My family is the greatest thing in my life. I will talk about them a lot. I've often tried to write my family's story, and I have a small non-fiction piece I may share someday if I get the confidence, but it's been very difficult. A small bit about them, though, is that if my family had a theme song, it would probably be "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. We love it, all can sing every word and head bang hardcore during the guitar solo--even while driving. This man should probably be an honorary member of my family: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/man-sings-bohemian-rhapsody-police-car-being-arrested-193858892.html
     That is also what I probably looked like on my 21st birthday when my dearest friends played "Bohemian Rhapsody" for me after taking me out to celebrate my 21st (minus the arrest thank goodness). I know there is video. Hopefully it will never surface.

     I received one of the nicest comments about Amy's story yesterday. One of my friends from high school (he and I took Miss Henre's Advanced Placement Literature and Composition class together at Norfolk Senior High. One of the hardest classes I've ever taken, but easily one of the best and most life changing) Caleb said that after reading my blog, he found himself thinking about Amy later in the day as if he had had a conversation with her. This made me so happy as I strive to create a voice and a character who is their own, real person.
     I've felt this way about several characters I've met while reading. These are characters I find myself thinking of every once in a while even years after I have read the books. Oscar from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and Max from The Maximum Ride series are two that I think of most often. A good story is great. I love a dense plot that keeps me entertained, but my most loved stories of all time are most often those where I feel a connection to characters whose voices are so strong that I feel like I know them and I am living their story with them.
     Not saying that I think I am in the ranks of Jonathan Safran Foer and James Patterson, but thank you, Caleb, for one of the greatest compliments I've ever received!

     I heard back from a publisher! I sent a query in last week and they enjoyed the preview of my book and asked to see the entire manuscript. Not officially a yes, but a step in the right direction! Getting published for the first time is a challenge for writers. This is one of the reasons I started my blog. Writers must prove that they are willing to market their work and that people are out there reading their words.
     I've been contacting everyone I know for hookups in middle schools around Omaha, the rest of Nebraska and Iowa to see if I can maybe talk to some students about my writing and my blog. So far, my friend Jenny has put me in touch with some of her friends and I'm hoping to be a part of the Oxbow Youth Writing Project at the Hope Center this summer!
     I am also hoping to go speak to a few schools and do writing projects with the students or read my work and pitch my blog. Let me know if you know anyone I should be talking to!
     Thank you all so much for reading my words! Peace, love, good health and happy reading to you all :)

     Did anyone go to The Hunger Games this weekend? My brother and I went to the midnight showing on Thursday while we were home for spring break. We thought they did a great job as far as books-turned-into-movies go! Of course I always still opt for the book.
     I also revisited the second half of The Deathly Hallows this weekend. I need to watch The Time Traveler's Wife this week and completely round out the movies of my top three books of all time:
1. The Time Traveler's Wife
2. The Harry Potter Series
3. The Hunger Games Series
     I personally feel that The Hunger Games made the best transition into film. However, it is also a much shorter book than the others. Harry Potter got slightly better as they went on; I think the 7th one split in two was the best and that they could've done that with all the books to do them justice--I would've paid to see them all! I don't think a person would appreciate or understand The Time Traveler's Wife without having read the book. Tanner, my brother, thought the same thing about The Hunger Games movie.
     Anyone have any thoughts?

     I finally decided where I am going to grad school! I'm super excited and so thankful to have that decision made and the weight off my shoulders. Starting in June I'll be attending workshops twice a year at Antioch University in Los Angeles, California. I'll be one of eight writers in my workshop in June that will focus on creative writing for young adults. I can't wait!
     The only downside is that I was registered to compete in my first half Ironman (1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike and 13.1 mile run) on a day that I have to be in LA. Competing in an Ironman has been a dream of mine for a couple of years now, but now that I finally have a school choice, I have to go for it! It just figures that when I only have to be in school 20 days a year, that one of those days would be the day of my race!

     Another epic story of my life:
   
     My mom lives in Norfolk, in the house that my brother, Tanner, and I grew up in, with our dog, Gabby. The other night she sent me a text message of a picture of a squirrel and the caption said that he was stuck in our fireplace. This is not the first time a bird or squirrel has fallen down our fireplace. She Googled how to get a squirrel out of your fireplace and it said drop a rope down the chimney and the squirrel will climb out. I freaked out a little though, because I forgot my brother was home for spring break and I thought she was alone and would be climbing all over the roof by herself.
     Well, he did not take the rope.
     Tanner went for a new tactic. Our dog has really bad allergies and when she has to stay outside in her kennel when we're gone for the weekend, our vet told us to put a little Benadryl in her food to calm her down and help with her itchy paws. Tanner thought maybe he could drug the squirrel and then he'd be easier to catch, so Tanner slipped pepperoni laced with Benadryl through the screen of the fireplace.
     I came home today for the weekend since I am on a break as well. When Tanner and I walked into our house from the gym, the squirrel barked (awful, awful noise) and dived off of our china cabinet and ran. He had busted out of the glass cover on our fireplace! Needless to say the Benadryl did not work.
     Tanner and I both immediately sprinted (me screaming of course) toward the back of the house to shut the doors to our rooms, because we wanted to try and cut off places for him to hide. We were not fast enough. I know you're surprised, we thought we could outrun a squirrel too.
     We were so slow, we didn't even see where it went! My door was open a crack and since that would've been the first door he would've seen, we thought he was in there. We shut the door and called our mom at work. She gave us this whole speech about rabies so we were all freaked out about how we were going to catch this sucker. We got back on the internet and it said that the squirrel will run toward light or to throw a blanket over it, ball it up, and take it outside. Perfect. A blanket will also act as a nice full body shield against the rabies. We both donned a blanket cloak and decided we'd rather approach the squirrel from the outside. Don't ask me why we thought this was the best logic.
      The only way to see into the window of my room is standing on a ledge that hangs over the stairwell to our basement, so, like, a 20 foot drop. We're up there though, in our blankets, and my window is locked! Crap! Either way, at least, we couldn't see him in my room.
      We go back inside and it started barking again. It was in the office! We shut all the other doors, shut off all the lights and covered all the windows in the house and opened all the doors to the outside. We were still freaked out about the rabies so neither one of us wanted to go in and chase it out. Tanner did not feel safe enough with just his blanket shield so he grabbed a bb gun out of his room. It wasn't loaded. He thought maybe he could scare the squirrel with it though. Right.
     Our mom's room in across the hall from the office so we got all the shoes from her closet and started chucking them across the hall into the office. He just kept barking and barking and we weren't scaring him out!
     Together, still blanketed, because neither one of us would do it alone, we peeked into the room. He was hanging, clinging for dear life, onto the curtain rod. Still barking. I'm serious, Google squirrel bark, that stuffs horrid. Actually, let me do it for you. Just like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1_2r8lZxss&feature=related 
     Tanner grabbed a pillow and we flung it at the squirrel and scrambled into his room, slamming the door closed. After, maybe 20 seconds, we opened the door, thinking we'd see it running out. But no. He was gone. We've no idea where it went. All we know is that it's not here now and it's been a whole day.
     I kid you not. This is my life.

