scraps & lagniappe

dear diary

A story, but first...

Back in the day (which spans the mid 80s to the mid 90s), I kept a journal.  When I was about 11, it was a real deal diary complete with lock and key, where I wrote about goings on in 6th grade and my infatuation with a boy named Allen.  By 8th grade it was John and writing about making friends and losing friends and music. There was always music.  In high school I amassed a collection of journals -- sometimes marbled composition notebooks, hard-backed book journals, random notebooks -- almost any bound paper would do.  

And in those journals I tucked away every thought, emotion, and experience.  First date, first kiss, first heartbreak.  First love, first dark place, first lies.  There were names named and there were things written in a way that only I knew what I meant.  There were pages of poetry, stream of consciousness, well-thought out plans, drawings, song lyrics, letters never sent, and lots of wishes.   I wrote for the school paper, for the city newspaper, and for myself.  Writing for myself, in my journals was always where I felt most at home, using my voice, where there were no rules.  

It was probably 1994 when I gave up journal writing.  By then I was writing papers on dead authors in college. Nothing quite kills an expressive writer like writing about dead writers.

In 2003, I was a mom of a two-year old and needed to send pictures of the munchkin to family, so instead of doing what a normal woman would do, I started a website.  In 2003 there was no such thing as "mommy bloggers."  I posted pictures of the kid and wrote about my life in Canada, my book club, play dates, and snow.

At some point I made the switch from the website to Blogspot, then to Wordpess, then to Typepad.  And at some point I started posting fewer things about mom life and more about my life.  I suppose that's when the blog turned into my journal, where once again there were no rules.  I cared more about writing and entertaining myself than entertaining my family members, which is when other people started reading. Writing is a great form of communication, an outlet, and a way of life for me.  A lot of you get that.  Maybe you kept journals back in the day too.  

So, friends and interwebs strangers, thanks for being there through a difficult week, when I needed to write to feel a connection.  The Facebook notes have been great.  But seriously, no inspirational quotes, I can't take it.  

If I sound jaded it's only because I am.  And I say that with love.  

Love your guts,

Kerry

writing about what I know

So, I thought I would let y'all know about something I've been up to.  Well, one of the things I've been up to, as I'm usually up to something, most of which I can't talk about.  I'm writing for Examiner.com.  What?  You think I just write on this blog for my health?  Nope.  

I was always taught to write about what I know, so I'm writing about plus-size fashion.  I have a little experience with that subject.  This is my page on Examiner, where I have written two articles so far with more to come.  Next I may do an article on getting The Joan Look from Mad Men.  I'm not sure if that's next, but it's definitely coming up.  

Anyway, if posts here are slow, check my page there for fun.  Be good.

on Salinger

 One of the literary greats died this week.  I first read J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye as a freshman at Louisiana Tech, not as a requirement, but because I saw that it was on a list of most influential books of the century and figured I needed to read it.  And so, I went to the school bookstore, bought the little red paperback and brought it back to my dorm room, wrote my name inside the cover, and placed it atop my nightstand (pink milk crates stuffed with books and cds).  I didn't know what the novel was about.  In those days I read many novels for the sole purpose of becoming a better writer myself.  Reading was an important task, not just a leisure activity.

The following Saturday I would read Catcher.  It would take me into the better part of the afternoon, which was fine because I didn't have much going on that weekend.  My roommates were gone, I put cds on the 5-disc changer and set to reading, immersed in the world of Holden Caulfield.  I'd never read Salinger, but found him immediately familiar.  It was the first time while reading that I had noticed the influences of the writers who had influenced me.  To my 19 year-old mind, this was a real discovery.   

My writing philosophy is no different from anyone else -- there is nothing new under the sun.  There are new ways to tell a story, of course, there are new stories, but basically there is nothing really new-new.  Shakespeare laid the groundwork for any romantic comedy you've ever read or seen on screen.  You want drama?  I give you Shakespeare, Dickens, and Papa Hemingway (is there anything more heartbreaking than "Hills Like White Elephants"?  Oh my God.  Note to self: blog about that short story).  You want some mothereffing cerebral Southern-style Greek tragedy?  I give you my boy William Faulkner.  My point is, it's all been done and it's been done well.  

