In our latest assigned addition to our blogs, my media writing class has to write about what we wanted to be when we were young, what we wanted to be when we were teens, and what we want to be now. This gets really tricky for me. You see, I often feel as though I am living my life in reverse. For now, here is what I can best recall...
As a kid, I never wanted to be anything specific. The only thing I was sure of was I wanted to be very successful at something. Anything. Maybe an actress. I wanted my parents to send me to a school of fine arts when I was in sixth grade but that didn't work out. By the time I was in high school, I wanted to go to chiropractic college. In the end, my best friend did the chiropractor thing and is very happy and successful. After high school, I went to what I lovingly call 13th grade (a local college) but didn't take any of that experience seriously and dropped out. Next thing you know I was married, had three kids, moved far away, and was staying at home raising my children.
After having put my life (my selfish "me" life) on hold for over six years, I had a strong sense that it was now my time: time for me to decide where I wanted the rest of my life to go and how to make that happen. So here I am, a Junior at UNH Manchester, plugging away at a degree in Communication Arts. I have thought about many things I might want to do. Originally, I wanted to be a sports broadcaster, maybe sports journalist; sometimes I want to be a community relations person for a local sports franchise. I love sports so any excuse to get paid to watch or work in sports would be wonderful, let's face it. Other times I think about continuing my education and becoming a college professor, but at 36, that seems so incredibly challenging.
Long blog short, I am not much closer to knowing what I want to be at 36 than I was at six. I don't know where I will be in five, ten, or twenty years. However, what I DO know is I am the only one who can make anything happen and school is the way to get wherever that may be. I hope what I do, my hard work, my effort, my sacrifice, and my struggle serve as an example to my children of making your life the way you want it to be. I am poor, I am tired, and I am too often out of mental strength, but the sense of pride in accomplishing my dream of a college degree will, well, I'll just say I can't wait to feel that!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Check it...
These are some links to my professor's blogs. One is for her newest screenplay, Plowing Up a Snake, and the other is for her marketing info. So if I scratch her back, maybe she'll scratch mine. Get it? So please visit. I am sure you will enjoy!
Monday, September 15, 2008
Drinkies
"Drinkies" by artist Lisa Rae Winant
image used by permission of the artist
At the party, Ashton once again found himself in the company of the fox. Their brief conversation three days earlier had piqued Ashton's curiosity and he had wondered if he might cross paths with the fantastic creature once more.
Tonight Ashton was beginning to feel as though the fox was following him - had singled him out for some reason or another. Regardless, the fox's offer was too enticing, too delicious not to consider seriously.
"And you say more money than I would know how to spend?"
"Yes," agreed the fox.
"And I would command the respect of even the most powerful of men?"
"Without question," assured the fox.
"And the most beautiful women would come to me, want to be with me, desire me?"
"Definitely," guaranteed the fox.
"But what is the, as they say, 'catch' to your offer?" Ashton probed. "Surely there must be something you would ask in return."
"Very little, friend. All I ask is you remember who it was that helped you. And when the time comes, when the time is right, I may come to you again and ask a favor, and you will remember this moment and you will reciprocate."
"But what kind of favor might you ask?" inquired Ashton nervously.
"Not to worry. It will be, I am sure, quite in the future and you will have much to do before then. Trust me, friend."
"What shall I do to agree? How should we make our arrangement official?"
"Just have this drink with me," coaxed the fox.
"Peculiar color, eh?" observed Ashton as he brought the cool glass to his greedy lips.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Small Town Football
Since I had to compose an email to the parents of my eight year old's (yes, EIGHT) football teammates and found myself on the border of a scathing group email and a brain hemorrhage, I decided to switch gears for my media writing class and write a blog about parents (especially mothers) in suburban towns and my experience as a divorced (egad!) single mother of three within this challenging network.
When living in Suburbia, I quickly realized I did not have all of the necessary pieces to play with the other mothers - my car was anything but new, my house had a mere one-car garage, and I did not know how to play Bunco. While I did possess the respectable quality of being a stay-at-home mother, my rising credit card debt and lack of high end, brand name clothing betrayed me. The few play dates my youngest had been invited to would also be his last. I did what I could and filled volunteer positions at the elementary school; many weekends were spent cutting construction paper fish, grading voluntary extra math homework, and coloring jack-o-lantern faces with a black Sharpie onto orange spray-painted beans of one variety or another. But it didn't get me any more friends or any more respected, just cross-eyed and frustrated.
Then the unthinkable happened and I had the gall to get a D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Eyes rolled, lips whispered, and fingers pointed. And just when I thought I had a few friends, they packed up their minivans and screamed out of my one car driveway. After enrolling in college and getting a part-time job, I became a leper. I was no longer available to at least perform the tasks that qualified me as a member of the Stay-At-Homes; I now had a schedule that was pencilled in with work and classes, not soccer and school pick-up.