My great friend and roommate, Courtni, shared this with me earlier this week. It's awesome!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EQiEJk-o5WA&feature=player_embedded

This is a non-fiction essay I wrote as an undergrad. I prefer fiction, but there is something truly liberating and raw (albeit terrifying) about writing about your deepest emotions and posting them out there for others to see. I admire non-fiction writers!

Jaisa feels this way about running. Amy feels this way about art :)


It’s a Runner’s Thing

    The drumming of my feet is therapeutic. Heel, toe, heel, toe, left, right. My rhythmic breath and the stretch of my muscles as I test my stride and speed is heaven sometimes. When I am stressed I need it. The adrenaline is my addiction. The pain in my legs, the burn in my chest soothes my troubled brain. The more stress—the farther, faster I go. They ask me why I would do that to my body. Why would I ever want to run that far!? Am I crazy?! No. I love it. It’s what they call runner’s high—a state of euphoria while running. It’s accomplishment. Tests, death, sucky boyfriends, school decisions, stories that just won't end themselves, crappy fathers and more have all been pounded into miles of concrete.
      Running gives you a community, a group. You pass them on the trails, you see them in races. Millions of people with one common love—you won’t find many other hobbies with that many devoted followers.
     I feel there are really only two kinds of people. Those of us who need to run, whether we love it or hate it, and those who don't need to. There's some kind of innate desire, craving, necessity that only running can cure.
      I think of my goals, my hopes and dreams, my to-do lists and solutions to my life problems while running. I push myself to the limit, but I never want to push myself so far that running isn’t fun anymore. When I want to quit, I guilt myself into running farther, reaching my goal. Seriously? Don’t give up now, girl. Your mother didn’t raise you to be a quitter. What would Kyle think? No, wonder you can’t finish that essay if you can’t even finish this ten mile run. Don’t stop, you can do it.
       Running has brought back together my father and me. When I was a child he was my hero, my best friend. We played make-believe, and he fueled my love of sports by always making time to play with me. He taught me how to count when we went on walks at night around our neighborhood watching bats swirling in the sky, me riding on his shoulders, and he would say, “I love you.” “I love you too,” I’d reply. “I love you three.” “I love you four.” I always forgot sixteen. He was the best dad in the world.
      When I entered sixth grade, my dad changed. He had problems with the people he worked with at the fire station. He came home grumpy and complaining. He fought with my mom, and, as I inherited his temper, he and I were constantly at each other’s throats. I grew to love the nights when my dad stayed at the fire station—nights I had previously feared. I was joyous when my parents finally divorced.
       After the divorce I saw my dad once a week when he would take my brother and I out to eat. He never took us on the weekends like the other kids I knew whose parents were divorced. He missed most of my high school career—volleyball games, soccer games and award ceremonies. My first year of college he never even saw my dorm room. This person wasn’t my dad. My dad loved me and was invested in my life. This man was a stranger. Until I started running.
      After high school I needed to do something to stay in shape so I took up running. My dad had been a runner for most of his adult life and even now at 50 he tries to do a different half marathon every year in addition to the ones close to home. The first race he pitched to me was a ten mile in Lincoln. I hadn’t ran competitively since seventh grade track, and I was then a sophomore in college.
      Additionally, prior to that race the farthest I had ever ran consecutively was six miles. I trained hard and texted or called my dad every day with my progress. All the anger and frustration I had been feeling with him melted away now that we had something to talk about and something for him to be proud of me about. We could relate to each other again and communicate without yelling.
      The day of the race he pinned on my number and we got in line. We didn’t run together—he beat me by a minute and a half (the last and only time he has beaten me). After he finished he turned around and ran my last minute with me. He raced me and pushed me to sprint to the finish and do my best. He was my dad again. For once I felt like I wasn’t running because of my dad but with him and for him.
      Running is my stress-reducer, the cause to my peace of mind, my exercise, my planning period and now my link to my long-lost dad. I’m not crazy. I am just one of those running people.

Sent a synopsis of Amy's story off to a publisher today! Cross your fingers for me! Hopefully, now that I have that dang synopsis done, I'll be on top of my submissions :)

I wrote this a few weeks ago back when there was snow on the ground. It made me happy :)

Traffic Jam

      While sitting in my car this morning at a stoplight on Happy Hollow Boulevard, I saw the strangest thing. A boy of about eight was running down the sidewalk trail hundred feet or so off the street. He was bundled in a black coat, snow boots and hat. An arctic ninja who epically failed at concealing himself in his snow covered environment. What looked like a miniature briefcase, like the thing my Grandma gave me to carry my Bible in when I was eight, swung wildly at his side. He was running, and his arms were stiff and straight at his sides, and yet they wiggled about as if they didn’t know how they were supposed to be aiding the rest of the body in its frantic forward motion.
      So many thoughts tripped over each other in my mind rushing to be the first one addressed: I wish it were socially acceptable for me to run to school when it’s cold outside. Why is he running? He can’t be late it’s like 7:45 am. What is wrong with his arms? Is he the tin man? I hope he doesn’t have a Bible in that stupid little briefcase. However, none of these thoughts got their chance.
      The light had turned green and the person behind me blared their horn so I’d quit gawking and get moving. I moved a few car lengths forward, keeping the Tin Ninja in my line of sight. The light turned red again. I stopped and cranked the dial for the heater on my dash.
      Crap! Tin Ninja went down. I whipped my head around trying to find out where he went. Did he slip? Is he lying in a snowdrift? How did I miss it? Aha! He popped back up! But wait? What's going on now? There were dozens of arctic ninjas throwing snowballs. Where was my Tin Ninja? Was he ambushed? Aha! I spotted him batting down a snowball with his bible case, but not seeing the assault from behind and getting smacked in the back of the head with a well-aimed shot. He took off running again. Now I had to watch him through my rearview mirror. He was almost to school. Run, little dude!
     He escaped from the pack. The other ninjas hadn’t noticed he was making his break toward the schoolyard. They were busy pelting each other. Honk! Again the light was green and there was a large space in front of my car. Evidently the people behind me have something better to watch wherever they were going. I made it through the light, finally, leaving Tin Ninja behind. I like to think he made it out of the battle alive.

