Reverse Nesting

3 Responses »
Sep 012010

Something strange happened when I finished writing Baby F(Ph)at.

In short, I looked up and realized I suck as a housewife when I’m knee-deep in a manuscript. After a year of getting by with frantic “just throw the extra shit in the closet!” sessions reserved for guests and making sure we had enough clean laundry so no one was wearing anything nasty, I finally saw the house through the eyes of my alter-ego, (Mexican) June Cleaver. And aye…Ward has reasons to question if he’s man enough to stick around when I get to writing that next book.

While it’s true that I finished the book before I left for BlogHer, it’s also true that I was away from home until last week. And after a few days of doing the blissful nothing I demand after 20 days of non-stop family, I blinked…and then it all came into focus.

The dust covered blinds (I wrote my name one one…kinda cool, actually.)

The junk drawer so full of random crap that it wasn’t even closing anymore.

The closet. Which we couldn’t fit the vacuum into. And that’s a problem.

The dust bunnies under the couch (which are now getting their own mail forwarded to my address.)

The linen closets (not just for linen anymore! Holy shit! That’s where that other thing I don’t need went to…)

Needless to say…I have my work cut out for me.  That’s why I started a to-do list with one or two projects to be tackled daily. Like the dusting and the evicting of the dust bunnies. Or the junk drawer and the closet. Or telling The Husband to bite me and to shove it when he tells me I suck as a housewife when I’m writing a book. Or maybe just telling him to fuck off and then laughing because I can’t keep a straight face because he is so totally right.

It’s been about a week since I started my reverse nesting. That’s what I like to call this phase. Moms-to-be nest when a baby is on the way. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Moms who are writers nest after they (I) finish a book and figure out they (I) better haul ass on Operation Clean House before the next project is officially started. (While they (I) are (am) querying.)  Because that’s such a relaxing combination.

And when I type Chapter 1? Again?

It’s house, hell, and hand basket…all over again.

Bring it.

Until then, I’m gonna whistle while I work and rock this happy homemaker thing.

True Love's (Query)

5 Responses »
Jul 202010

I might currently possess a stomach full of butterflies at the thought of sending out my queries, but I’ve already been approached by one agent and totally confused by another.

Agent #1: I met at a conference and hit it off. Agent #1 loved my proposal, laughed out loud in all the right places while reading the sample pages submitted, and contacted me shortly thereafter to offer representation. I did the requisite happy dance before Googling Agent #1, coming up with squat, and sending off an email to ask about their track record.

Who had they represented?

What were their recent sales?

Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you.

I waited a week. Then two. Then that turned into a month and now almost three months later, I have yet to hear back from Agent #1. Whatever actually happened, I can only assume Agent #1 was not expecting a newbie at a conference to push the contract aside and ask questions first.

And ya know what? That’s okay with me. If an agent is not prepared to provide a writer with such basic information as I requested, it’s time to move on.

Agent #2: This one was more entertaining. I also met Agent #2 at a conference and interviewed with them. It went kind of like this:

Agent #2: “I’m not getting the title. What’s this Ph in the Baby F(ph)at? Is that like a reference to a medical degree?”

Me: blink blink. “Um, no. It’s a play on words referring to being overweight and the Phat part is slang for cool. You know, you can be a hip mama even if you are hippy?”

Agent #2: “And this slang…is this something your generation says?” (Note that Agent #2 couldn’t have been more than 40. I’m 32)

Me: No. Not necessarily. I know I don’t use it. But I know that my target audience will get it and laugh at the title…in a good way.”

Agent #2: “I’m not sure if I like it. And what about this The Husband and Buttercup thing? Why not just use made up names?”

Me: “I’d prefer to stick with what my audience is familiar with, and that’s what’s in the book right now. But I appreciate the suggestion and will definitely consider changing it.” (Not really.)

Agent #2: “I’m not sure if I like that either. Now, what are these twitter things? These quotes you have?”

Me: “I start each chapter with a quote from a real mom to show the reader that they aren’t in the fight to lose weight on their own, and neither am I. I also incorporate a few of my own tweets here and there to give the reader a picture of how much social media plays a role in my life as a support system and to illustrate certain points (like my Ben & Jerry’s addiction) that would lose their edge otherwise.”

Agent #2: “That might not be a good idea. These could actually date your book. What if twitter isn’t even around when your book gets published?”

Me: Blink blink blink. Stunned silence. Really? Isn’t a memoir, by definition, dated material? And twitter? Gone? Forever? Listen, how about I save us both a lot of time, nod my head and smile, thank you for your suggestions, and not send you a query? Good, that sounds lovely to me, too. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll keep that in mind, though. Thank you for your suggestions and it was a pleasure to meet with you.”

And that my friends, is proof that finding an agent is like finding the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. It’s not an exact science. And there’s gonna be a lot of bad first dates. But eventually, you’ll have something worth writing home about.

It’s like my friends and I used to say in high school…

You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.

