Upgraded

It's official .. I have my own domain!

It seemed only appropriate that I bite the bullet and get my own url.  I feel like I've committed and it was worth it.  So please update your quick links because my new address is:

www.housewithoutelephants.com

If you use the old blogspot addy it will forward you on, so no worries.  You will also notice a new "Contact" link on the bottom of the right column.  If you have any questions, comments, etc. .. you may now contact me at:

jessie@housewithoutelephants.com

Thank you for visiting and supporting me through the craziness that is my life!  I cherish you as readers and promise to always try to be authentic.  I mean, this is a house without elephants after all ...

Dear Diary...

There is something about that phrase that just feels ridiculous to me.

As a young girl, I always had a little journal with a flimsy lock hidden in my room somewhere.  If you had sneaked into my room, found my hiding place and cracked open the lock, you would have discovered a startling truth:  It was empty.

What you would also have noticed is that there were several pages missing.  Why were there torn out pages, you might ask?  Maybe that’s where all the juicy gossip was written? Were the torn pages hidden somewhere else? Um, no.

The boring truth is that it never existed at all.  There were no heartfelt confessions, no damnation of my parents and no testimony of backstabbing to be had.  I would sit on my bed, with pen in hand and the best of intentions, and prepare to pour my heart out.  In my finest handwriting I would begin “Dear Diary,” and then I would just stop and stare at the page.  What was I supposed to write next? 

It was that next sentence that was always the hardest.  Seeing as the perfectionism started early, even at that age, I could never land on a sentence that I was satisfied with.  At times I managed to get one or two written before inevitably hating what I wrote.  Since I couldn’t just scratch out the offending words because that would look sloppy, I had to tear out the whole thing and start over.  Hence the missing pages.

Some days I would complete an entire entry, lock the journal away, and then bask in the accomplishment.  That is, until I revisited the letter in my head.  I would always find a better way of wording things or wish I had/hadn’t included something.  So back to the journal I would go and into the trash another piece of paper would reside.

Since the whole process was more hassle than it was worth, I quickly quite trying.  I learned to express myself in other ways.  I would sketch drawings in leftover spiral notebooks, write poetry, and in high school I started writing one-act plays and dialogue.  This ended up being, for me, the therapy that journaling can be for others.  It wasn’t until I was contemplating this blog entry that I realized that was me journaling all along.  It just so happened that my version wasn’t chronological, it wasn’t in one secure location, and it wasn’t always written out in words.

The blog is the 21^st century version of the diary and, now that I am older, I am willing to give it another try.  Sentences come easier now so I think I can handle it.  I fully realize that I tend to be a little verbose but I am working on that, too. It seems I have gone from one extreme to the other.  Hopefully this exercise will help me become more succinct as I learn to choose my words more precisely. I don’t know what will happen.  I think it will be ok, though, as long as I never have to start with “Dear Diary” again.

What’s in a name?

So you might be asking yourself, “What does ‘House without Elephants’ mean?”.  Well let me explain…

As I am sure you know, there is a saying referring to “the elephant in the room” and how people tend to ignore it.  I subscribe to a different philosophy which is:  Never ignore the elephant.  I have a sign in my kitchen that says so. It reads “House without Elephants” and I made it after a discussion my husband and I had.  We were talking about the downfalls of some marriages and the fact that a lot of them spawn from the tiniest of issues that have snowballed.

It’s that little annoying habit or remark that started off so innocently and turned into a war.  I know women especially will keep quiet for several reasons that include things like: they don’t want to be a nag, they’ve said something about it and nothing changed, the other person didn’t take them seriously or “it’s just easier to do it myself.”

It IS important though.  You need to pick an appropriate* time and talk about it.  It may feel weird or forced but it needs to be resolved.  If you are in a healthy loving relationship then the other person is going to want to know if it really bothers you that much.  It doesn’t mean that the other person bends completely to your ways; most of the time you both will have to move to meet in the middle.  Welcome to marriage.

(*As a side note - An appropriate time can be defined as: not in front of other people, not when you are emotional, not right when you get into bed and you are both ready to sleep, not when the other person’s favorite show is on (and asking them to pause is not ok either.)  An appropriate time is when there is nothing else going on.  It will be different for every relationship but for me and my husband, we tend to discuss things in the car, over dinner or while we are both channel-surfing and relaxing.)

