Something just happened and it made me question everything I thought I knew about anything.
Song lyrics. We humans are famous for getting them wrong in hysterically entertaining ways. I, myself, am no stranger to this phenomena. In fact, Jeff and I have had HUGE FIGHTS over song lyrics. And just last week, I was writing in a coffee shop when a song came on that reminded me of Ellie. It was by a band she'd really liked back when we were travelling around looking at music schools and it made me miss her. So I immediately facebooked her:
Hey Ellie I'm in a coffee shop and they're playing that song by that French band you used to like and now I miss you. It's that one that goes: Like a rhine, like a rhino! Or maybe it's like a wine, like a wino!
And she responded something like:
Oh my God, Mom! It's like a riot, like a riot, oh!
Whatever. I was close. Also, I really liked my version better - the one about rhinos.
So this sh*t happens, sometimes. But you don't screw up the lyrics for Your Band. If it's Your Band, you know their lyrics like the back of your hand, even if Your Band is the Red Hot Chili Peppers and their lyrics are Somewhat Nonsensical. They're lyrical (lyrics!) and poetic and they mean something, even if it's only Hey This Rhymes! and you don't mess around with them!
Sir Psycho Sexy is a dirty song. It really is. And it isn't dirty by implication, it isn't nasty by nuance, it's just really filthy smut. In my younger years, as a new mommy, I didn't appreciate Sir Psycho Sexy. It was disgusting in a frat house sort of way. But now? Well, now that we're all grown up and keeping our socks on our feet where they belong, it's just kind of funny. And funky. With some great grooves. It makes me grin. And my favorite part? Was this line:
Harder than a femur!
Harder than a femur! That's freaking hilarious! Especially if you're talking about an erection, which I have assumed, since 1993, that we were! Harder than a femur! WHAT A LINE.
Whenever I face a difficult task or a trying time, I might say, "Geez, this is harder than femur." DO YOU SEE HOW PERFECT A LINE THAT IS???
Sure, it bothered me a little that it didn't quite rhyme with beaver (don't over-think that - I know this is supposed to be a family show) - it almost rhymed with beaver in the same way that Dora almost rhymes with Explorer if you say it like you're from New Jersey.
Anyway - back to the boner - of the femur variety, specifically. How can I say this? How can I say that the most perfect phrase, the best ever little witty line in that entire stupid song - the adorable word-tangle that redeemed Sir Psycho, DOESN'T EXIST?
It doesn't exist.
Harder than a femur doesn't exist. Not even a little. What Anthony Kiedis wrote, and what he sings, is the way way way less impressive and non-noteworthy and So Been Done Before Hotter Than a Fever.
Hotter than a fever? HOTTER THAN A FEVER?!? Really? Are you kidding me? That's not funny! That's not original! That's not anything I can say when encountering a humongous obstacle of enormous proportions! I wouldn't even say it IF IT WERE REALLY REALLY HOT OUTSIDE.
It's That Much Meh.
It does rhyme with Beaver, though.
So tell me, people. What else do I have all wrong?? Do I even know anything at all anymore? Other than the fact that sometimes, finding something to blog about is HARDER THAN A FEMUR!
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Riding the Curve and the End of the Can
Today, we're trading in the Sardine Can for a small little pop-up camper. That's right! The very can that started this blog is heading for greener pastures, hopefully with another adventuresome family.
Our camping life over the years would look like a Bell curve, I guess. We started out as two in a backpacking tent. We thought about nobody but ourselves and it was ROCKING AWESOME, don't kid yourselves. Jeff proposed to me on the Pine Canyon Trail in Big Bend National Park. At the time, we didn't consider the possibility that one day we'd hike that trail with babies on our backs or strapped to our chests with dirty diapers outweighing our water bottles. But we did.
Tent camping with a baby basically sucks. So we bought a little pop-up camper. Eventually, the pop-up camper was overflowing with 7 people. It was pretty bad, and smelly, too. So we traded up to what became known as our Sardine Can.
Man, it was like we'd moved into Trump Palace! A bed for everyone! A heater! A freaking refrigerator, stove, microwave, and shower! A stereo system that regularly blasted out Red Hot Chili Peppers and, if my dad was with us (and he often was) Pink Martini or Herb Albert or on one very long evening involving tequila, Axl Rose singing "Since I Don't Have You" over and over and over while my dad tried to learn the lyrics. We were always popular with the other campers.
Then a weird thing started to happen. The kids got bigger and wanted to sleep in tents. Sometimes they (gasp) didn't want to go at all. Maybe they had to work, maybe they had something planned with friends, and then Ellie abandoned ship and left for college.
The event, however, that sealed the Sardine Can's fate was the selling of The Bus. Like the Sardine Can, the 12-passenger van I drove started out with 2 car seats, a booster seat, 2 big kids, 2 parents, a friend or two, and The Grandpa. But for the past two years, it mostly drove me and Camille into the city for ballet. It was a HUGE waste of gas and more than we could afford. It was also the only thing we owned that could pull the Sardine Can. I replaced it with a small, red car that rocks on the gas mileage.
And we are now the proud new owners of another small pop-up.
Bell Curve. We start out small, we expand to near bursting, and then we deflate and end up back where we started. You can't really see the curve when you're riding it, you know. Everything is Now and Permanent and The Way Things Are. Of course, maybe if we knew that was all an illusion we'd cherish moments more, but we're not wired that way. Maybe if we knew we were riding a curve we'd never make the climb. Maybe if we knew we were only going to end up right back where we'd started, we'd just stay where we are. It's ingenious, really, the way these things work.
I'm sad, watching the Sardine Can go. It was at the top of the curve, baby! It really was. And on that very first trip to California, the one that started this blog, it taught me a lesson about what's really important. Maybe I don't remember everything about that trip as clearly as I remembered it last year, or the year before. But I'll tell you what I do remember:
I remember being in the camper beneath the stars, the second week into the trip. I remember the feel of a baby nursing at my breast, the love of my life cuddled up against my back. A mere few feet away were the other four children, asleep in bunk beds. It felt as if everything that was good and important and necessary in the universe had been titrated down to it's essence and poured into a 26-foot camper. Nothing existed outside of that little cocoon that mattered at all. And I was totally cognizant of it. I was lucid - and come on - how often does that happen? It was a gift, that night.
