Disney – Page 4 – my ft.notes

Table Topic Tuesday. 12/3.

Here’s the question.

Since I’ve never played a competitive sport or a single instrument, I choose “artist.”

A writer, specifically, so I could woo you with words.

Forget the second-overtime pressure of a televised game or a live concert in a stadium big enough to have its own zip code. No thanks. I want to be in my jammies, sitting cross-legged in front of an old wooden desk—in a small, windowless cocoon of a room. I’d do my best work in slippers.

I bet there's a rad writing nook somewhere in there. Disney Digression. — I bet there’s a rad writing nook somewhere in there. Disney Digression.

A writer’s room has options. Pencils that never dull. Thick, hungry paper with diagonal lines so I can half lay across the desk and write at an angle. Everything’s faster at an angle.

For the days that I’m sure I could save the world with my words, I want a 50s-pink typewriter with cool, heavy keys. You can only sit before a typewriter with a smart, level head because each word becomes more precious when you’re building it letter by letter. You’re forced to plunk poetry.

I’d want a fancy laptop in there too—for the days my writing hand can’t keep up with my runaway brain. And, some days, you just need a DELETE button. Athletes and musicians don’t get proofreaders or backspaces. They also can’t go to the grocery store in wind pants and a scrunchie. It’s nice to have that option. I don’t want a famous face. But I sure wouldn’t mind if my name was attached to a literary classic.

This is what my friends think.

Lindsay says:

This is a tough one. Because, if you’re good at being one of these things, you automatically wish you could be one of the others. I’m a dedicated runner, but a rainy day doesn’t go by where I don’t wish I was painting a gigantic mural or working the pedals of baby grand. Artistic and musical talents never came easy for me, and I’m fine with that because nothing makes me happier than pounding the pavement before the sun rises.

Lynda says:

I think I go back and forth between two of these options – either a great musician or a great artist. I’ve already gone into quite a bit of detail on my love of the piano and my wish that I knew how to play. But I’d also love to be a great artist and I probably lean more towards this than anything else…and maybe it’s because I imagine their everyday life as being glamorous. Now, glamorous to me is probably a lot different than glamorous to you. But to me, this is the perfect artist’s life. They probably get out of bed, wrap themselves up in comfy clothes like sweat pants and sweatshirts, perhaps wearing a blanket over their shoulders like a shawl. They probably sit outside on their deck with a steaming mug of coffee (or in my case hot chocolate) overlooking the ocean with sea oats swaying in the breeze. Because obviously a great artist must live in a great place. A place that inspires their art. They get to hang out with their orange tabby cat and just imagine all the great things they can do with their art. And at the end of the day, they get to “make” things…out of nothing. Beautiful things that can decorate their house or be given as gifts or maybe even to make money from. I could totally live that glamorous life. Sigh…I should start now. If only I had a house by the ocean.

Matt Wink says:

When I was younger I aspired to be both a starting point guard on an any NBA team (except for teams in California. This was confirmed by my mother who said, “You told me whatever team you played for, I would have to tell them that you couldn’t go to the California games because you were scared of Earthquakes.” The things a mother does for her son.) and a famous artist. (This wavered from rapper to boy band member back to rapper and eventually to bass player in a Pop-Punk band who would eventually open for blink-182)I couldn’t decide.Having to make this impossible choice is probably what drove me to being a copywriter. (This is far from true. My athletic career went as far as back-up point guard on 3 small college teams, never playing a game due to repeated injuries and general Caucasian-ness, going so far as to ask one of my teammates if he could teach me to dunk; he could not… but, man, could I dish the rock. My music career resulted in a short-lived Pop-Punk band where I grew out my beach-blonde locks, pierced my eyebrow and strummed a pink bass. I could not read music, so I was forced to learn by watching my friend Jared show me tabs one at a time, and I could not sing and play at the same time so I could only sing the verses to “Stay Together For The Kids” because there was no bass during the verses. We played 2 original songs, 3 blink covers, a Green Day song, an AFI song and the rest of the set was Jared playing acoustic because that was all I could muster. I can still rap, though. I swear. I just chose not to pursue it. I’m content.)Do I regret not going after both? Not at all. I’m happy. There may not be copywriting groupies who ask me to sign certain body parts when I get done crafting a dope ass headline. There may not be 18,000 fans chanting my name as I’m pitching a radio script. There may not be endorsement deals or record contracts waiting on my Herbie Hancock. But, there’s solitude. There’s living a normal life. There’s… OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE WITH MY LIFE?

