Cinderella (is) Complex

Oh, hello there gentle reader. I know it has been a while.

I could make up all sorts of excuses about how busy I have been, and how crazy life is... which would be true. But I have to be straight with you - I got this totally obnoxious comment by a reader (not you, of course - never you) and I needed to take a minute. Step back from my brutally honest level of (over)sharing.

Because reining it in is never an option.

According to the commenter, I don't deserve to be a parent. BUT HE'S PRAYING FOR ME YOU GUYS. So thank goodness, all is not lost. Except, of course, my ability to write anything else for several months, so paralyzed was I by the message in my inbox.

Here's the thing about suffering from anxiety: shit like that, comments from someone who doesn't know you and obviously doesn't think you are funny and is sitting in judgment of you because YOU ARE A TERRIBLE HUMAN BEING AND MAY GOD SAVE YOUR SOUL - those comments are not easy to brush off. Nothing is easy to brush off. You automatically assume that everything - EVERYTHING - has more than just a little truth to it. Otherwise, why would they have said it? Why would they have done something  so heartless if there wasn't a really good reason for it? And besides, it is so easy - too easy - to believe the worst about yourself. To go straight down the rabbit hole and starting eating and drinking things you shouldn't in order to try to fix yourself. After all, it's not them - it is definitely you.

"Because they are a piece of shit" is not one of the options in your anxiety-riddled brain. Instead, you spend hours upon hours obsessing about how it could have been different. How you could make it better. What you could have said that would have made them like you, although, lets be honest, you are not likeable. Also you really aren't doing anything with your life and your hair is weird and your skin is a mess and you have no friends and no one likes you anyway.

And when I say "you" in the above paragraphs what I mean, of course, is me. This is me. This is how my mind works - or how it is broken, perhaps.

I'm itching. Right now, I am itching as though I am about to break out in hives. I might actually break out in hives - more from me scratching this invisible itch, than from whatever is causing the itch to begin with. My scalp, my chest, my face..... it is unbearable. I can't stand to be in my own skin.

I am anxious. About what, I have no idea.

Living with anxiety is usually totally manageable. It's just that sometimes, managing it requires a helmet, earplugs, blinders, an emotional support pony, and copious amounts of weed just to force myself to look at my phone in the morning. If you see a look of panic on my face, particularly in a social setting, kindly bring me a helmet and a stiff drink immediately, then point me in the direction of the bathroom so I can regroup. Or climb out the window.

"Why are you upset right now?" Sam asks cautiously as I scrub at my hairline while trying to load the dishwasher with my other hand. "Is it just the usual shit in your head, or is it something else. Like taxes or something."

"OH MY GOD WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"

"What?!" He looks around frantically. "What did I do?"
"Bring up something I totally wasn't thinking about, a subject that you KNOW makes me sick with anxiety. NOW I AM GOING TO WORRY ABOUT THAT TOO."

"Oh for fuck's sake." he mutters.

My phone is dinging away, and a particularly lengthy alert sends it vibrating almost off the kitchen counter. I grab for it - still scratching my forehead frantically. "I WISH THIS THING WOULD STOP SENDING ME MESSAGES FOR A MINUTE."

"You could mute th-"

"I don't want to miss something important - what if one of the kids is trying to text me or my mom or someone..... I can't mute it, then I will just have to check it constantly. I just.... I don't know."

I slump down on one of the counter stools, feeling defeated. And exhausted. My phone buzzes. A calendar alert. Oh god - am I supposed to be somewhere? Or maybe a Facebook message. I reach for the phone hungrily, as much to end the buzzing as to satisfy my curiosity. Get my fix.

*deep breath* this is why social media is so dangerous for people with my brain.

And also so intoxicating.

The likes and comments - when they are positive - can make your whole day seem worthwhile.
But one negative comment - or even just a lack of a comment - can take you down like a baseball bat to the knees.

Trying to get through life with anxiety is actually, when you think about it, much like living as Cinderella. On the outside, you are looking good, dancing and laughing and the prince is falling in love with you more every day. But then the clock strikes midnight and it all goes right to shit - so you spend a lot of time watching the clock and trying to hold it together until you are at home and can fall completely apart in private.

Being on social media is more of the same. Here, for example, is an inner dialogue while I am cruising Facebook:

"Oh, look at that picture of my friends together having fun! They look gorgeous! That food looks amazing! What a fun time! I am not that pretty. I would look terrible in that dress and I always look awful in photos. But they didn't invite me anyway. Probably because I am so lame and wouldn't have been fun to have around. And I wouldn't be able to afford that dinner, from the looks of it. And talking about how broke I am is always so awkward. Easier to just not invite me at all, I'm sure. They probably think I am just trying to get them to pay for me, when I say I can't afford it. And that is not at all what I want. I would love to have more money and be able to do all of this fun stuff they are clearly doing without me. Oh god, what else did I miss. They were probably hoping I wouldn't see this. Or maybe they don't give two shits whether I see it or not, because they really care that little about me and my feelings. I suck. I am probably not going to be invited to hang out with them anymore. I'd better stop texting them like a desperate loser."

