Blog Block Party

Truth be told, I've had what I call a "blog block" since the start of the new year. Now here it is spring and my block still hasn't cleared. I write about the subject of hope. Humor is a component too (yuck-yuck!), because laughing is freakin' wonderful.  Like a soulful narcotic, it gets us high from the inside out. However, I don't limit myself to these two topics.  I need to write about other stuff that I care about like my beloved aging dog or wanting to "save the adverb real bad" since I don't want to see the English language officially slip into oblivion. Sarah Palin's verbal idiocies are in the dictionary now?

"Hi, nice to meet you, I'm Galled."

When 2011 began, I had high hopes for the new year.  I still do. I think my blog block stems from the exceptional amount of intensity brewing around the globe these last few months. For example, talking about hope followed by a knock-knock joke in the wake of the devastation in Japan might appear naive, or worse, insensitive. 

"Doesn't she know the world is going to hell in a hand basket? Doesn't she watch the news?" 

When I shared my concern with a friend who is also a fellow blogger, she said with a smile, "but it's [hope] refreshing." Her comment was refreshing!  Then an artist friend suggested I write about how I'm not writing. I loved this idea too. So here I am blogging about my blog block.

I regard it as a blog spring cleaning. Like spring cleaning, we clear out the dusty corners to make room for the new.  Where there is room for the new, hope will surely follow.  Ideally, in a clown car.

Hope: Not For The Faint of Heart & 9 Other Hopeful Ideas

Originally posted on December 8th, 2010

Hi Friends.

There are many misconceptions about hope that are in serious need of clarification -- if not illumination. So let’s get to it.

1.) As the title of this post states: hope is not for the faint of heart. Remaining hopeful takes tenacity. Hell... it takes guts. Remaining hopeful after all that life has thrown at us is a valiant choice. Own it.

2.) There is an overwrought (and misguided) idea in our culture that the quality of hope belongs to the young, the naive, or worse, the delusional. This negative hope P.R. usually comes from pessimists or self-proclaimed realists who feel they have a better grasp of “reality” than someone who is optimistic or hopeful.

This is an impossibility because reality is relative to the individual. Our realties are unique to us. We all filter our personal realities through the lenses of our life experience.  We can change our lenses anytime in order to see the world in a more positive and hopeful light.  It may take some work. In fact, we might need to dig deeply to make this shift, but the work is so worth it, because...

3.) Life is so much better with hope than without it. This is a simple truth. I've sampled life from both buffets and "The All You Can Eat Hope" is so much better.  No Contest. It's downright delicious compared to the "The Empty, Void, Eat What You Want, But Why Are We Really Bothering?" which is at best bland -- at worst bleak.

4.) Being hopeful, or having hope, doesn’t mean you’re weak -- it means you’re courageous. Every enlightened leader the world has ever known has been hopeful and espoused some form of hope.

5.) Facing difficult challenges is part of life. Remaining hopeful in the wake of them is one of the gifts these challenges give us (wisdom is the other).  We can’t give up on hope or worse -- backlash against it -- as if hope owes us something.  It doesn’t.  It’s not a stock we buy and then when the market takes a turn, we sell it to show how smart we are: “Look, I saw this coming... that’s why I got out.”  Hope is a long-term investment.

6.)  Hope is not a gimmick.  It’s a force. Not unlike the most famous force of all: Star Wars'.  In the original movie, Princess Leia implores, “Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.” The Force is the whole Jedi Master power source, but they need hope in their Light Saber holsters to access it.

7.) Hope goes hand-in-hand with peace. If we want peace in our lives, or in our world, we must remain steadfastly hopeful.

8.) Hope is creative. In order to bring something new into the world -- whether it’s a scientific discovery or a work of art -- hope fuels the creative process. It propels us to keep moving forward each day ... sometimes for years... in order to realize our visions. No great leap of humanity was ever made without hope. Fire? Hope. Vaccines? Hope. A man on the moon? Hope.

9.) Hope is the flip side of fear. This an archetypal dichotomy. When studying the Tarot, you learn that there is a card that represents our “Hope and Fears," because they are entwined.  If we’re not feeling hopeful, it’s because on some level we're feeling fearful.  Yes, it might very be artfully suppressing these fears, but we're suppressing them nonetheless. Hope expunges fear.

Upset?  Take hope out for a spin and think about something that excites you -- even if it's a fantasy of a new job or a new home.  This exercise will drop-kick fear out of sight. Repeat until hope becomes second nature, but don't expect this to happen overnight. This is where the tenacity comes into play.  Stick with hope. It will eventually take you where you want to go.

10) Don't be afraid to hope.  Hope allows us to take risks in order to have what we want in life. This is why hope is not for the faint of heart.  Be brave. Claim it. Hope is waiting for us.

      

Well, I Do Declare! Scarlett's Sole Bit O' Wisdom

Originally posted on October 4th, 2010

Scarlett O'Hara was all about Scarlett O'Hara.  She was selfish, spoiled, scheming, and worst of all, a slave owner.  Gorgeous and resourceful, she would stop at nothing to get what she wanted.  Scarlett may be fun to watch, but we never root for her.  Her choices add up to a cautionary antebellum tale that could be subtitled,  "Let's Not Do What Scarlett Does...  Let's All Be Like Melanie!"

In the end, Scarlett, the original Mean Girl, gets her comeuppance from Rhett Butler’s Civil War-style F. U., "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

As far as I can tell, Scarlett gets only one thing right.  After the burning of Atlanta by General Sherman's army, Scarlett hits bottom in her hoop-skirt.  Does she crumble?  No.  Scarlett discovers that she is a survivor.  Alone in the muck, she vehemently declares: "As God is my witness, I shall never be hungry again."

This is one of the boldest moments in Gone With The Wind.  What she says preceding this statement is still selfish and scheming... okay... it's a little crazy: "As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill."

Lie?  Steal? Cheat?  Kill?  Geez, Scar... chill... don’t kill.

Enlightened she is not, but Miss O'Hara's one nugget of inadvertent wisdom, from which we can all prosper, is that we have the power to decide what it is that we don’t want --  just as much have the power to decide what it is that we do want.

Scarlett vows that being hungry is no longer an acceptable avenue for her.  We can do this too and we don't have to be starving in the Confederate muck. We can decide what is no longer acceptable or serviceable to us.  By making conscious choices, we tap into our power.  By tapping into our power to choose, we can profoundly change our lives. This power is the battery of hope.

Recently, a loved-one of mine decided that a longtime work situation no longer served them. While they’re not entirely sure what the next step will be, they know what it won’t be -- the same-old, same-old. They consciously drew a line in the universal sand.  This small act has tremendous creative voltage to generate a new paradigm in one’s life. It’s not necessarily easy.  In fact, it takes moxie to leave something familiar for the unknown. 

Taking is a step further, we must now mix our classic movie heroines. When it was time for her to leave the safety of the abbey, Maria in The Sound of Music says, “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window."  Everyone’s favorite musical nun-turned-nanny recognized that a metaphoric door had closed, but trusted that the unseen window was open for a reason.

