Disney – Page 8 – my ft.notes

Table Topic Tuesday. 7/2.

Happy Tuesday to you. It’s Table Topic Tuesday Time!

Drumroll…..

This question seems so simple, right? But it just leads to more questions. What kind of boat? I own it, but do I share it? Naming a boat is almost as serious as naming a child. It has to fit.

This boat has a magical name, eh? A girl can dream. (Disney Digression #1)

And if I owned this boat, I’d call it “Happy Place”.

Tucker, Uncle Tim. Pop, Jeff. Disney Digression #2. — Tucker, Uncle Tim. Pop, Jeff. Excited Strangers. Disney Digression #2.

I snapped this shot from the now-closed Pier in St. Pete. You get in a boat like this to recharge or kumbaya with nature. So something like “The Battery” or “Truce” feels right.

But, if we ever get a boat, it will be one like this—an unassuming kayak that we can paddle through the shallow channels of old Florida.

Tuck piloted this buddy at our friend’s “River House.” The River House is made for reconnecting, slowing down and catching up.

There’s something arresting about being in a kayak. Floating close enough to touch the current is a quiet thrill. When you’re immersed in creation like that, time pauses. Life feels easy. It’s like an unhurried conversation with a dear old friend.

If when we get a boat like this, I’ll name it “Chum”.

To be fair to my fam, with whom I would be sharing said boat, I asked Tucker, Case and Jeff what they’d name our craft. They answered “The Pearl of Revenge,” “The Lion King Boat,” and “The Mindalynn” respectively.

And, of course, my expert panel weighed in, too.

Lindsay says:

If I ever owned a boat {let’s hope for the sake of the high seas that I never own a boat}, I would name it either FAST FEET or A RUNNAROUNDD LIFE. I can’t decide. I think “A Runnaroundd Life” is fun because it’s my blog’s name, and “Fast Feet” embodies the runner and biker in me.

Lynda says:

I love boats. And when I say I love boats, I mean that I love going out on other people’s boats. Because really, who has time to keep up with the maintenance and troubles and overall responsibility of a boat? I can barely do that with my car.

I don’t love high-speed water activities. And that includes jet skiing, water skiing, tubing, wake boarding, and all the other crazy antics people get up to on the water. Don’t they know hitting the water at 30mph is like hitting concrete? I just imagine broken arms, legs, and busted chins. No thanks.

Obviously, I am not what one would consider “adventurous,” so if I had a boat – and that’s a very big if because I’d prefer to just keep mooching off of existing boat owners – I’d name it “The Big Chill.” That pretty much sums up my ideal afternoon on a boat – drifting up a river or circling a lake enjoying the sun, the breeze, and most importantly an icy-cold beverage. None of that would be possible in a boat named “Cheetah” or “Viper” or “Turbo” because your hair would be a mess, you couldn’t keep your drink from spilling, and you’d be gritting your teeth and hoping you don’t get thrown out. At least that’s how my logic works.

So if you see me puttering along in an old pontoon boat named “The Big Chill,” drop an anchor, cast a line, and float awhile. There’s guaranteed to be good tunes, plenty of laughs, and coolers full of icy-cold beverages – koozies provided.

Okay. You’re up! What would you name your boat?

Morning Music

I’m in NYC for work this week (cue the piano and Alicia Keys). Oh, so smitten with this city.

I feel small here—beautifully small—in the best way. Here, the city’s electric current is charged by the millions of heartbeats packed in so few miles. And—whether it’s your hometown or a hotel stop—this city is built to love.

Beyond the energy and the artistry and the food (oh, the food!), I’m also giddy in the city when I get to see this guy—my baby brother and Actor Boy extraordinaire. He’s gonna make it big in the Big Apple. Meet Tim.

I haven’t traveled a ton, but traveling means trying and NYC has gifted me a lot of firsts. My first taste of oysters. My first Lambrusco. My first subway ride.

And, sometimes, I’ll see a show. (Disney Digression time.)

Traveling also makes me want to write. Write by hand, on actual paper. I’ll steal a quiet minute and let my pen go. There, on a page wedged between radio concepts and casting specs, I’ll detail everything and nothing. Sometimes, I’ll write so fast & loose that I can’t even read my own writing.

Early one morning during my first visit to Canada a few months ago, I snuggled in a booth in the hotel diner to write. It’s a 24-hour diner, so there was ketchup & mustard and honey & jam on the table. This was a place of possibility.