Baby F(Ph)at excerpt: The Sun Wins the Race

1 Response »
Jun 042010

I’m working on a book. It’s supposed to be about my year’s journey to lose the baby weight.

Three years after having the kid.

And here I sit, a mere 9 days from Buttercup’s third birthday and about 8 weeks from my self-imposed deadline, wondering when Karma is going to forgive me for Thinking Bad Thoughts about Moms who had Let Themselves Go before I became a mother myself and took a good, hard look in the mirror.

I haven’t gotten on a scale in three weeks. Or seen the inside of the gym, for that matter. But as of last count, I was somewhere in the 10 pound loss area.

That’s 10 pounds in 10 months.

Somehow, that thought just manages to depress the living hell out of me.

My goal is 30 pounds total to get me to my pre-pregnancy weight and so much is riding on crossing that finish line that I wonder how much different The End is going to be in Baby F(Ph)at than I expected. I’m supposed to get pregnant again when I have crossed Go and collected my $200. I’m supposed to start the next phase of my life.

The Husband is patiently waiting for me to put up or shut up or just say fuck it and forget it and let’s get to making a baby and I’ll just worry about it all after I pop the next kid out. And while I can normally talk myself up when suffering through a Fat Day such as today, it’s getting harder and harder. Because every day gone is another opportunity missed.

My intentions are stellar. I want to be skinnier healthier for me, for my family. This takes work. I know that. So I wake up each morning with the intention of working out and eating right. And yet, somehow, each and every day seems to get away from me. There are bills to pay, laundry to do, dust bunnies to hunt down and kill because the Mother-in-Law is coming for a five day visit and in the world I have created in my head and the real one I occupy the house must be Spotless to ensure a pleasant visit for all parties involved. There’s the grocery shopping, the Quality Time  with the toddler, the Family Drama spanning 2,500 miles that somehow manipulates entire days that eventually end only to find I’m still bra-less, in my PJs, and rockin’ my Mexi-fro.

There’s changing my schedule around to adjust to The Husband’s new day shift, which means that I have until 4:30 p.m. to get Everyone Else’s shit taken care of so I can continue to take care of Everyone Else with that magical meal that will please everyone from the gluten-free to the acid-reflux to the just plain picky.

Then there’s the dishes. The kitchen clean-up. The taking Buttercup upstairs to bathe, brush teeth, floss, and read four stories to because she knows how to count to eleven-teen and I can’t convince her that two stories are more than they really are.

There’s lunch to be made for The Husband because that’s how I was raised and that’s how he was raised and I’m home all day so I can’t really complain and tell him I don’t have time to make his lunch so I don’t and I make it anyway even though I really don’t have the time. I’m supposed to finish the nightly routine fast enough to get into bed with him at least every few nights so he can smile and fall asleep with my arms around him because there’s only so many hours in a day and I’m obviously not handling things right if my work keeps me awake until 2 a.m. every night and Motherhood requires an 8 a.m. wake up call so I try to move faster, but the sun always wins the race.

There’s that TV show I think I deserve to sit down and watch, just this one, because once Mom leaves for her six-month visit to Michigan to see the rest of the family, the TV will only be on when Nick Jr. comes to babysit so I can be like Other Moms and deal with the demands of family on my own. You know, like a big girl.

There’s the fact that even when I was telling myself the dishes could wait and the laundry could wait longer so I could pack Buttercup up in the mini-van and head to the gym with the daycare and feel good for an hour which would make me feel good for longer, I still felt like I wasn’t trying hard enough. There’s also the Unspoken Argument that ignited when The Husband switched to days and decided to sign up at the gym with me so we could Spend Time Together, which left me dreading his arrival somewhere around 5:30 because dinner had to be cooked, the diaper bag packed, and bedtime pushed back for Buttercup until after we got home, ate, and I read eleven-teen story books which affected her mornings and somehow we stopped going together so I stopped going at all.

But at least my fingers look good. From all the writing I’ve been doing and all.

There’s time spent on everyone else. And when it’s all said and done, there’s no time left for me. So I wonder what I’m doing wrong even though I try to do everything right for everyone else because really, that’s what I’m supposed to do—what feels right because I’m a Wife and Mother—and I’ll take care of myself when I have the time and…

It’s 12:36 a.m. I’m sitting here working on my book, and have just unhooked the straps on the sports bra I’ve had on since I got dressed because I had good intentions. I didn’t work out today. Hell, I didn’t even eat right today.

I ran out of time. Then I ran out of reasons to bother trying.

Hannah the Mexican baby doll

5 Responses »
May 232010

Buttercup's doll

“I love you, Mama!” Buttercup’s eyes lit up as she ran to me when I walked in the door.

Hug, hug, kiss, kiss.

Then…”You got me a surprise? Ok, I close my eyes.”

The second part of that sentence was said without her waiting for an answer. Just chalk that up to the almost three years The Husband and I have spent riding high on our little girl’s smile every time we bring her something home. Even a found penny is considered treasure in her eyes.