And Salinger was one of the originals.  

Salinger's style was similar to my own style of fiction then, which was greatly influenced by Bret Easton Ellis' Less Than Zero and Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City, as well as Sylvia Plath's Bell Jar.  It was the oddest thing to read a classic that seemed almost as fresh as my favorites written in the previous decade as well as reminding me of stuff I had written.  Talk about bizarre.  

She was blocking up the whole goddam traffic in the aisle. You could tell she liked to block up a lot of traffic. This waiter was waiting for her to move out of the way, but she didn’t even notice him. It was funny. You could tell the waiter didn’t like her much, you could tell even the Navy guy didn’t like her much, even though he was dating her. And I didn’t like her much. Nobody did. You had to feel sort of sorry for her, in a way.

Salinger's narration was nothing less than brilliant, "you had to feel sort of sorry for her, in a way," -- he wasn't just giving you the story, he was telling you how to feel about it.  Don't think that isn't important.  This was new.  I had been exposed to it with Less Than Zero, but Salinger did it first.  He was original. 

It was also the culture of youth that made The Catcher in the Rye stand out, as was LTZ and the other novels I mentioned. What makes writing about youth culture particularly different is the place it brings the reader. What I mean is this: we've all experienced our youth, we remember parts of it fondly, some parts more fondly then others, some parts were sheer torture.  What makes that genre different from other genres is that I will never be an Elizabethan aristocrat or an ex-patriot writer in the Parisian '20s or a bullfighter's girlfriend in Spain.  But I was an insecure teenager once.  I struggled with self-doubt.  I spent a lot of time in my head trying to figure out just who I was, just like some of the characters in the novels I know so well.  We have Salinger to thank for that literary genre.  I'm thankful for that, and for the influence he had on me and the writers in the generation before me.  

Thank you, Mr. Salinger for your words.

...and I can't get a book published

All my life I've been a writer.  I use that term loosely.  I'm a writer-girl.  When I was seven, I wrote and illustrated my first book; it was about a turtle, written on 17 sheets of yellow paper and written in blue ink.  I've always written short stories, lots and lots of fiction, some non-fiction, journals, poetry, and a novel.  And a blog.  

While I've never pursued getting a literary agent (and honestly, now I'd have to do a major re-write on the entire novel), I did send copies of my book off years ago to the big publishing houses, only to get rejection form letters in return.  So, I can't say that I didn't try, and it won't be the end of my writing career either.  I have much more to say, whether I say it on this blog, where I make exactly zero dollaroonies, or if I have a novel published one day and make it to the top of the New York Times Bestsellers List.  Seeing my name on a best anything list would be great.  

I think about writing much of the time.  To be a good writer you have to read, thus, I read quite a bit.  I don't get to read as much fiction as I used to, but I read a good deal of news articles, essays, and blogs.  I visit Neatorama just about everyday for fun as well and something they wrote about books caught my eye today.  They mentioned The Weird Book Room at Abe Books.  I read through the titles of the books on this site and kept thinking "and I can't get a book published."  I'm assuming you haven't heard of these books either, so I feel it is my duty to show them to you as well.  

It's really too bad Christmas has come and gone because How Green Were the Nazis? would have made a great gift for one of my good friends.  I'm thinking with all the gassing and murdering in the Holocaust, the Nazis weren't all that green.  But I could be wrong.  Maybe they were driving electric cars and shit.  Maybe Hitler was an 'effing vegan and only ate free range lettuces and used cruelty-free mustache wax.  That's probably why he was so pissed off, he just wanted a burger.  What are you going to tell me next?  The Nazis were just misunderstood?  They were all about lowering your carbon footprint?  Look for my new book, How Much Does Al-Qaeda Love Kittens, due in bookstores this May!

