BlogHer, Here I Come!

Posted on July 31, 2012 by erin

Please excuse the ringing phone and answering machine in the background. Oops.

Check out the post/vlog via Fadra Nally I mentioned HERE.

 

Posted in vlog | Tagged , , , , , , | 24 Comments

Confessions From a Neurotic BlogHer Newbie

Posted on July 23, 2012 by erin

I’m hooking up today with Jana about BlogHer, the upcoming conference I’ll be attending with 4,500 other bloggers. I have killer roommates: Elaine, Jennifer, and Tracy. I just hope they don’t hate me after two hours. Fortunately Elaine has roomed with me before (Blissdom), so if I was that bad she wouldn’t do it again?

Let’s just say I have a lot of anxiety to begin with. And going to a conference of this magnitude has my adrenaline running at an all-time high. Frankly, if you read the following list of what I’m afraid of, you’ll probably laugh. But first you have to read Fadra’s awesome post (including snort-worthy vlog) about The Top 10 Faces of BlogHer. After reading the rest of this, it shouldn’t be hard to figure out which one(s) = me.

  • I’m nervous you’ll approach me and I won’t immediately recognize you (see Fadra’s post). Or you won’t look like your avatar. Or your avatar isn’t your name. Which is why I will likely post some current photos or perhaps a short vlog later this week so that at least you’ll recognize me?
  • I’m terrified I’ll miss all the sessions I’m dying to get into because seats will fill up too fast. And then there’s standing room only and I’ll be claustrophobic and trying to squeeze myself in somehow and will step on people’s feet and put my ass in their faces and apologize over and over as I tromp towards a tiny corner.
  • What if I stink up the bathroom in the middle of the night due to nerves and all my roommates shun me? (yes, matches, I know, but still….)
  • I’m a sweater. Not a J. Crew sweater or a Gap sweater. I mean I sweat. When I’m in panic mode. When I’m rushing around. When you make me nervous or I feel like I don’t belong, I sweat. So I may roar as you approach, “DON’T TOUCH ME, I’M SWEATY!”
  • I’m going to Pathfinder Day. What if I can’t find my path?
  • I can’t dance. Thus the idea of Sparklecorn makes me sweaty. However, Alex and Shosh have promised to show me their moves. The video alone (see below) makes me bubble up with excitement!
  • This conference is so huge I’m worried I won’t get to meet everyone I want to. And even if I do, I’m behind on your blogs. So I’m stressed that you’ll hate me if I didn’t read that your little one is walking or that you scored a job in LA or that you’re pregnant or you miscarried or that your dog died or you got engaged or you were on tv for your new book. These things are important. YOU are important. I don’t expect everyone to know or remember everything about me, and I just pray you feel the same. Please tell me you do?
  • I’m scared I’ll want to disappear. Blissdom was one thing, but BlogHer is…so much bigger. But I’m going. And dammit, I’m gonna dance.

Like this:

MamaPop Sparklecorn 2010 from The Panic Room Videos on Vimeo.

Go HERE to view MamaPop’s Sparklekorn video from BlogHer ’11.

Posted in Musings | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 53 Comments

Evolving as a Writer or Calling Bullshit: Guest Post by Sherry Carr-Smith

Posted on July 20, 2012 by erin

 

 

 

 

Sherry Carr-Smith

Sherry Carr-Smith is a wife, mom, PR counselor, re-married widow, crafter and writer. She’s been writing online in some form or another since the 1990s and now blogs at Paper, Scissors, Keyboard. All her writing before the late 1990s is in angst-filled notebooks that are best left packed away. So much angst. Sherry now writes on very important topics such as her obsession with nail polish, mildly important topics such as the way she expected life to turn out, and actual important topics such as navigating life as a widow. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll be convinced that she’s cray cray. And you’ll learn way more about her awesome sons than even their grandmothers want to know.

You can find Sherry on Twitter (@prCarrS) and on Pinterest. And a few more tidbits about her are HERE.

