creativenachos.com Blog

Do you have these? It doesn’t have to be in this form – the husband/kid form – but in some form? I think the people who bring sanity and insanity in equal measure to our lives are as necessary as breathing.

My husband is a nail-biting sports event, the bubbles in my champagne, laughter when I least expect it, my favorite leprechaun, a Bronx tale, the many colors of Adidas sneakers, a bowl of Reese’s Pieces, my chocolate sponsor, the duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh theme from SportsCenter, my umbrella in a downpour, my Christmas tree lights, my favorite conversationalist, kisses in moonlight, a heart by which I can warm my soul, the strongest support beam within my house of my heart, my confidant, my greatest rally cry to keep going and be who I am, my North Star, the banana fix for this monkey.

My daughter is the ultimate rollercoaster ride, my Christmas morning present, my reality alarm clock, aching, tear-inducing belly laughter, my heart with wings, the Boing-o (ala the Backyardigans) in my step, my greatest challenge, my greatest creation, love wrapped up in yogurt-covered fingertips and soggy Cheerio-covered hugs, the reason for my fascination with “counting piggies”, starlight on a cloudy night, the embodiment of hope, the doodle in my doodlebug.

Not so long ago, these two people reminded me of the beauty found in sharing lives. My daughter got sick with a severe head cold. Think about how you feel when you have a cold. You can’t breathe, sleep, eat, or function. That’s how she was but she had no idea what was happening. She cried and it broke my heart. I felt helpless. She slept in 20 minute intervals for a total of 36 hours which meant that Mommy did as well. Lack of sleep does nothing good for either one of us. So, somewhere around the 2am mark right in the middle of it all, the three of us found ourselves in this space having this conversation.

Husband:  “….when we have the next one.”

(Lack of sleep requires that I use as little energy as possible so I process sentences in small chunks, my mind searching the sentence for key words. This phrase attracted my attention as what my husband was referring to as he changed our crying baby’s diaper was a second child. I was cleaning the snot off my arms that had just flown out of her mouth. By the way, the snot was like that ooze that came with Ghostbusters ghost toys. I was slimed, sleep deprived and feeling like the most useless human being alive for not being able to summon my God-like powers to heal my daughter.)

Me:  “You want to do this again? Are you crazy? I mean are you completely mad.”

(Both husband and daughter stop.)

Me: “Oh hell no. She will have plenty of brothers and sisters. Let me think there’s Brother James, Brother Andrew, Brother Dominick, Brother TJ, Brother Daniel, Sister Katherine, Sister Caitlyn, and well, Claire and Theresa’s kids will be here soon.”

(I list off the names of some of our friend’s children and reference those who will be arriving.)

“Oh, she’ll be fine. For her it’ll be like when we first got married and we thought about kids so we visited others who had kids and then celebrated when we got to hand the kids back and go home to our quiet home. She’ll have lots of play time and then come home to enjoy her private time. And we’ll sleep. By God, we will sleep.”

(At this point, my husband bursts into hysterical laughter.)

Me: (Enraged. Hands on hips) “You think I’m kidding?”

(As if on cue, my daughter lifts her weary body and crawls over to me. She pulls herself up to stand and sneezes, a giant sneeze that blows ooze all over me again. And then she smiles. That smile filled with the little teeth that have just made their first appearance. One little hand clings to my side while the other reaches up. As I lift her, I still smell that new baby smell that I know will be gone soon; how I don’t want that. I look at my husband’s blood shot eyes.)

Me:  “Yeh, I don’t think we’ll sleep with the next one either. I think he or she will be a night owl, just like us.”

I dig these folks who “get me” enough to let me be me – messy, sleepy, silly, ridiculous me.

Who are yours? To whom do you bring sanity/insanity?
 

 Photo from www.discomuseum.com

Meet a Nacho contributor, Danielle. She sent in her senior photo….funny, it looks strikingly like Irene Cara.

Once upon a time, I was a giant hairball. I wish I could say that this picture was from the mid-80’s, a decade I hold dear to my heart, but alas, it was the early 90’s and I was still rockin’ the do. There is a part of me that’s angry with my Mom for allowing me to leave the house with my locks in this condition but then again, who am I kidding? If she had tried to stop me, I would simply have worn a baseball cap to school and then sculpted those curls in the girl’s bathroom.

The thing is I thought I looked great. I thought the hair sprayed bangs that ran diagonally across my forehead and lifted as a single unit if you tried to pick up one strand of hair were the bee’s knees. And don’t even get me started talking about my multi-colored collection of banana clips.

