Month: March 2015

I had my million dollar idea last night, and I couldn’t wait to tell you…but then I went to sleep.

What is it about the moments when we first start to drift that our brains can come up with the most clever ideas? Honestly, I could solve all the world problems in those few nanoseconds between consciousness and sleep, but when I wake up it’s just gone. Like a blank canvas waiting for inspiration to hit. I even find myself often repeating the thought over and over in hopes that something will stick in the morning, but the only thing I wake to is the nagging thought that there was a perfect, beautiful, mother of all ideas and now it’s gone. Whisked away life a thief in the night.

They say (sidebar: I would really love to meet this They person someday) that you should leave a pad and pencil by your bed, then you can easily jot down these great ideas. And it’s an admirable thought, but by time my life altering thoughts occur, I’m too far gone to open my eyes. Maybe it’s the constant self-induced lack of sleep or the fact that I’m 30 weeks pregnant, but the moment my eyes close there is no coming back from the dark side.

So you’re just going to have to trust me.

Somewhere, locked in a deep dark vault in my brain is the most wonderful idea ever. Who knows, maybe it’s locked away with the same piece of knowledge that knows where I put my wedding bands that are still MIA?

When do you do your best thinking?

 

I’m fairly certain my wedding bands are lost somewhere in my house. No Bueno!

For a while now, I have ignored the fact that they were no longer sitting nicely on my nightstand where usually leave them. I kept telling myself that my pregnant brain had decided to put them away somewhere and now I just can’t remember where that safe place is. The other week, I made the mistake of actually looking for them. And not only did I look for them, but I admitted to my husband that I didn’t know where they were.

At this point, Dr. Seuss could write a book, “All The Places I Have Looked” but to no avail.

See, about four or five years ago, I decided to have my wedding band tattooed on. It was my first tattoo and I love it. It’s been nice, no matter what I was doing, to still have the symbol of my love. Gardening, painting, hiking (okay, that one might be a stretch, I don’t really hike), it didn’t matter, my ring is always with me. No worries of chipped diamonds, scratched bands, or losing them…until I lost them in my own house, that is. Did I mention the part about how my darling husband had my engagement ring hand designed by a diamond broker, thus it truly is a one of kind? Yep, I’m that girl who lost it.

I may not have worn the original set often, but I still like to slip them on every now and then.

I’m fairly certain, at least 99% sure, that they are somewhere in my house, but it doesn’t change the fact that currently they are MIA. I do live with a 3-year-old hurricane, but she’s usually pretty good to not touch my rings or at the very least is vocal when she has something of mine on.

I’ve searched high. I’ve searched low. But where oh where did my little rings go?

Don’t leave me hanging. Help a girl feel better and tell me I’m not the only one to lose something important and irreplaceable?

There is one thing in life I will always admit, and that’s the fact that I am just as guilty as the next person when it comes to just about every social faux pa. I don’t point fingers without pointing one first at my own self. Whether it’s intentional or not, we so often open our mouths without thinking.

Trust me, I’ve put my foot in my mouth so many times I’ve acquired a taste for rubber soles.

It happens a lot when you are pregnant – and sometimes even when you’re not – that people like to tell you how big your baby is. The thing is, I find myself wondering, “Do they think I don’t know?”

With our first daughter, the great and wonderful Diva Princess, it took a long time to show. For the first few months I just felt terrible, then the second trimester I just looked like I needed to avoid Taco Bell a little more often, and then finally somewhere around 7 months I actually had a baby bump that looked like a baby bump. With Nameless, however, I think I started showing at conception…at least by week 4 no doubt. Everything I read, and from what my doctor says, you just show sooner with the second one. And truth be told, I’m glad. I bypassed the “over indulging Taco Bell” stage in record speed and headed straight for obviously pregnant without passing go. But apparently, being bigger sooner just means more time for the peanut gallery to remark.

