Tag: Confessions

Knocked Up Abroad Again is Now Available!

I’m thrilled to announce that after a successful Kickstarter campaign Knocked Up Abroad Again is available for purchase on Amazon!

Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip…Dear god, I’m never doing another Kickstarter campaign again. I wasn’t even in charge of the thing. Our editor put in a billion more hours organizing and promoting the thing, but I still felt like a used car salesman begging people to donate their hard earned money and time on my words. Who am I kidding? How am I ever going to promote and sell my own books if I can’t promote a collaborative work on Kickstarter on my Facebook? Even if I get published I’m never going to sell a single book. Never! My promotional posts will read “If you don’t mind and happen to enjoy this particular type of book and maybe have ten extra dollars to spare I would greatly appreciate it if you wouldn’t mind buying my book and if you really, really liked it then perhaps tell a friend about it. If you have the time and it won’t be a huge inconvenience. That would be really great. Thanks so much. (And if you’re not into YA or not a huge reader I totally understand. No hard feelings.)” I’m never going to sell a single book. But how can I be an author if can’t ask people to buy my book? Aaaaaagh!

Sorry about that. I got off track. What was I saying? Oh right, Knocked Up Abroad Again has been successfully funded and is now available for purchase on Amazon! It’s the perfect gift for expectant parents, travelers, and expectant travelers in your life. If you want. I don’t want to insist. Pretty please. But only if you like this sort of thing.

In all seriousness, thank you to everyone who donated to the project, and I hope you enjoy the book!

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November 29, 2016
Our Walk to School

Our Walk to School A one act play inspired by true events with a 5-year-old.

Mom: (Shouted from front door) Ok, time to go. Do you have your shoes on, yet?

Kiddo: (Shouted from bedroom) Not yet. I need to finish something.

Mom: (Shouted as pleasantly as possible to avoid a last minute fight but forceful enough to convey annoyance at shoes still being on.) No, you don’t. I’ve already asked you several times to put your shoes on. Now, it’s time to go. We’re going to be late for swim class.

Kiddo: (Shouted in complete indifference) I’m almost finished.

Mom: (Marches into child’s bedroom.) What are you doing? Why are your shorts and undies around your ankles?

Kiddo: I had to go pee pee.

Mom: But why are your shorts still around your ankles?

Kiddo: I’m trying to make the top spin.

Mom: Why wouldn’t you pull up your pants first? And why are you playing with a top? Ok, stop. We need to go. Where are your shoes?

Kiddo: (Leaving the top aside and picking up a book off the floor while still half naked.) I don’t know. Mommy, can we read The Book with No Pictures?

Mom: No, not right now. We’re going to be late for swim class if we don’t leave right now! Please, pull your shorts up while I find your shoes.

Mom leaves to find the shoes, one under the couch and one under the desk in the office. She returns to child’s room where Kiddo is now fully clothed but minus socks and looking at her calendar.

Mom: What happened to your socks!

Kiddo: I don’t like that pair. I want to wear my spider socks. Mommy, what day is Christmas?

Mom: (Through gritted teeth.) A long time away but it won’t matter because if you’re late to swim class Santa won’t come. (Kiddo drops to floor and starts trying to put shoes on. Mom picks up and puts away unsatisfactory first pair of socks.)

Kiddo: (Teary eyed and whimpering) It’s too tight! (Slams be-shoed foot on ground repeatedly.) Mommy, it’s too tight.

Mom: (Exhales slowly) Because it’s on the wrong foot.

Kiddo: Oh! (Giggles)

Mom: Why are you only using one hand? You can’t put tennis shoes on with only one hand. We need to leave now!

Kiddo: I pinched my finger in the drawer getting my spider socks and now it hurts. I can’t use it.

Mom: (Muttering) For the love of… (Squats and puts child’s shoes on totally over trying to foster independence this morning) Ok, we’re ready! Yay! Let’s go. (Mom grabs school bag and purse and runs to door.)

Kiddo: (Pulling on Mom’s shirt while she locks door) Tell a story! Tell a story!

Mom: I will when we get to the sidewalk, ok? Let’s start walking first.

Kiddo: (Foot touches the sidewalk. Tugs Mom’s hand.) Ok, tell the story! Tell the story!

Mom: (As they walk to school) Ok, where were we? So the Bowser kids decided they were going to play a trick on their Dad…

Kiddo: Noooo. Not a Bowser kid story. I want a Mario story.

