So I wrote you recently how a podcast had opened my eyes to all those Hollywood writers (whose techniques, as a writer, I thought I was studying, but who suck me in just the same).
If there’s any possible time when my husband doesn’t respond to me like a guy in the movies, I’m pretty sure it’s me, and my subpar level of attractiveness.
Surely you’ve thought about it. If you were going to get a tattoo, what would it be?
I have no real insights on this one. Everything I think of only sounds cool for about five seconds. And my husband has wisely postulated that if you want to get a tattoo, you should wait ten years to see if you still want it, and then get it.
I will say that tattoos are great conversation starters–because every tattoo has a story. Kind of like scars.
I have a new friend.
Her name is Siri, and she and I are getting along swimmingly. She remembers my grocery lists and my reminders.
Parenting has this way of exposing a part of who you are in ways both beautiful and terrifying.
As in, Wow! Who knew I had this gift for creative teaching? Or, Who knew I could handle this amount of laundry and still emerge with enough panties to fight the day?
But also, as author Elizabeth Stone has written, Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.
Like most American women, I am a total sucker for rom-coms and TV drama with a smattering of romance. Who doesn’t love someone being swept off their feet, and laughing at all the stupid ways it goes wrong? Even after 18 years of marriage, I still love…love. Plus, there’s this (usually false?) idea that you’re getting a glimpse of the private stuff we never talk about.
As a writer and real person, I like to think myself immune from the illusions of a perfect husband. When a guy delivers an ingenious, sentimental line, I sometimes imagine the scriptwriter scrawling on a legal pad, grinning because she got it just right. (And if he’s saying something just right from a woman’s perspective, there’s a decent chance the scriptwriter was female.)
But a podcast recently pointed out something else to me. In Hollywood, couples–even married ones–don’t usually have a ton of needed lead time to…well. To get it on (fade to black).
I first took the enneagram about a year ago when my family mentioned it. (Yes, my whole family talks about this kind of stuff. If you’re into a sports team or politics, we might not be able to help you out).
With a husband who’s a Human Resources exec, you can bet I’ve taken my share of personality tests. (I’ve even tried to outwit some of them?)
Personally, the enneagram has brought me more self-knowledge–knowledge that actually helped me truly change–than any of the others. I even keep basic profiles on my Kindle. (Yeah. I’m one of those.) With 207 subtypes, I’ve found it to be fairly accurate for me, which hasn’t always been the case with other profiles.
Blogging can be a little too much like having an imaginary friend.
Picture sitting at the smallest table at your coffee shop. (I’m having a seasonal special with half of the pumps, decaf. …Because as someone told me, with natural enthusiasm like mine, I should remain uncaffeinated. You?)
May all your kids come home, and may they get along with each other. Or at least fake it.
May you have a white Christmas to the point that you feel Christmas-y and can say no to an activity you didn’t really want to go to, but don’t lose electricity and heat. May everyone wipe their boots.
Who did you think you’d marry?
My husband–I unearthed this a few years into our marriage, when we finally had the fortitude to be more vulnerable with each other–thought he’d marry someone more athletic. (I am laughing out loud as I type. Poor guy.) To his credit, when he met me, I was running every morning, performing pushups and situps at night. We played intermural sports and pickup games of soccer together. We hiked together. And to my own credit, I still live an active lifestyle. But none of these has approved the actual coordination factor.
(My parents laugh about me as a child falling repeatedly into the same hole in the yard on my way over to the bus each morning. I do not share these memories. And one has to ask, if it were true: Why did no one ever fill in said hole?)
So you already know I’m into This is Us; at least we’ve got that out of the way. (Still waiting for an episode that doesn’t make me blink away tears. Good grief. I am such a sap.)
But there were two moments I resonated with in the last episode–which, if you’re a parent of a teenager, or a child in general, will likely echo with you even if you have no idea what I’m talking about.
Twice, an adult character was talking with a teen close to them. And they were each shut down with finality. Both of the adult characters, disappointment etched on their faces, simply had to absorb their rejection.
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
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