Now, the thing is, it doesn’t actually offend me – I’m big, I’ll admit – but let’s talk about the principle of the matter. When choosing to comment on someone’s belly, I think there should be an extra moment of “pause and reconsider” before you actually speak. For instance, when uttering any of the following statements; “Wow, she’s a big girl…”, “Damn, how far along are you again?”, “She might be a ten pounder…”, “you’re really getting out there” or anything else along those lines, well, the truth is you’re just calling me fat! Yep, no way around it, you called me fat. In your attempt to be cute, funny, or blatantly obvious, you really made an overly emotional, hormonal woman’s day!

The irony of my never ending comments is that I have actually gained significantly less amount of weight with Nameless than I did with the Diva Princess. By this point in my first pregnancy, I had gained about 40-50 lbs (mostly thanks to my pre-eclampsia and rapid fluid retention), with Nameless I have only gained 17 lbs. Personally, I’m feeling quite accomplished.

But sometimes our situations, our stories, are not always intentional. My pregnancy was planned, purposeful, I knew the score. But sometimes life throws us an unexpected curve ball.

“The Big C”

I’ve watched while cancer has done its best to wreak havoc on a dear friend of mine. Through all the treatments, she’s battled with all her might. She’s lost her hair, dealt with bad reactions to the drugs and the swelling, along with the simple fact, she has cancer. She’s taken everything in stride and never once given up hope. And she’s brave. I don’t think I could ever go out in public, as shallow as it may make me sound, without a wig. I’m just not that brave. I want to not care, but I’m just not sure I could really let go. But today she was hurt, maybe more deeply than any physical wound could cut. All because someone didn’t think before they spoke.

As I said, and will say again, I am not guilt free, but I think that it’s very important that we all remember that we don’t know someone else’s story. We don’t know the hardships and struggles they are under. So before we speak, take a moment to pause and reconsider your words, because our simple words could turn someone’s great day into their worst.

For my friend, I love you! #FightLikeAGirl

Have you ever wanted to be the first to read a book? Before it hit the shelves?

Well, you’re in luck!

In honor of my upcoming Local Author Fair on Saturday, March 21st, hosted by Alamance County Libraries, I will be giving away advanced reader copies of FORGIVE ME (upon publication) to four lucky winners. Sound too good to be true? It’s not.

There are only two simple rules:

1) Complete your contact information on this ENTRY FORM (click the words “entry form” to access link) by midnight on Wednesday, March 25th. I promise, I will not be contacting you unless you win.

and

2) Like my professional Facebook page – Leslie Ray Author

Participants must follow both steps to be eligible. 

I will be drawing the four lucky winner on Thursday, March 26th, so don’t wait. Winners will be notified via email, so please be sure to use a valid email address.

Wait, there’s more! (Like my infomercial voice?) I will also be drawing one lucky winner for an Ultimate Reader Basket (includes: $25 Barnes and Noble Gift Card, Bookmarks, LeslieRayAuthor.com pen, pad and mouse pad, and Chocolate, of course). Must be present at the 1st Annual Local Author Fair to enter drawing. Saturday, March 21st, May Memorial Library, Burlington, NC (downtown), 11am to 2pm. Light refreshments will be provided.

“May the odds ever be in your favor.” ~Effie Trinket

 

Picture it…

Your feet are firmly pressed against the pale oak flooring of the stage. You can barely make out the mic standing merely six inches from your face in the soft red glow of the exit signs. You can feel the hum of a packed house, feel their eyes trained on your position. It’s quiet. Too quiet. Only a soft rustle from the impatient man in the fifth row fills the silent void. A loud clank echoes throughout the auditorium and suddenly you’re engulfed in the bright steady stream of light pouring down on you. The spotlight momentarily blinding you. You should speak, say something. Anything. But the words are caught in your throat, beavered up like a dam. Your heart begins to race like Nightshade chasing the Triple Crown. A tiny droplet beads at your temple and for a moment you’re paralyzed. There’s not a cell in your body you can render under your control…

This is what it’s like when I hear the words Brief Bio.

I can write you novels. 90,000+ words of conflict, passion and life, but I can’t write a brief bio. It’s insane. It’s illogical.

