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Life is Amusing

It’s been a typical week in the Wilhelm household. You know—a little vomit, a headless rabbit, and a trip to the ER. Laughter hasn’t been optional, because if I didn’t laugh, I’d probably cry, and what’s the fun in that?

I believe I’ve covered the fact that my seven-month-0ld baby, Linus, doesn’t sleep well. For months, I suspected food sensitivities, so I manipulated the hell out of my diet to produce the blandest milk possible—cutting out all eight of the major allergens—but to no avail. So this week, on my mom’s birthday, I threw in the towel and ate pasta, bread, cake, and ice cream. It was fantastic. And the baby still isn’t sleeping. Ta-da!

Then I got the big idea to try another sleep book. The plan seemed straightforward enough. I was supposed to employ “graduated extinction,” where you let the baby cry for five minutes, check on him, then let him cry for ten, check, and on to fifteen minutes. You get the drift. So I decided to try this last Saturday night. Josh was out of town on one of those men-in-the-woods cabin trips, but my dad was staying over to help with the kids, so while he entertained Linnea (going on 3), I attempted to tame the baby.

Now, the best thing about this new sleep book is that it actually told me to hide in the kitchen and eat ice cream while the baby cried. So I heeded this advice solemnly, standing at the counter feeding myself peppermint ice cream while reading how good this would be for the baby in the long run, how important it was to help him learn. The baby wailed and wailed, and I crept into the room at the appointed intervals to let him know that I hadn’t really abandoned him—I just wasn’t going to pick him up. I only went half-way into the room so he couldn’t see me (again, following instructions).

After 45 minutes of crying, my soft-hearted dad had had enough. “Go pick up the boy!” he said. And I was ready, too. Well, imagine my surprise when I went to scoop up my hefty bundle of a boy only to find that he was covered—and I mean covered—in his own vomit. Now, I’m not sure whether the crying made him vomit or the other way around, but let me tell you, I felt like Mother of the Year. This discovery was followed by more projectile vomiting and a lot of laundry. The new sleep program is on hold until I can get to the store for more ice cream.

Later in the week, we had a filthy, filthy pet emergency. Around 11 p.m., I finally got the baby back to sleep and nestled into his bed, and the rest of the family was already asleep. However, I couldn’t get our two dogs to come inside from the bitter cold, so I knew they were up to something. They were. Juna, our husky-collie mix, finally came in, ran downstairs, and left some friendly deposits for me. When I opened the back door again, Jack, our scrappy little guy, was proudly sitting behind a freshly beheaded rabbit.

Seconds later, I stood in the doorway of our bedroom and ordered Josh to wake up. By this time, the baby was crying again.

“Would you rather rock the crying baby, or clean up dog shit, dog puke, and a headless rabbit?” I asked. “Your choice.” Nice way to wake up, right?

My dear husband couldn’t articulate a response—he needs a little time to warm up from a deep sleep—so I handed the baby to him and went to find some garbage bags and cleaning supplies. Who knew that pink, gelatinous rabbit guts would freeze to concrete—like a tongue to a flagpole—in the dead of winter? Not I. Nor did I care to learn this lesson.

We wrapped up the week with a crash involving a toy grocery cart that was caused by decidedly reckless driving on the part of Linnea. She was dressed in a fancy red dress, all revved up about going to a party, and before we knew it, we were sitting in the ER getting a cut near her eye cleaned up. Kudos to the ER staff, as we were on our way to the party within 45 minutes of our arrival, well bandaged and accompanied by a balloon that read “Star Patient.” Indeed.

With a week like that, folks, I am reminded that life never ceases to be amusing. In the midst of chaos, I continue to reach for that favorite mug and fill it with a piping hot beverage—so far, no alcohol involved. I am committed to my winter intention of letting my thoughts, dreams, and goals percolate, though I do have one new goal for the season: no more headless rabbits.

