Jan 30, 2018 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
I just want to remind y’all, before reading this post, that I’m the Bohemian Hurricane. Do with that knowledge what you will, and read on:
So, y’all know I took a new job last summer, right? After years of sitting in an office, doing same-ol’-same-ol’ stuff day after day, my friends convinced to apply for an open position at the local newspaper. Now I’m rocking my own territory and going in and out of the office and car and meeting and greeting and creating and marketing and it. is. awesome.
And because I’m out of the office more often than not, and because it’s a big, windy [that’s wine-dee, as in go-here-there-and-everywhere, not win-dee, as in winnie-the-pooh-and-the-blustery-day], multi-hallwayed building, I was pretty pleased when my reporter friend found me at the break room vending machine and led me through the labyrinth to *gasp* another vending machine.
There. In the back. Past the printing press. Through the automated stackers. Beyond the double doors and to the left-left-right-left of what I thought was the end of the building. There I found my delight. Cheez-It crackers.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time Cheez-Its Made Me Lose My Way
So this is when I confess share my love for these salty, flavorful bites. Like, I will go to the store for just these little babies if I have to. I’m serious. They are delicious with mini marshmallows. Especially when those marshies are roasted. [HOME HACK: mini marshmallows + fondue fork + pocket lighter = yum/fun.]
It’s like a cheesy S’more (Hey. Don’t knock it til ya try it.)
Frankly, My Dear . . . : How I Roast Marshmallows (Don’t Try This at Home)
And last week, I was craving these like a Southerner eats grits in the mood for something simple, so I meandered back to where I thought the other vending machine was. [Did ya catch the “thought” part of this statement? That’s gonna be important, dontchaknow.] But I ended up in a supervisor’s office. Thankfully he’s a nice super, so he walked me [most of] the rest of the way, and pointed. “Through those doors. No, not those doors. Those doors.”
“Got it,” I nodded. Not getting it.
And this would have been a good time to already have had the crackers, or something, to leave a trail so I could get back easily.
Oh, you already know where this is going, right?
I find the room. The vending machine. The crackers. My heaven. And then I turn around to go back.
Now, I’m not a fan of doing the not-working thing. Even if it’s just five extra minutes away from my desk to grab my Cheez-It happiness. So, I’m feeling a little rushed. A little anxious. A little, oh-my-gosh-would-someone-just-put-up-a-sign-already stress.
The press wasn’t running at the moment. In fact, no one was there. The lights were off. Which makes heels click a little louder in the behemoth machinery room.
It felt a little a lot like those stalker movies you see. Or the part in a horror film when the girl is being followed by the monster in the red cape, only she doesn’t know she’s being followed by the monster in the red cape. And she’s wearing bright, there’s-no-way-to-camoflauge-this clothing.
And then I couldn’t remember if it was those doors, or those doors. Or maybe it was those doors. Because I was facing the opposite way when Super told me. So now, well, I just don’t know.
Wait. There’s a sign.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Do Not Enter
Yup. That’s a sign.
Okay. Not those doors. And apparently not those doors, either. So, it’s just those doors. Got it. Phew. I mean, if I was writing a murder mystery, I’d begin to think this could turn out quite badly for someone like me.
I thought maybe I should slip my shoes off and tread lightly, but then the floor might be covered with tiny staples or paper pieces. Last thing I want is a paper cut on my foot, right? Especially when I have to run fast to escape the red-caped nothingness that by now I’m sure is breathing down my back. [Dang, those things move quickly out of sight when I turn around!]
I’ve been away from my desk phone work for about six-point-eight minutes now. I wonder how long I have to be gone before they realize my purse and coffee cup are still there … without me?
“She never goes anywhere without her coffee cup.” “Do you think something’s happened to her?” “Nah. Think she’ll mind if I take her crackers? Oh, wait. She doesn’t have any today.” #businessasusual #thankyouverymuch
And then some day, soon I hope, they’ll find me. Cowered in a corner. Licking cheese cracker crumbs off my finger tips and laughing maniacally. Because whatever was chasing me didn’t get me. And I didn’t give up the Cheez-Its.
I made it back to my desk after another right-left-left-right turn fiasco. Then it was retrace-left-left-right-right. [Insert expletive here.] Retrace-retrace-right-right-left-right. [Murmur of appreciation.] [Uhm, maybe more like get-out-of-my-way-I’m-happy-dancing-like-I-won-the-lottery kind of utterance.]
Super: “You find them okay?”
Me [feeling much like Kevin, the bewildered Park Security Guard in The Village]: “Yeah. Sure. No problem.” Please don’t look at me. I rarely recover well from awkward.
Super [Not looking up, much like the older, wiser Security Guard in The Village]: “Good.”
I expected him to say “It’s a really easy gig, Kevin . . . Don’t cause me any troubles.” Thankfully, he didn’t.
So I went back into the woods, delivered the Cheez-Its to my desk, and tried to forget Those (Awkward Moments) We Don’t Speak Of.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time Cheez-Its Made Me Lose My Way
TWEET THIS: That One Time #Cheez-Its Made Me Lose My Way @RealMojo68 @cheezit
With a fondue fork and cheesy fingerprints,
Happy snacking.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote!
Jan 17, 2018 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Hey. It happens.
So, the funny thing is, I teach people to find what their brand is and stick with it.
- What do people appreciate the most about you?
- What are your strengths?
- What are you most comfortable doing/teaching/sharing?
- What makes you happy?
