Day 7: Thanks A Lot, Denzel Washington

A few months ago, in an attempt to watch all of the cinematic contenders nominated for the coveted 'Best Picture' Oscar, I watched the Denzel Washington movie 'Flight'. Which turned out to be a really, really bad idea.

I hate flying. I always have. The whole concept of  being suspended thousands of feet above the ground in a heavy, steel, airless death trap is both unnatural and enough to trigger an anxiety attack. I spend entire flights in a white-knuckled state of panic, my mind churning as I wonder when and how we're going to go down.
Many, many people have tried to convince me that flying is safer than driving and that pilots undergo years of training and very rarely spend their flights taking shots of tequila and pinching flight attendant's booties, but their assurances fall of deaf ears. Flying is safer than driving a car? Really? The one thing I can give flying over driving is that teenaged girls aren't allowed to do it, which probably makes it marginally safer, at least in one respect. Other than that, I have my doubts. And I've had them long before Denzel came along and freaked me out even more than I already was.

Because my fear of flying boarders on phobia, it's easy for me to become obsessed with crashes. I wonder why they happened and what I would do if I was in that situation. And yesterday's 747 crash in San Francisco is no exception.

While the cause of the crash still remains largely unknown, most news sites are instead drawing attention to the fact there was minimal loss of life and injury for such a scary crash (2 dead and 3 injured out of the 305 people on board). In fact, the crew is being praised for their quick thinking and downright Un-Denzel approach to getting people off of the plane as seen in the many images and videos captured by passengers (which, against my better judgement I watched many times over with a mixture of terror and fascination that people would have their wits about them enough to record anything at all during a time like that). So far, the suspect fault is in the flight instruments rather than human error.

So here's my question: If flying really is safer than driving a car (which I really, really don't get, see above re: steel death trap) shouldn't flight instruments be a little more accurate and/or user friendly? I mean, come on.  We  have TVs that listen to voice commands and can print out brain splints on 3D printers, but we can't come up with a better way to land a plane? Really? I don't get it. Sometimes I genuinely feel like we're largely wasting our capacity for amazing, life-changing technology. I'd trade Ipads, Vine, and smart phones for safety any day.

In the meantime, my heart goes out to the victims and families, as well as the crew and passengers on board who had to endure such a terrifying ordeal. Going through something of that magnitude is literally my worst nightmare personified.

I think I'll keep both of my feet on the ground, thank you very much.

Day 6: The Least Wonderful Time Of The Year

This is always a rough time of the year for me and this year is no exception.

Six years ago today, one of the most important women in my life (and the lives of many others) left the world way too soon. And as cheesy and cliche as it sounds, I haven't been the same since.

One of the cruelest things about life is how our minds eventually betray us by forgetting things that we desperately want to remember. If I close my eyes, I can see my Grandma, happy and healthy, humming to herself while she cooked or sitting on the porch of my grandparents house with a book, as clear as if I saw her yesterday. But then it starts to get fuzzy. I already can't remember what she sounded like or smelled like, or what it felt like to be in the same room with her. I never wanted to lose those tactile memories, but I somehow did anyway, which feels cruel and unfair.

Today's post is actually a repost of a blog that I wrote last summer. I had never really talked about my Granny's passing much, but when I sat down to write this blog, it all came rushing out of me. I wrote it faster than anything else I've ever written and sobbed the whole way through (terrifying my husband and kids). When I finished, I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off of me. It didn't bring her back (obviously) but it was surprisingly cathartic and reminded me that the world keeps spinning, even in the shadows of our greatest personal tragedies. Because of this blog, I was finally able to focus on the good memories and start to move on, though I will always love my Granny and I look forward to the day that we meet again.

And I like to think that that's exactly what she would want.

Day 5: Guest Blog #1 Adam Foster

Now it's time for my first brave guest blogger. And who better to risk eternal internet association than the person who is destined (or doomed, depending on how you look at it) to be associated with me forever, my best friend in the whole world. Adam Foster.

