Weekend Rambles

So, I had a fun and busy weekend.

Ramble number one - Food.

Pizza. Me and pizza have always had an unstable relationship. When I was younger, I wouldn't touch pizza unless it had pepperoni on it. Then, for 2 years, I couldn't stand pepperoni. For the last 6 months, I've preferred plain cheese, but I could tolerate pepperoni. And now, duh me, I had no idea the pepperoni was made of PORK. So I'm done. Sorry, pepperoni. I hope we can still be friends.

The weekend would not have been complete without the following bit of unearthly loveliness. I actually have to stop and gather my thoughts for a moment because it is quite possible words will not do justice the deliciousness that is--there needs to be some kind of drumroll here--Costco's Hand Dipped Ice Cream Bar. (stop, applaud, bow--it's worthy).

I'd never tried it before and I was feeling adventurous, so I asked for one. It was given to me sitting on a white paper bag, with hot fudge dripping all over it.

I used my finger as a spoon while we waited in line. And after I couldn't resist, and I started eating it before it had cooled down. Only five ingredients--milk, sugar, eggs, cream and chcolate--but more than five amazed exclamations that followed my first bite. And I'm sure it's like the coolest thing ever for a 13 year old to be so capitvated by her ice cream that she doesn't care that it's dripping down her arm. And she's trying to balance not getting hit by a car and shoveling ice cream into her mouth.


Ramble number two.

Cats.

We went to the mall and met the cutest kittens on earth.



Clean slates. Possibility. Happy Monday.

We Caved and Colored

Have I ever told you that I like coloring? Well, I'll tell you now.

I like coloring--so much that often, when I buy a Spongebob coloring book, I've been known to sit on my bed for hours, hissing at anyone who comes near while I'm trying to color Patrick's shorts the perfect shades of green and pink. I color like it's my job--shading, highlighting, scribbling flecks of contrasting color into Barbie's hair or deliberating much too long over Wild Raspberry or Hot Magenta for the stripes in Strawberry Shortcake's shirt. I am selective in my crayon choice and have been known to choose colors based on their names alone. You would understand this if you're familiar with Crayola's Box 'o 96, featuring Macaroni n' Cheese, a warm soft orange, or Wild Blue Yonder, a murky mountainous blue.

I've also been known to throw out a perfectly good picture and start over if I've colored outside the lines or, God forbid, misjudged the intensity of Jungle Green (which, for the record, is far too vibrant for an eye color choice). So it has been a good exercise for me to encourage the freedom of expression that's so beautifully demonstrated by people when they color--sometimes out of the lines, sometimes all one color, but every time, their own style. And while I'm carefully gliding my yellow crayon (Laser Lemon, to be precise) along a flower petal to add depth and my friend's two year old cousin Sophie decided Shamrock is a nice choice for Bert 'n Ernie's faces, I've come to the conclusion that not only is it okay, but it's pretty cool that people do their own thing and stand by it. There are no rules to creativity.

***

Savanna's shattered phone has been replaced, but before she synced her contacts, I mellowed in the peace and quiet of a house with quiet phones--which overlapped to a vacant computer and Naomi caved-in. My mom calls it "the cave"--the secret place we retreat to when we're subconsciously overwhelmed or too busy. It usually involves--without even intention--ignoring the phone, letting Twitter interations stack up and hibernating to the inner depths of our homes where we bake, read books or, in my case, color. Retreating to the cave is a necessary occurance for me--a replenishing inverse from the go-and-do-and-see times. I like both ends of the spectrum--the thrill of adventure as well as the comfort and convenience of routine and feeling settled.

Holidays make me feel settled, and traditions like dyeing eggs connect me to all the puddles of nostalgic happiness, and dressing up in costumes and begging strangers for candy -- oh, that's the best. The holidays are coming up. Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas. Pretty soon, you're gonna have to to beat the holiday unicorns away from your timeline whenever I'm online.

I love that there is no reason behind traditions like dressing up and going door-to-door for candy. Or rather, there is, but when I Googled the historical explanation, it didn't excite me as much as "because it's fun" did. And I'm totally cool with doing fun things for no reason.

Happy Wednesday.

That Was The First Day.

The first day of school was today. (well, the first day of 8th grade, that is). I can already tell it's going to be the hardest year yet. I honestly can't believe that I'm in 8th grade. That seems so crazy. Didn't I just start 3rd grade? Wasn't I just wearing my hair in braids every day and wasn't I just stomping my sketchers on the rugs in the classroom so I could see them light up? Which, by the way, is still the coolest thing ever.

