A few days ago, I went shopping for the just-right dress for an upcoming important occasion — our first-born’s college graduation. I quickly found the just-right dress, nice but not too dressy for a crowded, sweaty sports arena on a late-spring afternoon.
Then I spotted another dress.
It was pale blue. Fitted bodice. Peplum waist. A-line skirt. Not the usual, loose-fitting style I go for, but so, so pretty.
It wasn’t quite right for wearing to graduation. I didn’t need a second dress.
On the other hand… both dresses were on sale. I even had a 50 percent off coupon. More importantly, I felt a sudden longing to try on something a little different, in both hue and style, from what I usually wear.
So I tried it on. The blue brought out the sparkle in my blue-green eyes. And it fit like a dream. I even thought, I look HOT in this dress. And I never think that about myself.
But then, as I stared in the mirror, a horrid feeling came over me. Not about budgets or the foolishness of buying a dress for an as-yet-to-be-determined event. But about the fact that the dress was also… sleeveless.
I have decent enough arms. I mean, they’re attached, and they function, and my skin is smooth, but I’ll admit it, I’m a bit chubby. Which means my arms are a bit chubby. Not particularly muscular.
I started to hang the dress back on the rack with its mates, but it was so pretty, that I just… couldn’t. I toted it with me to the register. Maybe, I thought, if the coupon covers both dresses…
It did, but I was still wavering. “Sorry,” I said to the check-out clerk — a slender, beautiful 60-something woman with a terrific smile. “I’m still trying to decide. I don’t really have an occasion in mind for this dress.”
“I do,” she blurted. “I’ve been staring at this dress for days. It’s so pretty! And I have a wedding to attend in a few weeks.”
Now, most women hate the idea of showing up at an event only to discover another woman is there in the exact same dress. (Well, not the exactly exact same. That could be awkward. And crowded. But you know what I mean.)
I didn’t know the clerk. There are no wedding invites on my social calendar. So the likelihood of us showing up at the same event at all, what’s more wearing matching blue dresses, is pretty slim. Nevertheless, I was about to put the dress back after all — and trying to think of a non-awkward explanation — when she leaned forward and blurted again, “But I can’t wear it. Because of my arms.”
She looked so sad, so shamed. So I did some blurting of my own. “What’s wrong with your arms?”
Her eyes widened. “They’re… they’re flabby. They look… old.”
Now, there was something about the notion of this beautiful woman, who’d lived long enough to no doubt experience and survive and grow from life, feeling so ashamed about her body — just as I had moments before with my worries about chubby arms — that incensed me. I wasn’t angry at her. I was angry for her. I was angry at the cultural voices that whisper in the backs of the minds of middle-aged and older and chubby and not quite perfect women that only young and beautiful counts. Only the young and beautiful and — oh, God, please, the smooth and firm and slender, too! — need feel comfortable (so whisper those voices in slithery, demeaning tones) in lovely arm-baring dresses, no matter that women of all shapes and sizes and ages might be and even feel beautiful in such clothing, if only we could ignore those silly voices.
Well, I thought, screw that.
So I said, “My arms are chubby.” I pushed the dress toward her, determined to buy it. “But I’m wearing it. Proudly. And you should too. Shouldn’t we get to wear what we want sometimes, without worrying about what other people think, without hiding ourselves because, hey, we’ve lived awhile, and maybe it shows here and there? You’ve probably survived a thing or two, just like I have. That merits an occasional reward, right?”
Her eyes softened she stared at the dress. She said, “I’ve survived cancer. Almost a year now.”
I couldn’t respond right away. Finally, though, I said quietly, “Congratulations. You will look beautiful in the dress. Your arms will look just fine. I hope you get the dress.”
She nodded, smiled, and said, “I think I will.”
I don’t know if she did or not. But I hope so. What’s more, I hope that I’ll wear mine to some future occasion, and this woman will be there, too, in her copy of the blue dress. I hope we recognize one another, and that we laugh, two women happy to see each other wearing matching sleeveless dresses. And I hope we hug one another with our bare, beautiful, powerful arms.