Toronto, sleeping just outside the window to my left, was so cold I could feel the chill seeping through the pane. The kitchen to my right was alive with warmth. A man was singing in there—low and silly and free—and I wrote that everyone should sing in the morning. He sang songs, but he sang when he talked, too. Notes instead of words. “The soup of the day is broccoli and cheese,” he sang out to the staff. And I wished he would sing out all the ingredients, too. He sang out with all the pride and joy of the person who decided that today is the perfect day for broccoli and cheese soup. I have broccoli and I have cheese and that is exactly what I’m making, thank you. And I’m going to sing as I make it, thank you very much.

And this morning, in this city, it feels like a sing-about-your-soup kind of day.

Thursday Thanks. Helping #2.

From my Thanksgiving Chair :

This week (and every week) I’m grateful for pizza night. Every single Wednesday, we have pizza. This means no cooking, no dishes and no one making a decision about dinner. Yay!

We’ve had angry weather this week–tornado warnings, “excessive lightning” and delicious humidity. But I’m grateful for summer storms. They cool the day, green the grass and give me a chance to share this cute Disney Digression.

Mostly, though, I’m thankful we have boys. Boys mean you find rubber frogs in the dishwasher. Legos in the utensil drawer. And you say things like: “please watch where you’re peeing!”

With boys, there’s always a brotherly brouhaha. A round-the-clock ruckus. And they say things like: “you’re the most beautiful mommy ever” (even if you’ve just peeled yourself off your pillowcase, no proof of beauty sleep in sight).

Then, boys have summer camp and dress-up-like-a-bug day. With boys, you don’t have any buggy headbands or glittery wings. Nope. With boys, you have these:

(P.S.: We did not buy all of these sabers. My sweet cousin Alaura, our rockstar babysitter–and another reason I’m thankful this week–brought a bag full of The Force with her last weekend.)

So, for a bug day with boys, you get some long, black socks and rifle through the closet for a cool shirt. Dad digs his beanie out of the winter drawer. And you make a spider.

Or, Case says, “a tarantula.” Dun Dun Dah:

(Filtered for more drama)

And boys? They think this feeble attempt is picture-worthy. Thank goodness.

Then you tuck that ~~boy~~ tarantula into class with a squeeze and a smooch.

And boys, my boy, says: “Momma? You’re my happy thought.”

How about you? What are you thankful for this Thursday?

Lucky Charm

We met out-of-town friends at Animal Kingdom yesterday. Magical day!

And I saw a lot of tattoos. Hundreds. I like to think there was a story behind each one of them. There’s definitely a story behind mine.

I never thought I’d get a tattoo.

Enter my mother:

“You know what I think?” she had said, placing her hands on the table in a way that we knew she was telling and not suggesting. “We should get matching tattoos.”

Newly free from wigs and chemo treatments, Mom was piloting life her way. And, up until that moment, I was an eager front row seat passenger. But there are certain things I don’t do, a few unwritten personal rules. I don’t let different foods on my plate touch. I don’t wear white after Labor Day. And I don’t do tattoos. It’s not so much the flawed stigma that goes along with them. It’s just that for someone who never does the same thing twice, a tattoo is a pretty permanent accessory. There’s also my fear of needles.

My sister Lindsey, though, who has as much ink as a Bic, squealed at the mention of a new tat.

“On our feet,” she said. “The top of our left foot.”

“I was thinking the inside of an ankle,” Mom said.

They both looked at me.

“I was thinking…no.”

“C’mon, Min,” Lindsey said, rolling her eyes. “For all your so-called free spirit-ness and whatever, you are no fun. Have you ever done one crazy thing?”

With no decent reply, I blushed the truth. And, after much discussion, I agreed to a stamp on a toe—a teeny, tiny tat that maybe, just maybe, could be mistaken for an unfortunate freckle.

The next day, they got me in the car and we were on our way.

The Big Kahuna tattoo parlor was edgy and cold and terrifying. Possibilities were plastered on every corner of the walls and counter—symbols and serpents and fairies—and my indecisive soul was already quaking with panic. Mom and Lindsey were flipping through a big black book on the counter and I slid between them. Three pages in, I saw a three-leaf clover—each leaf was a heart and the shape was created with Celtic knots so that you could trace the entire design without ever lifting your pen from the page. I pointed.

“A heart for each of us.”

“That’s it,” Mom and Lindsey said on top of each other, nodding, nodding yes.

A guy walked down from the other side of the counter, joining us where we hovered over the page.