While doors do close in our lives, we don’t have to sit around and wait for them to shut in our faces. We can close  them on our own. By doing so, we create space for more beneficial opportunities to take shape in our lives. Once we gently close a door, the fun can begin...  formulating what is it we do want, like Scarlett in her post-Civil War Era, but without all the Southern-fried lying, cheating, stealing, and killing, y’all.

I Want to Save the Adverb So Bad!!

Originally posted on September 8th, 2010

It's more than a little challenging to be the poor neglected adverb these days.  People here are dissing it real quick and it just ain't right. In fact, it makes me, like, wicked sad.  Now, I'm not saying that I always get it perfect myself, but I do think if we don’t start saving the adverb now, it may be real hard to recover later.

“What's the big deal? Why do we need to save it?” you ask.

First of all, without it, we don't sound particular smart (don't be mad, it's true). Then our poor verbs, who are doing the heavy-lifting actions on our behalf, aren't proper modified. Now they’re hanging out there without a freakin net! Doesn’t that sound total scary? And our adjectives, which are trying to describe everything so beautiful for us, are reduced to half their meaning.  It's a real big bummer.

Why people are killing the adverb soft and slow, I don’t know.  To be clear, the slaughter is not from my friends and family.  It’s people on television!  People like professional actors who are being paid to speak for a living. Lately, they are frequent saying their character’s lines more adverb-free than not.    
“I’m real slow to object, Your Honor, but object I must!”

Where does the  breakdown first occur?  I'm not real sure. Was the adverb first missing in the script?  Did the writers say, "Screw you adverb and your little "ly" too!"  Hmmmm... Or did the actor (while in character) make the slip and no one noticed, cared, or bothered to correct him?  So the director, the producers, the script supervisor, and the network all let it slide by?  Why? Is it laziness? Ignorance? Indifference?

I've heard TV presenters and even some journalist chuck their adverbs too.  This is perhaps a greater transgression since these individuals are being paid for their expertise -- part of which is speaking the English language.

Then there are TV's so-called Reality "Stars" (by the way, the word "star" is now completely meaningless since a season as The Bachelor now earns you the same label as Cary Grant -- WTF?).  Anecdotal evidence supports that a large proportion of reality stars wouldn’t know an adverb if it bit them on the ass real hard.  I know these are  actual people and shouldn’t be held to the same standard as the aforementioned professionals -- I’m not expecting Snookie to turn into Ted Koppel here -- but I do think that we shouldn’t allow the adverb to be so forgotten that its absence becomes the norm.

Special Note: Sarah Palin, if you must stay, then will you at least get your adverbs out of your modified beehive and put them into your over-confident-for-no-reason mouth?

People all over the globe watch our TV.  Many even use it to learn to speak English. I'm not trying to sound harsh and whatnot, but I think as Americans we have a responsibility to ourselves -- and the world -- to not sound like total dumb asses.

A Love Note to My Suddenly Disabled Dog

 Originally Posted on July 26th, 2010

Dear Daphne (A.K.A. Scup, Scuppy Pup, Scuppy Puppy, Pooch MaGoo, MaGoodie, Oodie, Oodie DeeDee, Daffy Dog, Oodie DeeDee-My Daffy Dog),

I know you won’t be able to read this, but that’s not stopping me.  I have something to tell you and I want to shout from the rooftops.

As a kid, I dreamt of getting a dog just like you, but you didn't arrive until I was a married thirty-year old homeowner. Pre-kids, the timing couldn't have been more perfect. You kicked off our family, giving us someone to love, care for, and yes, dote on, besides each other.

I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I fell in love with you even before we met.  I had seen a face much like yours -- fuzzy, tan and white, with bright brown eyes, a black gum drop nose, a little canine smile, ears with personality to burn... one glance and I knew I was a goner.

When we finally met in person, we bonded instantly. Your coat was still wiry in texture and you scampered around the room on our first date like any other nine month-old puppy drunk with a taste of freedom.

On the ride home that first day, Nick (who would later coin all of your affectionate and highly creative nicknames) and I decided to name you “Daphne.”  Your birth name was "Madame," but you didn't look like a Madame to us (besides, with a name like that, I would always be looking over my shoulder for Wayland Flowers)

Like any new parent, I obsessed over every detail.  I bought all the books and the latest equipment.  You looked so smart in your new red collar. 

You were home for three weeks before you barked for the first time.  In fact, I was starting to worry that you didn't know how to bark.  It turns out you were saving your bark for other passing dogs... and that was about it.  You have never barked -- not once -- when someone has come to the door. 

Daphne, you have completely spoiled us in this way.  You have also never cried or whined (unless someone accidentally stepped on you because you insisted on being underfoot when there was a chance that food could hit the floor, which is how you earned another nickname, "Little Miss Underfoot”).  You also, as it turned out, didn't shed. This was very considerate of you. Not a must, but a plus we have come to appreciate.

Remember on our neighborhood walks how people would always stop us to ask what kind of dog you are?  "Wire hair fox terrier," I would reply with a smile.  One time, a fellow passing us on the street took one look at you and exclaimed, “Asta!” He was of course referring to the famous fox terrier from one of our favorite old movies, The Thin Man.


Like any great relationship, we have had our moments: occasional accidents in the house, bolting outside in a thunderstorm (much to our terror), but nobody's perfect.  You’ve been great with the kids, though a little slow to admit they’re not your litter mates at times.  In the big picture, you have been a fantastic dog.  Daph, we began as a trio and now we’re a quad.  This quartet loves you like no other. 

That is why it is so hard to think that our time together is starting to run out.  You are twelve and change now, which is still kind of low-milage for your breed.  I thought we'd have a few more good years. 

As I sit here and write to you, you are lying cozily on your bed next to me.  You are snoozing away.  Looking at you in this setting, you wouldn't know that you are now disabled.  Around Christmas, you back legs start to slip out from under you.  It was subtle at first and was easy to mistake for the slippery new floors in our new house.  By Easter, you were still getting around, but your hips were lower than they used to be.  By May, we were ordering you a wheel chair.

Having run every test, we have learned that you are in great health, except that your brain is no longer communicating with your back-end.  You are not in pain, you are just weak.  Looking for more answers, the new vet has helped you tremendously with a diet makeover, supplements, Chinese herbs, and acupuncture treatments. You have put wieght back on and have perked up.

As if we didn't have enough challenges, the conversation with the woman from the canine wheelchair company who called to get my credit card number, floored me.

Yes, she completely flabbergasted me by taking it upon herself to tell me that you have a fatal condition, not unlike the human ALS.  When I tried to tell her that neither of your doctors had mentioned this as a potential diagnosis, she replied expertly, “they don’t always know.  Doctors make mistakes.” 