*****

The first person to call bullshit on my writing was Mrs. Patterson. We had to write a book. A real book that would go in the school library after we’d written and illustrated it. A hard-covered book with an actual library card in the back where the little kids at Odem Elementary School could sign their names and take it home. The only drawback? I was an inattentive sixth grader. I charmed all the other teachers and got away with it while still getting good grades. But Mrs. Patterson was sneaky. She did that thing that good teachers do, where she let you know that it’s fine if you’re lazy - because decent writing can get an A — but, it’s not about the grade, it’s about doing your best. What was I supposed to do with that? I’d ripped off Goldilocks and The Three Bears with a perfectly acceptable story and stayed within the guidelines of the assignment. But I humored her and started over. Because I decided to, not because she made me doubt my ways. So I actually wrote a story (I kept the bears theme though, because they were already drawn). And my first book, “Let’s Go To The Dump,” was born. These two mischievous bear cubs accidentally left the zoo via garbage truck and had to navigate home. Not only was Mrs. Patterson proud of me, but I was proud of myself. I was never a bum in her class again.

The second person to challenge my writing work ethic was Professor Smith. She was the first professor I had to write for in college and I became indifferent again. Or maybe I just expected her to take my good-for-high-school writing as good enough for her class. And although this was a literature class and we focused on the analysis of the work, she nevertheless expected good writing. Expectations from an incredibly smart female professor are intimidating, especially for an inherently lazy person. Thank goodness she gave us three chances with each paper. She’d read it, give us her critique, and let us fix it. If she’d gone with the first version of the first three papers I’d turned in, I would’ve failed the class. When I turned in the third paper, she called me to her office. Which scared the shit out of me. The gist of the conversation was that she was waiting. Waiting? Waiting for me to be good. Because she saw good in bits and pieces, and she was tired of waiting for an entire paper of good. She was very matter-of-fact about it, and I think that was the key for me. If she’d yelled or failed me, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. But saying that she knew it was there and that it would be coming out soon made me believe her.

The third person to change my writing was Dr. Martha Saunders. She helped me hone my craft. Saunders was my first Public Relations professor and had the daunting task of making me see my writing as more than word count (I’ll never understand why a professor would *want* more words to read). She taught me that my writing needed to be “tight and bright.” I had her as a teacher almost 15 years ago, and I use that mantra every single day in both my professional and personal writing. Her tough love and high expectations were such a turning point for me. If you follow me on Twitter, you have Dr. Saunders to thank for the amazing conversation I provide. Heh.

I don’t know what kind of writer I’d be - or if I’d even be writing - if it weren’t for these people. Most of what I write is tighter and brighter because of them. I’m content with my first book being my only book, and I’m certain that the only writing I’ll do for the rest of my life will be for work and for myself. I’m glad I can be proud of myself for not being lazy (most of the time), for letting the good parts outweigh the bad, and for editing my words so that that ones I choose are more powerful. Thank goodness for teachers with high expectations!

Posted in Guest Posts, Show Us Your Roots Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

On Shrinkage & Shoulders

Posted on July 18, 2012 by erin

*what follows is a blast from the past…a 2+ year-old post I’ve buffed up a bit. It should seem brand new to many of you!*

After my college graduation ceremony, my mom and her sister came back to my dorm room to help me finish packing to move back home. My Auntie Maureen had a fabulous idea: she took the purple sheets off of my bed, spread them on the floor and began tossing my clothes, shoes, notebooks, cd’s and whatever else she could find on top of them. Then we wrapped the sheets up, twisted the ends and hauled the bulging Santa-like sacks out to the parking lot.

My ornery grandfather and one of my brothers were already waiting for us there in my small car. Mom and Auntie Mo sat in front and I sat in the back in the middle (I was in no shape to drive, having just said a tearful goodbye to my then boyfriend), flanked by Grandpa on one side and my brother, Kevin, on the other. As soon as Mom careened the car onto I-55 Grandpa started jabbing me with his bony elbow.

“Move over,” he grumbled at me.

“Grandpa, there’s not a ton of room back here, I’m doing the best I can,” I assured him, scrunching myself up smaller to appease him. Annie Altima wasn’t a large car.

After more grunting and grumbling, he says it, words I can’t forget:

“Well maybe if your shoulders weren’t so broad and you weren’t so big,” he barked.

Mom’s eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. Don’t listen to him, they said. But it was too late.

I’d never noticed my broad shoulders before, but ever since I catch myself: hunching, shrinking to fit, trying to make myself smaller. More agreeable. Passive. Quiet. Invisible. All because of a thoughtless comment uttered years ago.

I won’t do it anymore. For anyone.

No one can step on me anymore.

No one can whittle me down or force me to fit into a perfect little box.

This marks the end of an era. It’s been a long time coming.

