and Trying to Stay Sane » Aspiring Mama

Dear Future Agent,

I have a secret to share. It may shock you.

Then again, probably not.

See…(and this is kind of embarrassing to admit)…but (deep breath) I. Am. Not. Famous.

I’ll give you a minute to digest that little piece of information. Because really, the Holy Crap factor was probably enough to knock the wind out of you. You know, while you laughed at me. So I understand if you need to compose yourself.

Right now, dear Future Agent, you are probably asking yourself why you should give a damn about me and my Regular Peeples status. Or not. After all, we haven’t been formally introduced yet. Or perhaps we have and I just haven’t quite convinced you yet. So in reality, you are probably busy cycling through your inbox while fending off off over-zealous writers with good intentions and big dreams who may have sent you cookies instead of a properly formatted query letter, wishing it was five o’clock so you can get home and pop the cork on a bottle of wine, skip the glass, and stick a bendy straw in there. You know, after you have served the kids dinner. (I’m going out on a limb here and guessing you will be a mom. And if you are doing that bendy straw thing, we are soooo a match made in heaven.)

But back to the me Not Being Famous and why you should care thing. You see, before I find you I have to be told to keep looking by others. “This is a subjective business…” “Other agents opinions may differ…” “What doesn’t work for me may be perfect for another agent…” Oh wait. It’s been three weeks and two days. Which means I can cross too more off my list. I know my query is solid (maybe). I know my writing has promise (right?). I know I will not be a word-diva when it comes to revisions (which I think is major bonus points, yes?) I could focus on the fact that I just got turned down again or I can remind myself that these two passive rejections are playing their karmic roles in getting me closer to the day I find you. But instead, I think I’ll focus on the fact that my (solid) query is missing something. That my (promising) writing isn’t even going to come into play for many of the agents who shall come before you because of that pesky little platform thing. And seeing as I don’t really have one to stand on, why ask for more if I don’t have enough to get me past Go to collect my Monopoly money?

You already know, dear Future Agent, that Non-fiction and Strong Platforms go hand in hand. That there is plenty of rhyme and reason for the current system. I get it, too. But I have to admit that the whole situation kind of has me in a pickle similar to the Gotta Have Credit to Get Credit situation I found myself in when I was young and stupid enough to jump on the first credit card offer that got me a free T-shirt on my college campus; I’m not famous enough to garner the attention of many agents looking for famous enough people to garner the attention of publishers looking for people famous enough to sell books. So they have (and will continue to) take a pass on me. No matter what they may think of my writing or my claims that my old job, this blog, and my twitter addiction could be considered a platform.

And that’s okay. It sucks. But it’s okay.

Because one day, you will take a chance on me. And I’ll do that little happy dance every writer does when their own future finally slows down enough for them to grab hold. And then I can dream bigger and work harder (while trying to remedy that Not Being Famous thing while taking breaks from that working and writing thing, of course.) Until then, I’ll continue to nurse my bruised ego, marvel at the fact that the girl who was so unsure of herself has grown into the woman who is sure enough to continue this soul-crushing exercise as long as it takes, and wait.

I may not be famous (enough) yet, but I’m stubborn as hell. Which means I’m not going to let my cute little platform (or lack thereof) get in my way.

Sincerely,

While the title might have led you to belive this was going to be a blog post about BlogHer10, it was written two weeks ago and cut and pasted into my files so I could look smart and update the blog whileI was living it up in NYC.

As you can see, I kinda fell off the grid when The Big Apple kicked my ass. (It also doesn’t help that instead of flying home and recovering in my own bed, I’m trying to stay sane after flying into Detroit to hang with the family for two weeks. I can’t say “blog” too loud without being offered a tissue.)

So until I get my head squared back on my shoulders, have fun with more elevator music. I’m off to pretend I don’t care Buttercup is watching Burn Notice with her daddy.

My sister couldn’t believe that this meal…

…caused this mess. And frankly, neither could I. There was a super yum black bean burger and some surprisingly tasty smashed potatoes on my plate (recipes from Tosca Reno’s Eat Clean Diet, Recharged) and I seriously enjoyed every single bite. But I couldn’t help but laugh at the mountain of dishes in my sink.