She continued, “I’m just telling you so that you can prepare yourself emotionally,” as if she were my father’s oncologist, instead of a custom dog-wheelchair purveyor.  “I’ve seen this disease in a lot of wire hair fox terriers in the last couple of years,”  she persisted.  Wow. Nothing I said from our side made a difference to her.  She's convinced this is what's wrong with you and there was no talking her out of it.  She was as tenacious as a terrier herself.

This, needless to say, threw me for a loop.  I didn't think that this leg weakness development could or would kill you.  I just thought you were entering your "Senior" phase with a bang. 
For the record, neither the vet nor I accept this unsolicited phone diagnosis as gospel (though it is a boogeyman in my head at times). 

With all of this drama swirling around you, the great news is that you seem blissfully unaware to your new limitations.  You still love to give kisses and get your snowy white tummy rubbed.  You still get excited for meals.  You still love to sniff the morning breeze.  You are yourself in every way, except that you can't walk. I am so happy that you are small enough that I can pick you up and take you out with ease (we’d be in big trouble otherwise). We have had to build a new routine with your more complicated care. You have been a total trouper throughout.

Daphne, I admire the way you are perfectly fixed in the present moment. You inhabit only now in your canine-time-stasis.  It's me who is a part-time mess.  I try to stay present, because I think this is what you may be trying to teach me, by example, or should I say “Ood-xample?"

But my heart is breaking at the thought of loosing you, my little pup.

I have philosophical blips where I tell myself that this is part of life, that we have given you an loving home and that nothing and no one lives forever.  Then I have moments where I felt powerless and even a little hopeless.  

Then I rally... hope returns.  "Who knows?" I think to myself.  "You may continue on in this condition just for quite some time and be fine."  Wheelchair woman be damned!

I just needed to verbally declare, Daphne, that no matter what the future holds for us -- for it is a mystery -- you are a huge part of our hearts, now and forever. 

You, Oodie-Dee-Dee-Scuppy-Pup-Pooch-Magoo-Miss-Daffy-Doggie, have been the delightful dog of our dreams.

Love Always,
Alix

                     
                       Daphne in repose with Nooble, the teddy bear.   

Look Out Rocky!!! The Bike Ride & My Writer's Dilemma

Originally posted on June 22nd, 2010

So I'm out riding my bicycle on a lovely summer day.  It's gorgeous and I'm giddy from the summer-only scents of honeysuckle, rose hips and the huge privet bushes that have been left to their own devices in the untamed areas of the island where I live.  I love the unique peace of the bicycle ride.  The freedom it affords.  Robins are darting across my path with such a crazy consistency it’s like they're trying to tell me something. Summer is humming all around me.

As idyllic as it is, I'm feeling conflicted about this ride.  Part of me feels I should be physically attached to my computer working tirelessly in the way that a really dedicated writer does. That's the thing about being a writer -- you never feel like you've written enough.  At least that's how I feel.  No matter how much I produce, I am often left feeling that I could have worked harder and written longer.

I then remember reading that Ernest Hemingway wrote one page a day in the mornings.  Once he had written his page, which he would labor over for hours,  he was free to  his throw himself into his uber-manly pursuits, which of course gave him plenty of material to write about.  I tell myself that my bike ride, while it's not deep sea fishing or big game hunting,  might give me something to write about too,  though can't help but wonder if I’m just rationalizing or procrastinating (something I can't afford to do).

Ride to write?  Write to ride?  This is My Writer’s Dilemma. Does the ride reward the writer (me) or does the ride serve the writer (also me)?  At this moment, I don’t know, so off I go...

Whenever I leave my house--be it by vehicle or on foot--I set the intention for a safe and uneventful journey.  "Uneventful" means just what it sounds like--I get to where I'm going without incident: no crashes, no collisions, no being pulled over by cops, which equals no tickets, etc. You get the idea. I think of myself as a “conscious commuter.”  I even have an animal clause.  I would never want to kill a creature, great or small, with my car (I would feel terrible, plus it would be gross).  Also, I don't want to ride over roadkill while I'm on my bike.  Yes, I am that squeamish.

I am almost back home from my lovely, summery, albeit partially conflicted, though nicely uneventful pedal-to-no-metal cruise.  I'm thinking about what I'm going to be working  when I get home: my "damn book" (mentioned in my previous "Flood" post) and what my next blog topic should be (I haven't a clue).

Suddenly a-big-fat-load-of-Bizarre-with-a-capital-“B” hits.  A squirrel, from out of nowhere, bolts right into my front tire.  So determined is this animal to cross in front of me, that I can feel his (her?) body hitting the wheel.  He’s so persistent I can hear his little claws scratching against the bike as though he is trying to stop it from moving so he can pass.  I am clearly in this squirrel's way.

I squeeze the hand brake while squealing loudly like a cartoon version of myself, because, well I just can't freakin' help it. “Eeeeeeeeeek!! Aaaaaaaaack!!”

Additionally, I'm praying that I don't run over this nutty ballsy squirrel or worse--crash and go down smack on top of Rocky!

The bike doesn't stop right away.  I’m still rolling while Rocky is taking his life in his little gray crazy paws.  What is so weird is how committed he is.  Rocky is going to cross in front of me no matter what.  He hits my bike?  So what.  He hits it again?  WHATever. There is no stopping him. There is no turning back. It’s like his own personal D-Day and my bike his is Normandy.

I’m finally slow down enough that he’s able to cross, which he does like he has a rocket strapped to his tail, leaving both of us unharmed.  By my standards, if no one gets hurt, which includes aggro squirrels with apparent death wishes, it still qualifies as "uneventful."  I utter a big “phew.”

Of course I’m no expert, but Rocky’s behavior strikes me as really out of character (squirrel-wise).  I wondered if there was a deeper meaning to the incident.  Was Rocky actually trying to tell me something?  My secret inner-Shaman-ista side starts to emerge--the side of me that believes in the communion of all life.  I think everything has something to offer us if we are open to it.  This is how I quietly roll, when I’m trying not to roll over madcap squirrels, that is.

To find an answer to my esoteric query, I refer to the book Animal Spirit Guides by Steven D. Farmer, Ph.D., to see what a squirrel close encounter this memorable might mean.  According to Dr. Farmer, squirrels can have multiple meanings, but the one from this book that really resonated for me was: "Although you are actively and aggressively pursuing your goals right now, you need to balance this pursuit with more socializing and play."
“Play!” So there you have it.  The determined squirrel did represent something... it’s perfectly all right, in fact, advisable, for me to take a bike ride when the spirit moves me.  The ride does serve the writer. 
My Writer’s Dilemma is solved... in a most unexpected way.  Now, what's up with the Robins?

"Catie, Will You Go Out With Me?"

Originally posted on May 28th, 2010


What the--?

This what I read on a rock today.  It wasn't just any rock either.  The graffiti was sprawled in huge black spray-painted letters across a gorgeous craggy stone that sits right on the edge of the sea in an idyllic state park near my house.

It bummed me out to read this.  Not like the oil spill bums me out of course, but still... the letters are so gargantuan, you can practically read the date request from space.  Who knows?  Maybe Catie is in outer space, but that is no excuse.  This "ask" is painted in a completely beautiful setting and vandalism--even romantic vandalism--really upsets the apple cart of natural majesty there.

