Twas Brillig

Today’s guest blogger is my dear bloggy (turned “in real life”) friend Kimberly of Temporary? Insanity!

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So I’m experiencing an odd mix of excitement and anxiety here. I mean…this is Brillig’s blog. It’s the blogging equivalent of Carnegie Hall, really.

I thought I’d start off with a quick blurb about how I met Brillig and all the attendant fabulousness. Because I figure if you’re here reading this, then you’re a devoted Brillig lover as well and maybe, just maybe, I might catch your attention enough that you’ll read the rest of my drivel.

I honestly don’t remember who read whose blog first. Did she leave a one time random comment on my blog which subjected her to the full force of my almost stalkerish devotion, or did I find her blog during one of my blog browsing expeditions (that is, randomly clicking the links on my friend’s blog rolls, then their friend’s blog rolls, and so on).

Anyway, I read one post and I was simply enchanted. She was funny, intelligent, and also believable as a human being (very important quality, that). I immediately went into her archives and read her blog. The entirety of it. In one sitting.

My excess of spare time is a whole other subject though.

Anyway, I eventually left enough comments that I got her attention and she’s been stuck with me ever since. She even got roped into meeting me in person last summer, and put up with my antics for an unbelievably long time. I think we stayed at the restaurant for what? Four hours or so? Okay, I admit it, I think she loved me almost as much as I loved her. I’m pretty fabulous, after all.

Anyway, what it came into my head to blog about here is someone that I don’t love. Well, hardly at all. I mean, there’s that little kernel of an idea revolving around brotherly and sisterly love and all that, but that put aside, I couldn’t stand this woman. And I’ve never been able to blog about her before as a mutual friend reads my blog.

Being widely read has its disadvantages, you know.

So this gal, I’ll call her Belinda, is completely maddening in nearly all ways possible. She talks to the exclusion of everybody else, wears shirts cut down practically to her navel, shares intimate details about her medical issues (even if you tell her you’d rather not know!), and her parenting frequently makes me wince. One of her children got frostbite this winter and she said it served him right for refusing to wear his mittens. He’s only four years old! Suffice it to say that she is not the most perceptive or thoughtful of women.

Probably what rankles the most though is that she thinks the world owes her support and help, and takes advantage of people without any thought. She has little or no gratitude in her. She expects rather than thanks. So, she’s a very difficult woman to like. But I can’t avoid her. In a church congregation of forty people avoiding someone is next to impossible.

I spent a year and a half detesting this woman.

The last few months have seen a change it those feelings. She and her husband bought a house, as they’d been evicted from their apartment and couldn’t find another willing to take them on. The house had to be fixed up in 30 days or they’d lose it. One of my closest friends watched her kids, another did her laundry, my husband helped arrange moving parties, dry walling parties, etc.

It was a rough month.

Through a series of seemingly unrelated experiences, my attitude, my perspective, began to shift. I saw the ways in which my friends were being blessed for the service they’d given. Inexplicably good things kept happening for them, and they swore it was because of the service they’d been giving to this family. Huh. I kept having experiences that seemed specifically tuned to teach me about being more patient, tolerant, and loving. I was pretty much forced to face up to my feelings for Belinda and deal with them in a more positive manner.

I realized that the source of my ill feelings toward her was anger. I was angry that she took advantage of my friends and offered so little gratitude in return. I was angry that my husband’s time was so absorbed by her family’s needs instead of his own. And deep, deep down, I found an even less pleasant feeling. The feeling of anger over the fact that she, who did everything wrong, was getting all the attention.

Not pretty, people. Not pretty at all.

I spent several days just mulling things over, taking every aspect of her that made me angry or disdainful and trying to twist it around. Her immodest dress? Quite possibly because healthy problems have contributed to her being overweight. The poor girl was trying to feel better about herself. Her parenting techniques, while disturbing, were better than many. She was loving with her children, provided for them as best she could. All too many children in this world of ours have it worse off. Hers could even be counted as lucky for having come into a home where they are loved and wanted, if not always taken the best care of. Perhaps I could do more to help in that respect? Spend more time with her? Set an example instead of sitting in judgment?

I got thinking about her lack of gratitude and her expecting all manner of help. And then I thought about her difficulty in understanding some simple things (like when people’s eyes glaze over you should possibly change the subject) and the fact that her little family is always in some trouble or other. People are forever leaping to the rescue. How can she help expecting what she’s always been given? And how can people do anything but help when help is always so urgently needed?

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by pity. This poor woman has so many earthly struggles. A diminished capacity for understanding. A life that has dealt countless blows to her physical health and her family’s finances. Every day is a struggle for her, and like most of us, she wants to be looked up to and admired. Envied even. Hence the talking. The insisting that conversations focus on her and her alone.