Boom.

So, I'll be over here with my support pony and a box of half-price chocolates I bought on February 15th. The house is a mess and I am in my sweatpants but feel free to stop by. You might prefer not to. I totally understand.

Nevermind.

Oh look, Instagram.....

Lucy turns ten

You all know the story by now.

But the story behind the story, is how we came to terms with adoption.

When we got the very first phone call, when Lucy was still in utero, I was jacked up on fertility drugs. Sam was lining up syringes along the kitchen sink every morning, and watching me cry myself to sleep most nights.

Our responses to the question "are you interested in adopting" were different.

Mine was an immediate yes.
Sam was more "I don't know about this."

My answer was based solely on my desire to have a second child.
His answer was more about the reality of having an adopted child and a biological child, and raising them together, and whether it would feel different or forced in some way.

It took him about 5 seconds of holding Lucy the morning she was born to realize that was not going to be an issue.
It took me 10 years to come to terms with my immediate "yes".

The bottom line is that, in saying yes to adopting, I was acknowledging in some deep down part of myself that I would never have another biological child. It was something I knew. It was not a choice (there were plenty of reasons why I was not able to conceive a second time). It was, rather, accepting that I no longer had a choice.

No matter how badly I wanted it, no matter how far down I reached within myself for the strength to keep trying, I knew it. If I wanted to have another child, I had to look elsewhere. And it has taken me ten years to accept the truth.

Ten years to stop hating myself for giving up.

Ten years to stop discretely scanning the faces in the grocery store, wondering if one of them was Lucy's biological parent.

Ten years of secretly resenting the person who was able to grow this precious beautiful person that is so obviously my child.

Ten years of avoiding the questions about her ancestry for school projects.

Ten years of leaving her family medical history blank at the pediatrician's office.

Ten years of feeling guilty for saying she and Max get their blonde hair and blue eyes from their grandparents. I mean, maybe they both do. But I only know for certain that Max does.

Ten years of tiptoeing around the details in front of Lucy, and wishing them away.
Wishing I had been there to prevent them from putting erythromycin ointment on her eyes at birth, since she had an immediate reaction to it.
Wishing I had been there right from the beginning so that she hadn't spent any time alone in the nursery.

Wishing I could have looked her biological parents in the eye and thanked them.

Today, ten years later, the fact of her adoption is - in fact - not that important. She is so much our child that it is impossible to mistake her for anyone else's.

People talk about the miracle of birth, and the gift of adoption.
But in my reality, birth was a gift, and adoption was a miracle. And I am so glad I can finally see that.

Notes from the road: The BAMF Book Tour November 5th Re-entry is a bitch

"What happened to his hair, Sam?" I am sitting in my bed. It turns out my mattress sucks. I have become accustomed to much cushier digs while I have been traveling around "on tour" - which sounds so fancy but is really the least glamorous thing that there is - and my own bed does not meet the standards to which I have become accustomed. Also, my mother is no longer around to help me run errands and buy me food. This is unfortunate. But the thing that is currently upsetting me is my son's new haircut: he decided to shave his head last week, and my husband made the unfortunate decision to help him do it  since I wasn't around to man the clippers. I can assure you he is regretting that now, and the results are, um, well...... not very flattering. I'll say that. We are trying to talk it out, but there is not much talking going on. More of the yelling and obscene hand gestures.

The past few days have been brutal. I came home late Sunday night after 22 hours of travel; exhausted, dehydrated, slightly congested and totally constipated. I needed a hot bath, a cup of tea, and a bong. Sadly, I do not own a bong, and I'm pretty sure my bong days are behind me. So I had a bowl of ice cream instead. Almost as good.

Not quite, but almost.

For the first 12 hours, I cried.
I cried because I was tired and feeling like crap.
I cried because I couldn't find the book I wanted to read.
I cried because our homeowners insurance was renewed with the wrong company.
I cried because my son had decided to shave his head the week before school picture day.
I cried because during my trip I had sent home gifts for Christmas and they had been distributed to their recipients already, even though it was only October.
I cried because even though I had bought a ton of presents, I forgot to buy Sam a birthday present.
I cried because I needed to unpack my suitcase.
I cried because the stove was dirty.
I cried because the shower was dirty.
I cried because we don't have a housekeeper and I was going to have to clean the stove and the shower.
I cried because the grapes weren't organic.
I cried because the cream was expired.
I cried because the crying made my eyes all puffy and I looked ancient.
I cried because I need a bikini wax.
I cried because - after 2 weeks of complaining about the cold on the mainland - I was hot.

This went on and on and on.
Sam stayed as far away as possible, and practically skipped down the driveway to go to work on Monday.

