I ran for Student Council every year I was in high school. And every year, I lost.

To the cheerleaders.

To the football players.

To the homecoming kings and queens.

And yet, I still showed up to the 7:30 a.m. meetings once a week, on the advice of our advisor, and was promptly voted in as an “alternate” by the peers who had kicked my ass in the popularity polls. Should one of them decide that sleep was more appealing than showing up bright-eyed and busy-tailed, ready to Make a Difference, I would get my chance to step in and shine.

I may have lost every election I ran while in high school, but I finished every year off as an official member.

After my freshman year, I really didn’t see a point in running an election. the popular kids were going to vote for the popular kids no matter what I said, and that was going to be that. Why bother trying? Why not just slink in to the first meeting and silently announce my intention of replacing the first cheerleader to cry Uncle?

Because I needed to try for me. And when I lost? Again? And Again? I needed to pick myself up and drag my ass to those meetings to show ME that I had it in me.

I’m 33 now. This isn’t high school.

And I have a new campaign to run. I am up against my present-day version of cheerleaders and homecoming queens who have a huge head start on me…and I have until 9 p.m. on Friday (pacific standard time) to get enough of you to each cast one vote for me to make it into the top 20.(tip: you don’t even need to watch the video. Or “like” anything. As long as you have a Facebook account? You can vote.)

If that happens? I get a chance at a dream job.

If it doesn’t? There is no alternate.

I’ve got one shot. The high school me might have shook my head and looked the other way, figuring, “Why bother?”

Today?

I’m giving it my all.

Thank you for the opportunity.

 

This would be the third item in the Trifecta of Happiness. But that didn’t look nearly as impressive as BlogHer Syndicated Something I Said! So I went with that instead.

This blog replaced my diary years ago.

It’s where I do my writing for me everyday. Knowing that my words are for me first. The three people who read my blog second.

No pressure. Except for when I get bored and obsessively check my stats and realize I passed the three reader mark a while ago and freak myself out of blogging because OMG… PEOPLE SEE THIS THING?

Or like today. You know. When your wildest bloggy dreams come true and BlogHer says they’ll syndicate one of your posts?

Yeah, dude. Major performance anxiety.

If you are a regular reader here, please stop by say hello over there. If you came from there and landed here? Please don’t be alarmed if I start talking to myself or when The Husband decides to interview me or if I start calling for my finger monkey named Platform. Oh, and that murder rap is all talk. All talk, I tell you! I mean really, have you ever heard of a murderer who writes fairy tales?

*blinks innocently*

I was syndicated on BlogHer.com

 


“Can I play the Elmo game?”
Buttercup hands me my her Nintendio dsi and the game cartridge and waits patiently for me insert the game and turn the system on.
“Thank you, Mama.” She settles onto her belly and crosses her feet in the air behind her.
“Do you need anything else?” I take a quick glance around her room. Water bottle-check. Snack cup with pretzels-check. Baby monitor on-check. “Mama is going to my room now to do my yoga. I’ll be right across the hall.”
“Okay, Mama,” she says, sweetly.
I should have known better.
“Mama! I have to go potty!” Her voice echoes back on to itself through the baby monitor. “Mama! I can’t get my pants!”
I’m not even two breaths into Mountain pose yet. Dammit. I sigh, pause the DVD, and trip over the puppy and step on a squeaky toy as trudge across the hall to her bathroom. I find Buttercup trying to wiggle out of her cotton play pants.
“Oh hi, Mama!,” she says as I walk into the room. “Look! I can do it myself!”
She proceeds to pull down her pants, set her potty seat on the toilet, climb up onto her stool, and sit herself down. “I couldn’t before! But now that you are here, I can! Isn’t that silly?”
I fold my arms across my chest. Little stinker. “Okay, baby. Good job. Let’s get you settled back in your room and then Mama needs to finish her DVD so we can play after.”
“Okay, Mama,” she says. Again, her voice is sweet and full of promise.
I try to clear my mind to focus on my breathing, push the puppy away once more, and adjust my feet and stance for proper alignment. Mountain pose. Triangle pose. Warrior.
“Mama! I need you!”
Mother of…
I shake myself from my Yoga haze. “What do you need?” I ask from where I am standing.
“I want to play! I want you!”
“Can I finish my exercise first so I can be healthy and strong?” I pray for a yes. I need Yoga to relax myself and my overactive mind. I need Yoga to strengthen my core and fight the muffin top. And I need five consecutive minutes to get through one freaking pose.
“Mama!” She is crying now but stops cold and breaks into an immediate smile, the last fat tear backtracking as if caught in its own lie, as soon as I come into her line of sight. I make a mental note to sign her up for acting lessons as soon as possible.
“Oh, Mama!” she says, sounding believably surprised. I imagine the agents tripping over themselves to represent my future Broadway star. “What are you doing here?”
I swear under my breath and remind myself that she is three. An evil little genius, but three, nonetheless.
“Baby,” I say, “Mama needs this. I gave you time this morning and I will give you more time after I do Yoga, but I need this time for me. Can you please play by yourself for just a little bit longer?”
The DVD is 40 minutes long, but I’ll be happy with 10 more. Just to squelch the urge to go play in traffic.
“Can I go with you? I want to be healthy and strong, too.” Her eyes are wide and hopeful. Knowing full well having her in the room with me is going to do no more for my concentration than stopping every five minutes to see what she needs, I say yes. If I can find inner peace while trying to do Yoga with a three-year-old, I’m pretty sure I can find it anywhere. She hugs me. We sit down and she copies my movements as I settle into Cobbler’s pose. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breath in. Breathe…
“Mama! Look! I am doing it just like you!”
“Yes, baby. You are.” My eyes are closed. The puppy is licking my toes again. My voice is calm.
I am Mother. Hear me…relax.