Back in the day when I didn’t give a damn and nuked prepacked food more often than I bought fresh, dishes were not a major concern. It’s not much work to throw away a cardboard box and wash off a fork, now is it? But boiling potatoes and parsnip and steaming cauliflower? Then straining all of it in a colander? And smashing it all up in another bowl? And don’t even get me started on the bean burger. I’ve made them a few times already and already know this is a new staple recipe for me, but holy hell, people.

Eating clean and healthy isn’t exactly a dishwasher’s dream come true.

(But it is totally worth the mess.)

**This post originally appeared on Bookieboo!

I lose my keys on a regular basis only to find them at the bottom of my purse.

I had Lasik a few years ago, but was known to lose my glasses…while on my face.

My blackberry gets lost in my bra on a regular basis. Don’t ask. Because if you do, I’ll be forced to dedicate a blog post to the very subject.

I’ve even lost the parked mini-van in the mall parking lot once and was wandering the lot long enough for mall security to take pity, offer me a ride, and drive me to the opposite end of the mall where it became apparent I had exited the building on the wrong side.

The Husband had a brain-glitch a few months back and told me to go buy myself that pair of Oakley sunglasses I had been drooling over and by drooling, i mean I knew I was never going to have them because I used to lose $5 gas station sunglasses every time the sun set so I grabbed they keys when I found them and ran out to the mini-van I knew where it was this time and drove to the mall Dont worry, I have a file in my blackberry for where I park now before he regained his senses. I’ve lost these bad boys a few times and have had panic attacks until they turned up again in the diaper bag, the mini-van glove box, or, not surprisingly, on the bridge of my nose.

The point is that I lose things. Without effort.

This brings me to two questions.

#1 Why haven’t I lost the baby weight yet? Buttercup’s blown out the candles on her third birthday cake. Self-imposed deadlines have come and gone. And I’m still trying to earn my MILF card. And the kicker is that I’ve been trying…like, for realz.

#2 Who was the jack-hole who decided to coin the term “weight loss?” When an individual needs to or desires to see a lower number on the scale for whatever reason, why is it that they have to “lose the weight?”

Losing things is easy.

Losing weight? Dropping the baby f(ph)at? Not so much.

Now…where the hell did my last nerve go?

“No, not that one! You mom got that one for her last Easter. Remember?”

The Husband throws the floppy-eared bunny back in the “Keepers” pile. He holds up the next one and I almost scream.

“No way! I got that one in my Congratulations basket from my old job after having Buttercup.”

The Husband rolls his eyes at me but tosses the pink lion in the keep pile and moves on to the next one.

Another Pink Floppy Bunny. “Heidi and Justin, baby shower.”

Santa Claus. “Madrina Elma. Christmas. Two years ago.”

Winnie-the-Pooh. “My mom gave it to me and I gave it to Buttercup.”

A fluffy dog in a winter hat. “My mom. It was one of those charity purchases.”

Two hand puppets. “Pati got those for her at IKEA this year.”

A zebra. “That’s a $60 stuffed animal I got for free when I was reviewing crap, it’s fair trade and organic. That bad boy stays put until she obliterates it.”

A fuzzy-maned lion in red heart pajamas. “Are you fucking crazy? That’s the one I got you for your 26th birthday that you passed on to her! We can’t get rid of that one.”

“You have a memory attached to every single one of these stuffed animals,” The Husband says. “And by the way, when did I pass on Mr. Lion to Buttercup, because I don’t remember doing that.”

“You passed on Mr. Lion when Mr. Lion got tired of being in a tote in the basement,” I says, indignant. “And I do not have a memory attached to every single stuffed animal. See?” I motion across the room. “I got rid of a few because I had no idea who got them for her.”

“You got rid of three stuffed animals and think you succeeded at thinning out the zoo of stuffed animals that she never plays with? This? Is progress?”

I sigh, fast running out of any arguments. I’ve already tried pointing out that I didn’t buy 90 percent of the stuffed friends she has. Buttercup boasts ownership of the entire Backyardigans collection, the Ni-Hao Kai Lan crew, The Wonder Pets, Dora and Boots, and Diego, along with half of the Disney channel, thanks to my sister, Pati and my mom. My weakness is the Build-a-Bear workshop and an excuse to relive my own childhood through my daughter. And because she was a super-good girl in her swimming lesson and overcame her fear of putting her face in the water, I decided she deserved a new friend and that her new friend deserved the dignity of an outfit.

