haven’t already proof read) and I see how much she writes about me. First of all, I don’t think I’m actually as cool and talented as she thinks I am, but the way she supports me makes me want to be the man she sees me as. I’m not sure what I did to deserve such utter devotion and support from such a wonderful woman.

Umm… that was already five minutes? I still have more to say… does anyone else cheat on these things?

I guess I’ll just sum it up. What I am trying to say is that I constantly strive to love my wife the way she loves me. There’s nobody I’d rather go through this crazy life with. I want to thank her publicly for being my best friend, my lover, and the one thing I can always depend on.

Love,

Mr. E.

Present #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

I inwardly winced when he told me how much time he had left on the countdown. Only a matter of hours to go before the deadline closed and his film school dreams would dwindle in despair, bitter and cold. I could only imagine what this would do to him.

Throwback Thursday, ya'll

We spent the last few months prepping: he was researching financial aid, I studied for finals; he ran between three schools for paperwork, I submitted 15 pages on Midwifery in the Middle Ages. So when he surprised me with a final project (due tomorrow) I wasn't sure how much energy I had left in me. We were running on low and we needed a miracle.

The prompt was vague (of course) and his idea was sweet, but when he presented the video to me all I could do was cry. This isn't that surprising since I cry with all of my emotions, but I was over- and under-whelmed all at the same time, full of love and pride for this man I would one day call my husband, but also terribly disappointed that his procrastination may have cost him the college he really wanted.

Two minutes, 19 objects to tell 19 years of his life with Elton John's "Daniel" playing softly in the background, the song he was named for.

I gave up sugar and he gave up milk in a two month fast and prayer session. I prayed more than I have ever prayed in my life, harder, stronger, more sincere to get that man into his dream college. He needed some good news after the last year and a half and our hearts were tired, but we knew that faith, love and a little bit of movie magic would see us through.

And it did.

Mr. E got in on the action too! Sort of prompt-less, but five minutes all the same!

In Between #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

She sleeps right there, sometimes over, sometimes under, always snuggled right in between. Mr. E had a hard enough time with my flailing arms and legs in those stolen naps together, but now we're constantly poked and prodded with little puppy feet. We turn over in the morning to scold but she opens one lazy eye and her belly is uplifted just waiting for scratches. 

She'll always be our first.

In our constant state of waiting, the job search, the apartment hunting, it's the simple things that are the hardest. Remember to eat. Get up on time. Shave your legs today. There's always something that I'm missing lately because I'm not quite here nor there. I'm in a state of in between, population: me.

In the humid gloom of our add-on master bedroom I shuffle towards the bathroom, shedding sheets and clothes in my quest for the shower. If I make eye contact with her she'll prick her ears and cock her head to the side and swish her tail, eager to please. Mr. E is still a lump on a log at this point, too early for him and already late for me. This is where she thrives the best. She's snuggly and tiny and small, bits and pieces all wrapped around a tail that slowly inflates as she struggles to let out the biggest sigh of contentment.

As soon as I'm clean and human again she waits, eagerly anticipating the moment I open the second drawer from the top. It's at this point she knows- I'll reach in and she's already jumped the pillow hurdle, spinning between my feet as I hop and skip to shove my legs into pants. She'll sprint to the door and pause, waiting until I'm close enough for her to reach up and hook her tiny paws around my knee, stretching for attention. We play this game for most of the morning- I'm making cereal, checking my email, packing my briefcase and still she's stretching on her tip toes.

It isn't until the snap of the laptop that she sprints between the sliver of open door (ringing those dangling bells) and paces beside Mr. E. She's impatient, waiting for permission to jump on the bed and the moment she has it she's all waggy tails and tongue and floppy ears until...she's not. As quick as she can squeeze herself between Mr. E's backside and a pillow it's as if she wasn't awake at all. A kiss for them both and I'm out the door, only pausing long enough to make eye contact and she slowly winks her eyes closed and settles in for her second long nap. This was just the play time in between.

Rhythm #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

The drive home is always much different from the drive to LA. The drive is hot and sticky and nigh unbearable. The air conditioning doesn't work, the sun beats down, reflections off cars and signs and pavement. The roads are dirty and all of the fences have barbed wire, spray paint or trash.

We drove up to scope out our first apartment as a married couple- since the house we live in now, though rented, doesn't strictly count. It sort of fell, fortuitously into our laps and I'm already listing the ways I'll miss it. The apartment was nice enough to live in, and gosh durn if the end of summer or the beginning of fall isn't the best time to move. I'm all nesting and decorating and home-ing. But it wasn't it. You know what I mean.