I confess, I still don’t enjoy her company very much. She came up to me on Sunday and commented on how tired I looked. I was surprised, thinking she actually remembered that I’d had a rough week (I had a miscarriage a week ago) and was going to offer some sympathy. Instead she launched into a bitter diatribe about how her daughter is keeping her awake at night. I was late for class because it took awhile to get her attention and let her know I had to go. Instead of being angry though I felt keenly how fortunate I am to have so much outside of myself to be interested in. She doesn’t currently have that blessing in her life. Her life is all struggle and strife, and I am so keenly aware now how fortunate I am in comparison to her. I’m pretty well taken care of. I’m blessed to be able to turn my attention outwards (only sometimes of course, and not as often as I should).

It’s amazing what a shift of perspective can do. It can take anger and disdain and transform them into sympathy and love. Yes, love. Because it’s nigh impossible to understand someone without loving them.

I’m grateful for perspective. It makes for a much happier life.

(Hey, all! It’s Brillig, posting on my own blog! Why? CUZ IT’S SCOOBY’S BIRTHDAY!!!!)

Three years old? Is it possible?

Has it really been three years since I gave birth to my little Scooby? Really, birth is never simple or straight forward, but Scooby’s birth story is insane.  It’s complete with him being born nearly two weeks late, backwards, in my living room, with a three ring circus going on—and then surprising us by being a BOY instead of the GIRL we were certain he was going to be!

And because I’m in the process of moving, most of my pictures are packed away.  So no baby pictures!  Too bad, because he really was the most beautiful little creature to ever grace this planet (and of course I’m COMPLETELY objective…).  Still, I have managed to find a few pics from this last year or so that accurately represent my little dude. And so, without further ado… :

Sometimes you just can’t wait for pesky details, like taking your pajamas off, before you jump in the bath…

Awwwwww

“Mommy, are you my best fwiend?” And when I say “yes,” he leaps into my arms and hugs me as tight as he can.  It’s a nightly ritual.

Dashing!  Scooby is my only child who actually looks like me.  Our toddler pictures are almost interchangeable, though his hair is a lot lighter.  What great fortune for him, eh?

5 funny pumpkins

And, of course, the Lucky Charms story that put Scooby in the blogworld’s spotlight!

Happy third birthday, my dear, crazy, reckless, insane, hilarious, and all-around DELIGHTFUL boy!  I love you so, so much.

Hi, Brilligites!

I’m Wendy from Let the dog in!. I write about my life on Bainbridge Island, WA with my child (Kid), husband (the Hubs) and dog (Becca). I find that if I don’t smile about it, I may just curl up in a ball in the dark corner of the overstuffed closet in the spare room. Just kidding. Sorta.

Recently, we had a family/work trip to Newport, Oregon (6+ hours each way) in a 20 year old Volvo (trusty stead).

Lucky for you, our road trip final tallies are in:

6: dead raccoons on the way down there (that’s 1/hr; WUWT?? I thought raccoons were supposed to be smart. And no, I didn’t flatten these like that mouse; we just witnessed them!)

1: threats of spanking in car

45: minutes left of battery on my ipod at start of drive

2: pools at the hotel

5: water-toy-apparatus purchased at local Fred Meyer (have I mentioned I LOVE Freddies?)

0: long beach walks (almost 5-year-olds stop, dig, sprint, but not WALK, at least not without triggering the whining reflex)

4: kites in car

20: minutes of kite flying

0: rain-free days

0: days the Hubs didn’t work (it was a work trip, I suppose…but I can still complain!)

6: beer bottles in tiny fridge

1.5: dollars for hotel water bottles in said fridge (cheeappppp! if only there were a mini-bar!)

But, what most struck me (literally) on this trip was this tidbit I learned about Kid, as illustrated by my chart:

Yes, we shared a bed (bed drawings to follow in another post) just at the time Kid’s arm strength and elbow pointiness neared their peak intersection.

And I have the bruises to prove it.

Happy Summer Road Trips to all!

Hey, look! It’s me! Brillig! Posting on my own blog!

Today I woke up to the frenzy I usually wake up to, though today there was a little urchin in my bed with me, who had climbed in after he’d had a nightmare during the night. Meaning none of us got any sleep last night.

