Results tagged "Writer"

I’m not a few other things too, but I thought I’d start with the obvious…

I find it interesting that although I’m not a writer and tend to read 30 things at the same time, that I find the time to bother the internet with my almost daily observations… And when I say, ‘FIND TIME’, I mean that I lunge for it… like its the only scoop of edamame salad left in the deli case… or the only fresh head of locally grown BIB… or the last remaining, almost ripe avocado on display… And SO WHAT if I’m obsessed with fresh foods and salads? I’m not a farmer OR a produce expert either, but I can damn near TRY, and WHO doesn’t love organic?! But did you know that I can write several paragraphs without ever even considering punctuation? That it is totally and completely unethical among all of those invested in RULES that obsessively practice GRAMMAR ?!?! Boo Hiss Boo… And who do I think I am? Well.. I’m not sure, actually — but I do know that I can type pretty gosh-darn fast without realizing that 2 1/2 hours of my day have been sucked up by the blogosphere… only to be read by some if not shunned by others for the annihilated words that I am forcing down everyone’s throats… one misplaced apostrophe at a time. And I know, we can pull out the swords and dual over writing vs. blogging, but to what end when the result lies in originality via the “written” word. Blogging allows for immediate interaction, personality, SPUNK… and while I’ve never tried to write an essay for the hell of it… I can only imagine my disappointment in not saying it all A LITTLE BIT LOUDER.  Not to mention that I find some sort of comfort here… in writing about delusions, whatnots and boondocks… And yes, just in case you are wondering, I am aware that I am doing it wrong… And, considering that I am surrounded by highly educated individuals… some of which are writers themselves and are overwhelmingly powerful when it comes to VERSE and the almighty SNARK, I really should CARE about the fact that I’m doing it wrong… But I don’t. I don’t care.

I don’t care that I’m not a writer but I’m doing it anyway… And just to prove this fact to myself and everyone else out there that gives two cents, I have invested in myself and will be attending the 2010 BlogHer conference this Friday and Saturday. And I know, who am I kidding…. Me, who hides here, typing away… loving the internet because it allows me to make connections without having to talk to anyone.. I’m actually going to get up, leave this seat and join thousands of other bloggers in New York City… if only to see if I can feel like I’m doing something. If only to attempt to embrace exactly what the hell this thing is that I’ve gotten myself into… If only to finally meet a few individuals face to face (finally) and to find some rational explanation for how and why they find themselves here… with me, but not really. And while I’m there, and before I freeze into a solid block of introverted, overly air-conditioned ice, I do hope to bustle some sense out of all of this… Because time here is too comforting to be considered wasteful, and I never like to throw anything away.

So, while this may be my only post this week as I attempt to wiggle my flip flop addicted feet into the shoes that are currently comfortable, I just want to let it be known that I am fully aware. That although I took a few English classes — I do not have a license  to drive. That my skills in typing and knowledge of design software and editing tools does not a writer make… I’m also aware of what a bad dancer I am, that I can’t parallel park for my life AND that acting like you know something when you really don’t only works when you make yourself believe it first [case-in-point]. And finally, in summing it up because I can totally hear you backing away… When we meet, please don’t mistake my poker face for snobbery… I’m not silently judging you and I barely know how to play Go Fish…  All that’s happening is void, and I’m totally aware of it.

Oh and while we were busy fanning ourselves… We also made Pesto more popular. TODAY.  Yeah, that’s right — stick that in your English Lit. pipe and…

Last week I was out walking with my son and parents in my hometown. It wasn’t too cold and it was before the storm of the century — which just turned out to be a snow storm anyway… We walked over a familiar bridge that crosses over the local train line to Manhattan, and when we came to the top of the stairs to descend… it happened again. Dizzy, ears ringing… pull it together… you’ve stood in this same spot hundreds of times in your life… pull it in.. vision focused. Whew, panic attack averted… but for what?

A few years ago… wait, no – many years ago.. because, right? who am I kidding… We went to Bermuda in the off season. It was Marchish and the island was empty… with the exception of the locals–WHO HATED US. But being full of ourselves we were immune to noticing the discerning “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE NOW” glances. Blame it on ignorance – we were on vacation and dammit, that island was OURS.