The more people ask me about our impending move the better I am at lying. I'm fine. We're excited. We have places and jobs scoped out. Perhaps the more I fake my enthusiasm and control of the situation I'll finally convince myself of it too. The rounds are starting at work- You're leaving?- and the family is starting to question- When? How? Soon?- but my answers are vague at best, downright cryptic but always repeated.

Driving home is better, though. The weight in my chest lifts as we descend counties, that tightening I've learned to recognize as anxiety gently loosens it's hold. The freeway doesn't seem so dirty in the dark- instead it's all glowing lights and windy ramps and overgrown trees. The streetlights twinkle and the LA skyline in the distance pulses with activity. I smile at Mr. E and turn up the music as loud as we can handle. The bass reverberates in our bones and we lie back in our seats, content to pretend we belong here just like the Driver. 

I'm giving you a night call to tell you how I feel

I want to drive you through the night, down the hills

I'm gonna tell you something you don't want to hear

I'm gonna show you where it's dark, but have no fear

Listen #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

Morning is the best time to listen: to the house as it creaks, the sound of puppy  nails across our wooden floor, the shifts that tell me he's noticed I'm not in bed anymore, the incessant typing- the soundtrack to my life lately. It's quiet and gloomy and the only things truly awake are those stupid parrots screeching outside.

It wasn't much different than this in the mountains. There were still birds and rustling sheets and a brook outside that gurgled all day long with water to freeze your toes. We took a vacation, much anticipated and much needed, packed up all the bits and pieces that make us human though maybe not presentable and flew away.

The stillness there affords a certain amount of reflection that just isn't possible in Orange County. The streetlights burn so bright here there's an constant state of gloom but never any true dark. I've never seen stars from my backyard unless you count the airplanes. The freeways and the sirens and the malfunctioning airplanes are your constant companions. So when we sat and read by the bonfire until it was too dark to see the pages on my screen anymore, I want to let you know that I wasn't really reading. I was listening.

Did you know that in Orange County the planes have to circle around to slow down because there are noise laws to prevent them from making too much sound as they descend? John Wayne Airport will never have anything on coming in over the buildings of downtown San Diego, but it certainly makes for an interesting take off and landing!

Fall #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

There are moments in my life in which I feel like I'm falling- from grace, to my knees, head over heels. My once proud stance has been revealed to be a tenuous perch on the mountain of my life. If I'm not careful, not watching, not vigilant, I'll topple over. And it takes so long to build myself back up again.

Mr. E and I are a mess of crazy right now- both of us job-searching, apartment-searching, soul-searching. We have less direction than a high school graduate (was I the only one who changed my mind over and over again?) and while exhilarating, it's terrifying. This only proves that it's the right thing for us to do because if you're not scaring yourself you're not doing anything and everything good comes from something hard, right?

These are the things I tell myself each morning, noon, and night. This is the mantra that gets me through the day without a bouncing rubber ball under my chest threatening to spew forth anxiety like the word-vomit I can never seem to contain. Have a minute? Let me tell you the story of my life. Maybe if I can enunciate it clearly a thousand times over, I'll finally solve this puzzle that is my brain.

Without planning or lists or organization I'm in free-fall, impatiently waiting for the universe to give me some sign to GO! I'm tense when I should be loose, worried when I should be working on accepting what's coming and living in the moment. I've lost the structural supports I've built in the last two years (stability and calm in this rickety rental I love so much) and I'm falling like Alice but she got out okay and I will too. 

Imagine #fiveminutefriday

Write. For five minutes straight. One-word prompt, five minutes, no editing. I'm linking up over at Lisa-Jo Baker (aka The Gypsy Mama) where we read, write and encourage.

Between the dog who needs a bath (again), the puzzle that has taken the entire coffee table and the baby dreams I've had for the last week (great), I need a vacation. So when I should be focusing on working or cleaning or wife-ing, I'm imagining instead.

I'm dreaming of tall trees and the hot smell of pine in the summer. The way the sun glares down between the leaves on the trail and the dust motes you kick up when you walk, how they float and sparkle giving the view below a spectacular sheen.

I'm dreaming of walking the roads of my childhood, showing Mr. E the sights and sounds and smells and tastes of summers spent with my grandmother. He won't know what it felt like to roll in her water bed or eat at our favorite Mexican food place, but I can still show him the playground I conquered with my siblings and the magic of the river trail at twilight.

I am counting down the days until I hit pause and all of the laundry and the protocol-writing and the job-searching will wait for us. The world will be on our time. Imagine what that would be like.