I equate it much the same as my love-hate relationship with Twitter. I just don’t do brief. Have you met me? I love to talk. Nice, long-winded, drive you insane because I won’t stop talking, conversations. 140 characters? Come on Twitter, you gotta give me more than that. My hashtags are longer than 140 characters. Want the most detailed, overly helpful directions? Ask me. I’ll give you road names, landmarks, historical facts and the color of every house on the road. Ask me to describe myself in one word, and all I got it “stumped”.

And the problem is not talking about myself. Obviously.

I don’t’ know what it is. Maybe it’s that it feels forced? Or cheesy? It’s not like it’s the most exciting or entertaining thing I write, for sure. Or maybe it’s the whole writing about yourself in the third person? I like to feel more like I am having a conversation with my audience, not talking at them. Whatever it is, it’s a pain in my tuckus.

So tell me, what’s your spotlight?

 

You know the opening paragraph of any legal and binding contract where each party “shall henceforth be referred to as *blank*”? Well, that’s our Nameless.

Daily, people ask me what Baby Ray version 2.0’s name will be? And I give them the honest answer, “I don’t know.” Because the truth is, she doesn’t have a name, well, other than henceforth being called Nameless. See, the truth is, we’re not even close. But I still get the look. The one where the person is convinced that I have a name, but I’m just not telling them. Or people want to know “what’s on your list?”

I tell people all the time, ” I wish I was one of those people who just know what they want to name their child, who also happens to be married to a man that will go with whatever I say.” But the thing is, I don’t know what I want to name her. I mean, one day I do and then the next I’m not sure. Or I think I have a great name, and then I get “that look” from my husband.

Another one crossed off the list.

I don’t know why it’s so hard; other than the fact that she will have to live with it her entire life and all. I can even list the million things I don’t want, like a common name or current popular name. If it’s on the top 20 list, forget about it. I don’t want a vowel name (having a daughter with an A, and a dog with an I is bad enough). I don’t want a common name that’s just spelled different, it still just a common name. I don’t want something so off the wall no one has a clue how to spell it. I don’t want a name that sounds old, like Bertha or Ethel (suggested Gertrude, WTH?) And I don’t want an R name, being as our last name is Ray and all. So you would think this list would be whittled down, but nope…still got nothing.

Well, not entirely true, I have two names on my list.

So tell me, what’s your favorite girl name that fits the aforementioned criteria??? Becuase otherwise, she may be stuck with Nameless (she’s possibly already stuck with it as a nickname).

You know those childhood memories, the ones you often recall simply by walking into a store or driving down a certain street? I’m not talking about the big, once in a lifetime memories, but rather the simple things that pay homage to a great childhood. The seemingly ordinary moments in life that when compiled together reflect the basis of who you are.

For me there are many snippets in time I often reflect back on; the flat top arcade game at the local Pizza Hut, riding the liquor cart in the warehouse of the liquor store where my dad worked (when you grow up as the liquor “store baby” it makes it pretty impossible to buy liquor underage), and the way my dad never took the same roads to my grandmother’s house, he always switched his route. Just everyday moments that are forever etched in our minds.

If you have followed my blog very long, or just happen to know me, you know that I am a fanatic when it comes to my weekly grocery store run. I make a menu for the week, type up my list of everything I need in Evernote and off to the store I go. Or “we go” I should say, because most Sundays it’s a family affair. But regardless, any time the Diva Princess is with me, I know that we will be making a pit stop by the lobster tank. Every time, I hold her up and we check out the weeks selection of crustaceans. She asks roughly 8 million questions, usually the same ones as the week before.

“What are they doing in there?”

“Why do they have those rubber bands on their snappers?”

“Is he crawling on the other?”

I patiently wade through the sea of questions, enjoying our little moment we share each week while secretly hoping she’ll still remember this time when she’s older. But this week, while driving home, I found myself asking The Hubster questions about the lobsters. I had never thought about it until that moment, but how exactly does one buy a lobster? Because let me tell you, the vision I have is much the same as the kid leaving the carnival.

