Resolutions and Other Things on my To Do List

 2 Responses »
Dec 292010
 

I have two blog posts left in 2010 to cement my place in history. As what? I’m not sure. Which means I probably should just accept that this and the next post will probably be cute and mediocre, and the world will be a much happier place.

Since it’s appropriate to sit here and look back over the past year and cry into my cheerios about everything I didn’t accomplish while making a list of big dreams to turn into my own realities Santa apparently doesn’t read my blog, it only seems fitting to write up my List of Promises to Myself I Will Probably Break of Resolutions.

In the realm of health and fitness:

*Continue to dream about that Husband-sanctioned affair I plan to have with a plastic surgeon so I can score a Mom Job (read: boob lift, tummy tuck, and lipo) while focusing on the reality that I don’t know any plastic surgeons to have an affair with.

*Eat right, work out more, and bitch less. Wait…no. If I do that, I have no blog. Ok…Eat right, work out more, and just bitch. Kind of like Nike…only funnier, right? There, that’s better.

*Cancel my gym membership. *Screeching halt* What? Yeah, you read that right. While the rest of the free world joins Jenny, starts counting points, or waits for their dehydrated Nutrisystem scrambled eggs to show up in the mail while simultaneously doing 15 sets of squats on the way to their shiny new gym, Me and My cellulite will be walking into my old gym sometime soon to sign the break up papers. Before you get all What The Hell and What About The Search for a Smaller Ass, Pauline?, remember that I don’t have time to waste wishing I had gone and then saying Screw it, Where’s My Dairy Queen when I could instead be focusing on what I have readily available to me. (Read: My legs, my shoes, two dogs, a jogging walking stroller, and a kick-ass hilly subdivision. Also? Enough dust on the unused exercise DVDs to start my own bunny farm and a pretty new PS3 and Zumba game to get my Latin-Mama groove on. Bottom line? 2011 is the year of no excuses (ok…I’ll make excuses. But I at the very least Resolve to make them amusing.)

In the the realm of Motherhood:

*Try to say “In a minute” less often.

*Forgive myself for when I say “In a minute” too often.

*Lather, rinse, and repeat.

In the realm of Wifedom:

*Try to say “In a Minute” less often.

*Forgive myself when I say “In a Minute” too often.

*Lather, rinse, and repeat.

*P.S. Add “sex” to my To-Do list more often. The Husband is happy when this happens. He gets attention, I get to cross something off of my To-Do list without ruining the moment by thinking about what I could be doing to cross something else off of my never ending list, and it’s generally a win-win for everyone involved. (Also see “Try to say “In a minute less often.”)

In the realm of writing:

*Because I decided last night that I already met my goal of finding an agent in 2010 (Because I did, dammit. I found 25 of them. *Holds hand up* Stop! My blog post. My semantics war.) I figure I can make 2011 the year an agent finds me. In the bottom of the slush pile. In a hopefully typo-free query.

*Make peace with my Chronic Typosis Disorder and just deal. There’s a reason I went into REPORTING and not COPY EDITING. Namely, I didn’t get the copy editing job. And? I typo like it’s going out of style and I just can’t let go. We have a neighbor like that. She never met a can of aqua net and a bang wave she didn’t like. If she can look in the mirror and think that looks good, I can hit publish on a blog post or write muff top in a query and still think I am a good person, dammit!

*Keep trying. Keep querying. Keep writing. And? Buy more rejection panties. I’m  a big girl with big dreams and (shut up) I can only bitch if the rejections stop coming in. Because that means I’ve stopped trying. Which isn’t going to happen because I just said it wouldn’t so…moving on...

*Start that Super Secret Project with Juliette that doesn’t involve zombies or crossbows.

*Buy less shoes so I can bank the unspent cash for a writing conference or two. Ok, fine. Less shoes and less purses. And clothes. Definitely less clothes.

In the realm of All Things Pauline:

*Keep dreaming. In the I can do EEET! kinda way and not that Keep dreaming, asshole kinda way. Because I think I can. Even if they say I can’t.

Which reminds me:

*Figure out who THEY actually is. Because dude, it’s driving me crazy. And…wait…that’s an entirely new blog post…

Mappy Birthmas (to me)

 6 Responses »
Dec 152010
 

I was born on December 26, 1977.

I should also point out that my mother went into labor with me after Christmas Eve dinner on December 24.

And?

I am surprised she is still talking to me.

Seriously. I was in labor for 12 hours and I promise you that I’ll be throwing that in Buttercup’s face when she gets all teenager-y and hormonal and demands to stay out past curfew because her friend’s all have much cooler mothers than she does.

Anyway, I’ll be blowing out the candles on my 33rd birthday cake sugar-free, dairy-free, gluten-free pumpkin mousse this year. Which goes to show how much has changed in the last year.

