The Good Times are Killing Me

 So, I've been doing this thing. It's called National Novel Writing Month . For 30 days, you write as much as you possibly can to try to reach the goal of 50,000 words. The idea is that you will have the makings of a rough novel when you reach this goal. I am currently at 8,335. I should be at around 33,000. (This is the part where I sigh deeply.)  I should be writing my NaNo book right now, this very minute, instead of writing this blog. I just can't seem to drag my mouse over to that file and click my ass in there to write. It is just looming there, like the time in my junior year of high school, when I had to write an essay on the book Animal Farm by George Orwell, for an English teacher that would have probably scared the shit out of Stalin himself.

It's not that I don't like the story I'm writing. It's pretty solid, if I do say so myself. I even already know how it should end. I'm not sure if I like my protagonist completely yet, but I have a lot of hope for her. I don't have delusions about writing the Great American Novel. I just wanted to write a book that I would pick up in a book store and think, "This looks cool and mysterious. I want to read this." (This is the part where my life gets in the way.)

 

I'm a stay-at-home mom with a part-time job. What a short sentence that was. "I'm a stay-at-home-mom with a part-time job." I also teach home school to my daughter, who is in the second grade. So, writing my book is my mistress. After I give everything to my kids, my husband, my house and my job, there isn't a hell of a lot left over for writing. And when I do have quiet time to myself, most of the time, I just want to sit around in stretchy pants and eat things and catch up on my DVR.

So, on the rough days, being a lowly housewife is my reality and being a writer/artist is a vague possibility. Also, when I'm feeling really evil, I imagine that the creators of the National Novel Writing Month are trust-fund youngsters, with loads of time on their hands to just languish about with beards and finger-mustaches and ironic t-shirts, while listening to some band that none of us have ever heard of, in some magical coffeehouse in the sky. They have all the time in the world to write and be arty, little jerks. I'm sure they are lovely people and none of those things but I have to shake my fist at someone, even if I have to make them up. It couldn't possibly be my fault, playing games on Facebook and other time-wasting websites when I tell myself I'm "taking a break" from writing. Oh no, not me.

(This is the part where I count my blessings.) Most of the time, I have a great time. I know how lucky I am to get to play all day with my kids. They are good people. I really like them. They're smart and they both lift me up and humble me on a regular basis. I have a magnificent couch and a laptop and blankies and jammies and I tuck myself in to write all cozy-like in my little writing nest. I love it. I love writing. I love it almost as much as reading.

 

But, for now, NaNoWriMo feels like homework and I may get an F. But, it did get me writing everyday, even if it is only 200 words and for that I am grateful.

Things That Have Made Me a Better Person

  Today was a day of major errand running. First, I had to go get my tires rotated. No, this is not a euphemism for something more fun. Just boring, old tires.

  Luckily, it didn't take too long at the tire shop, but then I had to go get a new phone. A newer, up-gradier, fancier phone.

  Yes, that is a good thing, but it took two hours. Two. Hours. Two hours with children who didn't get to eat lunch until 2pm. Also, two children who finally got to eat lunch at Chick-Fil-A, but then both had to go poop at the same time, leaving me to hang out in the Chick-Fil-A toilet for 20 minutes. 
  
  Do you know how not fun it is to hang out in the Chick-Fil-A bathroom with two pooping children, getting dirty looks from the other patrons, because both of your children are monopolizing the only two toilets in the women's restroom? It it is a very, very long 20 minutes, with the hand washing and the storytelling and the herding them out the door. Sweet, bearded Moses. 

  Also, none of the above was up to me. Which is all very well and good, but if it were up to me, I would have sat around the house in stretchy pants and watched Doctor Who. I'm glad one of us felt like being responsible today and I'm grateful that my husband made me take care of these things. Or a least I will be sometime in the near future.

