I have a half hour to get this post written and live on my blog before heading out to celebrate Saturday night. And while on one hand I’m excited to write a two or three-part blog series about a certain topic (and I really, really want to start mapping it out), there’s no way that I can write even the first part in the next 29 minutes.

So I opened up my content calendar for this month, looking for ideas, and it’s becoming very clear that I have five more posts to write until I reach the finish line of National Blog Posting Month.

But I have so many more amazing, awesome blog posts to write before November 30th that even writing a ‘cheap shot’ of a blog today seems like a waste.

28 minutes.

Shit.

[10 minutes later]

Yeah, I don’t have anything, so here’s the official trainer for The Muppets movie. John and I saw it on Wednesday and we’re about to go see it, again. Seriously, I’ve never laughed so hard at a movie in my life.

If you’re a 20-something who grew up with watching Sesame Street, idolizing Jim Henson, and thought at some point that the Muppets (and every Disney character) was real, you should go see this movie. If you like underdog stories, making dreams happen, and the Muppets, you should see this movie.

I haven’t found a really good way to describe it, but imagine if you could go up to the fictional characters you idolized as a kid and actually talk to them and ask them questions about the things they did and how awesome that would be – that’s this movie. It’s a modern interpretation of our history of growing up in the 80s and 90s (read this blog post by Jessica Malnik: 21 Signs You Grew Up in the 90s, and you’ll know what I’m trying to say).

Tonight I had dinner with my friend Harmony who is taking a 100-day break from working and blogging about it. Yesterday she shared an old photo of herself that gave her insight to one of the happiest moments of her life and insight into her true self.

But it’s more than just a photo; it’s about finding who you are based on who you were from your past. As Harmony puts it in her blog post:

Right now I have two books on my nightstand (from the library). Redirect by Timothy D. Wilson and Public Parts by Jeff Jarvis. I am finished with the former and just a chapter into the latter. Tim may not be as good at writing as Jeff is, but he is a pretty damn good scientist. He proposes that so many of our societies ills and traumas could be cured with story editing. He describes a method for re-writing how you see yourself. By changing our own self image, we can be happier, more successful and healthier – and this is all proved with scientifica studies.

If we could merge this “surprising new science of psychological change” with the message in Jeff’s book, “how sharing in the digital age improves the way we work and live,” you would end up with more or less what I am doing here with this blog.

Tonight when I got home, I went through my boxes of photos to find one that represented the image of how I see myself. The one that stuck out the most is the one at the top of this post. This one was taken in Madrid, Spain during the summer of 2000. I was 14 and on a student ambassador trip to Italy, France, and Spain. It was a summer of self-discovery and figuring out who I was, which is something that is bound to happen as a teenager studying abroad or traveling internationally with other teenagers.

This photo was taken before our final dinner of the three-week long trip. And the girl pictured here turned into the one below – a freshman in high school, with confidence of steel, true friends, and blue hair.

When I think of my own self image, this is who I think of.

Around this time last year, I was obsessed with a little viral video that was recorded on iPhones on a subway in NYC. This year, I’m obsessed with a song that my cousin introduced me to over the summer by breaking out in a dance while I played the song via YouTube on my Grandma’s farm in nowhere Iowa.

Want to know the best part? I had no idea that this song and that dance was created to save the singers from the Zombie Apocalypse until this weekend. This song and that dance is definitely one that we should all learn, for our own safety and that of our loved ones.

So, because I love each and every one of you in a non-creepy, deeply platonic way, I’d like to bestow on you the gift of shufflin’ so you may survive the apocalypse as well.

‪How To – Shuffle Routine in Party Rock Anthem Music Video (Part 1)‬

‪How To – Shuffle Routine in Party Rock Anthem Music Video (Part 2)‬

Phew, now we’re all safe.

Everyone knows the saying, “Behind every successful man is a woman.” And then I see an article that one of my friends shared on Facebook about the 10 women who secretly control the Internet (aka “the world”), and I have to ask – what’s with all the secrecy here, people?

The answer is obvious and it has to do with which pair of pants we put on in the morning and how we conduct ourselves in a room full of strangers. It’s the way we shake hands in public and how we introduce ourselves using only our first names. It’s the question of whether our actions are dictated by society or if it’s from the very nature of the “g” word – gender.

Learning “F”

I was 17 when I learned the “F” word. I had heard the “F” word before, but I never really understood what it meant and especially what it meant to me.

It came to me from the most obvious of places; a class called Introduction to Women’s History at the community college. I was still in high school and especially impressionable. So I did what every teenager did and I shared it with my best friend.

My best friend and I were revolutionaries without a revolution. We were like every single teenager on the planet who was looking to be a part of something but we weren’t too sure what that ‘something’ was. (This was also before Facebook.)