What about y’all? What would you pick?

Table Topic Tuesday. 11/19.

How about an end-of-the-Tuesday Table Topic?

The question:

I only speak English fluently, unless you count Southern as a language. But my Southern phraseology skills are fading fast. I had a love affair with Spanish, a brief fling in college when I read novels and wrote poetry in that saucy language. But I could never speak it well. (Although I have fancied myself a natural latina mamacita in the middle of a Zumba class or two).

But. If I could be fluent in any language, I pick Italian. The love language. The language of the Renaissance and revival. If wine is bottled poetry, Italian is that wine uncorked. Each voluptuous sentence seems to promise love or music or the best pasta you’ve ever put in your mouth.

And I love that Italian is not just the words that fall out of their lips. Italians feel each syllable all the way to their clenched, shaking fists. No matter what they’re saying (and unless it’s “cannoli” or “vino” I have no idea what they’re saying) it all sounds like kiss, kiss, hug, hug, let’s all go have dinner, have a smooch and have a nap. And that’s one happy serenade.

Now, the expert panel is up.

My sister Lindsey, the attorney, says:

Legalese.

And this is my favorite answer of Javi‘s yet:

I speak a second language pretty bueno, you dig-o? It’s rad. I use it all the time. At the ATM I’m all BOOM! Spanish option por-favor! Put those dolares in my manos! At the lunch trucks I’m all “Burrrrrrrrrrrito!” – rolling my r’s harder than Eartha Kitt doing an impression of a lawn mower. Spanish is fun and fast, yet has a relaxed swagger to it. There is joy to it. Music in it. But, as much fun as Spanish is, Spanish can be a chauvinist ass. Spanish separates words by gender. GENDER! There are boy words and girl words. Que the heck, Spanish! There is no reason for it! I wish there was, because Spanish, otherwise, is really great to be around. I wish I could say, “Listen, Spanish has been through some rough break ups and as a result is a little jaded.” Or “Spanish only says that stuff when Spanish drinks.” But I can’t. Spanish is just kind of a jerk face. But who else am I going to hang out with? French? French, with its baby talk tone and close talking. Cooing with lips puckered. Ugh. I get it, French. You’re an insatiable romance language, but I’m trying to eat here! Get a room. Or, just, please, stop breathing on my neck for a second, French. It’s weirding me out. I like Italian a good deal, mostly because it is amazing what Italian can get away with. Italian can yell for no reason, bang on a table like a Viking for flair, and every once in a while, Italian will haul off and slap you in the face and it is totally ok. It’s just crazy Italian, doing what Italian does. Kissing babies and slapping people in their FACES because, hey, Italian. Everyone is cool with it. What a charming bastard that Italian is. The East Asian languages are all business – structuring sentences with topic first, then comment. They’re read top to bottom OR left to right. They’re sometimes written with a BRUSH! I can’t even sketch well… East Asian languages are beautiful but so intense. They don’t mess around. And speaking of intense… I hung out with German one night… yeah… that got out of control quick. German started slamming consonants together so recklessly and things got real frightening and loud. I don’t like to talk about this but, at one point, German made me drink beer out of a shoe. A SHOE! But, what was I going to do? I was so scared. My body wasn’t right for at least three days after that night. German still calls me to get together every once and a while, but I can’t do it. However, if I were to learn another language fluently, it would probably be whatever the hell language girls are speaking these days. Seriously, I have a hard enough time talking to girls as is due to soul crushing nervousness and anxiety, and now I have to decipher what “totes amaze” means? Thanks for nothing Google Translate.

And Lindsay says:

Moi? French. But living in Florida, it’s about as useful as giving Mickey Mouse a pair of 5-fingered gloves. I’ve taken seven years of this romance language {what does that even mean?}, and the better I got at it, the more I wanted to move to France. Because, clearly, that’s the next step after learning a foreign language — moving to its country of origin. I got to visit while I was in high school, and it was everything I imagined. I was basically fluent. Or was I just in France speaking english to the French? Semantics. Voulez vous coucher avec moi– what??