I will not shrink to fit.

I will be loud and big-shouldered and sensitive and smart and BOLD. Too much time spent trying to cram myself into spaces not meant for me-has cracked me, like an eggshell. And there inside lies not a perfectly round yellow yolk, but instead one that’s been pierced, gutted, its form spilling out into the space around it.

I cannot be contained. I cannot be kept. I cannot be made to bear your weight on my too-broad shoulders. I’m strong, but I don’t need extra burdens.

I am not one thing. I am all things. I am a metamorphosis.

These big, broad, freckled shoulders are mine. I own them. And they hurt from hunching too much.

I’m done with that.

Toss me that racerback tank, yo.

Racerback

photo credit

Posted in My Non-Fiction | Tagged , , , , , | 10 Comments

Who Me? I’m Totally Comfortable With Aging: Guest Post By Cindy Reed

Posted on July 18, 2012 by erin

Cindy Reed is a wife, mom, educator, blogger, and part-time grownup who has been writing at The Reedster Speaks since she refused to name her 2012 resolutions on December 31, 2011. She writes about such Pulitzer-worthy topics as getting her ass kicked in old people yoga, burning her neck during laser hair removal, failing to become a juicing fanatic, and why one should not repeatedly discuss vagina cookies in business meetings with new people. She wears actual pants as little as possible, Cindy has been chosen crowd favorite, Editor’s Choice, and Lurker’s Choice in the Yeah, Write blogging challenge. She lives with her long-suffering husband Matt, their girls, adopted from China and Ethiopia, and two ill-trained dogs in Asheville, North Carolina.

*****

This guy I used to date woke up once and said to me, “Man, I had the weirdest dream last night.” And I immediately thought: How can I flee? Or feign sleep? Or gnaw my arm off to escape because, seriously? Listening to people talk animatedly about their dreams is right up there with having my third grader explain the ever-shifting “rules” to the Harry Potter game they play at recess. I occasionally flick my eyes in her direction while I power through the morning lunch-making assembly line, uttering affirmative noises from time to time to mask my inattention, and I am always busted by failing to answer some question that would have required me to listen. So I say, “Oh, I thought that was rhetorical.” Which used to work, but now she knows what a rhetorical question is. I lose.

Anyway, this boyfriend is all “Yeah, I was sitting on the steps out front, by the sidewalk, and I was peeling an orange.”

And THAT’S IT. That was the dream.

So of course I broke up with him immediately because clearly he had no inner life. Or else I dated him for another year until he obviously no longer had any interest in me but still I kept clinging to him because my life would otherwise have no meaning and then he broke my heart. It escapes me now exactly how that all played out.

And then, this week, I realized that I HAVE BECOME THAT DUDE. My dreams are so pedestrian that I don’t even deserve REM sleep anymore. Actual dreams I have recently had:

• Stephen Colbert becomes my friend and can’t believe I am the same age as him because I look so youthful.

• Variation No. 1: I am in the studio audience of The Colbert Report when he points this out.

• Variation No. 2: Jon Stewart is on the show that night and also expresses his surprise at my age because I look so youthful.

I know. I can’t imagine what these dreams mean either. I need some serious Jungian analysis to sort this shit out. It couldn’t possibly mean that I’m (gasp) . . . SHALLOW?

Certainly I’m not obsessed with famous people. Me? I never daydream about sitting down on the talk show couches for my big book tour. I never plan out my light banter with the hosts and imagine how I will charm the audience with my off-the-cuff witty stories. That would be so junior high. I mean, it’s not like I’m a teen girl screaming for David Cassidy or whoever’s all the rage these days. (Is it Leif Garrett now? I lose track.)

Nor, clearly, am I preoccupied with my looming 47th birthday. I’m totally comfortable with the “eleven”-shaped vertical creases between my brows that no longer only appear when I’m pissed. I never surf the web and price out Botox injections, then wonder which of my kids’ after-school activities I could throw in the crapper in order to afford them. And the self-facelift? Where you painfully yank your skin back into your hairline with your index fingers? Nope. I’m not familiar with that.

Oh, no. I’m embracing this next stage of life. I’m all an-old-woman-wearing-purple and telling it like it is. I’m down with this aging thing.

But that Porcelana cream to lighten age spots that they used to advertise during All My Children? Suddenly that shit looks like the bomb.