Other things to celebrate?

*My ass-tau has been reclassified as a J-Lo.

*I finished a book. As in, I wrote a fucking book. Which also means I didn’t have time to read one.

*I’ve made peace with my ego. Bring on the rejections.

*I’ve been rejected. Many times. Which means I moved way beyond the realm of dreaming and ventured into that of actually doing.

*Years and, okay fine, decades of angst regarding me and my kinky curlies Mama gave me are done and over with. Can you say MEXI-FRO?

*I met The Bloggess,sat next to Kendra on a plane,  hung out at Rudolpho Anaya’s house, had lunch with Rick Najera and his lovely wife, and was told that my manuscript didn’t suck by the amazing Demetria Martinez.

*And? Twitter brought me TBFF Juliette and @HC_Palmquist and @NL_Gervasio. I know. You guys are welcome for meeting me, too.

*I gave up sugar and gluten and found my waistline. Newscaster says? Parade at 11.

*Did I mention I wrote a book?

*Or that the number of candles I will be blowing out this year doesn’t bother me in the least? It’d probably because I adopted a new mantra. Can you say, “I don’t give a shit?”

Next year is almost here. A little part of me is always going to be looking back and focusing on what I could have done and where I think I should be by now, but I’m okay with that. Because that little voice is just going to push me to try harder in my new year and the New Year to follow.

Mappy Birthmas to me.

Mamavation Monday: Classified Information

 10 Responses »
Dec 062010
 

Shhhhh.

*Glances about furtively*

I have to be careful with what I say here.

It has recently come to my attention that you are not the only person reading my words. There has been, it seems, a very large leak in security.

For those that are unaware, Pauline’s Public Blog Privacy Policy reads something like this:

Strangers, come on in: My innermost thoughts about writing and motherhood are your playground. Point. Laugh. Call me a jackass. Relate to my cellulite and cry with me as we both step on the scale. For you, my life is an open book.

People I Knew Before I Started Blogging: Unless given express permission to even acknowledge the blog exists, stay the hell out of my head. And if you do happen to stop by? You are to pretend you didn’t just learn how fat my ass actually is.

Fine Print: Friends made through social media and BFF Mel are included in the Strangers clause of this policy. The Husband, however, is totally not allowed to get all psychic just because he can log onto my blog like the rest of the world. Which might make him believe it’s slightly unfair that the people in front and behind him in line at the grocery store might know about my current search for that wagon I am not supposed to have fallen off of–or what I actually weigh–but I’m totally good with this.

Turns out, it’s entirely possible that when I post things like this and this that inquiring minds have taken advantage of this free speech and open internet by logging on without my express permission. And? The Husband is currently in major touble.

We were out and about yesterday, as we we are prone to do on his days off before he decides he needs to go to bed at 4 p.m. because he works midnights, and I took a minute to check my blog stats from my Droid X. I am querying right now and the only thing I can do to keep my friends from killing me with the constant verbal obsessing is the self-stalking kind that involves me, my blog, and no one else telling me to shut the hell up. But something was glitchy when I tried logging in and I got an error message.

“What the hell? My blog is down?” Instant panic grabbed at my soul. I have a zillion queries out right now and the last thing I need right now is an agent logging on to see NADA.

“Lemme look on mine,” The Husband said as he grabbed his phone out of his pocket. “You might have just entered it wrong.”

Sure enough, a quick goggle search brought Aspiring Mama right up onto his screen.

“Operation Google Stalk, huh?” he said, a smile in his voice.

I sped read the post in my head and nodded my approval. “Yeah, you can read that one.”

“I can read that one? Whatever…” He reads off the blog post titles on the first page.”

Mamavation Monday: Ams and Am Nots

The Stars Say

The Typo queen Strikes Again

On Looking into the Light

I didn’t recall one of them mentioning anything I didn’t want to hear about at home, except for maybe for last week’s Mamavation post with the Dorito mention and all.

“Okay, you can read it all except for last Monday’s.”

The Husband laughed. “I can, huh? I’ll have you know I log on from time to time.”

“Without my permission?” My eyes are wide. My voice is shrill. I am imagining his eyes scanning over classified information like this and this. “Are you insane? People who know me aren’t supposed to read this! That’s like peeking into my diary without permission! I write that shit for strangers!”

The Husband laughed. Loud and hard. And the rational part of me didn’t blame him.

“You’re joking, right?”

I thought about every pre-natal visit he tagged along on only to turn his back, plug his ears, and whistle a happy tune when it came time for me to step on the scale because he knew that I didn’t want my 200 pound , 6-foot hottie to know his formerly curvy wife had ballooned to 245. Or how he knows what I’ve lost…but not what I weigh.