Sure, there are much worse things that could have been written, so maybe I should consider it lucky that it's at least family-friendly graffiti.  Now I'm wondering if park services will remove it or if we're going to be reading this query until the sun and sea wear it off, which could take decades.

I'm sure whomever decided to  make this gesture felt that it was gallant yet artistic-- like John Cusak holding up the boom box while Peter Gabriel sang "In Your Eyes" to Ione Skye in the great Say Anything.  It had to have been an impetuous youth who was sick and tired of texting and Facebook and passing Catie anonymously in the hallway at school.  This person must be desperately in love with Catie and they wanted her to know it.  It's actually pretty  ballsy, since they probably didn't know how Catie would respond.  If only it weren't permanent for every passerby to read while they're trying to drink in the awesome sun, sea, and waves.  Couldn't "Catie, will you go out with me?" have been written on a old fashioned Post-It note, instead of an ancient slab of granite?

Looking at the bright side, maybe this rock writing sparked the beginning of an epic Earthshaking romance between Catie and the spray-painting granite ocean-view-defacer... like Brangelina or Bennifer or Antony and Cleopatra (Cleotony?).  Speaking of long romances, my husband and I met 20 years ago this weekend.  It was nothing like Catie and her admirer.  We used the phone.  As for the anniversary, I don't think we are really doing anything to commemorate it though I would like to. However, I have a feeling it's going to fall through the cracks of Memorial Day cookouts and summer kickoff moments (SPF 70 anyone?).

[Just to be clear, I'm not dropping him a hint here, as he rarely, if ever, gets around to reading this blog, despite his best intentions]

We met I was 21 and he was 25.  Now I'm 41 and he's 45.  Holy time-lapse Batman!!  I am proud that we have hit such a significant marker in our relationship.  What is really amazing is that in our circle of friends here in coastal Rhode Island (who are approximately the same ages as we are), twenty years together isn't that  exotic.  I can think of five other couples who are either about to mark their twentieth year together or  who have recently exceeded it.

What can account for such longevity (besides hard work, commitment, fun and love)?  Maybe it's something in the water?  That would be the salt water of course, because Lord knows you can't drink the water out of the tap here.  Perhaps the salt water and sea air swept Catie off her flip-flopped feet and into the arms of her spray painting admirer?

Tell us Catie.  Did you go out with them?  I hope so! Please say the rock didn't give its beautiful rough face up in vain.  Twenty years from now, we still don't want to be wondering how you answered this question, but unless the park rents a power washer, we very well may be.

The Mirror

Originally posted on May 14th, 2010
 
Last week something rather extraordinary happened -- or didn't happen -- depending on which way you look at it.

It was Monday evening and we were running a little behind schedule at my house.  The kids had been excused from the table to head upstairs and get ready for bed.  In addition, they were supposed to sort laundry for allowance money.  They seek out chores so they can earn dough for covetous items (like Wii games).  Normally, they would be in bed by 8 o'clock and reading.  Lights are out by 8:30 (on a good night). 

My husband and I were taking it a little slowly downstairs at the dinner table.  I was relying on the kids (ages 8 and 10) to get all of their stuff done without supervision.  In hindsight, this was an overly ambitious goal.  When I came upstairs at 8:15, the kids were lying on our bed watching TV, not ready for bed and the laundry, while sorted, had been hauled into our room for illegal tube-viewing -- breaking the no-TV-after-dinner rule.

I hit a roof as this was a blatant exploitation of our upstairs' absence.  I think they must have thought that since we don't have a periscope to the second floor, it was a free-for-all for the elementary set.  Operatically, I sent them to their room to go straight to bed.

I then noticed that the blinds were up in the bathroom. Since it was now dark and privacy was required, I marched down that hallway to the bathroom like I was a boot camp superstar.

March! 2-3-4! March!2-3-4!

So single minded was I -- steam still hissing out of my ears -- I was having a Terminator (Termomnator?) moment.  I was a machine on a mission.  I entered the bathroom.  My eyes fixed on my destination -- the window. En route, I marched passed the vanity.  I heard a loud cracking sound.  I pivoted 90 degrees so that I now was facing the medicine chest that still gleamed with shiny newness.  In the next second, I caught the huge mirrored door that was breaking off it's hinges with both hands.

Yes people, I friggin' caught the mirror!

Me -- who is famously known for not having quick reflexes -- was storming past the mirror in the exact moment that it broke from its hinges.  One second earlier or one second later and it would have been a disaster.  Yet I was there in the exact moment that I needed to be there in order to avert catastrophe. 

I enlisted my daughter to get her father because this door was exceedingly heavy (mirrored on both sides), and I didn't know how long I could hold it.  He raced upstairs and assisted in taking it completely off the chest without further damage.

We were both in shock that our new medicine chest  broke... and in such a dangerous way.  What if the kids had been brushing their teeth and it fell on them?  We started to shudder as we headed down freaky-spooky-scary "What If" Lane. We then made a quick metaphoric U-turn and headed home to the present where our kids were safe and all was well that ended well.

The timing of this event was no-less than amazing to me.  If we hadn't been running late that night, then surely I would not have been in the bathroom at the exact moment it broke.  Usually by 8:15, I'm in my room ready to wind-down the day.  If the kids hadn't pushed the boundaries, then I wouldn't have lost my temper and I wouldn't have had the impetus to charge to the bathroom in a hot pique.  All of these little events, which seemed so out of order in the moment they occurred -- actually weren’t. They put me exactly where I needed to be in the exact moment that I needed to be there.  The exact moment!

That, my friends, is what I call a miracle. 

What's in The Name... of Hope

Originally posted on April 30th, 2010

I realize that I make it confusing for people.

First, I was "Alix."  I still am.  It's pronounced like "Alex" a la Alex P. Keaton and not the French way, "Aleeks."  For years, people have asked me about why my nickname is spelled with a "i" when my full name "Alexandra" is spelled in the classical way.  My short answer is that my parents thought it would be more feminine, which it is.  The long answer goes back to my parents debating about whether to call me "Aleeks" or "Alecks."  The compromise was "A-L-I-X."  Spell it one way, say it the other.  I like that it's a little different.  Of course, when I was a little kid in the 1970's, having a name like "Alix" in any form was way exotic.  I could never find my name on a mug or a key chain in Spencer's Gifts.  How I longed to be a "Julie" or a "Jill" or a "Beth."  Sigh.

After I graduated from high school, I moved to New York because I had an opportunity to have a modeling career for one of the big agencies.  It was time to think about my name.  It's standard for models to change their names or play around with their monikers because it's such a competitive business that you don't want to have the same name as another model.     When a kid from Iowa named Christopher started modeling in 1997, he decided to use his middle name as his first name to stand out more. "Ashton Kutcher" was born.  When I modeled, I went by "Alexandra-No-last-name.”  I probably wanted to sound more grown-up -- to shed my childhood identity in the big city.  I don't think it worked.