“Ah. Good one,” he said. “Luck Forever.”

“We each want one,” Mom said. “On our second toe.”

He was tapping tattoo-covered fingers on the counter. “We can’t do toes. Or fingers. Plus—see the detail in the knots? If it’s not at least this big, you’ll lose all that. It’ll just be a black blob.”

“I gotcha. Okay. Well, how about the inside of my ankle?”

He nodded. “Fine.”

Lindsey crinkled her nose. “I still want one on the top of my foot.”

“Yeah. Fine. And how about you?”

I shook my head no. “Not getting one. I’m just the cheerleader.”

Mom sighed. “Min. This is something I really wanted to do with you girls.”

Oh, the guilt. Thick as organic peanut butter. Without the jelly diversion.

“I was only okay with the toe because of you guys. I really don’t want one.”
She wasn’t going to push further, but I still felt awful.

“I’m still represented,” I offered. “Three hearts.”

But they had given up on me. And soon they were each settled in a different artist’s seat, tipsy with luck, ready to paint the town.

I sat between them, green-eyed as they laughed through the stinging. I sat there, safe, familiar and not without pain, wondering how many times my rules had kept me from tasting, from trying, from feeling something new.

The tattoos were small and simple, and only in black ink, so it wasn’t too long before Mom and Lindsey’s new additions were wrapped in hot pink cellophane that crinkled with fun. We left and I was conscious of my naked legs as we walked. Then we stopped for dinner. At the table, Mom’s legs were crossed and the arc of what I imagined was my heart was peeking through the transparent pink.

She caught me.

“Do you want one, honey? We can go back. It’s just down the street.”

My silence must’ve given her hope.

“We’re going back.”

The guys at Big Kahuna welcomed us with hugs.

“So. Where do you want it?”

“The inside of my left ankle,” I said, motioning to my Mom’s. “But maybe a little smaller?”

Twenty minutes and a roll of paper towels later, the final knot was tied. I had to look away at the first sight of blood. But, after my sweaty palms were under control, the pricking was (almost) exhilarating. Later that night, when I peeled the cellophane away, the black ink winked against my pale skin in triumphant relief.

The pigment has faded a little now. But my tattoo is as much a part of me as all of my unfortunate freckles. And, at first handshake, you probably would take me for a buttoned up, plays-by-the-rules girl. My clover betrays me, though. And I’m always happy to twist and twirl my ankle to show off my lady luck forever.

How about you? Do you have a tattoo (and a story behind it)? Ever broken your own personal rule?

Thursday Thanks. Helping #1.

Say hello to my little friend.

This lil’ fella sits on my bookcase at work.

He’s my Thanksgiving chair. I ordered him after I heard a message about a human-sized Thanksgiving chair—one that we should all (metaphorically) sit in as we waddle/push/sprint through life.

What I heard that day was this: the key to big miracles is being thankful for the small ones.

When life’s no fun—whether you’re swirling in a self-inflicted stupid storm or you’re just being pelted by the universe and there ain’t nothing you can do about it, sit in that moment in your Thanksgiving chair and look again through grateful eyes. Look for the good.

There’s a reason my bud is perched in primo real estate—directly in my eye line—in the room where I spend a lot of my awake hours. I need a daily reminder.

So, every Thursday, I’m going to settle in to my chair and share something(s) I’m thankful for. Nothing’s too trite (can I get a “squee” for comfy-cute shoes?) or too obvious (I woke up? In one piece? Yay!).

As a chronic, self-inflicted stupid storm sufferer, I can’t wait to share, out loud, what I’m grateful for. Hope you’ll join me, too.

This week, I’m thankful for our summer schedule—which means there’s no 8am bell to beat. We’re still rushing to get out the door. And, in those moments, I’m grateful for frozen waffles and the boys’ detangling spray that douses their bed head in a skinny minute.

I’m thankful for after-work sunshine, those magic beams that light up the street for play. I’m grateful that my husband, who’s barely in the door before the boys are pushing him back out of it, will lace up his sneaks and chase a training-wheel-free bike around the block.

I’m especially thankful for Lindsay Edwards this week—my encouragement and blog knowledge guru—the push I needed to go public with my notes.

So, how about you? Share your Thursday Thanks. I want to hear!

What perfect looks like

I made it as a mom more than 6.5 years before I finally gave in to hosting a birthday party. Oh, we’ve had plenty of celebrations and cake and unbirthdays (read: plenty of celebratory cake).