Mom: Oh, ok. One day Mario was walking through the forest on his way to Princess Peach’s castle for tea when he heard a noise and Yoshi appeared.

Kiddo: No, not Yoshi! It was a little Eevee. It was going “Eevee! Eevee!” (Jumps up and down and flails arms) Because it lost its family.

Mom: So Mario heard a noise and saw a very strange creature by the river. Mario thought it looked like a Pokemon so he called his good friend Ash and asked “Do you know want this is?” Mario held up his phone so Ash could see Eevee and Ash said…

Kiddo: (Yanking on Mom’s hand) That’s when Mario sees another Pokemon! A Squirtle! It said “Squirtle! Squirtle!” and it was soooo adorable! And Mario took it to Princess Peach’s castle. And she thought it was so adorable. (Pause) C’mon Mommy! Tell the story! (Pulls on Mom’s arm)

Mom: Mario thought Princess Peach could help the lost Pokemon get back to their world so he took them to Peach’s castle and…

Kiddo: Then all the Pokemon appeared!!! There was a Charmeleon and a Bulbasaur and an Amaura, a Rhyhorn, a Leafeon! All the Pokemon!

Mom: So when Mario got to Peach’s castle he was shocked to find it filled with Pokemon! There was a Lapras swimming in the fountain and Ponyta eating the roses in the garden. Inside the castle, there were Zubats and Pidgies and Fledglings flying around and pooping on everything!

Kiddo: (Shrieks with laughter) They were pooping on the table, on the floor, on Luigi’s head.

Mom: Oh, Luigi’s there?

Kiddo: Yes, a Pidgey pooped right on his head!

Mom: Luigi walked into the castle and felt a splat on top of his head. Fortunately, he was wearing a hat.

Kiddo: But then he took it off and a Zubat pooped on his hair! (Hops up and down laughing and clapping her hands)

Mom: Well, Princess Peach was very upset all these Pokemon were destroying her castle…

Kiddo: So she called the Ghostbusters!

Mom: The Ghostbusters? Why would she call the Ghostbusters?

Kiddo: Because they catch Pokemon and ghosts.

Mom: Ok…so Princess Peach calls the Ghostbusters. They bring their special…

Kiddo: (Yanking on Mom’s hand) You have to sing the song!

Mom: (Glances around to see how many people will get to enjoy this) Na,na,na,na,na,na. Na,na,na,na,na,na. There’s something strange in your neighborhood. Who ya gonna call?

Mom & Kiddo: Ghostbusters!

Mom: So the Ghostbusters show up at Peach’s castle and begin catching all the Pokemon. They had some trouble with Charizard though. It was perched on top of the tallest tower and refused to come down. Peach was very upset because it was going to be a major pain to replace the roof tiles on the highest tower. She asked the Ghostbusters…

Kiddo: Then the little Eevee appeared and snuggled up to Princess Peach. And Princess Peach thought it was so adorable, she wanted to keep it forever. But the Eevee missed its family. So Peach decided to keep all the Eevees and Vaporeons and Leafeons and Sylveons. And then a cute, little Amaura appeared and licked Peach’s face and it was so cute. Peach decided to keep it and used her Harry Potter magic wand to create an ice cave in the yard for the Amaura to live in because it was too hot outside. Then Peach heard the Eevee crying “Eevee! Eevee!” because Team Rocket was trying to catch it!

Long Pause. Kiddo looks up at Mom.

Kiddo: C’mon Mommy! (Shakes Mom’s arm.) Tell the story!

Mom: Why don’t you tell the story?

Kiddo: Because I don’t know the story!

Mom: But you do! You’ve been the one telling it for the last block and…

Kiddo: I don’t KNOW the story! You have to tell it!

Mom: (sighs) So Team Rocket captured Eevee in a net and was pulling it up to their hot air balloon.

Kiddo: No, they were in a giant Meowth robot! That was electric proof so Pikachu couldn’t help Eevee escape.

Mom: What Pikachu?

Kiddo: Ash’s Pikachu.

Mom: When did Ash and Pikachu show up?

Kiddo: They came with the Ghostbusters.

Mom: Oh, look! Here we are! And there’s your class headed to pool. Better hurry. Bye, love you! (Mom and Kiddo hug and kiss) Have a great day at school!

Kiddo: And you can finish the story when we walk home! (Skips off, waving)

Mom: (Sinks down onto a bench) Sure. Can’t wait.

Lights fade to black.

This play is based on every walk to school we’ve taken this past year. It is not an exaggeration. It is truth. And it is every single day.