Mamavation is a social media campaign for mothers striving for better health for themselves and their families. Please check out Bookieboo.com for more details.

 

I need a platform.
And while Platform The Secret Agent Monkey seems to have taken over my blog, I doubt he alone is going to make me Famous Enough to get an agent or a book deal. But don’t tell The Husband that. I’m still working on convincing him that I need a finger monkey or my dreams will never come true.
Until that happens, I need to come up with some other Platform Building plans. Right now I am considering any and all of the following:

*Move to Jersey Shore. Make friends with Snooki. Steal a Bumpit. Make it work with my Mexifro. Say something to piss Snooki off (on camera, of course) and let her beat me up (on camera, of course). When she offers hush money to keep me from suing, I counter offer with a contract with her agent and give her back the Bumpit I stole from her dressing room. It didn’t work for me, anyway. Then? Wait for book deal.
*Divorce The Husband. Move to Hollywood. Shack up with a Rock Star. Divorce Rock Star after granting exclusive interviews to the paparazzi hiding in my garbage cans. Move back in with The Husband (who was totally in on the plan) and grant more exclusive interviews to the paparazzi I invited over for pizza. Wait for book deal.
*Get pregnant with 15 babies at the same time. Force The Husband into a reality show he wants nothing to do with. Make sure to get all the free plastic surgery I can while my 15 minutes is still riding strong and a few more when no one will touch me except for my garbage paparazzi crew. But I draw the line at the reverse claw mullet. My Mexifro already has enough “character.” Wait for book deal.
*A murder rap. Wait for book deal.
*Buttercup’s cute enough, me thinks. Talk The Husband into moving to Questionable Parenting-ville so we can join up with the Toddlers and Tiara’s circuit. I figure just a few appearances is enough to get my name out there before Buttercup is scarred for life. (side note: this plans is banking on a sizable advance, since I’m gonna need a chunk to spring for the preventative therapy to keep my kid from going all Celebrity Rehab on me when she gets older as payback.) Also? Wait for book deal.
*Rob a bank. Get lipo and a boob life. And a tummy tuck. Oh, and cap my baby teeth.  Approach Sports Illustrated and get the cover. Parlay that experience into a television show host gig. Divorce The Husband so I can hook up with an ex-actor-turned-musician who is now only famous in Europe and in the States for being married to me. Wait for book deal.
*Buy a time machine with the leftover funds from the bank heist. Become a cute child actor who grows up to be a messed up adult who also happens to be broke now because I spent my millions on too much crack and crystal meth. Clean myself up, find and marry The Husband, have my Buttercup, and hire a ghost writer to pen my story, because being famous once is usually Famous Enough for a memoir to actually happen, even if it’s socially acceptable to not even be expected to write it yourself. And? I probably wouldn’t have to wait very long for that book deal.

I’m still working out the kinks, of course. The Husband is being all You’re crazy and Just Be Patient and You wrote a great book and it’s cute, but seriously?

I’m just me. I’m not a name. After I end up on the cover of The National Enquirer?

Oh yeah. That’s the ticket.

Platform? Here I come.

 

“Are you ready to be turned into a Fairy Princess”

Buttercup opened her newly painted eyes and fluttered her twinkling lashes before nodding at the woman with feathers in her hair and a paint brush in her hand before raising her own.

“I promise to play with my toys…

Sing songs…

Be Happy…

I promise to eat my vegetables…

Help clean up…

and go to bed early.”

Buttercup solemnly repeated every word. Then she looked at me, waiting for me to acknowledge her role. Not only had her daddy already bought her a new pet dragon and a magic wand from the many artisans at the Arizona Renaissance Festival, now she was painted as proper magical royalty should be.

“And that, my dear,” said the artist, “makes you a proper Fairy Princess.”

Buttercup blinked with wonder. No more pretending. No more need for the powers of imagination. In the land of pirates, princesses, kings, queens, and new glow in the dark pet dragons, she wasn’t just play-acting. She just was.

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