I mean, I know growing older is a privilege, the 40s are the new 30s, it’s never too late, blah, blah, blah. I just always thought I would be so much cooler about it, all “I earned these motherfucking wrinkles!” and “These gray hairs tell stories of hardship and woe, people!”

Instead, I’m dreaming about famous people validating my youthfulness, like a desperate housewife, but lacking in the funds to do any “maintenance.”

So here’s my plan. I keep acting like I’m twelve forever. Because God knows, I’ve got that down pat. That’s staring age in the face and laughing at it, right? Certainly it’s not just immature, is it? Nah. Plus, I’m pretty sure a juvenile-acting pushing-50 lady is just the sort person to fill the BFF-shaped hole in Stephen Colbert’s life.

Follow Cindy’s blog HERE.

Follow Cindy on Twitter HERE.

Follow her on Facebook HERE.

Posted in Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 31 Comments

Our Story to Tell : Guest Post by Alexandra Rosas-Schultze

Posted on July 17, 2012 by erin

Alexandra Rosas of Good Day Regular People

 

Alexandra is a first-generation American who writes memoir and humor for various websites. She posts on her personal blog Good Day, Regular People of life in a small town as the mother of three boys. Alexandra was named a 2011 BlogHer Voice of The Year/Humor and 2012 Most Interesting Blogger and Best Female Blogger by Studio30Plus, an online writing community. She proudly presented alongside Molly Ringwald as part of the nationally acclaimed The Moth Live Storyteller’s Tour, and not once asked her about the dress in Pretty in Pink. You can catch Alexandra next at BlogHer ’12 speaking on “Blogging for the Love of It.“

*****

On a cold, wet, windy day last February, I knew I was going to be taking one of the biggest steps in my life. I never thought it would turn into one of the biggest turning points in my life.

Growing up in a home where anything unpleasant or of a mental issue was never spoken of, I had somehow been brainwashed into accepting the cult of “don’t talk about it, don’t tell about it, don’t think about it.” I never questioned why, I simply lived by this unspoken rule; but by middle age, the weight of all the secrets inside of me were breaking me. I could feel the enormity of millions of words, kept tightly sealed inside for 40 years pounding through every minute of my day.

I could never stop the mental chatter, the undercurrent of not being known, truly known, by anyone in my life. I could feel the pulse of the need to begin my life over, as a woman who no longer had to watch what she said, of the secret life she had to keep under cover. I wanted the weight of the unspoken lifted off of me, sent out into the universe, and to have my feet free to walk the steps of a person who no longer looks over her shoulder in case someone should ask too many questions or wonder too many things about my family.

On February 25, I was going to read, publicly, about the biggest secret my family kept. One we were never told to not speak about, yet somehow this code of behavior was supposed to have been understood. I would be auditioning for a show called Listen To Your Mother, and I would be reading about my father taking his life when I was six-years-old.

Somehow, I assumed that this story was mine to tell.

It was my life.

But after I had auditioned for the show and been invited to be part of the cast, and the live reading was taped and put up on youtube, I would find out a few weeks later that 2/3 of my family would alienate me for talking about my life, for telling my story.

There was a finality to their decision, and their voices were firm as they told me on the phone, “This was our secret to keep in the family. It was understood that no one was to know about this. It was agreed that we would keep this in the family. It pains us to have you talk about this.”

I had agreed to nothing, ever. I had inherited their bond of silence since childhood and was now disowning it. As much as it pains them that I’ve talked about this, it pains me even more to not talk about this. No one has the right to tell anyone what they can write about, what they can’t write about, what they can speak of, or talk about.

I am determined, I am brave, I am going to keep on speaking about my life and claim it. Because it is my story to tell.

Just as it is their story to not tell, it is my story to tell.

Because this is my life.

Posted in Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 55 Comments

Her Life Reminds Me : Guest Post by Julia Roberts

Posted on July 16, 2012 by erin

Julia Roberts

Julia Roberts married into the name. In case you didn’t know, (the famous) Julia Roberts will not call your establishment to make her own tire rotation appointment or to argue about her cell phone charges. A geneticist’s dream, she helped produce two cute kids with a rare syndrome that includes a vision disorder and a kidney disease; resulting in weirdly moving eyes and kidney transplants for both at the age of eight. Julia speaks to groups on topics about navigating life as a special needs family. She blogs at Kidneys and Eyes and created a social networking site for special needs families, Support for Special Needs. She writes for sites like Aiming Low and Hopeful Parents. You can find her on twitter as @juliaroberts1 or @supportSN.