What about you? What language would you pick?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #18.

Curling up in my Thanksgiving Chair today. 60ish degrees is scarf weather, right?

This week, I’m thankful for holiday shopping trips with my sister, steak dinners and pink Starbursts. Why isn’t there a pack of pink-only Starbursts? Why haven’t we even made a dent in the Halloween candy? (How long is it acceptable to keep it lying around?)

I’m grateful for catch-up calls with my best good friend—who has been my friend since the second grade—which is exactly how old Tucker is now, which makes me happy and nostalgic and old.

And it means my kids are older. There are a lot of brand new bobbins in my newsfeed lately. Beautiful babies, with teeny toes and noses, that curl up so small. Makes my ovaries quiver a little. I miss the baby socks, the baby giggles, the baby-fine hair.

But it means that my kids dress themselves now—if you give Case credit for backward shirts and inside-out pants, which I absolutely do. It means they wipe their own hineys. They tell their own jokes. Doozies.

They’re also old enough to say what they’re thankful for. I asked them in the car rider line this morning.

Tucker is thankful for trees “because they give us air.” He’s also thankful for his family and Cheerios—which he was munching on in the car. Any other mediocre moms make breakfast a movable feast some most mornings?

Case is thankful for his family and his friends at school. I hope they’ll both be lucky enough to have a friend like mine—one who’s been an unfading sunshine across years and decades and life.

What about you? What are you thankful for today?

Table Topic Tuesday. 11/12.

Table Topic Tuesday time!

Here’s the question:

My perfect day looks like 80 degrees—from 8am-midnight. There’s sun, breeze. There’s a bottomless cup of sangria next to my pool or beach chair. Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby is on repeat. In between turning over to keep my tan even, I get up and dance. I read a book from cover to cover.

Well, that’s a dreamy day.

On a perfect day, I get to laugh with them.

I get to kiss him.

Hug them.

Be silly with her.

Big-sister him.

On a perfect day, I believe in Disney magic with friends (and their kiddos) who love it as much as I do.

On a perfect day, I realize how perfect life is—when you stop to notice.

My buds have perfect days, too.

My sister, Lindsey, says:

Any day I spend in Disney. Especially if it means pizza at the Italy pavilion and a trip on rockin roller coaster.

And Lindsay says:

This is an easy one. These are the events in order that define my perfect runnaroundd day:

-Get up really early and run a half marathon trail race.

-Hug my mom and dad and sister real tight {assuming they’ll be there cheering me on}.

-Drink lots of coffee.

-Eats lots of trail mix.

-Spend the day walking around Disney.

-Get on all rides in 10 minutes or less.

-Eat pizza for lunch at Via Napoli.

-Watch Magic Kingdom fireworks with happy tears running down my face and a Plaza Ice Cream Parlor cone dripping down my hand.

-Order dinner at my parents’ house from our favorite Chinese place.

-Watch Harry Potter on the big screen with a side of kitty cuddles and peanut butter M&Ms.

-Repeat {can I just have one more day, please??}.

And Javi says:

My perfect day begins with me waking up in a white tuxedo, walking out of my cabana overseeing my gorgeous island paradise, and being met by my tiny friend and employee, in his equally matching tiny white tuxedo. My little friend looks up into the sky and wildly exclaims “look boss! De plane! De plane!” and I wait to greet my guests on my grand Fantasy Islan – no, no. Sorry. That’s not right. My perfect day begins with me waking up in an island paradise. Check. The sun shines down across the beautiful estate which I call home. And, as I run my hand through my thick and luxurious soup strainer mustache, I ponder the gathered facts surrounding an illicit crime that I, along with help of my trusted friend who flies helicopters must solve. A beautiful woman is depending on me to help crack the very sinister plot she knows is unfolding within her family… and there will probably be some quality mustache make out action if I do close the case. So, without hesitation, I ask groundskeeper Higgens for the keys to my Ferrari and speed away for clues. Such is the life of Private Investigator Magnu – Shoot! Ok, wait. My perfect day. I wake up, ready to fight crime as part of an elite justice unit where direct acton might provide the only feasible solution. And, I still drive an awesome car. Oooooh yeah. But, this car is no ordinary car. It’s an all black on black, murdered out, Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. And, it’s got insaaaaaane technology and engineering built in. As well as an artificial intelligence that allows the car to drive by itself and actually talk to me, the driver, Michael Kni – C’mon! Get it together, man. Focus! My perfect day is back to me, solving crimes as a detective, with a partner. But, this time, my partner is a woman. A formal model. Yeeeeaaaahhhh. And we work at a detective agency together called the Blue Moon Detective Agency. And together we’d be Moonlightinnnnnoooooooo!!!! NO! NO! NO! What is wrong with me? Alright… My perfect day would be complete if someone just brought me a sandwich, as if from no where, without me even hinting for one. And, it would be extra perfect if I overheard someone described me to friends as “adorkable”.

