Some of the very best dreamers have been told they will never achieve their dream. According to US Weekly, Lea Michele from Glee was told "You're not pretty enough. Get a nose job."
Have you been told you cannot achieve what you desire? Well, you are in good company.
Salma Hayek was harshly informed that "she should go back to Mexico, settle down and have kids."
Where would these people be if they listened to the naysayers? My friends, you have an incredible amount of talent. I am in awe of every single one of you. You can do whatever you set your mind to, sounds cliche but it's true.
And if you need one more example of this look to January Jones of Mad Men. She was told by her boyfriend "I don't think you're going to be good at this."
Let me say, you CAN do this. Your dream is waiting for you. Keep working, keep growing. We're behind you all the way.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
How bad do you want your dream?
My friends, I don't know about you but the road to your dream can be a crazy-thrilling ride. One minute you are on a high from a well-deserved victory and the next, you are questioning every move you make.
It's official, going for dream means a sacrifice, whether that be a sacrifice of sleep, TV or etc. Sometimes you have to sacrifice your routine. You have to step into the unknown.
The other day I went to nab some sushi with Jameses, we tried everything from eel rolls (Yep, you read this right, eel) to an insanely good sweet potato roll. For some reason I was having a stressful morning. I vented about everything from lack of sleep, my latest college course and the novel that just won't leave me alone.
Jameses listened patiently. Sure, he stuffed his mouth with food while I rambled on and on but he listened nonetheless.
After five minutes, he stared me straight in the eye and he said, "How bad do you want your dream?"
I stopped my venting and nervously fidgeted with my silver chunky retro necklace. "Badly, why?"
He took a sip of lemon water, nearly chocked on a seed and said, "Stress means squat. Not when you want something bad enough."
His sentence has been on my mind all weekend. There are certain demands on your shoulders when you go for heart's desire. We all feel the stress of our dream but as Jameses said, the stress is nothing. Not when your hunger outweighs the demands. Focus on that thought because a beautiful life is around the bend.
It's official, going for dream means a sacrifice, whether that be a sacrifice of sleep, TV or etc. Sometimes you have to sacrifice your routine. You have to step into the unknown.
The other day I went to nab some sushi with Jameses, we tried everything from eel rolls (Yep, you read this right, eel) to an insanely good sweet potato roll. For some reason I was having a stressful morning. I vented about everything from lack of sleep, my latest college course and the novel that just won't leave me alone.
Jameses listened patiently. Sure, he stuffed his mouth with food while I rambled on and on but he listened nonetheless.
After five minutes, he stared me straight in the eye and he said, "How bad do you want your dream?"
I stopped my venting and nervously fidgeted with my silver chunky retro necklace. "Badly, why?"
He took a sip of lemon water, nearly chocked on a seed and said, "Stress means squat. Not when you want something bad enough."
His sentence has been on my mind all weekend. There are certain demands on your shoulders when you go for heart's desire. We all feel the stress of our dream but as Jameses said, the stress is nothing. Not when your hunger outweighs the demands. Focus on that thought because a beautiful life is around the bend.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Frustration nudges you closer to your dream
My friends, chasing a dream can be exhausting. Sometimes you have good days and sometimes you have horrid moments. It's all a part of the struggle to achieve your hearts desire.
I hate admitting this but today was a bad day. You know the kind where you are so frustrated you just push aside the computer, put your head down on the table and try not to cry. I almost texted Janiel and Maegan because they are great in a time of story angst. However, my cat Lux vomited on my brand new plaid chucks so I was otherwise preoccupied, blasted cat.
I am slowly learning that the moments where you get overwhelmed by the demands on your shoulders is when a breakthrough is around the corner.
Yes, there are going to be days of struggle but accept the moments of frustration. They push you to work harder. The feeling of being overwhelmed nudges you closer to your dream and that is something beautiful.
I hate admitting this but today was a bad day. You know the kind where you are so frustrated you just push aside the computer, put your head down on the table and try not to cry. I almost texted Janiel and Maegan because they are great in a time of story angst. However, my cat Lux vomited on my brand new plaid chucks so I was otherwise preoccupied, blasted cat.