     I've been working on a second manuscript, which is dumb of me because I should be really writing queries and sending out Amy's story to be published, but a new story hit me and I'm running with it. This one is a little closer to what I know. Jaisa, my main character, is a runner who has been dumped by her long time boyfriend when he goes off to college. Running and athletics are much more my speed than art!
     Because these characters are older, I am writing toward a slightly older audience. Racists, Boys, Buttholes and Old Lady Water Aerobics is most suited for 5th-9th grade girls, while this new manuscript will appeal more to high school girls (more swearing and sex talk as opposed to words like "butthole" and talk of first kisses).
     I'm having a ton of fun writing this as well for different reasons than Amy's story. Amy's tale is full of all that awkward first time experience, but Jaisa's story is a little more grownup and I've gotten to throw in all kinds of stupid things either I did in high school or college or my friends have done.
     Like Amy, Jaisa is becoming very close to my heart. She has been dumped by her high school sweetheart and just doesn't know who she is without her other half. She also uses running to think everything through and is a little obsessive compulsive like I can be.
     Look for some posts from my new manuscript!

     So today, I'm having an issue with males--all ranges of ages, boys, guys, men, all of it. Fair warning: I'm about to get a little personal and I'm kind of nervous about it, but really, nothing gets more personal than your writing so I'll  have to get over it. This complaining about dudes is really dumb, because I'm having a fantastic week. I got into my top two grad school choices, both of which are in the nation's top 10 low-residency writing programs, I found out I get to lifeguard for the Olympic swimming trials and I got a raise at my job--awesome week!
     However, I'm annoyed with my little brother for not responding to any of my texts or calls this week (or ever now that he is a frat boy!); my crush, who I'm pretty sure friend-zoned me; my ex who I'm probably still in love with, but will never be happy with; all the male characters in the book I'm reading for my Latino Literature class and the high school boy character I am writing about in my next manuscript. None of these dudes will be who I want/need them to be! I know it sounds like my character, his name is Cooper, could be easily managed because I am the one creating him, but you get to a point where your characters become real people who can only do what they are willing to do.
     In my Latino Literature class this semester, we have read many stories about women who are victims of male macho-ism, machismo. These women are cheated on, used and abused and in the end blame themselves. Those of us in the class all talk a big talk when we say that we are appalled with this notion, however, as girls, isn't that often what we do?
     I said earlier that I'm pretty dang sure I'm in the friend zone with a current crush, well really if I'm being honest, two current crushes, but one lives so far away I can't count that. Here's what I should have done when I realized this: thought to myself, oh, well his loss. I guess we'll be good friends. What I really thought: What did I do? Did I laugh too loud? Did I have a booger? Was I overstepping with my "that's what she said joke"? I'm probably not cute enough and on and on and on. I sit here over analyzing every conversation we had trying to find out where I went wrong, just like I do any time a relationship or potential relationship doesn't work out.
     That's so stupid! Why am I being so stupid? Obviously, if it doesn't work out, then he's not my perfect match. Nothing lost. Good Lord is it hard to have that kind of mentality. I believe that there is someone for everyone. We've all seen true love or at least read about it. One of the number one rules of writing is to write what you know. Someone must know! I've come across two things that I think every girl who reads and is looking for the Peeta to her Katniss should check out:

http://littlemissdorkette.tumblr.com/post/3118512524/date-a-girl-who-reads-by-rosemarie-urquico

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWwXJT4LA5A

He's out there. Wading through all the d-bags to find him will make him all the more worthwhile.

Here is one of my favorite sections from Racists, Boys, Buttholes and Old Lady Water Aerobics. Marcus is driving Amy home after going to a movie.

     “Good idea. I’m sorry you had a lot on your mind during the movie today. I hope you still had fun. You’re agreeing to call me, right? I guess that means you weren’t worrying about something between us the whole time.” He was scooting closer and closer to me while he spoke.
     This was it. The mother of all God-holy-awful-fabulous moments. Marcus was going to kiss me. I knew it. It was like in the movies when time slows down and the characters gaze into each other’s eyes. You know it’s coming. It’s preceded by the glorious, heart-pounding, fireworks-popping, moment that they lean in and finally, FINALLY they kiss. It’s that moment during which you always want to yell “kiss her already!” at the tv screen. The wait is almost painful in some movies. But they do, eventually. In the movies they always kiss. You can count on it like I count on my little brother needing a good smack on the arm every couple of days, even if it’s just to remind him that I am older.
     “Yeah. Yes, I’ll call.” My voice was all breathy. Breathe in, Amy! I thought. Don’t puff everything out talking and not suck anything else in! He was so close to me. Oh, yummy boy smell. He must have used cologne. What did I smell like? I used some of my mom’s Channel before I left the house. Hmm… I hoped she wouldn’t smell that on me when I came inside.
     The armrest in the middle of the front seat that can flip up and be an extra, middle seat was down between us. I thought about trying to be kind of sexy and seductive and flipping that arm rest up, sliding across the seat and cozying up close to Marcus right into his arms, but he seriously had, like, his whole upper body leaning on that arm rest. If only I’d thought of the sexy plan sooner. If only I had the guts to act sexy.
      “I had a lot of fun today, Amy,” he said.
      I think I could barf, I thought. Holy crap; this is it. God! My breath! How is my breath? I had Junior Mints at the theater! I don’t think that counts. My mouth is dry. Holy crap, I have a freaking, sandpaper, stinking hot mess going on in my mouth, and Marcus is going to get close to it. He might even put his tongue in that deathtrap! He leaned closer. Did I want him to kiss me? Yes. God, yes! No, no: poop-mouth! He put his arm around me and pulled me in for a hug.
     BLLLUUURRP! God! Freaking, bloody damn leather seats again. I didn’t fart! It was the seat; I swear!
     Huh. His arm was still around me. Marcus was hugging me! How great! How wonderful and perfect! Oh, he smelled so nice—like blueberries, cinnamon and outside. Maybe I smelled ok too! Maybe he knew the fart wasn’t me for real. Since he was just hugging me for now, he couldn’t smell my breath at least. He pulled away and smiled. “Goodnight. I’ll see you Monday.”
      I got out of the car. He hugged me! I’m pretty sure some of his smell stuck to my t-shirt. I wanted to smell the front of it. I could almost feel his arms still around me, one hand near each of my shoulder blades. He had made permanent impact on my skin! I stopped at the front door with my key halfway in the lock. I realized three things: A. I didn’t remember walking up to the front door. Did I shut the car door even? I didn’t smell my t-shirt while he was still in the driveway did I? B. He said we’d gone on two dates! and C. Wait a second, where the heck was my freaking kiss!?