Okay, kids. What does your perfect day look like?

Table Topic Tuesday. 11/5.

It’s Table Topic Tuesday.

And the question?

WHAT’S YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING PHOBIA?

Okay. I love thrill rides—the whoosh, the rush, the tummy flopping. You can flip me upside down, sideways, backways or hurl me down the steepest hill and I’ll want to get right back on.

But, when it comes to a free fall straight down, I am neurotic. Shaky, sweaty, crippled with the irrational fear that I’m definitely going to fall to my death. Enter the Tower of Terror in Disney’s Hollywood Studios. Now, this attraction is imagineered to perfection. I love the frozen-in-time façade of the hotel, the spooky queue, the ghost-child who beckons you to join her twilight zone. But I can’t deal with the actual fall—especially now that it’s randomized for even more fun terror and you never know how many times you’ll be yo-yoed up and down the spine-chilling shaft. No thanks.

It all may stem from my aversion to elevators. But I’m forced to face that fear every day on my 35-floor flight up to my office. Once, I was stuck in one of the office elevators for 2 ½ hours—pregnant, in the corner, with 11 other people—in the “worst entrapment in building history.” Did that help cure my hang-up? Nope.

Other notable mentions:

Birds. I love birds in flight. They nudge my eyes and attention to the heavens. But, when birds are still, they completely freak me out. Is it their sharp beaks and pecking potential? The shifty eyes? No. I think it’s their spindly, scaly legs and feet and, ew, toes. Ahhhhhhhhhh!

I’m (still) scared of the dark. Silence. People not liking me.

Now that I’ve out-ed myself, my friends can do the same.

Ashlie says:

I really only have a one word explanation for this one…aliens. There…I admitted it.

Javi says:

I don’t bring drinks into trendy clothing stores at the mall because I’m afraid that in the midsts of the distracting strobe lights near the dressing rooms, the blaring trance music, and the store clerk wearing the Brittany Spears microphone strapped to her head, who obviously took a double dose of molly to get through her shift, I’ll put my drink down and be roofied. I’m afraid that when babies point and coo at me, they are casting an adorable baby curse on me. A baby hex, if you will. I’m afraid that dogs and bees can smell social awkwardness as well as fear, which causes more social awkwardness and then more fear. I’m afraid that my biggest regret in life will somehow involve the “Reply All” button. I’m afraid, Australia. That was the end of that sentence. I’m afraid… Australia. But, what really keeps me up nights is a fear that has been deeply rooted in my subconscious for a few years now. I’m afraid that one day it will be my turn to date Taylor Swift. I won’t have a choice. Obviously its only a matter of time, and everyone has to do it. It’s like a war draft. But still, I’m so frightened of when my time will come. Will I be brave and accept my civic duty, or will I flee to a foreign land and change my identity to some sing-songy French name? Jean-Louis LePetitte-Bottom, perhaps. Will she hunt me down across the social media, like some kind of Facebook bushwhacker, using her innate ability to deliver passive-aggressive posts to hunt my movements and stalking me like a red-lipstick wearing jungle cat through an elaborate web of photo friend tags? Will the song she writes about our relationship be short of a billboard top ten hit!? If our breakup resulted in a song that was just considered album filler, I’d be mortified. I don’t know that I could live with that.

Alrighty. Fess up. What’s your most embarrassing phobia?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #17.