Then I got a phone call from my delicious sweety pie, calling to tell me that not only had one of the offers we’d made this week been accepted, but TWO of them had. Wow. Now, instead of being homeless, we have TWO options. (Please note that the house we’re “suing” over is NOT one of them… though we still like that one best of all. But we’re so ready to be done with the federal government that we have no qualms about walking away.) So, both homes that have accepted our offers were built by the same builder, have the same layout, and the same upgrades. The differences are that one has a fantastic backyard with a deck and the other has a third car garage. Wow. Which one to pick? I’d always sorta thought of myself as a three-car garage kinda gal, which is silly because we, um, only have two cars. (My father tells me that a third car garage is used to pretend that you have a boat— we’ve been plotting to build a boat facade out of styrofoam so that all the neighbors will be intimidated or something. See? I TOTALLY need a third car garage for that!) But now that I think about it, a nice yard and deck would probably suit our family a little better. It even has room for the dog that my husband has promised our children… Yeah…

But, it’s all very exciting. Brian will go check out both of these homes in the morning and search his gut to decide which one is the right one.  Then we will close on June 20 and we’ll move out there officially on the 23 or 24th, I guess! YAYAYAYAY! I’m SO ready for this limbo to end!
…Which means I really ought to do something besides sit around watching the filth accumulate in my house. Seriously. I’m reading a book that talks about a child who would find his mother passed out drunk and the house would be a complete disaster. As I read the disastrous state of the house, I looked around my house and realized that it was a near-perfect description… except that I’m not passed out, or drunk, or in trouble with DCFS or anything. That was kinda scary for me. So I did some laundry and actually threw some garbage into the garbage can. Hey, it’s not a lot, but it’s a start. Hahaha. Maybe they won’t lock me up now.

Then I took the kids to Wal-Mart this evening. I won’t elaborate. I’ll let you picture it on your own. One word: Insanity.

Tonight, after all the children were in bed, I’d thought that I would actually, like, CLEAN. Like, with CLEANER and stuff. But then Isaac started screaming. And screaming. And SCREAMING! I went to check on him, half expecting to find he’d severed a limb or something, but no. He was pulling at his ear, screaming his brains out, and had a raging fever. Well, um, normally I would say “ear infection,” but he has tubes in his ears now and shouldn’t be getting ear infections any more (we didn’t have any all winter, which means that it’s working).

But, as my mother would say, “you can should all over yourself.” (Oh, my poor mother would die I she knew I’d just told you that she says that!) Isaac doesn’t believe in should, and has likely found a way to have an ear infection anyway. In the meantime, I didn’t have any Tylenol— at least, not any that wasn’t packed at the bottom of some random box sitting out in my garage. It was 11:00, and all of my other children were sleeping. What to do? I debated for a bit, and then decided to take the Screaming Isaac to the store… leaving the three other kids in bed, unsupervised. I know, I’m a terrible mother and I guess I should be locked up. I think we’ve established that now.

But, really, what were my choices?

So, we got some Tylenol, and then I got to thinking about taking Isaac to the doctor in the morning. See, we are no longer insured here in Utah. I’m sure that hubby’s new Colorado insurance has some kind of coverage for out-of-state services, but they are likely limited AND we don’t know what they might be, AND I don’t have that insurance card, AND it will be a Saturday morning.

(Somewhere in here, I could interject something about how rotten the American health care system is. And then I would have to mourn aloud about my dear Hillary, and then this post would turn politically controversial and snippy, which would probably result in lots of comments, but fewer friends, so I guess I won’t say any of that…)

So now I’m just crossing my fingers that he wakes up in the morning and is magically cured and we don’t have to deal with doctors and insurance companies at all. If everyone could just hold off on getting sick until the end of June, that would be lovely!

Besides, tomorrow I have lots of fun plans! I’m going to be going with my dear friend Charrette to see our friend and neighbor Hailey perform as Jo in a local production of Little Women. I’m so excited— excited to get out of the house (sans children— Charrette has a teenage daughter who will be babysitting!), excited to see Hailey (who I have already proclaimed to be brilliant on this here blog) perform, and mostly excited to hang out with Charrette, who is approximately ten billion times cooler than I am, and yet she puts up with me anyway.

It’s the perfect combination for recharging the old batteries.

And who knows? I might even clean up before Babysitter Jordan arrives (and by “clean up” I of course mean “clear a path one-foot-wide through the junk”) and I might even shower! I KNOW!!!! Extreme, ain’t it?!

By the way, thanks to all my dear guest-bloggers who have thus far graced my little blog with their fantastic posts. If you haven’t read them, please do. Each one has been excellent so far. We will go back to the guest-blogging on Monday. I have lots more fantastic bloggers lined up. Oh! And Kateastrophe is taking over Soap Opera Sunday for “the duration.” So if you’ve been missing that, go check it out over there. (And thanks, Kate, for picking up my slack!)

And now? I’m going to bed. Because I can… Therefore, I should.

Loving and missing you all,

<3 Brilly-pants

Please welcome my fabulous bloggy pal Lilacspecs as today’s guest-blogger!

