7 Search Results for: connecting the dots

Connecting the Dots: The Paper Boy

There is hardly a way to complete a succession of blog posts like my Connecting the Dots series in one fell swoop as I had foolishly deemed possible last February.  I don’t sit with a playback reel of my love (and lost) life constantly going in the background.  Life has its way of switching that projector on and off when it comes to thoughts of the people who shaped our love lives. That’s my opinion, at least. Once in a while there will come a trigger that brings to mind memories of past relationships. I don’t believe anyone who denies he or she ever experiences this.  It doesn’t have to mean there is anything unresolved.  I firmly believe like any life experience, the old feelings and emotions we lived through back then shape who we are for better or for worse.    Being the sentimental fool and writer I am, I often think about what happened in my life to make me staunchly stubborn about certain views while compassionate and non judgmental in others.  What conversation prompted …

Connecting the Dots (A Guy Named Roger)

If there is one person I would ever consider leaving my current life for,  it would be for a drummer named Roger. It was 1984 when my sister showed me a video of five fab Brits performing on a stage with flashing lights and a fake waterfall pouring out of a giant screen onto their fans.  From the moment I saw The Reflex I was entranced.  Who are they?  What is that all about?  But most importantly.  Who. Is.  That? My sister had this poster in her bedroom.  I used to stand in front of it staring directly into Roger’s eyes.  I know… I know… My sister and her friends were of the Simon or John camps.  That was fine.  You can have them.  I was alone in my Roger camp.  But I knew, even then, that he was the finer choice, the one with longevity the one who would become more charming and more handsome.  They’ll see, I thought to myself.  They’ll see. I liked that he didn’t talk much in group interviews.  I …

Connecting the dots (The Boy Next Door)

When you are a preteen living in a new country, I would say there are many more concerns at hand than puppy love.  Let me make it clear this moment, I am not someone you could consider boy crazy. I was never that girl who was always thinking about dating, never was interested in having a boyfriend and was not one of the students at my all girl high school who would swoon over the presence of boys visiting from our brother (all boy) school just because they were male.  Besides, even in my own awkward stage, I knew that the skinny necked, lightly mustached guys in oversized shirts with greasy adolescent complexions were not going to cut it.  So not worth the heart palpitations.  Moving ahead. As I hit my junior year, simply adjusting to my life in a new country and making friends was more important to me than anything else.  I was also having a horrid time in chemistry which led to its own adventure one summer having to relearn the concepts …

Connecting The Dots (even earlier)

An even earlier memory I have of being enamored with someone as a little girl was in nursery school.    Every day, I played in the yard and sat with my friends listening to tales about a calico cat and other assorted post-toddler adventures.  I recall checking to see here and there where Spots and Stripes was sitting at story time.   Thanks to the class picture that hung in our home for years,  I will always remember him wearing powder blue corduroys and a striped mock turtle neck shirt.  The appeal here lay in our shared interests.   We both giggled while riding the rocking boat and would both dump sand out of the sensory table just so we could use the carpet sweeper to clean it up.  When the Gingerbread Man seemingly leaped out of the school oven sending the teachers and children of the Blue Room (or maybe we were from the Red Room, see my memory isn’t THAT impressive!) on a wild goose chase, Spots and Stripes was as awestruck as …

Connecting the Dots (the beginning)

When I was in the 3rd grade I asked my mom to buy me a set of Return of the Jedi pencils.  I liked the whole Star Wars trilogy.  I saw the entertainment value  in the R2-D2 and C-3PO dynamic and was excited by Ewoks on Speeder Bikes in the forest.  But that is not why I asked for the pencils.  I wanted them so that Spots and Specs, the boy in my class that I was crushing on since second grade, would ask me if he could borrow them.  It’s not like I was pretending to be interested in something I wasn’t.  I always appreciated playing with toys geared towards boys and liked sporting the basic look of varied  shades of blue play clothes as much as I liked small purses, dresses, ribbons in my hair, and wearing apple shaped sunglasses while shopping in Plaza Sweet for Smurf miniatures.   I did know though, that if I wanted him to look my way a little more it wouldn’t be because of my hair clip …

5 5 5  Introduction 

Wk 1 Post 1 Write five lines, five times a week, for five weeks.  That’s all. That is all I need to do.  If I write five lines I am all set, whether they follow a theme or not. At The Hello Sessions over the weekend, Lisa Congdon spoke on one of my favorite topics, the buzz worthy “passion project”, and how it informs a person’s ability to push beyond his or her usual thinking and creates ways for one to work differently through this side focus. I thought of about four things I’ve wanted to work on for a specific period of time: Participating in Snail Mail My Email in November. Being able to do a proper headstand and handstand. Something else I can’t remember that I guess was not important. 5 5 5 For the purposes of informing my public writing practice, I am going with 5, 5, 5.  The objective of this exercise is to write five liner posts five times a week for five weeks about anything I want to (which I have always done …

Chivarly: Is it dead, or just different?

A lady shouldn’t have to light her own cigarette. Photo c/o BingImages. On the plane earlier this year I was in tears.  I was having a very emotional moment while working on a post and the tears just kept streaming down my face.  Luckily, I wasn’t gasping, sniffling, nor gulping, but wiping my cheeks and eyes from the constant stream that was running down my face, as bad as a water faucet, just saltier. I was thankful that my neighboring seat was empty and that I was surrounded  by men otherwise.  Not one of them would dare ask me if I was okay, which I guess I preferred.  If this were forty years ago, I thought, would one of them have offered me a handkerchief?  Would a mid century gentleman have called a flight attendant to check on me? On the shuttle to work each morning there are more and more employees and less and less seats available.  This private shuttle, full of well educated and professionally creative types, is stuffed to the seams with …