It’s a Halloween episode of Thursday Thanks–coming to you live from my Thanksgiving Chair.

Today, I’m thankful for the plumpest, perfectest gourd on earth and all of the gems in its glorious guts (I ate my weight in roasted pumpkin seeds last night–anybody with me?).

I’m thankful for chocolate candy, hard candy and any candy that’s not candy corn.

And I’m beyond grateful that I work for a company that lets me be a mom–especially on holidays. Like most good companies, mine encourages a healthy “work/life balance”.

That said, I think the phrase “work/life balance” is bunk–harder to grab and hold than a fistful of slinky pumpkin guts. Work is part of life. And balance is only real in math and budgets and beams, of course.

I worked at a magazine for a skinny minute where I went from a senior writer to managing editor overnight. The business manager offered up some advice. “This is a lot more responsibility, obviously, and probably a lot more stressful. I just want you to remember that this is a magazine. It’s not brain surgery. No one is going to die.”

I’m still thankful for that perspective–and never more than today. In (superficially) crazy times, I’ve always used his line: “it’s not brain surgery.” Until it is. Like this last week, when someone I love more than my life had a second brain surgery. That will wake your perspective. Shake your core. Make you feel anything but balance.

Then you find footing in gratitude, and new sweetness in every breath.

What are you thankful for today?

Table Topic Tuesday. 10/29.

Happy Table Topic Tuesday, y’all.

Here’s today’s question:

Okay. Before I go Captain Sappy on you, there is one thing that absolutely makes a house your own home: it’s the place where you don’t have to line the toilet seat or flush with your feet.

But what really makes a house a home?

In my home, it’s the travertine the boys both learned to toddle over–the floors that caught their first steps.

The walls that heard their first words and their first prayers. The pencil marks on the door frame that hold their height safe. The bedspreads that soak up stories.

It’s the kitchen sink that keeps of the tune of the lyrics I over-sing. The junk drawer that guards glue sticks, broken crayons and bits of memories. It’s always having a space in the closet where you can throw stuff if someone is coming to your home on short notice.

Home is the smell of love.

It’s knowing exactly which fire truck left that inch-long scuff mark on the baseboard.

It’s knowing yours is the third couch cushion to the left.

It’s knowing the biggest respite on earth is in the crook of his left arm.

Home is your happy place.

For me, home is a collection of hallways and rooms and roofs–all cozy inns, beds and breakfasts, until I’m really home.

Now, my friends are up.

Javi’s definition of home is just as true and a lot more funny.

One can pinpoint the exact differences between a space, a house, and a home using one simple tool. Breakaway pants. Just walk into any room of a sheltered area wearing breakaway pants. Now, stop for a second. Assess your emotions. How you feel, physically. How those around you may be feeling. Detect the mood in the air. Now, take a hard note, because your following actions will be critical to assessing the difference between a space, house and home. Next, using two hands, in one fluid motion, with some semblance of authority and a touch of grace, rip those breakaway pants off and toss them aside with the fearless recklessness of your drunk uncle trashing all the hotel pieces on the Monopoly board after owing the bank money for some “socialist garbage.” Now, feeling the breeze against your milky thighs, do another assessment of your emotions and surroundings. If you immediately feel scared, confused, embarrassed, or the cold pressure of handcuffs on your wrists, this is neither a house, nor a home – it is a space. Chances are it’s a bank, a yoga studio, or a Burger King. The mood in the air, as you may note by the screams and crashing noises taking place around you, may now have a palpable tension to it. These are all strong indicators that this is not a livable place. Nothing “homey” about it at all. You might be hard pressed to find anything “housey” about it. However, if upon breakaway-pant release, you feel an air of freedom, euphoria and titillating delight, then you, my all-shirt-no-pants, Winnie-the-Poohing friend have entered into what could very well be classified as a House. WARNING: BECAUSE IT IS A HOUSE, IT DOES NOT MEAN IT IS YOUR HOUSE (please refer to indicators of space). The mood in the air may be one of childlike wonder and endless possibility. Chances are highly probable that you are alone either in a cheap hotel, a studio apartment above a Thai restaurant, or somewhere along the Appalachian Trail. The difference between a house and a home is a subtle yet serious one. Making a home is less about area and more about acceptance. If, upon hitting the eject button on your breakaway pants you feel a sense of pride, arrogance, and all around hubris then this is a strong indication that you are indeed home. But, the special difference in this moment is that you won’t be alone. There will be a person, or perhaps persons in the room with you who will be completely accepting of your behavior. They may, in fact, even expect it. What’s more, if it truly is your home, even if said people are completely against you Donald-Ducking your way though their line of vision, they wont be able to do anything about it. Those people may ask, or even plead that you put pants on, uttering phrases like “Dad! Come on! We eat meals on that table…” but the reality is, their cries are in vain. This is your home. You hold all of the authority, and none of the pants. And that is where that transformative home charm lives. In the ether between being pantless in a place where no one is around, and a place where you’re surrounded by people that have no real choice other than to take in your Porky-Pig fashion sense and embrace it. A home takes the offensive sight of a pantsless person and turns it into a symbol of majestic beauty. It’s a feeling that can only be described as magic. I will leave you with one very important precaution when home testing. If, upon removal of your breakaway pants, you are met with cheers and applause, please take heed. This may feel like a monumental achievement and you may be lulled into a false yet amazing sense of security, but this is NOT an indicator of a home. This is a strong indicator that you are in a male burlesque show and or review. I made this exact mistake and once lived in a male strip club for three years. Looking back I am amazed that I never noticed the signs, but they were all there. I learned a lot during my time there. These were formative years indeed. It was an experience that dare I say has molded me into the learned man of science that writes to you today. But I’ll leave those regal lessons, and the hundreds of other uses for break away pants that I took with me during that time, for another time and another post.