— Sharon Short
Sharon Short writes the weekly “Literary Life” column in the Dayton Daily News. She is the director of the Antioch Writers’ Workshop and an accomplished writer. She has published two mystery series, a book of columns and the recent novel, My One Square Inch of Alaska. In 2014, she served as a finalist judge for the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. Share your own “power of bare arms” stories and photos on this special Facebook page. Share on Twitter at #powerofbarearms.
(This story appears in Not Your Mother’s Book…On Being a Woman, which was released in October 2012.)
Everything I needed to know about hair I learned from watching Charlie’s Angels. They say that your favorite hairstyle travels back to the time when you thought you looked your best. For me that was the 1970s, and my hairstyle of choice was called the Farrah, after the late actress Farrah Fawcett.
The Farrah was a style I could figure out. Cool, feathered, moussed a mile high, curled up tight with an iron. I methodically worked on it each morning before high school, loading on gel, wax and mousse. I finalized the ‘do with half a can of Aqua Net Hair Spray, thick and sticky. And I added a fake tan, orange streaks and all. Viola, ready for school. The big hair look — no one could do it better than me.
But today — 40 years later — my Farrah style was a bit more lax. But it is still there. As I was getting ready for date night with my husband, my daughter approached me in the bathroom.
“Mom, your hair looks so 1970s. Want some help?” she asked.
After having two children and lugging them around to 2,890 baseball games and over 10,000 basketball practices for the last 17 years, I admit I’ve become a little lazy. I consider it fancy to put my hair in a ponytail and dab on lip-gloss. And who had time for a blow-dryer?
My daughter combed, twisted, teased and sprayed my hair. After 30 minutes grooming me, she turned me around to gaze at her creation. I was at a loss for words. Lady Gaga in her finest stared back at me, but without a long feather and a tiny black hat. Add a meat dress and I would be unforgettable.
“I think I can handle it from here. Thanks,” I said, as she walked out of the room.
I needed to get current and break from my old ways. I need age-appropriate hair, I thought. With that, I scheduled an appointment to update my look.
“What can we do for you today?” the gal at the salon asked as she pulled back my hoodie and yanked out the elastic band on my ponytail.
“I need an update. Surprise me.”
“But what do you usually do?” she asked as she massaged my head with aromatic oils.
Oh, we don’t want to go there. I have been through more styles than Imelda Marcos has shoes. Remember the shag in the mid 1970s made famous by David Cassidy and Rod Stewart? Shorter at the top, downward layers in the front. Blow-dry upside down after loading on tons of styling gels, fluffy and full.
Or what about the perm? In the 1980s, I was treated to a home perm kit, courtesy of my best friends. Major frizz. Topped it off with an application of Sun In. Teased the bangs out, piled high with a scrunchie. I looked just like a poodle. Gob on gaudy jewelry to complete the ensemble. My friends and I looked identical.
Thankfully I never attempted the Dorothy Hamill or the female mullet.
My stylist tapped me on the shoulder to shake me out of my daze in order to witness her magic as she transformed my locks. For an hour, she snipped and trimmed, paying careful attention to my face, hair texture and lifestyle. She did an awesome job fixing my hair, smooth side swept bangs and straight, glossy locks in the back. A natural look, I thought when I glanced at myself in the mirror. I liked what I saw.
“Thanks, I love it,” I said with a hug.
I purchased all the hair products she recommended. “I can do this,” I said to myself. Once at home, I darted into the bathroom to check it out in my own mirror.
I admired the reflection staring back at me. But what if I just brushed a little here? Or curled a tiny bit there? Within moments, my hair was fluffed, poofed and once again sprayed immobile. Aw, much better.
“Good morning, Charlie! I’m back. Miss me?”
— Stacey Gustafson
Stacey Gustafson is a freelance writer, humor columnist, artist, blogger and stay-at-home mother. Her blog “Are You Kidding Me?” is based on her suburban family and everyday life. Her short stories have appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul and Not Your Mother’s Books. Her work appears in Midlife Boulevard, ZestNow, Pleasanton Patch, corporate newsletters and even a commencement speech. She lives in California with her husband and two teenagers who provide an endless supply of inspiration. She writes about parenting and daily frustrations like her dislike of laundry, the DMV and being middle-aged. Visit her blog, www.staceygustafson.com, and Twitter @mepaint.
