If you come to this blog on a regular basis, you know that I went to TequilaCon in Philadelphia last weekend. And by now, if you have any interest in blogger drunkenness, you’ve no doubt read recap after recap all over the Internet.

I want to tell you about what you won’t see in the pictures.

I want to tell you what TequilaCon has to do with you.

I’ve been thinking about this since the plan ride home. Sitting in my business class seat beside Avitable, watching him fall asleep sitting upright with his sunglasses on, I couldn’t keep the grin of my face. I found I was absolutely overflowing… with pride.

What Adam didn’t tell you on his blog is that he hates to fly. In fact, it had been at least three years since the last time he’d been on an airplane. Of course, there has been very little reason for Adam to fly because even more than flying, he hates hates hates stepping outside of his comfort zone. (Or his fiefdom as our friend Crys so wisely describes it.)

He likes to host parties rather than attend them. He would rather invite you to his house than show up to yours. He’d just as soon die as make small talk with a stranger in a bar. He’ll drive 45 minutes out of his way to pick you up rather than have you pick him up, because it’s just easier if he drives. Like most control freaks, he asserts his as a way to keep himself “safe” and comfortable.

And yet… with less than 24 hours notice, he packed his bags and hopped on a plane to meet more than 50 strangers. He allowed his hotel room to become Party Central, offering up his bed and his bathroom when they were needed unexpectedly. He went to a party and moved from seat to seat, introducing himself to damn near everyone in the room - despite his inclination to stake out a spot and wait for people to approach him.

And you know what? He had a blast. “Most fun I’ve had in forever”, as a matter of fact.

Sitting on that plane, thinking about how much he’d pushed himself, I was so damned proud of him and absolutely thrilled that he’d stepped outside of his comfort zone.

And I started thinking about all the other people I’d watched to that over the last few days.

I thought about the woman who always classified herself as “better friends with guys”, and how she roomed with two women and allowed us into her world.

I thought about the man who admits to being an extreme introvert who was terrified of forcing himself onto new people, and how he quickly became the life of the party and the heart of his own little posse.

I thought about the women who were terrified to walk into a room full of strangers on their own, and how they begged their friends to come with them to give them strength… and walked away from the weekend with a suitcase full of stories and new friends.

I remembered the man who felt like he didn’t know anyone and worried about fitting in - the same man who would find himself becoming an invaluable lifeline to a brand new friend by the end of the weekend.

More than the tequila shots and the belly tattoos, this was the story of TequilaCon 08. Never before in my life have I seen so many people in one place who were pushing themselves past their fears - absolutely terrified, and doing it anyway.

To say it was inspiring would be an understatement. It was a supreme honor to be able to watch firsthand as these people changed themselves and their lives.

Yes. I said it. An experience like this life changing.

Every time we force ourselves to take a step outside the box, to push the envelope, to ignore what we think we “know” about ourselves, we have a unique opportunity to change our perspectives. Of ourselves and of the world around us. Walls come down, limits fall away, and if we’re lucky we see a whole new piece of the world that we never knew existed.

My friends, believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more empowering than that.

Now, what the hell does all this airy fairy bullshit have to do with you?

You tell me. What are you limits? What are your fears? What are the things you’d “never be able to do” because of your own insecurities? It’s OK - we all have them.

Whatever yours may be… push it. Whether it’s going to a party with a room full of strangers or simply commenting on a blog that you typically lurk on because you’re afraid no one will like you. Just… try it.

I know without a doubt that you have it in you because you’ve already started putting yourself out there. If you’re a blogger (as most of you are), you open up a web page and willingly share at least some small part of yourself with the Internet. That? Is amazing and something that lots and lots of people are unable to do.

And maybe you’re not a blogger. Maybe you just read what other people write but you don’t write yourself because there’s no way you could do that. And yet… here you are. Inexplicably drawn to watch as someone else spills their guts and their glory for the whole world to see. Maybe, just maybe, there’s something in all this vein splitting that calls to you…

Believe me. Trust me. Hear me when I tell you that if you just jump, it will be absolutely beyond measure worth it.

I received a present on Tuesday that made it difficult not to break down into tears on the spot. I’m pretty sure presents aren’t supposed to make you cry. Even if you do have PMS.

We have a professional writer on staff at work. And while she gets paid for technical writing, she is also in the process of finishing up her own fiction novel. I consider her a real writer. She’s not only trained in the craft, she practices it.

On Tuesday morning she handed me a paperback book, the pages of which are littered with highlighted pages and black ink underlining. “I’m not using this anymore, I thought that you might have a use for it.”

The Truth of the Matter: Art and Craft in Creative Nonfiction.

The title jumped off the cover and punched me in the gut. It reminded me of another title that I’ve been haunted by in recent weeks - the title of my own book. Of course, this book, The Truth of the Matter, is sitting in my hands, completed and edited and published. Real.

