When the Play Date Ends: An Army of Ermas

 1 Response »
Sep 252012
 

 

Since Buttercup was a little tiny baby, she has despised goodbyes. Newborn shrieks would replace content gurgles the instant she got wind of diaper bags being packed up, hugs exchanged with whomever it was we were visiting, and car keys jangling.

Those newborn shrieks have since been replaced with tantrums, MAMA I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE I LIKE IT HERE’s and hours of pouting afterward just to prove her point. And that was when we visited my adult friends. Without kids, people. Heaven help me when it was an actual play date that was ending.

She’s five now. Adorable. Smart. Hilarious. She has strength and character and Mother of…

She’s going to break me with that attitude.

Her teacher told me the other day that Buttercup crossed her arms over her chest, dug her heels firmly into the ground, and flat out refused the green journal being handed to her for an activity in class. It seemed that Teacher Lady had assigned each child in class a random journal that was theirs to use for the entire school year. Only problem was that green has never been one of her favorite colors and apparently Buttercup was a bit miffed that her preferences had not been taken into consideration.

“I don’t like that color,” she said. And I know exactly how she said it.

“I’m not working in that.” she said. And I can hear the bitch that will replace the brat when my little princess grows up just the tiniest bit more. Because, and trust me on this, it’s a milestone that you and your family will note. There might not be a Hallmark card to designated for the very moment you realize it is now socially acceptable to tell at at least one person outside of your head that your kid was a total bitch today and then get weepy because yesterday she had just been bratty. Something changed while she slept. She grew up a little bit. And now you aren’t sure if you are crying because you miss your baby are are dead-fucking terrified because it’s probably only moments before she realizes she has hormones and all hell officially breaks loose.

Which explains the instant sobs when the ultra-sound tech announced that the baby in the belly was a girl. So sweet and dress-able when they’re small. But then they grow up.

And it’s always too fast.

We had a play date recently with her BFF from preschool two years ago. In elementary school years, these two have known each other for decades.We managed to leave with only downcast eyes and whispers about being sad as we walked out to our car.

“I like it here. I’m sad I have to go.”

And I understood. Because I just learned that a play date of my own is ending.

An Army of Ermas riding off into the sunset on September 30. The site will remain live for fans to peek at when they need to go searching for a favorite laugh. But there will be no more reasons to try and swear less while while writing about something funny. And I’m going to miss that.

I want to pout. Maybe throwing a tantrum will make the fun last long enough for everyone to forget we were supposed to be leaving. Or I could change tactics and promise to play nicer and share more and not call people names anymore.

I kneel down to Buttercup’s level and give her a hug before we get into the car.

“I know, sweetie. I’m going to miss my friends, too. But we’ll see them again. And it will be soon. Right now, though, it’s time to leave.”

Thank you, Ermas. It was fun while it lasted. And to Boss Lady, Stacey Graham: Thank you doesn’t even begin to describe the gratitude I have in my heart for having had the opportunity to be a part of such an amazing group of writers.

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.

 

Insert Gratuitous #BlogHer12 Hashtag Here

 8 Responses »
Jul 132012
 

I should be asleep right now. Buttercup starts kindergarten next Friday since we live in a year-round district and me and my lazy ass haven’t had to put a bra on before noon since I was 6 months pregnant. Because I’m certain one of us is going to be the reason she is chronically late for her 7:40 a.m. start time, I set my iPhone alarm for 6 a.m. today and planned to get her up and out the door for a Target run and grocery shopping by 7:20. Call it a fire drill. Or a dress rehearsal. Just don’t remind me that we arrived at Tarbucks/Starget for my venti iced black coffee five minutes after the school bell would have reminded me that homeschooling is totally underrated.

I should also have booked that plane ticket on Wednesday like I said I was going to, but I’m still waiting to solidify meetup plans with my Agent of Awesome, who happens to be Jersey-based, before I drop credit card numbers on a airfare. Also? The thrill of saying my agent is still there and (follow me and make sure you keep up) I just realized I still need to figure out who in our family is flying in to stay with Buttercup while I’m in NYC and The Husband is working. After I figure that out, book the plane ticket, fly in, and hug my homegirl Robin O’Bryant if I can remember to ask her what hotel we are staying at, I can pay a cab driver Too Much Money to drive me to the nearest Whole Foods where I can spend even more Too Much Money on non-perishables to keep me going because I’m allergic to everything and that includes broccoli.

The blog posts just kind of write themselves at this point.

That brings me back to sharing what I know for those of you who happen to freak out, over pack, over think, and freak out some more at the thought of going to THE BIGGEST BLOGGING CONFERENCE OF THE YEAR AND OHMYGAWD WHAT IF I SAY SOMETHING STUPID AND OHMYFUCKINGGAWDTHE BLOGGESSLIKESMY’FRO????? Seriously, I have no idea why you’re making such a big deal about this whole thing. Because you obviously need another espresso to calm yourself down and a prescription for pharmaceutical grade speed, that’s why. Or wait…you’re just neurotic? Okay. I’m not judging.

I am, however, about to save you from yourself. Take a deep breath and count down from five with me:

5. Don’t buy a new wardrobe for a three day conference because WHO DOES THAT?

Refer to item #9 on Wednesday’s list again if you must. Bottom line? You are already adorable and we all love you for your quirky self and what is already in your closet is just fine. Also? Your credit card is the only thing that will remember what you do drop on new duds because interest is evil and the rest of us are too busy trying to talk ourselves down from financial ruin as we stare blankly into our own closets. The true lesson here is that no one cares what you are wearing because we are all too busy thinking that you care what we are wearing. See how this works?

4. Don’t leave home without business cards. Seriously.

This one is kind of a no-brainer. Go Vista Print if you must but be strong, hold your head high, and pat yourself on the back if you can make it to the Submit Order button with only your snazzy personalized cards in your online shopping cart. If not, I‘ve got a personalized blog T-shirt, baseball cap, and pens that no one else noticed for you to point and laugh at.

3. Are you a writer? With five copies of your manuscript in your briefcase? And your proposal? Because you never know who you may meet that will instantly fall over themselves when you nonchalantly drop your elevator pitch for your memoir and just beg to read your words right then and there and YOU JUST SCORED AN AGENT AT BLOGHER?

Okay, just stop that. Stop it right now. First of all, five copies of an entire manuscript plus your laptop are fucking heavy to carry around all weekend and you’re better off using that space for ballet flats or something else practical like a travel charger for your smart phone because — and let me break this gently to you — it’s a blogging conference with thousands of attendees and that chick who writes for that magazine who talks to you on Twitter kind of might think you’re a nut job if you tell her you were at Kinko’s until 2 a.m. before you hand her the book she forgot you told her about because you thought Hey, Let’s Meet for Coffee actually meant Let’s Get Married and Make a Beautiful Book Deal Together. Instead of looking like the writerly version of the crazy bitch in Single White Female let’s take a minute to make sure we packed our favorite lipstick and a book to read on the plane. Oh, and set a reminder in your iPhone to tweet that chick from that magazine that you’d love to meet up for coffee.

2. Love Notes To Myself

The laptop bag you currently own is just fine and there is absolutely no need to go crazy scouring the internet for the snazziest bag you can find to impress a bunch of women at a conference who aren’t going to give a shit what you have on your shoulder. Just go to Target, bring home something that you can live with, and buy yourself a mocha something or other on the way out because it’s easier than spending hours online reading up on what other bloggers are buying, bringing, or giving away to their readers and then buying and returning five bags before your husband tells you that you have a problem and drives y0u to Target anyway.

And by you, I totally mean me.

See what I did there? That’s transparency, people. Work it.

1. Don’t think people are going to know your name.

This isn’t Cheers, people. It is a blogging conference and the official language is Twitter. Every name starts with the silent @ and #hashtags are worth their weight in gold.

Let’s practice:

Hi! I’m Aspiring Mama. And you are?

Tweet immediately following the conversation I am imagining with that sweet girl with the southern accent in front of the hotel I’m staying at:

Just met Robin O’Bryant for the first time in person. Inexplicably craving #ketchup. Time to par-tay. #BlogHer12.

 

And a good time shall be had by all.