I am slowly learning that the moments where you get overwhelmed by the demands on your shoulders is when a breakthrough is around the corner.
Yes, there are going to be days of struggle but accept the moments of frustration. They push you to work harder. The feeling of being overwhelmed nudges you closer to your dream and that is something beautiful.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
I got into a bar scuffle
Before I forget, a good blogging friend, Norma Beishir is celebrating the re-release of her 2008 novel, Chasing the Wind. The gal has talent in spades. I cannot wait to buy the novel on Amazon and thought I would pass along the info to you all.
As you all know, the past few months have left me sick as a dog. I spent December and January in my velvet covers on my round bed hacking up a lung. Thankfully, those days are long gone. I finally feel up to par and as a result, I have gone on quite a partying bender, sans any substances, of course.
It all started with karaoke night and my 2012 mantra-live like this is your last year on Earth.
My friends, this mantra may be the death of me. This weekend I went with Jameses and crew, I wore my black lacy cardigan with leggings and chic motorcycle boots.
I loathe karaoke, I don't see the point in singing off key with strangers making out in the dark corners but hey, this is about doing something new and exciting, right?
Unfortunately, I don't do exciting well. No, catastrophe follows me around every bend. So, nestled in a tiny basement bar, Jameses and crew take turns in karaoking their little hearts out.
I hold my hand sanitizer in my palm and keep staring at this huge 6 foot 6 man who cannot peel his eyes off my friend. This chick is so short I could even throw her across the room but she's a spitfire.
So, this bulky 6 foot 6 man approaches Spitfire Girl. He comes on to my friend, he grabs her arm and yanks her close to him. Spitfire girl pushes him back. There's not a security guard in sight. No one around me knows what to do, they are watching this creepy guy force Spitfire Girl to walk to his side of the bar.
My new motorcycle boots must have inspired me to go crazy on his butt because I run after him and leap on his back. I am still mortified that I did this, I leaped on this humongous man's back and refused to get off until he let her go.
He then throws me off his back like I'm a lil mouse (which is hard to do, I am 6 foot 2). I gash my forearm on loose pipe. I should have walked away after Spitfire Girl was safe but noooo, something inside me snapped and I yelled, "There's no way I am getting hepatitis because you're a creep."
The 6 foot 6 guy just stares at me in surprise. Jameses and crew burst out laughing because I am not freaked out by 6 foot 6 man. Instead I am worried that I am going to get hepatitis. The tension has faded.
The 6 foot 6 man begins laughing. Yep, everyone is laughing-the tears gushing out of their eyes, lungs burning kind of laughing. All because I am a wacked-out-germ-fearing-kind of gal.
Everyone goes back to what they were doing. For the next hour, I got ribbed for jumping on a humongus man's back. I can't stop smiling and laughing. The only way to get them to shut up is to do the thing I loathe most-sing karaoke.
I walk up to the stage, gulp down the fear and grab the microphone. I tap my black boots against the floor and sing along with Sir Mix-A-Lot, "I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . "
As you all know, the past few months have left me sick as a dog. I spent December and January in my velvet covers on my round bed hacking up a lung. Thankfully, those days are long gone. I finally feel up to par and as a result, I have gone on quite a partying bender, sans any substances, of course.
It all started with karaoke night and my 2012 mantra-live like this is your last year on Earth.
My friends, this mantra may be the death of me. This weekend I went with Jameses and crew, I wore my black lacy cardigan with leggings and chic motorcycle boots.
I loathe karaoke, I don't see the point in singing off key with strangers making out in the dark corners but hey, this is about doing something new and exciting, right?
Unfortunately, I don't do exciting well. No, catastrophe follows me around every bend. So, nestled in a tiny basement bar, Jameses and crew take turns in karaoking their little hearts out.
I hold my hand sanitizer in my palm and keep staring at this huge 6 foot 6 man who cannot peel his eyes off my friend. This chick is so short I could even throw her across the room but she's a spitfire.