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I am nothing if not a sports nut (and that I am a fan of the sarcasm).  What I love about this book is that it combines my love of bowling with hypnosis.  How You Can Bowl Better Using Self-Hypnosis sounds like the most helpful of all the self-help books ever written.  What's good about this book is that if you follow the directions to the letter, the best thing that could happen is that you could end up being the best bowler of our generation and make the big bucks on the pro tour and get hot chicks (hey, pro-bowlers can get hookers just like Tiger Woods, they just have to pay for them).  The worst thing that could happen if you use this book is that every time you hear the sound of pins being reset you'll cluck like a chicken and you'd attract strange looks.  

 "But Kerry, I'm not a bowler," you say.  Have I got the book for you.  This is the book for everyone.  Benjamin Franklin said, "The only things certain in life are death and taxes," and it goes without saying you know someone who will need a coffin at some point in the future.  Why not start a new hobby?  Do It Yourself Coffins for Pets and People will teach you what you need to know about building that perfect eternal resting place.  A lot of people agonize over what to do over the loss of a pet, but with this book, you'd have a plan.  I'm not sure what the coffin size range is, though.  So, don't sue me if you can't make coffin for your pet dwarf hamster.  Speaking of size ranges, be careful if you intend to give this coffin to a loved one as a gift.  If she catches you measuring her shoulders, she might think you're getting her something cheesy, like a set of football pads.  Nothing quite says "I care about you, alive or dead" than a coffin.  You know, Valentine's Day is just around the corner, better get started.  

Maybe you're thinking more about your eternal salvation than your eternal resting place.  The Beverly Hillbillies Bible Study Guide may be just what you've always wanted, but never knew existed.  Frankly, I find this blasphemous.  Not about God, about the Beverly Hilbillies, that show was awesome.  You may not know this, but I grew up in the lower-middle class, not even middle-middle, in a less than 1000 square foot, one bathroom house (in what is now pretty much the ghetto).  When I was a kid, I was loved, and being a kid, I didn't know we were poor.  That is until I saw the Beverly Hillbillies and their "cement pond."  I didn't know anyone with a swimming pool until my grandparents got one (above ground, you know, I mean, they weren't MADE of money) when I was ten.  I can only assume that the Hillbillies can teach you more about Jesus than any high falutin' gilded-eded Bible study book could.  

 While we're on the subject, you know, Jesus loves me (it's a song, look it up) and I love Him right back.  I'd be Pope if I could, but alas, I'm a woman and I'm not Catholic, so that's out.  But if I were running for Pope, I'd definitely get this book, How to be Pope: What to Do And Where to Go Once You're In The Vatican.  You'd think they'd just publish one or two of these and pass them down or something.  I'm sure there is quite a bit to know about the job, seriously -- can you imagine the training video?  Good Lord.  Anyway, I think this would be a good book just to have on hand if you're a Catholic male because you can never be too prepared, now can you?  It could be like Publisher's Clearinghouse and they just show up at your door in Pasadena with the Popemobile and the giant hat and say, "come on, Rusty, it's your turn!"  Plus, I'm no Vatican scholar, but I think it's about time there's been a Pope Rusty from Pasadena.

 You know I've saved the most disturbing for last. 50 Ways to Use Feminine Hygiene Products in a Manly Manner is something I saw and said "and I can't get a book published."  

A Mr. B. Koz wrote a book about how men can use pads and tampons to prove, essentially, how much testosterone men have.  Please tell me men aren't shooting ducks with tampon bullets.  That's what the cover looks like.  "Woo-hoo!  Hey, Carl -- did you see how I put that Tampax Pearl in that mallard's ass?  I love huntin' with these things!  Carl, you DID pack the tea sandwiches, didn't you?  For pete's sakes, I hope you used the cranberry mayo this time."  

I repeat, and I can't get a book published.  

it was just an honor to be nominated

I don't know if you heard, but I've been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature  in the lesser known among prizes,  Dumb Blog Category.  Sure, it's not as sexy as the Nobel Peace Prize (which I was also nominated for, being that I haven't murdered anyone in the 35 years I've been annoyed by people) or some of the other prizes, and hell, I don't even get a gold statue like at the Oscars.  It was just an honor to be nominated, so you can imagine my reaction when I got the call.  It went a little something like this:

Me: Hello.

Nobel Prize People: May I speak to Kerry Branton Faler?

Me: For real.

