Only Cool Parents Bring Small Children to a Book Signing with The Bloggess

 1 Response »
Aug 132012
 

This *is* happy two hours after her usual bedtime. Trust me.

I passed my Internet to IRL Stalker test yesterday. And with flying colors, to boot, having driven two hours to wait three for five minutes with The Bloggess.

I also did not know that bringing a five-year-old to a book signing on a Saturday night would grant me the opportunity to skip ahead in line and save about an hour of just standing there, but I do now and plan to keep a random five-year-old on standby for book signings and Stalker Re-certification training because mine will eventually age out.

Jenny is amazing, and you already know that, so it’s not like I made The Husband drive me just so I could let it slip to anyone that would listen that I, like, totally already know Jennybecausethatishernameyouknow and follow up with this little story about how she once pet my mexifro in a Hilton bathroom. Now that I think about it, that sounds kind of raunchy, and it’s probably why The Husband got excited when I first told him that story two years ago until he found out that Jenny isn’t a redhead. And it totally explains why he got all huffy and told me to stop embellishing my stories when he read my blog and realized she just hugged me in the bathroom and asked me to show her my mexifro and then I took a picture of it and posted in online for the world to see. I, personally, don’t really see why he got all worked up.

I would write more, but I’m functioning on about two hours of sleep after being kept awake all night by some horrible and mysterious food allergy reaction, thereby proving my level of suckness has been upped to code She’s Probably Just a Giant Fucking Hypchondriac So Let’s Serve her the Peanuts and See What Happens on the national registry of dinner guests. And then, because destroying my own dignity wasn’t enough last night, one of the dogs had her ass explode multiple times from only God knows what and I somehow managed to not throw up on my MacBook every time I sat back down after cleaning the mess up to work on Girl Body Pride. I think my point was that I’m tired and then I wrote a bunch of shit saying how I wasn’t going to do exactly that so let’s all blame the Adderall for only lasting four hours before I start pissing you off again.

So here are the highlights: a small child that was not my own raised her hand to ask The Bloggess why she is so freaking awesome and her mother automatically won for Coolest Mother of the Year because, obviously. And then a small child that is my own tried getting a reaction out of me today by dramatically calling out LIKE, WHAT THE FOOT, MOM???? before falling down into a pile of giggles and cluelessness because there was this microphone and this book reading and there’s probably going to be a few very offended teachers tomorrow when other people’s kids get that last part right…in public…because that’s always a bonus.

The other best parts of the night includes Jenny graciously accepting a Buttercup original artwork and making one little girl’s day when Mommy’s Writing Friend promised to hang it in her office because that makes her a real artist. The Husband giving up his day off to drive two hours so we could wait for three hours for five minutes with a woman I am proud to say actually remembered me when I stood before her was also a bonus. And when I walked away with my smiling kid and my signed copes of her book and he started talking about what it will be like when it’s my turn after I get published while we drove back home, I just smiled and let him dream out loud.

Me, Buttercup, and Miss Jenny. I'll explain The Bloggess thing when she drops her first F-bomb, because then I know she'll actually appreciate this photo.

 

Coming Home (Otra Vez)

 8 Responses »
Jun 292012
 

;

My mother wants to know why I cut my hair so damned short and what size dress I am wearing now.

An aunt clicked her tongue and shook her head as she lamented my daughter’s lack of Spanish-speaking skills.

My uncle’s sister — whom I have not seen since I was five — asked why I only had one child. Then she nodded approvingly at my sister and the four children running between her legs because working ovaries are obviously a sign of a good and proper Mexican woman.

Rapid fire Spanish from a relative who flew in for the wedding wondering how old said child is now as she hides her face from another pair of prying hands in the folds of my dress. Four of her five years and 2,500 miles between us and the Mexican Show Pony Craziness that comes with special occasions has turned my three-quarter-Mexican-child into a white girl who expects strangers to respect her personal space.

She looks so much like you.

You look so much like your mother.

Your sisters look so much like your father.

And I am instantly 13 again. Insecure. Out of place. Unsure of where I truly belong.

***

We flew in to Detroit from Tucson a few days ago for my cousin’s wedding. Buttercup is the flower girl. And we’ve spent the last 20 minutes outside of the church waiting for everyone else, including the bride, to show up late. No one from the church is looking for us yet. They are used to running on Mexican time.

Buttercup is playing in the courtyard with her four cousins. She is grateful they speak English, I think. Small talk keeps me and my sisters occupied because the divide between us is more complex than the miles we just crossed. Because we are in the same place, though, we will pretend to try. No one will be expecting weekly phone calls to stay in touch after we return home. And yet there are no hard feelings. It’s just understood.

Family begins to arrive. Hugs and kisses and You Look Great, Mijitas are exchanged. Sometimes because it is expected. Others because it is sincerely meant. We — The Husband, Buttercup, and myself — stand alone in the midst of the Spanglish craziness. I am acutely aware of the fact that I am thinking in English.

***

The rehearsal takes two hours. By the time we are ready to leave the church for the rehearsal dinner, Buttercup is crabby and asking to go home. We oblige, taking my mother and one sister with us, grateful to hide behind the excuse of a tired child. The bride and groom nod their understanding. More hugs and kisses are exchanged. And we are free.

Buttercup is full of smiles and laughter as soon as the car door closes and the engine starts. No longer overwhelmed by the noise and the outstretched hands, it’s apparent the child is more like me than I sometimes realize. In the middle of strangers who are bound by blood, she wants to hide and remain unnoticed. But with close friends who have become family, she is light and she is happiness.

It’s time to go to my mother-in-law’s house now. It’s where we are staying while we are in town. As we turn to leave, my mother hands me a small bear.

Don’t forget this, she says.

It’s my one-eyed bear from childhood. I smile and hug it close as my mother makes sure to remind me her dress size is smaller than my own. I’ve come home again.

I (really) Suck at Follow Through

 1 Response »
Mar 132012
 

So this one time I interviewed an author and did an interview and hosted a giveaway for a signed copy of her book and people entered and then I totally forgot to choose a winner and put a pretty bow on the whole package? And then another time I did the exact same thing?

Yeah…about that.

While I wait for word from Google about how long I have before I forget that I had laser eye surgery four years ago and push my imaginary glasses up the bridge of my nose again, I’ll bide my time by announcing that Heiddi Zalamar is the incredibly lucky winner of an unigned copy of Jane Devin’s powerful memoir, Elephant Girl.

Thank you all for entering and thank you, Jane, for allowing me the opportunity to share your words.

I’m Not Really Here Right Now…

 No Responses »
Sep 012011
 

Today my words have taken me to new places. Come find me here in September’s issue of Hippocampus Magazine and read my essay entitled Truth and Drumsticks, in which I discuss body image, motherhood, and examples, and trying to lessen future emotional baggage.


I talk six-year-olds and diets and body image and well-intentioned but poorly executed bedtime stories on Owning Pink. If you have a wound child, I urge you to stop by and read this.

You can also find my essay, P is for Patience, on the Bob Books blog. I discuss my recent adventures with Buttercup as we both get used to new roles in her road to reading. I’m the teacher. She’s the student.

Or is it the other way around?

Disconnected

 23 Responses »
Aug 262011
 

 

She looked away from the monitor to hang up on the incoming call. After setting her phone on silent, she lost herself with faceless friends.

***

 

This post was written in response to the Red Writing Hood  weekly writing meme on Write On Edge. This week, writers were asked to write a short story using Twitter as our Muse and 140 characters as our character limit.

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