Her Life Reminds Me

It’s a typical summer day. Our neighborhood pool is gearing up for a swim meet. I’m volunteering and dragging along a small cooler, chair and my patience. My daughter, Quinnlin, has been on the swim team for five years. Well, this is her fifth, which is an important year because she’ll be awarded the 5-year blue towel with her name stitched in gold. Owning a coveted team towel is a rite of passage with the kids on this team. Serious stuff.

There are over 100 families doing exactly the same thing this summer at our pool. The same parents who’ve driven their kids countless times to practice and bought new swim suits and tried to figure out schedules for afternoon practices and weekly swim meets. Our season is only five meets plus two county meets long so it’s nearly over as quickly as it starts.

It’s amazing to me that five years ago when Quinnlin started this team she’d just learned to jump on two feet. She’d only been really walking without a walker for two years. She would still not be able to skip for another three years or so. She was front toothless from having fallen so much without the reflexes in her little arms to protect her face. She was, much to my delight, joyously happy with her wobbly, toothless, swimming self.

Quinnlin

She was also in kidney failure due to the recessive form of Polycystic Kidney Disease or ARPKD. Quinnlin ended her second swimming season, in 2009; with a date for a kidney transplant and on her eighth birthday she received one from a (really, really good) family friend, like her brother who had a transplant two years prior.

As I watch my daughter swim in the heat of the Georgia sun, it occurs to me that there are many people who take this summer league very seriously. It’s annoying enough for me to witness bad parent behavior and take note of it more than a few times and I started thinking about my daughter and her vulnerable little life.

Quinnlin is not a fast swimmer. She’s usually in the last heat, meaning her times are around the slowest on the team. She gets all different kinds of colored ribbons for her efforts and at least once a season she’s received a blue ribbon for her heat. She is most undoubtedly a team player and loves being social and connected to this community of kids. She is just like the other swimmers in that she is nervous before meets, wants to do her best, and enjoys the morning-after-meet donut and ribbon party.

In the past I’ve witnessed Quinnlin’s endless suffering, her tireless efforts to keep up with her peers developmentally and physically and her buoyancy in living life after being ill for so long and it strikes me that that my annoyance with other parents’ bad behavior isn’t about them at all.

It’s about me (not) letting their behavior bother me. It’s a reminder about what is truly important to me, to my family. It’s about being grateful your child can get in a pool without catheters because of dialysis, sit among friends and hold crayons to color, or walk around the concrete of a pool deck that is too hot for her feet. It’s about celebrating the girl who now walks unassisted after years of practice, who tries her very best and is so proud to know that we’ve watched her swim. “Did you see me?” she’ll say. It’s about raising a good sport and a happy, healthy-as-she-can-be kid who is engaged in life.

The memories of pushy swim parents wash away when I think of Quinnlin walking up to the starting blocks and looking through the crowd to find me to make sure I’m watching. Then she waves. Smiles.

Nothing else matters.

 

Please read these other notable posts Julia’s written:

A Significant Friendship

The Anatomy of Swinging

On This Day of Suicide Prevention I Remember

Posted in Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 15 Comments

the first and the last

Posted on July 15, 2012 by erin

it feels like the first time.

the first time holding a chubby baby in my arms. rolls and dimples and bits of her last meal hiding in the folds of her neck.

lost in her soft sighs and murmurs, feeling her warmth, her heartbeat. nuzzling her, covering her in noisy kisses. gazing at her baby feet in wonder and utter delight. the way she constantly curls her toes slays me. her sweaty, matted hair when she wakes from a nap, tangled in her blanket.

(really it is the first time because last time there was too much juggling. never a chance to stop and relish anything. i could never stop. two babies always needing, always fussing, always wanting me-but never enough of me to go around)

but Piper…is nearly nine months old. soon she won’t want so much snuggling. she’s off crawling, exploring, chasing her puppy dog’s tail. with her cute tushie up in the air.

i’ve been excited to teach her everything.

but i feel time slipping away.

she’s the last. our last baby.

she’s busy watching her big sisters. clapping her hands, smiling with her bottom two teeth, doing the caterpillar crawl.

i want to hold her close all the time. i can’t get enough.

she holds her own bottle now. soon it will be a sippy cup and she won’t need me for anything.

the time is flying. i am grasping at the hands on the clock of her babyhood and begging them to slow down.

please slow down. for the first and the last.

my first, my last. my last chance at motherhood.