My life is different now. With every milestone of independence the teens and tween take, part of me evaporates. I'm stretched, watered down, I feel...diluted.
They've grown, and I've shrunk.
I'm learning to live with this new version of myself. The version that has held tight, let go, and lived to tell the tale. It has some scars. It's smarter than it used to be. It's more...grateful.
Good things are ahead for all of us, I'm sure of it. There are new Bell curves to ride; I just need to find where my next one begins.
And for the love of God, that does not mean I'm pregnant.
If you want to see what we were like when it all began, you can check out the very beginning of the blog. Or you can just wait and see where we all go from here.
Signing off now, as the Sardine Mama Without a Can
Our camping life over the years would look like a Bell curve, I guess. We started out as two in a backpacking tent. We thought about nobody but ourselves and it was ROCKING AWESOME, don't kid yourselves. Jeff proposed to me on the Pine Canyon Trail in Big Bend National Park. At the time, we didn't consider the possibility that one day we'd hike that trail with babies on our backs or strapped to our chests with dirty diapers outweighing our water bottles. But we did.
Tent camping with a baby basically sucks. So we bought a little pop-up camper. Eventually, the pop-up camper was overflowing with 7 people. It was pretty bad, and smelly, too. So we traded up to what became known as our Sardine Can.
Man, it was like we'd moved into Trump Palace! A bed for everyone! A heater! A freaking refrigerator, stove, microwave, and shower! A stereo system that regularly blasted out Red Hot Chili Peppers and, if my dad was with us (and he often was) Pink Martini or Herb Albert or on one very long evening involving tequila, Axl Rose singing "Since I Don't Have You" over and over and over while my dad tried to learn the lyrics. We were always popular with the other campers.
Then a weird thing started to happen. The kids got bigger and wanted to sleep in tents. Sometimes they (gasp) didn't want to go at all. Maybe they had to work, maybe they had something planned with friends, and then Ellie abandoned ship and left for college.
The event, however, that sealed the Sardine Can's fate was the selling of The Bus. Like the Sardine Can, the 12-passenger van I drove started out with 2 car seats, a booster seat, 2 big kids, 2 parents, a friend or two, and The Grandpa. But for the past two years, it mostly drove me and Camille into the city for ballet. It was a HUGE waste of gas and more than we could afford. It was also the only thing we owned that could pull the Sardine Can. I replaced it with a small, red car that rocks on the gas mileage.
And we are now the proud new owners of another small pop-up.
Bell Curve. We start out small, we expand to near bursting, and then we deflate and end up back where we started. You can't really see the curve when you're riding it, you know. Everything is Now and Permanent and The Way Things Are. Of course, maybe if we knew that was all an illusion we'd cherish moments more, but we're not wired that way. Maybe if we knew we were riding a curve we'd never make the climb. Maybe if we knew we were only going to end up right back where we'd started, we'd just stay where we are. It's ingenious, really, the way these things work.
I'm sad, watching the Sardine Can go. It was at the top of the curve, baby! It really was. And on that very first trip to California, the one that started this blog, it taught me a lesson about what's really important. Maybe I don't remember everything about that trip as clearly as I remembered it last year, or the year before. But I'll tell you what I do remember:
I remember being in the camper beneath the stars, the second week into the trip. I remember the feel of a baby nursing at my breast, the love of my life cuddled up against my back. A mere few feet away were the other four children, asleep in bunk beds. It felt as if everything that was good and important and necessary in the universe had been titrated down to it's essence and poured into a 26-foot camper. Nothing existed outside of that little cocoon that mattered at all. And I was totally cognizant of it. I was lucid - and come on - how often does that happen? It was a gift, that night.
My life is different now. With every milestone of independence the teens and tween take, part of me evaporates. I'm stretched, watered down, I feel...diluted.
They've grown, and I've shrunk.
I'm learning to live with this new version of myself. The version that has held tight, let go, and lived to tell the tale. It has some scars. It's smarter than it used to be. It's more...grateful.
Good things are ahead for all of us, I'm sure of it. There are new Bell curves to ride; I just need to find where my next one begins.
And for the love of God, that does not mean I'm pregnant.
If you want to see what we were like when it all began, you can check out the very beginning of the blog. Or you can just wait and see where we all go from here.
Signing off now, as the Sardine Mama Without a Can
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Petty Pointless Bagging
I've been a mess, friends. Some Big Things have been going on and I don't do well with Big Things.
Big Things like:
MY NOVEL. Query-writing sucks so bad. It really really does. You know what's worse? The rejections that follow. I've received a couple. You know what's worse? The Requests for Fulls that I'm convinced are flukes because I want Everyone (!!) to Love Me (!!) All the Time (!!)
Neurotic Much?
Anyway - so I have fulls out. That's good. But it makes me insane for reals. Like I go from being all sad and morose and wallowing like a BOSS to YAY! Hooray! This is WONDERFUL!! I'm toying with the idea of becoming bi-polar. Like full-up total bi-polar. I'll let you know what I decide.
Also? POLITICS. ELECTION. I know I'm just a silly woman but I have concerns about these things anyway.
Also also? Ellie had a solo recital and it went really well but you guys know I psychically hold that concert grand together with my BRAIN while she plays. It's exhausting. And Jasper tortured me throughout the entire thing by loudly squeaking his seat - it was one of those that pops up when you're not sitting in it so yeah - he did that. A lot. In several seats. When it was over, he curled himself up in the fetal position during the reception, alarming at least one college student who seemed to want me to do something about it. I slid a plate of crackers over to him (he was on the floor) and a few minutes later the crackers were gone. I looked hopefully at the college student but he remained dubious of my parenting skills.
He didn't realize Jasper needs time to "acclimate." Last weekend I took him on a roller coaster and as it climbed up for the first drop he yelled, "I'm not acclimated!!" He's like that.