And here is Lindsay‘s take:

I believe that a home is where you feel most comfortable. I also believe that Javier couldn’t have said it any better. You’re not home until you can safely and comfortably drop your pants.

My friend Ashlie and I share a lot of family traditions:

I have learned no matter if you live deep in the south, down in the heart of Texas, or up in the northeast, you can be at home if you are with the people you love. As sappy as it sounds, it’s true—home is where the heart is. My heart is my family. It is important for me to create memories and traditions with my family that will instill in them a sense of “home.” It’s the simple things like having Friday night family movie night, sitting down for dinner, and taking family adventures together. It’s also the annual traditions like our pumpkin carving party, frying turkeys for Thanksgiving, or opening up Christmas pajamas on Christmas Eve. We try to make our daily life and the special days important and memorable. I know if we focus on spending time as a family, it won’t matter where we live, because as long as we are together, we will be home.

And this is what home looks like to Lynda:

For me, my home is my protection, my comfort zone, my place to relax and decompress from the day. But what makes it truly a home for me? My home is a Sunday night, curled up on my couch, watching the sunset turn the clouds into brilliant shades of pink and orange until eventually darkness has overshadowed it all and the twinkling lights of the city catch the corner of my eye. It’s a glass of wine in hand, a snuggly kitty on my lap, and my sweet cinnamon candle burning away as I soak in hours of Masterpiece Theater and thrilling British drama. It’s the contentment I feel at the thought that everything is right with the world as I start a new week. It’s what I look forward to every day, and when I sit there and take it all in, I know I am home.

Your turn. What makes a house a home?

Table Topic Tuesday. 10/22.

Let’s cap off this Tuesday with a little Table Topic.

Survey says:

Well, when I rocked bodacious bangs back in the day, a few folks thought I looked like Candace Cameron. Any Full House fans in the house?

And during season 3 of Idol, I heard that I looked like Diana DeGarmo weekly. I don’t see it, but I do love her affinity for big earrings.

And then there was the time that I saw a my-height Minnie, signing autographs and posing for pictures. She wasn’t quite 5 feet, even with her ears, and her legs were identical to mine. Carbon copies. Might be fun to be her when I grow up.

For now, I’m happily unfamous looking.

My friends chimed in, too.

Lynda says:

Back in my younger days (read “thinner” days and/or “blonder” days), I heard people compare me to two different celebrities on a rather consistent basis – Calista Flockhart from Ally McBeal fame and Cameron Diaz. These days, most likely due to my pudgy cheeks, I get nothing. But that’s okay. Don’t get me wrong, neither of those actresses are bad to be compared to, but I’m still dreaming of the day when I grow up to be Jennifer Anniston or Sandra Bullock. Until then I’ll go along happily looking like no one but myself.