  Since I had some phone-less, idle time on my hands, sitting in the office of Samir, manager of the Sprint, I started making a list in my mind and then put pen to paper. I began thinking of things that have made me a better person over the years. I could site the major ones, such as my faith or my children. I could get all Lifetime for Women on you, but I will spare you. I was thinking of the little things. The little things that mark you for life. So, I give you:

Things That Have Made Me a Better Person:

1. A Mullet. I had a mullet in the 6th grade. A permed, lesbian, gym teacher mullet with feathered bangs. You can imagine how popular I was then. If there is something that doesn't make a tweenage boy's heart go pitter-pat, it would be a hideously permed mullet. (Also, the Breast Fairy didn't pay me a visit until much later. Bitch.) 
   
  I can see my school picture clearly in my mind. I'm wearing a teal-blue, button-down shirt, my lips kind of twisted in a half-smile. I look 40 years-old as a 6th grader, actually. A 40 year-old, flat-chested, lesbian, gym teacher, to be exact. So, whenever I feel too cute, smart, or big for my britches, I remember the mullet. A mullet can humble you, real quick.

2. The Internet. Yes, the sinister, evil internet has helped to make me a better person. Aside from learning quite a bit about what not to do in life, or watching funny cat videos, I have also met some really good friends. Friends that have influenced me for the better, taught me things, made laugh, and helped me through tough times. Some of them, I even got to meet in real life. (Fancy Bitches Forevah!!) 
  
  Alright, I did get a little Lifetime for Women on you, but tough shit. This is my list and oh, shut up.

3. Being totally immature. I am definitely immature. I wear t-shirts and converse. I laugh at Spongebob cartoons. I read comic books. I play with toys. I don't own a business-lady suit or watch crappy, tear-jerker movies, or watch Oprah or play Soduka or Sadoku or whatever the hell that is. But,I can tell you what the colors of the uniforms on the original Star Trek series mean or what AT-AT stands for. 
  
  I don't do grown-up stuff very often. When I do, I secretly feel like I'm playing dress-up. Most of the time, I'm somewhere in between a 13 year-old boy and a little old lady. 
  
  Wait... what? That sounded so wrong. Never mind, that.  

  Anyway, I think it makes me a better person to be childish and nerdy because I don't get caught up in what other grown-ups are doing or who has what or I don't know. I used to worry about that stuff. I guess, I mean that now I kinda like myself. I'm a late-bloomer. 

4. Government cheese. If you haven't eaten government cheese out of a cardboard box, then you haven't lived. It's a little salty, but damn, it was good cheese. 
  
  I grew up in a trailer park in Ohio until better employment moved my family down to Florida. My parents worked really hard. We may haven't had the latest and greatest, but we never went hungry.  I know the value of bologna sandwiches and free church-basement suppers. But you know what? I also know that because of that, I have a glass is half-full outlook on money. If you aren't living in your Great-Grandma's attic buying stuff with food stamps, then you are doing great. Know what else? If you are, then you still are doing okay.

  Since the Great Samir of Egypt took only 2 hours to sort out our cellphones and my kids were running around the Sprint showroom touching very expensive electronic devices, I only got number to 4. But you get the idea.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

 I cannot wait for Fall. Soon, August will be ebbing away and school is starting. In between loads of laundry and bouts of anxiety related to having everything ready for school, these things make me think of all the things I am looking forward to about Fall. Sweaters. Making my Grandmother's soup beans and cornbread. Making popcorn balls and pumpkin stuff. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin bread; I love all that pumpkin-y, spicy, cinnamon-y stuff. I also love that one blessed morning, when you wake up to a subtle change in the air that you can smell and feel, that signals that Autumn is, indeed, coming. Also, last but definitely not least, Halloween.(You can bet I'll be posting more about that later!) And since I loooove the Horror genre, here are some other things I am looking forward to:

The original '80's Fright Night was one of my favorites as a kid, so I cannot wait to see this one. Also, Colin Farrell and David Tennant? Yes, please. It opens Friday, August 19th. And then there's this:

 Guillarmo Del Toro had a hand in writing the screenplay and he is such a good storyteller i.e., The Orphanage and Pan's Labyrinth, so I really want to see this, as I love jumping out of my seat over scary movies! It opens August 26th.