These are two poems I wrote during my sophomore year Poetry Workshop in UNO's Writer's Workshop. I am most definitely NOT a poet, but I enjoy these two. The first one is written in Rimas Dissolutas style and the other was written for my little brother.

Colors
Her hand clutches the crayon as it arcs
Across the page leaving the color
 Eggplant trailing in its path. Her small
Fingers, thinner than the crayon itself

Are red with the pressure. Tree bark
Is shaded cedar chest and beaver.
The limbs reach up and up, tall
Into mountain meadow leaves and an elf

 Dances in aquamarine Clarks
On a neon carrot stage his face scarlet with fever
Or maybe just with tire from all
The dancing. Her brow furrows as she checks herself

 Admires her work. She draws a hat
With a bell in desert sand
Atop the head of the dancing pixie
“He needs a partner,” I tell her.

 She grabs the dandelion and draws a cat
Standing, one paw holding the elf’s hand.
Then vivid tangerine, purple pizzazz, lapis lazuli,
And screamin’ green round over

Them to form a rainbow. The purple arc is fat.
The crayon is shorter than all the rest when they stand
Together. It is her favorite—even more than razzmic berry.
Who knew the world had so many colors.


 Poem Beginning with a Line by Robert Hass
 For Tanner

There are limits to imagination.
But you, Little Brother, you know this is
not true, with our refrigerator box
spaceships, caves, and houses, our animals
lined up in front of pillows for our dog sled team
races, and hot air balloons made with a flag and
our own puffing breath. I want you to
always believe you can be Dwayne Wade.
I want you to jump off tables in capes and fly.

Remember when you would cry, (like a fire
engine) and your stuffed dog would
tell you everything would get better? I will always
be the voice of your puppy speaking to you through
the vent or over the phone, now that I am no longer home.
You can come to me with things as little as “Mom said ‘shit’!”
Or as big as the morning dad told you he
 was leaving us minutes before you went to fifth grade.
 We’ll make no-bake cookies and celebrate or soothe 
our hearts with the chocolate and peanut butter.

Brother Bear, I will dive to ocean floors to
show you all things are possible. I will
lasso any bull in your path to greatness.
 If you desire an orange world, I will
ask what shade you need from my Crayola box.
Whatever you need, I’ll be it for you.

There are limits to imagination for Robert Hass,
but there are no limits to you, my friend.
 When you leave and I appear smaller,
and smaller, in your mirror, remember
you can be anything you want, yes, even a Bengal Tiger.
Because you ready, Buddy. Like you’ve chanted
a thousand times: you ready for it all.

     A little bit about my Young Adult manuscript!

     I want to talk about Amy first. She's so fabulous. I love her like a little sister. Writers learn to write what they know, but don't ever make your characters too much (or too little) like you in that you can't remain objective and let them live on their own.
     Amy and I share our nervousness and all the ticks that go with it. I share her thought process and her worries and her self doubt and lack of confidence. We are also both frozen yogurt addicts! That's where our similarities end! I know nothing about art. I enjoyed my time in Paris at the cathedrals and on the streets rather than the art museums. I can be totally clumsy like Amy, but I am very much in my element when I run or play sports.
     I love Amy for her innocence. I think I grew up a little too fast and enjoyed writing Amy's sweet coming of age. I had a blast in high school, even with all the drama and the ups and downs and I think that's why I will forever enjoy the young adult genre. I live for stories like Harry Potter and the Hunger Games that are so action packed and pull me into a new world. I feel like adults forget why stories are so great, why good needs to defeat evil. This is why young adults are the people we need to save the world. Even if it's as simple as Amy's choice to broaden her perspective on the world. Small changes in our attitudes can make the biggest difference in the world.

Here is the first section of my Young Adult manuscript! I'm sorry if it's a little hard to read, the formatting didn't translate as well between Word and the blog. Enjoy!

Racists, Boys, Butthole and Old Lady Water Aerobics:

My Summer at the Joslyn Art Museum by Amy Delancy

Part 1: The Oompa Loompa Predicament, It’s All About the Skin Color

Sunday, May 22

            AHHHHHHHHHH! Oh, my God. Tomorrow, the best days of my life are starting! I, Amy Delancy, will take my first step in embarking on my career as a serious artist. After tomorrow, the first fifteen years of my life will be deemed irrelevant, and I will be a real artist.

            I am going to keep this journal as a reminder of all I learn. I’ve never been a journaler, but I think it could be a good idea.

I’ve been selected to attend an elite art program. My grandma suggested that I try it. She’s the only one who understands my art obsession. I had to do extensive applications and interviews to get in; and my grandma had to basically force my mom into letting me do it. But I’m in, baby! Wooo!

Mom thought I could go somewhere closer to home. There are no summer art camps close to my house. Just like night classes that let anyone try to be an artist.  This year they just started a highly selective program for high school students at the Joslyn Art Museum in downtown Omaha, and I got in! Me! Just a freshman. I’m freaking out!

###

Monday, May 23

            Oh, dear. My first day was not what I dreamed it would be. God, where to start? I guess from the beginning.

Dad drove me downtown this morning in his Denali. It was the freaking longest drive ever.

“Do you have your toothbrush?” he asked.

“Yes, Dad,” I grunted back. My cheek was resting against the side window as I stared out at the back of the car in front of us. Brake lights! Go. Brake lights! This was taking forever.

“Do you have all your clothes? Your vitamins? Your pajamas?”

“Yes, Dad. I have my sketching kit too. Were you worried about that?” I asked, not taking my head off the window.

“Well, I guess I figured that’s the one thing you wouldn’t forget.” He patted my knee. We stopped at yet another stoplight. Even if I had forgotten something, I wouldn’t have told him. I’ve no idea why my dad, and all those zillions of other people we were bumper to bumper with from Millard to downtown Omaha, would want to drive like that almost hour both ways every day. And we had to leave way too early for summertime. Summer is for sleeping in, dude. Not getting up at the buttcrack of dawn!

“Oh, bloody hell!” I exclaimed when Dad had to slam on the brakes to save us from hitting a little sports car that whipped over into our lane.

“Amy!” Dad shouted.

“Really? You’re more concerned with that than this driving?” God, I was thankful I only had to do this once a week. I ride downtown with Dad on Mondays, then stay with Grandma who lives in Midtown, which is much closer to downtown than we live until Wednesday when Dad would take me back out to Millard, our suburb. “Why do we live so far away from your work? Why do you work so far away? It’s stupid.”