“Tyler. Come on, it’s time to get up.”
I gently shake my ten-year-old. His strong, tan body is twisted in blankets, little stuffed animals cradled around his head.
“Wait,” comes his sleepy, muffled response, and I may or may not drop shorts and a T-shirt on his head before giving up and walking, in a weird side step, around his massive maze of cars, army men and dragons, from his room.
“Tyler,” I yell from downstairs. “Breakfast is on the table.”
“Wait,” he calls back. “I’m finishing my set-up.”
“Camp doesn’t care if you’re finishing a set-up. We’ve got to go.”
A small, distant, “wait” floats down to me. It is almost lost in the morning noise; a 5-year-old bouncing at my legs begging me to color for him, a Facetime conversation that my 8 year-old is having with a girl friend he’s had since he was two, the ding of the toaster, and the beloved pour and sputter of the Keurig.
At the table, spooning in some, uh, organic Reese’s Puffs, I again encourage him to hurry, but he is busy with the comics and ignores me. “Read this!” He says, pointing to Zits. “It’s funny.”
Then he points to The Lockhorns. “I don’t get it.”
Amusing. He’s already identifying with the teenager comic and totally doesn’t get Loretta thinking her husband is more of a meatball than her meatball.
“Tyler, get your sneakers on. I told you twice already.”
“Wait,” he says off-handedly, heading toward his laptop. “I just need two minutes on this game.”
“Tyler…” I warn thru gritted teeth.
“Wait,” he says again, almost pleadingly. His eyes dart from me to the screen. “One more minute.”
Seconds from me slamming the screen shut, he triumphantly does a last tick on the keyboard and closes it down. “Done!” He beams.
It’s hard not to beam back at that face, but somehow I manage a small growl.
Finally, everyone has what they need, and has done what they have to. “Okay, ready.” I shout to the air, because no way anyone is listening. Miraculously, my two younger boys head for the door and walk directly into the screen that they are asked not to run into, every day.
My oldest has disappeared. I find him back at the computer.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything I beat him to it. “If you tell me to wait, I might lose it.”
He smiles, nods mischievously, and says in his playful, patronizing voice, “Oh don’t worry, little mommy. I won’t say that bad word. It’s all good. See?” With exaggerated slowness, he shuts the laptop screen. “All ready.”
“Uh, baby, your sneakers aren’t on.”
Again, that sweet, goofy smile.
In a few days, my beautiful 10-year-old will be 11. Soon, he will be running out of the house, instead of me pushing him.
Suddenly, I’m not in such a rush.
“Wait!” I want to cry. “Wait.”
— Alisa Schindler
Alisa Schindler is freelance writer who chronicles the sweet and bittersweet of life in the suburbs on her highly entertaining blog www.icescreammama.com. Her essays have been featured on Mamapedia.com and Bonbonbreak.com as well as in the book, Life Well Blogged. She is a member of “Yeah Write,” an online community for writers, where she has won the Jury Prize multiple times in the group’s weekly essay writing contest. She has just completed her first novel that she feels comfortable showing to someone other than her mother.
I have battled arthritis in my hips for many years. About 10 years ago I started paying attention to how complementary treatments could help with my energy level and pain management. I was not a big one for being touched by strangers, so I kept pushing the thought of massage therapy out of my mind. I mean, really, who wants to lie on a table in a dark room with someone you don’t know touching parts of your body that hardly, if ever, see the light of day. Now I have birthed two children, and I don’t wear a bikini to the beach for a reason.
An opportunity for a chair massage [a quick 10-minute intervention] showed itself during an informational session for one of the programs in the school I was working at. I took a deep breath and sat down — and although my body was seriously tense at the beginning, I felt the muscles give way and relax at the very skilled hands of the massage therapist. I was instantly hooked — this stuff was like magic!