To us, feminism was an identity that we could wear proudly on our arm and let it stand that it stood for being who we as it is true to ourselves. It stands for knowing that we are strong, represents the gutsy, and tells us it’s not only okay to strive for what we want out of life, it’s required.

How this Feminist celebrates International Women’s Day

As a girl and a woman growing up in the U.S., a glass ceiling has never prevented me from achieving what I want to accomplish in life. But I know that’s not the case for everyone.

The role of women and girls in the world is constantly on my mind. I am fortunate to work for an organization that holds these values close to the core of their business. But there is so much left to be done and so much to do. Which is why today, on the 100th Anniversary of International Women’s Day, I’m proud to help power the launch of Give 2 Girls, a campaign that turns activism into action by empowering the women of tomorrow by giving to the girls of today.

Seriously, you should check it out the campaign and see how the Jolkona community is supporting this movement.

So as I clean up my desk, load this blog, and head to one of the few celebrations of International Women’s Day in Seattle, I need to send a few text messages to the women in my life who helped inspire and support me throughout my budding “F” word years. These are women who share their strength, knowledge, and beauty when I needed and when I didn’t know we needed it.

Happy International Women’s Day, Feminist Coming Out Day, and good ol’ Tuesday!

I’m going to celebrate with 100+ ladies and gents in Seattle. What are you doing to celebrate this momentous day?

Photo Credit: ego technique

In every family, there’s one thing that is your “thing” and it’s a right-of-passage to learn how to do it and how to do it well. It’s usually a trade secret and something you can whip out at parties and impress your friends with. Something that is passed down by generations and a mad skill that is like nothing for you when you do it. In my family, this thing is making pies from scratch.

These pies originate where my roots do, from the Midwest. One year when I was in high school, my parents, sister and I spent Christmas with our family on their farm in Iowa. My grandpa wasn’t doing so well, so all the aunts and their families came to spend some quality time together. We turned my grandma’s kitchen into a pie-lover’s dream.

We are pie-making machines

We had three stations: crust, filling, fruit processing. The first few pies went straight into the oven and straight into our mouths. The rest were slid into gallon zip-lock bags and stacked in the deep freeze in the basement, to give Grandma something quick and easy to give Grandpa if he was being finicky. Since that winter, it’s been an unofficial contest between my cousins as to who can mass-produce the most number of pies in one pie-making session. One summer they made something obscene like 15 pies due to a healthy crop of homegrown rhubarb. I can’t compete with that.

But pies are not reserved for holidays alone. They come out whenever the fruit is fresh and guests are to be “wow-ed.” One fall my parents’ apple trees sprouted fruit for the first time in fifteen years. Homemade pies featuring homegrown, organic apples were in order. My friends ate well.  Another time John and I hosted dinner for new friends and I was supposed to make the famed apple pie except that I forgot. No worries, I whipped it out while John was making dinner. Ingredients to baking in 45-minutes flat—that’s one definite way to impress people.

The secret ingredients

There are three main pies in my family: Dutch apple, cherry, and pumpkin.

Apple is best when the fruit comes from homegrown apples, or anything grown in Washington. Once I was swayed to make a pie using bright green Granny Smiths, but I prefer Jonathans or a variety of Braeburn.

The best cherry pies come from fruit that’s purchased in bulk at the Amish store near my grandparent’s farm in Iowa. These cherries are tart and processed specifically for making pies. We used to carry them home to Seattle on the airplane, packed in coolers (this was during a time of less stringent airport security), and home to our deep freeze.

The best pumpkin pies come from the insides of Halloween pumpkins we were never allowed to carve. It wasn’t until I was in college and dating John that I carved my first pumpkin; mom wouldn’t let us waste the meat.

Piecrusts are a trade secret. Okay, not really. But they are made of four ingredients: flour, salt, Crisco, and water (though we always leave out the salt). What’s secret is how you mix and cut the dough.

One Thanksgiving I had a pie making party with a friend, we made a pie for my family and a pie for hers. When she brought hers home, her mom was impressed that we made everything including the crust from scratch. Apparently piecrusts are the hardest things to make. That was the first time I realized that what I know how to do—this pie making from scratch—is kind of a big deal.

Bake at 400° for 50 min., or until top is golden brown & apples are tender

I’m thankful to have grown up making pies with my mom so that as an adult, making pies from scratch is a “nonevent.” That’s the thing about having an inherited “thing”—it’s a part of who you are to the point that it’s not a big deal when you do it.

I’m thankful to have this skill, and I’m lucky that it’s a really tasty one too. I’d share the recipe with you, but it’s more impressive if you taste it for yourself.