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First of all, please allow me to squeeee at the opportunity to guest post on such a wonderful blog and to thank Brillig for allowing me to camp out on her bloggy lawn today.
I know most of you have no clue who I am, so I guess I better fill you in. My name is Lilacspecs and my blog is called Lilac Colored Glasses. I’m an American expatriate living in Belgium with my Flemish boyfriend and I’m currently jobless while I learn Dutch and attempt to acculturate myself to living in Europe. As you might have guessed, that means I have a lot of time to blog.
I leaped at the chance to guest post because both my and my boyfriend’s family read my blog and I was pissed at a situation and wanted to vent on neutral ground. I wrote up a whole post about it and everything but then it was resolved and I was left with no valid complaint, so in lieu of that, here’s a little something I wrote that sort of fits with Father’s Day (it’s June 8th in Belgium).

My Father’s Daughter

I am the firstborn of two children.

I have my mother’s eyes, my maternal grandmother’s chunky knees and a random pair of jumbo ta-tas. But my personality is a cross between that of my father and his eldest sister Ronnie. What does that mean? Well, it means that part of me is wise, keenly aware of my personal surroundings, somewhat controlling and a bit short tempered while the other part of me is perpetually green and oblivious, though passionate and well-meaning.

In my youth I learned to love, respect and simultaneously fear my father. He is a loving, sensitive man whose life has always revolved around his family. He is an extremely intelligent person both academically and street wise, but he was never motivated to explore his full potential. My father also has a mean streak in him that he inherited from his father. He always told us that his father had a terrible temper and that he had promised himself that he wouldn’t be the same way, but often times he was. He is meticulous and always wanted our rooms and the house and the bathroom to be kept very clean. Punctuality was also very important to my father and there were countless times we’d be reprimanded for coming late to dinner or getting wrapped up in an after school activity and arriving late for a scheduled pickup in the parking lot.

Did my father get angry frequently? No. At least, not in an outburst sort of way. I think he was angry about a lot of our behavior but the rage was set to slow simmer and incident piled upon incident until, when his temper did boil over, it was truly scary to a child; especially a child that was as introverted and shy as yours truly. I also think that my father’s harsh criticisms and frustrations were aimed more towards me than towards my younger brother and I felt that when I was younger but I never knew why. All I know is that there were plenty of times that I just never felt that I could be what my father wanted me to be. And in retrospect I believe that my father saw so much of himself in me that he unconsciously took it upon himself to cull the attributes in me that he disliked in himself while encouraging all the behaviors that he found favorable.

My father and his eldest sister were very close as adults. I had heard that I reminded people of her but the comparison took over my life after she died of cancer when I was almost 14. Suddenly everything about me reminded my family of Ronnie: my hair, my build, my skin, my personality…everything. After awhile I began to rebel. I did everything I could to set myself apart from both my father and the ghost of my aunt. I was sloppy, disorganized and passive aggressive. The only things I held in common with my father was my love of Hydrox cookies, Pepsi and cigarettes. This went on for years until my father recognized some things that he needed to change in his own life (he acknowledged his OCD and anxiety) and started taking Paxil. The medication did wonders for him and allowed him the clarity to understand a lot about himself, his life and his family. I think he finally saw our relationship for what it was: a father who loved his daughter and sister so much that the emotions merged and became more than his daughter could take. It took me a while longer to get my act together, admit my own anxiety issues, and understand that no matter how much I may remind others of my father or my aunt, I am, above all things, myself.

Now, as an adult in my late 20s, I often find myself expecting people to do things my way. I arrive most places at least a half hour early if not more. I put my backpack together the same way every morning and I always keeps my house keys in the same pocket. I eat the same lunch almost every day and have severe difficulty when my daily routine is interrupted. “Going with the flow” is a challenge for me. Often when my boyfriend lacks the initiative to scoop the litter box or do a load of laundry, after I feel like I’ve been trying to keep the cats fed and the house straightened up all week, I find myself brooding for days until I finally explode. I have started recognizing the eerie familiarity of all of these things and it overwhelms me. So I call my father and talk to him and ask him to help me find ways to get over that part of me that demands control and order. And he talks to me and guesses everything that is going on inside my head and he makes me realize that these are all feelings that can be dealt with and overcome. He respects me for doing what he couldn’t do for such a long time; seeing the faults within myself rather than those around me. Sometimes it scares me when I behave like the younger version of my father, but then I remember that no matter how many similarities there are, good or bad, I am still me.

I am proud to be my father’s daughter.

Brillig here.  Please welcome Jen from Problem Girl as today’s guest-blogger!  I confess that I hardly know Jen, but her blog is gorgeous and the following post has me hooked!

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Hello there! For those of you who don’t know me (everyone) my name is Jen and I make my home over at the recently new and improved Problem Girl. The post I’ve come up with for my very first guest post ever is the first chapter in a story I’m telling over on my blog about the adoption of my son. I am pleased to share with you The Story of Joseph - Before the Boys

One day shortly before Jesse and I were married we had gone out to dinner and I looked at him and said “How about when we get married I don’t get a job but instead we get licenced to do foster care and I stay home and take care of the babies?”