After modeling for four years, I attended The American Academy of Dramatic Arts to try my hand at acting.  Since I was a student, I happily went back to "Alix."  Except that I  had one teacher who never got my name right all year.  He always called me "Alexis."  He must have been a big Dynasty fan.  I didn't really mind, but it drove some of my classmates crazy.  They would correct him, "Her name is ALIX!"  It never took. 

When I call customer service numbers to order linens or shoes or figure out some credit card nonsense, the people I speak to invariably call me "AlexandRIA."  They add an unnecessary "i" at the end.  Maybe they all live in Virginia?  Or Egypt?

When I began my freelance writing career, I used "Alexandra Flood."  Again, back to being grown-up but even more so now because I had a last name too.  After a seven years of writing for magazines and the web, I segued into screenwriting and filmmaking.  I wrote and directed an independent feature-length comedy called A Totally Minor Motion Picture.  By this point, I was feeling like I should now be credited as "Alix Flood" because it felt the most true to who I am in my day-to-day life.  Also, I was an actual grown-up now, so I didn’t have to try so hard to sound grown-up.

To confuse matters even more, in my personal life I toyed with the idea of taking my husband's last name for about, oh, I don't know, the first five years (!) of our marriage before I decided that I just wanted to keep being "Flood."  I like his name, but I realized that I didn't need it, say, for the sake of our kids.  It really didn't matter to them or their schools if their parents had two different last names.  Now because I would sometimes use his last name (though I never changed it legally),  people will still call me by his last name though I haven't used it for about ten years.  I can understand this.  I mean, I was unclear about what I wanted to be called, so it's all on me if people still aren’t sure.

I have now spent more than five years going by "Alix Flood" professionally.  Just to keep piling on the confusion, I have decided to mix it up -- yet again -- and use my full name "Alexandra Hope Flood" for my blog.  I think just as much as my nickname feels like most like the day-to-day me.  My entire name feels like a part of myself that I have yet to explore. 

About three years ago, I heard a story about a guy who had tried many different careers, but nothing stuck and he was frustrated.  He had always made homemade vodka and given it to friends as gifts, until one day someone suggested that he go into the vodka-making business.  It was what he loved and it came naturally to him.  He was already good at it.  And you know what his name is?  Tito Beverage!!  Really.  That was his name.  In the interview I saw, he was laughingly saying "My wife says, ‘nomenclature is destiny.’" His homemade vodka is a hit. 

The gears started turning. Tito is a guy with a noun as a last name.  I have a noun as a last name too.  Then my middle name “Hope” is also a noun and a verb, and a virtue.  I have always loved it, but I’ve never used it.  Then it hit me, my name is “A. Hope Flood.” Without being fully cognizant, Hoping and having Hope is something that I have excelled at.  Hope is something that I am just plain passionate about.  It comes naturally to me.  It's something that I want to share.  I want to give it as a gift to friends.  It's my homemade vodka.  My kind of spirits. 

An Actual Flood and What Came to The Surface

Originally posted on April 14th, 2010

This time I am talking about a real flood here. Not a metaphorical one.  My state, Rhode Island, was declared a state of emergency two weeks ago by President Obama due to the heavy rains that caused the Pawtuxet River (fun to say, but not fun to live near now) to overflow swamping houses and business.  People have sadly lost their homes and some businesses are still closed indefinitely.  The Warwick Mall was flooded -- like three feet of water in front of Target flooded.  This is very distressing for a state that is already economically depressed. Our unemployment rate is already one of the highest in the country.

For those who don't live near the river, storm drains also overflowed. The water table got over saturated and on the island where I live, most of the people I've talked to have had water in their basements. Friends with finished basements have had to tear up carpet and throw out furniture. It's all a big time bummer.

We had 18 inches in our cellar and a lot of keepsakes got wet.  It was a big swampy project to clean up -- more like excavate -- and while we sadly threw away a mountain of books, baseball cards, and items we once thought worthy of saving, in an instant, much of it was converted into garbage. 

Seeing so much from the past, not just my past, but my family's (for I was storing of a lot their things for them) brought a lot of memories to the surface in a giant wet mess.  Fortunately, with perseverance, we were able to save the most crucial items -- old letters my father wrote home during his military service, photographs of my grandparents, my old journals (which we put down there in error) and letters, my father's book research (we were able to save the most important pieces and cull the rest). 

Weeding through all of this -- it was like the last 100 years of my family imploded down in that basement -- it was impossible not to reflect on the passage of time.  My father died almost 16 years ago and my grandmother has been gone since 1980.  They both have very interesting stories and I have always intended to tell them through some creative medium or another.  All this time has passed and I still haven't done it. 

The flood was a huge wake up call for me and while I boohooed quite a bit -- especially when I had to chuck my little brother's baseball card collection that he had trusted me to preserve -- I now know, more than ever, that it is time to get busy with all of the projects that I want to do, but thus far haven't.  I am writing a book and it's been a little slow going, but I don't want another 16 years to pass without me accomplishing these goals.

Since the flood my mantra is (with forte): "Don't wait!! Just write the damn book!
Just.
Write.
The.
Damn.
Book!" 

I've Got The Pow-AH! Just Add Hope

Originally published on March 18th, 2010

I love to write about the meaning of "Hope," not just because it's my middle name or my daughter's name (long story but despite appearances, she isn't named after me). 

It's not just because I live in the state where "Hope" is emblazoned on the flag.  Nor is it because my children's bus stop is on the corner of Mount Hope Avenue. 

I write about "Hope" (capitalized by me for emphasis) because despite all of these daily and overtly and crazily blatant reminders in my life, sometimes I actually forget to Hope. 

Now how could I forget?  I'm not sure, but I do.  I think this is perhaps part of the human experience -- forgetting what we already know from time to time.  This may be why we repeat our lessons in life because they didn't quite stick the first time. 

 I would say that I have always had a hopeful disposition,which I am grateful for, but what I really know/think/believe/feel is that Hope needs to be taken to the next level -- or as some hepped up Real Housewife might say in a confrontational manner, "Bring it on!"

I think Hope is one of the most underestimated powers around. "I've got the POW-ah!" (cue World Power's early '90's dance classic "The Power")

People think money is power... but the real power is Hope.  When we Hope -- really Hope -- then our dreams begin to take flight. When we Hope we can begin to bring our dreams into our realities.  When we Hope, we delight at getting out of bed in the morning.


Even though I have so many "Hope" bricks falling on me, I don't always wake up feeling, well, a flood of hope  -- let alone A Flood of Hope (& Humor).  In fact last week, I really struggled to come up with a post topic and I encountered so much resistance, I decided to skip it.  I didn't want to, but I just couldn't get cracking. 

I have come to learn that Hope takes practice and conscious effort just like anything else that is worth doing well.  Start by thinking about something you Hope for.  Use your imagination!  This should be a fun and light exercise.  By the time you're really digging into your dreams, you will certainly feel happier than you did before you started Hoping.