Today is my sister’s due date As I write this there are 39 minutes left of Sunday, November 21st Eastern time and baby is still well inside.

“Hold on, baby, hold on.” Every text message and email that my Mom sends is signed that way. My husband and I are already here in New Jersey, but Mom and Dad don’t fly in from Seattle until Wednesday night. We’re playing baby roulette, and according to the midwives and other stories about when first babies come due, the cards are in our favor.

Dear Howeberry,

Today is your due date, but seeing how there are a few minutes left until midnight and your mama is not showing any signs, it seems as though we’ll have to wait another few days until we see you. And that’s okay. Your grandma won’t be here until Wednesday and she’d really like you to wait for her. I’d like you to wait for her, too.

You are the first grandbaby in both of our families and there are so many people who already love you. When your mom first told me that she expecting you it was by phone while I was stuck in horrible traffic.

She asked what my plans were for Thanksgiving. You see it was March and November was not in my immediate plans.

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come out here for Thanksgiving and cook a turkey again.”

You see, I had just hosted everyone at my house and cooked my first and apparently the most amazing turkey ever. Plus this was an extremely strange question. Why would I go out to her house and cook her a turkey?

I may have said something like, “Why would I do that?” or nothing at all.

To which, your mama replied, “Because I might have something to show you in, say nine months.”

Nine months? Like what a kitchen remodel—oh wait… And then it clicked: you were that “something” she wanted to show me.

At the time you were about 6 or 7 weeks old and the size of a blueberry. That’s how you got your nickname, Howeberry, because you were the size of a little Howe-berry.

I have no idea if the name will stick. I’ve thought up all sorts of nicknames for you over the past few months, none of which I’ve shared with your mama because we still don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl yet. What we do know is that you’ll arrive with a full set of hair, a nose like your mom, and probably a smile like your dad. I really hope you get your mom’s eyes, because they’re Pratt eyes and are absolutely beautiful when she smiles.

I have known your mama for my entire life. She’s one of the most important people in it. Ever since she became pregnant she has changed. She’s the happiest I’ve seen in her entire life. She has this glow that carries across in photographs. And she’s confident like I’ve never seen before.

I hope that when you arrive and as you grow up you keep making her happy, because that’s all that I want for my big sister. I want to see her glowing in that way every single day.

There are so many people in this world who already love you, and I cannot wait to see the person that you become and the kind of parents your mama and your daddy turn into. And I’ll be here with uncle John to spoil you as much as we can. You’re the first grandbaby in the family, on both sides, and we are all so excited to meet you.

But hold on, baby, hold on.

With more love than you’ll know,
Auntie Laura

Update: Lucius James (aka Howeberry) was born on Saturday, December 4th at 10:45pm and I already can’t remember what life was like before he was in our family.

Back in the day, a friend tried to change the phrase “let’s hang out” to “let’s play.” We were teenagers and pushing our way into adulthood, yet we latched on to selective sentiments of simplicity and innocence.

The term “let’s play” didn’t stick. We moved on. We grew up.

As an adult, we get pulled in so many directions. But when was the last time you just played? And I’m talking played in the sense of silliness. Playing in the way that it’s not for professional development or a hobby, but for fun. Because you want to, because you need to? Played to the point where you laughed at your own laughter?

A few weeks ago I met a friend and her daughters at a playground for coffee, vitamin D, and some much needed friend time. As, we, the adults sat and chitchatted, I watched the small one climb a large rope-ladder and finish with the largest smile I’ve ever seen. I listened to her powerful giggles as she slid down the slide.

Energy in kids is electric. If you could convert one child’s laugh into electricity, how much power would it emit?

I believe adults can produce a similar amount of energy but most are too scared to open up and enjoy themselves. Too scared to feel, to receive, to turn that energy into something larger than themselves.

I’m one of those adults. I get self conscious about my feelings way too often. I may be at a movie or event that’s supposed to entertain and help me escape reality. I may feel happy. Really happy, but then look around and no one is as openly happy as I am. So instead of embracing those feelings and enjoying them, I’ll “dumb” them down based on how I’m gauging everyone else is feeling. And that’s stupid. Going with the flow is really stupid.

Even as I write this, I’m torn. The mature side of me knows that people need to monitor their feelings so that they don’t self-destruct and offend others. While the other part of me wants us to find the balance between embracing our feelings and turning them into actionable passion.

I’m an emotional person and I let my emotions rule me way more than they should. My “feelings” encourage me to bite off more than I can chew and perform better than I ever have in my life. It invites heartache, stress, and give me an excuse to do something that only the momentum of feeling amazing could.

The ability to feel is a strength. And learning how to turn those feelings–of glee, of excitement, of curiosity, of anxiety, of stress, of anger–into energy that drives the flow of my work forward is important.