It is a sickening contrast to my own. To be fair, I shouldn’t even call it “my book”. I should more accurately describe It as “the series of essays and thoughts and paragraphs and sentences that have been plaguing me since the light bulb came on and the title fell out of my mouth.” Because that’s what it is - that’s all that it is.

I’ve wanted to write my entire life. Of course, I’ve also wanted to be an actress and a fashion designer and a trophy wife. Writing has long been a fantasy with about as much teeth as the possibility of passing Bill Gates in an airport and instantly mesmerizing him with the power of my terribly small bosom. But a girl can dream, right?

Except I’m no longer content with the dream.

For the first time, the words are there. The story is there. The perspective and the voice and the purpose and the theme… all of it. Is there. Well, if “there” means “in my head”.

I haven’t written a word of it. And it’s killing me.

For once it’s not the fear or the uncertainty that is preventing me from putting all of It on paper. But the time. Or rather, the fact that there doesn’t seem to be any.

I know. I know. We never have enough time. We never get it all done. The story of a working mother with more responsibilities than hours is not new and it’s been years since I’ve tossed around the phrase “in my free time” without a dramatic eye roll to indicate THERE IS NO SUCH THING.

But this is different.

I find myself getting extremely resentful of my work. Not the work - but the time. To be honest, I can get my work job done (and done well) in about 5 hours a day. Six if there are excessive emails and returned calls. But between the day care run, the commute, and the Required To Be At Your Desk Hours, I’m away from my house for almost 11 hours a day. Five days a week.

And all I can think as I’m driving back and forth and waiting for the phone to ring is “this is time I could be spending writing it down.”

Of course, once I get home there is more time - and even more things to do. There is dinner to be made and children to be played with. I can’t in good conscience sacrifice either of these things because the little bastards have to eat… and they won’t be little bastards for long.

After baths and bed time there are emails to be answered and posts to write. If I’m lucky I’ll read a few blogs here and there. And all the while I’m thinking “I need two hours. Just two hours to sit down and get some of this out of my head.” But I don’t give up the blog because it is the very thing that led me to this place. If I’m not writing The Story - at the very least I’m writing something. And it’s something I happen to believe a great deal in.

And then there is The Truth of the Matter: Art and Craft in Creative Nonfiction.

The timing of this gift was uncanny. The title itself answered a lot of questions I’d been having in my own head in a single flash. I hadn’t finished the first paragraph before I realized that a lot of the Floating Gunk was starting to take shape.

And still… there is the question of time.

EDITED TO ADD: Apparently when it absolutely, positively has to be written - you find the time. I’m at 4600 words between my lunch break, an afternoon slow down, and the kids watching cartoons for 30 minutes.

Holy shit. I have 4600 words.

In other words… this whole post is shit.

I decided about two months ago that I would do a series.

100 things about me. 10 things a week for 10 weeks.

Today is supposed to be the final installment of that series.

But I’m just not feelin’ it. I can’t think of “10 things” we haven’t discussed that anyone really gives a shit about. I’m sure they are there… somewhere. But not today.

So, for today, we’re just going to be quiet.

Oh my God, I am so exhausted.

Funny thing about living in Vacation Land - you don’t do shit until other people are on vacation. In your house.

It’s been 10 days since this whole Month of The House Guest began - which means we still have about three weeks to go. And good God, I’m never going to make it. I’ve already done Universal, the beach twice, the state park, some other stuff I can’t remember because holy shit did I mention how tired I was?

Anyway, not the point.

Point is - I’m a loser.

How big of a loser you ask?

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I don’t hate you. Honestly.

I know, it seems like I’ve forgotten all about you lately.

Sure, I have been here - but I think we both know I haven’t really been here. Not like I should be. Not in the way that you deserve.

I haven’t responded to comments. I haven’t read your blog. I’ve been neglectful, I know. And it’s just not fair.

But I swear - it’s me, not you.

I’ve just been doing some things. And not just for me. Really, I promise. I’ve been doing all this for you, for us, baby.

I just wanted to let you know that I’m OK - we’re OK - and we’ll be better than ever soon. I’m sure there were days when you wondered if I’d finally been swallowed whole by my gaping belly button (10,000 points to anyone who gets that), but I’ve been right here, trying to make things better for you.

Here’s a little peak at things to come….

Any guesses?

How do you pronounce Kegels? As in, the exercise?

I have gone my entire life pronouncing it KEE-gels. And I’ve probably said that word, out loud, in front of people, a million and two fucking times. No one has ever looked at me funny or gave any indication that anything was amiss.

And then, last night, I said it on the air.

And holy hell. Wouldn’t you know it. Apparently it’s pronounced KEG-els. Like KEH short e instead of KEE long e.

How fricking embarrassing. Seriously. Here I am prattling away like I know some shit, and I’m saying it wrong.