*****

I Want to Know

  • What kind of shenanigans were you and your family up to this week?
  • Do you have any pets who like to leave “gifts” for you?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

Percolating

This week, I attended a quarterly “refresh” session for a mom’s group that I’ve been part of for more than two years. During the course of the evening, we did some journal exercises meant to help us set an intention for the rest of the winter. I found myself in a foreign position—I didn’t know what I wanted or needed. There are several areas of my life that I’d like to focus on, but I simply don’t have the time to make major changes right now.

As I reported a few weeks ago, I don’t have any resolutions for 2012. I have a list of things I’d like to do or experience—most of them fun and relaxing. So as I tried to set an intention for the winter season, the words “peace” and “pace” kept coming back to me. While I usually charge full-steam ahead like I’ve got ants in my pants, that just doesn’t feel important right now. I am remarkably sleep-deprived, and yet I am, for the most part, enjoying the ride that life is delivering these days. Piles of dirty diapers, gummy baby grins, and whispered bedtime stories. Weather-defying exercise followed by the heartiest of comfort foods.

So my intention for the winter? To let things percolate. Sure, I have goals brewing at the edges of my consciousness. Yes, at some point I will step up and start going after them. But right now, what seems important is to give myself time to let those dreams develop at their own pace, to let them seep slowly and become more delicious over time.

At the mom’s group, we were asked to choose an “anchor” to help us focus on our intention. Mine? A beautiful handmade mug that was given to me long ago by one of the most loving, patient women I’ve ever known. Whenever I am feeling anxious, frustrated, or not good enough, I am going to toss in a tea bag or load up a pile of marshmallows on a sea of cocoa. For me, this winter season is about letting things be, letting things come in their own time. Letting ideas percolate until my intuition says, “yes.”

*****

I Want to Know

What are you letting percolate these days?
Do you have a physical object that you use as an anchor of sorts?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

On Call

It’s Sunday night, and while most people are watching football, reading a good book, or bathing their children, there’s a scientist in a lab somewhere trying to cure a disease that you or someone you love a) had, b) has, or c) may have in the future. The scientist gets calls in the middle of the night and drives bleary-eyed to the university to work with a team of medical professionals to transplant organs. Organs! The scientist’s vocation is life-saving, but not without cost.

The scientist checks voicemails during date night, misses his wife’s holiday party more often than not, and tends to subsist on caffeine and ramen-type substances while stuck at the lab. And he’s certainly not alone. There are countless other doctors, nurses, and researchers just like him—people who push their bodies and brains to the limit in pursuit of medical breakthroughs. The drugs, devices, and procedures that will answer the prayers of perfect strangers.

My scientist—the tall, good-looking father of my children—worked too much this week. His weekend was virtually non-existent, but as usual, he didn’t complain. And while his nightmare of a schedule frustrates me at times, what can I say? He’s doing something that matters, something for which I’m sure we’re all grateful. So thank you to my favorite scientist and the people like him around the world. It’s sometimes a thankless job, but your personal sacrifices will not be in vain.

*****

I Want to Know

Are there any medical professionals (or other “on-call” types) in your life?
What medical breakthrough do you most hope to see in your lifetime?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

 

Rough Patch

My lengthy holiday vacation did not go according to plan. There really wasn’t much of a plan in the first place—simply to enjoy time with my family, to watch lots of movies, and intentionally NOT to set any lofty goals for myself (which of course I’m prone to overdoing). Still, it’s safe to say that it wasn’t what I hoped it would be.

I won’t go into details, but my hard-earned PTO was spent at Urgent Care, the emergency veterinary hospital, and in the laundry room. My almost-three-year-old got her first set of x-rays (no fracture, thankfully), we dealt with a “both-ends” stomach bug, the baby MUST be teething (but so far, no teeth to validate that hypothesis), and both kids have ear infections. Sure, I did a lot of lounging in my pajamas, but the vibe around here was less than stellar, and I admittedly let myself spiral into a funk.

One of the hardest things about being a mom is that it sometimes feels like there’s no one to take care of YOU. “What about me?” you find yourself asking. “I feel like hell, too, but the show must go on.” You may even find yourself saying this, internally or loud and clear, with dramatic flair. It’s not that my husband doesn’t care about me, but let’s face it—he’s a GUY. A guy who has a tendency to be a little out of touch emotionally (by female standards, anyway) and who is currently obsessed with all things beer- and brewing-related.