The kids, who had thought they might want to stay home from school to spend the day with me because they had missed me so much, decided by 8am that school sounded like a really good idea after all.

I cried about that too.

I didn't used to cry much, until I did. I guess reading that chapter out loud last week was like pulling the cork out of my emotional dam, and now? Waterworks. All day long.

I've been home for 3 days now. I stopped boo hoo-ing like an idiot yesterday, but I still get all misty-eyed when I remember that the shower needs scrubbing. I thought I would return from the mainland feeling triumphant but instead I feel like the world's biggest failure: I set up a series of readings that a handful of people (THANK YOU FOR BEING THERE YOU GUYS WHO WERE THERE) attended, contacted a bunch of bookstores that said no, and left a box of books sitting on my mothers floor unsold. And my kid is bald and my house is filthy.

I am not victorious.

And yet.

Every day, several times a day, someone calls or emails or texts to thank me for writing the book, or to tell me they enjoyed it, or that they gave it to a friend.

And then, of course, I cry. Again.

So that's it. The BAMF tour is officially, as they say in my hometown, OVAH.
I'm still working away - the book is going through a round of edits right now to track down and eliminate all of the pesky little typos and punctuation errors, and then I am going to get it up on a few new platforms and in a few more bookstores. It will be a life-long project, this book. I just want to sell enough copies to buy a new mattress. And a wig for my kid - the crew cut is scaring me.

Notes from the road: The BAMF Book Tour November 2. That one time I cried by accident

The last few weeks have been a healthy workout for my anxiety and self-esteem. I am in the end zone of this tour now, and last night I performed the most jubilant, cathartic - and admittedly, horrifying - victory dance ever. I had to let off some steam, somehow. It is unfortunate that I chose to do it in public, in front of everyone.

Including my ex-husband's new wife, as it turns out.

In my defense, I didn't know that the lovely woman, who enthusiastically endorsed Amazon Prime and danced near me all night long was, in fact, my ex-husband's new wife. For the record, she has a great haircut, is very sweet, and is one hell of a dancer.

The man has a type, what can I say.

And we danced. Oh, how we danced. Not together, per se, but certainly close enough to have our dancing documented in endless videos and photos which I am just now able to look at without wincing.

I am sure that, for the assembled crowd (even if they didn't realize who the players dancers were) it was all very entertaining. And while it was fun for them, it was cathartic for me. That night in the bar was the topper on a long day, filled with emotion and a lot of weird energy. And not in a good way.

Earlier that afternoon, I had a reading at my home town library. Mom rallied the troops - which is to say, she told my relatives about it. We had a pretty good turnout, all things considered. And yes, the crowd was made up entirely of friends and family, but I'll take it. So we all sat, and I talked a little bit about my experiences foster parenting, and a lot about the system, and then I made the foolish decision to read aloud from the book.

I have to say, at this point, that my book seems to make people cry. I didn't mean for that to happen. But there it is. People read this book and then send me emails and texts telling me that they are sobbing. I never know how to respond - should I say thank you, or apologize? I wrote the book, and lived through all of this, and hardly ever cry about any of it. So it came a huge surprise to me - and a horrifying reality to everyone in the room - when I got almost all the way through the chapter and then started to ugly-cry and was forced to put the book down and collect myself.

Had I simply had a tear roll down my cheek, and sniffled for a few moments, well.......... I could have pulled that off. But no. My mother had to come running over with Kleenex, and it took me much too long (it felt like hours) to regain my composure. I looked around the table at my friends, and family, my English teacher from junior high, my friend's mom, and her friend who was along for what turned out to be a pretty uncomfortable ride. Because, crying.

We - as a family, as New Englanders - do not cry. And we certainly do not cry in public. That is unbecoming. Composure is your most valuable asset, and there should never be a crack in the armor. I am sure most of the assembled crowd was sitting there trying to figure out what in GOD'S NAME would compel me to write a book filled with personal details, and then publish it. But to read it aloud in front of other people? Oh, heavens no. And then to CRY? There would be no further discussion. This little "author event" was over.

I wrapped up the reading shortly thereafter

Embarrassed about the crying thing, I needed to put the afternoon's event's behind me. I went and picked up a friend and we grabbed dinner, then headed to the bar. A band made up of friends from high school was playing, and we knew about 75% of the people in there. Since our friends are all in the mid 30's to early 40s, and most have kids, several people brought leftover Halloween candy. So I sat there at the table for a while, drinking coffee and getting jacked up on sugar. Then I decided to dance. And after that, everything gets a little fuzzy. I blame the Pixie Stix.

I had a great time. In fact, I had one of the best times I have had in a really long while. The memories might be vague, but I remember the evening fondly. However, I could be wrong about that. Was it good for you? Were you there? Seems like everyone was, and they sure looked like they were having fun based on the Facebook coverage. But who am I to say? I am not known for my good judgement.