Posted in Home + Family, Musings | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 26 Comments

Renee Schuls-Jacobson,Teacher & Twit

Posted on July 13, 2012 by erin

 

Renee of Teachers & Twits

 

 

 

 

The mother to a middle school-aged son, Renée A. Schuls-Jacobson scribbles ideas for essays on napkins and scraps of paper and then loses them. A long-time teacher with an irrational love for office supplies, she is grateful to her family and students who remind her that, even on a good day, she’s still a total twit. Read her blog Teachers & Twits, follow her on Facebook or stalk her on Twitter @rasjacobson.

When I started my career as an English teacher sixty-five bajillion years ago, I assumed I would have plenty of time to write poetry and short stories. Maybe I’d even pump out a novel or two. I figured life as a teacher meant I’d always be exposed to new books and new authors, that I’d always be reading and writing. It was going to be awesome.

How stupid naive I was.

Because high school English teachers are doomed to read the same titles over and over again. And there are always parents to call, clubs to run, curricula to develop, and committees to chair.

But at the time, I believed I could continue to hone my craft while helping others learn how to write five paragraph essays and assisting them as they developed their own emerging writing styles.

In May 2010, while reading research papers composed by students from my Comp-101 class, it happened. I had just finished reading essay number 28 out of a stack of 52. I was checking citation for accuracy — one of the less rewarding aspects of the job description – when a little piece of my brain went on a road-trip.

New Orleans can be creepy at night...

I remembered how I’d once walked along Bourbon Street, alone, after midnight. How I’d felt ghosts flying around me, but I was not afraid. I remembered thinking ghosts do not know what they are, they are just there and go where people cannot.

I looked around for a piece of paper because my right hand needed to move, to make connections in the universe. Something about the ghosts that swirl around us and the elusive nature of love.

Except there was that tall stack of papers to grade.

And my students needed them back so they could revise.

And then I realized — with the exception of hundreds of comments, scribbled in purple in the margins of my students’ papers — I hadn’t composed anything original in ten years.

I didn’t know anything about blogging, per se.

I just knew I wanted a place where I could mess around with words. I wanted to see if I made a space for her, if maybe, just maybe, my muse might come back.

I didn’t think about the title of my blog for more than two minutes. Teachers & Twits made sense because I am both, everyday – as I believe most people are. We all know a lot about a few things and the rest of the time we try not to fall down or do anything too stupid.

I picked the very first theme I found on WordPress, and I have never changed it. And blogging immediately became a serious addiction. Because I can’t stop. I found a community of writers with whom I easily connected, and I am forever meeting new folks whose words inspire me to be a better writer myself.

One of the best things about blogging is the dialogue between the writer and the reader. Your comments are like a watermelon flavored Ring-Pop sandwiched between two Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. And by that, I mean they are sweet and delicious and fat-free. You keep me writing, keep encouraging me that I have something to say, even when I start to doubt myself. You keep me hopeful that someday maybe a few people outside my immediate family might buy the book I’m working so hard to finish. I’m grateful to paper # 28 for being so dull that my brain went elsewhere.

And, I am indebted to the New Orleans ghosts who came to remind me that nothing you truly love has to ever disappear.

Posted in Guest Posts, Show Us Your Roots Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 44 Comments

Of Superstitions…and Lizards: A Guest Post by Vidya Sury

Posted on July 12, 2012 by erin

 

Vidya Sury

Vidya Sury is a freelance writer, professional blogger, a happy mom and a social media enthusiast. She loves coffee, music, photography, cooking and writing about health, DIY and craft projects. Vidya lives in India. She dotes on her son and thinks the sun shines when he smiles. She adores spending time with family and friends and working from home.

She used to carry a mini lipstick carousel, wear four-inch heels and change formal clothes four times a day for her corporate job (15 years ago). Now, she delights in working at home where she carries glue sticks and spare pencils and is able to dress casually and comfortably. Vidya firmly believes that there is a special place in hell for women who won’t help other women. She also has two left feet.

Find her on Twitter: @vidyasury

Find her on Facebook & here’s her fan page.

Her blogs are here, here, and here.

*****

I thought this would be a cool post for tomorrow, considering it will be Friday the 13th - but since a post was already scheduled for that date, I thought hey, why not usher it in with this one. And who knows, you could be reading this on Friday the 13th anyway, eh?