Know what else I apparently say wrong? Enveloped. Malleable. And Aunt.

I’m such a schmuck.

I suppose the good news is, I could be president some day.

It’s no secret around the Internet that two of my best friends in the entire world are bloggers. If you’ve been reading here for any length of time, you already know that I absolutely adore Adam and Amy.

(If you’re new here - HI! Everyone, say “Hi” to the newcomers. “Hi Newcomers!”)

Here’s something that you might not know…

These two saved my life last year.

And my marriage.

I went back and forth on whether to talk about them together or separately (or whether to snub Avitable completely, because that kind of thing gets him so worked up and makes me laugh and laugh and laugh), but ultimately I realized that there was no way I could say what one meant to me without explaining how invaluable the other was.

About a year ago, my life started to fall apart. Most specifically, my marriage was crumbling. A combination of old hang ups and new issues I could have never anticipated came together to cause The Perfect Storm - and there was a time when I was absolutely certain we wouldn’t survive.

One week before my 7 year anniversary, I told my husband I wanted a divorce. And I meant it. The months that followed that were horrendous, for both of us.

The first person to notice was Amy. I didn’t even have to say the words for her to pick up on the signs that something wasn’t right. She would swing from righteous indignation on my behalf, to subtle warnings that something would have to be done to prevent permanent damage. And when I began to self destruct, she was the first person I ran to with my confessions.

She sat with me when I was alone. She listened to me when I was too ashamed to be heard by anyone else. She plotted Jared’s demise when he made me cry. And she welcomed him back into the fold when he proved to be more than either of us had expected. She taught me what it means to support without judgment; to trust in another person enough to believe that ultimately they would do the right thing - without any condemnation or “guidance”.

She gave me the strength to fight for my marriage.

And then, there was Adam. Adam willingly shared his own horrors in an effort to comfort me about mine. He reminded me over and over again that regardless of my reactions, my intentions were ultimately usually coming from a good place. And he offered me something that I needed so badly and yet had experienced so rarely - a protective instinct.

He is one of the few people in the world who have been able to see past a strong personality and an ability to “take care of myself” and see a vulnerability that wanted to be taken care of. His need to make everything OK gave me a safe place to let it all go when I simply couldn’t hold it together anymore.

And I don’t care how inappropriate that sounds, it saved me.

I have been really, really blessed with some amazing people in my life, and these two are some of the best. They’re encouragement, they’re support, they’re understanding - I can’t imagine getting through each day without it.

And on one day in particular, I’d like to thank them both. Both of their birthdays are Saturday (what are the odds?), and I would love it if you all would run over and wish each of them a very Happy Birthday.

Believe me, they’ve earned it.

P.S. Don’t forget to listen to me on BlogTalkRadio on Sunday for The Big One Year Anniversary Show!

I am always surprised by hatred.

Anger, I get. Rage, I understand intimately.

But that personal hatred, that vile that some people carry around inside of them, it always catches me off guard. Specifically when I find myself the target of it.

My husband says I’m one of those people you either love or hate. No in between. I asked him again tonight what he meant by that, why it is easier to hate some people than others. He attempted to explain that I have “one of those personalities”. In an effort to explain why a “strong personality” would so easily incite hate, he noted that I “am who I am,” and that I “don’t change that - for anyone. Babe, some people aren’t going to be able to handle that well.”

He’s told me that before. My grandfather tried to explain this to me when I was very, very young. Looking back, I realize he was trying in vain to prepare me.

But still, it surprises me. Every time.

The first time I remember being overwhelmed by hatred was in highschool. I remember walking through the halls and holding back tears as a mob of girls proudly displayed their “We Hate Britt” pins. God that was agonizing. As a 16 year old girl I was devastated that I could inspire so much hatred in people. I felt helpless, unable to recall any specific thing I’d done that could have caused such disdain.

Those girls moved on to something else, and I grew up. I brushed away my tears and pushed through the rest of highschool, determined to hold on to who I was. As if there were any other options.

As I’ve gotten older, the hatred has come less frequently. Mainly I suppose because you get to choose who you surround yourself with more and more the older we get. Sure, living in a small town I occasionally had to hear about this person’s issue with me and that person’s inability to “handle” me. But aside from the infrequent misplaced gossip, I could basically go on about my merry way.

And then I moved, and encountered a whole new group of people who had never been exposed to me before.

*sigh*

Apparently there is a very grown man that remembers me from a party, whom I wouldn’t recognize if he bit me in the ass (except of course, to ask him why he’d bit me in the ass), who spends quite a bit of time hating me. Like, openly, verbally, hating me.

It seems I’m one of those people that it’s not only easy to hate, but acceptable to loathe. Yeah, that part still gets me.

And then, there is blogging.

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It’s supposed to be hard right now.