But tonight was special.

I just arrived home after five days away at The National Latino Writer’s Conference and made sure to return baring a gift strong enough to erase the Mama-guilt I’d been sporting since booking the damned ticket six months ago.

And I found it. A sweet, hand-made little Mexican girl doll I found at the Hispanic Cultural Center’s Gift Shop. I was so excited at the prospect of actually giving Buttercup a doll that represented a part of her culture that the slightly WTF price tag didn’t stop me. And when I got home and gave her the doll, Buttercup squealed and then asked what to name her.

“Lola?” I said after thinking a moment.

“No, that’s not him’s name,” she told me. She’s been experimenting with pronouns lately and well, it hasn’t been going very well.

“Her, m’ijita. Now, what about Mercedes?” It’s our middle names. The Husband thought that one up and I was secretly hoping she’d pick that one.

“No,” Buttercup said, her finger on her chin. Then her eyes got wide and her mouth broke into a huge smile. “I know, mama! Him’s name Hannah!”

The Husband’s eyes met mine over our daughter’s head. He was trying not to laugh.

“Awesome. I bring home the most ethnic doll I can find and she names it Hannah.” I put my palm to my forehead.

Buttercup smiled up at me. “Yep, I named him Hannah. And I love him, too.”

End of conversation.

Baby F(ph)at: Vicks, love, and excerpts

1 Response »
May 162010

I’m eight chapters from calling it The End on Baby F(Ph)at. I know, I can’t believe it, either.

To tide you over until I wake up in Dream Come True Land with an agent and a book deal, here’s another little piece from inside my head. Remember Cat the Dog? This one’s all about her, my reaction to having to let her go, and Buttercup’s attempts to mend my pain.

*****

“It’s okay, Mama. I make you feel better.”

I hear the words. But I’m not sure if I’m dreaming them or if I’m actually awake and Buttercup’s having a one-sided conversation with me. Two hours of sleep seems to have that effect on me.

“No move, Mama. You’ll feel better. Shhh.”

I feel a teensy little finger tracing a line on my cheek. My brain momentarily registers the sensation of something wet, but I’m immediately and inexplicably comforted by the faint scent of lavendar and find myself drifting further into a dream state. I know I’m in Buttercup’s bed. I know she woke up at t3 a.m. this morning fussier than usual and was convinced she knew what was going to happen when Daddy came home. So I climbed into her little bed after arriving home from a rare evening out with a friend and let myself believe that I was the one doing the comforting once her little body was snug against my own.

“Mama, just a leetle bit more. I take care of you.”

Cat’s grace period is officially over. The vet notified me at Monday’s appointment that her normally healthy 85-pound frame was down to a shocking 67-pounds and that the fluid filling her chest cavity was showing no signs of slowing down. Her best guess was cancer.

Today, after The Husband arrives home from work, we take our baby to the vet for the final time. It might be humane, but it’s the shittiest decision I’ve ever had to make.

I’d rather stay asleep and let my daughter make it all better while I sleep. What the hell is she putting on my face?

I swear that the moment Cat heard me tell the vet we had made the decision to let her go, she began to give up the fight. I’m also sure that she was fighting on our behalf and would’ve given it her all until she had no more to give.

“Pauline, where did that limp come from?” My mother asked me when Cat suddenly couldn’t put any weight on a hind leg.

“Her breathing sounds worse,” Pati pointed out before I left to hang out with my local twitter pal and pretend my dog wasn’t dying.

But she was. So she had rib-eye steak, grilled just for her, and vanilla ice cream for dessert last night. And there were plenty of pictures taken and posted to Facebook. And hugs. And no reprimands to Cat or Finnigan and Francis for barking at the neighborhood kids passing by our backyard on that pain-in-my-ass shortcut through the wash that connects our subdivision with the one behind us.

My mother also took one for the team and gave up her comfy bed in her upstairs room for a night on the lumpy sofa sleeper on the first floor. Cat’s back leg was no longer strong enough to put weight on and we didn’t want to aggravate the situation by obligating her to follow my mom up a flight of stairs.

In short, we did our damndest to make sure her last night with us was as kick-ass as possible so she could brag to the other dogs she runs into at the Pearly Gates that her mama cooked her a fucking steak!

“Mama still sad?’ A pause and I hear something being opened. My brain is registering a screw-top, but I’m still too emotionally and physically drained to actually do anything. “It’s okay, Mama. Here, you’ll feel better.”

More fingers tracing my cheek. More lavender scented comfort. Then my mother’s voice and both she and Buttercup giggling conspiratorially as they leave me to sleep off the sad.

Then the front door opening. The dogs barking to greet The Husband. My mother’s voice as she relays something I can’t quite make out to The Husband as he heads upstairs to find me in our daughter’s bed, with an inch-thick layer of infant Vick’s on my face and chest.  I wake up smelling like my Abuelo, who has a “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”-like appreciation for the powers of Vick’s and what it can cure.

My baby thought it would fix a broken heart.

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