It just takes practice. I promise.

The Jigginess of Hope -- The Mood Solution!

Originally posted on March 5th, 2010

I live in New England.  March is not kind to us here. Perhaps this is why some residents choose to go into bacchanalian overdrive on St. Patrick's Day.  Speaking for myself, I hide out during the season where everyone gets to be Irish, since people getting rip-roaring drunk in the daytime makes me nervous.  I'm always worried a fight is going to break out, but I'm getting ahead of myself here -- it's still a week before discarded plastic beer cups will be filling the gutters like chubby parade confetti on Main Street.  Landfill -- here we come!

Yesterday, I woke up with a case of the seasonal "blahs." It was gray and raw and hard to get motivated.  I wanted to feel focused and inspired.  I wanted to be productive and accomplish things, but instead I was awash in grayness. Blah-city, here Folks. I was even wearing a gray sweater, which normally is one of my favorites, but it make have been just one dose of gray too many. 

Through years of trial and error I have learned that when I'm feeling "blah" I have to take responsibility for it and try to work my way out of it.  Just to be clear, "blah" is not blue.  Blue is sad and more serious than blah.  Blah is just... well... blah.  The word says it all, but I’m a firm believer that it can be shaken-off with the right cocktail of choices. 

The answer can be the right food combination -- a healthy carbohydrate to release some serotonin into my system.  A few years ago I was on vacation with my family, but I was also trying to avoid carbs and I was a mess -- I wasn’t enjoying myself, until a read in a magazine that a piece of toast can help to release serotonin and change your whole mood. After reading this, I decided to accept myself not only as a carb-lover, but as a carb-needer.

Some sugar can be good too, in moderation of course.  My preference is sugar mixed with caffeine.  A few dark chocolate covered espresso beans, which I sometimes call “Mommy’s morning crack” can perk me right up. In these instances, I think of food as a medicine with the potential to "cure" the blahs, but I am not advising to go eat every time something goes wrong -- like the toner cartridge is empty in the copy machine, so let's make a run for the Entenmann's in the break room .

Apart from food, another surefire mood solution is listening to the right song. Cranking the perfect tune can quickly banish the blahs and I begin to feel like myself again.  Hope returns!  Yesterday my solution was so infectiously fun that there was no way I could feel "blah" while I was "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It."  All these years later, I still don't know what the hell "Jiggy" means, but I really don't care. Will Smith is such a fun and positive artist -- his cheer is phenomenal.  I mean look at him... how can you not smile?

So “Na-na-na-na-na-na! Na-na-na-na-na!” to you March in New England blahs!!! And thank you Will Smith for... well, being you. 

Please visit my facebook fan page for a Big Willie Style "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It" video fix.  I'm telling you, the blahs don't stand a chance! 

I Didn't Come Here to Win. I Came Here to Make Friends

Originally posted on February 25th, 2010

 

I don't think I have ever seen a reality show where some over-zealous participant doesn't say, "I didn't come here to make friends. I came here to win!" I mean, it's almost a cliche at this point, but I still hear it.  In fact, I'm thinking of putting it on a T-shirt for satiric effect. 

 

I find this declaration funny is because making friends is winning!

 

Clearly these people have never seen It's A Wonderful Life or if they have, maybe they missed the message.  The Angel Clarence leaves his copy of  Tom Sawyer with an inscription to George Bailey at the end of the movie: "Remember, George: no man is a failure who has friends..."

 

Nothing could be truer.  I certainly think it's important to have goals.  In fact, I myself have always been very goal-oriented, but I think it's way more important to have friends.  I have also always been very friends-oriented.  All of my great school memories are tied into cherished time with my friends -- not the term paper I got a B- on.  Along the way, I have made friends while working toward some of my various goals (modeling, acting, writing) and my wonderful friends have supported me toward some of my goals... helping me to make my movie, A Totally Minor Motion Picture, for instance.  That would have been impossible without the immense help of many of my friends who volunteered their time, creativity and energy to bring the comedy to completion. While I am proud of the final product that is the movie, I am even prouder of the collaborative effort that created it.  There is no way that I could have done it without them. 

 

Friends are the prize. 

 

My grandfather used to say, "A true friend is someone who you know all about and you like anyway."  I love this because none of us are perfect and we shouldn't expect our friends to be either. 

 

If I've ever been irritated by a friend (which is thankfully very rare these days) sometimes I put the irritation into what I call "The End Game Test."  This always snaps me right out of it.  Now, you may think this is morbid, but I think that it helps to put things in their true perspective. So ask yourself, "Would this irritation or conflict stop me from attending my friend's funeral, if, God forbid, something were to happen?" The answer will 99.9 % of the time always be an unqualified "No!"  You'll soon realize that when it comes down to it, you love this person and accept them for who they are and would be so distraught if you were to lose them -- so who cares if they took the last scone or blabbed a little secret or whathaveyou?  None of this matters when put into the context of life and death.  Mentally fast-forwarding to the moment when you will no longer have each other to be mad at makes you realize that what you're mad about really doesn't matter. 

 

We all must quit this Earth at some point and it's important to make our contributions to the world -- I am all for it. However, I think it's even more important to make contributions to each other, because in the end, we "win" with the love and laughter and tears that we share. 

 

I can honestly say that I am rich beyond measure in friendship.  I am a wealthy woman, indeed. 

Hope, Mojo, & Tiger Woods

Originally posted on February 19, 2010

"Oh rats! I've lost my Mojo! Has anyone seen it? Here Mojo! Here Mojo!"

Mojo is one of those things that we didn't necessarily realized we had -- until we've lost it.  Without Mojo, at best we feel flat, ineffectual, or listless.  At worst, we feel like our world is falling apart. Wasn't one of the plots in the Austin Powers' franchise that Agent Powers had lost his Mojo and he had to get it back?  Right here is where I could type a "Yeah baby!" just for old time's sake, but I just can't bring myself to borrow from The Kathie Lee Gifford Dusty Old "I Love the '90s" Joke Collection. 

Mojo is now loosely defined as "magic" or "power."  Its root is thought to be most likely African by way of the Gullah Islands' word "moco" meaning "witchcraft."   Ninety years ago, give or take, using Mojo meant casting spells or charms.  Now, however, it has taken on a much broader meaning in popular culture.  It still means "magic," but it can now be defined as "personal power."  My friend who was laid off from her job recently said optimistically, "It's okay. I'm going to get my Mojo back soon."  I knew exactly what she meant.  Mojo, when you've got it flowing,  can really get you out of bed in the mornings.

There are some people who seem blessed with an excess of Mojo from the git go. Prior to Thanksgiving 2009, Tiger Woods had Mojo to burn with his gorgeous family, multiple golf triumphs, huge endorsements, and his bazillion dollars.  Now the whole world knows, really more than we ever cared to, about his private mess.  It would appear that Tiger, who has been in sex rehab for 45 days, has lost his Mojo.  Tiger has made a passel of bad choices, so his undoing is his responsibility and his alone.  He held his first press conference since the scandal broke.  In it, he does take full responsibility for his actions, albeit in a rather dull and studied way.  However, he owns up to everything, and for that, I have to give him some credit.  Tiger is an extreme public example of Mojo-lessness of mythic proportions.  He has a lot of work to do to get his Mojo back. I predict he will eventually, though it may take a few years. 