Maybe part of the problem was that I was feeling emotionally NEEDY at precisely the time that my husband was feeling needy in his own right—in need of time to recharge the batteries, to dig into a project with gusto. What happened was inevitable. What happened was that we squabbled about really stupid shit like DOG POOP MANAGEMENT. So part of my vacation was spent stewing about that and how he JUST DOESN’T GET “IT”/ME. Happy Holidays, right?

Thankfully, we are on the same team once again and I am feeling much better. I highly recommend some high-end hot chocolate and a little “afternoon delight” (not necessarily in combination, but that might be okay, too) to help work out the next ridiculous spat you have with your partner.

Nonetheless, I am still feeling the weight of never-ending streams of snot and a cumulative sleep shortage, and I think that the children can sense when I am feeling vulnerable. As I was trying to put Linnea to bed last night, she took great delight in the exercise of purposefully testing my patience.

“Do you want Mommy get angry?” I asked in my best stern voice. She thought about that quietly for a minute, then nodded.

“Be a monster, Mommy!” she exclaimed.

“No problem,” I thought. “No problem.”

As I enter 2012, I am thankful for this perfectly imperfect life. These are the good old days, right? I am working on a list of things I’d like to do this year, carefully selecting only activities and experiences that are actually within my control, i.e., YES to “go ice-skating,” NO to “win the lottery.” The children will get well, my dear husband and I will forge ahead together, and I will accomplish small things that make me happy.

*****

I Want to Know

What do you hope to accomplish in 2012?
Were you sick over the holidays, too? Was it miserable?
What kind of stupid stuff do you fight about with your significant other?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

 

Happy Holidays!

I’m signing out until 2012. Wishing you and your families a love-filled couple of weeks. Peace!

Dreaming of a ___ Christmas

As I was driving home from the grocery store yesterday, Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” came on the radio. “You can’t beat a classic,” I thought, tired of the pop versions of holiday favorites that make the airwaves these days. And as I listened to the lyrics, I realized that I’m dreaming of more than just a white Christmas.

Chances are good that it will be a brown Christmas in Minnesota this year—a thought that doesn’t sit well with me—but I’ll take something else in return. How about a drama-free Christmas? Or a debt-free Christmas? Perhaps a Christmas in which people who feel sad find peace, those who are grieving feel comfort, and those who are fighting diseases turn the corner.

It’s not that I’m depressed these days. It’s just that as an adult, it’s impossible to avoid the darker side of the holidays. You can’t overlook the fact that for many people, this time of year falls short of magical. So yes, I’m dreaming of a white Christmas—but also a simple Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. I caught a glimpse of it in my daughter’s eyes this morning as we toured “A Day in the Life of an Elf,” an animated holiday display at the big Macy’s store downtown.

As we took in the elfin scenes, Linnea stood in quiet awe. The magic was tangible. These were the elves she had read about, the reindeer from the videos. And Santa Claus was just around the corner. My darling girl spoken nary a word, and as we led her toward Santa, she oscillated visibly between terror and glee. She was unable to verbalize the items atop her Christmas list—a toy car and something for baking cakes and cookies—but I could tell that she was happy.

My childhood memories of Christmas are simple. Trying to stay up all night to catch a glimpse of the jolly old elf. Singing in the church nativity program in a homemade angel costume. Perusing the shelves of the small-town Variety Store for the perfect gifts for my parents. Sledding down the monstrous hill at the college at alarming speeds. And the cookies. Ah, the cookies. Enjoying gingerbread men, chocolate-covered cherry cookies, and other family favorites, with no concept of nutrition.

I don’t think it’s possible to have a ___ (insert desirable quality here) Christmas, just like the ones I used to know, but in the absence of perfection, I can be more appreciative of the here and now. I can be thankful for the love, for the people, and for the imperfections. I can be thankful for the whole messy lot of it, challenging as some of it may be. And most of all, I can be thankful for the gift of two small children through which to live vicariously. It’s the perfect excuse to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas again.