Also also also? I have a sick friend. Like really sick. As in chemo sick. Chemo sick sucks.
So let's talk about Petty Things, shall we? To take my mind off it all?
I got a new car. It is red. If you look in my closet you will find exactly ZERO red things. There's a reason for that. I look like sh*t in red. I won't wear it in a t-shirt, a lipstick, or a nail polish. But apparently it's okay to drape myself in tons and tons of it and then become mobile. If you see me, I totally apologize for looking washed out. It's red! Gah.
Also? I have a pet peeve that has nothing to do with red cars and everything to do with our culture's obsession with bags. As in plastic bags. Or paper bags, really. Why is it that people want to put everything they buy in a bag? People buy a bag of chips - it gets put in a bag. A bag of bread? In a bag. A bag of potatoes? In a bag. WHY?? Why can't you just carry the bag of bread you carried to the register out to your car? Why must you place it in another bag first? I just watched a guy buy a soda at a convenience store. A single soda. That he was going to drink on the spot. It was put in a bag, first. He'd taken it out of the bag and tossed the bag in the trash before he was out the door. It stayed in the bag for like two feet, people.
And when I take my pinko commie canvas reusable bags in the store? They try to slip a plastic bag in anyway! God forbid the Q-Tips end up right up against a package of spaghetti - all naked and rubbing right up against it. We need to put it in plastic bag first, and THEN put it in the commie bag. Because it's technically a toiletry item. Or some such nonsense. OR the bagger will put like one item in each bag so he can run out of my reusable bags and be forced to pop out plastic for my remaining 900 items. This happens while the cashier is distracting me. It's like a THING THEY DO ON PURPOSE.
And why, you ask, does this petty sh*t bother me? Because it keeps me from worrying about queries, kids, my rights possibly going down the toilet, and sick friends.
STOP THE POINTLESS BAGGING FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY!!! Seriously. I'm hysterical about it.
Keeps me sane.
Oh mah God - I almost forgot. I'm on The Twitter. I say that in the voice of an old, Jewish man. I'm on The Twitter. I have No Idea What I'm Doing. And there's always the chance I'll go all Courtney Love on The Twitter and you wouldn't want to miss that
Signing Off @sardinemama
Big Things like:
MY NOVEL. Query-writing sucks so bad. It really really does. You know what's worse? The rejections that follow. I've received a couple. You know what's worse? The Requests for Fulls that I'm convinced are flukes because I want Everyone (!!) to Love Me (!!) All the Time (!!)
Neurotic Much?
Anyway - so I have fulls out. That's good. But it makes me insane for reals. Like I go from being all sad and morose and wallowing like a BOSS to YAY! Hooray! This is WONDERFUL!! I'm toying with the idea of becoming bi-polar. Like full-up total bi-polar. I'll let you know what I decide.
Also? POLITICS. ELECTION. I know I'm just a silly woman but I have concerns about these things anyway.
Also also? Ellie had a solo recital and it went really well but you guys know I psychically hold that concert grand together with my BRAIN while she plays. It's exhausting. And Jasper tortured me throughout the entire thing by loudly squeaking his seat - it was one of those that pops up when you're not sitting in it so yeah - he did that. A lot. In several seats. When it was over, he curled himself up in the fetal position during the reception, alarming at least one college student who seemed to want me to do something about it. I slid a plate of crackers over to him (he was on the floor) and a few minutes later the crackers were gone. I looked hopefully at the college student but he remained dubious of my parenting skills.
He didn't realize Jasper needs time to "acclimate." Last weekend I took him on a roller coaster and as it climbed up for the first drop he yelled, "I'm not acclimated!!" He's like that.
Also also also? I have a sick friend. Like really sick. As in chemo sick. Chemo sick sucks.
So let's talk about Petty Things, shall we? To take my mind off it all?
I got a new car. It is red. If you look in my closet you will find exactly ZERO red things. There's a reason for that. I look like sh*t in red. I won't wear it in a t-shirt, a lipstick, or a nail polish. But apparently it's okay to drape myself in tons and tons of it and then become mobile. If you see me, I totally apologize for looking washed out. It's red! Gah.
Also? I have a pet peeve that has nothing to do with red cars and everything to do with our culture's obsession with bags. As in plastic bags. Or paper bags, really. Why is it that people want to put everything they buy in a bag? People buy a bag of chips - it gets put in a bag. A bag of bread? In a bag. A bag of potatoes? In a bag. WHY?? Why can't you just carry the bag of bread you carried to the register out to your car? Why must you place it in another bag first? I just watched a guy buy a soda at a convenience store. A single soda. That he was going to drink on the spot. It was put in a bag, first. He'd taken it out of the bag and tossed the bag in the trash before he was out the door. It stayed in the bag for like two feet, people.
And when I take my pinko commie canvas reusable bags in the store? They try to slip a plastic bag in anyway! God forbid the Q-Tips end up right up against a package of spaghetti - all naked and rubbing right up against it. We need to put it in plastic bag first, and THEN put it in the commie bag. Because it's technically a toiletry item. Or some such nonsense. OR the bagger will put like one item in each bag so he can run out of my reusable bags and be forced to pop out plastic for my remaining 900 items. This happens while the cashier is distracting me. It's like a THING THEY DO ON PURPOSE.
And why, you ask, does this petty sh*t bother me? Because it keeps me from worrying about queries, kids, my rights possibly going down the toilet, and sick friends.
STOP THE POINTLESS BAGGING FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY!!! Seriously. I'm hysterical about it.
Keeps me sane.
Oh mah God - I almost forgot. I'm on The Twitter. I say that in the voice of an old, Jewish man. I'm on The Twitter. I have No Idea What I'm Doing. And there's always the chance I'll go all Courtney Love on The Twitter and you wouldn't want to miss that
Signing Off @sardinemama
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
The Pointe Is...
Recently, Camille stood at a barre, surrounded by boxes of painful torture devices disguised as pretty, pink slippers.