Or my dancing. At least, not in a good way.

Notes from the road: The BAMF Book Tour October 30. What if you threw a party and nobody came?

A huge part of writing something and then publishing it - whether it is a book, an article, a blog post or a 140 character tweet - is that, once you hit publish it's out there for the whole world to see. There are no takesies backsies. Not really. It is out there, and people can read it, or not. They can pass judgement, whether with words or actions. And when what you write is for sale, and people don't buy it......... well.
Awkward.

When I self-published and then realized that self-publish also means self-promote (at least, it does if you want to sell anything) I ordered some books, lined up a few author events, and hoped for the best. Even though it was last minute. Even though I have no idea what I am doing. Even though I have no first degree literary connections whatsoever. And apparently, self-publishing is like tattooing a scarlet letter on your forehead, shooting yourself in the foot, and coming down with the plague. Simultaneously. If anyone is going to find out about this book, its going to be because I (or one of my fabulous readers - KISSES YOU GUYS) told them about it. I had to get out there and make some noise.

And so today was my first real "Meet the Author" event. The mall was suspiciously empty, and I started to get concerned. But that concern was quickly forgotten because there were signs, and a table with a fancy chair, and a stack of my books, and two pens, and...........me. I was there.

My mother in law was also there, thank god. She spotted a friend walking through the bookstore and went running after her, and possibly guilted her into buying a book. Whether she bought a copy of her own free will or not is beside the point, I like to believe she will enjoy reading it regardless.

And then my friend Kerry arrived and bought a book.

And then Sam's aunt and uncle stopped in, just to say hi and offer their moral support.

And then Sam's cousin came by and bought a copy as well.

I sat there for two hours, sold three books, and walked out of the mall into a gray drizzle, carrying a box of books in the author's walk of shame that I had been so afraid of. It wasn't so bad. I climbed in the car and headed south to New York City. I am here now with Amber, and tomorrow I have another event, in Brooklyn.
For 5 hours.
In costume.
Because it's Halloween.

You should come too. You don't even have to wear a costume!

The info can all be found on my facebook page: www.facebook.com/daffodilcampbell

I'm bringing candy and hoping for the best. And if "the best" is that I eat all the candy, well, I'm okay with that.

Notes from the road: The BAMF Book Tour October 27th The worst they can say is "no".

This weekend, I saw my book get placed in the window of a bookstore.

I walked in there, looked the owner in the eye, and said "Hello. I wrote a book. You have an ad running that says you buy books. I would like you to buy mine."

He was obviously a kind and compassionate soul. He looked at me, standing there nervously, holding out my book.

And he took it.

After flipping through the pages and looking at the cover, he turned and opened the register. "Will you take five dollars?" he asked. 

"Five dollars? Really? That seems like a lot." I hesitated. I had been hoping for two or three bucks. 

"It is more than we usually pay," he agreed, "but what the heck. I'll put it in the window. Let's see what happens. Here, write down your email and contact info for me." he pushed a piece of paper across the desk but my hands were shaking and sweaty and I couldn't actually remember my phone number.

"Can I email you? I can send you all of the information by email, if that is okay." I thought I might throw up, and I really didn't want to make a mess in this nice man's shop.

"Sure," he said agreeably. "That would be great." He handed me a bookmark that he had jotted the email on.

I walked outside and crossed the street on wobbly legs. Leigh was waiting for me, and looked over my shoulder at the store window "OH MY GOD HE'S PUTTING YOUR BOOK IN THE WINDOW."

"Yep." I said weakly. "He sure is. Can you go take a picture?  I don't think I can go back over there right now. I need a cup of coffee. Or something." Mostly I just needed to sit down. I hadn't been expecting it to go quite so smoothly, and I didn't know what to think. Was I excited? Relieved?

No, just nauseous.

But that faded as Leigh dashed across the street to document this stunning turn of events, and then we walked around for a few minutes while I tried to calm myself down. After some browsing and a few indiscreet peeks over at the window where my book sat waiting to be discovered, we climbed back in the car and drove to another bookstore. This time I wrote down my contact info on a note card and stuck it inside the front cover before I got out of the car. I walked purposefully into the bookstore and right up to the counter.

"Hello, may I speak with the person who does your book ordering?"

She fixed me with a look that told me she was the gatekeeper. Or possibly the person who did the book ordering - but she certainly wasn't going to tell me if she was.

"Sorry, there is no one here for you to speak with. If you would like to send an email our address is-" she turned back to her work as she spoke, and I interrupted her.

"May I leave this book with you? I'm from Hawaii, and I just want to leave it for your consideration." I smiled weakly. I was being dismissed, and I was trying to shove my foot in a door that was being politely - but firmly - closed in my face.

"You won't get it back" she warned me.

"That's okay." I tried to be blase about it, but what else could I say? It was better to have the book in her hands than in my suitcase. Right?

"All right." she said. No trace of a smile, and the door was once again closing. She took the book and turned to place it in a stack of other books. I turned away as well, and walked out the door. I didn't look back. I didn't ask her name, or if there was someone I could call and follow up with. I just walked away. 

"You don't have a book in your hands!" Leigh said encouragingly. "That's a good sign!"

"Well, I don't know. But at least I gave it to her, right?"

"Absolutely."

I am learning a lot on this trip. 

I am learning about rejection - and humility.

I am learning about accomplishment - and pride.

I am learning about myself, and finding strength I forgot I had.

I am learning to ask for help, and accept it.

And I am learning that people can see when someone's heart is in their hands. And the people who matter are the ones who treat it gently, and then hand it back in one piece.

Notes from the road: The BAMF Book Tour October 25th somewhere in Oregon

I am currently on a Bolt Bus traveling I-5 from Portland to Seattle.

The last few days have been wonderful - not in terms of book sales, just the warm fuzzies of seeing old friends and visiting a city I love. And wearing a fleece vest.

I left Seattle feeling pretty defeated. I was out of books - which sounds like a good thing unless you are traveling around trying to sell as many books as possible, in which case it is bad news bears. So there I was, cold and tired, sitting outside of a place called "Sip and Ship" which is apparently a wine bar, coffee shop, and mailing center. God I love the Pacific Northwest.

Anyway, I was sitting on an adirondack chair that was set up on the sidewalk along the storefront, freezing my ass off. A woman walked up leading a small terrier. She started to go inside, and then saw a sign on the door, saying that dogs were no longer allowed inside. She stopped short, not sure what to do. I reached out my hand. "I can sit with your dog - it's no problem!"

"Are you sure?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yep, I'm going to be sitting out here for a while waiting for my ride."

So I sat outside and spent a few minutes patting a very sweet and clearly terrified dog, who was craning her neck looking through the windows for her mama who had left her outside in the cold with a total stranger. When the woman returned, her dog was delighted, doing that full-body tail wag of enthusiasm that always makes me grin like an idiot. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee or a pastry or something to thank you." she said gratefully.

"Oh, no.... you don't need to do that - but thank you."

"No, really - I want to!"

"No, no. I don't need anything."

"Are you sure? I really want to give you something."

"Well. You know, there is something you could do......you could buy my book." I was nervous, but what the hell. This is what a book tour is all about, right?

She looked confused for a moment.

"It's on Amazon, you can buy it there, or on my website..... I mean, you don't have to. But you could take a look and if you think it might interest you......" I started to falter.

"No, I mean, yes - I will definitely buy your book. What's it about?"

I gave her a brief summary - the elevator pitch I am still working on. "It's about foster parenting and adoption. I am a foster mom, I take care of newborns that were exposed to drugs in utero."

Her eyes welled up as she stood there on the sidewalk. She reached for her face. Maybe it was the cold? It was REALLY cold outside. I was confused, and thought maybe I needed to lighten it up but she stopped me. "You do? I am a labor and delivery nurse. We just opened a rehab center for moms."

We stood there together for a few moments, talking about what each of us did, and how important it was. We parted ways with her agreeing to buy my book when she got home. I sat back down and wrapped my arms around myself against the wind. That experience - those few moments on a sidewalk in Ballard, WA, are exactly what this book tour has been like. One person at a time, one book at a time. I don't have stores ordering copies, and I don't have a ton of sales on Amazon, and no bookstore in Boston wants to have me do a reading - but that is okay. Even if I tell just one person a day about my book, I have accomplished something. Almost every day a text or email comes through with someone telling me that they are reading - or have just read - the book. Sometimes they send me notes about misspellings, or a missing word. Two people pointed out that Jeff Bridges - not Jeff Daniels - played Dude in the Big Lebowski. Every message has been welcomed. Keep them coming, because some days are (much) better than others, and even hearing about a typo is better than the deafening silence of indifference.

That is a life lesson, right there. If I have learned nothing else this week, I have learned to communicate when I appreciate something - whether it is your lovely sweater or a delicious meal or a comfortable sofa, sharing appreciation is the best way to go through life.

And so, gentle reader, I want to take this opportunity to say thank you for reading. I appreciate you, more than you know.

Notes from the road: The BAMF Book Tour October 23rd. Somewhere in Seattle.

I am lying in bed to write this.

I woke up in this bed at 4am, completely disoriented.

There was at least one dog on top of me, and at least one woman spooning me - but there were two of each in the bed, and the bed wasn't mine, and I had to pee but it was dark and the door was closed. Someone was snoring. I think it was the dog.

I made the executive decision to go back to sleep and wake up when circumstances had shifted somewhat.

I am able to report that at 5am, there was one less person in bed, but it was still dark and possibly too early for me to interact with others. So I stayed put. Now the need to pee was sort of urgent, but not as urgent as the need to brush my teeth. I pulled the covers up and went back to sleep.