And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like … Oh, wait. Sorry. Sinatra in my head. [Note to self: Take the fedora off the shelf.] Ahem. What I was saying was, I sort of took my own advice … and tossed it aside. But like a well-tossed neon pink frisbee, it came right back at me. {Don’t, okay? I know you know I meant boomerang. But frisbee just sounded better. So just … keep reading. Thanks.}
Was it really just last summer I did a renovative rebrand? Why, yes. Yes, I think it was. Who can forget my Wizard of Oz poppies populating the background for my new parent website?
Frankly, My Dear . . . : MJR Website
And how easily the storefront came together, and then, voila! The blog redesign. I can’t really tell ya which is my favorite. I heart them all. Like, a lot.
Not-so-secret sidenote: This Girl, who was never terribly feminine, is enjoying the sights and smells of flowers, perfume, and all things girly. What the heck?! I mean, true story: Even my journals and Happy Planners are, well, pretty.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Happy Planners 2018
But somewhere in the midst of being real, selling books, and claiming my Southern Belle-ness, I realized there was something more. Something deep inside that tied everything together even though it seemed like a chaotic mess.
You all know what it is. At least, you know part of it. Hurricane. My word for the year. Hey, it adopted me, okay?
Frankly, My Dear . . . : That One Time I Rebranded Myself With Pizza Sauce
But that’s why it’s taken me two weeks to follow up with another post. Because I couldn’t put my finger on the first part. I mean, yah. Happy chaos seems to really be my thing. But what does that even mean?
So there I am at lunch with my local bestie, Beckie Lindsey, celebrating the contract for her first book, scarfing pizza, and talking media and marketing and branding and we throw some ideas around and BAM. She’s branded. Like, in a good way. Beckie Lindsey: God in real life … Also, coffee. Yup. That’s her!
Meanwhile, my other media sounding board, Aaron ~ you may know him from his Firsts in Fiction podcast, wink wink. You know. The one This Girl produces every other week ~ he left the lunch. So I text him and say, “Hey, Faux Bro. What’s my branding and recognition?” You know what they both say? Him and Becks? Branding and Recognition. Ooh, big help, guys. Big. Help. not.
And then it hit me like, well, like a hurricane. [Oh, c’mon. You knew I was gonna do that!] I’m reaching for that last mushroom on the plate and trying not to get my sleeves or bangles into the pizza sauce. It was almost an epic fail until my fancy flail saved the day (and the sleeve!). And without realizing that style is a part of my brand, I became the Bohemian Hurricane.
And all her people gasped in acknowledgment.
Yah, that’s right. Go ahead and chuckle. Nod. Do your “Mm-hmm, that’s her!” thing just like they did. ‘Cause This Girl is embracing her wilderness, her free spirit, her loud voice.
And This Girl is going places this year.
Because hurricanes rarely sit still.
Or have perfectly coiffed hair.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : Bohemian Hurricane
How do you brand yourself?
TWEET THIS: That One Time I Rebranded Myself With #Pizza Sauce @RealMojo68 #socialmedia #franklymydearmojo
With wild hair and a crazy dance,
Happy branding.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . That’s all she wrote!
Jan 1, 2018 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
Hurricane.
There. I said it.
I’ve known for a few months this would be my one word for 2018. But before y’all think I’ve gone crazy [too late!], let me explain the beauty of this word and why it means so much to me.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : One Word: Hurricane
NOLA, my rough-draft novel, is set in post-Katrina New Orleans. I was fortunate to speak with several survivors and I also researched a lot about hurricanes and their aftermath. It is as much a part of New Orleans, and my novel, as Cafe du Monde and the Rougarou.
It’s no secret the last few years have been, shall we say, chaotic. Unfriendly. Tumultuous. I was in my own hurricane emotionally, spiritually, and sometimes physically.
I didn’t always know which end was up. Life was scattered and shattered all around me. It was dark, dangerous, stormy and scary.
Frankly, My Dear . . . : One Word: Hurricane
But it was also beautiful. The rains washed the structures of my life, revealing the foundations. Yes, some things were carried away that I wish hadn’t been. Debris needed to be cleaned up. In the remnants, in the aftermath, came a focus. A desire. The ability to start over with what was left.
What I’ve learned from hurricane survivors is they are more than survivors. They are thrivers. Whether they are transplanted to start a new life elsewhere, or rebuild where they are, they do so with fervor and determination.
They also come together as a community. The bond of survivorship compels them to love on and care for one another in ways “outsiders” don’t quite grasp. It’s an in-crowd issue that not everyone is privy to understanding. A weather-born kinship that creates a family out of strangers.
There’s a strength that comes on the other side of the hurricane. An empowerment that says, “You didn’t end me.” I’m not saying everything is perfect, or the way it was. I’m not saying it doesn’t leave its scars on the landscape.
It’s a change, to be sure. And a strong one, at that.
A hurricane can reveal design flaws and crumble what we once put our trust in. It shifts focus to a new normal.
This year, I’m embracing the other side of my hurricane through the strength, the determination, the fellowship, and the staying power it’s revealed to be the four corners of my foundation.
It’s a wild ride, to be sure. But one I wouldn’t trade for the world.
What’s your word for the year?
TWEET THIS: My #oneword for 2018: #Hurricane. What’s yours? @RealMojo68 #franklymydear
With a strong grip and water shoes,
Happy New Year.
~Molly Jo
And Frankly, My Dear . . . : That’s all she wrote.