The next thing I'm looking forward to is The Sookie Stackhouse Companion by Charlaine Harris. I'll take any Sookie I can get until Book 12! This comes out on August 30th and I have already pre-ordered it! Hooray!

 This one, we have to wait until October for, but it will so be worth it!

  As you can see, I've learned the hell out of linking and embedding videos! So, now that you have been Youtubed and linked to death, I will leave you with just one more link and one more video. This is gonna be my jam on the treadmill today, as I start Week 4, Day 1 of The Couch-to-5K ® Running Plan.

 I've had this song in my head all day.  So, between that and my Pandora '80's radio station, I think it'll be a good run.

  Since it is absolutely sweltering outside, all of these things will just have to hold me over until Fall is truly here. Maybe I'll just have to get a pumpkin spice candle and sniff it intermittently until then.

Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

 I quit this day. I have been reduced to shoe shopping on the internet in sweatpants, wondering if Vitamin Water is an acceptable mixer for vodka. Is it an acceptable hour to pour Cabernet straight down my wailing cryhole?

  I got up this morning, got the kids breakfasted and dressed and teeth brushed. I slapped myself together with some shorts and a t-shirt. I got us all in the car and headed to a nearby playground. This playground has the most important feature a playground can have: shade. It is completely tree-covered and has comfortable benches. I was looking forward to relaxing with my book after going through the drive-thru for my beloved Grande 3-pump Mocha from Starbucks. Or as I like to refer to it, if only in my mind, as a 3 Pump Chump. Anyway, I settled on my bench with Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins, Book 2 in the Hunger Games Trilogy. Yesss! My magical coffee/book combo of happiness. Ronan climbed on top of the miniature firetruck and Isabel ran to the swings. I even mentally patted myself on the back because I remembered to bring Capri Sun Waters for the kids instead of half-assedly ordering a cup of ice water with my coffee. Sweet, marvelous, happy joy! Tra-la-la-la!

 I'm sitting there beginning to read, blissfully ignorant of the fact that Isabel has come to the bench for her juice and is trying to shove her straw in the little, hateful, plastic-covered hole in the aluminum juice bag. With a furious stab with her straw, she elbowed my hot coffee into my lap. I jumped up and yelled as the coffee is now burning my right butt cheek and running down my calf and in between my toes. Which is worse? A scalded butt cheek or a sticky bare foot in a flip-flop? "I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry!" "Isabel! You have to watch what you're doing!" I am assessing what else has been damaged. My book has brown coffee stains, my car keys and my cell phone screen are all sticky! Sticky!! I hate sticky. I hate being sticky or things that are sticky so much. So. Much. I grab everything up. "Kids! We have to go! Now!" I want to drop everything and shake my fists at the heavens. Poor Ronan is oblivious to what has taken place. "Why, Mom? Why do we have to go? I don't wanna go." We have been at the playground for a whopping fifteen minutes. "Come on. Now." I say in my mean-ass Mom voice.  We walk across the grass to the small parking lot. Every step I take is "Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.", with the sensation of my sticky shorts rubbing against my scalded butt cheek and my sticky toes in my flip-flops and it's making make me limp to my car.

 "I can't sit in the seats like this." I think, as I decide what I need to do. The kids are belted in the backseat with Ronan in his car seat. They are both looking at me with wide eyes as if their lives depend on what Mommy's going to do next. I open the driver's side door, wedge myself inside, unbutton my shorts and slide them down just as an elderly woman walks past with her toy poodle. (I wish I were making this up. I really do.) I don't know if she saw me or not, because my ass was in the car with the door slammed shut. I shucked my shorts the rest of the way off and tossed them on the passenger side floor. I drove home sticky, (Oh God, the stickiness!!) and pissed off, in my underwear.