*****

If you are struggling this season, I wish you peace, love, and comfort. If you are happy, I hope you’ll go above and beyond to spread the good cheer! If you don’t celebrate Christmas, then I wish you the happiest Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and/or Festivus.

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

I Want to Know

Do you have vivid childhood memories of the holidays?
What kind of Christmas are you dreaming of this year?
Is it going to be a white Christmas where you are?

 

 

Reclaiming Holiday Moments

Right now, I am writing this post, eating sweet potato chips, admiring my Christmas tree, and watching Baby Linus nap in his carseat. His big sister is napping, too, so I have an undetermined amount of time to do whatever I want. My options are almost endless. Aside from the fact that I can’t (shouldn’t!) leave the house, there so many things I could do: read a book, do some laundry, check Facebook, start a new project. You get the idea.

And you. Right now, you are reading this blog and doing God only knows what else. Perhaps sipping some coffee, watching TV, or trying to get motivated to organize your work emails. Whatever. Chances are good that you’re multitasking—if not physically, then perhaps mentally. And I’m honored to have garnered your attention if only for a few moments, because let’s face it—you have a lot to do. We all do, especially during this time of year.

I don’t know about you, but I sometimes forget to have fun. Or relax. But over the next few weeks, I’m going to take a cue from my two-year-old and focus my attention on the silly, the luxurious, and the festive. My girl knows how to have a good time. While I might feel ridiculous modeling my holiday finery in front of the hallway mirror or running laps between the kitchen and the living room, I can certainly find some “big girl” equivalents.

I will go to dinner with my girlfriends, enjoy a single glass of juicy red wine after the kids have gone to bed, and wear something fun for the hell of it. I might just don some pajamas, kick up my feet, and manage to read a chapter or two. I will view the essential animated Christmas shows with Linnea and talk Josh into watching my favorite holiday chick flicks, too. Sure, I will still do most of the banal chores that need to get done around here, but at the end of each day, I better be able to say that I took a few moments just to enjoy myself, to enjoy the holidays.

My kids are still sleeping, so it’s time to go for it. I sense a good book and a cup of hot cocoa in my immediate future. It may only last ten minutes, but that’s something.

*****

I Want to Know

What do you do to unwind and enjoy the season?
How do you strike a balance this time of year between checklists and enjoying the moment?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

Weekend Moments with a Preschooler

Along with several family members, Josh and I took the kids to see a holiday children’s play on Friday night. Linnea sat between me and Josh, perched atop a booster seat in a red Santa-inspired velvet dress that her great-grandmother had bought for her. As the production started, I stole a glance at her sweet face, eyes shining wide in the dark, taking in the costumes, the song and dance. Heart swelling with holiday-inspired joy, my gaze went back to the stage.

The next time I looked her way, I caught Linnea nibbling on her ticket stub—enough that large chunks were missing. My hushed attempts at correcting her paper-ingesting behavior were met with enthusiastic speech that exceeded theater-going limits. Stub confiscation was necessary, but thankfully, she was interested enough in the bear on stage that a more elaborate power struggle was avoided.

*****

This afternoon, Linnea asked me to take a bath with her.

“Sure,” I thought. “That will do my aching body some good.”

When I was pregnant with Linus, Linnea and I bathed together almost every night. I just floated like a giant pink balloon while she poured water on my head and drove her Thomas the Tank Engine boat around me. We also had some pretty great conversations. Today was no different.

“You know,” I said, “I think your teeth are going to start looking like this [making buck-teeth gesture] if you don’t give up your boppy [pacifier] soon.”

She looked at me quietly, unimpressed.

“Like a bunny,” I said. “You teeth will do this [more gestures].”

“Like a bunny?” she said with delight. “A bunny!”

“Is that what you want?” I asked.

She thought about that for a minute.

“Well, why do you look like a grasshopper?” she asked.

“Like a grasshopper? Do I?”

“You do,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Nobody said parenting would be good for the old self-esteem.

