The Slipperiest Handle of All

Written by contributing writer: Amelia Estelle Dellos

Now, my title is rather ominous, a bit dramatic, and for you, it may not even be true. So, let's say the title really should be My Slipperiest Handle. Are we cool now? There were many things that threw me about being a mom, there were many things I just wasn't prepared for. No, this isn't one of those "nobody ever tells you" stories, because Lord knows, I have written enough of those. This is about me and my story. If there was some sort of universal classification code for people, mine would be DREAMER. That Supertramp song Dreamer should be my anthem. Some days, not the particularly good days, the lyrics float through my head, especially the refrain, which goes:

" Dreamer, you know you are a dreamer,

Well can you put your hands in your head, oh no!
I said dreamer, you’re nothing but a dreamer."

The surprising thing for me is that being a mom reminded me that I had dreams. After becoming a mother, all these latent dreams that I stuffed down deep inside me suddenly resurfaced. I remembered that I wanted to be a writer. During my twenties, and a good part of my thirties, I hid my dreams from myself. I hopped from job to job thinking that this job would be "it." I took classes. I went to grad school. I hired a life coach. For years, I ran around in circles just chasing my tail and ringing my hands trying to find the thing I was meant to do. Then boom, I had a baby, and it was like the sky opened up, the heavens sang out, "You are a writer." Yay for me I am a writer! Yippee! Call the papers, Amelia Estelle Dellos is a writer. Now what?

I started writing a blog, me and 200 million other mommies. These days, I think they send you home from the maternity ward with a blog template. I spent a year and a half writing a Chick Lit book. It was rejected from 40 agents. When Twilight writer, Stephanie Meyers sat in Oprah's big puffy white leather chair and proclaimed, "I never wanted to be a writer. I sent it out to five agents before I got signed." I wanted to reach through my flat screen TV and poke her eyes out! So, I didn't get instant acclaim, an agent, sales, movie deals, or bags of money. Instead I got experience, each project allowed me to hone my writing and to develop my voice. It allowed me to practice my art. The blog also gave me something that writers never get -- instant gratification. You can work for a year and a half pouring your heart into every page to have an agent say, "I’m afraid I wasn’t as crazy about the overall writing style as I hoped I’d be. Of course this is a highly subjective process. So while I’m sorry not to be the right for your novel, I hope you soon find an agent who is." It's affirming to receive emails from readers who like your work, and are crazy about your overall writing style.

There are days when I am writing, when I am in the zone, the muse and I are on a first name basis that life is good, real good. And then there are days when, I am working as my own agent, producer and manager and it seems as though maybe this writing thing wasn't such a good idea. When I am confronted by the reality of our late mortgage payment, and an errant producer and I just can't ignore the knots that have taken up permanent residence in my stomach. I wonder if it is time to take that little dreamer with her hands on her head and stuff her back into her hiding place.

At the moment, because the producer I was working with went MIA, I am working as an executive producer on my passion project. Not by choice, but out of necessity, I found that I have a talent for bringing the right people together. It was in that moment, that I realized being a dreamer isn't the problem, waiting around for someone to make those dreams come true, therein lies the real problem. How do I navigate my slippery handles? Honestly, day, by day, hour by hour and minute by minute with the knowledge that I am the person responsible for making those dreams my reality. I have also learned not to think about the future so much because some days can just be more "slippery" than others.

Amelia Estelle Dellos, creator of Momma's Little Helper, is a columnist, screenwriter, blogger, and a holistic intuitive. To find out more visit Intuit YOU. Her current passion project, is her screenplay and documentary, Courting Bertha. Recently, her romantic comedy, Other Plans, was optioned by director Joe Eckardt and Rock On! Films. For more info, please visit Amelia’s IMDB profile.

High-maintenance Much?

OK, so I am usually a very patient flyer. I have things down to a science, including how to travel with a well-behaved infant. It is a science that apparently some people do not value. One that requires research & preparation & manners. Selfish travelers do not realize that their obnoxious behavior is magnified in tight quarters. This is where my patience gets slippery.