I'm convinced that sometimes you meet the most important people in your life under the most mundane of circumstances, and that couldn't be more true for Adam and I. We met and became BFFs sixteen years ago all because we had a random conversation about gum, of all things. Adam has been a constant in my life. A great friend, an honest opinion, and a great test to see if a guy I was dating was a keeper or not (you might not be surprised to learn that most guys are rather intimidated by their girlfriend having a smart, attractive, straight, male best friend but the good ones never are). Adam is the reason I survived high school and he helps me survive my current day-to-day parenting woes, despite the fact that he now lives 500 miles away. Adam is one of the funniest, most honest, most sincere people I know and on top of all of those great qualities, he's also a movie lover who really knows his stuff (let's put it this way, if he sees something and says it's good, it's good. Trust him). Because of his eternal love for all things Tinseltown, he kindly provided me with his thoughts on why Tim Burton and Johnny Depp sure seem to um...like each other a lot. That and my constant nagging really works on him. Enjoy.

The Ultimate Bromance By Adam Foster

The 1990 film Edward Scissorhands was in pre-production and Tom Cruise was favored for the title character until the audition of a listless television star changed everything. Not only for the film, but also the lives of director Tim Burton and his new lead actor, Johnny Depp. The names Johnny Depp and Tim Burton have become synonymous with each other so much so that it approaches absurdity. Over the past two decades, Depp and Burton have collaborated on 8 films, most of which can be characterized as strange and absurd. Absurdity is undoubtedly a common thread between the two men. According to Burton it is this strange and abstract partnership on which they both thrive. 

 

In the book Burton on Burton, Depp addresses the working relationship he and Burton have developed over the years: “I know very deeply that Tim trusts me, which is an amazing blessing, but that is not to say that I am not always paralytic with the fear of letting him down. In fact, that is first and foremost in my thinking as I am approaching the character. The only elements that keep me sane are my knowledge of his trust, my love for him, and my profound and eternal trust in him, coinciding with my hefty yearning to never disappoint him.” Depp is allowed the freedom to add quirks, personality traits, dialogue, and any other additions he deems fitting for his character. It is this freedom that makes working with Burton so exciting and challenging for Depp. 

Over the course of reading a number of articles, it is obvious the respect and admiration Depp and Burton have for one another. Their personal relationship is so close that Depp is the godfather of Burton’s son, Billy Ray Burton. The success of their professional relationship is unquestionable as well; their first seven films have grossed over two billion dollars worldwide. Yes, BILLION. Now that’s a true bromance.

Day 4: Public Service Announcement

For weeks now, they've been slowly popping up all over my town and the state at large. The white vinyl tents that flap noisily in the hot, dry air look innocent and even celebratory. But for anyone living in the oven that is New Mexico, those tents are much more ominous than they initially appear. And every year, seeing them pop up is synonymous with a nervous pit in my stomach, as visions of wildfires run through in my head.

I can't help it. Maybe it's because  I live in New Mexico, which tends to feel more like the surface of the sun than the Land of Enchantment any given summer's day and I've been trained to avoid anything that could potentially result in a raging fire. Or maybe it's the recent tragic loss of 19 firefighters in Arizona that makes me wonder if seeing sparkly fire in the sky this year is really worth potentially creating a giant wildfire and causing really brave people to lose their lives as a result. As someone who is too scared to even light a match, I have nothing but admiration for firefighters for doing a job that I would be way, way too chicken to ever do. So let's cut them a break and allow them a holiday where they don't have to worry about potentially losing their lives. Because come on. Take a look outside. It looks like a giant Triscuit cracker out there. Use your brain.

And while I'm up here on my soapbox, can I also suggest that we stop shooting guns into the air on the 4th of July? I have never, for the life of me, understood why people do that. It seems pretty pointless to me. And then I read this article today which broke my heart and made me think, more than ever, that it just isn't worth it.

I wish everyone out there a happy 4th of July, but let's not celebrate our independence from Britain by lighting our state on fire, accidentally shooting someone, or blowing off a finger because you could have sworn that cherry bomb was further away. Instead, let's all just eat too much and float lazily in swimming pools, coated in SPF 900 as we leave the fireworks and subsequent noise to the professionals.

The way our forefather's intended.

Day 3: Playground Perils

Sometimes I just don't understand other people's kids. Actually, I just don't understand other kid's parents.

The other day, in a rare moment of alone time, Ben and I decided to go to the playground. Ben, who doesn't know the meaning of the word shy, ran straight into the action while I settled myself on a bench to keep an eye on him. For awhile, all was peaceful. And then I noticed her, a seemingly innocuous little girl in a tie die shirt and denim skirt, with big eyes and bouncing pigtails. She looked like a completely harmless, run-of-the-mill six or seven-year-old. Except she wasn't.

