Reverse Nesting

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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.

Vlog on

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Jul 092010

I have a million blog posts in my head, sitting right alongside the 25k I waiting to be placed on the screen to finish up the book.

That’s right, people. I’m almost done with a book. Like, an entire one. The thought is way too surreal.

Anyway, I want to go the easy route today because I’m way behind on my writing schedule and really need to be a good little writer. So I’m going to use this post to let you know about a new feature I’m adding to my blog as of tomorrow. It’s going to be called Story Time Saturdays and the plan is to showcase vlog posts showing myself or other writing peoples reading favorite stories to their children. Reading to Buttercup is a huge part of our relationship and I want to share that. I have a few writers lined up to share story time with their own kiddos and will choose my own favorites to throw in once or twice a month. More if the well runs dry.

Keep in mind, though…while Saturdays post is going to be family friendly, Friday’s post might not be. I promise to do my best to limit the F-bombs to Sunday to Thursday…but please keep my #pottymouth tag in mind when sitting down with your kids to listen to a new tale on Saturdays. Bottom line? Just have the video cued up and ready to be safe if your kids can read. I’m still living down The Great Dam Gammit Incident of 2008 with my own child, and don’t need any added guilt to add to my already tarnished Mom of the Year award points if your kids start repeating what I say.

And with that, I’m off to work on that making myself a famous writer thing.

What writing a book has taught me: Part 1

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Jul 082010

I’m not done yet. But I’m almost there. And I’ve learned a thing or 10 since I sat down with The Great Plan to write A Memoir.

1) What I planned and what I have are two different things.

2) But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

3) Honesty doesn’t have to be camoflauged in humor.

4) Honesty makes the humor that much more relatable.

5) I write like I speak.

6) Which means the book wouldn’t ring true if I didn’t use the word “fuck” every now and then.

7) Sharing with strangers is easier than sharing with people I Actually Know because…

8 ) A stranger’s judgment comes without consequence and…

9) I may change my name and move to Bali when (and yes, I said when) gets published because…

10) I’m really not looking forward to the size of my ass becoming the topic of conversation at the next family gathering.

11) But I’m ready for my Manic Mommies interview. Oprah is so last year. Unless she decides to keep her show on the air and calls my future agent begging for me to take a seat on that famous couch of hers. Then I’m all about Oprah. Oh yes. My public awaits.

12) There is a story to be told in every moment.

13) Sometimes those moments move faster than the words can flow.

14) Related: Twitter is a great substitute for post-it note reminders. Tweet, favorite, refer to later.

15) It’s easy to compare myself to other writers and think I’m crazy for writing my book. I’m not them! I didn’t say that like they did! But that’s okay because…

16) That’s because I’m telling my story. In my voice.

17) Sleep is over-rated.

18) Typos are the bane of my existence.

19) Proposals and queries are not the root of all evil. Cellulite is. And that friction that comes from my inner thighs rubbing together when I forget to tug on the Spanx when I’m wearing a dress?

20) Mama can put herself first. The dishes will patiently wait till morning. So will the laundry. The child? Yeah…she needs to eat.

Hostage situation: One Rabbit (and my dignity)

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Jun 252010

“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.”

My New Serenity Prayer

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Jun 192010

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.

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