She came home with a Fourth of July Hello Kitty. The Husband took one look at the receipt and told me to get rid of $50 worth of her old (read: ignored) stuffed animals. I’ve been at it for two hours now while her cousin keeps her busy downstairs and only come up with half of a garbage bag because I can’t seem to part with any item that I can state the when, where, and why of the gift-receiving details.

The Husband knows this and he’s tired of watching me torture myself, so he’s decided to be The Heavy. After me through a trial-run of the entire collection and managing to only get me to agree to one “Toss” for a generic teddy bear I couldn’t match to a memory, he is now ruthlessly going through the pile again and tossing animal into both the “Keeper” and the “Toss” piles so fast I can barely keep up. Until I see Pink Floppy Bunny.

“What the hell, Dude! That one is sacred!”

He raises an eyebrow. “She never touches it.”

“So what! Look, she never touches this one, either.” I hold up a backpack that’s made to look like a dog. “She got it last year from a woman I barely know who came to her birthday party and she’s never touched it. And more importantly, I won’t miss it.”

I take a deep breathe, as if about to negotiate for the release of a hostage.

“I’ll trade you the dog backpack for Pink Floppy Bunny.” It’s a good deal. Pink Floppy Bunny is three years old. Dog Backpack is brand new and practically re-giftable. He’d be a fool not to take it.

“You’ve resorted to trading for Buttercup’s stuffed animals?” The Husband now has tears in his eyes from laughing. While I can feel my lips twitching, I refuse to break until I know Pink Floppy Bunny is out of harm’s way.

“We’re not trading. We’re negotiating.”

“Oh God, that’s worse.” The Husband throws Pink Floppy Bunny at me as he walks out of Buttercup’s room with the bag of the Condemned. “But you better watch it. Pink Floppy Bunny gets it the minute Hello Kitty’s sister crosses our threshold.”

I stay silent, momentarily focused on formulating a plan to keep the rabbit safe whenever the time comes and…

“And hey,” The Husband interrupts my thoughts. “Get a life.”

Pictures are worth a thousand words, right?

What about the magnets on our refrigerators?

Seriously. I know I’m not the only woman alive who resorts to Spanx not only because it vacuum-seals the muffin top, but because they work wonders at keeping the inner thighs from chafing. Not that I wear Spanx while jogging.

Or that I jog.

There’s a lot of truth to this one, too. I might think in chocolate, much like a color-blind person might only see in black and white, but I don’t eat it like I used to.

Which was always.

Instead, I admit to self-sabotaging, albeit unknowingly, at most every turn. Not because I don’t want to succeed at getting healthier. But because I can’t seem to convince myself that Other People, including Buttercup and The Husband, don’t always have to come first.

I’m a wife. I’m a mom. That’s who I am.

But relearning how to be selfish? How to be the me I was before I had a kid? How to put me first? How to tell Buttercup and The Husband that Mama’s busy working out and taking care of herself so they need to fend for themselves for an hour?

Not so easy.

Until I adopted the last one as my new mantra. And replaced this for the cutesy Buttercup photo I had as wallpaper on my Blackberry.

I like to refer to this one as my new Serenity Prayer.

The sinks full of dishes?

The laundry is waiting to be folded?

Leftovers for dinner, again?

Yes, my friends. Yes. Because this is me…amazingly not giving a shit about the inconsequentials so I can give a shit about me. Until I get home from my hour-long walk, or that Zumba class at the gym, and remember the laundry, dishes, and scramble to figure dinner out for tomorrow…all while frantically whispering the real Serenity Prayer to myself as I hunt for a bottle of wine and a bendy straw.

Follow Me

Aspiring Mama says…

StatPressCN TopPosts

Been there. Done That. Got the T-shirt.

Blogroll

Meta

The Platform Conundrum

The Aftermath

On losing things...

Hostage situation: One Rabbit (and my dignity)

My New Serenity Prayer