 After cleaning up and getting in dry clothes, I decide to suck it up and get back out there. I had to go to Target for stuff so, I schlep the kids back out to the car, and we head to Target. "Do not. Ask. For anything." I tell them. It is my nightmare. And they are my tormentors. They hide in the clothing racks. They run up and down the aisles. The are beasts in Target. "That's IT! You are both getting a spanking when we get home and no video games or computer for the rest of the day!", I said. "Noooo!" said Ronan. We get through the checkout lane and I am ready to kill anyone who so much as looks at me sideways. The kids are snivelly and sullen on the ride home.

 When we got home, I gave them each their swat on the behind. I made Isabel clean their room and Ronan I made come to the kitchen with me to "help" me make lunch. After the room is all cleaned up, Isabel comes out sniffing and crying, "Mom, I feel like you love Ronan better than me." Sniff. Sniff. I picked her up and sat down with her in our rocking chair. "Isabel, Mama is hard on you sometimes because I am trying to teach you to be a good person and not a mean kid. Ronan looks at you to see how you behave because you are his big sister. You know better than he does. I love you sooo much, even when I am mad at you." "I'm sorry I spilled your coffee on you." she said in a way that makes me feel like the Wicked Witch Of the West from Hell. "I forgive you, honey. It's okay now. I'm not mad anymore." I gave her hugs and kisses and holy crap, I think we've made it through this ordeal. Sheesh. I fed them lunch, stuck Ronan in the bed for a much needed nap and plopped Isabel in front of the TV with promises of painting our nails together later. So, here I am, now in my sweatpants and ponytail staring at Shoes.com, wondering what the second half of my day will bring. Hopefully cocktails.

This is Going to Hurt Me More Than It Hurts You

 So, yeah, this is my first blog. Warning: It may suck. However, I decided that it's about time I started writing one. I want to get better at writing, so I figure this is a good, possibly humiliating, way to get better at it. I can't promise it will be all wine and roses. Ok, I amend that there will be wine, but definitely not roses. Also, I'm pretty neurotic so this could either be: a) Gratifying because you will discover that hey, you're not so bad! b) Annoying c) Amusing in the way that it is amusing when someone trips on an uneven sidewalk or d) Some other 4th thing. I can promise that there will be untoward, unladylike language, possibly some short stories I've written, music I'm listening to, books I'm reading and other posts of stuff I like, so on and so forth, etc., etc.. So, consider this my pilot episode. It may get better as the season moves along or it may get cancelled. Okay, now that we have gotten the disclaimers out of the way:

 Today, I went to register my soon-to-be 4 year-old son, Ronan, for preschool at a private school. Up until I survived it this morning, the mere thought of it would send me into a blind panic and an episode of hyperventilating and having a Jan Brady-like inner dialogue with phrases like, "You can do this! They won't think you are a wanton whore and take it out on your son because you have tattoos, silly!" or "I know he's not a baby anymore, but pull yourself together, woman!" and "I wonder if there's any Blue Moons left in the fridge?" I'm not good at the requisite Mommy small talk with the other Mommies or with the teachers. I feel like I'll get sent to the principal's office. I feel like I'll be picked last in gym class. Again. So, this morning a bit of thought went into what I was going to wear, since chances are if you knocked on my door in the middle of the morning, I would probably scream, "Just a minute!" and run into the bathroom to wash the zit cream off of my face and then run to the bedroom to put on pants. And woe betide you if I forget to do either of these things. So I chose conservative Old Navy chinos and a v-neck shirt with sandals and my hair in a bun and minimal makeup. No cleavage, the nose ring is out and I swiped off my chipped black nail polish. (See?! See?! I'm normal! I'm normal!)


 Lest you should think I am completely self-absorbed because I haven't mentioned any worry for my son, it's because I don't worry about Ronan. He is a bright, out-going, articulate, funny and beautiful little boy. He's going to be amazing and have a wonderful time. I'm excited for him. It's me who's gonna be the one driving home from dropping him off on the first day of school, blubbering like a cry-baby, complete with runny nose and puffy eyes, all the way home.


Anyway, enough of that. So, do you think I would still get laid if I wore this to bed? What? No?