I’ve never believed in superstitions, although I may on occasion, especially when I’m anxious or worried. Like when my mom was in the hospital and I’d think, if that door opened before I counted to ten, she’d be okay, knowing very well that it doesn’t happen that way. Sigh. If the traffic light is green as I approach it, I take it as a good omen.

Still, I’m not crazy about superstitions. No Friday the 13th fears for me, considering I come from a land full of superstitions. Some of them are downright hilarious. For example, one month of the year is considered inauspicious so people usually don’t start new businesses, move, or make big investments, etc. Hmm. And? With newlyweds, the bride is sent to her mother’s house to stay apart from her husband to prevent the chance of them “getting together” and conceiving as a result. Not auspicious. No-o. I’m sure there’s a story behind this but it obviously doesn’t make sense in today’s world.

In 1992, we suddenly had to move, but wherever we went house hunting for a rental, the owners sternly told us there was nothing doing. We had the option of paying rent for that month, and occupying the next month - when the stars were aligned and ready for us. I remember thinking - what if we did move? As it happened, we did. It seemed better to brave the wrath of the stars and move than be stuck on the street with our stuff.

After a month in our new house I got a stupendous job offer. I took it. So much for the “inauspicious” move! I also lost a boyfriend - our relationship was turning toxic and we amicably decided to “remain friends.” As if. Just goes to show you.

We have superstitions about lizards. Geckos are considered sacred. There’s a temple in South India where a massive brass lizard is embedded on the ceiling. There’s a little staircase leading to it so we can go stroke it to - ahem! Get rid of our sins. That’s all fine, but in the house? Can’t stand them. I know it’s inevitable when there are trees around. We have this belief about the effects of a gecko falling on us. I’m sure what really happens is the poor dude loses his balance and falls. And depending upon which part of the body he falls on, there’s a belief attached to it:

  • If on the head - death
  • Face - you’ll soon see relatives
  • Eyebrows - royal favor (eh?)
  • Upper lip (ugh!) - loss
  • Lower lip - gain
  • Nose - sickness
  • Right ear - long life
  • Right arm - health
  • Left arm - sexual enjoyment (oooh yeah!)

I could go on forever. Then there’s the chirping of the lizard - depending on which direction and day of the week, it has various meanings.

The bottom line is that I’m afraid of them. I remember how I woke up one morning and went to the bathroom. I wasn’t wearing my glasses. But you know how it is with us visually challenged folks. We have a seventh sense (or would that be the sixth?) - heh - whatever. I sense this movement - and like I always do, wonder if I had imagined it. Then it turns out, as I stare at that place behind the geyser tank - we have a guest. An unwelcome one. It moved. I was paralyzed. As if it understood my feelings, it sinuously snuck further up. But I couldn’t stand there all day and watch. I had lunches to cook from scratch and boxes to pack. So I just got on with it.

When my husband woke up later, I told him and he laughed. He pretended to bring it out of its hiding place by waving a broom. And that’s about it. Then it raced out of reach. Throughout the day, I kept opening the bathroom to peek in. What I intended to achieve, I don’t know. Maybe I wished it would magically disappear. Eventually it did. We believe that reciting a certain prayer keeps them away. Not. I know the prayer by rote now.

But you can’t beat this superstition: when we leave the house and the first thing we see is a widow or a cat (odd set I know. Meeow!), our mission will be unsuccessful. I don’t endorse this.

We have other beliefs like:

  • No haircuts on Fridays and Tuesdays
  • No sweeping the house after dusk
  • If the right palm is itchy for women, bad news
  • Left palm itchy, good news (also precursor to dry skin)
  • Just as we leave the house, if someone sneezes, woe betides you
  • No payments on Friday
  • Crow cawing? Expect visitors
  • Serious discussion. Lizard chirping. Good omen.
  • Eating sweet yogurt before going out for something important, like an exam, is good.

Then of course, are the broken mirrors, black cats and other stuff that brings bad luck. I have flouted everyone of these. The outcomes were not even remotely unlucky.

My personal take? Have faith in yourself and a higher power. It’s always the right time to do a good deed. Have you noticed how the effort you put in is always directly proportional to how lucky you are?

Do you believe in superstitions? If so, which ones? Leave ‘em in the comments!

Posted in Guest Posts | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments