Fast, Cheap, and Easy

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Aug 152010

While the rest of the world was knocked off their BlogHer high with the immediate onslaught of screaming kids and loads of laundry that refuse to take care of themselves, I am still navigating the perilous role of The Visitor. It’s a strange place to be, especially since, until a little over a year ago, I lived my entire life within a 20 mile radius.

To say I wasn’t prepared for the mind-numbing politics that go hand in hand with the Who We Actually Make Time For in the 12 day period available to us for our hell-cation would be an understatement. There’s his side, my side, his friends, my friends, and the friends who I totally didn’t miss but feel obligated to make time for anyway. There are late nights (combined with too much sugar and the new toothpaste I stupidly purchased which is yet to be used) for Buttercup, early mornings for me and The Husband, and an ongoing game of Tug of War for our presence in a rapidly dwindling window of time.

Don’t get me wrong…we are having fun. It’s hard not to have a good time when distance and time haven’t stopped me from slipping right back into private jokes and secret punch lines with the friends who will be friends no matter the actual distance between us. But I do have to admit that there have been multiple days when I have wished multiple times that Aunt Becky had decided to go with Mommy Wants Vicodin for her twitter handle so I could change my identity to reflect my current state of mind.

I also feel it’s very important to point out that I, in fact, have eaten my willpower. I didn’t just choose a random photo to fill white space. Instead, I avoided the weird looks from store employees while snapping a few photos of clever aprons because they basically summed up which side of the bed I have been waking up on since landing in Michigan for the second time in less than two weeks.

I’m clean-eating. Or rather, I was until this whole little adventure began. And I totally thought I’d be faithful to my new eating habits while hanging in NYC with TBFF Juliette and schmoozing with my new bloggy buddies. That was before total exhaustion hit and I decided that I just didn’t give a damn anymore. Had it just been those 4 days, I would have been fine. It’s a vacation, right? A chance to let go, have fun, and eat a slice of pizza so good that there was a line out the door long after the sun had gone down?

But by the time I return to Tucson, I will have been gone for 17 days. And because PCOS, Insulin Resistance, and all the other fun little things wrong with me that make being fat so easy it should really be a hell of a good time have probably allowed my body to gain a sickening amount of weight in an amusingly short amount of time, I am perfectly aware that the Fettucini Alfredo eaten at Tio’s today or the Kickass Local Pizza we’ll be chowing on tomorrow with friends are really going to fuck screw with my plans for reinstating my MILF card sooner rather than later.

So what exactly am I doing to myself here? Am I allowing myself to enjoy my vacation or making my trip back to reality (and what The Husband likes to refer to as rabbit food) that much more of a pain in the ass? I’m gonn go out on a limb here and say it’s a Laugh and  Point because It’s Me and not You twisted little combination of both possibilities.

Until then, I’m fast, cheap, and easy.

To the Pain

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May 292010

the pain of the macho

“What do you want me to say? I’ll write whatever you want.”

It’s Rick Najera speaking. He’s holding a copy of The Pain of the Macho in his hands, pen ready to personalize the first page for me.  My response is nothing but a “blink, blink.”

“Come on,” Rick says. “Tell me what to write.”

I imagine sweet little lies. Empty words of praise that might look good on paper but ring false to anyone with a heartbeat.

Pauline Campos is the best writer I’ve ever met!

Pauline Campos will be more famous than me!

Pauline Campos is so good I’m going to ask her to become part of my Hollywood team and she can work from home because it’s just safer that way!

The man might be a comedic genius and a highly respected actor/writer/director who told me my work has serious potential doesn’t suck, but he only met me 24 hours earlier. To ask him to lie to me verbally is one thing.

On paper?

That’s just sacrilegious.

“I really have no idea,” I said out loud. “I don’t want it to be bullshit.”

Rick stood there for a moment, probably amazed by both my lack of a filter and the fact that I didn’t want him to whisper meaningless sweet nothings that would just piss me off when he handed the book back. I hadn’t planned on buying anything else that would add to my already busting-at-the-seams suitcase, but we all got yelled at by the higher-ups at the conference for not supporting our fellow writers during the first book sale/book signing. So I bucked up, bought the smallest book there, handed it to Rick, and made a mental note to send my receipt for having a 55-pound suitcase back to the conference organizers for guilting me into buying more books (I already had five on the nook written by conference faculty that I paid for) with a demand for reimbursement.

I almost asked what he had been asked to sign in other people’s books, but decided I really didn’t want to know.

“Let’s try another route,” Rick said. “Where do you want to be a year from now?”

Ding, ding, ding!

That one was easy and I answered without hesitating.

“I want my book on the New York Times best seller list and America Ferrera pegged to play me in the movie based on my book.”

Rick smiled and began to write. This is what he “put out into the universe.” Which, he says, means it has to come true…

*****

This break is brought to you by our sponsors, Chicken Scratch and Man Writing, as the author of this post tries to decipher what was written. Please, ladies and gentlemen, your patience is appreciated…

*****

Um…I think it says:

This book was my beginning. Yours will end up on New York Times with America playing the lead. Best, Rick Najera

*****

Disclaimer: And I only got that far because he read it out loud to me before handing back my book. There’s something to be said for memory retention, people.

I now call this meeting to order...

18 Responses »
May 272010

It’s no secret.

I spend a hell of a lot of time on Twitter.

It’s fun. It’s random. And I love being able to connect with writers and moms just by pulling my blackberry out of my bra and sending a tweet.

But ya know what I don’t love?

Auto DMs (or automatic direct messages, for the uninitiated).

Here’s my take on the situation: If you send them, you look like an A-hole. A fake, smiling, chipper telemarketer hoping that the person you just called won’t hang up before you finish your pitch. I don’t care how famous you are or how many followers you have or how impossible it is to keep up with all the tweets coming your way. Be real or sit down and shut up. I know when I’m being patronized. And you know what happens when I get “Thanks for following me! Please check out my INSERT URL HERE and I can’t wait to get to know you!” in my direct message  inbox?

An automatic unfollow.

Same goes for the crazy Facebook games some of Those People with Time to Spare that end up with your results in my direct message inbox.  Because really? I don’t need to take a quiz to figure out which real crazy writer I am like. I can save a lot of headache by just looking in the fucking mirror.

I don’t care if you have 2 followers or 2 million. I don’t care if I followed you because I thought you were interesting until the DM showed up in my inbox. Sometimes it hurts to cut the chord. But if you’re too busy to sincerely acknowledge or ignore me, I doubt you’re going to notice you’re down a follower.

Here’s the thing, people. I know that some perfectly wonderful and nice bloggers/tweeps use auto DMs. I’ve grimaced every time I’ve gotten one…and admit that I have had to swallow my own words and ignore my own policy every now and then, especially if a relationship had already developed outside of/or prior to Twitter. I want to tell these people that for a brief moment, I stopped thinking they are wonderful and nice and instead thought they were about as real and sincere as The Popular Kid in elementary school who was forced to invite all the kids in his/her class to their birthday parties. Smile big and pretty for the camera…but let’s forget we this ever happened after the flash dies away, okay?

Am I being melodramatic? Probably.

I know that most people who set up auto-dm’s probably think it’s a nice way to welcome their new followers instead of making them wait for acknowledgment. But after my recent informal twitter poll, I confirmed that I’m not the only one with a bug up my bum about this whole thing.

What started this whole drama? A real direct message. One that thanked me for a follow that was very obviously written by the person who sent it and was very obviously intended for me. I was in shock.

So I tweeted this:

wow, i just got a realm sincere, thanks for the follow DM. take note people, i’d rather be sincerely ignored than falsely welcomed.

And the “Sing it, sister!” responses started coming in, so I started a very unscientific and unofficial Twitter Poll.

Responses to my “Love auto DMs or Hate ‘em” tweet included the words “annoying,” “hate,” insincere,” unfollow,” and “why?”

Not one person jumped up and admitted to using them. Not one person called me out for calling them out.A few people did say that they are only mildly annoyed by them. Some just ignore the auto-dm’s and others have even found magical and mystifying ways to block them completely. I’m not that talented, nor do I believe I need to go out of my way to avoid your social media fuax-paux, so I’ll just bitch about them here because I can.