Jesse’s eyes bugged out at the suggestion. “Huh? What? Foster care? Wha…. why? What are you even talking about?”

It was a fair response. I was 22, Jesse was 23. We didn’t have our own children, we weren’t even married yet, and here I was suggesting that we take in other people’s children. Looking back on it, it sounds crazy. Out of the blue I was asking Jesse to take on the role of the sole breadwinner of the family while I stayed home and played Mommy.

Thankfully Jesse has always been very supportive of my crazy ideas. (If as if the whole surrogacy wasn’t proof enough.) Once he had a little more information about what foster care would involve he was totally on board. He’s a good guy like that.

Almost immediately after Jesse and I got married we started the process towards becoming licensed foster parents. I spent the first couple months of married life in domestic bliss. I cooked, I cleaned, I did my hair and make-up every day, I watched talk shows, I waited for my criminal background check to be completed. I was so thrilled the day I got the phone call telling me that our background checks had been competed and that we would now be able to take the training classed required to become foster parents.

Oh, how excited I was the first day of training. I insisted on showing up 15 minutes early. I carried with me a brand new notebook, a pen and a newly sharpened pencil. I had bought a new shirt for the occasion. We were the first ones in the room. As more and more people came in I started to wonder if we were in the wrong room. A lot of the people that came into the class looked kind of out of it and grungy and ….. well, not like the sort of people that should be taking in kids in need of care. I don’t think any of them were wearing new shirts. I was the only one who had brought my own notebook.

The training lasted six weeks with sessions each Friday night and Saturday afternoon. I wish I could say that my first impressions of my classmates were wrong but they weren’t. A lot of those people in that class needed to have their own children taken away from them, never mind having more children put in their care. In the first class there a discussion broke out about how some kids “just need to be beat”. I was aghast. Words that I was unable to stop poured angrily from my mouth. “It really upsets me that people who are supposed to be protecting kids think it’s ok to just haul off and smack kids when they do something wrong.”

That didn’t go over too well. Nearly everyone in the room jumped all over me telling me that I didn’t know what I was talking about because I was too young and never had kids who the hell did I think I was and yes, some kids need to be beat. The training coordinator (who I really liked) just stood there and looked sad and overwhelmed. It occurred to me that she probably saw a lot of not-fit-to-parent people going through this process. Minnesota is woefully in need of foster parents and since the system is so overloaded they’ll take just about anyone.

Things didn’t get better as the class went on but I was determined to get through it. We were the only ones in our class who made it to every single training session and didn’t have to take one over. I think some little part of me thought that if I could just get licensed fast enough then I could take on some kids really in need and keep these other people from getting them. Ok, I was a little naive but I really did have good intentions.

While we were doing our training we also had to have a home study done and interviews with our case worker. She didn’t mince words with us. She told me that she thought we were too young to be foster parents and that we wouldn’t be able to hack it. She told me that she had never come across anyone as young as us wanting to be foster parents (in fact she told us that no one she worked with had ever dealt with foster parents as young as us). But that pesky pressing need for foster parents came into play and she approved us.

In one of our training sessions we were warned that parents with children in foster care with often resent the foster parents. They warned us that sooner or later, if you did foster care long enough you would have a parent accuse you of hurting or mistreating their child.

Oh my goodness, I was so naive. I thought that if I just did a really good job no parent could ever possibly accuse me of any wrong doing. And anyway, I was only going to take in babies. Certainly no one would accuse me of hurting a baby. Right?

I was about to be proven very wrong.

If you enjoyed the first chapter of my story you can find more of it here and if you didn’t enjoy it I hope you’ll still visit me over at Problem Girl to enter
my contest where I am giving away a $20 Amazon.com gift certificate and a super secret surprise.

Thank you so much to Brillig for having such perfectly groomed eyebrows ….. um, I mean for letting me guest post. Seriously though, have you seen her eyebrows? How does she do that? I’m so envious. Anyway….. Thanks to you for hanging out with me for a bit!

Hey, Brillig here. I’m thrilled to have my awesome neighbor and dear friend (a rare combination indeed) Charrette as today’s guest-blogger. I dragged her into the bloggy world kicking and screaming (well… not exactly) about a month ago and I now only wish she’d started sooner!!!!

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I have the inimitable Brillig to thank for my own unexpected entry into the blogosphere. She is a dear friend made dearer through blogging. I loved reading hers so much I forwarded countless links to unsuspecting friends: “Read this! You’ll never be the same.” or “Here’s somebody who GETS it.” or “Here’s some laughter therapy you’ll enjoy.” After awhile I couldn’t resist trying my own hand at a post or two, and now I’m completely hooked! For a little over a month now I’ve been writing over at my own little blog, Divergent Pathways.

Thank you, Brillig-the Great, for this opportunity to try my hand on a big-girl site.