Kids feel what they feel, when they feel it, because they feel that way. I want to follow the lead of my friend’s girls on the playground: embrace feeling as a good thing and put an end to feeling socially awkward and apologetic about it. And dedicate more time to play.

Photo Credit: Balakov

Last night I met up with one of my closest friends from college. She’s in town and we haven’t seen each other in about a year. Yes, it’s that kind of friendship.

As we talked, caught up, and jumped forward in each other’s lives, I was reminded what attracted me to her and made me want to be her friend–her strong, sometimes brash personality. This is a woman who speaks her mind and has no fear of letting it be known. She lets you know what she’s thinking when she thinks it and you’re either on the boat or a really intense conversation begins.

I admire people like that.

We met during our first term at Portland State. This friend’s college career started at a community college. She dipped her toes in the water then took time off after landing a pretty decent office job.

That lasted for a few years before she decided that she was tired of waking up each morning and hating that job. She wanted to be happy and not “just get by” in life. So she stepped it up and went to the university. But she didn’t choose an easy liberal arts degree (like, oh, yours truly), she chose structural engineering. Engineering. This chick wanted to go play with the “the big boys,” and play she did.

It was not easy. She worked herself through school and piled on the student loans to help make her dream possible. It was hard. But she never quit. Not this time.

I admire determination.

After five years in school, this friend graduated last spring and scored a pretty sweet job in her industry. Her career has started. And last night at dinner, I could see the hardness soften a bit on her. She was proud of herself. And I was proud of her, too.

Sure, there’s other stuff going on in her life that’s not all unicorns and rainbows, but in this one aspect of her life she is happy. She’s still bullish, strong, and her personality can be overwhelming, but it’s so fucking exciting to see someone I care about actually make it–see someone dream big, build goals, and make it happen.

I admire results.

Over at The Squab this week, Shane Mac wrote a powerful post about enabling others to meet their dreams. Enabling in a good way. He asks you to:

Stop letting people talk about stuff and actually enable them to do it. Help them tackle the fear of just starting. Eliminate all the cant’s, no’s, and wont’s before you even tell them to do it.

I like to think that I helped this friend meet her goal. And after I finished the most amazing rainbow sushi roll of my life, I let her know that I’m still here. Still available if she needs a place to vent, a shoulder for support, or someone to let her know that new decisions she’s about to make on are okay. That the next change she makes in life–whatever it may be–as long as it’s right for herself, I am here to support here.

That’s all I can do. That’s what friends should do.

I want to encourage my friends, not zap their dreams. And I hope, expect, require that my friends do the same for me. Obviously, however, if I’m on a path of self-destruction, please let me know (gently).

So as I pat myself on the back and wear a “gold star” of friendship today, I want you hear from you–how have you enabled your friends? Or how did you get rid of a dream zapper?

The Mighty Mazda after literally taking a "bite" out of an Oldsmobile (for the record, the insurance company ruled in favor of the Mazda)

The best car in the world is a 1989 Mazda 323 SE, 5-speed manual, with a 1.6 liter engine and it’s share of 100,000 miles. It was discovered in the suburbs, parked in a ditch, with a “for sale” sign awkwardly taped to the window. It had a sun-faded hood and plastic chrome hub caps that sparkled in the July sun. It had four doors and a trunk that was deep enough to sneak multiple teenagers into a drive-in movie. It was the perfect first car, purchased with hard-earned cash, split 50/50 with my sister.

Our first upgrade was the radio, or lack-of. We opted for a period-correct Mazda radio that was rescued from the dash of a dead 323 in a junk yard (may it rest in peace). The radio featured a tape deck, a rarity in the era of CDs and the birth of the iPod. The tape deck perpetuated the illusion of coolness that every high schooler strives for. That is, unless one surpasses that status by racing.

The Mighty Mazda, as it was christened, was fast. And by fast that is to say it sounded fast but was not. The stock exhaust did nothing but give the facade of speed. There was no tachometer. You had to shift according to the roar of the engine, which came in handy when focused on the finish and not the gauge.

In the car overflowing with teenage ego, I’d pull up to a red light, sneak a peak at the driver in the car next to me, wait for the green and floor-it. Believe it or not, the 105 horsepower would usually launch the 323 across the intersection and secure a victory. A victory, of course, that was made possible by the fact that the other car didn’t know he was a competitor.

I was 16 and ripe with ambition. The Mighty Mazda helped me escape heartache and discover strength. It fueled innocent shenanigans and the most random road trips. It kept me out of trouble and was the hub of my existence. The 323 had a personality of its own, one that only a new driver and her first car will ever know.

What was your first car?