Soon, full-body massages found their way into my calendar every month. My body was responding well and I was letting go of my stranger-danger thoughts. Oh, how accomplished in my mindset I had come… well, temporarily anyway.
I was so wrong
A couple of years later, I was at a conference with several of my colleagues/friends, and we were talking about the pure joy and relaxation that comes with a massage. I was in full agreement, until the point when one friend [who we will call Beth to protect her innocence] said something around how freeing it was to be naked during a massage and to just let all inhibitions go. Ummm…really? Nakedness in front of a stranger? Not ME!
In that moment I felt like I had just stepped into a conversation that I might want to run from. I was having palpitations just thinking about this insane scenario. My friend (and friends at this point) were chuckling at my reserved behavior and asked why it was such a big deal, commenting, “You get naked in front of your doctor, don’t you?” In my mind that is completely different! My brain was doing some heavy rationalizing here.
Now for the moment of truth
When the receptionist asked if we preferred a male or female therapist, Beth instantly answered that she did not have a preference. I had a preference; yet in that moment of pure perceived peer pressure, my mouth lost control and blurted out, “I do not have a preference either.” Oh, my word, what had I just done? My mind kicked into its judgment stage and started beating up on my mouth for the moment of lost control. I opened my mouth to take the words back, yet my mind won and I stayed quiet.
I took some time to enjoy all that the spa had to offer — steam shower, mineral pool and sauna and wondered why on earth was this not part of my everyday living. This was truly the life — I was feeling relaxed and excited for my massage session. I sat in the comfy chair of the spa waiting room dressed in a fluffy, white robe and white slippers, sipping on a glass of refreshing lemon water.
I was feeling awesome, truly awesome until the moment of truth. “Mrs. Covey,” (in a deep-voiced tone). I looked up to see a man searching for me, a tall, large man with black curly hair. My first thought was, where can I hide — why, oh why had I thought that being open minded was a great thing to do? My friend smiled at me, so I got up from my chair, mumbled something (likely inappropriate) under my breath, and went to greet my massage therapist. Believing in life lessons, I was already whirring about what I am meant to learn from this. Oh, I know. Keep my mouth closed!
The unlikely ordeal
We exchanged polite conversation on our way to the massage room, and I am thinking, this guy could be the massage therapist world cup holder and I was going to miss out due to my “issues.” I was now alone in the room getting comfy — I go to pull my robe off and realized, “Oh my word! I have no clothes on.” I wondered to myself if I could take a quick run to the locker room to get my undergarments.
I panicked, and jumped under the sheets — I was now breathing loudly as I was in mid-swing of a mild panic attack. Mr. Massage walked in. We decided on essential oils, type of massage (I chose the deep tissue as my shoulders were now up around my ears from the tension) and the music. And, off we went. I started to relax and told myself, “This is all a life lesson — quit being so controlling and open your heart and mind.” I was distracted. I began to do some yogic breathing and told myself I will not be putting my hard-earned money to waste. I will enjoy this!!
Just as I began to fade into the world of total relaxation, I heard something. What on earth? What I heard is the breathing of the massage therapist. The guy was a heavy breather! I tried to close my ears, but impossible! Have you ever heard a repetitive sound that drives you buggy? Well, this guy was a champion breather, dude. Oh, my soul, how did he hear himself think?
I figured I had about 50 minutes left of my time alone in a tiny room with no clothes on with a man I did not know. I felt like I was sinning! “Get a grip,” I told myself. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could, focusing on the music in the background and imagined that I knew this person, that he was indeed the massage champion of the world and that I was going to relax if it was the last thing I did.
The ordeal was over
I finally heard Mr. Massage say, “I will be right outside the door when you are ready.” Ah, I was done — I had lived to tell the tale! I do believe I beat record time getting my robe on and meeting him at the door. I actually felt a little bad for the guy as I am sure he was wondering why my muscles were so ridiculously tight and were just not giving to his skilled hands. Thank goodness, he could not read my mind!