So anyways. 8th grade. I just know your dying to hear about it.

It started normally. Everyone read the giant chart in front of the library and found out their first period classes. Me and my friend, Kimberly, went together to read this chart, and I was just one big ball of mixed emotions. Really. It was so bad, I felt nauseous. Nervousness and excitement and "why am I here?"s ran through my veins.

So we got our first period classes. During first period, everyone had that glazed over look in their eye, because 6:30 came too early after 3 months of waking up at noon. My first period teacher passed out our schedules for the rest of the day.

It's good.

Now I feel kind of bad for poor Mila, who had to suffer through my rantings of how I didn't want any of the mean teachers, and how I knew I was surely going to get them. I didn't get any of them. Except for the only 8th grade P.E. teacher.
But that's a given, right?

My math teacher, Mr. Davis, has such an annoying voice. I just wanted to share.

I saw my old friends, and there were a lot of hugs given from me. There were just as many surprise attack hugs from out of no where that were given to me. And there were about a trillion exclamations of "I missed you so much!"

I have so many forms and packets and papers that my mom has to sign.

So here's to hoping this school year is decent.

P.S: I may or may not have thought I was over Hunter, then he said "Hi Naomi" and I changed my mind. IT MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE HAPPENED.

it totally happened.

a new start.

do you know what this is?

that, my friends, is steam.
significant steam rising from my apple cider.
steam that dances upon the surface of its apple cider stage because the air around it is slowly cooling, making way for another glorious cold front.

it is a new day.
it is a new time.
it is almost a new month.

guys, it's almost september.
one of the two months that falls before i think my favorite month. november.

do you know what happens in september? the newness of school is slightly exciting, therefore the misery and reality of school has not yet set in. we get to wear a new outfit everyday, and no one judges us, because they're doing it too. we're allowed to straighten our hair one day, curl it the next, put it in pigtails, two braids, one braid, french braids, fishtail braids, high ponytails, low ponytails, high buns, low buns, half up half down. open toed shoes, sandals, boots, vans, converse..... september has so many oppurtunities.

school starts tomorrow..
i'm going to miss twitter.
a lot.
obviously.


my faves are old women who have already graduated school. (i'm sorry, guys. you know I love you, but 18, 19, 20, 21, 22? that's freaking old)
immature old women who have already graduated school, at least.
but really.
i'm going to miss them. so much.

and i'm going to miss having so much time to blog.
i loved my blog this summer.
everything i posted was real, raw and vulnerable.

we're celebrating the joys, the fun, the sad, the goods and the-not-so-goods.
I checked off lots of things on my summer bucket list.

this summer was the best one by far. hopefully this school year will go well.

***

we went to a party yesterday. this'll be mostly wordless, but there are pictures.

i'm standing on the edge of a pool here.

i took this picture looking down at a little water fall that ran into the pool.

when i got out of the pool, i went into the bathroom to change and when i looked in the mirror, i saw that the water had curled my hair and i loved it so much i had to take a picture right away.

after i changed.

curls.

The Key to Failure

As someone who has a blog and a Twitter account, I'm always aware that sharing my thoughts and feelings puts me in a place where I can receive feedback -- sometimes feedback that I don't want to hear. A lot of what I do and write about centers around love and defense. I love so many people. And I love love. That's my thing, and I try to defend and protect my thing, if you will. ("if you will" is a term I coined from my 6th grade social studies teacher. I really don't like him, for the record)

I received a few really really nasty comments recently. Insults coming from someone I don't even know, who was being really confusing and hurtful (first time I ever broke a mutual! Go me). And then there was another person who just didn't like my aura and felt the need to let me know. I know. Spread my happiness on your timeline. How dare I? ....Wait. What's that, right there? What? An unfollow button?

Sarcasm is not the most powerful tool and sometimes just the easy way out for me to deal with something, so I'll rein in the unicorn quips and cut to the chase.

It's a question I'm often asked, one that many bloggers or writers or artists or anyone who puts himself out there faces: How do you deal with negative criticism, mean comments, etc.? This topic spurred by definitely-not-the-first negative comment I received a few days ago, in reference to a post that, I'm sorry to say, contained happiness and positivity. Which is like, blasphemy, I guess. And there I go again, letting the sarcasm creep in which is, in case you didn't know, a little red flag we use to detour people from the hidden truth of Mean Comments Sometimes Hurt Our Feelings. And saying "we" and "our" to make that statement collective is another little red flag we I use to water down the fact that it's personal. That sometimes they hurt my feelings.