Come-As-You-Are Party

My little brother, when he was a teenager, was so concerned about his physical appearance that he literally WOULD NOT ANSWER THE PHONE without combing his hair first! (Ludicrous, but true.) For some reason we have this deep-seated need to show ourselves in public just a little better than we really are, masking our authentic (read: better) selves behind some artificially projected persona.

A generation or two ago, Come-As-You-Are parties were a popular fad. Hosts invited guests to arrive at the appointed time and place dressed exactly as they were when they received the invitation (usually by phone). So if your hair was in rollers, you had pink furry slippers on and green cold cream all over your face — that’s how you came to the party. I’m sure it was meant to be an ice-breaker of sorts. Hosts would go out of their way to reach guests at inopportune moments. And it could have been hilarious for those who had the guts to show up dripping wet, having just stepped out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel; or in their cheesy bowling-league uniform, sweating after a workout, or whatever. A low-brow masquerade party. But my guess is the novelty soon wore off because few people had the guts to show up “as they really are”.

So my idea is this: Link here*, leave a brief comment, and post on your own blog a “come as you are” snap-shot that totally captures some aspect of your personality. The only rules are: No private anatomy pix, please, (eew!) and no sprucing-up before you shoot. Resist the urge to alter reality for a better public impression, and just find a little pile of clutter, or some sticky fingerprints, a bad hair day or some other instant snapshot that somehow captures a piece of the real you. My guess is it will endear you to us forever.

Ready. Aim. Shoot!

*Brillig interjects: Link back to Charrette, as she is the mastermind behind this idea! I will, however, throw in a Mr. Linky here so that you can all see at a glance who’s playing too. You know how I adore a good Mr. Linky…

Please welcome my dear friend and brilliant novelist Annette Lyon as our guest-blogger today!

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I “met” Brilly almost a year ago after clicking over here from another blog, and she immediately became part of my blogroll. I’ve actually met her twice in the flesh. (I KNOW! How totally COOL am I?!) One of Brillig’s posts sparked one of my own, and I believe it was the first one she ever read on my blog (I was giddy at seeing a comment from her). So I thought it fitting to use that post for my guest-blogging stint.

Briefly about me: I’m a wife, a mom of four (my oldest will be a teenager in a couple of months; pray for me), and a writer. And a chocoholic, but that doesn’t make me unique. I love blogging, of course, and writing magazine articles and the like, but my first love is writing fiction. I’ve been lucky enough to have five novels published and a sixth that’ll be released next spring.

Now, without further ado, the post that Brillig herself inspired by recounting her experience becoming a Duran Duran fan at a tender age—all because of her big sister:
Big Sister Icons
I know from personal experience just how powerful an influence an older sister can be. In fact, my being a writer is essentially because of mine.

Mel is about four years my senior, and while I’ve heard her scoff at the idea that she should be held on a pedestal, for most of my childhood, she not only was on one, but I buffed said pedestal daily.

If asked which flavor of ice cream I wanted, I’d have to think, Hmm. What flavor would Mel want? If she was present, I’d take a peek. Pralines and Caramel? Make that two, please.

She was so grown up, and I wanted to be just like her. She took advantage of this.
Such as when, in third grade, she learned the multiplication table and cursive. Ever the vigilant devotee and/or apprentice, I wanted to know what she knew. She enjoyed playing school and recognized an opportunity presenting itself. She took the worksheets her teachers had already corrected, erased her marks, and made me do them.

Keep in mind here: I wasn’t even in kindergarten yet.

Yet Mel was giving me timed tests on the multiplication tables as I curled up with a pencil on the kitchen floor. Then, tongue sticking out of my mouth, I painstakingly tried to write my name in cursive—even though I could barely PRINT it.

But I was learning to be like Mel!

Enjoying our teacher/pupil relationship, Mel moved our “school” to other subjects. She gave me hands-on projects. I remember (and no, I’m not making this up) being assigned the task of creating a shadow box model of the solar system.

Once she pulled a volume of the encyclopedia off the basement bookshelf at random. It fell open to the anatomical drawings of a horse. She promptly informed me that I was to memorize all the muscles.

I did. And I LIKED it.
When I went into my kindergarten pretesting and Mrs. McKay said, “Can you write your name?” I happily complied—in cursive. “Alrighty then,” she said, looking a bit puzzled. “Let’s try that again . . .”
We think my horrendous handwriting is due to the fact that I learned cursive before my motor skills were ready for it. To this day, Mel willingly bears the blame. I’m happy to give it to her instead of, oh, taking responsibility for being too lazy to write cleanly.

But I can thank Mel for getting me into writing because when she was in sixth grade, she had these brown notebooks that she’d scribble stories in. And of course, I thought that was an intensely cool thing to do, so I had to do it too. I wrote stories and had her read them for “feedback.” At the time, I didn’t actually want criticism. I wanted my icon to rave about my wit.