But let’s get back to us.  In our daily lives, we may feel like we’ve lost our Mojo -- or you may think you have never tapped into it in the first place.  Now is the time to find it. Having our Mojo means that we’re in the flow of life.  Mojo does not exist outside of us and it’s much easier to obtain than you might think.

Here is my Mojo Recipe:  Begin by thinking about Hope.  Hoping is the best way to get your Mojo flowing. It's really so simple. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, then take two more,  and  begin think about what it is that you Hope for....

A great relationship?

A great career?

Better or perfect health?

A better life?

A better world?  

Allow yourself to feel the Hope for these things. 

Don't worry, you won't jinx it.  It's not possible. 

Just Hope and have fun with it.  Once you feel the Hope flow around what it is that you want, you mood will improve.  As will your perspective.  Life will seem rosier, because it is (so much of life is how you look at it).  And then, you know what? You will start to have your Mojo back -- or you will have it for the first time.  Which ever, it doesn't matter.  As long as you have it.  Mojo is not given to some people and not others, like a genetic trait.  It's a basic recipe.  We all can make it any time we want.  

Please let me know how your Mojo is flowing. 

How to Take the Bupkis out of Valentine's Day

 

Originally posted on February 12th, 2010  Here ye!  Here ye!

OK -- Not that I'm telling you something you don't already know, but Valentine's Day is Sunday.  It seems to be one of those dates on the calendar that more often than not creates more stress than success, because we have been groomed to place pressure on it. We have cultural expectations about what the day should be: Who is giving us what? Who is taking us where?  Then if our expectations aren't met, we feel let down. Of course, we all know Valentine’s Day is a fairly commercial venture. After all, St. Valentine was brutally martyred in Rome for his Christian beliefs.  "So how did we go from that, to flowers and candy?" she asked, rhetorically.  Just to be clear, I am not against Valentine’s Day, I just think we would benefit from some redirection.

I remember back in Middle School, someone had the bright idea to sell carnations on Valentine's Day as a fundraiser.  The concept was that  students could "send" flowers to each other via their respective homerooms with a little note attached: "To Debbie, From Tommy."   At first I didn't got any carnations and it was a bummer.  It was like a public badge of rejection, because the whole school sees who is carting around pink carnations and who is not.  Then my friend and I decided to crack the system.  We sent carnations to each other in secret (on this go-around they were green for St. Patrick's Day).  It felt  great to have that goofy green flower even if it was a pre-orchestrated ruse.  It was still a sign of public acceptance.  “Phew! It looks like someone likes me!”

Looking back, I can't believe that I placed so much stock in something so trivial, but when you're 13,  I guess it's a relatively good problem to have (it means you can occupy yourself with social silliness, because you are healthy, loved, housed, and fed) so for this, I am grateful. 

In 9th grade, my very first boyfriend made me this really dark, edgy Valentine card with purple paint splashed on it and burnt edges.  We weren't Punks, but it was --  and I loved it.  As an adult, there were some Valentine's Days that were nice (I got beautiful roses) and some that were a bust, replete with bupkis.  These days, my husband and I don't really acknowledge V. Day with any consistency, probably because our anniversary is on New Year's Eve, which was only six weeks ago.

There are some very sweet traditions around Valentine's Day (homemade cards for one), but we must remember that it doesn't signify love anymore than any other day, even though Gary Marshall is about to release a whole movie about just this idea, this weekend.  Jessica Biel and Jamie Foxx spending Valentine's Day alone? I don’t think so.

Let's take the romance out of the day and remember how many people we just plain love -- our family and our friends --  instead of wondering who loves us ("Where is my G.D. bouquet from 1-800-FLOWERS??"). 

This is a healthy way to redirect the intention of St. Valentine's Day.  When we give love, we get love.  It's has simple as that.  And when we Love, we Hope, because Love and Hope are intertwined soul sisters  -- carnations or no carnations. 

So I'll start... I love you, you nice people!  Happy Valentine's Day!  

Now who do you love? 

Please go tell them.  
 

Hope, Hair, & The Urban Dictionary

Originally posted on February 5th, 2010

Last week was Doppelganger week on Facebook. It was fun to see what everyone came up with.  My husband put up a picture of Daniel Day-Lewis but called it "Daniel Day-Deluded."


I really couldn't decide who my doppel was  because no one has told me that I looked like anyone in a looooong time.  Twenty years ago when I was modeling, I was told I looked like Stephanie Seymour.  This was during her pre-Axl Rose, pre-boob-job era, when she was a mere starlet in the modeling world.  Of course, I was flattered.

Later, I worked in Paris and a hairdresser colored my long brown hair into a flaming red for a French morning TV show.  Then I started to get a pre-Stallone Angie Everhart comparisons.  After modeling I got into acting for a spell.  I cut my long hair to a bob length and had gone a little blond.  Then I was told by that I looked like Jodie Foster.  I was also flattered by this because we all know what a brilliant bad-ass Jodie is.  Finally, I have collected enough anecdotal evidence at this point to make the claim that people go by hair 90% of the time, because I don't think that anyone has ever mistaken Angie for Jodie or visa versa.  My husband told me that I don't look like any of these fine ladies, but he couldn't offer a better suggestion, so in frustration, I decided to skip the whole exercise.

The doppel thing has started to blow over on facebook and now it's all about looking up your name in urbandictionary.com and putting the definition as your status update.  I looked up "Alix" and the definition wasn't bad, but I feel too self-conscious to post it because it uses Paris Hilton-style adjectives that I would never use.  I decided to look up other family member's names and when I put in my daughter's name, it didn't come up as a definition du nom.  That's, I suppose, because her name is Hope.  Here's what the first urbandictionary definition for "Hope" is and it was submitted by someone who calls themselves Smizzoach.

"Something that idiotic angsty teens don't believe in. Take off the eyeliner, wash your hair and chin up you whiny bitches. What the hell is so bad about hope? So what if you don't get what you want? Life isn't about handouts..."

Smizz's Funny Example:

"Dear Diary,
My dad says he won't be getting me an iPod today. I've lost all hope, I wish I was dead. Now I'm going all goth poser on his ass. I hate my life! Now I'm going to listen to my crappy Simple Plan CD's because my dad won't get me an iPod!"

My Hope is only ten.  She's not angsty, etc. yet, though she does want an iPod.  I tell her she’s not ready, because she’s not. Maybe when she can keep track of her glasses for more than a day, then she can handle a sensitive Apple product.

The #2 definition of Hope on Urbandictionary.com is: “Mankind’s greatest weakness and greatest strength. Hope gave James the power to go on; but it would not let him admit defeat.” This was posted by someone called evovove.