"It's important that they fit," the sales girl said. "She's way too young to have her feet disfigured."
When, I wondered, is it ever okay to have your feet disfigured? I wanted to snatch my child away. I've seen the pictures of dancers' feet - I've seen Black Swan and other ballerina angst films. Why was my daughter about to start on this journey of pain and OH MY GOD EXCUSE THE ALL-CAPS possible disfigurement? At the age of ten?
I'm no dance mom. This dance business, it's no dream of mine. Flashdance only inspired me to wear leg warmers, for crying out loud. So how did I end up here, in the dance store, about to buy pointe shoes for my child? Only the most driven dancers, the itty bitty percent, end up on pointe shoes. Even fewer stick with it for the long haul.
Camille has talked about this moment since she was old enough to talk. Shortly after she began walking, she began dancing. And while other kids loved PBS for Elmo and Big Bird (strongly resisting the urge to talk about Romney here), Camille wanted to know when the next ballet or opera would be on. And then she'd watch it. Actually, that's an understatement. She'd become it. And it didn't matter if it was in German, Italian, or English - she was absorbed by it.
We were treated to endless den performances - tutus, tickets, dramatic lighting - all before she'd set foot in a ballet studio.
She put a lot of work into making the tickets.
"Tell me if it hurts when you go up," the girl said last week. "First position..."
Everyone, obviously, was looking at Camille's feet. The sales girl, my dad, Camille's friend who'd come along to watch, and the other people shopping in the store. Everyone stared at her feet. But for some reason, my eyes flitted up to her face - at just the right moment.
She didn't gasp, she didn't squeal, she didn't even smile. She looked...surprised.
I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but we humans are not meant to be on our toes. We're not meant to balance on them, we're not meant to spin on them, we're not meant to hop across a stage on them. And Camille's face reflected that - not the pain of it - sadly, I'm sure that will come, later. It reflected the surprise of achieving the unexpected.
Her eyes met mine, briefly, in the mirror. Did you see what I did? Wasn't that spectacular?
It was spectacular. And it was spectacular in a way that I will never truly understand. Because her dream is not my dream. But I got a small glimpse, in that tiny dimple that appeared out of nowhere on her right cheek, of what it might feel like to suddenly balance on your toes. To achieve, for the very first time, that which you feel you were quite possibly born to achieve.
Actually, I think I might have felt what she felt at that moment. The shock, surprise, realization, and awe of your own badass self. Yes, I have! I have felt it before! Five times, to be exact. Because five times my body has done something unexpected, something that it seemed it shouldn't have been able to do. Five times I've surprised myself. And each time, I held my newborn and looked at Jeff. Did you see what I did?
It was, indeed, truly spectacular each time. And it was also incredibly and unbelievably painful. And frightening. Because creation isn't easy. And we surprise ourselves with it each time. Even when we knew it was coming.
These are miraculous things we do, and we do them every day. We rise on our toes, we paint, we sing. Sometimes we squeeze words out of the ethersphere.
We give birth.
It's worth the pain.
I'm so glad I was not looking at her feet. She will rise on pointe many times over the next few years. But she only rose for the first time, once. And it was all in her eyes.
I won't feel badly for letting her do this. I'll do what I can to get the best-fitting shoes possible. I'll make sure she has the best teachers to guide her. But I won't stand in the way of creation. Because I saw her eyes when the girl said, "Go up,"...and she did.
"It's important that they fit," the sales girl said. "She's way too young to have her feet disfigured."
When, I wondered, is it ever okay to have your feet disfigured? I wanted to snatch my child away. I've seen the pictures of dancers' feet - I've seen Black Swan and other ballerina angst films. Why was my daughter about to start on this journey of pain and OH MY GOD EXCUSE THE ALL-CAPS possible disfigurement? At the age of ten?
I'm no dance mom. This dance business, it's no dream of mine. Flashdance only inspired me to wear leg warmers, for crying out loud. So how did I end up here, in the dance store, about to buy pointe shoes for my child? Only the most driven dancers, the itty bitty percent, end up on pointe shoes. Even fewer stick with it for the long haul.
Camille has talked about this moment since she was old enough to talk. Shortly after she began walking, she began dancing. And while other kids loved PBS for Elmo and Big Bird (strongly resisting the urge to talk about Romney here), Camille wanted to know when the next ballet or opera would be on. And then she'd watch it. Actually, that's an understatement. She'd become it. And it didn't matter if it was in German, Italian, or English - she was absorbed by it.
We were treated to endless den performances - tutus, tickets, dramatic lighting - all before she'd set foot in a ballet studio.
She put a lot of work into making the tickets.
And of course into the performances.
Who knew that only a couple of years later she'd be backstage, waiting to dance in a professional production of Copellia?
She knew. She always knew...
"Tell me if it hurts when you go up," the girl said last week. "First position..."
It all seemed so casual - as if this were not the moment she'd dreamed of pretty much her entire life. It was just a store, these were just shoes....it was all so technical - getting the right fit - no music, no celebration, no fireworks.
And then the girl said, "Go up."
She didn't gasp, she didn't squeal, she didn't even smile. She looked...surprised.
I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but we humans are not meant to be on our toes. We're not meant to balance on them, we're not meant to spin on them, we're not meant to hop across a stage on them. And Camille's face reflected that - not the pain of it - sadly, I'm sure that will come, later. It reflected the surprise of achieving the unexpected.
Her eyes met mine, briefly, in the mirror. Did you see what I did? Wasn't that spectacular?
It was spectacular. And it was spectacular in a way that I will never truly understand. Because her dream is not my dream. But I got a small glimpse, in that tiny dimple that appeared out of nowhere on her right cheek, of what it might feel like to suddenly balance on your toes. To achieve, for the very first time, that which you feel you were quite possibly born to achieve.
Actually, I think I might have felt what she felt at that moment. The shock, surprise, realization, and awe of your own badass self. Yes, I have! I have felt it before! Five times, to be exact. Because five times my body has done something unexpected, something that it seemed it shouldn't have been able to do. Five times I've surprised myself. And each time, I held my newborn and looked at Jeff. Did you see what I did?