Time and change go hand-in-hand. Over the course of time, fashion, opinions, ideas, living conditions, situations inevitably change and new perspectives are born. When you are stuck in the middle of a creative project, the best thing to do is shift your perspective. You can do that in a number of ways ranging from sitting in a different place when you are working to opening old photos, letters, journals and looking back at who you once were and how life has changed. Looking back not only allows us to marvel at how we’ve grown but it also invites us to see things in a new light. You can take old habits or thoughts and give them to a character or re-take photos of objects or people illustrating the transformation that’s taken place between then and now. Either way, the past not only helps us to alter and widen our perspective, it can also serve as rich, usable material.

I look forward to reading your hairball comments below. Or if you have a hairball picture you’d like to share, send it along to Natasha@creativenachos.com!

Often times I wish for Super Powers. I think the ultimate power would be teleportation; the X-Men’s Nightcrawler has that one. There are days when my butt doesn’t want to leave my couch but unfortunately, I have to travel to another destination. If I could simply teleport my arse from my couch to the destination couches I’d be one happy camper.

Just imagine it. You wouldn’t have to leave on time to catch the train, plane or taxi. Instead you could watch the end of that movie, spend more time on that creative project or sleep a little longer and then, moments before you were supposed to arrive – POOF – you’d teleport there.

If you could have any Super Power, what would it be?

I feel guilty for:

-being late to meetings when my daughter needs me, even when I called ahead to explain

-not being able to fix an unhappy family member’s day

-lying to the Priest in confession when I was a kid because I didn’t feel I had “sinned”. I just said the same thing each time – “I didn’t listen to my Mother. I kicked my brother.”

-not anticipating another person’s hurt feelings regarding a comment someone else made

-the fact that my daughter has the same space between her teeth that I do

-being unable to get the 47 projects I want to be working on off the ground today

-not always being happy, sunny and full of fun

-questioning religion, when I’m supposed to simply have faith

-not always appreciating the beautiful things I have in my life

-surfing the net when I am supposed to be working

-my daughter waking multiple times throughout the night or not eating all her finger foods because she’s supposed to now

-having sudden impure thoughts at inappropriate times, like in the middle of funeral

-not being able to like everyone I meet

-my daughter ever feeling like I don’t have time for her when I am working from home

-not always being able to be present (sometimes my mind wanders when people are talking)

-ever getting sick and not being able to take care of my family, my friends, and my job

-not being around when a friend calls because they need to talk

-carrying coupons to the store with me and then forgetting to use them

As the product of a Catholic upbringing, I’m no stranger to guilt. Add on the ‘Mommy” role which comes with guilt built in at no extra cost and I feel like the guiltiest person on the planet. Guilt, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing.

First, I recognize that I often carry around guilt for the things that go wrong in others lives. I always want to fix it, make it better or do something to help. I have to realize that I may or may not be able to help but either way, I cannot take on others feelings. People make choices that they deem appropriate for their own lives. I need to understand that I am not responsible for everyone.

But what I am left with is the question, what does my own guilt do for me? Is it a motivating force? Not really. I’ve felt guilty for not putting the laundry away or keeping the house tidy for my family but it doesn’t necessarily motivate me to do anything about it. I just wrestle with the guilt and make myself feel worse about it all but that’s about it.

Is it a disciplining tool? I feel guilt therefore I will not eat those M&M’s tomorrow. Well, when tomorrow comes and I’m midway through that bag, the guilt I feel is generally an added spice that makes those M&M’s taste pretty damn good.

Is it a challenge? Should we try to turn it into something positive? I feel guilty that I am eating the M&M’s again but you only live once, so it’s ok to indulge. No, justification doesn’t feel right. I mean if you take that thought process to a greater level it doesn’t work. I kicked that woman in the shins because she annoyed me but she totally deserved it, everyone else wanted to as well. Nope, just doesn’t do it for me.

Would it work to simply say, I’m not going to feel guilty about this. Instead I’m going to turn my energy into strength, love, peace, whatever the situation needs.

Ultimately, freeing yourself from guilt leads to more space for creative energy to flourish. Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that if you do something wrong you should not feel remorse. I think that’s a whole different ballgame. I’m saying, those little things we feel guilty for, the things that often are not about us, are needless.

So, I pose this question to you. When it comes to guilt, it is possible to turn that energy into something constructive or is it better to learn to simply let it go?