But being as we already had a teacher/pupil relationship, she wanted to mold my writing into Pulitzer material. After all, she WAS in sixth grade. When she told me my story about a sniffing cat wasn’t brilliant (it had too much smelling in it; it wasn’t funny), I was devastated. But I was bound to make her proud and try again.

A couple of years later, she took a hardbound blank book and started writing about personal beauty and makeup. (She was a mature teenager of fourteen at this point and knew about womanly stuff.)

Naturally, I trotted in her footsteps. I purchased a hardbound blank book and wrote what I knew about—big kid stuff. She never finished hers, but I did finish mine. It was called Helpful Hints for Kids.

So in some ways, I can thank Mel for setting my feet on the path of writing. What started out as a little more than copy-catting has become a life-long journey and passion for me.

I’m a big sister too, but my little sister Michelle and I are only two years apart. I attempted to play teacher/pupil, and she rebelled, since instead of seeing me on a pedestal, we were more like peers. We ended up playing bank/post office/grocery store, having eraser wars across our beds, and staying up late at night behind our parents’ backs talking on our purple toy phones that really worked. But that’s for another post.

Please welcome my dear friend CanadianFlake as today’s guest-blogger!

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Hey all, I am thrilled to be here today with a guest post for the

amazing and talented Brillig. I am grateful that brillig has

entrusted her readers in my care for one day. Of course, I

think she totally rocks…as I am sure all of you do too. I have

been a loyal “brillig-fan” since the first day I stumbled across

her blog (who could forget the SOS “chad” saga..lol)

I have been pondering the subject of this post for a few days.

I have been excited to be guest posting for the very first time

and wanted to sound intelligent, humorous or insightful (or

at least, I didn’t want to sound totally lame ..lol)

I guess I should start by introducing myself. My name is

Canadianflake and I have been blogging for just over a year

now. I have a gnome and 2 gremlins that I both love and

get frustrated with in equal measure. The gnome and I have

been together for 6 years. Like every good gnome, he can

drive me to insanity with the best of them but I love him so

very much with all that is in my heart. My gremlins are 16

and 13 and anyone that has ever had a teenage gremlin

KNOWS that this is never easy…but totally worth it!!

After relocating in 2006, I began working at a job that

is out of my home. Because I have no friends here and I

work alone, the material for my posts more often than

not comes from the antics and goings-on of the above

mentioned gnome and gremlins….and it is something that

happened this week that I wish to share with you all, as I

have shared with my regular readers.

I should first explain that both of my gremlins have a

learning disability. Both have really struggled in school

from the beginning and I have had to battle teachers and

principals on many occasion. This war that I have fought

is somewhat of a 2-sided coin. There have been many

tears shed and worries that neither of them would be able

to finish school and be able to make their own path in life.

The flip side of that coin is that I have grown to appreciate

every litte victory and taken hope in small things that others

might overlook as insignificant. It is one of these victories

I share with you today…

Earlier this week, gremlin #2 had to an assignment where he

(meaning WE) had to read a story and answer questions.

One of the questions asked him if he thought it would be

a good thing or a bad thing if everyone “was cut from the

same thread”. Right away, I knew that my answer would

have been to say it would be a bad thing…because we

all need to be individuals etc etc…

When I read the question, his answer was the following….

“It would be good if we were all woven from the same

thread because then we would all be equal both physically

and mentally. If everyone was equal there would be no

wars, no racism and no poor people”.

I was so proud of this answer I almost cried. I emailed

his teacher so she would know who impressed I was and

her response was the following…

“wow- what a breakthrough! I had tears in my eyes while

I read his response - that is fantastic! I am so proud of his

logic! If only our peacekeepers in the world could see his

viewpoint! ”

For a momma bear that has had to scratch and claw just

to get her gremlins to learn how to read and write (with VERY

little support from the school system), these words mean

more than any award!!

Thanks for having me brillig. Looking forward to reading

all the other guest posts over the next month!

Hey, Brillig here.  Please welcome today’s guest-blogger, a brand new friend of mine, MommyTime of Mommy’s Martini! 
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* * * * * A little Preamble…
I’d like to thank the lovely and talented Brillig for letting me guest post. I am honored, and I look forward to all the new (to me) voices I’ll be reading here in the next month. What a fun way to meet new writers and readers.

