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Make Hopes Happen

hope

I once had a friend named Hope. It was her middle name. She may have been imaginary.

The first four words I thought of that rhyme with hope:

Mope

Dope

Grope?

Nope!

I hope I haven’t lost you.

I’m sure you haven’t guessed it yet, but this post is about hope. More specifically, this post is about hope and its wingmen, determination and perseverance.

There are many things that I am hopeful for in my life at present. I hope that I don’t have to go in to work tomorrow in the middle of a glorified thunderstorm ferocious hurricane. I hope that my check engine light will miraculously turn off without having to take my car in to the shop. But more seriously, as the time dwindles down, I find myself hoping that I will still have the courage to achieve my goal of moving out of Louisiana come next year. Even bigger, I hope that I can succeed at a career that involves writing, blogging, and social media marketing (all of the things I am passionate about).

Hope is present from the smallest victories, to the life altering, world flipping changes we look forward to seeing happen. But, hope without a catalyst is just a penny in the well. A wish is left to chance to come true. Hope, on the other hand, can differentiate itself from a wish by attaching to an obtainable outcome. People wish for a million bucks. People hope for financial stability. In order for hope to bloom in to reality it needs a continuous kick in the ass.

This is where determination and perseverance put on their steel-toes. You can simply hope something happens, or you can make a hope happen.

I’ll use this blog as an example. I never expected anyone (and I mean anyone) to gain any kind of interest in my blog, my writing, or my humor, but for some reason I began and maintained it. I just liked writing. From the first positive comment on, my wick was lit (did that sound dirty to anyone else?). I made myself keep posting even when I felt, dare I say it, hopeless. Some days, I couldn’t think of anything to write had someone provided me with a detailed outline of topics. Other days, I would write what I deemed a magnificent post only to realize that no one even took a second look. It didn’t matter. I kept pecking at my keyboard, because I want to make a hope happen. So, the blog? Definitely to be continued.

Remember, all experts were once beginners.

I’d like to extend a sincere thank you to a young lady who I believe is extremely talented, well spoken (written?) and beyond clever, who decided to flatter me on her blog yesterday. Kay, over at Have You Seen My Glass Slipper, is a typical high school student, but you wouldn’t guess it from reading her blog. Her posts have captured my attention as they always go a little bit deeper than their subject’s face value.

Kay participated in a blog relay originally started by Melanie Crutchfield that aims to inspire bloggers to write about hope. Her take on the theme deserves a “nailed it “, and I strongly recommend the read.

I want to mention that I have new blog crushes on Anxiety & Biscuits and Sweet Mother at the moment, and I am also excited that Agreycat has returned to the blog-itat. I am just going to leave this subtle hint right here and hope (cue punch drum roll) they may want to participate. Actually, I invite anyone reading this to participate and let me know so I can check it out. I understand this relay isn’t technically still kicking but why not keep it going?

Here are the instructions for the blog relay:

Step 1: Write a blog post about hope & publish it on your blog.
Step 2: Invite one (or more!) bloggers to do the same.
Step 3: Link to the person who recruited you at the top of the post, and the people you’re recruiting at the bottom of the post.

NOTICE: 25ToFly has a Facebook page now. If social media were alcohol, I’d officially have alcohol poisoning. “Like” the new page and I’ll have a drink in your honor. I’ve got to stop comparing everything to liquor.

becca cord signature

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Paperback Pause

The merit badge handbook grown up girls

[Look! I have a really cheesy cover, and I am cheap, but it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right? Click my obnoxious cover to buy me on Amazon. Yay!

[Also, the title says “for grown-up girls”, but that shouldn’t stop the fellas from checking it out. Would I steer you wrong? Well, not intentionally at least.]