NPP: Um, okay.  Mrs. Faler, this is Georg with the Nobel Prize for Literature Committee.

Me: What the hell kind of name is Gay-org?  Is this a joke?

Georg: It's Swedish, I'm Swedish -- listen, I'm calling to congratulate you for winning our Prize for Literature in the blog category.

Me: Cool!  What do I win?

Georg; A medal.

Me: A medal?  Like a gold medal?  Like the freakin' Olympics?  Hell yeah, it's about time.  My blog is like a damn decathlon of awesome.

Gerog: Well, it's gold-plated.

Me: I'm more of a silver person or platinum, of course. 

Georg: You don't get to pick, Mrs. Faler.

Me: Alright.  This is in Sweden right?  Do I win like a Ikea gift card or something?  I do love the Ikea.  You know, Georg, you could live in an Ikea.  Really, they have food and everything. 

Georg: No, just the medal and there's a reception --

Me: I hope there are Swedish meatballs.  Those are some good.

Georg: The menu hasn't been set yet -- Mrs. Faler, I take it you accept?

Me:  Hellz yeah!  I'm there!  Oh, which post was the winning one or is more of a cumulative thing?

Georg: The award is  --

Me: I bet is was my Christmas post about when I got the Crown Royal bag of change from one of my aunts.  Good times, good times.

Georg: No --

Me: Oh, the New Year's post about when I was stuck at the party when I was 17 and got a ride home from Ray Ray and Tiny? Ah, memories.

Georg; No --

Me: The Eff-it List?  That was funny.  Or maybe y'all go for the more meaningful stuff like my Carry That Weight Post?  I thought that was some mighty fine writing if I do say so myself.  I mean, it was the Semi-Serious Kerry, not the Silly Kerry that writes about way too much about boobs and naked people furniture and 80's post-punk music.  Hey Georg, you know a good band who was Swedish and kinda cool -- Roxette.  I haven't written about them.  Yet.  Maybe one of my music posts won.  I write like two of those a week, but I wouldn't think those would be Prize worthy.  I mean, not when I write such gems as the post on my Thanksgiving trip to Shreveport last year and that insanity, oh and the Ghetto Sno-Kone mobile.  Georg, my blog posts are like my children, I can't pick a fave, you know what I mean?   Come on, Georg, don't leave a sistah hangin'.

Georg: uh

Me: Georg?  Grand Master G, you there?

Georg: Mrs. Faler, it is, as you said, more of a cumulative thing.

Me: Ah, gotcha.  Have you ever read my blog, Georg?

Georg: No, Mrs. Faler, I just make the phone calls.  

Me: Oh, okay.  So, you have no idea what I've been talking about?

Georg: No, Mrs. Faler.

Me: Well, Georg, you'll have to excuse me, I have this undiagnosed-as-of-yet form of Tourette Syndrome, where I talk with absolutely no editing filter, saying potentially embarrassing things.  Like all the time.

Georg: I don't think that's a real disease.

Me: Oh, I beg to differ, Georg.  If I didn't have it, why would I have said the words "Hello Kitty vibrator" while having lunch with friends a couple of months ago?   I mean, normal people don't just blurt that out over pizza, Georg.

Georg: No, of course not. 

Me: And I didn't even realize I said it until I told another friend and she said "you said 'Hello Kitty vibrator' out loud in front of so and so" and I said yes, because I obviously cannot control it and like that sort of thing just comes up in conversation.  That's what I'm talking about -- having no editing filter, so just ignore what I said about boobs and naked people furniture, okay?

Georg: What kind of blog did you say you write?

Me: Shouldn't you have that in your handy-dandy info, Georg? 

Georg: My information says that you write a hobby blog on scrapbooking.

Me: Yeah, about that -- it started out being about that, but kind of went in a different direction, hence the "lagniappe" part.  That means "a little something extra," except that my blog is mostly lagniappe.  And clothes and Beyonce and sometimes I live-blog stuff and talk about the crap you can buy in the Sky Mall catalog.  Oh, and sometimes I even post something about scrapbooking.  