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August 29, 2016
The Consequences of Going Gray

It’s been more than difficult finding time to write this post. My husband is away on a networking trip while Kiddo’s in the middle of summer vacation. That puts me on twenty-four hours a day parent duty. I’d probably be a little more frustrated if I didn’t know these networking trips of his were going to start tapering off.

You see my husband’s getting older, and in the spirit of honesty, it’s obvious. He’s getting more wrinkles and creases, but it’s the gray hair that’s really noticeable. My husband has black hair which has gone from lightly dusted to preserved cod salty in the last few years. Of course getting older isn’t a problem per se. He just could look a lot younger if he wanted to.

With all that gray hair, he’s not going to be tapped for any promotion. The quality of his work is going to become less obvious as people start focusing on his whiter hair. I’m sure the university he teaches for is going to want someone a little…fresher to represent them at conferences. I’m afraid it’s going to affect his student evaluations. Those undergrads are going to look at him and think his complete apathy about his appearance clearly indicates a certain indifference toward everything including class planning.

I’m also worried it’s going to affect his social life. He hasn’t said anything, but I think some of his friends have stopped calling. I feel terrible for him, but I can’t blame them. By not coloring his hair, he’s basically throwing his mortality in the face of everyone around him. Who wants to sit next to Mr. Death-is-Inevitable at the dinner party? That’s kind of a bummer.

Of course, it’s going to be harder to make new friends. Everyone says they don’t judge people by appearances, but let’s be honest. We all check a person’s roots before striking up a conversation.

I’ve made subtle comments about the gray hoping he’ll take some interest in his appearance and stop letting himself go. I realize I’m never going to talk him into botox or skin peels, but if he would just invest a little in himself, I think he’d really perk up and be more confident in all areas of his life. It feels like he doesn’t love himself anymore. When he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see the incredibly handsome man I see. That’s why I want him to dye his hair. I think he would feel more handsome if he would just get rid of the gray.

Watching my husband deal with getting older has made me glad I’m a woman. I’ve been going gray since my early twenties. If had to hide my white hair, at the rate my hair grows…ugh, I’d have spent a small fortune on salon appointments. Fortunately, I’m not a man, and I don’t have to work at making everyone think I’m at least a decade younger than my actual age to be happy with my appearance.

Actually, women don’t really talk about our age that much. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure I know exactly how old my best buddies are. We’re usually too busy talking about politics, whether or not to refinance our houses, the cost of health care. And sports. I swear my friends and I still don’t get through one round of drinks before someone references Lloyd’s hat trick in the World Cup final. Why would age even come up?

I hope my husband knows that I’ll love him no matter how old he gets and what he looks like. I hope he knows how handsome he is. Gray hair and all.

This of course is a piece of comedy. Although I have, in fact, been going gray since my early twenties. Unfortunately, I have spent a small fortune on trips to the salon. I had coloring my hair in the same category as bathing, an essential and basic part of my self-care routine. But in the last year, afternoons to myself for writing were in short supply. I didn’t want to give up a whole afternoon to painting my hair, so I let my hair grow and grow and eventually ended up with a couple inches of gray hair at my temples.

No, that’s not a lighting effect. That’s four months of hair growth highlighting my temple.

And life’s pretty much the same. It turns out coloring hair is a choice. One my salt-and-pepper headed husband chooses not to pursue without comment or consequence. I’m going to opt out too from now on. I’m not promising to never color my hair again. But for now, there are other things I’d rather do with my time and money. Will you still invite me over for dinner?

This post is part of Happy Mama Happy Baby‘s Body Positive January. Check out her site for more awesome posts from great writers, book reviews, and giveaways!

January 22, 2016
The Infinity Dream Award aka 11 Random Facts About Me
Expat Blogs, Mommy Blogs, Writing/Book Blogs

These are the digital circles I run in.

But my recent posts have focused exclusively on my expat and mommy identities. I wanted to do a non mommy-expat post.

As if in answer, one of my critique partners posted as part of The Infinity Dream Award, a chain post that seems to be going around YA author blogs, and nominated me as one to carry on the chain. Never before have I been excited about a chain post. Never before have I been included in a group of published and aspiring novelists. It’s a little different for my blog, but I’m doing this. (Also, my daughter’s been home with a cold, and I’ve no energy to think of my own post. Perfect timing!)

