Yet, I have no idea what to write. Have you ever had that dilema? I’ve had a bazillion things going on and each time I’ve sat down to write, I find myself at a complete loss. Sure I could write about all the sessions I’ve had recently. Or about turning 31 being far more enjoyable than I thought it would be. Dinners out or shopping with friends? My children? They are after all my reason for being (or at least being out of bed). Most days my life seems so bland to me. Cooking, cleaning, scooping dog stuff … this is not the stuff dreams are made of, I assure you.

I had a chat with a good friend of mine the other day. She and her family have been struggling for some time. Her husband has been suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for the last three years. I knew him so briefly before but (even to me) it was a shock to see the entirely different person he’d become because of it. She’s been writing on her blog about her journey as they travel across the country for months now. She mentioned me briefly in her blog about friends (a great honor in my opinion knowing quite a few of her amazing friends) and she described me as exotic. At the time I found that patently hilarious. My day to day life being what it is, my background being what it is, and my lack of having been anywhere of real consequence being what it is … it just seemed funny.

I’ve always associated the word with being from a foreign country like Brazil or Thailand. I was spurred on to look the definition up after chatting with her. For this part of the world, I would suppose I would be considered fairly exotic. I grew up in the melting pot that is New York City. You see every color, every shape and every level of intelligence where ever you seem to go in New York. My own family is an array of color. My Mother being Latina has skin the color of cream and eyes that go from the blue of clear skies to the stormy gray skies I seem to be living with here in Washington State. My Father is African American (amongst a great many other things – we’re big on ancestry in our family) has skin the color of rich coffee and eyes that sometimes seem almost black. My carmel skin and brown eyes are far from exotic to me but here in Arlington, WA (where people tend to look like my mother but don’t have her ability to slip into Spanish at the drop of hat) I suppose I may be a bit different. I’m a woman who loves video games, comic books & action films. I read daily (a habit I inherited from my mother who I’ve never seen without a book in tow) and I am fascinated by all forms of art. I’m literally terrified of dogs but somehow ended up with an American Staffordshire Terrier. I don’t like crowds but I’m more at home in city than I am on the main street in town. More so, that NYC is not only the city of my birth & childhood but the city of my heart and is so different from this suburban world.  Exotic: not ordinarily encountered  Not ordinarily encountered indeed. All my life I’ve been striving to be different. Trying to stand out from the crowd and be something that wouldn’t get lost in the fray. It is my secret wish never hear someone say … “Oh you know Kellianna, she’s just like so and so!” You can imagine on reading the definition, how entirely pleased I was. Yes, yes I will be exotic and proud of it.

Upon further examination, I took a closer look at the everyday and found that maybe it’s not as bland as I once thought. It’s filled with love, art, music friends, family and less and less drama as I get older. This last  unfortunate occurrence has the habit of coming every year like clockwork. The getting older part … not the drama.  If I have to get older … at least I have my exotic life to keep me entertained and my exotic children to make me smile. 😉

Well, I suppose I found something to write of after all.