Georg: It was a pleasure speaking with you, Mrs. Faler, but I have to call a few more Prize winners now.

Me: Same here, Georg.  Hey, you know -- you should show up with balloons and a giant check like the Publisher's Clearing House people, that would be cool.

Georg: But we give medals --

Me: I can't wait for those meatballs, Georg!  You take care now! 

islands in the stream of consciousness

So, I've spent all day in front of not one, but two computers working on the ScrapFest! site, composing an email for da Fest, and making new graphics.  Yeah, it's been awesome.  What else did I do today?  Waited on the new mattress to be deliverd.  Don't be jealous.  I'm tired and in bed, but can't sleep because I'm all wound up from Grey's Anatomy.  Damn show.  So, here's more stream of consciousness, because attempting a real post would take real thought and I'm hoping the Unisom will kick in any minute.  Am I too honest with you people?  Probably so. 

My life is an open book.  Or at least a magazine.  Probably an old one in a doctor's office with a couple of pages torn out, but still readable. 

I can't wait for the new recession reality show "Who Wants to Marry a Guy With Decent Credit?"  Totally stole that from Jimmy Fallon.  It's late and that made me laugh. 

Project Runway is making me quite angry this season because Michael Kors and Nina Garcia haven't been on in 4 episodes and if I don't hear someone say "that dress looks like a $50 hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold prom" soon, I'll refuse to watch the rest of the series.

I didn't get any cell calls for three days and realized it yesterday.  After rebooting my iPhone, I had a brazillion messages, so people really do like me after all.

The barista at PJ's thought it would be funny yesterday to tell me they were out of the stuff to make a mocha.  I yelled "don't do that to me!" at her.  You don't joke with people about their caffeinated beverages. 

Andrew has show and tell at school Friday. This will obviously be more show than tell.

I made a great joke to my neighbor this morning while waiting for the school bus, but she's German and has never heard "Hee Haw," so it was a joke wasted. 

When the delivery guy showed up today, he asked where I wanted the new mattress.  I considered telling him to set it up in the kitchen.  On the phone, when he called for directions, he said "you got the 666 mattress?" say what?  The Satan mattress?  I don't think so.  Then he said "king size?"  I said yes.  He then went on to mispronounce my last name in a way I've never heard (and I've heard them all - Faller, Taylor, Sailor) and when I told him where my subdivision was, he said "oh, off Bootlegger Road?"  then pronounced the name of the subdivision wrong and said "we'll see ya."  I specifically asked for a time frame and his window was "we'll see ya."  Thanks, Bubba.

I had to defriend someone from Facebook the other day for several counts of douchebaggery and general stupid foolitis.  Pitying fools is tiresome.  I think I'll leave it to Mr. T for a while.

Our bus driver does the pageant wave when he passes our house.  This is equally funny and disturbing.

I forgot to wish y'all a happy first day of fall the other day and I apologize.  I love fall.  It's awesome for lots of reasons, but mainly because I get to use one of my favorite words -- autumnal.  It's fun, try it.  Next time someone compliments your mantle or whatever, say "oh, yes, maize is always part of the Faler autumnal decor" or at Starbucks, "I'll have the pumpkin spice latte, it's one of my autumnal favorites."

My new Pottery Barn sheets are the softest ever.

The Target didn't have Folex the other day.  This is a travesty.

Last weekend I sent the hubs upstairs to print something for me.  This was the first time he has used my iMac.  When he came downstairs I asked him what he thought of it and he said it was okay, but the zebra scared him.  Then I remembered that for some reason I picked a big ole zebra face as my wallpaper for fun

The Lucy dog ate beef jerky and got sick, then I learned what "step into a Slim Jim" really means.

Y'all be good.  Come back Sunday for an 80's rewind.

goodbye, John Hughes

One of my heroes passed away today. 

John Hughes was a brilliant screenwriter and director and I know much will be written about him in the coming weeks about his contribution to the film industry, his impact on my generation, and the group of actors he introduced to America.  And while I marvel at those things, what sticks out in my mind is how he was able to develop characters like Andie Walsh, Samantha Baker, John Bender, Philip F. Dale, and of course Ferris Bueller. 