“Your mom loves the suburbs. We have a great house and neighborhood. You guys go to a great school,” my dad rattled off the same list he and my mom gave to my grandma every time they talked about old Omaha versus the suburbs. 

###

Grandma lives in an old house in Midtown, not far from the Joslyn. She thinks old houses are homes and old neighborhoods have character. Grandma thinks our house is exactly the same as every other house west of 72^nd Street, and my mom thinks Grandma will get mugged when she walks down the block to the coffee shop. Grandma is just glad she can still get “the good stuff” at her mom and pop coffee shop and not that “corporate sewage” at Starbucks, which she also says is on every corner of West Omaha, suburbia.

            Mom was so not ok with me staying with Grandma. Well, really she was way so not ok with me doing the program. Mom thinks I will get attacked or hooked on drugs hanging out downtown and said I couldn’t go. I called Grandma. Grandma said, “Doesn’t your mom watch ‘Pot Shop?’ Drugs are all over the ’burbs!” I’ve never seen “Pot Shop,” but Grandma loves her HBO. Yeah, Grandma, great choice when you’re trying to get Mom to let me stay with you.

            “No way am I letting Amy stay with you while you watch that HBO trash, Mother!” my mom had yelled into her phone.

            “Oh, oh, really? You think that would be good for her? Spending time with you down there. What will she do with herself? She needs to be with kids her age, it’s summer!” Mom paced around the kitchen with her apron on and waved a spatula about in her free hand. I sat at the kitchen table and pretended to mind my own business even though this phone call held the fate of my entire future.

            “Well, of course there’ll be kids her age in the camp, but who knows what they’ll be like. She has friends here, in this neighborhood. Kids who go to her school, whose parents are on the parenting board with me.

            “I understand that you think it’s an honor that she got accepted, but the two of you went behind my back to apply for this thing. I have to put my foot down. I’m her parent, Mom, not you. You have to let me be a parent.” Then my mom started crying and threw her spatula on the floor. Dad came into the kitchen from the living room, where he had been watching Sports Center, and took my mom’s cell out of her manicured hand. She tucked her short blonde hair behind her ears and marched out without looking at me.

            My stomach twisted and I felt like crying too. I went to my room then, so I don’t know how Dad smoothed things over, but I’m going, obviously. I know that I went behind Mom’s back, but I knew she’d never sign the consent forms, and Grandma said it’d be ok.

I’m pretty pumped to stay with Grandma. She makes the best food ever. Tonight she made me chicken fajitas and fried ice cream. I mean really. How many people make homemade fried ice cream? I doubt that there are many. Other than Mexican restaurant cooks.

But that was tonight. I skipped the whole day. So anyway the drive sucked. Dad dropped me off at Grandma’s first and then she took me to class. That’s when I started to get nervous.

###

“Uh, Grandma?” I gasped. We had been driving for a couple of minutes and the reality of where I was going hit me like a dodgeball in the gut (yep, that’s happened in gym before. I’m not very athletic). I felt like the wind had been punched out of me. I couldn’t breathe. “What if I suck? What if this is a mistake? What if they laugh at my work? I’m not good enough. We have to go home. Turn back. Please, I can’t do it.” All the words whooshed out in one gasp.

“Oh, buck up, Amy. You’ll be fine. They accepted you. The sketches you turned in for them were beautiful. The one that you did of your mother’s wedding picture? That was phenomenal! Have you ever showed it to her? I think she’d really love that,” Grandma said. She squeezed my hand.

“You think so?” I asked.

“Of course! I wouldn’t have helped you with the applications if I didn’t think you were worthy.”

“Yeah, but also do you think Mom would like to see the picture? I just don’t think she thinks my sketches are cool.”

“I think your sketches are wonderful and so do these Joslyn teachers. Your mom will come around. She loves you, Amy. Here we are!” She pulled her Buick right up in front of the door. “You’ll be ok. Go on! You don’t want to be the kid who walks in holding her grandma’s hand. I’ll see you at three! I’m going to meet my running group then play Bridge and have lunch with the old ladies at church.”

I barely made it out of the car before she zoomed away. Running is the one thing my grandma and mom have in common. They are both run-oholics. They have their own groups that they run with during the week and then on Sundays they do long runs together. Sometimes they do marathons together. I did not get that gene. I did get my grandma’s art gene.

I walked up the steps to the Joslyn and opened the doors. I’d been there before with Grandma many times. We go every time there’s a new exhibition or some fun class or activity, but I never seem to get over the sculpture that explodes out of the floor in the main entrance. It’s huge. I can’t decide if I love it or if it kind of scares me. It’s made of blown glass of all kinds of bold, brilliant colors. The colors are strong and pretty but commanding like the whole piece. The pieces of glass are very sharp and angular—not like vases and globes like you normally see made from blown glass. They’re almost harsh. The combination of beauty and power kind of makes my skin crawl.

I walked in the studio. It wasn’t like going into any studio, well, really any classroom at Millard North, my high school. I just stopped in the doorway, my heart kicking against my ribs and drumming in my ears. All the blood from my marching heart rushed to my face. I just stood there, glued. Many of the students were already in their seats. My eyes flitted from table to table. Bloody crap! I was losing my breath again. Where was I going to sit? There were black kids, white kids, Hispanic kids, but I didn’t see any Hollister-wearing, fifteen-year-old, white girls like me. I knew I wouldn’t know anyone, and there would be upper classmen there, but out of 27 accepted students, I guess I figured I would just fit in.

I don’t think the other students were talking. I don’t know though. At least, it didn’t seem that they all knew each other and had friends. A couple of kids walked past me while I stood in the doorway staring at the tables.

“Let’s find a seat!” One of the teachers clapped her hands at me. “Come on, dear, we’re going to start in three minutes!”

I nodded and adjusted the single-strap travel bag that I had my supplies in. I slid onto a stool at a table with an emo white kid with a bullring through his nose and a Hispanic girl with the most beautiful hair God ever gave to a real person. She looked way older than me, like she might have just finished her junior year. She probably doesn’t want to hang around a dopey freshman. We didn’t talk, which was ok, I guess, because the instructor just lectured the whole time. Safety in the studio, class structure, lunch, field trips, blah, blah, blah. I imagined banging my head against the tabletop. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why was I here?

I feel crappy saying this, but I don’t know how to say this. I’m not racist, but I’d never been somewhere with so many not-white people. God, I sound like a bloody bigot (said with a British accent). I want to bring bloody into the American vocabulary. My mom hates when I say bloody. She says it’s a curse word. I love it.

I told Grandma about the kids in my camp in the car as soon as she picked me up.