First, thank you to Kaitlyn at E.M. Lita for nominating me and thinking I met the criteria of “crazy talented writer”. You made my month. Here are the rules for the Infinity Dream Award:
- Thank and follow the blog that nominated you.
- Tell us eleven facts about yourself.
- Answer the questions that were set for you to answer.
- Nominate 11 bloggers and set questions for them. (Yeah, I’m just going to name a few blogger friends/acquaintances I’d love to know 11 random things about.)
11 Random Facts About Me
1. I’m left handed, as God intended everyone to be otherwise he would have put the fork on the right side of the plate.
2. In middle school I faked a science fair project in its entirety. I never did an experiment. I collected no data. But I gave an awesome presentation about a project that never happened. I got an A. I look back and think of it as an exercise in creative writing.
3. I hate coloring and drawing! Hate!!! In fourth grade, we had a unit on “publishing” a book. I was thrilled for two minutes, then my teacher explained we’d have to illustrate our books. I protested and argued that even professional authors often have other people illustrate their books. My teacher was not persuaded.
4. I also hate crafting. The combination of numbers three and four makes me the worst mother ever because according to the many mommy bloggers out there, the only way to demonstrate love for your child is to glue tissue paper on to toilet paper rolls. Bonus points if you use seasonally themed colors.
5. I love french fries. I have to actively police myself from eating them off any plate on the table.
6. I took belly dancing lessons in Morocco. I still remember a little.
7. I adore animals. I would pet every single dog I see on the street, if society found this behavior acceptable in 32 year-old adults.
8. I am fantastic at reading books aloud. I come up short in the crafting area, but I knock it out of the park at bedtime story reading. I do different voices for the characters. It’s quite the show. Someday, I’ll post a reading of Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus on Youtube. The tantrum I throw is pretty spectacular.
9. I have enormous feet. I wear a size 11 shoe. I’m only 5′ 7” (170cm). The last time I shopped for shoes in Brazil, the sales guy just didn’t believe me when I said 43 (size 11 here in Brazil) and brought out a 39. I couldn’t get my foot in the shoe. The look on his face was rather unprofessional in my opinion.
10. I can and do hold grudges indefinitely. It’s not one of my better qualities.
11. I think Matilda by Roald Dahl is the single greatest children’s book ever written. This is not up for debate.
11 Questions From E.M. Lita
1. What are your goals for the remainder of 2015?
  Finish a second draft of my YA novel then send it to beta readers and throw the greatest preschool Halloween party Brazil has ever seen. (One of these is way more likely to happen than other.)
2. If you had to wear one item of clothing for the rest your life, what would it be and why? Underwear. I think it’s obvious why.
3. Favorite flavor of ice cream?
  Mint chocolate chip. I’m confused. Are there other flavors?
4. How many bookcases do you currently own?
  Seven. But we just talked about building some floor to ceiling cases in the dining area.
5. Do you have any half-finished manuscripts hidden away in a drawer somewhere? If yes, summarize one.
  No. I just have my current unfinished manuscript which throws a bunch of bilingual and multicultural kids ostracized by the 15 countries that remain after 2 global pandemics onto a stealth ship. It’s like Divergent set during a semester at sea.
6. Do you prefer writing with a pen or pencil (or keyboard!), and why?
  Keyboard. Being left-handed, I’m happy to avoid the black or blue hand syndrome that comes with using a pencil or pen.
7. Is there a favorite book you go to for inspiration when writing a tough scene? If yes, what is it and why?
  Not for a specific scene. My challenge lately is character voice, and I’ve been going to Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell and The Living by Matt de la Peña. I think both of these books have incredibly strong and unique protagonist voices using third person narration.
8. Do you insist on solitude for writing, or can you indulge in background noise?
  I can block out background noise pretty well. What I need is a child-free writing environment. I cannot concentrate if I’m waiting for the next spilled cup of juice or potty break or broken bone.
9. Serial comma: yay or nay?
  Yay. I’m not a barbarian.
10. Favorite season?
  Fall. And I miss it. Here in Vitoria, Brazil, we have two seasons: unbearably hot and bearably hot.
11. The final and most important question from Buddy the Elf: What’s your favorite color? Red.
Who’s Up Next? This chain might not be right for everyone’s blog, but I’d like these writers know there’s someone who’s curious what they have to say.