I returned to reality and a Sunday of cooking stuffed bell peppers with a new addition to slide onto my make-shift bookshelf. In her normal fashion, Booger handed down a book to me as an early Birthday present. Its title is The Merit Badge Handbook for Grown-up Girls by Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas. Her name makes my jaw hurt a bit, and I didn’t even attempt saying it out loud. Filled with activities, projects, goal ideas, and new learning/experience opportunities, you could think of this book as a sort of generalized bucket list and guide. My initial appreciative reaction was quickly followed with eagerness to start flipping pages. Upon doing so, something unexpected happened.

The beginning of this year had me sulking in the realization of all the things I have yet to do in/with my life. I have a hard time being patient when on a quest. Nothing was helping, especially not seeing all the cool stuff other people around me were doing. Then, I began writing again and went from sulking to basking in the new-found determination I had to start doing things. New or different or scary or silly or constructive or whatever kind of things, it didn’t matter. No more ruts. Read the rest of this entry

She Made Me an Offer I Can’t Refuse

the gosmother

[Let’s pretend that this is an appropriate photo for this post, and you can just call me whatever the female Vito would be called. Or, just let me pretend I look this cool. Alright, I am a horrible phony. I haven’t even seen The Godfather. ]

You know what I have seen though? A bunch of ultra-sounds and baby bump pictures. Yes, the infamous Booger is growing a tiny human these days. While I never expected we’d planning her reveal party for the sex of the baby this weekend, I also never expected to get so amped about baby stuff in general. And probably the least expected, but most incredibly exciting part of it all… she offered me the position of godmother.

Here in the south, godmothers are generally called the nanny and the godfather is the paran (I don’t think I can give an accurate phonetic spelling, so just pronounce that with your best French accent). When Booger called me to ask what I would prefer to be called (Godmother, Nanny, Aunt Becca), the whole life changing event became more real in my eyes. I can only imagine how she feels.

All of my friends know me as the one who was never overly concerned with settling down or marriage and definitely not procreating. The slightest thought of child-birth always triggers the “NOPE!” section of my brain. Even as a child, I never fantasized about my wedding or was much for playing with baby dolls that were promised to realistically defecate on me. I was more in to putting Ballet Barbie in her convertible and playing make-believe as a restaurant owner. No lie, I had boxes of faux meal receipts that I organized to keep tabs on my imaginary diner’s success. We had the best hot dogs. All the regulars said so. Read the rest of this entry

Nixing the Paper Trail

Memory lane

[Awww yeahhh 1993. What a bright pink bathing suit I’ve got there. Wait a damn minute, was that really almost twenty years ago?!]

Sometimes I forget about things. Sometimes I get lazy. Sometimes I do both simultaneously.

As I was driving down the highway, I could hear the ice chest in the trunk sloshing around. It sounded like I had a dead body back there. We were close enough to the next stop we were making on our way to Denham Springs for me to ignore it for a few more miles. We finally pulled up on the curb of a friend’s house. The caravan of cars ahead of us had filed neatly into the driveway.

I peeled myself from the driver’s seat and went around the rear of my car. I figured I would investigate what was causing my ice chest to slingshot around my back seat like a bouncy ball. My friend had initially loaded the ice chest. Since I frequently stash things in my trunk (don’t worry, nothing that’s alive… wait that didn’t sound right), I knew there was no telling what I would rediscover when I opened that door.

Whew, it was only an old box. A half-opened old box labeled memories. Read the rest of this entry

Concocting Your Life Recipe

try something new picture

The world is now a hungry food critic and you are a chef whose knowledge, skills, work experiences, and the like are now ingredients for a meal. Go.

Everyone owns a very specific and unique set of ingredients to offer the world. The world, in turn, is a hungry place. It has plenty of Ramen Noodles already stock piling in its pantry, and it certainly won’t tolerate canned corn beef hash. The world constantly yearns for new recipes. It doesn’t mind if the recipe is a classic, say spaghetti, as long as it has just the right taste. The world, also a daring eater, is willing to try exotic dishes just as long as they aren’t potentially fatal (think blow fish).