Those  characters had depth you don't see much in film anymore.  That saddens me.  Ferris wasn't just a guy who wanted to skip school any more than  Sixteen Candles was a movie about a girl's birthday.  Hughes made us care about his characters.  I was 12 when Pretty in Pink came out and saw it at the old Joy Theater in Shreveport, LA.  I knew little of the social dynamics of school at the time, which was the theme of the film -- but I knew I loved Molly Ringwald's character because she believed in herself.  She was cool.  She had style.  When I reached high school, I appreciated the movie on different levels.  I understood the social element, the romantic element, and the setting.  PIP was the first movie I HAD to have the soundtrack of, which, as I have blogged before, I have replaced more than any record, tape, or cd I've ever owned. 

Hughes got teens.  He didn't talk down to them, he didn't dumb-down his movies.  He presented his stories and gave us something to think about as well entertainment.  I miss that in film and hope someone will take up his mantle. 

I've found a few of my favorite short scenes from my favorite Hughes films for you tonight.  The first and the last are great scenes without dialogue, the others are great lines.  Enjoy.   And watch a Hughes flick this weekend. 

what would hemingway do?

The Pottery Barn catalog came yesterday.  Usually I flip through the catalog and toss it, but not today. 

Someone at PB has read my mind.  As I've written about before here on the blog, I'm a sucker for typewriters.  I love everything about old typewriters -- the ding one makes when the carriage returns, the sound of hitting keys, and smack of the letter striking the page.  I love the way typewriters look, the anti-tech of the machine.  I love that my favorite old authors were discriminating typists and that my man Hemingway would only write on a Royal. 

I have to think he would approve of my next purchase.

Those are six beautiful canvases, aren't they?  

Writers are a weird breed, as I've said on occasion.  We have little superstitions, write only with certain pens, are fond of particular notebooks, specific times of day to write, but that's not all.  Weird things about writing creep into everyday life.  Like these canvases.  I haven't made up my mind as to where to hang them.  Common sense says the scrap office, but these are so special they may hang in the living room on the wall I still haven't figured out what to do with after four years in this house.  I'm fairly certain they will be hanging on that wall soon. 

I'm working on a post for later tonight, but right now I'm going to check Ebay for that elusive  Olivetti Valentine.

350

Dear Friends and Readers,

Here's hoping this day is treating you especially superfantastic and you're having a good hair day, you found five bucks in your pocket you forgot about and you did that cool look you give to the mirror when you know you're looking cute (oh come on, you know you do it too).  Why?  Because you're my interwebs friend and we spend a couple of minutes together a few times a week and I want you to know that I appreciate you coming here.  You could be off reading the news (bor-ring, kidding, y'all know I'm a news junkie) or looking at lolcats  (love me some lolcats), but you're here and that's great. 

So, why am I all mushy and thankful?  Because it's a special post day in The Kerry Blog world.   I suddenly feel the urge to write "tonight on a very special Blossom."  Girls my age will get that.  Anyway, this post makes 350 posts on The Kerry Blog, Scraps & Lagniappe.  That number comes from the Wordpress entries I migrated over to Typepad, combined with the Typepad posts.  That's not counting the first two versions of the blog (I'll go into that shortly).  Y'all know I can't do math, Typepad shows how many posts there are on the dashboard, I didn't count anything, don't worry -- my head isn't going to explode. 

35o. 

That's a lot of words, pictures, random musings, lists, rants, music, letters, videos, and a whole lot of TMI.  I'm not fond of the acronym TMI.  I tend not to like anything in all caps, plus it makes me think I'm trying to spell Tim, but I got dyslexic for a second.  I'm not dyslexic, but my brain is faster than my typing (and I type pretty fast), which explains all the mistakes and ommitted words you've seen in this blog.  ADHD is something else, obviously I can't stay with one thought for more than two sentences.  See, I did it again.  Back to the subject of too much information -- in "real life" I'm not one to over share, save for a few close friends and the hubs, but for some reason on the blog, I tell you people semi-personal things that in a day or so after I write, I've forgotten about.  Then someone stops me in Target and says "that was funny about your bra sticking up past your shirt."  And I'm all, "yeah, that was funny,"  trying to think of why this person knows about my bra issues (of which there are many) and wondering if I have multiple personalities, one being a stripper.  Then as I walk away, I realize it's from the blog.  I'm guessing this kind of thing doesn't happen to most of you. 