I prefer my window seat and know how to navigate the tiny space, so as not to intrude on your personal area. Why is that so hard for you? In just 30 minutes in to this current flight, the high-maintenance chick in the seat next to me has done the following:

1) Started us all off with her stinky salt & vinegar super-sized bag of chips. She proceeds to eat the entire bag, one chip at a time. Each one requiring her to nibble it down until the remaining crumbs were wiped on her $300 jeans. In between, flicking her fingers in the air to remove whatever crumbs might be left, quick finger run through her very long, blonde extentions & on to the next chip. All of this is both visually & auditorally assaulting, as well as rude.

2.) She blasts her air vent in the already ridiculously cold plane & spends 15 minutes digging through her bag for her blind-fold, ear plugs, wool sweater & cashmere blanket. Sure, we don't mind freezing, as long as you are comfortable.

3) Was told three times that they do not have the cheese plate for sale on this flight. She ordered one of the snack boxes, realized it wasn't the cheese plate & rang the flight attendant button repeatedly until they returned to tell her AGAIN they do not have the cheese plate. She orders a different snack box. Second verse same as the first. She angrily explains that she CAN NOT eat "this junk." To this, I almost choke on my Bloody Mary. Didn't you just devour a family sized bag of potato chips? "Would you like a protien bar?" I ask. "I have plenty." She responds with a snarky "no." Not a "thank you anyway" or some other polite response. Bitch! She finally decides on the third snack box, which she savagely tears apart & finds herself back to mutilating yet another bag of chips.

4.) She refuses to put her laptop in her carry on, so she has it pulling down the pouch in front of her. She obviously could care less that the pouch is attached to the seat in front of her. Each time she knees it, which is every few seconds, because she can not sit still, she wakes the poor little kid in front of her who then begins to cry and his poor mom is forced to pull out whatever stops she can to settle him back down AGAIN. Of course, it is this poor mom who feels the pressure & is receiving the dirty looks, not the rude potato chip monger sitting next to me causing the real rukus.



5) Now, she polishes off a candy bar.

6) She has spread her tiny size zero frame across both armrests & moving across seat lines with all her contrapments.



7) She needs those ear plugs because she snores & gurgles. So, loudly, in fact, that even blaring my music will not drain it out. (notice the lady in the background pushing her headphones to her ears to try to escape the horrific sounds coming from this one)

I am about to crack & wondering if I can get away with scribbling "high maintenance" on some part of her body without her noticing. I probably can, since she thinks she is the only one here.

Born to be a Malibu Hippie

There is not much better for me than a regular early morning walk along most any beach, but Malibu is my favorite for so many reasons. The scenery, the vibe, the mix of success meets "It's whatever" attitude. Surfers, dogs, kids in pajamas with perfectly untrimmed, suneached hair, dolphins, celebrities taking an uninterrupted morning run attempting a moment of unguarded freedom, smiles with a soul behind it. It is the walk I always wish would go on forever. The one I hate to end.

As I finish this morning, I can't help but make a few observations, all of which make me love my 'bu all the more:

1. Malibu surfers are always adorable - young, old. Male, female. Adorable.
2. Young, cute male surfers have an average of 4 kids. Often all tiny boys under the age of 6 & a cute baby mama with flowing hair hiding under an "O'Neill" hoodie.
3. Malibu neighbors are never uptight, love wine & have a "what's mine is yours" attitude.
4. Three year olds can indeed hang ten!
5. Every dog you encounter is painfully cute, always friendly & free to roam for as long as they'd like, but always knows their way home. There are a lot of free-wheeling pups.
6. Everyone's entire day revolves around the tide schedule & nothing much else.
7. Wine goes down faster.
8. Sleep is sounder.
9. Laughs are more plentiful & come from a much deeper place.
10. I was born to be a Malibu hippie.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Every "Road" Has Its Thorns

It has been far too long since I have spent time really focused on thinking, shoot...breathing, let alone writing. That is never good for anyone, in my opinion, especially me. I am a thinker. An analyzer. A think it through, write it down, work it out & move along kind of gal. When there are moments when I let life interfere with my "process," I usually end up sliding slowly down a very slippery slope. This seems to be one of those times.