You know the carnival game where you spend way too much money trying to shot the BB gun, with the bent muzzle, trying to knock down a milk jugs. $15 later and all you have to show for yourself is the plastic bag with a goldfish you could have bought for $0.10 at the pet store. I don’t know how much a lobster cost, but I would gander it rivals the carnival goldfish.

But seriously, I kind of want to buy a lobster just to see what happens? I mean, is it a BYOT (tank, if you’re not following) or is the meat guy going to hand me a twisted up plastic bag with a lobster just hanging out (I hope it’s a thick mil bag, otherwise his little feet look like it would just puncture the bag)? Although I don’t eat seafood, I know that you are supposed to put them in the boiling water alive (which by the way, sounds terribly inhumane), so you have to get it home somehow, right?

I wonder what The Hubster would think if I come home with a pet lobster from the grocery store? It would, of course, be all in the name of solving the mystery as to how you buy a lobster. Not to mention, I’m sure the Diva Princess would always remember “that time we bought the lobster.”

#TwoBirdsOneStone

Every night the Diva Princess makes her request for who she wants to snuggle. On the nights that the honor is so graciously bestowed upon me, I can’t help but watch her sweet innocent face relax into a deep sleep. There’s just something about a sleeping child that soothes your soul.

Two nights ago, as she lay fast asleep, I couldn’t help but wonder where life will take her. What will she be like at 16, 18, or 25? Will I have done a good job? Will I have prepared her for life? Will I have given her the keys to success?

See, back when I was a non-parent, I had it all figured out. I knew what had to be done. I could tell parents exactly what they were doing wrong…and then I realized I didn’t have a clue. The easiest parenting in the world is to parent someone else’s child, from a distance. But living it, breathing it, every day of your life. Having your every mistake emulated and magnified, that’s insanely terrifying.

Something I know all too well.

For those of you who have been blessed with multiple children, you know the struggle. As my hormones rage (and raging they are) and my body is no longer my own, it’s difficult to still be the mommy my daughter has always known. Try as I might, I fail a little every day. And then it happens, life bites you in the ass.

Now, I am well versed in a three-year-olds ability to play their parents like a fiddle, but sometimes you just know there is a certain amount of truth to their words. See, I’ve been what we will call “moody”, a lot. My patience are thin, my body is tired, and I may be guilty of flying off the handle…a few times too many.  Did I mention I really miss wine! I would love to blame it on a life lived in constant pain, but the truth is, that’s just an excuse. Oh, the pain is real I assure you, my womb can attest, as is the perpetual state of hunger that leaves me in a haze of endless Hanger (hungry and angry, if you’re not familiar with the term), but I’m the adult. It’s my job to control my emotions. Something I have successfully failed at for months.

I say all that to say this…

After the second day in a row of picking up my dear, sweet, darling child only to be told that she has hit another child, my heart hurts. You can know things, rationalize thoughts and actions, but when it comes to your child, every good parent looks at themselves for where they went wrong. It’s natural. It’s human nature. Something you can’t avoid. Kids are what they are taught after all, right? Now, the small part of my brain that’s still rational knows that we don’t hit, so she didn’t actually learn it from myself or her father. That small part also knows she is exposed to endless amounts of outside influences that cannot be controlled. Influences by other kids whose family may not hold the same values as ours. And though being the bad guy, the disciplinarian, is the worst job in the world, you do what you must. You take a stand.

Then she puts the icing on the cake…

While calmly (although I was feeling anything but calm) explaining why we don’t hit, what it means to take responsibility for our actions and consequences, and why she was angry in the first place, my precious child says the one thing that can knock me to my knees. “I’m angry because you are always angry momma!”

Done. Toast. Finished. Failed.

In one simple sentence, she handed me my purple heart for parent of the year (insert sarcastic eye roll here). Of course, I fight back the hormonal tendency to cry my bloody eyes out, and explain in all my parental wisdom the many reasons we cannot let our actions be the result of someone else’s actions, but the truth remains…

It is up to me to be the woman I want my daughter to be.

#ThinkBeforeYouAct