But ya know what? Not one person jumped up and said that they loved receiving auto dm’s or that they make the receiver feel like they just got hugged by a rainbow.

Or a unicorn.

So here’s my plan to take over Twitter and make it safe to play in the sandbox again: I think that those of us on Team Pauline should join together and form Tweeps Against Auto Direct Messages (TAADM.) I’ll be president. Karen Quah can be vice-president.

I even have a slogan, which Karen already approved after too many martinis.

Friends don’t let friends auto-dm. Respond or ignore sincerely. It could save a follow.

Our first meeting will take place in the community center, room 4A, right after the Twitter Anonymous (TA) meeting lets out. Don’t forget the punch and cookies this time.

Going for silver? Or just going crazy?

3 Responses »
Mar 042010

“Are you crazy? Why not just stay fat and get pregnant and then worry about the weight when you’re done?“IMG_0028
The question has been posed to me by many of my friends multiple times.
The first time the conversation came up was at a get-together with some college buddies. Buttercup was a little over a year old at the time, and that fits in with the usual timing before people start that “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” thing before asking when the next baby is coming along.
“No way in hell am I getting pregnant before I lose this weight,” I vehemently responded. “The first time sucked enough and I was in pretty decent shape. I don’t need to add 30 pounds to the equation. Maybe we’ll go for silver when Buttercup turns 3.”
A lot of time has passed since that discussion and I’m still dodging the question. The last time it came up with friends was after learning a mutual friend was pregnant with her second child. Her oldest is just a little younger than Buttercup, so it made sense to everyone else to look at me like I was nuts for holding out. That clock ticking and all.
Before I could give my practiced “I need to lose the weight first so I can have a better chance at a healthy pregnancy” speech, The Husband answered for me.
“Nah,” he said laughing. “Pauline would rather torture herself by getting skinny first so she can get fat and have to do it all over again.”
Well thanks a lot, asshole.
To his credit, The Husband has not pressured for a new baby yet. Nor has he looked at me sideways for still dealing with the same poundage I left the maternity ward with almost three years down the road. But sometime between the first “Just stay fat and deal later” conversation and the last, I’ve started wondering if I really am crazy.
Since I’ve actively started trying to find my waistline again in the Land of Cellulite, Thunder Thighs, and Muffin Tops, I’ve yo-yo’d like a champ, started and quit various weight loss plans because they weren’t working for me, found out I have to make nice with my body and my PCOS and Insulin Resistance before the scale will agree to be my friend, and started (and gotten pretty far into) a book that was supposed to be the Big Motivator for me to finally get off my ass and make things happen.
After doing the math (which, trust me, didn’t take very long) I’ve learned that I’ve lost a grand total of 11 pounds in 7 months. And that was before I got all pms-y and gained 4 back with that nasty little monthly bloat that likes to point and laugh at my self-esteem.
And considering the fact that Buttercup is just a few months away now from her third birthday and I’m still rockin’ my fat pants with all the snark I can muster, I may have to re-evaluate things pretty soon here.
Granted, nothing is happening until my doc gives the green light. Nor am I asking her to at the next check-up. But I’m not in a never-ending limbo anymore. The Husband will be 37 in July and I’ll be 33 in December. No matter what happens with the scale, I have to put up or shut up before the year is out. Not on getting pregnant, mind you. Just on the decision as to when to um, start that Olympic training.
And because my life operates under the Laws of Murphy, this was all a long-winded way of saying: Watch me suddenly figure myself out, lose 20 pounds, and find myself pregnant a week after I start shaking my wild thang in skinny(er) jeans…and then have to do it all over again.
I’m sure that at that point, I may have to concede that my friends were right.
I must be completely certifiable.

****This post originally appeared on Bookieboo.ning.com!
****And the photo? That’s me at 36.5 weeks. I became a mom 3 days later.

Me, Myself, and me, too.

3 Responses »
Feb 272010

It’s been a few months since the last interview with myself and since I’m bored (you know, with the surplus of spare time that I just so happen to be imagining right now), I decided it’s time for another. Inquiring minds (and my legions of adoring fans) want to know.