So, this bulky 6 foot 6 man approaches Spitfire Girl. He comes on to my friend, he grabs her arm and yanks her close to him. Spitfire girl pushes him back. There's not a security guard in sight. No one around me knows what to do, they are watching this creepy guy force Spitfire Girl to walk to his side of the bar.
My new motorcycle boots must have inspired me to go crazy on his butt because I run after him and leap on his back. I am still mortified that I did this, I leaped on this humongous man's back and refused to get off until he let her go.
He then throws me off his back like I'm a lil mouse (which is hard to do, I am 6 foot 2). I gash my forearm on loose pipe. I should have walked away after Spitfire Girl was safe but noooo, something inside me snapped and I yelled, "There's no way I am getting hepatitis because you're a creep."
The 6 foot 6 guy just stares at me in surprise. Jameses and crew burst out laughing because I am not freaked out by 6 foot 6 man. Instead I am worried that I am going to get hepatitis. The tension has faded.
The 6 foot 6 man begins laughing. Yep, everyone is laughing-the tears gushing out of their eyes, lungs burning kind of laughing. All because I am a wacked-out-germ-fearing-kind of gal.
Everyone goes back to what they were doing. For the next hour, I got ribbed for jumping on a humongus man's back. I can't stop smiling and laughing. The only way to get them to shut up is to do the thing I loathe most-sing karaoke.
I walk up to the stage, gulp down the fear and grab the microphone. I tap my black boots against the floor and sing along with Sir Mix-A-Lot, "I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . "
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
A Valentine's Story
February Challenge of the Month: A Valentine's Short Story
Warning: This story might just be true but I'll never say for sure
My ex-boyfriend used to call me his hood-girl. I loathed the phrase. Every time he uttered the words I was reminded of my lot in life, which must be why he didn't last long. No one wants to be reminded of what is lacking in their lives.
Whether the ex stuck around or not, he had a point. You cannot escape your past. I am and always will be the daughter of a loon. My parents divorced when I was eight. As a teenager, my father would pick me and brother's up for dinner. I always wanted to go to Denny's to see the hott server. Instead, my father would cook up a vat of SpagettiO's and we would eat in the parking lot of Albertson's. The chill of the snow was nothing compared to the chill in his station wagon.
I am what the ex said, a hood-girl.
There is a certain pride that comes when dealing with poverty. The more you struggle, the more you gain in confidence. You know that the worst will never faze you because the worst has already happened. And so, you venture out in the world ready for anything.
I can handle gunfire and death threats. I can even handle the hunger of wanting something more but I cannot handle him-- Zack. The obnoxiously hot guy who lives on the hill. His mansion is nestled between two large oak trees that have been around almost as much as his families money.
Zack wakes up in the morning and gazes out the window only to see a man-made waterfall and hundreds of tulips planted by his gardener. I wake up to the scenery of a brick wall and green trash cans. Our daily panorama is completely different but that doesn't matter. When we are together all we see is each other.
Every year we struggle with the same debate-how to handle Valentine's Day.
Zack was raised where the man brings flowers to their lover. I was raised where flowers are what you lay on the caskets of the dead.
A fancy dinner dance is out of the question because he can jig-it-out to all sorts of complicated dances, I cannot. I accidentally stamp on his feet with no rhythm whatsoever.
And so, we are caught in the middle of a tug of war between the privileged and the poor. Neither of us can understand the other. I am completely okay with not celebrating Valentine's day but Zack won't have it. Every year his family hosts a massive soiree at his mansion. After a week of constant debating, I nearly give up on the bloke. Strangely, Cupid throws a miracle our way. Zack begins to see the world through my eyes.
Valentine's Day could have been a nightmare but he saw things differently. He picked me up in his Cadillac. I tugged at my navy blue boots, wishing they were Prada, not Payless. I am nervous as all get up, until I see the pot of beef ravioli sitting between us. We pull into the local market, I smile up at him, realizing he has sacrificed more than his dignity to sit here with me.