It was, indeed, truly spectacular each time. And it was also incredibly and unbelievably painful. And frightening. Because creation isn't easy. And we surprise ourselves with it each time. Even when we knew it was coming.
These are miraculous things we do, and we do them every day. We rise on our toes, we paint, we sing. Sometimes we squeeze words out of the ethersphere.
We give birth.
It's worth the pain.
I'm so glad I was not looking at her feet. She will rise on pointe many times over the next few years. But she only rose for the first time, once. And it was all in her eyes.
I won't feel badly for letting her do this. I'll do what I can to get the best-fitting shoes possible. I'll make sure she has the best teachers to guide her. But I won't stand in the way of creation. Because I saw her eyes when the girl said, "Go up,"...and she did.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
I Yam What I Yam
So I went to a writer's workshop on social media. I hate workshops, and I hate social media if it is any kind of social media I'm not already using and comfortable with. Also - I went as a newbie/non-member to this workshop - cold turkey without a buddy and I am a better with a buddy. In general.
I walked into the room, signed in, paid, and was given a name tag which I promptly stuck IN MY HAIR. People tried not to notice as I began the tiresome process of separating my bazillion hairs from the name tag while acting like it didn't hurt. I hate being the new girl and I particularly hate being the new girl with a name tag in her hair.
Anyway - the workshop was great in that it affirmed some things I already thought in regards to writers' blogs, websites, and social media. The things it didn't affirm....whatevs. I didn't understand that stuff anyway. In fact, I actually lost consciousness several times - a little condition I suffer whenever anyone tries to force-feed me instructions on how to use electronic devices or whenever I'm forced into the plumbing/electrical aisle of a home improvement store.
Writers' Blogs: I kept wondering why I needed one. I mean, really. Who would read it? Other writers? What could I possibly say that would interest them that they haven't already said themselves? Like, I just didn't get it, you know? I don't like reading writers' blogs much, myself. And when I do, I rarely buy the book(s) they're pushing because I buy books by authors I already read or authors my friends suggest - maybe I hear about it on NPR - something like that. To buy a book from every writers' site where someone is hawking a book would be ridiculous and would possibly result in Inspirational Romance ending up on my bookshelves and I DON'T WANT THAT. Not that there's anything wrong with Inspirational Romance - I just don't want to read it.
So the workshop presenter said my blog needs to be about things other than writing. It is! It needs to show a unique voice that people like. I have a unique voice that people like! Humor is good. I totally crack myself up! You can talk about anything. I talk about anything!
What a freaking, amazing relief!! I cannot TELL you how sick to death I was of worrying over this writing blog and how I was going to have to deal with it in addition to writing novels AND how it wouldn't allow me to have time for Sardines in a Can and I miss writing my little old Not Really About Anything blog! Supposedly, my followers read me because they like me and they'll buy my book because they like me and then if they like the book as much as they like me they'll tell their friends and THAT is how Fifty Tons of Bullshit makes its way to the best seller list!! YAY!!
I'M BACK, MAH PEEPS! And I don't even feel guilty about being here.
There are a couple of things, however, that might be considered little problems, if we want to keep this here act all kinds of professional.
*I'm not supposed to post pics of myself.
I went to TWO Red Hot Chili Peppers concerts this month SO FAR! And I wore an Off! cap like Anthony Kiedis and I really thought everyone would be wearing one but they weren't and I'm pretty sure that Anthony was looking at me. Seriously. Right in the eyes. He was all like, "Cool! We have the same cap!" or possibly, "That bitch is wearing my cap!" I couldn't tell. But anyway - here we are leaving for one concert:
And here we are in the car leaving like the groupies we are to follow the band to the NEXT concert. Because we are not amateurs, that's why.
In addition to not posting pictures of myself that could be interpreted as anything other than strictly professional, I am also supposed to abstain from mentioning religion, politics, or using any form of possibly offensive profanity. Um...that would be no, no, and f*ucking hell no.
Honestly, though, if my followers are any indication of my offensiveness - I'm not too concerned. I love you guys! You are liberal, conservative, parents, non-parents, straight, extremely not-straight, religious, and atheist. Some of you are several of these things at once. And you keep coming here - even though I am prone to making fun of Rick Perry and Sarah Palin (GOD HOW I MISS SARAH PALIN - I MISS HER LIKE I MISS MEL GIBSON AND CHARLIE SHEEN). You come even though I don't share your faith. You come even though I don't send my kids to school, nor do I school them at home, and you might be a teacher or a principal or the president of your PTA. You come even though you can't possibly understand why one woman would have five kids - or why one woman would have only five kids.
I think you come here because you like what I have to say, or how I say it. Or because you're bored and I've become part of your procrastination routine.
You come. And so I'm not changing a thing.
Much.
I might change some things. Probably will, in fact. But for the most part, you're going to get what you've always gotten. Me.
The End.
I walked into the room, signed in, paid, and was given a name tag which I promptly stuck IN MY HAIR. People tried not to notice as I began the tiresome process of separating my bazillion hairs from the name tag while acting like it didn't hurt. I hate being the new girl and I particularly hate being the new girl with a name tag in her hair.
Anyway - the workshop was great in that it affirmed some things I already thought in regards to writers' blogs, websites, and social media. The things it didn't affirm....whatevs. I didn't understand that stuff anyway. In fact, I actually lost consciousness several times - a little condition I suffer whenever anyone tries to force-feed me instructions on how to use electronic devices or whenever I'm forced into the plumbing/electrical aisle of a home improvement store.
Writers' Blogs: I kept wondering why I needed one. I mean, really. Who would read it? Other writers? What could I possibly say that would interest them that they haven't already said themselves? Like, I just didn't get it, you know? I don't like reading writers' blogs much, myself. And when I do, I rarely buy the book(s) they're pushing because I buy books by authors I already read or authors my friends suggest - maybe I hear about it on NPR - something like that. To buy a book from every writers' site where someone is hawking a book would be ridiculous and would possibly result in Inspirational Romance ending up on my bookshelves and I DON'T WANT THAT. Not that there's anything wrong with Inspirational Romance - I just don't want to read it.