*****

I was in a foul mood earlier—truly the worst in a long time. A long walk—typically my cure-all—hadn’t helped, and I was doing a lot of muttering, as crabby mothers are wont to do.

As I scurried around the kitchen with a rain cloud atop my head, a small girl in a gown more appropriate for a summer wedding than a snowy Sunday at home had something to say.

“Can we pray now, Mommy?”

I was stunned. We’re not prone to praying in the kitchen. Recently, I’ve tried to get back into a bedtime prayer routine after a long hiatus. I’m not sure how that happened—one night, were recited “Now I lay me,” and the next, we dove right into the hugs-squeezes-kisses routine after Hop on Pop.

“Yes,” I said. “Now is the perfect time to pray.”

In case I’ve just gone a little too “Family Circus” for you, you may be comforted to know that she proceeded to hit me in the head with a toy teapot within the hour.

*****

I Want to Know
What have you learned from a kid recently?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

Getting in Touch with My Roots

Growing up, I was a natural blonde, but once I hit puberty, my hair was what people call “mouse brown” or “dishwater blonde.” Really appealing, right? So I did what many former blondes do—I started hoping that somehow, magically, my hair would revert to its once flaxen state. I soon discovered that I might have to coax it along.

It all started innocently enough. Lemon juice led to an at-home “frosting” kit, and before I knew it, I was shelling out the big bucks for foil highlights at the salon. This continued for roughly fifteen years, and during that time, I probably spent a good seven or eight thousand dollars on hair color. Hair color! Keep in mind that I’ve been driving a totaled car for the past five years.

I tried to keep things as low-maintenance as possible by going for a relatively natural look and requesting that the stylist do only a “partial,” but I’m pretty sure that there is a conspiracy to keep people like me coming back as often as possible. On numerous occasions, stylists gave me a full head of highlights for the price of a partial. This seemingly generous gesture led to nasty-looking roots more quickly, which of course led me back to the salon more quickly as well. Ca-ching!

For the past couple years, I’ve contemplated how I might successfully wean myself from my golden-hair addiction. It was partially about the money and partially about the chemicals, but mostly, it was about my identity. It bothered me that I couldn’t imagine feeling attractive without blonde hair. Was it about blondes having more fun? Or was I simply clinging to my youth? Last winter, I decided to find out.

I made the rebellious act of paying to darken my hair to what I thought was my natural color. It’s been almost a year since I ditched the blonde, and the strangest thing has happened. I actually like the light-brown hue of my hair. I don’t feel any less fun, nor less youthful, and the next time a stylist says, “What do you say we brighten things up a bit?” I will politely decline.

Someday, I may dabble in hair color again—and more power to you if coloring yours makes you happy—but for now, I am glad to know that I don’t need to be blonde to feel good about myself. Brown hair is beautiful, too, and so is whatever color grows from your sweet little head.

*****

You can see my naturally brown hair in my new headshot, which was taken by Sarah Morreim during our recent family photo session.

I Want to Know
What are your thoughts on hair color?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”

How I Wrote a Memoir

Today marks two years since I started the gut-wrenching, soul-stirring, all-consuming act of writing a memoir. I thought I’d mark the occasion by sharing what I’ve learned along the way. There are many approaches to writing a book, but here’s what worked for me:

  • Learn more about writing
  • Think about marketing
  • Form a team
  • Set a schedule
  • Find some self-confidence
  • Persevere

Learn more about writing
While my job title includes the word “writer,” I was not in the habit of writing creative nonfiction in my spare time until I took a class at the Loft Literary Center almost five years ago. Since then, I have also read several invaluable books about writing. Because I didn’t have much experience shaping long narratives or writing dialogue, educating myself was a must.

Think about marketing
If you have any hope of getting published, you must be willing to market yourself and your work. While self-promotion can feel a little icky (I remember feeling ill the first time I mentioned my blog on Facebook), it’s essential to finding an audience. To learn more about book marketing, I subscribed to blogs by authors and literary agents, and I also took a class about the logistics of getting published.