Julie Dutra, Mayken Brünings, Louisa Aricheta, Nicole Lynn Hoefs, Lana Pattinson, Lisa Ferland, Elizabeth Menozzi, Chloe at Life Unexpected

My 11 Questions for the Nominees
1. What is one thing you dream of achieving as a writer?
2. What’s the worst vacation you’ve ever taken?
3. What is one lesson you wish you could drill into every single person’s head?
4. What is the perfect breakfast?
5. If you could eliminate one song from history, which would it be?
6. Do you have a current WIP or writing project? If yes, summarize. If no, come up with something right now and summarize it.
7. What is one thing people often misunderstand or get wrong about you?
8. What’s your favorite animal?
9. What is one activity you absolutely hate doing?
10. What is one “classic” or famous book you’ve never read?
11. What is one thing you love about yourself?
October 5, 2015
Why I’m an Expat in Brazil Part II: Between Meeting & Dating

Some very impressive Humphrey Fellows and me.

It is a long way between meeting someone for the first time and marrying him.

I saw my future husband for the second time early the next morning as I collected the entire group of Humphrey Fellows to escort them to their welcome meeting. As an international studies major, I was in quite the fan-girl tizzy over the Humphrey Fellows, specifically the Fellow from Bhutan. There are only about 700,000 Bhutanese in the world, and I was going to work with one! I’d been bringing her up in conversation regularly for months in an effort to compete with my roommate’s stories from her internship on Capitol Hill.

On that typically humid August morning, I found my Brazilian waiting in the dorm lobby next to the Fellow from Kenya. We chatted as the others slowly trickled down. There was a lot of hand shaking and slow pronouncing of names, my own name included. “It’s pronounced like Lynn, except with a Br instead of an L.” “No, it’s not a boy’s name. That’s Bryan, with an A.” “No, I don’t think my parents knew my name would be unpronounceable to, apparently, the entire world.”

Orientation for an international exchange program is probably the most emotionally exhaustive thing a person can go through that doesn’t involve a birth, a death, or a space suit. A person is expected to navigate a new place, new culture, possibly a new language, and new people, all while jet lagged and in some amount of digestive distress from new food. It’s not a vacation. There’s no sleeping in. I met the Fellows in the lobby at 8:45am for a welcome meeting that started at 9 sharp, and from that moment on for the next two weeks, it was a race to get them registered for classes, bank accounts, cell phones, and long-term housing before fall semester began.

Our Fellows had an added emotional blow as they went from being up and coming stars of their respective professions to nobody.

Welcome to Washington DC! It has the highest concentration of PhDs, law degrees and self-esteem per capita of any city in the world. You are now officially unimpressive. You will not have maids. You will not have secretaries. If you don’t know how to send an email or cook, well…we can teach you how to email. Try not to starve.

Undergrads who study abroad don’t have these problems. They haven’t been on their own long enough to be embarrassed by dependency. The Humphrey Fellows however ranged in age from 35 to 50. They arrived for their year in Washington with impressive CVs and very fragile egos. Working with them taught me how to explain what to do with used toilet paper without sounding condescending.

Culture shock and a complete lack of family and friends explain why I, at 22 with the ink still drying on my diploma, was treated by the Fellows as an equal. Nobody asked me to get their coffee. They asked me to explain the online course registration. They asked me to listen as they cried over how much they missed their kids. They asked me to explain the endless variety of milk in grocery stores. At that moment in their lives, they needed an insiders guide to Americans. I was an American with a ~~embarrassingly~~ fortuitously empty social calendar and that huge fan-girl crush on them. I became the group’s cultural wingman.

I started hanging out with the Fellows on weekends. We went to a coffee shop at Dupont Circle for s’mores. We hit some bars in Adams Morgan and tried out an Ethiopian restaurant for lunch. The group changed depending on who had a paper due or a bad case of culture shock, except for one member: the Brazilian. In my memories he’s always there. Always up for anything. Usually available for lunch. He’d rented a basement apartment close to where I lived, and we often ran into each other on the shuttle heading to and from campus.

But I was so hung up on his resume and the sixteen year age difference, I never imagined he actually thought of me as a fellow adult. I was sure the Brazilian, like the other Fellows, was being incredibly polite to someone helping him. When he paid close attention as I took him through every picture from my semester in India, I must have subconsciously chalked it up to good manners because I would never, NEVER, have brought a photo album to lunch with someone I actually hoped to date.

About a month after orientation, the Korean Fellow invited everyone to his apartment for dinner. I clearly remember a few wonderful minutes in the kitchen as the Brazilian taught me how to make caipirinhas and I tried one. I blamed my flushed cheeks on the cachaça. Later a group of us took the subway home. It was several blocks to the metro station, and the temperature had dropped changing my sandals from cute to extremely impractical. My toes were slowly freezing and I probably would have lost a few, if the Brazilian hadn’t stopped, taken off his shoes, and handed me his socks. He gave me the socks off his feet.