I don't always read every single mention I get on Twitter. And it's very rare that I would respond to a negative one or even take the time to block them because I understand people have the right to not only formulate their opinion about me or my work, but they have a right to voice it. 

I pick this particular occasion to write about this because the comment hit a lot of nerves and got me thinking. The people I love usually love me back, and there's a lot of love they show, that--I'll be honest--feels good, even though I think it's important to separate ourselves and our work from feedback, period. Being praised can be just as harmful as being criticized if you're not careful. Your work, your voice, your words, your art, your gifts you have to give to the world--their value has nothing to do with the response you receive from them. Social media can complicate that truth, and good feedback can trick you into thinking "I am good because people like what I put out there." That's not true. Ever. 

Validation is an interesting thing though, and no matter how strong or unphased by criticism we are, there is an undeniable human desire to have people like what we feel passionate about--our art, our words, our stories, our styles, our writing, our opinions. It's why we sometimes feel hesitant to publish or share. 

Writing is an outlet for me. An outlet that, without which, I'd go insane. I've hit the backspace key so many times, thinking "Better not. Someone might think it's rude" or "This might offend someone". I've been trying to do that less, but I still always wonder What will people think?

Let me answer that. If you share, if you publish, if you write, if you speak, if you are brave and decide to put yourself out there, I promise you, someone won't like it. Someone won't agree with you. Someone will misinterpret. Someone will think that you are silly, unqualified and that your work is crap. That you are crap. They might not just think it but they might tell you. And that won't feel good, especially not the first time you hear it. But it is necessary. And it's okay.

My friend Dani (@wonderfuitay if you want to follow) is a fabulous writer. She just recently showed me her Tumblr. She is funny and smart and brave in her writing. I read her stories and think "I want to write like that." But I wonder if she gets bad feedback. If she gets the same comments I do that spell out one thing: "You. Are. Crap."

I don't get mean comments often, but I've gotten enough to be able to say "I get it, I get it, I get it" to my friends when people are rude to them. I promise them that they will grow confidence and understanding faster than a Chia Pet grows sprouts--that it was good and normal they felt this way and that this whole experience would help them own their words, their style, their work and be proud of it. When Mila got anonymous hate, I told her that the hurtful words shared had nothing to do with Mila and everything to do with this commenter's pain or insecurities or desire to do what Mila is doing.

For me, receiving negative criticism has been an important tool in self awareness and owning my voice. I've gone from believing what mean comments pointed out (I am a horrible person and I suck at writing), getting angry with the people who wrote them (You are a horrible person and you suck at leaving comments) and doubting if writing publicly was really something I wanted to do to a completely different place of understanding and compassion--both for myself and the people who are hurting enough to project it in a carefully crafted you-are-crap comment. I have a dear friend, Becca (@zoeiia) who has helped me with this. She talks about pain--how we are all hurting--and she helps me see nastiness in the world as the need for more love. Does that sound unicornish? Maybe, but it has helped me move forward and embrace cutting comments both in and outside of this little Internet, as an opportunity to initiate more kindness. We've all been there--the hurting one. 

Honesty is important too. It's easy to snap back at nastiness with "Sorry you're so miserable," but it's okay to simply acknowledge that, yep, it feels icky to hear or read bad things about ourselves. Sometimes we need to ask ourselves "Why does this bother me?" and to face the answers that awaken--maybe things that aren't easy to face. Growth follows.

Where does it get you in the end? Well, there is no end. And there shouldn't be because when we lose the ability to have our feelings hurt, we are no longer vulnerable. I love vulnerable art and writing and music and sharing. It's what makes it good.

The risk for criticism for any endeavor we take on is guaranteed. You face it bravely. You own your voice. You learn from the good and the bad and you use it to be better. Bill Cosby said, "I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody." I love that quote. I'm learning to live that quote, to teach it to my friends and family. Their happiness depends on it. And it's helped me focus on what I love to do and to navigate the path of "putting myself out there" with confidence.

If you don't agree with my opinions, that's ok. You're good. I'm good. We're going to think a lot of different things, some that contradict each other. But I'd like to think that someone out there needs to hear something that each of us has to say. If you say it's blue, there's someone out there who needs to hear it's blue and you just made their life so much better by being blue. Thank you for being blue, even if I'm not. If I say it's green, there's someone out there who needs to hear it's green, and thank God we can be green together. Blue and green are both good. I'd hate for the world to lose one of those colors.

If you say "I hate you, Naomi! Go stab a fork in your eye!!!" I take that as a reflection of you, and not me. I may not actually stab a fork in my eye, but I will look at your opinion and respect it. That's it.