So the workshop presenter said my blog needs to be about things other than writing. It is! It needs to show a unique voice that people like. I have a unique voice that people like! Humor is good. I totally crack myself up! You can talk about anything. I talk about anything!
What a freaking, amazing relief!! I cannot TELL you how sick to death I was of worrying over this writing blog and how I was going to have to deal with it in addition to writing novels AND how it wouldn't allow me to have time for Sardines in a Can and I miss writing my little old Not Really About Anything blog! Supposedly, my followers read me because they like me and they'll buy my book because they like me and then if they like the book as much as they like me they'll tell their friends and THAT is how Fifty Tons of Bullshit makes its way to the best seller list!! YAY!!
I'M BACK, MAH PEEPS! And I don't even feel guilty about being here.
There are a couple of things, however, that might be considered little problems, if we want to keep this here act all kinds of professional.
*I'm not supposed to post pics of myself.
I went to TWO Red Hot Chili Peppers concerts this month SO FAR! And I wore an Off! cap like Anthony Kiedis and I really thought everyone would be wearing one but they weren't and I'm pretty sure that Anthony was looking at me. Seriously. Right in the eyes. He was all like, "Cool! We have the same cap!" or possibly, "That bitch is wearing my cap!" I couldn't tell. But anyway - here we are leaving for one concert:
Honestly, though, if my followers are any indication of my offensiveness - I'm not too concerned. I love you guys! You are liberal, conservative, parents, non-parents, straight, extremely not-straight, religious, and atheist. Some of you are several of these things at once. And you keep coming here - even though I am prone to making fun of Rick Perry and Sarah Palin (GOD HOW I MISS SARAH PALIN - I MISS HER LIKE I MISS MEL GIBSON AND CHARLIE SHEEN). You come even though I don't share your faith. You come even though I don't send my kids to school, nor do I school them at home, and you might be a teacher or a principal or the president of your PTA. You come even though you can't possibly understand why one woman would have five kids - or why one woman would have only five kids.
I think you come here because you like what I have to say, or how I say it. Or because you're bored and I've become part of your procrastination routine.
You come. And so I'm not changing a thing.
Much.
I might change some things. Probably will, in fact. But for the most part, you're going to get what you've always gotten. Me.
The End.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
How I Spent My Summer Vacation Worrying About Other People
Oh dear. How to do this without overwhelming myself? Where do I start?
1) Writer's Blog is under construction. And it is called Fight for Your Write (thanks Heidi!). It will be linked to a Facebook Author page, where I will be optimistically referred to as a pre-published author. I can't tell you how badly that little bit of optimism goes against my natural tendencies. But that's what we say nowadays! We don't say "un" published. We're pre-published, by God! Ack. It makes me cringe. I can't help it. I'd rather don black and retreat to my tower to willfully wallow in statistics of unlikelyhood. Pre-published...as if believing were enough. Honestly, people. Some of us just can't write - and saying we're pre-published doesn't change that. I mean - technically - my dog is pre-published. And he can't write at ALL. So much for terminology elevating my objectivity.
2) Did I mention my book is finished? My book is finished.
3) To quote Jack White, I just don't know what to do with myself. Well, that's not true. There is a lot to do around here. But I kind of walk around in this haze of expectation. As if Something Big is about to happen because of #2 up above.
4) Somehow, in between all of the writing delirium - non-fiction kept happening. (It's sometimes referred to as life.) Jules had his surgery. He was a freaking trooper, believe me. And, since I'm sure you're wondering, you should know that I WAS ALSO A TROOPER. I know! Surprising, right? I did really well!
There were 3 surgeons. The one who had the most difficult job was the one who was charged with finding and harvesting fat from Jules' body to plug into his head after the tumor was removed. Jules is 5'10" and weighs 117 pounds. He is all muscle. And he now bears an impressive C-Section type of a scar across his belly. He tells people he got it in a sword fight. Or he'll show it to them when they ask to see his brain surgery scar, just to enjoy the looks of utter confusion.
The surgery was easier than we'd expected, in some ways, and harder in others. ICU was hard. They kept telling me he was okay but he certainly didn't look okay. He looked like this:
If you don't know by now - I am squeamish. I don't like sick or injured things to be in my general vicinity. But let me tell you - I was all over this kid and into his business 24/7.
On his first night in the ICU, the nurse went to give him a dose of steroids directly into his line. She warned me that it might make him nauseous. Well, as soon as she depressed the plunger he projectiled. And he was flat on his back. She tossed me a hose and said, "Suction his mouth!" AND I DID. Brilliantly and heroically I suctioned vomit out of his mouth!
He hadn't really spoken yet - but he looked at me after I wiped his mouth, and he raised one of his beautiful, delicate eyebrows to show howsurprised impressed he was by my performance. I knew then that he really was going to be okay. And so was I. Life's a crap shoot - and for reasons I can't explain - I just keep winning. Charmed, blessed, whatever you want to call it. I don't know whether it's because the Universe likes to Smile Upon Me, or if it's because I've just been trotting along unnoticed and have thus far avoided its wrath.
5) Ellie went to Europe. By herself. She participated in two music festivals; one in Innsbruck and one in Vienna. In addition to Austria, she visited Germany, Italy, and Slovakia. I can't tell you how far the heartstrings were stretched during this month that she was gone. This was a huge, momentous mothering event for me that far surpassed the Going Off to College drama. And you know what a drama that was - you read about it for like two solid years! But this - sending her so far away - it was really setting her free, letting her go, trusting her to be okay, trusting the Universe, trusting, trusting, trusting....very difficult. I somehow kept breathing.
She tries to be really strong around me because any sign of weakness and I'm a melting mess of enormous proportions. I think she's terrified I'll try and force her back in the womb, where really, she should have stayed to begin with. Letting them out is a huge mistake, when you think about it. Once they're out - they want to go to Europe by themselves. Anyway - I could tell she was a little frightened and it killed me. But as usual - she swallowed it down and got on with it. She's always been the bravest person I know. Here she is in being brave in Strausburg.