One night we were strolling along looking for a nice restaurant when we found the perfect establishment… through the windows we could feel the vibe pulling us in… a tiny little hole in the wall bistro.. people were laughing, the food looked awesome… it was as if there was a vacuum sucking us off the street–we read the menu outside… FIVE STARS — And, open in March(ish). We entered… We entered only to be met by a woman that quickly escorted us out… “I couldn’t possibly seat you without a reservation”, as we eyed the many open tables.

Now. Mr. Sal did not care…  I, however, felt that if we didn’t eat at this restaurant before leaving the island that the island would have defeated us… and please bare with me because I swear this post is going somewhere…  Clearly, we were not from there. Clearly, we were Yankees stomping the English land. But clearly we were not traipsing about in matching “BERMUDA!” tee shirts. Several calls were made – no answer. Time was desperate as we were flying out in a day or two. I felt severely NOT at ease. Finally, a man answered… “They don’t take reservations because they are only open on a limited basis.” WHAT? Firstly, what is with the word “THEY” as I quickly reeled back with dominate rapport — the exact words the woman had tossed at us while showing us the curb. “What did she look like?” Oh — and my tone softened as I described her as if she were standing in front of me. “Okay, I will make an exception – how about dinner at 9pm”. SUCCESS.

That night, after a few cocktails, we floated down the cobbled street to what had been built up in my mind to be the most amazing eatery in the entire world… We entered… only to be greeted by the same woman glaring at us… “oh YOU“. “THE GUESTS of HONOR“. “We Saved our BEST Table for you!“… the sarcasm froze the room. Literally. The other diners stared… the wait staff froze mid-spoonage. Platisicized, we were lifted onto one of those music video conveyor belts and unwillingly displaced from the doorway to our table. “What CAN I GET YOU“… “Anything for YOU.”  We wanted to get up and run out of what had now become Mrs. Lovett’s pie shop on Fleet Street. But then… sigh… but then the chef appeared and explained that we had walked into a private party the evening before and that in her excitement, the owner — that was leasing the space from another proprietor, had breached an agreement by uttering the word “reservation”. That, in fact — the restaurant was opened just for us — hoping to fill the rest of the tables in the off-season month. DEFEAT.

The next day, having barely touched the food that we were sure had been laced with meth, we decided to do a bit of sight seeing… the air was crisp–sky bluer than blue. We climbed the lighthouse stairs to the small opening–Mr. Sal went straight out while I froze at the door. All I could see was the thinnest of thin wrought iron railing at about knees height… I envisioned myself falling… I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I pulled myself back inside and sat on the floor. Frozen. What was happening? I was not afraid of heights.

From that day forward I have had panic attacks at ranging heights… from the top of the stairs at the train station.. to cathedral ceilings… to mall escalators… to dunes. It had been only a few years before this experience that I enjoyed climbing numerous cathedral domes and leaned daringly over ledges while traveling in Europe… As I kid I freely leaped off cliffs into miniscule bodies of water… “Bowls” if you will. So, after evaluating and talking to the experts that seem to think that “vertigo” is a made up word that only pertains to the planet Mars… I have decided that I need to go back to Bermuda to apologize. Come full circle. Find the woman that I know is still damning me to this day… and explain the confusion. Lift her curse… This is the only way. 

Guest Bird #9 – Melissa

Melissa Taylor is a mom, teacher and freelance writer. Melissa loves writing about her passions — education and parenting. She blogs at Imagination Soup http://imaginationsoup.net , a fun and easy learning activities for inquisitive kids. Her writing portfolio is on her website http://melissatayloronline.com.

Another day and my kid has out styled me again.  And what a style.  We’re talking so many patterns it’s a knock you down dizzying effect.  But the topper is the pink cowgirl boots.  People all day long stop us to compliment the pink boots.  Really, it’s excessive.  Perhaps a bit ego inflating for my young impressionable child.  “Everyone likes my boots, mom,” she says to me happily.

We mentioned previously that Patrick is kickin’ it in the Caribbean this week–hence our missing posts… But thanks to those that were worried about us. We miss him terribly (if you are reading, please come back). Here are a few things that we wanted to talk about this week so far, but couldn’t because we have been trying to keep up with the rapid speed talents of our missing friend.

• Our Client, Araiys Design, is backing the Lobster Inn/Condominium conversion…. trapped by CR39 is a scary thought. 
• Dubai or Abu Dhabi, what’s your preference?
• Even Martha gets fungus…
• Really cool carafes…
• AND, on a personal note, if we lived near, I might stalk the writer of Suburban Bliss….