But I’d never done the official pick-a-theme-invite-all-your-friends-stress-me-the-heck-out kind of party.

I finally decided this was our year and for our littlest guy’s (that’s Case) 4^th birthday party, he landed on dinosaurs. So, I did the sensible thing and spent a late night (or five) binge pinning clever, adorably easy-looking DIY dino party ideas. Roar.

Then, eyeball-deep in dino decisions, my namby-pamby right brain had a melt down. It’s the reason I hadn’t planned a party yet. I don’t plan. I don’t list. I don’t allot. Schedule. Formulate. Organize. Nope.

This is going to be hard, I thought.

This is going to be the best party ever, my then-3-year-old Case squealed, with innocent, absolute faith in me.

Determined to do it myself on the cheap, I reserved a pavilion in our neighborhood park and forced myself to make lists. I asked Case what he wanted. A dinosaur piñata and dinosaur cupcakes. Check.

I added a few things that I wanted: a themed invite to, you know, set the mood, themed activities, a suite of themed, designed signs, platters & such. Balloons for every kid, which I read was a must.

I checked off a few lists and hoped for a dry, sunny day. The forecast tortured me for a week, calling for a 60% chance of afternoon storms during our afternoon, outdoor party.

The day finally came—a dry, shiny, blustery day.

That darn wind. Not the sweet, gentle spring-type breeze. No, no. It was a don’t-wear-a-dress (guess who wore a dress??) kind of wind.

The wind was totally PMSing.

I swear, my sister and I re-set the tables 3 times. We couldn’t even tape down the kraft paper. Hats and buckets were flying. My oh, so clever signs defied duck tape. The balloons that I had envisioned whimsically hovering beneath the pavilion roof were more tangled than Tiana and Naveen’s froggy tongues (Disney digression).

Then the unthinkable happened. Guests started arriving before I was done. Before the table was set. Before my Pinterest-perfect party was ready to be beheld.

The party was windswept before it even started. I sent the punctual guests to play on the playground while I tried to squall-proof the set up by just setting out the basics.

Soon, all the kids, giddy with the promise of digging up treasure, were bounding back to the pavilion. So, we launched Operation Temporary Tattoo with a super sophisticated system—paper towels and water. Each kiddo was branded with a prehistoric critter.

Now, official paleontologists, they claimed their tools by writing their names on their bucket tags. Then, it was off to the Dinosaur Egg Hunt. I found these awesome eggs with a fun texture and a great prize inside. We were scheduled to be in full force egg hunt fun for at least a half hour. These super sleuthy kids found all the eggs in a matter of minutes—like, less than 5—and stashed them in their buckets.

The next item on the ‘ol trusty schedule was activity #2, so we gathered at The Dig Site. This activity was the kids’ favorite and I wish I’d gone with deeper tins. They were content for a solid half hour (yay, schedule!) to comb through the sand with tiny paintbrushes, committed to finding each buried treasure. We’d hidden these dino skeletons and shiny confetti in the play sand and they kept every piece they found in their buckets.

Right before my birthday boy’s coveted piñata pull, the wind threw a tantrum and knocked over a glass bottle that was filled with edible dino eggs (jelly beans). So, we went on an impromptu Jurassic jaunt around the park while the dads made sure each shard of glass was tossed.

PSA: Glass bottles and mason jars? Cute and festive and presh, no doubt. Outdoors on a windy day? No ma’am.

Finally, the piñata pull commenced and Case’s life, to that moment, was complete.

After they collected all the candy in their buckets, we passed out the dinosaur cupcakes and sang happy birthday.

His candle was sweetly snuggled in a sea of jelly beans in a mason jar. I was going to pluck it out for the song, but I didn’t want to tempt the wind or attempt to light a match. So, he didn’t blow out a candle. And that’s okay. I’m hopeful that his wish had already come true.

Because, after that, the real party started. My activities only took us through an hour and a half of the two-hour time frame. But his friends all wanted to stay and play. So they ran around and roared at each other and watched balloons wander through the sky and collapsed in a sweaty kid heap. They had ridiculously amazing unscheduled fun. Imagine that.

I had imagined this perfect party for my littlest one’s birthday. All Case wanted was to have candy and cupcakes with his friends. For him, perfection was as simple as giggles and sweets. That’s it. And I never want to forget what that kind of perfect looks like.

(Special thanks to my pal Francisco–the super skilled dino sign designer. To my amazing sister who worked MacGyver-like miracles with duck tape. And huge hugs to Martha who captured so many sweet memories that day.)