I personally don’t believe in the ability to concoct brilliant meals using just one or two ingredients. Read the rest of this entry

How I Knew My Mother Was Always Right

In lieu of Mother’s Day this past Sunday…

mothers: even when they're wrong... they're right

It always bewilders me just how much (with every inch of my soul) I deeply believed that my mother was always so wrong. Although I’d always heard the adage, “mom knows best,” I convinced myself every time that her conservative old world  thinking and new world culture bias was preventing her from thinking clearly. It is perfectly fine to give out my address over the internet. I don’t need a more practical degree. Love is all that matters in a relationship.

False. What isn’t false is that the proverb is true for a reason. My mother, along with all the other moms of the world, has a special secret weapon. Guess what? She has lived many more years than her offspring. She has lived, failed, learned, and gone to figure it out a little better the next time. Now, I am not saying that everything moms say is the holy grail of advice, or that when she tells you cats make better friends than humans, that you should clean out the pound of all things feline. I also understand not all moms are created equally. I am simply acknowledging that they know stuff. More stuff than I do at least. Either way, these are just a few of the ways I had to face the dreadful and horribly humbling thought revelation… my mom was right. Read the rest of this entry

Cosmic Timing

Locust coming out of its shell

[I have to come clean, I stole this photo from the Facebook of one of my friends. He doesn’t know. I don’t think he would mind. It is too creepy cool.]

As I was desperately trying to slap myself awake this morning with coffee and checking e-mail on my balcony, I got side tracked to Facebook (as usual) and this little guy popped up at the top of my news feed. I know this is not some once in a lifetime phenomenon of great significance caught on film. I know it isn’t like I am flashing around a candid photo of Nessi making love to a platypus while sipping tea. It is, however, a cool photo of an event I can not say I have witnessed in action. Talk about my friend being in the right place at the right time. Talk about me and my news feed having the right timing for me to burglarize pictures.

Cue deep thinking mode. I am definitely a firm believer in the congruency between our life courses and universal timing (can you tell I am trying to avoid using the phrase everything happens for a reason?). Now, I do not know the specific reason for my friend’s convenient timing for witnessing this locust emerging from his shell. Maybe had he not been so enthralled by this irrelevant occasion, pausing his life course continuum for a few moments, his whole future may have changed. Maybe I am just way too in my head this morning. Read the rest of this entry

How I Knew…

Black Gammon five piece drum set

I have a pretty fair collection of “how I knew” moments that I decided I would enjoy writing about. I would like to make this the theme for one post out of each week. What do you think? Today I’ll stay on my train of thought from yesterday and tell you how I knew I wanted to learn the drums.

For starters, I have been a music junky since I was able to walk, which I figure coincides with being a dancer. Dance and music are like lungs and air. One just doesn’t work without the other. Learning to play instruments growing up was always an interest of mine, but I never really stuck with one in particular. I got frustrated with guitar, because I am not very dexterous and have tiny hands. If you have followed along, you know just how well I wasn’t at using my own voice box. Piano and I had a fling, but the chemistry just wasn’t there. We all were forced to play the recorder, but who takes that seriously anyway?

My infatuation with drums started in high school (more specifically I was probably 16). I had a friend who, unlike your typical teenage girl, decided her “thing” was rocking out with her… sticks out. I was always envious watching her play. I remember going to her house and always secretly eyeing her set with curiosity. One day, she caught me staring I suppose, because she asked me if I wanted to learn a beat. Naturally, I pounced at the opportunity. She showed me how to hold the sticks along with a proper cross-stick technique. From that day on, I remembered that one simple beat. I would find myself practicing it just using my hands, with pens and pencils, or with whatever was lying around. To me it just sounded fancy, and I was proud of myself for learning and retaining what she had taught me. Anytime I got lucky enough to encounter a set I would beg to play this sole beat repeatedly. Yet still, it never crossed my mind to pursue anything more. This was probably because at this time I was on the up and up of the dance world, never really leaving room for other passions.

Fast forward to August 2011. There I was, freshly out of college, about three years retired from the dance scene, working my 8-5, newly single, and frighteningly bored. Read the rest of this entry

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