______________________________________________________________________________
Identity is an issue close to my heart, something I am fascinated by, and some recent comments here got me thinking about it. We play so many roles; we are so many people to the scores of different people in our lives. When I started thinking about the roles I play or have played throughout the various stages of my life, specific songs would pop into my head. At first, I thought I might try to create a Top Five list of my favorite life roles. This was not an original idea but instead, a thought inspired by author Nick Hornby’s main character, Rob, from the book, High Fidelity; Hornby is a genius with lists. I simply couldn’t narrow it down; there are far too many great roles in my life that go hand in hand with amazing tunes. Every identity we wear is fodder for our artistic endeavors because each one teaches us something important about our lives; thus, the birth of the Beat Chronicles.  
______________________________________________________________________________

I was obsessed with Grease long before I understood the true meaning of the song, “Greased Lightning” and believed that women do not need to change for men. I wanted a boy to like me the way Danny Zuko liked Sandy, to smoke cigarettes like Rizzo (I couldn’t get my hands on any cigarettes so the pipe was my prop; it would be years before I would dive into a box of Parliments), to ride the ferris wheel during, “We Go Together” and dance like Cha Cha DiGregorio. Mostly, I wanted to sing like Sandy.

After I went to see the movie with my Mom and her friend, I begged her to buy the album. My Mickey Mouse record player was practically worn out from use. I had this fabulous flowered nightgown which is pictured here and, despite the fact that it looked nothing like her nightgown in the movie, I believed I looked just like Sandy when I wore it. I would sit on the edge of my toy chest with my legs tucked neatly underneath me and sing “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee” the same way Olivia Newton-John did in the film. On the floor lay my yellow blanket, my imaginary pool, and I would sing to it.

When the words, “Hold your head high” left my lips, I would look up at the stuffed monkeys that lined the shelf just above my bedroom door and sing my heart out.

Do you think Sandy completely changed for him or do you think she remained that “super nice, great to bring home to the parents” babe and just brought out the “black leotard wearing” temptress for like birthdays and drunken evenings?

Either way, there is something nice about remembering a time when underlying messages and sexual innuendos were lost on me; when all I cared about was the music.
 

Recently, I went to visit a fellow nacho. She came to the door carrying her adorable son and wearing the happiest, most colorful pair of pajamas. Although she had just come from an event that had required her to dress up, she decided to change as soon as she got home because she wanted to be super comfy for our play date and, from my recent pajama post, she knew that I would dig the PJs.  I only wish I had worn mine as well.

This woman, who maintains a full-time job while raising her son, had been seeking a little creative inspiration in her life.  
“I was getting a gift for someone when I spotted the pajamas. I just loved the colors,” she admits.
More often than not, we find ourselves doing or getting things for others with little or no thought for ourselves. While selflessness can be a beautiful thing, it’s also important to do something or treat ourselves to something nice. When we take care of ourselves and make ourselves feel special, we are able to give more to those around us.

That was not the end of the surprises she had to share with me. She whipped out these marvelous new shoes; a Valentine’s Day gift. Her husband wanted to get her something she truly wanted so she told him about the shoes. When she saw them, she fell in love.
“I was a woman obsessed,” she confesses.
Much like my search for the red clogs, this woman hunted high and low for these shoes. The color and the inner cushioning make walking in them like walking around with little clouds strapped to your feet.

The happiness that comes from these things is not a superficial happiness. It’s not a happiness that revolves around obtaining “things” but instead it is a happiness that flows from a woman who was creatively inspired by what she saw and so, added those splashes of color to her life. When the color, life and creative energy this woman normally feels on the inside is apparent on the outside, she feels phenomenal. The entire ensemble is a celebration of her.

As the time came for me to depart she settled in for a little light reading; something to celebrate the memory of childhood.  
When is the last time you got something nice for yourself? When did you last celebrate YOU?

I’m an expert on freaking myself out; I’ve been doing it since I was little. As a child I loved The Count from Sesame Street; the thunder that sounded each time he said a number was incredibly cool. So, for my birthday, my Mom bought him for me. As I tore the paper away, I was filled with excitement until I came face to face with him and lost it. After I threw the box to the floor and ran into my room, my Mom hid him in the closet till she was able to exchange him for Cookie Monster. Apparently, The Count was one of those guys who looked great from afar but up close he was a nightmare.

Jaws might have caused my most irrational freak-out fixation. After watching it, I developed a fear of the tub and the toilet. My young mind had mapped out the exact route that great white would take through the pipes in order to pop out of the drain and bite me on the arse. That’s when I became a “big girl”. I started taking a shower instead of a bath believing I would have an easier time escaping if I was standing as opposed to sitting. This same thought held true for the toilet. My poor Mom, the messes she had to clean up!

Remember the movie Poltergeist? Right. Well, let’s just say clowns do not live in nor do they visit my home.