The funny thing about this blogging thing is you may start out blogging about one thing, and end up with something very different. 

I started my first blog on Homestead back in in 2002 when the hubs' job brought us to Ft. McMurray, Alberta, Canada as a way to easily have one place for our family back in Louisiana to see what we were up to, pictures of Molly (and later, Katie), pretty normal mom stuff.  In October of 2004, I found myself bored.  We'd moved to Mandeville, where the hubs grew up, and his job once again sent him out of the country.  This time it was Afghanistan.  It was the first time our little fam was living apart and I found myself pretty depressed and emotional, which wasn't fun.  I'd joined the MOPS group at our church and started scrapbooking again with some friends I'd made in MOPS, but I was missing the hubs terribly.  Then two weeks after he'd left for the Middle East, I started thinking maybe I wasn't just a little emotional and lo and behold, the EPT test didn't lie.  I was put on light bedrest and grew very addicted to the computer, since I couldn't do many of the things I was used to doing, and so, being bored out of my mind, I started a blog on Blogspot.  It was a very family-oriented blog, lots of pics of the kids, a few funny stories, and for the most part, short entries, nothing big.  The pic is from the era of the Blogspot blog taken at the Audubon Aquarium.  Molly's running out of frame and Katie is attached to my hip.  I was rockin' the twinsets as you can see (y'all know I don't post many pics of myself -- goodness, and full length at that, so enjoy).

As moms do, I got busy with the things of life, neglected my blog and pretty much abandoned it.  When I attempted to start blogging again, I found the Blogger platform a little limiting (this was two years ago before the new Blogger rolled out) and switched to Wordpress, deciding I would focus on having a scrapbooking blog.  Scrap & Lagniappe was born.  The name meaning it would be scrapbooking and a little something extra. That lasted a whole 8 posts before I read about a woman who was suing Victoria Secret because a rhinestone or something popped off her thong and hit her in the eye -- this was clearly something I needed to contribute my thoughts to.  That was the day I found my blogger voice, so to speak.  Sure, it was to expose the tackiness/ridiculous in the world (and make fun of it mercilessly), but someone had to do it.  Occasionally I post scrapbook layouts, but it turned out this blog became more about the lagniappe.  And that's fine with me. 

Apparently it's fine with you too, because I have more readers than ever.  Last week's Grey's Anatomy Finale post was a record night, with over 870 hits in two hours -- that's something I never expected when I started this little blog.  And it's still my little blog.  As you may have noticed, there is no sponsor of this blog, no advertising, no PayPal tip jar -- this is my outlet for sharing (and over-sharing) part of my day with you.  Many of you are friends from childhood, high school, college, and so on.  I think most of the family stopped reading long ago (irony, man).  Many of you are friends of friends.  Many of you I've never met, will probably never meet, and that's okay, I appreciate you stopping by just as much as my bestest friends.  What's still not okay with me is that the comments aren't working, but I've gone on about that enough in other posts, I suppose. 

I thought that since this is a post about you, I'd share some things I find interesting about you.  This week there have been as many of you in Melbourne, Australia reading as in Shreveport/Bossier, LA where I grew up.  You have no idea how much that makes me laugh.  The hometown is almost getting beat by the Aussies.  Somehow, I always knew I'd be big in Australia (that's a joke, yo).   I've been visited this week by people all over the interwebs: from Modena, Italy to Mountain View, CA from Tokyo to Murfreesboro, TN and everywhere in between. 