That’s what I keep telling my husband. When the hours get long and one day runs into the next and you long for a weekend that is gone before you realized it was here… I remind him, it’s supposed to be hard right now.

I remind myself as well.

When I look at people who are older than me, or “have” more than we do right now, or whose lives seem to be “easier” right now, I remind myself that there is always a back story.

There are the years he worked two jobs, while she brought the kids and dinner to be enjoyed in a parking lot between shifts. And they both wondered how long they could keep up the pace.

There are the nights after she went back to school, and her children learned to cook and tidy and pack school lunches in her place. And she felt guilty because she wasn’t there to do it herself.

There are the years he missed games and practices and homework, while he was struggling countless hours to give them a chance at more than just “food on the table”. And he feared it would all pay off too late.

It’s supposed to be hard, I remind him.

Sometimes I know the road feels too long to him. There are times when I know he feels like he’s been doing “hard” since he was 19, and he wonders if he can shoulder another 9 years. I remind him it hasn’t always been like this. I remind him of vacations and breathing room and days when it was easier. I remind him that this too will pass, and we’ll have “easy” times for a while.

I don’t know if he believes me.

I remind him that his parents have not always had “easy”. I remind him about layoffs and pain and struggles that he has long forgotten, but that I’ve heard them recall with an accuracy that tells me they will never forget.

I try to explain that this is just what it’s like at this stage. When you’re building. When you’re both working. When your kids are young and growing and needing. I try to remind him that this is just part of life, and that you can still suck out the good while you’re at this point.

Because there is still so much good in these hard years.

There are snuggles and whispers and firsts. There are proud smirks shared above little heads. There are stolen minutes after bedtime and before breakfast. The laughter, the squeals, the cries that can only be comforted with rocking and humming.

I want to look back on these years some day and say that we did it. I want to encourage a young woman someday that yes, it was hard - I remember it was hard - but it was worth it. I want to look back on today and remember that I had enough energy left at the end of the day to squeeze a little more Good out of it. And it was worth it.

I know that it’s hard, I assure him. Hang on, I tell him. I concede that right now, in this day, it feels hard.

But I promise him, it’s worth it.

The sting has lessened a little this morning, but it still hurts.

It’s just not supposed to happen like this.

Good is supposed to triumph over evil.

Right is supposed to win out over wrong.

And the man who loves the game is supposed to defeat the whiny little fucking bitch ass punk who doesn’t deserve to kiss the cleats of his opponent.

But, no. Not last night. Last night the world went terribly wrong and the Green Bay Packers lost to the Giants. And while Brett Favre, a living legend who plays on pure heart and love of the game, stays home - Eli Cry Baby Fucking Manning is going to the Super Bowl.

Blech. It makes me nauseous just to write those words.

I’m boycotting the Super Bowl this year. There’s no way I can stand to watch it. There’s simply nothing left to cheer for. No good can come from The National Football Championship this year.

On one hand, The Patriots can win (and probably will), and the media will go crazy over the first undefeated team since the ‘72 Dolphins team. And while I suppose that should be something worth watching, I just can’t get excited about The Patriots. There’s no soul there, no heart. No come from behind background story to get excited about. Well, unless you count the fact that they were caught cheating early in the season. Yeah, that’s a team that should hold the most fabled record in the history of the game.

But, I suppose, it could be worse.

Instead of a soulless team of cheaters winning, it could be Eil Manning.

Oh, puke.

I’d rather gouge my own eyes out with a fucking spoon than watch that son of a bitch even step out onto the turf on Super Bowl Sunday. I don’t care how many passes that bag of douches completes, I will never see him more than the whiny little brat in his big brother’s shadow. I’ll never forget that when this punk ass got drafted he bitched and moaned about the team who wanted to sign him and refused to play for them, ultimately getting himself picked up by a “better” team.

Eli Manning is everything that’s wrong with sports today. He represents the soul that’s being sucked out of a game that used to be about champions and struggle, and turning it into a heartless exhibition of statistics and skill.

Puke, puke, puke.

I’m sorry. I realize some of you have no clue what I’m talking about.

Imagine… um… it’s like… uh…

Imagine if Spiderman dies. Imagine if The Joker and The Green Goblin somehow found themselves battling for The SuperHero Awesomeness Cup. No, worse, The Green Goblin and Mr. Freeze as played by Arnold.

It’s that bad.

Or, um, imagine if you went to a Harry Connick Jr. concert and found out that he wasn’t playing because he’d been caught cheating on his wife and was embroiled in a nasty divorce. And Britney Spears was the replacement act. No, worse, Ashlee Simpson!

It’s that bad.

*sigh*

So, no Super Bowl party for me this year. I just can’t. Blech, puke, yuck. Nope. Can’t do it.

I guess I’ll spend the day at Disney or Universal instead - I hear that’s the greatest day of the year to go anyway.