So what?  Why do I have to talk about it?  No one wants to have “a talk” and it’s awkward.

It’s not weird and you need to do it.  And the reason is because if you don’t it could morph into so much more.  Not picking up your own wet towel can lead to the other person having to do it .. which leads to possibly feeling used .. which possibly leads to feeling underappreciated .. which possibly leads to one person putting more into a marriage than another.  You see how skewed that got?  A wet towel turns into a one-sided marriage.  You can laugh but it happens .. a lot.

Needless to say … our house has become elephant-less.  We don’t sit around sharing our feelings all the time.  It’s not like that.  It’s just the security of knowing that if something does come up, we both have the right to share our opinions freely without scrutiny and the other person will take them seriously.  You should try it.  It’s awesome.

And so it begins...

It’s funny how some things seem so important that you have to take action immediately, in that very moment, and then life happens and it falls unnoticed by the wayside. That is basically the story of how this blog was born.  I was inspired (like so many others) to write a book.  What I failed to acknowledge is the fact that an avid reader, a writer does not make.

I blueprinted my whole story that weekend.  I began mental relationships with a few of my main characters.  I outlined their lives and spun a web I could then lose myself whilst untangling it.  Then it happened.  Something else grabbed my attention for a second too long and, before I knew it, the moment had passed.  I realized the error of my ways and then decided to approach the idea “in a methodical, meticulous sense”.  So I started a blog so that I could practice the daily ritual of writing, all the while fleshing my book ideas out.  That was four months ago.

You see that’s my problem. The “methodical, meticulous sense” part.  I’m a planner.  I’m organized.  I work very hard at having a perfect life "bubble" at all times.  Some people may think this would be bothersome but I embrace that part of me.  So while my left-brain glories in my organizational skills and my ability to make decisions, my right-brain pouts in the corner. Sometimes I truly feel like a walking contradiction.

What do I mean?  Well it’s a long story but I’m afraid I need to start from the beginning…

When I was young I was organized, but not so much so that it drew attention to me.  My stuffed animals were always lined up perfectly and my room never became too messy but, honestly, the average joe would most likely attribute it to scrupulous parents more than their obsessive daughter.  But while my messes were tamer than average, my imagination was not.

I have always had a flare for the dramatic.  Maybe it’s the red hair.  Maybe it’s the Irish-Italian heritage.  I’m not sure what caused it but there is no questioning I have it.  I discovered the stage early.  I danced first and then moved on to theater.  I loved the attention, I loved the costumes and I loved being lost in a character whom I found way more interesting than myself.  In high school I became the president of our high school theatre company for two years which led me to earn a scholarship for college. 

Ah, college.  It is the point in a young person’s life where they must make life-altering decisions without the qualifications of experience and knowledge to do so.  The voices around me encouraged the “doctor/lawyer/indian chief” route so I could “make real money and have stability”.  Needless to say, the day I set off to get my Bachelor’s in Finance and Marketing was the day I kissed a blissfully artistic life goodbye. 

It didn’t go quietly in the night.  There was a little kicking and screaming along the way in the form of community theatre.  My business classes didn’t allow room for art classes, but I tried anyways.  As fun as it was I just couldn’t maintain the pace.  Priorities shifted and I found myself nurturing my left-sided-ness and ignoring my right.

Looking back, I don’t regret it.  The economy tanked about the time I graduated, I was engaged to my wonderful husband and I made no plans to leave the vicinity of my hometown.  With those factors at hand, I would have never made a dime and moving home was not an option.  Four years later, I have a stable job and a quiet life.  Quiet enough for me to hear the faint whines of my right-brain demanding attention.  It says it's cramped.  It says it's bored.  It says it wants room to roam and, really, who am I to deny it?

So here we are.  Full circle.  A way for me to ease back into acknowleding ideas and letting them live a little. This shall be my outlet.  It’s my virtual story board.  A place for me to map out where I want to go and what I want to do.  The only theme to this is me.  I just hope that’s enough.