As I made my way back to the spa waiting room I was contemplating my silly self and the choices that I had made earlier that day. My lessons learned — be true to myself, don’t cave in to peer pressure, keep my clothes on, and never, never say yes to the idea of a male massage therapist again. I may dream of being a totally free, open-thinking and loving human being, yet it is obvious, I am not quite there yet. And likely never will be!
— Dwayna M. Covey
Dwayna M. Covey, M.Ed., is a certified laughter leader, laughter yoga teacher and Reiki master. Dwayna is passionate about supporting individuals and groups on their paths to positive communication and healthy work environments; her enthusiasm, authenticity and humor empower the courage in others to create the life they want. Read her column, “A Dose of Dwayna”’ in the Bridge Weekly.
They say that standing in front of people and speaking is the #1 fear people have. Guess what the #2 fear is? The fear of DYING. And…I’m sure high up on that list is the fear of dying WHILE in front of people.
If you think that making a living as a professional speaker means that fear goes away — guess again. As Erma Bombeck once said, “You need the courage to submit your story and find out how good or bad you are. And if you think it gets any easier for professional writers, you’re wrong.”
I always have anxiety when I have to perform, and that anxiety STARTS when I write new material. My creation process is a true MESS — trying to make sense of the tsunami of ideas in my head and the misspelled phrases I’ve written on unopened junk mail, as well as the sometimes drunk rantings on my iPhone recorder. It’s a TRUE mess. Seeing that mess fills me with frustration and anxiety because of the looming gig on my calendar that demands it not be such a mess.
But what COMFORTS me is to realize that ALL of our SUCCESSES start out as MESSES. And the people who succeed have the willingness to navigate their way through the mess to find the great material that’s hidden within.
There’s nothing as unfunny and un-fun as writing a speech or writing comedy. Remember how on Seinfeld, Jerry and George would brainstorm ideas for their “show about nothing” — and everything came easily and made us laugh?
In the REAL WORLD, writers are often frustrated, anxious, doubtful and frequently find themselves staying up past midnight staring at a laptop and guzzling pitchers of coffee, DESPERATELY hoping something will come to them other than the AWFUL first, second and third drafts they’ve been staring at for hours.
So many people WANT to write a book, do standup, or be paid as a speaker, but give up too quickly because they’re weighed down by the feeling that every idea has to be perfectly formed in their head BEFORE they start writing it.
In my workshops, everyone learns that material doesn’t come out of you fully formed like a newborn colt that can just leap to its feet and gallop. New material comes out RAW and UNFORMED, and most of the time just lays there like a baby bird, until with rewrite after rewrite, you finally feed it enough that it can fly.
So… don’t paralyze yourself with the need to be PERFECT. The only need is to start. And whether you’re writing your story, a standup act or a speech, it doesn’t matter how you start; just START — and COMMIT and NURTURE and PARENT that idea, until it gradually takes on a life of its own.
— Judy Carter
Judy Carter, a keynote speaker at the 2014 Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, is the acclaimed bestselling author of The Comedy Bible, which Oprah Winfrey touted on her show and the Washington Post described as a “number one comedy essential.” Ms. Carter began her career doing standup comedy and now teaches people to use humor in public speaking. Her books have helped people worldwide discover their creativity and launch money-making careers. She has appeared on more than 100 TV shows, and has shared the stage with Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, Lily Tomlin, Deepak Chopra, Andrea Mitchell and Bill Clinton, to name a few. Her new book, The Message of You, teaches readers how to use life stories to inspire others and advance their careers. You can find her on Facebook and Twitter.
Inspiration hits. The light bulb goes on. You’ve got a passion, and you pursue it. You see a need, and you fill it. There’s a question, and you answer it. You have a purpose, and you fulfill it.
These are all great reasons to begin writing a book. And most writers, when struck by a good idea and the desire to write, simply begin writing. However, an even better reason exists to take a bit of time before you beginning writing to evaluate your idea — at least if you want your book to be successful.
Evaluate? I can hear you groaning. No one wants to evaluate anything, especially that book idea you are so psyched about.
