We all do this. We browse our Facebook feed and see extraordinary things happening all around us. A Facebook friend just climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. A friend of a friend won The Great Food Truck Race. Someone else was named Chicago’s Teacher of the Year. Or California’s No. 1 Realtor. Someone’s teenager just got a perfect SAT score.
It seems to happen all the time. Is the extraordinary the new ordinary? Facebook makes success look easy. And fast. And, dare I say, effortless. In the time it takes to look at a photo of someone celebrating a triumph, it’s just enough to feel jealous and insecure and easy to lose sight of what success looks like in real life, behind the photo.
1. Facebook success is a snapshot. A posed split-second moment in time. It’s a clear, succinct, still-framed, neat package with good cropping and fantastic lighting.
Real-life success is a slow messy saga. Which is often daunting, torturous and distracted. Or at least, a mini-series with no clear beginning and an open-ended end. In fact, it’s fuzzy all around the edges and the lighting is not good. That’s because it’s often dark (as in dark). read more
Just received the 400th review for my psychological thriller, THE MEMORY BOX (about a woman who Googles herself and discovers the shocking details of a past she doesn’t remember) on Amazon! And it was a goodie! Thank you Mtngrannie wherever (whoever) you are!
I am so grateful to all you reviewers out there! I read every single one. And since we all know that 1 in 87.3 readers write reviews for books, my calculations tell me that 43,962.7 people have presumably read THE MEMORY BOX. Whoa, my brain is exploding right now . . . (Not sure about any of those figures, honestly.)
It’s time for me to share some love right back atcha. Since today is Mother’s Day, I’m going to give away 5 signed copies of Not Your Mother’s Book On Being a Mom & Not Your Mother’s Book On Family. My story, Where Did I Go Wrong? was anthologized is this book of funny, poignant, sweet, irreverent stories about motherhood. For those of you familiar with my essays on parenting, it is chock full of insecurity and blunders, so you should not be disappointed.
I WILL CHOOSE 5 PEOPLE WHO SHARE THIS POST. (Choosing the winners will be at random while wearing a blindfold as my kids spin me around in my desk chair). If you share this post, you will multiply your chances of winning a signed copy by 87.3%. Whoa. Right? That’s what my calculations tell me. However, I don’t know for sure, actually. But I do know you can’t win it, unless you’re in it.
Isn’t this fun! It’s like a game show! Share this post and YOU COULD WIN! What have you got to lose? I will post the winners later this week. (And they will send me their address via private message, savvy?)
P.S. I should mention that I am also giving away a signed copy of THE MEMORY BOX on Goodreads, so get yourself over there to enter! Good luck everyone!
By the way, may I call you that? Pigs? It’s meant with the utmost respect, and after all, it is your name. Believe me, pig. I’ve never used your name in vain when referring to perverts or sleazeballs. I don’t know who started that. Uncool. Nor have I ever said, “Go clean up, you filthy pig!” to either of my kids or my husband. Even that time when they were so foul I wouldn’t let them in the house without hosing off in the backyard first. I’ve read that elephants and rhinos are much dirtier than pigs, but the dirtiest of all, obviously, is the dung beetle. Just so you know, whenever possible I do correct people by saying, “Go clean up, you filthy dung beetle!”
Okay, that’s not why I’m writing you. I need to talk to you about the state of pigs. Read more on the Huffington Post:
The other night at dinner, I sat at the kitchen table with my teenage daughter. Some nights, “family dinner” means just us two. I’ve been getting used to making dinners that are easy to scoop out and reheat in a flash. Teenagers are here one minute, gone the next. And I’m just referring to the dinner hour.
My daughter has always loved to ask the hypothetical questions. The “what-ifs” and the “what would you dos.” And as philosophical as they may be, she likes her hypotheticals quantifiable. She likes answers that are in percentages, or on her famous “scale of 1 to 10.”
Between forkfuls of asparagus risotto, she asked, “What if someone asked you to rate yourself as a mother? What would you say, on a scale of 1 to 10?” read more