My life is a need to know basis, people. And I? Like to pretend that people I know…don’t actually know about anything going on inside of my head.

But you?

And you?

And you, too….

Come on in. Pull up a chair. Let’s talk motherhood. Let’s talk evil scales. Let’s talk muffin tops and cellulite and assmoflauge and falling off the wagon and temptation and whether or not treadmills should just be re-branded as overpriced closets. Let’s get into whether sleep is more important than working out or how exactly you manage to get it all done and make time for yourself versus me looking at the end of the day wondering how exactly I ran out of time for yoga but found the time to coordinate my cute workout gear before attacking the pile of laundry.

But if you said I DO? To ME?

If you know the color scheme at my wedding? Or the song I walked down the aisle to?

We need to talk about you pretending you have no clue what is going on over on this little blog o’ mine.

As long as I don’t know that you know? It’s all good.

Move along, people. There’s nothing to see here…

The Stars Say…

 2 Responses »
Dec 012010
 

My horoscope for Tuesday:

Capricorn Nov 30 2010
Whether you’re in search of the perfect job, the ideal friendship, or a wonderful marriage, you cannot attract it if you aren’t honest with yourself and with those who are critical to your pursuit. You may be playing a role now, Capricorn. You want to be the person that a potential job, or friend, or marriage partner would need you to be. But you can really only be who you are. If you were to attract someone while you were playing a role, then it would not last. And, even if it did, it would not be fulfilling. Be yourself now, and you will find your heart’s desire.

My translation?

So if I want an agent and a book deal, I need to stop pretending I can spell?

Awesome.

Official Announcement:

Dear Publishing World and Future Agent,

I can write. But let’s face facts, here. I suck at this spelling business. (Note the spelling of Apocalypse in my comment on Juliette’s  #zombiesurvivalcrew post here. What I actually wrote kind of resembles Alpaca Piss. Hey, at least it’s entertaining for you.) Once we both admit I only think I have caught my typos (Say it with me now: Post Mama Muff Top!) and you have to deal with everything that made it through, the world will be a happier place.

There…now that we have that out of the way, I’m off to email and blog stalk myself. Which reminds me. I also have no shame.

So! Where do I sign?

Mamavation Monday: Ams and Am Nots

 10 Responses »
Nov 292010
 

@aspiringmama: Sometimes? Doritos really are the answer.

Let me tell you who I am not.

I am not:

*Perfect

*Able to spell anything corretcly

*Interested in geting over my Tofu Phobia

*Friends with my scale

*In posession of a heaf of hair that actually moves when the wind does.

*An expert in Pubic Relations (Click on the link above for this one to make sense)

*Working out right now. (I know…I know…But my Christmas cards are almot done and the tree is up and it’s preeeeeety! And, And, And? I finished and hit send on a zillion queries, mostly typo-free, so I’m busy writing a blog post as I wait for the rejections to start pouring in so I can stare longingly at The Husband’s unopened bag of Doritos while I read them because I will physically need some at that point.)

Now for what I am:

*Honest.

*The Typo-queen (Exhibit A? My tweet stream)

*An expert in making the Post Mama Muffin Tops and Cellulite look gooood. And? I know how how to turn a hoodie into Assmoflauge by trying it around your waist and making it look like you did it to coordinate your outfit and not hide the circumference of your badonkatonk.)

*Trying my damndest to not get discouraged by my body’s utter lack of interest in anything I AM doing right to try and shed some flab off my ass. (Damned Doritos.)

*Proud owner and curator of the world’s first social media approved Mexi-fro.

*Still looking for my point in this post.

Oh right. I wrote a book about trying to lose the weight after the baby blew out the candles on her second birthday cake. But do I have the answers? No. Do I have a rockin’ bod to show for my efforts? (Note the lack of photos in this post and assume the worst.) Hell no. Do I plan on going to the gym tomorrow? Nu-uh.

 But do I want to?

Yeah. I do.

Even when life kicks me in the softly padded ass, even when emotions sneak up and make bad things sound good (like that Doritos tweet above), I am still trying. I am still wanting to better myself and provide my daughter with a healthy example. SO i almost always eat right. I don’t bitch about my thighs or my muffin top out loud. I tell her she is healthy. I tell her she is strong.

The truth of the matter is that I have health issues that aren’t making anything easier. But that isn’t saying I want it any less. And while I am in limbo, I am figuring the best thing I can do is look in the mirror and love what I see. Mexi-fro, muffin top, fat ass, and all.

If I can show my baby girl I am happy where I am now while I work on getting where I want to be, then it’s all good. And if I never get there? I need to be able to smile and laugh and hug her close when she asks if eating her dinner will make her grow up to be healthy and strong.

Because it’s all about her, people. I’m just along for the ride.

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