This past June my life and all of its crazy circumstances put me in the position of moving to another town. I was told the new town would be a great alternative: it was more of a "working class" town, there were actually other divorced people, and my children's father lived there. So I traded in my house for condo living and optimistically filed my change of address with the DMV, picturing a very different life ahead for my family unit.
My life was becoming increasingly more comfortable in its new surroundings - no more pressure to look the part of a suburban wife and mother - that is until football season began.
At first glance, things looked as though they were going to be different in this new town. The women weren't driving Mercedes and Range Rovers, fresh from an excursion to Talbot's; they looked like real, down to earth folks who were just dropping their kids off for football practice. But then I noticed - they weren't dropping them off, they were all staying. Cans of Off were whipped out of the storage units on the bottom of baby strollers, fold-up chairs were freed from their colored jackets, and dollars were given to concession stand attendants as families dined not on a homemade meal, but football field burgers, fries, and Airheads for dessert. As I all but shoved my kids out of the car and began to drive away, I could feel multiple sets of eyes following my SUV out of the park and I swore I could hear, "She's leaving? Football practice?"
It was then I realized small town Suburbia was the same no matter where you are. Okay, maybe some places are more affluent or have bigger houses or fancier cars. But in the end, there is little room or understanding in Suburbia for juggling jobs, kids, and schedules. Or should I say schedule in the singular? Because the children in Suburbia are expected to have schedules, just not the parents. Or should I say parent in the singular? Because isn't it really the mother who is expected to have blank pages in her Franklin Covey waiting to be filled with words like "carpool", "soccer", and "Bunco"?
When living in Suburbia, I quickly realized I did not have all of the necessary pieces to play with the other mothers - my car was anything but new, my house had a mere one-car garage, and I did not know how to play Bunco. While I did possess the respectable quality of being a stay-at-home mother, my rising credit card debt and lack of high end, brand name clothing betrayed me. The few play dates my youngest had been invited to would also be his last. I did what I could and filled volunteer positions at the elementary school; many weekends were spent cutting construction paper fish, grading voluntary extra math homework, and coloring jack-o-lantern faces with a black Sharpie onto orange spray-painted beans of one variety or another. But it didn't get me any more friends or any more respected, just cross-eyed and frustrated.
Then the unthinkable happened and I had the gall to get a D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Eyes rolled, lips whispered, and fingers pointed. And just when I thought I had a few friends, they packed up their minivans and screamed out of my one car driveway. After enrolling in college and getting a part-time job, I became a leper. I was no longer available to at least perform the tasks that qualified me as a member of the Stay-At-Homes; I now had a schedule that was pencilled in with work and classes, not soccer and school pick-up.
This past June my life and all of its crazy circumstances put me in the position of moving to another town. I was told the new town would be a great alternative: it was more of a "working class" town, there were actually other divorced people, and my children's father lived there. So I traded in my house for condo living and optimistically filed my change of address with the DMV, picturing a very different life ahead for my family unit.
My life was becoming increasingly more comfortable in its new surroundings - no more pressure to look the part of a suburban wife and mother - that is until football season began.
At first glance, things looked as though they were going to be different in this new town. The women weren't driving Mercedes and Range Rovers, fresh from an excursion to Talbot's; they looked like real, down to earth folks who were just dropping their kids off for football practice. But then I noticed - they weren't dropping them off, they were all staying. Cans of Off were whipped out of the storage units on the bottom of baby strollers, fold-up chairs were freed from their colored jackets, and dollars were given to concession stand attendants as families dined not on a homemade meal, but football field burgers, fries, and Airheads for dessert. As I all but shoved my kids out of the car and began to drive away, I could feel multiple sets of eyes following my SUV out of the park and I swore I could hear, "She's leaving? Football practice?"
It was then I realized small town Suburbia was the same no matter where you are. Okay, maybe some places are more affluent or have bigger houses or fancier cars. But in the end, there is little room or understanding in Suburbia for juggling jobs, kids, and schedules. Or should I say schedule in the singular? Because the children in Suburbia are expected to have schedules, just not the parents. Or should I say parent in the singular? Because isn't it really the mother who is expected to have blank pages in her Franklin Covey waiting to be filled with words like "carpool", "soccer", and "Bunco"?
Thursday, September 4, 2008
My first blog
So true to my title, I am finding my way through this new adventure. Blogging. Through my coursework at UNH Manchester, I am taking a media writing class this semester and this is our first assignment. Stay tuned...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