If you simply want to write the book of your heart and you don’t care how many copies you sell, great. Go for it. If you want to write a successful book, meaning one that sells to lots of readers or to a traditional publisher and to lots of readers, however, it behooves you to take the time to consider if your idea is a good one by industry standards.
To do this, I suggest you discover nine things about your book idea. Once you have this information, you’ll know if your book has a chance of success.
1. What Your Book Will be About and Why Would Someone Would Want to Read (Buy) It: You’d be amazed at how many writers cannot tell you in 50 words or less, or in 30 seconds or less, what their book is about. They also may not be able to list the benefits their book will provide to readers. Before beginning to write your book, hone your topic and its angle. Figure out why someone would want to read your book rather than someone else’s book on the same topic. Write a pitch or elevator speech, a short statement that describes the essence of your book, and follow it with some bulleted points — the added value readers will take away from its pages. Think of this exercise like writing back cover copy. What might you say or write about your book that would make someone carry it to the register?
2. Who Wants to Read Your Book: Make sure you know your average reader — that one person you are writing for — as well as the size of your book’s market. Who wants to read your book, and where do you find them? How many of these people exist in the world? Are there enough of them to justify writing your book? This market research tells you if anyone is out there to read (buy) your book and helps you know for whom who you are writing.
3. Whether Your Book Will be Unique and Necessary: Make sure the book you plan on adding to the mix is not only unique compared to the other books in your niche or category but also necessary before you add one more title to the staggering number of books in print. Take a good hard look at what other authors have already written and published. Is what you want to write different — different enough to make someone purchase your book rather than an established title or a book by an established author? And is there a need for another book on the subject? If no books have been written on the subject, why? Is there a need for even one book on the topic?
4. If You Have Enough Content to Fill a Book: Sometimes writers think they have enough material for a book when really they only have enough for an article, a couple of articles, an essay, or a short story. Or they think they know what content they are going to include in the book, but when they finish the first draft, they discover they produced a manuscript that is scattered, rambling, misses the point, or leaves out essential information. Avoid these problems by mapping out your content first. Actually do a mind mapping exercise, which entails brainstorming while creating a large diagram of all your possible content and then organizing all these ideas into a table of contents or an outline. If you write fiction, try using a timeline. When you are done with this process you’ll know if you have enough content to fill a book, and you’ll know what content you plan to include in the pages of that book.
5. How You Would Describe Your Book’s Content: Bring your book to life with a short synopsis for each chapter. This accomplishes two things. First, when you couple this chapter-by-chapter synopsis with your table of contents, your pitch and list of benefits, you will have the best writing guide possible. Second, when you have finished the synopsis of all your chapters, and you have completed the previous four steps, you will suddenly have a clear picture of your book and feel ready to write your book. Why? Because it will seem real to you. If you can see it and it seems real, if your idea stood up to all the prior steps, it’s likely a viable book.
6. How You Will Ensure You and Your Book Succeed: Whether you self-publish or land a traditional publishing deal, you will need to promote your book. And promotion does not begin after the book lands in your hands as a finished product. It begins the moment that light bulb goes off in your head. Spend some time considering all the options you have to build awareness for yourself and your book as you begin the writing process as well as after you launch the book.
7. Why You Are the Best Person to Write This Book: Novelists just need a good idea and the ability to bring it to life with good writing. Most nonfiction books are written by experts. Decide if you are the expert on your topic, how you will become the expert, or if you might need to bring in other experts (maybe a co-author, contributors or experts to interview). Also, does writing this book fulfill a sense of mission for you? If so, you might want to consider how to get that message across in the book and in your promotional efforts. Plus, in this step, no matter your genre, it’s important to ask yourself if you have what’s called an “author’s platform.” Do you have a fan base or a large, loyal following of people who know you in relationship to the topic about which you plan to write? If not, you need to consider how you will begin building that built-in readership for your book.
8. If This is the Only Book You Will Write on This Topic: The more books you write, the more books you sell. That’s why it’s a good idea to spend a moment brainstorming other “spin-off” books on your topic, also known as sequels or series. This is especially important if you want to create a business around your book or attract a traditional publisher. As an expert author, if you have more books, you can create more products and services to sell to readers. And publishers like to take on multiple-book authors.