I do a lot of writing when I travel. Always have. It is cathartic for me to block out all the things that bother me about airplanes, airports, random travelers and focus on all that has been spinning around in my brain. Organizing the words. Contemplating life. It has been awhile since I have been on an airplane - another break in what was a regular routine. I'm also an escapist who needs to "run" every now and then. And, in order for it to work, it has to be far enough away to require a plane ticket. It has been awhile, it seems, since I have been able to do alot of the things that define me. That soothe my normally anxious & itchy soul. So, here I sit finally starting to feel a little more like me in my preferred window seat, perfectly worn in jeans, the only tshirt suitable for long flights in order to avoid looking like a shlub, yet OK for assuming my curled up napping position with my memory foam travel pillow.

I have been a professional & solo traveler, since I was six years old. It is odd to sit next to my own six year old now as she watches a DVD & think of her making this trip alone while sitting next to the super creepy guy sharing our aisle. Yeah, that will not be her row to hoe - ever.

I always bring three magazines per leg. It doesn't matter the length of trip. You never know when you will get delayed & you can always read them later. As I was flipping through magazine number two, I caught a blurb about Miley Cyrus remaking the song "Every Rose Has Its Thorns." My first thought was not of me listening to the original song in a place I shouldn't be drinking something I shouldn't belting it out obnoxiously like I shouldn't have been. It was "ain't that the truth!" When I first heard that song, the biggest thorn in my rose was a cheating boyfriend or a missed party. Ha! Who would have thought those would seem like small potatoes one day?

As I sit here today and think about that song...those words...I realize that the real truth is that no matter what path you travel, you are going to have your share of thorns. In the end, it is really about learning how to deal with them, rather than trying to choose a path without them. That will be a life spent bobbing & weaving rather than climbing and enjoying the experience on your way up. A life of spinning your wheels, but really getting nowhere for fear you might get pricked. You WILL, so just know that, embrace it & bring tweezers.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Don't Break the Ice

Have you ever heard of the kids game "Don't Break the Ice?" I am not sure of all the rules anymore, exactly, but it's this game where you put a little plastic guy somewhere on the playing board made of these little plastic ice cubes and then each player takes a turn tapping on of the plastic ice cubes little by little until that cube falls. The game continues until the little guy is forced to come crashing down, because there are no cubes left to hold him up. The one who makes him fall is the loser. Looking back on it now, it seems like a dumb game. Poor little plastic guy. He's gotta fall. He can't make a break for it. Poor kid who has to make him fall... I always felt guilty if it was me. Not that I lost, but that I had to be the one to take the little red guy out. I guess that is a good translation for my life... guilt. But, at least in a game of "Don't Break the Ice" you can choose not to play. You gotta live your life. You can't just choose not to play. I mean, some do, but that is never a good outcome. Ahhh, just like the game. Did we just come full circle talking about a kids game vs. real life?

The point I was trying to get to here was do you ever feel like that little red guy just being put in a shitty situation without being able to choose and then having to stand there while little by little life begins to chip away at the steady ground around you? You feel like you can't run or say "hey buddy, back the fuck off!" You feel trapped there. Waiting and hoping someone or something calls life away for dinner and then they forget that you were standing there on thin ice.

I think we all have those days. At least, I hope we do or else I really feel like a jerk. I have to remind myself that that game got really old, really quick & it ended up God knows where. I like to think that the little red guy climbed his way out of that box and found himself some steadier ground with a voice & life without all that anxiety. I am then able to remind myself that when I am feeling like life is chipping away around me, it is temporary. And, if the ice does break, well, the little red guy always survives.