“I didn’t know who to sit with,” I told her. “It was awful. I couldn’t even think about what the teacher was saying. All that I could hear was ‘You’re a bloody racist! You froze and stared at the artists in your class like they were zoo animals! What? Do you think all artists are white girls?’ I can’t go back. I’m so embarrassed.”

 Grandma laughed at me. “Oh, honey. It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is. Do you think I’m racist?”

“You aren’t being racist because you’re ashamed of how you acted. If you were a real racist you wouldn’t feel that way. You are just a product of a segregated city, and parents who don’t care to help change that.”

“Segregated?” I raised my eyebrows. Really? I asked myself. Did Grandma just get a case of Alzheimer’s? We aren’t still living in the fifties and my grandma, who lives here, surely can’t believe that.

“Oh, come on, Amy. Who lives in North Omaha? The African Americans. Who lives in South Omaha? The Latinos. Who lives in West Omaha? In the suburbs? Middle class young white families. Segregation.” She pulled the Buick up to a parking stall at the Downtown Y.M.C.A. “You’ve got your bathing suit, right?”

We were going to water aerobics. It’s fun hanging out with Grandma and her old lady friends. I know most people would be embarrassed to do water aerobics with their grandmas, but I’m not going to see anyone from my school down here.

The only part that sucks about it is changing with all of them in the locker room. So many different kinds of old bodies. Fat ones, saggy ones, wrinkly ones, veiny ones. They’d all be so hard to draw, such intricate lines. And it’s hard because they’re so nice, but here they are sitting next to me with their naked butts on the bench or bending over to put on their aqua shoes. And they just keep talking like it’s nothing: Here I am hanging out in my granny panties talking about soufflés! But I want to say, “Let’s change fast,” (which means we’d have to change silently), “and get in the pool and chat there!”

As I pulled on my hot pink, leopard-spot patterned two-piece, Mary Ellen, who is like the female Santa Claus, round, jolly, jiggly like jelly, and very giving, cried, “Ooo, Amy, look! We match!” And she pulled out a hot pink, leopard-spotted one piece the size of a car tarp. Grandma looked up from her locker and quickly put her head inside it. She snorted and her shoulders shook with laughter. I glared at her when she finally got herself under control enough to emerge. “You can be twins!” she whispered to me.

We all climbed into the pool and everyone was chattering away. Mary has an ulcer. Did we see they are tearing down another historic landmark in Midtown to build a chain store pharmacy? Omaha is going to the dogs.

But mostly they wanted to talk to me. How was my first day? Was I so excited to get in?

“Pay attention, ladies!” The instructor called to us. She was nice. She may have been annoyed that everyone just talked during her class, but really I think she was just glad they were there and moving. Even if Grandma was in such a serious debate with her friend Sally that she was still doing Cheerleader Run while we were now on Rocking Horse, at least she was doing something. Those are names of the moves. She should have been able to tell right away she was doing the wrong thing, because in Rocking Horse our arms are in the water, but for Cheerleader Run they pump into the air like you’re raising your pom-poms. Grandma’s arms were still flailing about.

“Just today when Amy got in the car after the art camp she was simply disgusted with herself. She thought she was being a racist because she was uncomfortable being in a class that was racially diverse. It’s not her fault, but it’s just pathetic!”

“Oh, the poor thing!” Sally looked over at me. “Lord. Do you remember when we were growing up here it was like unspoken law that no one of color lived farther west than 56^th street. Fifty years later here now there are over 200 streets in Omaha and I still bet west of 56^th Street the population is probably 85 percent white.” She turned to me. “This will be so good for you, dear. We’ll get you out of the suburbs and into the real world!”

###

 I learned nothing today. Tonight, as I lie in bed and write, all I can think about is whether or not I’m racist or subconsciously racist.

My brother, Keegan, has an Asian friend named Greg, who lives by us, but I don’t really know any black kids or have any Hispanic friends. I never realized it until today, when I was a minority in the studio, but Grandma is right: West Omaha, which basically includes Millard, isn’t very diverse.

God, I’m a real butthole. A racist butthole. Butthole. I haven’t heard that in a while. Side note to self: bring “butthole” back into style.   We used to say butthole all the time when I was a kid, but Keegan is in fourth grade and he never calls me butthole. I’ll have to make him my first convert in the butthole revival.

Wow, tangent. So what can I remember from class today?

Well, Bloody Bigot Amy sat down at a table with the emo kid and the beautiful Hispanic girl. At lunch we all sat outside and did icebreaker games. I HATE icebreaker games. So lame. Bloody lame. We went around in a circle, said our names, schools, what grade we are in, and why we love art.

The last question was hard. I didn’t even pay attention to anyone’s names or what school they went to in Omaha because I was so worried I’d say something stupid about why I love art. Uh, I love art because it’s beautiful. No, I was not going to be that dummy again today. I answered because art is the only way I know how to truly express myself. My artwork is the best of me put into a real physical form. I think that sounds pretty good.

After lunch Ms. B. (that’s the head honcho lady’s name—I know what Mrs. B. sounds like, but really she doesn’t seem to be a B. She’s teeny tiny, like five feet tall but that could be pushing it, and she has short thick black hair cut into a little bob. She has cat-eye glasses and looks like she stepped out of a fifth grade science lab wearing her painter’s coat.) told us our schedule for the summer. In the morning we’ll all be together either practicing with different mediums that aren’t necessarily in our main interests and having models and stuff come in or having guest speakers or Ms. B will talk or we’ll present what we are working on to each other. Then we’ll have lunch. In the afternoon we’ll break into our specialties groups. I’ll go with Jenna. She’s the sketching instructor. We can bounce around in specialties for the first half of the camp, but after we come back from Fourth of July break we have to stick with one because we will be working on a big project to present at the end of the program. I don’t think I’ll be bouncing around in other art forms. I know sketching is my thing.

Some rich anonymous Omaha person donated all of our supplies. I brought my own set of pencils and pastels, but Ms. B said we should all use the donated things and not waste our own. That’s cool I guess, but I got these sets special for the program, and I’ve been literally dying to use them. My parents or Grandma would get me a new set if I use these all up.

After water aerobics, Grandma and I went home, ate, watched an “Operation” re-run, and walked Maggie, Grandma’s Golden Retriever.

Tomorrow no class. Time for me to re-group and figure out how to not make an idiot of my self in class on Wednesday. No more losing my head because I don’t know any not-white people. That sounds racist, “not-white.” That’s what they say on surveys and tests and crap you have to fill out though.  God, I don’t know what I thought it’d be like. Millard North, I guess. There’s like twenty kids in my class of 600 that aren’t white.