9. How You Want to Publish Your Book: If you decided your book is marketable and has a chance of succeeding, you can begin writing your book — with one caveat. You need to know what publishing route you plan to take. If you plan on self-publishing, you can go ahead and write the whole book. If you plan on approaching traditional publishers, you only need to write 25-30 pages, or about two chapters, but you also need to write a book proposal, which includes all the information you just compiled. You then will submit the proposal to agents and publishers.
Armed with this information, and assuming you discovered your idea is a viable one, you’re ready to take action on your inspiration. Turn your idea into a successful book.
— Nina Amir
Nina Amir, author of How to Blog a Book and The Author Training Manual, transforms writers into inspired, successful authors, authorpreneurs and blogpreneurs. Known as the “Inspiration to Creation Coach,” she moves her clients from ideas to finished books as well as to careers as authors by helping them combine their passion and purpose so they create products that positively and meaningfully impact the world. A sought-after author, book, blog-to-book and results coach, Nina has helped clients sell 300,000+ copies of their books, land deals with major publishing houses and create thriving businesses around their books. She writes four blogs, has self-published 12 books and is the founder of National Nonfiction Writing Month, aka the Write Nonfiction in November Challenge. She’s part of the 2014 EBWW faculty.
I have a very specific talent. I cannot juggle, do cartwheels or win a baking contest. I can however, write backwards.
I know you’re wondering why I would even tell you this. Just try it. You will see that it is not as easy as it sounds.
When our kids were small, the elves would leave notes. Every Christmas morning they were letters telling them how much they loved those butter cookies with sprinkles. The elves also wrote personal things that they’d seen happen over the year. “That was a great goal last game! That A+ on your spelling test was great! We saw how nice you were to your sister.” The elves wrote in the exact same penmanship as my backward cursive. Who knew!
On a more fun note, I once wrote my husband a note and left it on the front door. We had escaped to our little getaway vacation house. I left a note that read, “We are so happy you and your wife are amorous, however, please close your windows. The children can hear you. My daughter asked whose dog was howling.” I signed it, Sincerely, a concerned neighbor.
I giggled as I taped it on the door. We were leaving to go to dinner when he spotted the note. “Anne, what is this?” he asked as he studied the note. “Oh! This is not good. The neighbors heard us!” He was horrified. Within 10 seconds he went from horrified to very proud of himself. I swear his chest swelled three inches.
When we arrived at the restaurant, he asked, “Do you think this happens often?”
“Have we ever gotten a note before? No it doesn’t happen often!” It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.
“Which neighbor do you think left it? I’ll be able to tell if the wife starts smiling at me.”
“What are you talking about?” He was getting ridiculously full of himself.
“Well, you said it doesn’t happen often. She probably thinks I’m a hot guy.”
Our shrimp cocktail arrived, and the talk about the note continued. “She doesn’t have very good handwriting,” he said.
“She was probably nervous just bringing it over. Imagine if you had seen her at the door,” I said, defending my penmanship.
“Well, when I get home, I’m going to look out the bedroom window and try to figure this out. One of our neighbors knows we have sex now.”
I finished my shrimp cocktail and hoped this was the end of it. As we finished dinner, he started up again, “So really, we do have a nice life, don’t we? “Yes, we do,” I said.
“Maybe the mystery neighbor is envious of us.” He winked at me.
“I don’t think so,” I told him as I rummaged in my purse for a pen.
I smiled to myself as I wrote on a napkin and passed it to him. There in my unique penmanship were the words, “I wrote the note!”
“Are you serious?!!! My God! You write like an elf!”
— Anne Bardsley
Anne Bardsley, of St. Petersburg, Fla., is the author of the soon-to-be-published ANZ World…How I Earned My Wrinkles, a collection of humorous and sentimental stories about marriage, motherhood and menopause. She lives in a menopausal world with a husband who gives her wrinkles. When people ask her age, she sometimes tells them her bra size. “36-C,” she says, “was a wonderful age.”