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.

Silver Ribbons

 3 Responses »
Jan 132012
 

A lot of us hide behind our words. It’s easier that way. Usually, anyway.

But then the voices inside our heads that can only be expressed with our fingers on our blogs or in our journals or in our essays remind us that we can’t always keep the secrets at bay.

If we had cancer or leukemia or a physical disability that other people could actually see. . . it might be easier. . . maybe. But instead we have our prescriptions and our therapists and our internal struggles and our own issues with shame because we know there is something. . . different. . .

And sometimes that makes us feel like less than we actually are.

Just a few days ago, Jenny Lawson (everybody’s favorite Bloggess) bravely and beautifully told the world about her struggles with depression and self-harming behavior that she is hoping to get under control before her young daughter is old enough to really see what is going on. Jenny spoke about the cycle of depression and how it affects us and our families and how no one really understands the guilt that comes along with each breath as we realize how much everyone else had to pick up the slack because we were just working on being.

And survival. And pride. For us and those who love us. Jenny talked about those things to.

We listened, empathized, related, and shared. Because that’s what not hiding behind our words can do for those we are connected with. Using our words to open even the tiniest pieces of our souls to the world has power. And with that power comes acceptance and love and understanding and validation. .  and even more pride.

Because we survived.

I wear a silver ribbon because:

  • there are things I’m not brave enough to share yet but. . .
  • my sister is manic depressive
  • I am clinically depressed
  • eating disorders never really go away
  • happiness comes wrapped in a tiny little capsule
  • Obsessive-compulsive scab picking is how I self harm
  • when I tell you that there’s no shame in mental illness, I mean it but. . .
  • I’m not quite sure that rule applies to me
  • and I want it to

Thank you, Jenny. Thank you for using your words to bring us all to a better place that includes support and love and self-acceptance.

Why do you wear a silver ribbon?

***

This post originally appeared on Owning Pink.

And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves

 26 Responses »
Nov 282011
 

You know that really embarrassing family story about the time the kids did that one thing in public at that one place and you were all like OMG that’s only okay to tell after five too many wine coolers with the girlfriends while the little angels terrorize Daddy because it’s your night off? Or that time you dressed up like an Italian sausage at Target while your kids picked out string bikinis for you to try on?

Yeah? Well, my friend just one-upped America with a book she wrote full of little gems like these that she wrote… while she was sober.

I know.

Okay, so the actual title is Ketchup is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves and the mom behind the book is named Robin O’Bryant. I’ll let the following excerpt speak for itself…but make sure to some back Wednesday and Friday for my review and an author interview (including a giveaway for a signed copy of Robin’s book!)

***

After giving birth to Sadie, my third daughter in four years, I was perfectly happy to be fat for a few months while I finished breastfeeding, until I got a card in the mail from my little brother’s fiancee. I called my sister Blair immediately and said, “Did you get a card in the mail from Anna?”

She could tell by the tone of my voice I was panicking so she said, “OH NO! They didn’t break up did they?”

“Oh no, it’s so much worse than that…”
“Aw crap, did she ask us to be in the wedding?”
“Yep.”
I was flattered she asked me but I was horrified. I could wear a sarong at the pool all summer, but would probably look suspicious walking down the aisle that way. I reluctantly started going back to the gym and Blair started doing Weight Watchers. My feelings about exercising when breastfeeding are about the same as they are when pregnant: It’s pointless.

When I’m pregnant I’m going to gain weight no matter what. When nursing, my body fights to hold on to fat like I’m going to be hibernating. For example… my sister lost nine pounds in two weeks on Weight Watchers; I on the other hand gained a pound and a half going to the gym for a week. (Please save the muscle-weighs-more-than-fat tirade for someone else. When I exercise while breastfeeding I am ravenous and will eat anything in sight. I end up consuming more calories than I burn.)

As summer quickly approached I finally had to break down and buy a bathing suit. No amount of tugging and/or lubricant could coax my post-baby body into one of the million suits I already owned. There was no way my baby’s meal tickets were going to be squeezed into anything I already had.

I went to Target (also known to Mommies across the country as their “happy place”), and bought a “Big Girra Bathing Suit.”

“Mommy, how ‘bout this one? It is SO cute!” Aubrey said as she picked up a hot pink string bikini.

I looked critically at the bathing suit she was holding, and quickly deduced that the triangle top probably wouldn’t even cover my zipple.

“No baby. I don’t want the other mommies at the pool to have nightmares.”

We continued back to the “Women’s Sizes” and I flattered myself with the first size I chose and forced it on to my body, Lycra snapped and crackled as I pulled, stretched and sucked it in. After seeing my reflection closely resembled an Italian sausage I’d eaten once, I was forced to get a larger size.

This should have meant that I took off the suit and put my clothes back on to go get another one. But If you’re shopping for clothes somewhere you can also buy an ICEE or a foot- long hot dog, you need to realize that no one is going to come knock softly on your door to see if you need another size. I’m lazy though, so I put on the swimsuit cover-up I was trying on and walked to get another size, dressed for the pool. I’m not going to tell you what size I ended up in, though I will say it had a “W” behind the numberS. (Plural. As in there was more than one.) I called my sister while I was checking out and she texted back, “I’m in WW’s (Weight Watcher’s) can’t talk, ttyl :) ”

I texted her back, “How many pts are a Butterfinger & a Coke cuz that’s what I’m eating rite now?” Maybe I can convince Anna that all of the bridesmaids should be in sarongs.