But that’s ok. I’ll make friends—obviously I have something in common with these people! I’m not an awful person, just stupid.

###

Wednesday, May 25

            HOLY CRAP! Holy crap, holy crap! While I was busy having my minor meltdown on Monday, worrying about how I’d fit in and if I was racist, I managed to miss the absolutely, positively most gorgeous guy alive. Ever. His name is Marcus. I paid attention in the ice-breaker today. He’s so beautiful. He sat down with me and Bere (the pretty girl with the perfect hair who I sat by on Monday. Her real name is Bernice but she goes by Bere). He was a little late and he came rushing in, so sweet and apologetic and flustered.

            “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt class,” he said to Ms. B as he pulled out the stool next to mine.

            “Oh, that’s quite alright,” Ms. B said. She had to look up at Marcus even while he was sitting on his stool. She’s so dang short! She turned to the rest of the class and said, “I value promptness because as artists we need to know how to make and meet deadlines. Deadlines are everything to us. Otherwise you’ll let your work sit incomplete when you get to a difficult part. If you set deadlines, you’ll push yourself past the difficulties and finish your work. There’s nothing worse than an unfinished piece. I do understand, though, that many of you’re traveling from all over the city and you have lives outside of class. I want no excuses. If you’re late, you’re late, just don’t make it a habit.”

            He smiled apologetically at Bere and me. His teeth are so perfect and white like a movie star. (Thank God I got my braces off last month!) His teeth are so striking against his brown skin, which is even more perfect and pretty than Derek, the hot black guy on “Murderous Minds.” He kind of looks like the guy on “Murderous Minds” but younger (obviously), so no facial hair and less muscley. He seems shy and mysterious. And he’s tall. Tall, dark and handsome.

            He’s just so pretty! I wish I had his skin. It’s so nice and brown. If I had that skin, I’d look good in every color. I’d never be pale or washed out in the winter. I wouldn’t sunburn and I wouldn’t have these stupid freckles that are already multiplying all over my face and it’s only a week into summer.

            He probably thinks Bere is lovely. She is quite stunning. If you like petite, thin, perfect hair, Rosario Mendez-supermodel girls. Yeah, what guy’s into that?

            Did I mention he’s tall? But not in that weird gangly way that I am. He’s perfectly graceful and proportioned in his elegant height. Not many boys are taller than me. Mom and Dad say they will be next year. But Marcus is definitely at least six feet. I walked behind him on our way to lunch. He even has a perfect walk. Straight and athletic but not cocky at all. He doesn’t strut like most guys in my class with their chests out and arms stiff like they’re trying to take up as much room as possible so you have to notice them. 

            Ho-hum. If only, if only (the woodpecker sighs—haha Holes. I so love that book). If only, if only Marcus would like me. I don’t think I could talk to him even though. I’d just start sweating and be all red. I’d probably drool like a freaking Saint Bernard or something.            

            I didn’t tell Grandma about him. I just told her the day was better, and I’m no longer afraid I am racist. Dad picked me up after water aerobics. Yes, Mary Ellen and I still match, and Mom’s supper was not as exciting as Grandma’s would’ve been, I’m sure. She grilled chicken, and we had salad. Woo-hoo. She and Dad did let me tell them all about my first two classes, though.

            “Did you make anything neat in class this week?” Mom asked me as soon as we sat down to eat.

            “Not yet. We haven’t started any projects yet. We’ve just been going over class procedure and rules and what the class will be like. We’ve done two creativity exercises, one in the afternoon on Monday and one after lunch today.”

            “What do you do for a creativity exercise?” Dad asked.

            “Well, on Monday we walked all around downtown and looked at the old buildings and people watched and just took in our surroundings. We were all supposed to take one image in our mind and then when we got back to the classroom some of the people in class shared their image and how they would like to work that into a piece of art.”

            “Huh,” Dad responded.

            “Like one of the girls that sits by me, her name is Bere—”

            “Betty?” Mom interrupted me, “What high school girl is named Betty?”

            “No, it’s Bere. I know it kind of sounds like Betty when you say it, but she is Hispanic, so you kind of say it with an accent. Her name is Bernice, but she goes by Bere. Anyway, Bere told us about an old man she saw waiting at a bus stop. She is a painter and a sculptor and she likes to do abstract art, so she was saying that she’d like to try a Picasso-like work with him. She’d use all blue and black hues to show his age and paint him old and sad, and then use really bold and vibrant colors for the background to show his lost youth,” I said. I looked at my parents. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain it as well as she can, but it’s her vision, you know, so she can describe it better. The way she talked about the colors and the brush strokes you could almost see the painting she had in her mind.”

            “Interesting. What did you share as your inspiration?” Dad asked.

            “Oh, gosh, I didn’t share! We didn’t have a whole lot of time. It was so fun walking around and exploring downtown, we spent too much time doing that and Bere was the only one who got to share. I chose this cool stained glass window at St. Joseph cathedral. Grandma and I went back to the cathedral yesterday then and I sat and tried to use my pastels to do it, but I couldn’t get it quite right. Grandma used some of my pastels and drew a pretty cool pigeon though.”

            “What was your creative project today?” Mom asked.

            “We went down to the park at ConAgra and talked about the ways to show realistic looking water.”

            “So, all of you just wander around downtown as a group? Or alone? You’re going to get lost down there, Amy. You don’t know your way around down there and you don’t know anyone to come and help you,” Mom said, setting down her fork and glaring at me. “What was I thinking letting you do this? These people are taking no responsibility for you!”

            “Emma!” Dad cut her off. “She never said any of that. Let her speak.”

            “We all go together. All thirty-two of us: twenty-seven students, four specialties instructors, and Ms. B. I don’t think I am stupid enough to get separated from a group that large.” My mom and I stared at each other while I spoke, and then I looked away. My chicken and salad were half eaten, but I took my paper napkin out of my lap and put in on my plate. “I’m full. Do you need me to help clean up the table when you are done?” I asked Mom.

            “Don’t worry, Amy. I’ll get it. Thanks though,” Dad said, smiling at me. Then he turned to my brother. “Want to go to the batting cages tomorrow and hit a few?”

I went in my room for a while and watched a couple T.V. shows while I doodled. Summertime tv sucks. Then I went back downstairs to the kitchen to get a little dessert, but while I was gone Keegan ate the last of the frozen yogurt, so we had nothing for dessert. I called him a butthole to start my revival. He told me to go eat farts. Seriously? What kind of comeback is that? Kids these days, I swear. They don’t know anything.

I’m going to hit the hay now. This week is going to go by soooo slow until I get to see Marcus again. I might see if Michaela wants to go to the pool tomorrow. I should start working on my tan. A tan is the one thing I can easily fix. Tan ugly is not near as bad a pasty ugly.