While Smizz's definition is cracking-wise, evovove's is a more poetic definition.  It depicts Hope as a classical paradox of humankind.  We hope for what we fear will will never get.

If I were to submit a definition for Hope to urbandictionary.com, it would go something like: "Is Hope a wish?  A promise? An empty promise? A longing? A pining? A dreaming? A desire? An expectation? A sucker's bet? The center of a chump sandwich? A feeling?  A guarantee? A virtue? No. It is none of these things.  Hope is a vibration akin to unconditional Love.
Smizzflood's example:

If you have ever loved anyone or anything unconditionally, I mean truly loved them without judgment and with total acceptance, then you have also tasted what hope really  is."
OK, this isn't very urban.  Maybe I should submit it to urbanedictionary.com instead. My point is that Hope needs a big upgrade in our language and in our hearts and minds in order for it to really work for us.

Until next time...

Peace out, Smizz!

Hope on The Jersey Shore

Originally posted on January 29th, 2010

I have always been a bit of a pop culture junkie -- despite the fact that I know I'm never going to get the hours back that I have spent watching The Real Housewives of Wherever and all umpteen "cycles" of America's Next Top Model.  Pop culcha has ballooned over the last ten years, primarily due the Reality TV medium.  Long gone are the quaint days of Survivor's editors pixilating Rich Hatch's behind or the plucky cast of The Real World London looking in vain for a bottle of ranch salad dressing in Islington.

We now live in a world of Reality TV overload and we must pick and choose what (and who) we want to spend time with.  Are you going to go Dancing With The Stars? Or hang around for The Bachelor's Rose Ceremony?  Big Brother? No thanks. I can't deal with the lighting.  I do love the Emmy-winning  The Amazing Race, which I liken to the Masterpiece Theater of Reality TV.  As many choices as we have, we can't do it all, nor should we. There has been so much buzz in the media about the kids from the new MTV hit, Jersey Shore, that I felt I had better school myself just to be in the loop.

CUT TO: "Record Jersey Shore Entire Series First Run and Repeats MTV only" on my DVR.

With their Rizzo-esque nicknames and bulletproof hair, the self-described "guidos" and "guidettes" (derogatory words I thought -- seriously -- had all but vanished from our vernacular), seem like relatively nice kids. Sure, they may be a little rough around the edges, but that has its charm.

When Mike, The Situation & Co. head out into the night to "party" (a noun that never really should have become a verb)  to roam the clubs and bars as the Seaside Heights Rat-So-So Pack -- lookout!  There is drinking and fighting and tanning and hot tubbing and creeping and cheating and drama -- oh the list goes on and on, with often unintentionally hilarious results.  With their ever mounting NJ-'N-Gomorrah-style antics, the mother in me was starting to get concerned for these kids.  Part of me wanted to put Snookie in my pocket and save her from herself after her first obliterated night in the house. Then later, when she was punched in the face -- the face! -- by an dangerously inebriated Frankenstien's monster in bad kaki shorts, I wanted to rush to her side.  Poor "Snickerz!"

You may be wondering, what could this possibly have to do with Hope?  Well, it's simple. A pop culture phenomenon like this tends to divide viewers into into two groups:  True Fans (those who want to be like the cast, are like the cast, or admire the cast even if they aren't like the cast) and The Passersby Set.   This group may think the cast is all kinds of things: funny, ridiculous, didn't think they made them like this anymore, uneducated, tough, amusing, dumb, and so on.  It is the second group who will be likely to dismiss the cast for anyone of these reasons.

Here's the thing -- dismission is an inverse form of judgment.  Judgment and Hope (in it's purest form) can not coexist, because when we dismiss anyone or anything, we are essentially giving up Hope on them.  When we give up Hope, even in a  seemingly trivial way, then we may be too quick to give up Hope on things that really matter in our lives in the long run.  This may sound like a stretch, but as I see it, it's the day-to-day practice of Hope that builds our foundation for when we really need it.  Therefore, it's important to look for the glimmers of Hope in even the most unexpected of places. It has been my experience that there is wisdom, even little bits of it, to be gleaned everywhere, even on Reality TV.  When Ronnie comforts Snookie after her assault, he says sweetly with his Bronx accent, putting it only as he could, "I love you.  Do you hear me? I love you. We are like a f***ing family now." 

This is a Hopeful moment, albeit in the midst of unconscious youthful debauchery, but it's still meaningful. It shows us that how much you may think you have things or people sized up, Hope peeks in to show you otherwise.  And where there is Hope, there is a light... even if it is dimmed by the glare of The Situation's well-oiled twelve-pack. 

Introducing "A Flood of Hope"... And Me

 Originally posted on January 20th, 2010

My name is Alexandra Hope Flood.  Everyone calls me Alix (like Alex, but with an "i").  Welcome to my blog, "A Flood of Hope."  The title, as you can see, is a play on my name.  It is also how I feel and what I would like to share.

I have been a professional writer for fifteen years.  I have written about many topics for magazines and the web (from pop culture, to music, humor, interviews, and reviews).  I was a staff writer for MTV.com during the dawn of TRL -- it was also the dawn of the web (ah the dial-up days).  Before, during, and after my time at MTV, I began to write screenplays in my spare time.  The first script I wrote, I actually co-wrote with my mother, who is also a professional writer.  It's a comedy loosely based on our experiences of moving to Brooklyn together after the death of my father when I was 25.  A few years later, ever hopeful, I wrote, co-produced, and directed a feature-length comedy,  A Totally Minor Motion Picture, about a lovable accountant in small town who hasn't abandoned his dream of being a independent filmmaker. Currently, I am working on a book about living with a light perspective. 


As you may have now discerned, throughout my career I have always been drawn to lighter subjects.  Or if the subject itself isn't light (like the fallout from the death of my father), I am compelled to find the light in it.  Using the example of  first script, I took my personal loss and created a story with a hopeful outcome.  I have long known that I am built for Hope (capitalized lovingly herein for effect), but I only recently realized what a huge theme Hope is in my work and my life. It finally hit me that what I needed to write about was actually my nomenclature mandate.  Hence "A Flood of Hope" was sparked.

I would not say that delving into Hope is always an easy task during these times -- the gut-wrenching catastrophe in Haiti sucks Hope to the mouth of a metaphoric Hell where it struggles to hang on.  Here, we struggle to hang on too.  Even if we are thousands of miles away from this horrific and heartbreaking tragedy, we are tested.  We may wonder, "In the midst of such abject devastation, will Hope ever return?"

The beauty of Hope is that it may wobble, but it never completely waivers.  Miraculously, life shows us again and again that the heart can break -- yet hold onto Hope simultaneously.  When our eyes and minds are filled with grief, Hope patiently hangs around the back door waiting to be invited back inside.  Hope may seemingly step back during these difficult experiences, but it never truly departs us. 
This is what I believe we must endeavor to remember. 

I look forward to venturing further into Hope in future posts very soon.  Until then, thank you for reading! 

   

    "The Gates" by Christo, Central Park, NYC, 2005.