At 6:30am, I was the only woman in bed, but now there was a teenage boy wandering around. Since I have one of those (almost) myownself, I finally felt free to get out of bed to pee - but then I climbed right back in, because I missed the dogs.

Now it's 10am, I still haven't brushed my teeth, and I am panicking because I am supposed to leave for Portland in a few hours, and I only have 5 books. My shipment has been delayed. Or something. That's right, the book tour is on hold waiting for delivery of books. Who can I blame for this shit when I am doing this entire tour myself? I have no idea. Acting as my own editor, publisher, agent and publicist is not easy. My cousin offered to tie my publicist to the roof and drive her to the next stop on the itinerary, however it's cold outside and I didn't bring a hat, so I politely declined. But isn't she sweet? I surround myself with such good people - I wish I was doing my part better.

The first week went pretty smoothly. Started at the Ace for Camp Mighty, was accused of attending some sort of start-up cult tech conference focused on goats and bears, which is funny because I still can't figure out how to work my cellphone so I shouldn't be starting up anything tech-related and I think goats are assholes. I sold some books, gave some books away, and then drove to LA where I gave away some more books, experienced a humbling attempt at speaking to a bookstore about carrying my book, and then flew to Seattle.

And here I am. Spending my nights in bed next to a 4 foot tall spitfire of hotness who rocks a purple mohawk and a sweater vest like no one else and a 6 foot tall retired derby girl who is the most beautiful person inside and out, plus a pug and a yorkie. I am wearing 3 layers of clothing because it is freezing fucking cold, and I spend most of my day emailing bookstores asking if they would be willing to host a reading, in, oh I don't know, a week? Or maybe tomorrow?

Really, whatever you have would be fine.

This is exactly as scary and humiliating as I had worried it might be, but it is also a huge exercise in personal growth.  I am standing there, in front of someone who has the ability to give me a huge opportunity. And each time they say no I put on a big smile and say thank you anyway.



It's going to be fine. I have 2 women and 2 dogs right here that have told me it is going to be fine.
I have friends - so many wonderful friends - who have told me the very same thing. I have been offered their cars and couches and connections to make this tour happen. I am not giving up. Which is ironic, considering:

Three Things

Have you ever visited Mighty Girl?

You should. I find her very inspiring, and her style? Well, obviously she's got that in spades, which is something I enjoy vicariously.

And she's got the list. This life list. This Mighty Life List. And she has had several companies sponsor her as she crosses these items off her list. Needless to say, her list is fucking awesome. And some of the items really NEED a corporate sponsor. So yay Maggie for finding a way to make it happen. We should all be so lucky.

In the glaring absence of corporate sponsors (and since I am between jobs, I don't really have any damn sponsor at all except my husband who is basically sponsoring my entire life - so it seems shitty to throw a list at hime of Things I Want to do Before I Die that He Needs to Pay For) I have embraced her goal for this month of crossing 3 items off her list.

Let me rephrase that. I'm not crossing things off HER list, I'm crossing them off my own. 3 items off MY LIST.

Only I didn't have a list. I still don't have a list,. That's on my list for next month.

But in the meantime, I did manage to accomplish three things that I have always wanted to do, or was scared to do, or wondered if I would be able to do, or thought I couldn't do, or some combination of those options:

1. I stood up for myself, and walked out of a job even though I needed the money. I held my head up, and I was the better person. I did not throw a fit, or act like an ass. You know how sometimes, someone says or does something nasty, and for 2 weeks you wander around muttering all of the snappy comebacks you wish you had been able to come up with at the time? I didn't have that. I am 110% at peace with how it all went down, and it was a life-altering experience. I hope you never find yourself in that position, but if you do, I hope that in the end, you look back on it and say "I am proud of how I handled that".

2. I joined the roller derby. Good God. I totally did. I bought skates, I went to practice, and I loved it. I am petrified, and sore, and at the same time completely thrilled. I needed to have something for me. I don't go to the gym (I think we have covered that) and I have never excelled at team sports, but man......I think I can do this.

3. I sent out a query. Instead of thinking of story ideas in bed as I fall asleep, forgetting them in the morning, and then reading the article I had in my head - with someone else's byline - a few months later, I came home, sat down, wrote up a proposal for a story, and faxed it along with samples of my writing. And while of course I hope that it gets picked up, and that they love it, even just faxing that initial letter tonight was an accomplishment. It was a major hurdle. It was something I have always assumed I wasn't good enough to do and tonight I just.......did it. I didn't follow any samples online, I just wrote from the heart, because that' show I write. And if how I write doesn't get their attention, then I'm not writing the way I should be and I shouldn't get the gig ANYWAY. So fingers crossed that something I submitted interests them enough to contact me, but even if I never hear, back, I will be less hesitant to submit my next story idea (but if this doesn't work, then next time I am actually going to follow the professional suggestions).