And I still didn’t see the first kiss coming. But that night deserves its own story.

August 10, 2015
How I Met My Husband or Why I’m in Brazil

We met, we married, and I moved to Brazil.

Ten years ago today, I met my husband.

He showed up at the office a day early and if he had been less adventurous or more patient, if he had just followed his orientation schedule, I’d probably still be in Washington DC with an impressive career in international education.

He was one of nine mid-career professionals from around the world being hosted by the Washington College of Law as part of the Hubert Humphrey Fellowship Program. His welcome orientation was scheduled for August 4, 2005. I was spending August 3 sprawled on the floor with my hair in a pony-tail hole-punching, stacking, and assembling orientation binders. At least, that was my plan, but about mid-morning the office manager poked his head into the conference room and told me the Brazilian was at the front desk.

The office manager actually called him, “The Brazilian”. We all did, even program staff at the national level, because no one had a clue how to pronounce his name, which is quite a statement considering the range of nationalities around the office suite. My boss was out of the office, so I got to be the first to hear the correct pronunciation and fail repeatedly to say it. We would be dating before I could correctly say his name.

I saw him as soon as I stepped out of the conference room. He was standing by the reception desk just beyond several ubiquitous office cubicles, including my own, and I thought, “Wow, he’s white. I didn’t know Brazilians could be white.” It was the first in what has turned out to be a lifetime of revelations about Brazil, many of which have revealed an embarrassing number of unconscious assumptions based exclusively on Pelé.

My second thought on seeing him was “He’s really handsome.” My third was “I can’t believe he found this place.” The program office was located in a suite on the bottom level of a building two blocks down from the law school. The suite housed a variety of programs and offices, none of which had found a way to give directions that didn’t get most visitors lost. The Brazilian had successfully navigated the maps and directions while jet-lagged and operating in a foreign language. I was impressed.

But I’d been impressed by him for months. We received a binder on each Fellow that included a medical history, their complete program application with letters of recommendation, and the Fulbright selection committee’s evaluations. The Brazilian came with a letter of recommendation from a Supreme Court Justice and a clean bill of health. Not bad as boyfriend applications go. For my part, I’d been a college graduate for three months.

Truly I don’t know what about me got his attention. Maybe it was my stellar administrative skills or consistent punctuality. Somehow, I managed to make navigating my home country in my native language seem impressive. Thank god for home court advantage.

I wasn’t thinking relationship in that first moment. After recognizing that he was attractive, I went straight to professional mode. I took him on a tour of the school and to the bank. There is nothing romantic about banking or walking around DC at midday in August. Unless pit stains are considered a turn on. We grabbed lunch at the sandwich place across the street where I proved I was strictly business and indifferent to others by ordering the onion smothered Greek wrap. We chatted easily over lunch, and I believe that casual conversation over vegetarian wraps laid the groundwork for everything that followed.

If my boss had been around that morning, she would have been the one to take him to the bank and to lunch. If we had met the next day along with the entire group, we wouldn’t have had the rapport that made me the obvious choice to go with him apartment hunting while the other Fellows opened bank accounts. And if we hadn’t gotten to know one another while touring some rather frightening basement apartments in Northwest DC, it wouldn’t have felt perfectly natural to meet up for lunch periodically over the coming weeks.

By the time we went on our first date, we’d already opened a bank account, shopped for an apartment, and been subjected to a variety of team building exercises together. Rarely has a couple’s compatibility been so thoroughly tested. All we lacked was an astrologer’s blessing.

But all those moments came after that first meeting, when he showed up early and I mispronounced his name exactly ten years ago today.

August 3, 2015
Why I Finally Admitted I’m a Writer

For the past seven years I’ve been writing a graphic novel. I only admitted this to a non-family member for the first time two years ago. I admitted it to close colleagues eight months ago, and then only because I had to give some reason for quitting my job. I was forced to tell my boss the embarrassing truth; I wanted to focus on becoming a writer. Specifically, I’m trying to sell a graphic novel.

Admitting this at work was awkward because none of my 40+ year-old colleagues here in Brazil had any idea what that was. “You’re quitting because you want to write comic books? Like Superman?”

“No, a graphic novel is a medium that can tell any story. They’re actually becoming more mainstream. A graphic memoir by a lesbian cartoonist about growing up with her closeted father who ran a funeral home was nominated for a National Book Critics award.” This explanation didn’t clarify anything for them.