1) Writer's Blog is under construction. And it is called Fight for Your Write (thanks Heidi!). It will be linked to a Facebook Author page, where I will be optimistically referred to as a pre-published author. I can't tell you how badly that little bit of optimism goes against my natural tendencies. But that's what we say nowadays! We don't say "un" published. We're pre-published, by God! Ack. It makes me cringe. I can't help it. I'd rather don black and retreat to my tower to willfully wallow in statistics of unlikelyhood. Pre-published...as if believing were enough. Honestly, people. Some of us just can't write - and saying we're pre-published doesn't change that. I mean - technically - my dog is pre-published. And he can't write at ALL. So much for terminology elevating my objectivity.
2) Did I mention my book is finished? My book is finished.
3) To quote Jack White, I just don't know what to do with myself. Well, that's not true. There is a lot to do around here. But I kind of walk around in this haze of expectation. As if Something Big is about to happen because of #2 up above.
4) Somehow, in between all of the writing delirium - non-fiction kept happening. (It's sometimes referred to as life.) Jules had his surgery. He was a freaking trooper, believe me. And, since I'm sure you're wondering, you should know that I WAS ALSO A TROOPER. I know! Surprising, right? I did really well!
There were 3 surgeons. The one who had the most difficult job was the one who was charged with finding and harvesting fat from Jules' body to plug into his head after the tumor was removed. Jules is 5'10" and weighs 117 pounds. He is all muscle. And he now bears an impressive C-Section type of a scar across his belly. He tells people he got it in a sword fight. Or he'll show it to them when they ask to see his brain surgery scar, just to enjoy the looks of utter confusion.
The surgery was easier than we'd expected, in some ways, and harder in others. ICU was hard. They kept telling me he was okay but he certainly didn't look okay. He looked like this:
On his first night in the ICU, the nurse went to give him a dose of steroids directly into his line. She warned me that it might make him nauseous. Well, as soon as she depressed the plunger he projectiled. And he was flat on his back. She tossed me a hose and said, "Suction his mouth!" AND I DID. Brilliantly and heroically I suctioned vomit out of his mouth!
He hadn't really spoken yet - but he looked at me after I wiped his mouth, and he raised one of his beautiful, delicate eyebrows to show how
5) Ellie went to Europe. By herself. She participated in two music festivals; one in Innsbruck and one in Vienna. In addition to Austria, she visited Germany, Italy, and Slovakia. I can't tell you how far the heartstrings were stretched during this month that she was gone. This was a huge, momentous mothering event for me that far surpassed the Going Off to College drama. And you know what a drama that was - you read about it for like two solid years! But this - sending her so far away - it was really setting her free, letting her go, trusting her to be okay, trusting the Universe, trusting, trusting, trusting....very difficult. I somehow kept breathing.
She tries to be really strong around me because any sign of weakness and I'm a melting mess of enormous proportions. I think she's terrified I'll try and force her back in the womb, where really, she should have stayed to begin with. Letting them out is a huge mistake, when you think about it. Once they're out - they want to go to Europe by themselves. Anyway - I could tell she was a little frightened and it killed me. But as usual - she swallowed it down and got on with it. She's always been the bravest person I know. Here she is in being brave in Strausburg.
6) Other notable things happened, as well, but I'm tired of noting them.
Until Next Time!
Sardine Mama
Sunday, May 13, 2012
It's Time
I know. It's like I fell off the face of the earth again. Actually, I fell into writing my novel. Like I totally wrote and wrote and rewrote and rewrote. And while I wrote I felt incredibly guilty because I had kids running around somewhere. I was pretty sure I did, anyway. It was all rather vague and blurry as far as that went. Because I was writing.
While I was writing, the house fell apart. The laundry piled up, as did the dishes. The food rotted in the refrigerator. The dust grew thick. The cobwebs invaded. The trash spilled over. You get the idea.
The children did not bathe. They played video games all day. They ate corn with a spoon out of a can and called it dinner. They grew taller. Older. Different. And yet I kept writing.
Why?
I don't know. But today is Mother's Day, and I'm reminded again that if everything in the world were to be titrated down into the only thing that mattered to me, it would be these five little souls skittering about, growing up, forming opinions...shaping the world. They're everything to me. Even on the days when my mind has chosen to hole itself up with far less interesting make-believe people.
Sometimes I thought about blogging. But then I'd quickly become overwhelmed. There was just So Much Going On. All of it was blogworthy. Where to start? Nowhere. So I didn't.
Jasper had a birthday. Joel shaved his head. Ellie made travel plans. Brain surgery was scheduled for Jules. Camille auditioned for a dance ensemble. Women watched (many idly) their rights slip away while their men stood silent. Rick Santorum happened. Then he un-happened. North Carolina did what it did. And Obama did what he did. Mitt Romney forgot about bullying a gay boy - it was just something teenagers did, after all. I was accosted at a stoplight over my Obama bumper sticker and came home and peeled it off. Trayvon Martin was murdered. I went to a Jane's Addiction concert.
All of the above? Blogworthy. But I was busy writing escapism romance. Apparently, people (women, in particular) need a little bit of that.
And then the Time Cover happened. And I really wanted to blog about that. But everyone else has already done it. I spent an entire decade of my life breastfeeding. And I breastfed toddlers, usually standing up, because that is how they roll. In fact, if I were younger, blonder, and thirty pounds lighter, that could be me on the cover. In my head I looked every bit as bad-ass as the chick on the cover of Time Magazine. Making food with your own body is sort of a super human power, after all. In fact, when the children come to me asking for the occasional this or that, and I tell them I'm writing and they should ask their father, and they say they asked their father and he's busy and said they should ask me, I'll sometimes say, "Tell Daddy I used to make food for you with my very own body. He can certainly wash a bowl of grapes."