 

The Bloggess Approved This Message

 No Responses »
Oct 052011
 

Okay, so the title of this post was originally The Julian Project Part 4, but I figured the one I went with was way less likely to be ignored.

Let’s cut to the chase. I met Jenny at BlogHer10 in the bathroom where she was holding court during the party she was hosting without actually being there. Leah grabbed my hand, walked me right in there in front of Her Royal Majesty of all Blogdom and proceeded to gush about my mexifro. That’s when I may have done something stupid and promised to post a photo of my troll-doll awesomeness just for Jenny and Leah when I got back to my hotel room that night. In retrospect, I’m thinking I totally peer pressured myself into looking like a bigger schmo in a puppy dog effort to impress the seniors in high school, but whatever. Leah eventually asked me to be an editor on Bookieboo and Jenny remembered my name. So it’s a win all around.

Fast forward to today: I contacted Jenny about my pathetic to date efforts to raise some funds for The Julian Project. The thought of losing my child is not something I can even fathom, and I wanted to do my part, which brought be to asking all of you to help.

Five dollars. That’s all. In honor of Julian’s age when he died.

But so far, my efforts have…well...sucked.

Attempt #1

Attempt #2

Attempt #3

Attempt #4

So I scratched my head and thought, “What totally awesome Thing could I bug someone for that would attract flocks of people to my site just for a good cause?”

Naturally, my mind went straight to the metal chicken.

That’s when I reminded Jenny that she might possibly remember my name and she very kindly agreed to donate one of her Beyonce Photo Statue Desk Sculptures for the cause. I’ll be honest in saying that I don’t care if you got here just because you saw The Bloggess in the title and donated because you wanted the desk chicken and decide never to come back although you will certainly be missed but that’s not what this is about.

What this is about is trying to do our parts to lessen the financial burden incurred during a long fight with leukemia and making life just a tiny bit easier for little Julian’s parents. So donate $5 here and leave me a comment on this blog post letting me know you did so I can keep track. One commenter will be randomly selected to receive the prize after the deadline (midnight, EST, on Oct. 12), and we will all live happily ever after.

The End

Mama’s Go (Crazy) Bag of Readiness

 3 Responses »
Jan 282011
 

It was just me and Buttercup. No school, so I called a friend and asked if her kids and my kid could play unsupervised in her fenced backyard so I could lounge on her couch with a glass of wine and have my own little play date.

She said yes.

So I packed.

That’s right. I said P-A-C-K-E-D.


IMG_1284.JPG

First I needed to get rid of the Lean Pockets my mom left in our deep freezer from her 8 week stay. That went into one cooler. And because Buttercup and I are on a gluten-free diet and Friend Jill was making pancakes for dinner that night, I also packed:

*corn tortillas with slices of cheese for quesadillas for Buttercup

*a fruit cup

*leftover bison steak and veggies for me

*a Lara bar in case I couldn’t gag down the reheated bison steak (which is what ended up happening.)

*three juice boxes for the kids to feel like they were getting something special when Friend Jill and I cracked open another bottle of wine.

*two oranges for me because I have been craving some major vitamin C.

And then I moved on to the diaper bag. Which really doesn’t carry diapers anymore because Buttercup is kinda sorta potty trained. In it? I packed:

*four training pull-ups

*a spare set of clothes in case Buttercup got a pull-up wedgie going down the slide while simultaneously peeing and needed a change of clothing. (Yes, it’s happened before.)

*a pair of pajamas for insurance because every time I go to Friend Jill’s house, which is only 25 minutes away, I end up staying until the kid’s need to go to bed.

*a water bottle for Buttercup.

*a water bottle for me.

*a snack cup with gluten-free pretzels to tide her over till dinner

*Buttercup’s sunglasses

*My iPod Touch and my Droid X (because I am nothing if not addicted)

*Buttercup’s Snow White and Cinderella dolls because they are The Dolly Flavor of the Week.

*Buttercup’s purse (of course) in which, I think, she packed rocks and her play cell phone. Who am I to judge?

*My (her) Nintendo DSi which allows me to drive with my nerves intact and my guilt assuaged while I focus on the road and Cookie Monster teaches her to count.

And because that wasn’t enough? I also took:

*My purse

*Which we won’t get into because there isn’t enough space on the internet for me to share.

When I left my house, The Husband didn’t even raise an eyebrow because he knows better. I am nothing if not Over-Prepared and Un-Medicated. When I showed at up Friend Jill’s house, she asked if I was moving in.

Smart ass.

I’m prepared for anything. Always. Why? Because that guy on the street corner with the dirty trench coat and the ARMAGEDDON sign might be on to something. And? Me and What If don’t get along very well. So? I pack a diaper bag like a crazy lady.

You should see what I take with us to Barnes & Noble.

But don’t worry, peeples. Even if (if I said IF so don’t even ask) I end up with another kid between now and the next episode of Jesse Ventura’s Conspiracy Theory, I have plenty of room in my Go Bag for the essentials. Like Humanitarian Suspenders.

And lip gloss.

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