Lindsay says:

Unfortunately, I don’t get mistaken for celebs very often — or at all. I’ve never once gotten a ‘oh-you-look-like-so-and-so’ comment. But when I was in middle school, I was convinced that Hilary Duff and I were born from the same mother. I loved her in that Disney show, and the more I watched it, the more I believed we were separated at birth. These days, not so much. Back in college {back in my non-injured running days}, I thought I looked a little like my favorite runner, Paula Radcliffe. Maybe if Hilary and Paula had a baby {someday, technology will make that happen}, it would look like me. Let’s go with that.

Do you resemble any celebs? Tell me who?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #16.

Happy Thursday, y’all, from my Thanksgiving Chair.

Today, the spotlight’s on the little things. Cause, you know, I’m sensitive to little things.

And, sometimes, success is getting to baseball practice on time and remembering sunscreen.

Sometimes happiness is asking the big boy if he’d rather go through the car line or if he’d like you to walk him in. And he picks you.

Sometimes pretty is mascara-free.

Sometimes freedom is a bare-footed bike ride to the mailbox.

Sometimes a peace offering is pumpkin pie ice cream.

Sometimes a worship service is a solitary conversation with God in your driver’s seat, in the middle of rush hour, in the middle of the highway, in the middle of a song.

Sometimes medicine is a Disney movie.

Sometimes you have to remind yourself to be thankful for the sometimes. All the time.

Any little somethings you’re thankful for today?

Table Topic Tuesday. 10/15.

Hi there, Tuesday. Feels like a good day for a Table Topic.

Here’s the question.

What do I miss? The 80s. In general. Scratch-n-sniff stickers. Ballet buns built with DEP & dippity do. Requesting songs on the radio. Sweet Valley High. The Babysitter’s Club. Lisa Frank Folders. Trapper Keepers. Double Dare. Mall Madness. Girl Talk. Heads Up 7-Up. My red & yellow Barbie Dream House.

Handwritten-note origami. Memorizing phone numbers. Memorizing choreography in my muscles. Letting a new music beat seep to my blood cells. Oh–and skate night! Teasing and coy with couple-skate partners on the outside. Fretting on how to hold their hand on the inside. Lock palms or lace fingers? Decisions, decisions.

I miss lifting my feet off of my bike pedals and flying down the hill on Hogan’s Run. Putting on matinee performances with my brother and sister in the Living Room Little Theatre. Spending blocks of hours–all-my-own hours–reading, writing and yaking on the phone.

I miss the best ride in Fantasyland.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride — Disney Digression

Childhood is pure and easy and magic. And it’s more fun when you get to do it all over again.

My friends are up!

Lindsay says:

Better question: What don’t I miss about childhood? Even though my sister and I grew up in a couple different zip codes, our neighborhoods were always packed with kids, especially the cul-de-sac in Raleigh, NC. Not to brag, but we were sort of the cool house on the hill. It didn’t matter if it was before school, after school, in the blazing sun or under blankets of snow, all of us neighbor kids got together and played for hours. I also miss the amazing summers spent at my grandparents’ lake house in New Jersey. Morning tennis and swim lessons, my grandma’s famous waffles for lunch, playing Shark or Dibbles in the water all day long, getting ice cream at the Soda House, going to Song Service on Sunday evenings, then hanging out at the beach for hours afterward. Those lake days were the best days. That’s what my childhood was made of — as well as my mom’s and her mom’s too.

Javi misses 6. Here‘s why.

Lindsey says:

I have so many fond memories from Childhood…I think it is the ability to try so many new things in a carefree perspective. Changing activities was as easy as changing clothes. Adulthood seems so much more restrictive. It was dance lessons in the fall, playing softball in the spring. Cheerleading year round. Participating in choir, band, drama – you name it, I’m sure at one point I did it. There was no real worry in childhood. And making friends was so easy. Share your lunchable – instant BFFs. I guess it’s the simplicity of it which I miss. Oh – and nap time. We should totally bring that into adulthood with us. 🙂

Your turn. What do you miss about childhood?