As I suspected, once you tell people you are a writer and take the time to explain what it is you’re writing, they are going to ask about it. Every time they see you. This is why I never wanted to say anything. This is why I hoped to keep it secret until I could direct all inquisitors to their local bookstore where they would find my already published and acclaimed debut on the shelf.

I never called myself a writer because in my mind, a writer who has never published is a failed writer. I have a deeply rooted fear of failure, and so far all I have to show for my writing is 57 rejections.

I have only myself to blame. I chose to write a graphic novel, which is a growing but hardly massive market in the U.S. If I had written a romance or Young Adult, I’d be able to query a new agent a day for years. I set my story in Brazil with a poor, Afro-Brazilian protagonist. When I started writing, I had never read a graphic novel and had to google “format for a comic manuscript”. I’ve also never had a creative writing class in my life. And I can’t draw. At all. Not even a straight line with a ruler.

Thinking about it, 57 rejections aren’t so much surprising as inevitable.

When my husband and I conceived the story over dinner seven years ago, I was recently arrived in Brazil, with no job, and a lot of time on my hands. I outlined the story in detail, taught myself how to write a comic, and wrote the first 25 pages. I knew a story set in Rio de Janeiro should be illustrated. The visual contrast of the luxury and poverty of the city needed a visual element, but 25 pages into the story, my research was revealing extreme odds against ever getting published. Not being an illustrator, having no experience in comics or any area of publishing, and living in Brazil unable to attend conferences or network led me to save the project on a hard drive and forget it.

That was in 2008. I came back to it in 2013. I quietly finished a first draft and sent out a ton of bad queries for an unpolished manuscript and got back 55 polite “No, thank yous.” Naturally, I then decided to quit my job and pursue writing full-time.

Why? What made me finish the manuscript? What made me finally decide to not only pursue writing full-time but also publicly admit it? I became a mom.

My parenting philosophy is to model the behavior I want from my daughter. I want her to drink water at meals, so I drink water. I don’t want her to resort to physical violence, so I never use it on her. I want her to consider fruit a dessert, so I wait until she goes to bed to eat my ice cream.

More than anything I want my daughter to find her dream and follow it, so I damn well better follow mine.

I can’t tell her success takes hard work and dedication if I gave up after only 25 pages. I can’t tell her that failure is ok and a learning opportunity, if I abandon writing after 55 rejections on a first attempt at a first novel. I can’t tell her passion is a wonderful thing, if I’m too embarrassed to openly admit my own.

Today I have a polished and edited graphic novel manuscript, a critiqued query letter, 2 fresh rejections, and a strategy to pursue publication. I have a picture book manuscript recently sent off for critique. I have a detailed outline and the first 10,000 words of a young adult trilogy. I have this blog.

And when I do finally publish my first book, it will be dedicated to my daughter. Because if it weren’t for being a mom, I would never have become a writer.

June 15, 2015
Dear Retailers, Stop Arranging by Color!!

I’d like something yellow. Tshirt, pants, socks, doesn’t matter. I just need yellow clothes.

When was the last time you went shopping for clothes? This past weekend? Last month? If you’re my brother, the answer is about 13 years ago when you could still be forced to accompany our mom. He’s survived off of birthday and Christmas presents ever since. Since those dates are December 21 and 25 respectively, he hasn’t owned a new pair of shorts in over a decade.

For those who can remember your most recent spree, why did you go out in the first place? Did you need new shorts for summer? Had your kid outgrown all his socks? Was it because you needed something orange? Or blue? Was color in any way a factor in deciding to hit the mall?

I’m curious because based on how the stores around me are laid out, color seems to be the primary characteristic people consider when shopping for clothes. Items are not grouped by type of clothing or season; clothing, no matter what it is, is grouped according to color. Miniskirt, pants, tank top, cocktail dress, if it’s any shade of purple it goes on the purple rack.

This is the absolute worst way to arrange clothing! I can’t even walk by a store that does this and not feel annoyed. The person who thought this a good idea was obviously a guy with one semester of design classes and a mom who bought all of his clothes for him.

Normally, I enter a store knowing that I need new shirts for work or a new dress for a dinner party. Even on the rare occasion when I have no purpose other than spending birthday money, I know I will be avoiding miniskirts, culottes, and anything in animal print. I would like to have these items together so that I don’t waste my time digging through them. Never have I entered a store looking only for a color.

Customer: Hi, I’m looking for some piece of green clothing.

Sales Associate: You’re in luck! We have this lovely green blazer or tube top.