The first six months I was away at college, I barely slept. Well, on the party nights I did; nothing like a little alcohol to cure the ole’ insomnia. However, most of the time, I was awake, lying wide-eyed in my bed listening. All I ever heard were crickets and skunks (a family of them lived behind the dorm) traipsing through the bushes and slinking around the trees. The occasional animal sound made by some random person in the dorm would break my night-time tension momentarily but I needed fire trucks, police cars, drunken people and 5am garbage truck pickups. Those essential elements of my big city lullaby quelled my fears and soothed the side of me that was always ready to freak should I hear the wrong noise in the dark.

Today, I still have freak-out moments. Remember in The Sixth Sense when he refers to “the prickly things on the back of your neck”? I cannot tell you how many times I have been walking through a hallway and all of a sudden had that feeling that someone or something was coming to get me. This always causes me to bolt out of the building. I am quite sure that anyone who sees me fly out the door thinks I am a psycho.

I have million, ridiculous fears. I like to dole them out to characters when I am writing. It helps me to see them, laugh at them, get over them and then hurry up and develop new ones. Perhaps I am just a guinea pig for my characters. Maybe I get some perverse pleasure from scaring the crap out of myself. Or perhaps I just have an overactive imagination. I’m not really sure.  All I know is I could go on for days about them all but then I’m certain that I’d freak you out.

What gives you the willies?

Sometimes I wish I could wear my pajama bottoms everywhere. I wore a uniform in grammar school. During the early years, there was a comfort in the conformity; a sense of belonging that was especially reassuring for someone who always felt like an outsider. Yet, despite my desire to “fit in”, the uniform consistency lost its appeal as I grew older. Mini-explosions of personality manifested themselves in things like wearing jams under my uniform skirt; the bottom of the jams hanging slightly below the hem of the skirt, a colorful teaser. Thermal leggings were another favorite. Most girls wore them in one of the two colors available, pink or blue; I wore pink and wrote poetry on the material around the knees. I painted “Light my Fire” in tribute to The Doors on my jean jacket and wore it with pride till perverts in the street started offering to light it for me.

In high school – a truly sorted time – I let graffiti artists cover my white Keds with tags; I even included the one I created for myself, Lumina. I rocked the Doc Marten combat boots. My father said, “You know Natasha when I was young, when people would say, ‘Your Mama wears combat boots’ it was considered an insult. I never thought I’d live to see the day my daughter would be wearing them.” My “Goth” phase was less about “Gothic” style and more about “Gotham City” where all black was tres chic.

I loved wearing suits. Actually, I loved wearing a suit on the first day of a new job when I was in Corporate America but after that, I was done. It seemed like more fun to wear a purple boa or Wonder Woman T-shirt with the suits. Oddly, that was not a hit in high level business meetings.

This New Year’s Eve, I wore my pajamas out to the festivities because I wanted to usher in a more relaxing, fun-filled year. Today, with the exception of meetings, I don’t have to dress up for work. Don’t get me wrong, I like throwing on a dress and some heels for a nice night out but I dig comfort more than anything and lots of color. My ideal outfit is the one pictured here. If I could wear my pajama pants everywhere I would along with clogs, my comfy snowflake shirt and my hat. For some reason I am obsessed with wearing that hat. If I could shower with it on and still get my hair clean I would. And the sunglasses used to be an essential hangover accessory. With fewer hangovers to report now, I wear them so I can feed the obsessive “people-watching” monkey on my back without people knowing about it.

This outfit is the perfect representation of me on the inside, the four-year-old me. I think we would be able to tell so much more about a person if we all showed up in our pajamas. Think about it. The people who wear the conservative colored pajamas are different from the ones who wear the wild animal prints. What about those who wear the bottom of their pajamas without the top or vice versa?  And what about those nightgown lovers? Don’t even get me started on the naked ones who won’t take off their socks! I think conversations would be much more interesting, business deals would happen faster and people would feel a greater sense of freedom if we all wore our pajamas. Don’t you?

Tell me, what is your favorite outfit? What is the one thing you’d wear everyday if you could?

My daughter plays on our living room floor in a space enclosed by gates that we put up and take down, as needed. It’s hard not to think of her as a zoo animal. Sometimes I want to wave, take pictures and throw bananas at my little monkey. The other night I was washing her bottles while she played. We do not live in a palatial mansion so it’s possible for me to watch her while I am doing things. She was standing at the gate making one of her dolls do the cha-cha-cha. I laughed and turned away for what may have been 2 – 3 minutes, if that, to put something away. When it became too quiet and I spun around to find her on the couch. She had climbed up, crawled over to one arm of the couch and was lifting her leg to mount the arm like a rider mounting a horse. I half expected her to whip out a cowboy hat while making large circles with a lasso above her head screaming, “Ride ‘em cowboy!” Never mind that this was the first time she had successfully made it onto the couch; my daughter was already a horse wrangler. For days, she had been trying to get up without success. Now, she stood before me with a smile from ear to ear and a sense of accomplishment that radiated from her very pores. 