(Wait, what do you mean I don’t have legions of fans? You mean it’s more like two? And my BFF Mel and The Husband do not count? I’m just going to pretend that I didn’t hear you say that. Moving on…)

So here’s the (already familiar) drill: We pretend I’m already a famous lit star and that this interview is one of many I’ve been dodging for months because I am *that* busy writing my billionth book and packing for a cruise to celebrate my gazillion dollar advance.

(My fantasy. My rules. And that means no pissing on my parade.)

Last time I was interviewed by the highly respected and totally made up Trashy Brainless Magazine. This time in a blatant attempt to get a boatload of new followers for my new twitter account dedicated to Me-the-author (as opposed to Me-the-write-mama), I think I’ll have @aspiringmama get the deets from @baby_fphat on her life, her book, and why being a writer is probably the single remaining factor standing between her me, us and a padded room.

Fascinating stuff, yes?

(Also a rule if you want to play in my head…you must agree. Or at least pretend to and humor me.)

@Aspiringmama: That was a really long-winded and self-serving intro. Which one of us is going to claim responsibility for it? Please say it’s you.

@baby_fphat: No way, princess. The blog is called Aspiring Mama, remember? This is all you. Consider this me, not taking one for the team.

AM: Damn it. I knew I wasn’t going to like you.

BF: Are my feelings supposed to be hurt? Never mind. Don’t answer that. More importantly, are you going to bother actually interviewing me? Because I have shit to do. And arguing with myself is not on my to-do list today.

AM: Well aren’t we the prima donna.

BF: Well, yes…we are. First question?

AM: Because I can’t spell it correctly, I’ll just say “too-shay.” Fine. First question. You’re new to twitter. Why should people follow you?

BF: Because I’m funnier than you. And because my account name matches the book name. That’s one. And two. Next question?

AM: Whatever. You opened the door so I’m just walking in. Have you finished the damned book yet?

BF: No, I haven’t. Genius takes time. And I can’t write any faster than the Gods allow my ass to shrink. That’s the beauty and pain of writing a memoir in real time as I live the experience. Be patient. I’m trying to be.

AM: Right. So, what have been the highlights of the 17 completed chapters? And how in God’s name did you manage to squeeze 17 chapters out of 11 pounds lost in seven months?

BF: I’m just that good. No, seriously, I am. Ok, ok, really seriously…I dived into writing Baby F(Ph)at with the intention of lighting a very public fire under my own ass in an attempt to motivate myself to lose the weight I’ve been holding on to since I squeezed Buttercup outta my hoo-ha. But I didn’t stop to consider that my PCOS and Insulin Resistance were going to be major players in that little scenario and it’s been a lot of trial and error. I can’t fix the outside until I attend to the inside and I’ve finally figured that out.

I think.

Besides, I’m pretty sure that a lot of women will relate to the fact that I didn’t just wish myself skinny(er). I’ve had to work hard at losing the little bit I’ve managed to so far, and I’ll have to work harder to lose the rest. My readers will be cheering me on.

AM: And I’m glad those therapy sessions have addressed that self-esteem issue you were having.

BF: *grinning* thank you.

AM: Snark and manners. I like it. What other character flaws should I be aware of?

BF: I’m late. For everything. Ever vacationed in a time-share at Mexican resort and get pissed because nothing ever started when it was supposed to? Yeah. I didn’t get pissed because I’m running on the same internal clock those Cancun and Mexican Riviera resort employees are. I think the scientific term is “Mexican time.” The Husband has learned to deal.

Oh, and I second-guess everything. There’s a rule The Husband likes to call “The Menu.” No matter what it is I’m looking to buy, shoes, a laptop, a new bra, or dinner at a restaurant, the minute I say, “I think I’ll try that…” is when The Husband Takes The Menu away. Because if he doesn’t and I have enough time to say, “You know? This sounds good instead…” I always end up pissy and moping because  realize I should have gone with my first choice. I think it’s a medical condition.

AM: Fascinating. So we’re crazy?

BF: You decide. I just interviewed myself again.

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