Alright, so there you have it. 3 things down.

Next month, 3 more.

It all comes down to this.

Today we had our parent interview at the school we hope to send the kids to next year.

I wore my pearls and my dress pants, Sami put on a (gasp) button down shirt, and we made our way over to the school, trying not to seem too overwraught. Okay, desperate. We were trying not to seem desperate.

Hah.

We sat outside in the wind, waiting to be let in. Their was another set of parent shaving their interview ahead of us. The mother kept going outside to talk on the phone - so the interview was running long. I was annoyed.  I thought it was rude to make us wait without acknowledging us sitting there alone outside, locked out of the building "because the secretary wasn't there."  I thought it was incredibly rude of the other parent to not SHUT HER FUCKING PHONE OFF for her parent interview with the principal of the school she wanted to send her kids to. So I was already in a bit of a snit by the time the principal opened the door and let us actually come INDOORS. It was like some weird test, to see if we had the strength of character to sit and be uncomfortable and Wait Our Turn, and then graciously accept her half-hearted apology which was something along the lines of "Thanks for waiting, at least it wasn't raining."

Wow.

We sat down and talked about the kids, about what we were looking for in a school, and were basically told that Lucy was going to be offered a spot, but that they hadn't decided about Max. His test scores were low, he wasn't very motivated during the testing, etc. etc . etc.

I am not going to make excuses for Max. He has his challenges, but is a sweet-natured, bright kid. He responds well to structure, and to authority. He is pretty compliant and well-behaved. He is also, well, maybe kind of, um....how to explain. The public school here does not expect much from their students, and so he learned to do the bare minimum to get by. Which is, ironically, WHY we are trying to get him into this private school. We want him to do better, and we want his teachers to expect him to do his best.

I have concerns about the fact that they tested him before he had ever visited the campus, or met the teacher, or interacted with any of the students. It seems like the entire admissions process is based not on my kid - but on his test scores, and how he behaves when he is being tested. Lucy tested like a champ, she was in a good mood that day, and loved the teacher, and was excited about the classroom. For her test she got to draw pictures and answer questions. She had - from start to finish - a totally different experience then Max did.

I am left to wonder if I am being defensive because he's my kid, or if this admissions procedure is just proof that this is not the right school for him. Either way, I didn't feel good about the interview. I feel like maybe they were just feeling us out, to see if we would send Lucy if they didn't offer Max a spot as well. Which of course, we won't.

But maybe I am being cynical. Maybe they were giving us the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they were trying to learn more about Max, to see if the issue was his response to testing, or his grasp of basic math concepts and ability to write an essay. Because he definitely CAN. He just doesn't WANT to.

This is one of those times when I hate being the grownup.

Making excuses

as·pi·ra·tion  [as-puh-rey-shuhn]

–noun
1.strong desire, longing, or aim; ambition: intellectual aspirations.
2.a goal or objective desired: The presidency is the traditional aspiration of young American boys.

as·pi·rate  [as-puh-reyt]
-verb
to inhale (fluid or a foreign body) into the bronchi and lungs, often after vomiting.

"So....what do you do?" I wish I had a better answer for that question. I should just say "I'm a waitress" and move on. And I do, sometimes. But not often.

We've been over this before, here. I do a lot of things. I cobble together a life with various part-time gigs, a healthy dose of parenting, and some quality time with my husband. It's a pretty nice situation we have out here in paradise. Is it what I imagined for myself? No. Am I satisfied? Well......

Listen. I love my family. We are healthy, and have health insurance. We have a home. I have a job. My husband has a job. We have two reliable cars. We live in a beautiful place - even if it has been raining for 2 weeks straight and blowing like a Nor'easter. So I have no right to complain. BUT. This is not how I imagined things. I thought I would have it more together by now. I thought I had plenty of time to
"Make Something of Myself" and to "Reach My Full Potential".

And I haven't done that. All the goings on lately have reminded me....I need to get on that. Time's a wastin'. I'm not getting any younger. I can't keep putting off my dreams and hopes and goals and aspirations. Or I'll choke on them. After vomiting. (According to the dictionary.)

Are you living the dream? Have you achieved all of your goals? No??? Are you worried about that? Or do I need to just come to terms with my life as it is, and stop waiting for something more? It's not like it's so bad, my life......I mean, really now. I have nothing to complain about, no reason not to enjoy it as it is.

Which is good. "It" is good. When the fuck am I going to be satisfied?

Would you bring your mom to a frat party ?

In an homage to my gastronomic excess (and distress) I had my toes painted a lovely shade of Pepto Bismol - and they are there, wiggling at me, like a schoolmarm chastising a naughty student. Today, remarkably, I have not felt like eating much of anything (oh thank god). I have been catching up on emails and facebook...and I think right now, we have to have that talk about Parents on Facebook.