Within a ten minute span this completely innocent-looking little girl reeked absolute havoc on the formerly fun, harmless playground. She pushed a kid off a swing, pushed another kid off of the slide, stuck her foot out and tripped three kids (including Ben), screamed at the small kids to do what she told them to do, and I'm 98% sure that she told an older kid to 'Eat shit'. All the while, the guy who was 'watching' her never glanced up from his phone. Not once.

In the meantime, Ben was becoming increasingly terrified of this little tornado of terror. He didn't know what to do with himself. He kept turning around and looking at me with big eyes and quivering lips, like he couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong. It was hard to watch. And he wasn't the only one. I noticed a few of the other parents looking uncomfortably in the direction of the (oblivious) man, hoping that he would suddenly spring into action and tell this kid to knock it off, but he remained transfixed to his phone. In the meantime, the whole situation was starting to look like a problem that was too big for Ben to handle. He needed reinforcement. Mommy reinforcement. I couldn't just sit there anymore. I had to say something.

I thought briefly about saying something to the little girl herself before common sense kicked in and I realized that that probably wasn't a very smart idea. Instead, I turned my attention to Ben and reminded him to share the playground and to be nice to his friends (and Ben, who wasn't doing anything wrong and clearly didn't follow my smooth, CIA-quality trickery, looked at me like I had lost my mind). I smiled at his little pig-tailed aggressor, hoping to convey that I was a nice lady, but I knew what was up and I was watching her. She returned the gesture by sticking her tongue out at me. Charming.

I swallowed my urge to stick out my tongue out at her, and went back to my bench instead where I considered my options. I figured I had two choices. I could say something to this guy, who clearly didn't give two craps about what this kid was doing or who she was doing it to, or I could let it go. After a mental pros and cons list and copious amounts of nail-biting, I decided to let it go.

And it's been bugging me ever since. But it's not the bullying, or the bossiness, or the obscenities, or even a seven-year-old sticking her tongue out at me that bothers me, it's the fact that the person who should have cared obviously didn't.

I'm laughably far from being a perfect parent, and it's obviously none of my business how someone else raises their kids. But it's just beyond me to not care about what your kid is doing at all, especially when your kid is currently beating up half of the playground. Pay attention. Look up from your phone every once in awhile. Engage. Because eventually your poor attention deprived kid is going to grow up to be a poor attention deprived adult, and nobody likes that guy. The world doesn't need another mean, broken adult, it needs nice, decent people (preferably ones that excel at science and can figure out a way to reverse global warming) that can keep the whole world from going down the toilet. Or at least slow down the process.

I don't mean to sound preachy (even though I realize that I probably do), but I just don't understand being indifferent to your kid in any way, even in a small way like not paying attention when you could easily be paying attention. I'm more of a 'hovering' parent but in my defense, I learned from the best (to this day, if you're in the bathroom at my mom's house for more than 30 seconds, she will knock on the door and offer you Pepto). If I was a superhero, my catchphrase would be "Be careful!". I'm sure that someday when my kids are 30 and calling me to ask if it's safe to walk across the street, I'll regret being like this. But I'll worry about that later. Even if this guy on the playground wasn't the person responsible for this little girl, he was still entrusted with taking care of her and he was doing a really crappy job. I'm sorry, but he was.

Even as I sit here writing this, I still wonder if letting it go was actually the right thing to do. Should I have said something? Would it have made a difference? Or am I the one that's wrong, sitting here and obsessing instead of letting my kids handle their own problems? Should we focus on teaching our kids how to be tough to survive in a tough world, and is everyone who's trying to raise compassionate kids actually doing them a huge injustice in the long run? I just don't know.

Well. So much for a fun day at the playground. It's a jungle out there.

Day 2: Life Lessons From 30 Rock

If there's one thing that you should know about me, it's that Liz Lemon is my spirit animal.