This week's top keyword searches that brought some of you to this blog were:

Brandon Flowers INXS
TJ Maxx commercial redhead
Skymall happy feet
why does hank williams jr always wear sunglasses (yes, I mentioned this once)
vampire scraps (I don't even understand that one)
"i miss you i miss you i miss you" 80's song (that would be "Cut Here" by the Cure)
what not to wear dr appointment
Anna Bess Simmons (shout out to AB!  woot-woot)
and
sky scrap for ceiling (I don't get that one either)

So, that's the ins and outs of The Kerry Blog.  That's the past and the present.  So, what's for the future?  Your guess is as good as mine as life goes on this long and winding road.  I can tell you that as long as wacky things happen to me, I'll write about them; and as long as there are wacky things happening in the world, I'll write about those too.  After all, someone has to be here to tell you about her crush on Anderson Cooper and the stuff that passes for news.  Someone has to ask the hard questions and live-blog award shows.  Someone has to tell you what tunes you need on Tuesdays and give you a Sunday rewind to the 80's.  But, for the immediate future, here's a heads up: the blog will get a complete make-over at the end of June.  That's right, people, I'm taking it bigtime.  Or something like that, since I've commissioned a real blog designer to do it.  And in July, the month of my birth, I'm predicting high anxiety as I turn the numero 35.  I am not happy about this, because I don't feel 35, whatever that feels like, and I'm pretty sure that's officially thirtysomething.  Last year on my birthday, I wrote the 34 things I know, this year it will be 35 things.  I'm hoping I've learned a few things so I'll have something to write about, 'cause at this moment, I got nothing. 

Once again, thank you for reading.  I'll see you back here tomorrow or the day after with something new.  Be good. 

xxxooo,
Kerry

I shoulda been a screenwriter

There are a few things in life that I know for sure: 

9 to 5 jobs aren't for me.
Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
The Beatles recorded the best songs in the history of popular music.
If there is a puddle anywhere in the vicinity of where we are, my children will find it.
Elvis is everywhere.
If I decide to sleep in one of my neighbors will mow their grass at 7 am.
Jesus loves me.
Thanks to my Mammaw Patsy's recipe, I make the best sweet potato pie on the planet. 
Children and Sharpie markers do not mix.
I will be the person the crazy person in the checkout line decides is their new BFF.
It's okay to be yourself.  Yourself is pretty cool. 
Every scrap of paper and envelope with a phrase or poem I've written will be found one day and I will be the modern Emily Dickinson. 

The last thought has stayed with me the last few days.  Dickinson had fewer than a dozen out of 1,800 poems published in her lifetime and posthumously became one of our most celebrated American poets.   While I'm not primarily a poet (save for my vicious haiku), I have had about as much success as a published writer as the Belle of Amherst, so far anyway. 

As I've pondered this: my love/hate relationship with writing and the difficulty an undiscovered author has getting one of the publishing houses to look at a manuscript, let alone getting having an audience of readers (unless Oprah happens upon your book, then look out); I've come to a realization.  I should have been a screenwriter.

Here's a haiku for you.

Oprah, read my book

it's a love story, kinda

it's one girl's story

Okay, so I'm thinking the one industry where you can garner an audience and have your name in front of millions is in film.  Granted, people wouldn't be reading my work, at least it would be out there.  And if it was good enough for F. Scott Fitzgerald when went broke, then heck if it isn't good enough for Kerry Branton Faler.  Hell, I don't even have anything to sell out to.  Fitz was a brilliant author, I'm just a girl who can write a decent sentence every once in a while.  

And besides that, you don't have to be brilliant to be a screenwriter.  What am I talking about -- you don't have to be mediocre these days.  Have you seen what's making it to screens near you?  For the life of me, I can't figure out how I can get published, and yet I see trailers for Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus.  It's a real for real movie.  I'm not making this up.  It stars Lorenzo Lamas and Deborah (Debbie) Gibson and some big ass sea creatures.  Don't believe me?  Fine.  Here's the trailer.  

Yeah. 
That's a movie.  Someone named Jack Perez is the writer and director.  That's right, he wears two hats on this film.  Two. 

I'm going to self-publish something and I'll direct the heck out of the movie, too.  I'll star in the movie!  I have no acting experience, but neither did Debbie Gibson and she's in the big ass shark vs ginormous freakin' octopus movie!  Maybe I should switch genres and write science fiction.  I could write about aliens and monsters and stuff.  As long as the aliens and monsters have inner dialogue and anxiety.