Form a team
Writing can be a very solitary pursuit—often delightfully so—but don’t underestimate the benefit of seeking wisdom and direction from people you respect. Early on, I got comments and encouraging emails from my faithful blog readers. I also formed a writing group to gain more specific, craft-centric feedback. When I was wrapping up the draft of my full-length manuscript, I lined up a team of nine readers (including my writing group, a professional editor, and a published author) to conduct a full review. Finally, I asked for feedback on my book title, query letter, and book proposal from my manuscript readers, as well as from a friend who is a top-notch marketing professional and journalist.

Set a schedule
When I prepared to begin my memoir, I kissed my social life and prime-time television goodbye. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but I did make some sacrifices to write a book while also giving my attention to a baby, a marriage, and a full-time job. Not to mention my health. I accomplished it by setting both short- and long-term goals.

I published the first draft of the book serially in what I dubbed a “blogoir” (blog meets memoir) format. Before I set up the website, I sat down and outlined the first 40 or so posts. Each post was a carefully crafted piece of the larger narrative. During the nine months that I wrote like this—what amounted to 75 posts—I spent an hour or two each evening writing and was able to publish a new piece every four or five days. I was careful not to reveal the entire plot of the book online, which is why I went offline for the next phase of the project.

For the next seven months, I finished the plot and edited like mad. It was during this period that the heart of the story—the “so what?”—really developed. I continued to spend every evening writing after my daughter went to bed, and I also scheduled three- or four-hour sessions on Saturdays where I’d sneak out to a coffee shop. When I got close to one of my self-inflicted deadlines, I would take a day off from work to hole up somewhere without internet access.

At various points, I sought feedback from my book-writing team. After the nine readers did a full review of the spiral-bound manuscripts that I gave them, I spent a month doing substantial revisions, including everything from adding more dialogue, to going into more detail about things that I was nervous to write about, to changing the opening altogether.

Eighteen months after I began, I was ready to start querying literary agents. I polished up my query letter, created a spreadsheet of agents I was interested in working with, took a deep breath, and sent my stuff out there. This was right around time that I had my second child, so I had a lot of other things on my plate. Roughly four months after finishing the manuscript, I signed with an agent, but not before doing another few rounds of edits that she recommended.

So today—exactly two years after I published my first post, “How I Left My Husband on My Lunch Break“—my memoir, From Splitsville, With Love: One Woman’s Quest for “Happily Ever After,” is being pitched to editors. There are no guarantees at this point, but if this book makes it into print, I am so excited for the what is to come—everything from working with a talented editor to putting together a killer marketing plan and finding creative ways to connect with potential readers.

Find some self-confidence
When you’re writing a memoir, it’s pretty much go big or go home. Nobody wants to read a watered-down account of some random person’s life. Frankly, it takes a serious leap of faith to share intimate details of your story not only with complete strangers, but also with the people closest to you. My husband has read more about my past love-life than he probably wanted to know. Co-workers, acquaintances, and various parent-like figures know precisely where my husband and I consummated our marriage. Ahem. You get the drift. Writing memoir takes a lot of nerve.

Persevere
This one should go without saying, but it’s critical—not only for writing a book, but also for attempting to get that book published. There were multiple times when I crawled into bed next to my husband after a night of writing and said something like, “I want to throw my book in the garbage.” And I wasn’t fishing for encouragement. I was serious. Having read a lot of writing blogs, I think this is a universal experience for writers. The key is to take the project out of the (usually metaphorical) trash can and keep going, sometimes after letting go of things that weren’t working.

So that’s it, dear readers. This is what I’ve learned in the course of two years. Even if this book never sees the light of day, it will have been worth the effort. It’s true what they say—life is about the journey, and creating “Splitsville” has been a real treat.

*****

I Want to Know
Do you like to write? If so, what do you like to write?
Is “write a book” on your life to-do list?
If you had unlimited time and talent, what kind of book would you want to write?

Visit me at my other blog, Divorced Before 30, where I’m taking guest-post submissions. Find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please visit emmasota on Facebook and click “Like!”