As I placed her back down on the floor and tried to slow the pounding of my heart, I started to think about determination. It’s not something we learn but instead something we are born with as my daughter clearly illustrates each and every day. Think about it. Think about how hard you must have worked to learn how to walk. You were not discouraged by words like “no”. You wouldn’t have listened if you’d been told you could not do it – maybe you would not have understood the words but the “tone” that goes along with the words “no” or “cannot” is unmistakable – and despite being told that, you clearly forged ahead. Isn’t it a shame that later in life when we are said to “mature”, when we can fully understand people’s meanings we fall victim to others’ ridiculous words and beliefs that we ‘can’t” do things. 

Here are a few ways to keep determination alive in your life: 

1. Envision It – Just the way my daughter saw herself on top of that couch, so, too, should you see yourself standing at the top of whatever creative endeavor you want to tackle. Whether it’s a personal or professional goal, picture yourself accomplishing your dream. 

2. Be Open to Alternative Routes – When you first set out to accomplish your mission you may map out a clear route. However, there are always unseen pitfalls. My daughter could not see that climbing the couch head on would not work. After awhile, she learned to revise her plan; by turning sideways and throwing a leg on the cushion she found she could hoist herself up. 

3. Try, Try Again – No matter how many times you fall, get back up. Think about it. What would have happened if you had decided not to try to stand after that first time you feel on your arse? You’d still be crawling around on your hands and knees. Stand up after your falls. 

4. Allow yourself a Super-Freakout session – It’s hard to make things happen. Sometimes it can feel like you are trying and trying and getting no where. When that happens, allow yourself the room and space to yell, scream, and vent. Letting it out is healthy and sharing with others can always provide a new perspective. Once you’ve gotten it all out of her system, get back to work.  

5. Going, going – When you reach your goal, take a little time to celebrate yourself. Let that success be the fuel that moves you forward and onto the next challenge.  

No matter what you do, don’t give up. Easier said than done, I know, but a worthwhile goal all the same.            

I’m not where I thought I would be in life. I thought by the time I had a kid I’d have a book or two published and would be focused solely on writing. But as I’ve mentioned before, I have stood in my own way. Since the birth of my daughter, I have become more focused; this is probably due to having less time. Now I find my dreams have grown, new creative ideas have bubbled to the surface and new endeavors are presenting themselves. My dream is not to exclusively write books but to write articles and perhaps open my own creative gift business. While the growth of ideas should be exciting, I often find I get frustrated and end up feeling lost. 

Sometimes I can see where I want to be. I’m not always sure of how to get there but I try to figure it out. Despite my fears, I try. Other times I feel lost. I look at myself and cling to the once clear picture I had of who I was and who I wanted to be. My clinging to old ideas causes an inability for any new ideas to live long before I shove them down and suddenly find myself panicking about the fact that I have no idea who I am. Why do I have such an aversion to change? And why do I need to adhere to an old version of myself? 

Maybe it has to do with defining myself. It’s as though if I don’t know exactly who I am at all times, I’ll disappear. I’ll exist in a black hole with no reason or purpose for being here. One moment I define myself by “what I do” because that’s what we do in America, we let our jobs define who we are and don’t get me wrong, I want to do something I love but I’m more than that. The next moment I’m one of a dozen labels – friend, sister, wife, daughter, mother, cousin, niece, bitch, dreamer, saint, sinner, writer, and artist – but I’m even more than that. I’m digging and I’m digging and I’m trying to sculpt this identity but much like parenting, the moment you think you know something, everything changes. 

Do you ever feel like this? 

I need to start to make some changes to my life. I know it. I feel it. These are growing pains. I’m a woman in search of my own truth. I’m a woman who is filled with so many thoughts, emotions and ideas I sometimes feel like I might explode into a billion pieces. 

When I was younger we had that “What goes on inside this house, stays in this house” rule. I remember the first time I broke it and shared with friends. This one friend had a crazier story of familial drama than what I had shared and I thought – I LOVE this. Well, I need to explore all of this here with you, if only to feel as though I’m not the only one who loves their life but who still feels horribly lost or fearful of change from time to time. 

This month, I’m going to try to find ways to embrace small changes. Maybe tomorrow I’ll start by not getting my signature Kit Kat and try ….a Twix? In terms of identity, I’m going to work on just being instead of trying to place myself in a box.  Any thoughts?