Oh, and nothing happened yesterday. Pancakes, golfing, crazy awesome salad—not at all your standard lettuce and dressing that Mom thinks is salad, but really, really good Grandma-made salad with Craisins, grilled chicken, spinach and feta cheese—for lunch, then naptime/reading in the sun on Grandma’s deck, water aerobics, and this delicious summer pasta thing Grandma made. She had to soak the vegetables for two hours before we started the rest of the dinner. Mom would never do that and she doesn’t even have a job. It’s not like she doesn’t have time to make things as good as Grandma does. Ooo and we had cherry tart for dessert made from cherries that we got at the farmer’s market downtown. There is a new farmer’s market at Midtown Crossing, which is closer to Grandma’s house, but Grandma absolutely, positively loathes Midtown Crossing. She thinks it is the most evil thing ever. She thinks they’re trying to bring the suburbs into Historic Omaha and are ruining all kinds of old buildings and areas to build new yuppie (her word not mine) stuff. She says all the young professionals without children realize how stupid it is to drive an hour to work every day like my dad does, but they don’t want old things. They want the convenience of living close to their jobs downtown, but they want the new, shininess of the suburbs, so they’ll destroy old buildings with stories and histories.

I think the new CineDine place at Midtown Crossing looks awesome. You get to eat supper, and there are waiters and everything, while you watch your movie. I won’t be getting to check it out anytime soon because Grandma thinks it is an eyesore of metal and glass in her once historic brick-and-wood neighborhood, and Mom and Dad probably think it is too far away.

###

Thursday, May 26

            Michaela and I went to the pool today and got our tan on. I told her all about Marcus. She says he should be my summer romance. Yeah, right. I’ve never even had a regular romance. Michaela is really into theater, and she tried telling me about this musical called Grease where these high school kids run around and wear leather and sing and dance and they have a song about summer loving. My life is not a musical, and I can’t imagine wearing leather during summer.

I told her about Miss Priss Bere (I shouldn’t say that. I don’t really know her yet, she might be very nice. She seems nice; she is just way so much more beautiful than me). Michaela said if I get to him first he’ll be mine! Right. Stun him with my sparkling personality, butthole revival and all.

            “You just need to dress really hot,” Michaela said. She was laying on her back on a chair on the sun deck at our neighborhood’s country club pool. She had huge black sunglasses on that were going to give her a ridiculous tan line. I had tried to tell her not to wear them, but she thought they made her forehead smaller since she had pinned her bangs back to avoid the tan line her hair would give her. Stupid, I know, trading one tan line for another, but whatever, I didn’t want to argue. “That’s the thing about Grease,” she said. “In the end Sandy changes out of her frumpy sweaters and poodle skirts and dresses in tight leather and a skimpy top and heels and she gets the guy.”

            “I’m not going to dress like a slut to get a guy,” I told her and rolled over onto my stomach to work on my backside tan. “Besides, the only tight pants I have are those stupid skinny jeans my mom got me.”

I did remember, though, that my mom got me a cool black tank top from Hollister last week for “Happy Summer Break!” Mom is always getting Keegan and me new clothes, which is sweet, but she always says they’re for something like Happy Friday! Have a new fleece! Oh, Columbus Day have a new pair of Nikes or Happy Mother’s Day, have a new pair of jeans, because without you I wouldn’t be a mother! It’s really nice of her, but she could just say she was at the store and thought it’d be cute on me. Also, it’s hard to feel like you dress hot when all you wear are clothes your forty-year-old mother picked out for you.

            The pair skinny jeans she bought me in the fall (Happy New School Year jeans!) are just awful. They make my legs look so long, like I’m a stork. So she bought me another pair. Mom very much wants me to be totally “in” as far as my fashion goes. I still don’t think that anyone would go for me in my skintight jeans unless he had a beak. (Do storks have beaks? Is that what they’re called? Side note: research stork beaks.)

###

Sunday, May 29

            Bloody hell. I look like a freaking sweet potato fry. I’m burnt to a crisp. Even my eyelids are red. This is a disaster. I was so good monitoring my tan on Thursday and Saturday; I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I used tanning oil rather than sunscreen today. False. You could pour ice water on my skin and it would boil. No cute black tank top can improve this Oompa Loompa look. Additionally, my legs are so burnt I won’t be wearing tight jeans for, I don’t know, probably the rest of the summer. So it will be soft baggie shorts and t-shirts. Man, I’ll look real hot. Luckily, tomorrow is Memorial Day so my burn will have two extra days to fester and boil before I go back to camp.

###

First random story of my day:
So I was reading in the sun today in the park before I teach pilates. I fell asleep. In my semi-asleep/awake state I heard this weird knocking noise. Ok. Fine. Eventually, a huge piece of bark flies off a tree above me and lands on my face. Before I could yell at the woodpecker, I saw that it was time for me to get up and go teach. Thank you, woodpecker, touché.

Hola!

     What up, peeps?! I recently finished my first Young Adult novel and am hoping to spread the word and keep my followers updated on my new work. I will be posting random musings about my day and pieces of stories I'm working on.
     A little bit on me first. I like to consider myself all the names I get called during the week: an athlete/nerd/hippie. I teach fitness classes (cycling, yoga, pilates, bootcamp, water aerobics, basically anything that doesn't take rhythm--I do not have moves like Jagger) and compete in many races around the country (my favorites are Olympic Distance Triathlons). However, I also have allergies and glasses that constantly slip down my nose and I'd rather spend the night in bed reading in my sweatpants than most anything else. I can be overly competitive (I love sports!), can't wear higher than a two inch heel (I'll fall over) and will forever be holding out for the Mr. Darcy to my Elizabeth (I don't believe in perfect, I just believe in the guy crazy to fit my girl crazy). I truly believe in the power of positive thought and feel most relaxed when reading the the grass or sand on a sunny summer day.
     I also want to send out a note on the title of this blog. I was raised in a family of strong beautiful women who call those of us in the third generation the Silly Girls. I love this name. I take it as a compliment to our ability to be young and wild and free at heart. Life is too short to not let loose and be silly whenever you can. So have fun, be silly, spice things up with a little sarcasm and a little sass every now and then and always, always be strong. Stand up for what you believe. No woman doormat ever made history or is the character you look up to in books.
     I'm not sure what I want to be when I grow up (I'm already 23 so I'm not sure when the growing up part is going to have to happen), but I know who I want to be. My goal for this blog is to get my words out there and have my stories be joyful and give advice to anyone who needs it. I hope you enjoy my writing and it brings a smile to your face!