Customer: No, those are a forest green. I was hoping for something more lime green.

Sale Associate: Well, we have these pajama bottoms.

Customer: Perfect! I’ll take them.

American college students prepping for a tailgate are the only people in the world who could legitimately have this conversation. This seems like a pretty small demographic to cater to, especially if your store is located in Brazil.

There is a high end retail store on the corner of my block that arranges its merchandise this way. At the moment, the front window has a long rack with every piece of purple clothing in the store. While I think the clothes are pretty I will never shop there. I would have to look through every single piece of clothing because that dressy, warm weather top I want could literally be ANYWHERE in the store.

On principle, I refuse to shop at a store that forces me to look through all of its merchandise. This is, of course, a possible explanation for this mind-bogglingly inefficient organization. I’ve also heard that it’s more visually appealing, an explanation I would accept from an art museum, but no one is walking into an international clothing retailer hoping for a visually arresting experience.

This organizational style is neither unique to Brazil nor done by every store here, but the first time I ever tried to shop in a store laid out this way was in Rio. A friend told me “Oh, this is how stores in Europe do it.” Really? I find it hard to believe that the Germans or Swedes would ever adopt a practice this inefficient. I’ve been in an Ikea. They wouldn’t put a couch with a toilet seat on the grounds they’re both white.

Thankfully, I have the Internet and can do most of my shopping without having to actually put on any of the clothes I’ve previously purchased. But maybe if the store on the corner would arrange its clothing in a more helpful manner, I’d be willing to stop by and look at the lovely skirts those kids in Bangladesh made.

May 18, 2015
The Perks of Not Speaking the Language

Or don’t…depending on the situation.

I have a secret to confess. I speak Portuguese. Please, don’t tell my mother-in-law.

I don’t speak Portuguese fluently. Nothing as impressive as that. I speak Portuguese like a 96-year-old suffering from extreme dementia. My sentences are punctuated by gestures and facial expression to stand-in for words I’ve forgotten, and my responses to questions sometimes have nothing to do with what was actually asked.

“Brynn, what did you do this weekend?”

“No, I don’t like mangoes.”

But more often than not, I can successfully converse, arrange appointments, and get the hair cut and color I actually want. (The correct hair color was something I mistakenly thought I could get after only recently arriving in Brazil with minimal Portuguese.)

While life is greatly improved now that I don’t consistently confuse Monday and Tuesday, there are times when I play the clueless foreigner card without hesitation. I should probably feel bad for perpetuating the ignorant, monolingual American stereotype, but it’s such an effective way to avoid all those tedious conversations that suck up patience and sanity: the chatty person with what sounds like TB at the doctor’s office, the perfume-drenched, close-talking lady from upstairs, all phone solicitors.

I always answer my phone with a thick, American, “Hello.” It’s the perfect screen. Family and friends obviously know where I’m from and aren’t thrown by it. Only salespeople freeze up and give themselves away with a long pause as they try to figure out what to do next. Some hang up. Some ask if they can speak to my husband. Others plow doggedly ahead with their scripts. I cut them all off and say sweetly in English, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak Portuguese. Goodbye.” Click. Conversation over. The salesperson doesn’t feel bad about losing someone they couldn’t talk to. I’m back to watching John Oliver on YouTube. Win-win.

I first employed this trick in Morocco. Describing the young men in Morocco as persistent is like calling the Kardashians’ lifestyle “comfortable.” Tired of being unable to walk two blocks without being asked to dinner and then asked why I was refusing, I answered one man with Croatian song lyrics. Why Croatian? Because in almost every country other than the US, even misogynist assholes can speak more than one language. But with only four million Croatians in the world, I was pretty confident Croatian would not be one of his languages. I was right. The guy stopped talking to me after a couple sentences. He did still follow me all the way back to my hotel, but stalking is way less annoying when done in silence.

Playing dumb also helps avoid awkward conversations with in-laws and before you judge, just imagine Thanksgiving with your in-laws. What if you could avoid awkward conversations about politics or global-warming or when your daughter is getting baptized by simply fumbling the language? “Oh, what? When is she getting her booster shots? Next month.” Wouldn’t everyone be happier if there was just a lot of smiling and complementing of the food?

So before you get annoyed with the woman in the elevator for not speaking your language, check if you’re wearing deodorant, have brushed your teeth recently, and are saying something more interesting than the silence. Then be careful what you mumble out loud. There’s a chance she’s faking it.

Find more fun adventures from life abroad!

April 20, 2015