For those of you who don’t know me: I write daily on Mommy’s Martini about things that fascinate me and things that make me laugh. I have two children (Son, age 4, and Daughter, age 2). I am lucky enough to be a professor, which allows me to have the kids in daycare only three days a week. It’s a balancing act I don’t always manage gracefully, trying to get in the rest of the hours for my fulltime job on nights and weekends, keeping everyone in clean socks, and coming up with fun family projects. The blog is my personal time out, a virtual martini for those moments when I need break. My theory is that one should always seize the moment for what is really important: creativity and writing as an outlet, or jumping in puddles with the kids for a laugh, or snuggling quietly with a little one sleeping on my shoulder…all of it is more important than vacuuming. The dirt will always be there tomorrow.
* * * * * And now, on to today’s scheduled post…

I live in a Michigan town that was once generally known as “Podunk.” I kid you not. The government website for my town records this fact on its History page, as an introduction to information about the official naming of the town. What the government website does not say is that the 1827 meeting to choose a name took place in the barn of one of the town’s founding citizens, a fact which to me seems poignant and important. These were pioneers, literally, who were looking to establish the legitimacy of their little hamlet. They had no township buildings, no civic location in which to meet, and so they chose the most logical of places: large, roofed in, dry, and associated with the gumption of the very first settlers, the Tibbits’ barn served as their town center. It does not seem a stretch to conclude that the impetus for that meeting was the desire to resist Podunk becoming the recorded name on maps and government documents.

At this meeting, I have also learned, there was much discussion in favor of the name Peking, in honor of the general interest in all things from China. There is, in fact, a town in Michigan called Canton, presumably for the same reason — a reason which, in the 1820s, also inspired the Prince Regent (later King George IV) of England to decorate Brighton Pavilion (his seaside palace) with a crazily “Asian” room in which he placed everything that seemed like it was probably Chinese or Japanese, or whatever, he wasn’t picky, including fantastical wallpaper painted with giant stands of flowering bamboo. I’ve seen it. The pink-and-ivory orchid-like flowers are enormous and lush. Bamboo doesn’t actually flower at all, let alone flower like a Hawaiian orchid, but verisimilitude was not the strong suit of our 1820s forefathers. What they wanted was the fantasy of Chinoiserie. And so, in the case of my town, they — stout settler stock that they were — contemplated the name Peking.

For reasons that are unclear, despite its popularity, Peking was abandoned as the town’s official name in favor of LeRoy. Honestly, I could not make this stuff up if I tried. With a perceptive forward-thinking apparently far beyond that of the eager settlers, the Governor of the Michigan Territory (it was not yet a State), chose to approve instead the second choice name that the settlers put forth. It was a name I am sure they felt was no where near as romantic and lilting as LeRoy. At least, I assume they felt that about LeRoy. To me, that name is practically synonymous with “junk yard dog,” but presumably in this pre-rock-and-roll era, it sounded exotic. Or something. Anyway, thanks to Governor Cass’s eminently sensible judgment, I live in a town with a perfectly ordinary name, one that the Puritan settlers of New England happily bestowed upon many towns — a name like Portsmouth, or Salem, or Haverford.

I’m sure at this remove of time, it would not matter if I lived in Peking, Michigan instead. It would not be any different than living in Versailles, Vermont (pronounced VER-sails, with a nice hard “r” in there). Which is to say, I would still be a Michigander, and the name of the town would have no particular resonance, no specific connotations, except to occasion a wondering query, “What were they thinking?”

But I do wonder, now that I know this history, what life would have been like for those early settlers if Peking had carried the day. Would they have felt more worldly? Held themselves a little straighter when they announced with pride the name of their town? Felt secretly pleased that they had taken the public step of labeling their town as different from those already-old towns of New England? Would they have felt particularly modern to live in a town called Peking in the Territory of Michigan? Even though they would never travel to China themselves, would probably never meet a Chinese person, quite possibly never even speak to a soul who had been to China, would they have felt proud that they were doing their part to enter into the increasingly global economy, to participate in becoming world citizens, by naming their town after one halfway around the world?

A part of me thinks they would have. And admires them for it. In 1827, still ten years away from becoming the 26th state, Michigan was wilderness and farmland. Settlers worked long hours carving farms out of the fertile soil. Tibbits is credited with bringing the first pony to the area. Say what you will about the problematic dynamics between settlers and Native Americans (what you say will be true); life in such a place was certainly not easy for the new settlers.

Perhaps the fantasy of China, the dream of the exotic, glimmered in those settlers’ minds for a while on that February night in 1827. Perhaps they, with their work-worn hands and woolen clothes, stomped their thick boots to keep warm as they discussed the choice of a town name and quietly hoped to grasp what little they could of the reported glories of travel.

In the end, they chose a name less explicitly foreign (LeRoy) and, as one might argue is endemic of Midwestern farmers, offered up a second choice that was incredibly safe. The Governor, of course, preferred the latter. But like the questioning speaker in Robert Frost’s “The Road Less Traveled,” I wonder what would have happened in the formative years of my town if boldness had prevailed. And I am pleased to be reminded again that however much we twenty-first century citizens see ourselves as responsible for the phenomenon of the “global village,” that shrinkage was already beginning nearly 200 years ago through the hard work and gleams of vision that filled the lives of people like those who lived in a place that was nearly named Peking, Michigan.