I like pretty shoes and cupcakes and Taylor Swift and people who are sensitive to the world they're in. That's what I write about. I try to be open and understanding and kind.

My friends, especially the ones I've met on Twitter, they just get that, and I'm so grateful for each of them. (I don't have to name you guys. You know who you are.)

The way this all ties together is, I'm leaving Twitter for a few days to a week (or two) to chill out and chew on what I've learned and what people have told me. By the time I press "Compose Tweet" again, I hope I'll be a more accepting and sensitive person than I am now.

I will be back.

Naomi is out.

Side Note: I told myself I wouldn't address this, but now I feel like I need to. Whoever the anon is on Mila's ask.fm that keeps asking about me, please stop :) You're creepy and Mila has said that she's scared. I'm not jealous of Savanna and Mila's relationship. They're both perfect and they love each other, and I love them. Their relationship is actual magic and "Savanna and Mila" is one of my favorite things. You need to chill out with me, or take off the anon.

Week 701

That's how many weeks I've been alive, by the way. Give or take a few weeks.

I can't write about what I want to because I've had a really bad day so far and this is a scary thing to write about. So now I'm not in my zone and I'm going to babble instead. Lucky you.

Minty Nails

Blonde vs Brunette

I've been told that my hair is blonde, and I've been told that it's brown. I've also been told that it's "dirty blonde". But I don't like the way that sounds. Anyways, this is what my hair looks like in the sun. Decide for yourself.

Gray, Depressing Sky

The sky looks like an ashtray, even though the glass-is-half-full voice that dwells within is begging me to retract that statement or at least change my description to mysterious silver, which is what I believe I referred to a few days ago on Facebook.

Last night me and my mom went to the beach and when we were on the pier, a seal swam up to it and stared up at us :) He had whiskers.

Wendy's

It's been too much of a struggle to actually make the food in our house, so we've opted for Wendy's the past two days. This can't be good.

Joel

"Ok, I'll just see if Naomi's pillow is comfortable..."

"It's so soft!"

"Oh yeah..... I like this. I like this a lot."

"Oh.... am I on camera?"

"This is kind of a bad time, Naomi...."

"Maybe if I pretend to be sleeping she'll go away."



"Seriously?"



I've narrowly escaped getting a needle shoved into my head. Twice.

As my mom tells it, when I was 10 days old, I guess I was acting weird so she took me to the hospital and they're all "yeah she has an ear infection". And my mom was like "Um but this is my 8th kid and I know what an ear infection is and she's not acting like she has an ear infection." So then they were all "Look lady, are you a doctor? What? What was that? NO? Then back off and let me do my job." Ok they didn't actually say that but they did insist that I indeed had an ear infection. So apparently I had to be hospitalized for 2 weeks with an IV. My mom still didn't believe anything was wrong with me but she "went along with it". This is how I got a bunch of scars on my arms: They couldn't find a vein. So they kept stabbing me with needles trying to find one, and I was screaming and freaking out (I still hate needles, btw) and my mom was screaming and freaking out, and together we were one hot mess. So they couldn't find a vein in my arm and they were like "We have to find one in her temple." UM, WHAT? My mom's reaction "What? She's going to have a needle in her head for two weeks?" Yes, that's right. And she almost "went along with it" again. And then a few hours later, we're in my "desolate, cold" hospital room and they're on their way to jam that IV into my head, and my mom said she thought "Take your kid and run like hell, dude." And she did! Whoop whoop! She took me to a different hospital and I HAD NO EAR INFECTION. Idiots.

The second time was when I was 10 months old, and I had a really bad cough, so my mom took me to a different hospital (because obviously she wasn't taking me back to the same place) and I was "diagnosed" with pneumonia. She didn't believe that, either. They tried to put another IV in my head, because I guess I just have veinless arms. My mom dragged me out again, and Child Protective Services came to our house because my mom was being "medically negligent". And my mom said "Uh, actually THEY'RE being medically negligent because they want to put a needle in my baby's head because they assume she has pneumonia." They didn't believe I had it either, and my mom took me back to the other place the next day. Yeah, it was just stupid bronchitis.

Light show, courtesy of God

I felt like I needed to pay someone for tickets or something.

So 'thar you have it. Also, me, Kate and Bobby created a game yesterday that began as me taking Kate's hat and running, and them chasing me. Then it morphed into bikes that were supposed to be horses and we were in the old west and now it's like one freaking dramatic movie with zombies and we're totally improvising our way through it. It's awesome.