The passerby's walk swiftly to get their groceries. They don't even notice us through the tinted windows. This is what I am used to, this is my world.
Zack hands me plate and dishes out a serving of ravioli. He smiles in a sexily sly sort of way and says, "I got you flowers and you didn't even know it."
"I don't smell any flowers," I said.
Zack ran his hands through his long brown hair, "They are in the ravioli-rose hip sauce, a family recipe."
There are no words to say as I munched on the divine dinner. We come from two different worlds, his Sunday dinner's are a formal affair. Mine are spent hoping that my drug addict Uncle doesn't burp mid-prayer.
I guess you can mesh two different worlds together.
I learned a valuable lesson that night with Zack. Your history doesn't define you. It mold's you into the person you are today. Cherish your past, so that you can cherish others.
Warning: This story might just be true but I'll never say for sure
My ex-boyfriend used to call me his hood-girl. I loathed the phrase. Every time he uttered the words I was reminded of my lot in life, which must be why he didn't last long. No one wants to be reminded of what is lacking in their lives.
Whether the ex stuck around or not, he had a point. You cannot escape your past. I am and always will be the daughter of a loon. My parents divorced when I was eight. As a teenager, my father would pick me and brother's up for dinner. I always wanted to go to Denny's to see the hott server. Instead, my father would cook up a vat of SpagettiO's and we would eat in the parking lot of Albertson's. The chill of the snow was nothing compared to the chill in his station wagon.
I am what the ex said, a hood-girl.
There is a certain pride that comes when dealing with poverty. The more you struggle, the more you gain in confidence. You know that the worst will never faze you because the worst has already happened. And so, you venture out in the world ready for anything.
I can handle gunfire and death threats. I can even handle the hunger of wanting something more but I cannot handle him-- Zack. The obnoxiously hot guy who lives on the hill. His mansion is nestled between two large oak trees that have been around almost as much as his families money.
Zack wakes up in the morning and gazes out the window only to see a man-made waterfall and hundreds of tulips planted by his gardener. I wake up to the scenery of a brick wall and green trash cans. Our daily panorama is completely different but that doesn't matter. When we are together all we see is each other.
Every year we struggle with the same debate-how to handle Valentine's Day.
Zack was raised where the man brings flowers to their lover. I was raised where flowers are what you lay on the caskets of the dead.
A fancy dinner dance is out of the question because he can jig-it-out to all sorts of complicated dances, I cannot. I accidentally stamp on his feet with no rhythm whatsoever.
And so, we are caught in the middle of a tug of war between the privileged and the poor. Neither of us can understand the other. I am completely okay with not celebrating Valentine's day but Zack won't have it. Every year his family hosts a massive soiree at his mansion. After a week of constant debating, I nearly give up on the bloke. Strangely, Cupid throws a miracle our way. Zack begins to see the world through my eyes.
Valentine's Day could have been a nightmare but he saw things differently. He picked me up in his Cadillac. I tugged at my navy blue boots, wishing they were Prada, not Payless. I am nervous as all get up, until I see the pot of beef ravioli sitting between us. We pull into the local market, I smile up at him, realizing he has sacrificed more than his dignity to sit here with me.
The passerby's walk swiftly to get their groceries. They don't even notice us through the tinted windows. This is what I am used to, this is my world.
Zack hands me plate and dishes out a serving of ravioli. He smiles in a sexily sly sort of way and says, "I got you flowers and you didn't even know it."
"I don't smell any flowers," I said.
Zack ran his hands through his long brown hair, "They are in the ravioli-rose hip sauce, a family recipe."
There are no words to say as I munched on the divine dinner. We come from two different worlds, his Sunday dinner's are a formal affair. Mine are spent hoping that my drug addict Uncle doesn't burp mid-prayer.
I guess you can mesh two different worlds together.
I learned a valuable lesson that night with Zack. Your history doesn't define you. It mold's you into the person you are today. Cherish your past, so that you can cherish others.
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