The Me That I Am

 10 Responses »
Apr 182012
 

I’m having a pretty shitty Writerly Ego day. Actually, it’s kind of been a shitty Writerly Ego month, to be perfectly honest. And when I’ve shared this little emotional nugget with the BFF and The Husband, I’ve received a raised eyebrow and a “YOU HAVE A FUCKING AGENT” in response to my pity party. I get where it’s coming from. I am in a position a lot of writers would kill for. I have a wonderful agent who thinks me and my writing are worth something and deserve a place on the shelves at Barnes & Noble next to writers I admire like Jenny Lawson ,  Jill Smokler,  Robin O’Bryant,  Anna Lefler and Heather Armstrong.

It seems, however, that the platform I am currently standing on may not big enough to get there. Or maybe it just feels like that because I’m a writer and us artistic types are moody and overly emotional and maybe I just need a vodka-flavored cookie. Because really? I’m pretty proud of my little platform. I bust my ass for free because writing is who I am and what I do and the writing part is actually more important than getting paid part…for my sanity, at least. The bills sitting on my desk waiting to be paid, however, would rather I stop trying to stay Not Crazy and just get a fucking job that probably wouldn’t leave me the time to write for the awesome sites I contribute to.

I love sharing the funny on An Army of Ermas and Funny Not Slutty. Getting a spot on best-selling author Lissa Rankin’s Owning Pink site is something I will forever be proud of. I’ve been published on Hippocampus Magazine and almost fell over when StoryBleed accepted the same piece for publication on their site. And then what I’ve got going on over here on this little ol’ blog o’ mine. I’m working on getting my name out there and my writing on more outlets, but these things take time. And Platforms don’t build themselves overnight.

I’m by no means in the same stratosphere as the likes of Dooce or The Bloggess or Scary Mommy and that’s okay with me. I’m not trying to be them. Just me. And hopefully the Me that I Am will one day be enough.

Maybe this sounds like a Poor Me post, but I don’t mean it to. Instead, I wanted to let other aspiring writers out there know that the days of doubting yourself don’t end the moment you sign that contract with your dream agent. And, I’m sure my published writer friends will tell me that they sure as hell don’t end when a book deal is offered or the day their books were released or even the day they got their first glowing review. Because once someone Other Than You believes in your work, it’s not just your ego riding on how many readers connect with that essay you got placed in that literary magazine that you love or how many hits per month your blog is getting or how much better you feel just for having taken the jumbled words out of your head and making some sense of them in a new piece you just started.

Every level of success reached is both a validation of our talents and a new reason to Freak the Fuck out, but it’s a lesson in the writing life that I seem to keep having to be reminded of. Three months ago I was still waiting for the Moment All of My Dreams Would Come True and then the world turned upside down when they did because I signed with my agent. That singular moment took two years to make a reality. And you would be right of you guessed that the Freaking Out commenced after the shiny newness of my situation sunk in. It’s not just me and my ego on the table anymore. It’s me and my ego and my agent’s time and effort and enthusiasm and Belief in What I Am and Have Yet to Become.

But if I think back, I probably went through the same little Self-Doubt Fest when I was accepted onto my college newspaper’s staff and when I saw my first byline and when I was assigned to cover my first murder case at the city newspaper that hired me right out of college. And then again when I left the newspapers to freelance and when I started this blog and when I woke up this morning and my little girl told me that I’m the best mother in the world.

So maybe shitty Writerly Ego days are just part of the process and part of what makes us who — and what — we are. It’s our literary equivalent of the trap women set for men when we ask if This Dress Makes Us Look Fat because we really only need to be reminded that in their eyes we are beautiful no matter what how that dress fits us. My platform is what it is. My ass? Probably looks horrible in that dress. But it’s okay.

Because tomorrow I’m still going to write something. And someone is going to read it.

Get Down with BBC (Ya, You Know Me… Or Something Like That)

 17 Responses »
Mar 072012
 

A few years ago, I struck up a twitter friendship with one person that led to me signing up for my first social media conference that led to an invitation from another to car pool since she lived in my neighborhood that led to, well, a hell of a lot of awesome.