If that sentence means nothing to you, then you probably haven't watched enough 30 Rock in your life and I am both really sad for you and more than willing to help you amend that problem. 30 Rock is my favorite show and I think that it's one of the funniest, smartest, most amazing show to have ever graced my eyeballs A big part of my love for 30 Rock is Tina Fey (Liz Lemon). Tina Fey is my hero. I would do anything to work for her, even if my job entailed lying across puddles so she could walk on my back and not get her shoes wet. I would be that person. And then I would brag about it in my Christmas newsletter (I don't actually have a Christmas newsletter, currently, but if I was Tina Fey's personal puddle coverer, you can bet I'd start one). And Tina is only one of the many talented people that worked for the show. Personally, I am equal parts awed and envious of the insane talent of every single 30 Rock writer and am probably making an idiot out of myself trying to impress one on Twitter as you read this. I would have killed to be one of those writers.

Unfortunately the show ended earlier this year, but it will always remain one of my favorites. Not only is it always hilarious, often ridiculous and frighteningly on-point, it has also provided me with many essential life lessons:


Lesson #10: Patience Is a Virtue

Lesson #9: The Art of Small Talk

Lesson #8: How To Get Out of Jury Duty

Lesson #7: The Importance of Proper Grammar

Lesson #6: You Are Nothing Without Your Principals

Lesson #5: How Corporate America Really Works

Lesson #4: The Importance Of Self-Respect

Lesson #3: It's Important To Maintain a Healthy Diet

Lesson #2: There Is Nothing More Disgusting Than The Word 'Lovers'

#1: We Are All Hopelessly Flawed

30 Rock. They did it all.

*Even Mr. Burns Loves Tina Fey

31 Days Of Diva, Day 1: Holy Crap, What Am I Doing?

While I love to write, I'm not exactly known for my speed. I average about 2 blogs per month and most of the time, I'm okay with that. But lately, it's starting to feel like a problem.

When I read about something crazy or have an intense life experience,I immediately want to write about it. It doesn't take a lot to get me fired up about something that I care about, and when my mind is racing my writing always starts out strong and passionate. Which is a good, right? Well not exactly, because just as I'm really getting on a roll and gaining momentum, neurosis kicks in and I turn into a pacing, anxious, sweaty "should I use 'an' or 'the' because if I don't get it right, this whole blog will suck" bumbling, self-editing mess. Basically, my nerves get the best of me and I end up tossing the whole idea. Or worse, I have a really great idea that actually comes to fruition, but it comes two weeks later when no one cares about the issue anymore (since the average adult American has the attention span of a drunk toddler) because I lingered just a little too long. Case in point, one of my blogs about an issue that I feel strongly about. Because it was such a personal issue for me, I wanted it to be just right and I was especially picky about it. Actually, I wanted it to be perfect. And while I love how this blog eventually turned out, I took too much time mulling it over while a billion other non-personal, watered down versions were plastered all over the virtual pages of The Huffington Post. I'm not delusional enough to think that could have been me HuffPosting it up, but damn it, it could have been me Huffposting it up. You know what I mean. And I don't know if it's having a busy life or possibly having adult ADD, but when it comes to thinking on my toes I....well. Don't. So I started thinking that I needed something that would help me get my act together and basically scare my thoughts into obedience, and I came up with a possible solution. A challenge.

For the month of July (31 days) I am going to post a blog every day, in hopes that my over-analyzing, painstaking, one-woman Woody Allen impersonation will end. But because 31 days is a whole lot of me, I'm going to break up the month with one guest blog per week (because, amazingly, I was able to scrounge up four very talented people who were willing to have their name associated with mine for all of eternity on the internet). Some of the blogs will be shorter than what I usually write (see above Re: 31 days is a whole lot of me) and there's a good chance that I will be writing about something completely off-the-wall at 11:52 AM in a blind, sweaty panic trying to make my daily deadline. I know that an online challenge isn't exactly the world's most original idea, as half of my Facebook friend list has attempted some form of music/photography/yoga-twice-a-day challenge. But I'm not looking for originality, I'm looking for discipline. And I'm hoping that this experience will help me think (and write) on my toes more, which I think would be beneficial for any field of writing that I may eventually (read: hopefully) wind up in. And of course, I hope that the whole world (insofar as all of the lovely people who read this blog) won't get completely tired of me and feel nothing but relief when my crazy shenanigans come to an end.

Did I mention that I'm terrified? Terrified that I'll be boring, or repetitive, or just in a perpetual state of sweaty, anxious fear for the entire month of July. But I'm determined. I will complete this challenge, or die trying. Let's just hope it doesn't come to that. 

Let's also hope that I can manage to be entertaining, engaging, and intelligent. And that if all goes well, I will NOT end up sounding like this:

Okay. Let's do this.