The Time picture has started a flurry of Blogger Activity. The child is too old! It's abuse! Um, no he isn't and it's not. More people than you realize are closet nursers of Not Really So Tiny Children. I bet you ten bucks you know some. They're just not doing it in front of you. Unless, that is, they belong to one of the zillions of cultures of people who nurse children beyond infancy. I don't really think that's the problem with the picture, though.
People (men) like their breastfeeding women to resemble the Virgin Mary Whist Feeding the Baby Jesus. That's the only way they can justify such a blatant misuse oftits mammary glands. If a woman dares to bare it and feed whilst looking all bad-ass and Distinctly Un-Virginal and feeding a toddler way too big to fit in the Christmas Nativity Scene ...it causes all sorts of uncomfortable feelings....quite possibly in the nether regions. And there is to be no mingling between nurturing and nether regions. The fact that women are talented, multi-dimensional, multi-taskers SHOULD equate to their breasts being so, as well, but men some people would prefer that breasts and their purposes proceed along in a linear fashion...as in now they're sexy, now they're matronly and nurturing, and now they're sexy again...not willy nilly sexy/nurturing all at the same time. The reason for this is simple: People are massively screwed up when it comes to sex, feminism, and did I say sex? Yes.
Speaking of sex and things that set the blogosphere abuzz: Fifty Shades of Grey. If I see one more word about it I'm going to set my hair on fire. Unless, of course, it's on my Very Own Brand Spanking New Writer's Blog. The one where I'm going to break the First Cardinal Rule of Unpublished Writer's Blogs and criticize a published writer. The only thing holding me back is the fact that I haven't a name for my new blog. I'd appreciate any suggestions you might have. And by the way, all witty little titles incorporating the word "write" have already been used.
I'll draw a winner from the people who send me suggestions, and that lucky winner will receive his or her very own copy of Haruki Murakami's novel, Kafka on the Shore. I will never criticize Murakami. Because he is perfect in every way. Every single way.
If you've never entered a contest of this nature before, now is a good time to do so. I suspect you might be the only one who responds, and this greatly increases your odds of winning.
As soon as I have a Blog Name - you will be able to read my thoughts on Shades of Grey, the BDSM Erotica novel you've seen, oddly enough, gracing the shelves of your local neighborhood Costco.
You guys were my guilty pleasure today. I'll try not to stay away so long next time.
Sardine Mama
While I was writing, the house fell apart. The laundry piled up, as did the dishes. The food rotted in the refrigerator. The dust grew thick. The cobwebs invaded. The trash spilled over. You get the idea.
The children did not bathe. They played video games all day. They ate corn with a spoon out of a can and called it dinner. They grew taller. Older. Different. And yet I kept writing.
Why?
I don't know. But today is Mother's Day, and I'm reminded again that if everything in the world were to be titrated down into the only thing that mattered to me, it would be these five little souls skittering about, growing up, forming opinions...shaping the world. They're everything to me. Even on the days when my mind has chosen to hole itself up with far less interesting make-believe people.
Sometimes I thought about blogging. But then I'd quickly become overwhelmed. There was just So Much Going On. All of it was blogworthy. Where to start? Nowhere. So I didn't.
Jasper had a birthday. Joel shaved his head. Ellie made travel plans. Brain surgery was scheduled for Jules. Camille auditioned for a dance ensemble. Women watched (many idly) their rights slip away while their men stood silent. Rick Santorum happened. Then he un-happened. North Carolina did what it did. And Obama did what he did. Mitt Romney forgot about bullying a gay boy - it was just something teenagers did, after all. I was accosted at a stoplight over my Obama bumper sticker and came home and peeled it off. Trayvon Martin was murdered. I went to a Jane's Addiction concert.
All of the above? Blogworthy. But I was busy writing escapism romance. Apparently, people (women, in particular) need a little bit of that.
And then the Time Cover happened. And I really wanted to blog about that. But everyone else has already done it. I spent an entire decade of my life breastfeeding. And I breastfed toddlers, usually standing up, because that is how they roll. In fact, if I were younger, blonder, and thirty pounds lighter, that could be me on the cover. In my head I looked every bit as bad-ass as the chick on the cover of Time Magazine. Making food with your own body is sort of a super human power, after all. In fact, when the children come to me asking for the occasional this or that, and I tell them I'm writing and they should ask their father, and they say they asked their father and he's busy and said they should ask me, I'll sometimes say, "Tell Daddy I used to make food for you with my very own body. He can certainly wash a bowl of grapes."
The Time picture has started a flurry of Blogger Activity. The child is too old! It's abuse! Um, no he isn't and it's not. More people than you realize are closet nursers of Not Really So Tiny Children. I bet you ten bucks you know some. They're just not doing it in front of you. Unless, that is, they belong to one of the zillions of cultures of people who nurse children beyond infancy. I don't really think that's the problem with the picture, though.
People (men) like their breastfeeding women to resemble the Virgin Mary Whist Feeding the Baby Jesus. That's the only way they can justify such a blatant misuse of
Speaking of sex and things that set the blogosphere abuzz: Fifty Shades of Grey. If I see one more word about it I'm going to set my hair on fire. Unless, of course, it's on my Very Own Brand Spanking New Writer's Blog. The one where I'm going to break the First Cardinal Rule of Unpublished Writer's Blogs and criticize a published writer. The only thing holding me back is the fact that I haven't a name for my new blog. I'd appreciate any suggestions you might have. And by the way, all witty little titles incorporating the word "write" have already been used.
I'll draw a winner from the people who send me suggestions, and that lucky winner will receive his or her very own copy of Haruki Murakami's novel, Kafka on the Shore. I will never criticize Murakami. Because he is perfect in every way. Every single way.
If you've never entered a contest of this nature before, now is a good time to do so. I suspect you might be the only one who responds, and this greatly increases your odds of winning.
As soon as I have a Blog Name - you will be able to read my thoughts on Shades of Grey, the BDSM Erotica novel you've seen, oddly enough, gracing the shelves of your local neighborhood Costco.
You guys were my guilty pleasure today. I'll try not to stay away so long next time.
Sardine Mama
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