That first conversation was with Dr. Lynne Kenney and the car pool invite was from Becca Ludlum. And that conference? It was Bloggy Boot Camp, y’all. A last minute decision on my part that fit my budget, was close enough to home that maxing my credit card out on plane fare wasn’t necessary, and turned out to be the best of all of the conferences I have attended to date.

I showed up not knowing what to expect and left knowing that I wanted to stay. I haven’t had the opportunity to attend another Bloggy Boot Camp since, but I can promise you I will when I live on the same side of the country as my family and free childcare.

Because this conference was such an incredible experience for me, I jumped at the chance to share my one and only chance to tell Tiffany she is pretty in person with all of you for Bloggy Bootcamp Day. Better yet: here’s my original ode to the fabulousness that is the BBC.

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I wasn’t going to go. There really wasn’t a point, after all. I mean, I don’t do reviews. I don’t really have time to make IRL friends out of the people I already talk to online. And my spare time should be dedicated to that getting famous/book deal thing I’m kinda invested in, so do I really need to be spending a weekend with a bunch of women I probably have nothing in common with in the name of networking and social media at something with a cutesy name like Bloggy Boot Camp?

 

Answer: You bet your ass.

Here’s the deal: When you have familiar avatars and scary-impressive numbers attached to every tweet your send out, it’s bound to intimate the little fish in the pond who might wonder if responding to something your super-famous-self said or if you are even going to see the comment from not-so-famous us. So we follow. We lurk. We type and delete and then figure we’ll try again later when our numbers get just a bit bigger.

But those avatars are tricky little fuckers. They’re teeny. They can be grainy. They might not look so much like the In Real Life you. And that’s when people like me walk up to people like you and forget about the numbers and the followers and the influence and just smile and say “hello” and tell people like Loralee that her purse kicks absolute ass before realizing who I was talking to.

Because it’s that easy.

And that hug Tiffany said she wanted before bloggy boot camp? Ya know…the one she sent me a tweet about? Yeah, she remembered!

And ya wanna know what happened when I opened my mouth? (Aside from making an ass of myself when I heard Katja speak and realized it wasn’t just a cute red head at my table but Katja herself, that is. Because that’s when I turned back to Theresa and loud enough for Katja to hear and said, “OMG. I just realized who I was sitting next to! She’s Katja!” Which I’m sure is a moment Sugar Jones can relate to. Ask her about Patrick Duffy if you weren’t at Bloggy Boot Camp.)

I connected with people. I laughed with them. I learned I wasn’t the only mom-writer there who thought it was going to be a waste of time and left totally high on renewed energy and lots of new dreams.

 

Then there was meeting Carolyn McCray for dinner on Saturday after the conference and before the cocktail party and showed up with my heart in my throat while trying to not sound like I had no clue what I was talking about with her, Dee Dee and Piper Heiney.  I’m thinking I survived, but I may need that vodka Dee Dee provided in her little swag bag to get over any glitches in my portion of the conversation that now make me do some face-palm action.

 

I was only there because Dr. Lynne  Kenney thought it might be a great idea to give it a try and I reluctantly signed up. (And I can’t thank her enough for making me try something new.)

I may have been the picture of confidence but I’ll tell ya a secret. I freaked before I got there. Becca, Melanie, Michelle, Chelsea, and Shey were okay with the fact that I packed a week’s worth of clothes so I could have choices and blend when I got to the Xona Resort, which was nice because I seriously looked like an asshole next to the people flying in from other states with those adorable little over-nighter suitcases. (Note to self: I will not be repeating this mistake next year.)

(Okay, that was a total lie.)

I may not give a damn about SEO (mainly because thinking about it makes my head hurt) or have plans for monetizing the blog. But I did learn to keep an open mind when entering into each and every new situation. Because as I listened to authors who blog talk about making their dreams a reality and to presentations on vlogging and branding yourself, I realized I fit right in with every other mom blogger in the room with me as we work on leaving our marks in the world with our words and figure out how to stay sane while doing it.

 

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Fine print: I suck at poker and am incapable of BS so this is all me and my own thoughts. If I remember to link up I might have a chance at a free trip to a BBC in 2012, but I might also win the lottery if I remember to buy a ticket, so whatever. I wrote this because I wanted to. The End.

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