Yes, I know. Some people, nay MANY people, have befriended their parents on facebook. And I, I am not one of them. Maybe it is a sign of my immaturity. Or some strange need to delineate Parent from Friend. And probably, I just used the word delineate wrong. But I think I make my point. Facebook is a place where you can find photos of me in full swing on St. Patricks Day. Facebook is a place where I communicate with old friends, new friends, and assorted siblings, cousins and other relatives that are living similar lifestyles, and still find drunken debauchery and obscene status updates amusing, or at least, inoffensive.

Just as I would not bring my mother to a frat party, I will not bring her into my facebook.

This has all come to a head because, while my mother has not requested my facebook fellowship, she has provided me with several newspaper clippings detailing the act of befriending a parent or (oh, the horror !) a grandparent, and how wonderful it was, and how it has strengthened ye olde familial bond. She has also befriended my brothers, and my sister in law. Obviously, they are more enlightened then I am - or just better behaved. Someone who HAS requested to be added as a friend is a woman who is not my mother, per se, but does fill a motherly role in my life......and while HER daughters are her facebook friends, I am not. And I do not see that changing. This is an across-the-board policy I have - anyone old enough to be my parent cannot be my facebook friend. No exceptions. I will be checking IDs.

So clearly, yes, this is my own little issue. And I bear the thorny crown with pride. My feelings are so strong about this, it has led me to begin perusing my list of friends, and seeing who, exactly, they are friends with - and as a result of that friendship, who might have access to some of my less-then-stellar moments in front of a camera or saucy notes-n-quotes. I feel a thinning of the herd coming on.

Guys who leave

I was going to title this "men who leave" - but if they leave, I think they leave their manliness behind - balled up and rejected, left for someone else to pick up after them. Because really, that is why they leave...they just want to have someone picking up after them all the time. They don't want to do the work - the real work - that comes with the commitment. To a partner. To a child. To a home. To all of the messy complicatons of a life shared.

The other day, an old dear friend completed one of those memes on Facebook, this one was about her firsts.

One of the questions was "who's wedding was the first one you were in" or something like that. Her answer was: mine. (Mine, as in Daffodil's, to be clear)

Not mine and my ex's. Just mine. I got married alone, to myself. He has been erased from the equation, by having left our marriage. He starts fresh, I clean up and carry the history around with me forever. I have had to show my divorce papers at several times during my subsequent life, not just at my remarriage. At the adoption of my child. For tax purposes. To register a car. I still get his mail at my address, and I have moved 10, maybe 12 times since the divorce. Once I have recovered from the shock of seeing that name attached to my address - the home I share with my husband who swears he will never leave - I mark the envelope "return to sender" and stick it back in the box. Erase it from my mind, like he erased himself from my life.

Around the time that I remarried, my parents divorced. It was long, drawn out, and ugly for the pain it caused. For it's wrongness. It was rife with late-night calls, early morning departures, mail with no return address. Christmas was forever changed because it all seemed to spiral out of control beginning one cold Christmas morning - and the final nail was hammered in exactly one year later. My father was able to wreak havoc, to throw lives into chaos, create turmoil the likes of which I still cannot comprehend. And he just walked away. Left it for someone else to clean up and tie in a pretty bow and stick under the Christmas tree.

I see other couples going through tough times, and I wonder if the challenges will bring them closer together, or tear them apart. If the guys will walk away. Not men, not boys - just guys. Guys who know better, but choose to leave it all behind. It's too hard. It demands to much. It's too hard to keep clean and shiny and new.

My marriage isn't shiny and new. It's dented and tarnished and maybe a little rusty - but it's strong. It has weathered the abuse we (mostly I) have heaped on it. We were discussing marriage last night, and our reaction to friends who are struggling right now to hold their's together. My husband said to me "I plan to live here, with you, until you throw me out." We laughed, because we could. Because it was funny. Because neither one of us has threatened to leave. We have had conversations about splitting up - but those conversations were brief and tear-stained. No one is going anywhere. No one wants to leave. Leaving is not an option. We may disagree many times about many things, but on this topic, we are in agreement.

Coming soon: Women are Crazy Bitches

And if you read this post and thought to yourself "How dare she, my life is not her blog fodder", well, I got a few things to say.

1. Get over yourself, it's not about you. Trust me, many men are making stupid decisions these days. But the fact that you see yourself and your situation in this post should be a huge CALL OUT to shape up and grow a pair.

2. On the other hand.....Yes, everything I witness and hear about IS blog fodder. That's how it works. Too bad, so sad.

Troublemaker

I think I may have mentioned this before, but I am, um, loud.

And, sometimes I am rushed, and do not take the time to be as nice as I could be. SHOULD BE.

I try. Oh, how I try. I am all too aware of my shortcomings, and they eat away at me in a constant inner dialogue that is far too annoying to relay here.....suffice to say - I will always go there. Assume it was my fault. That I was in the wrong. That I hurt someone or offended them, or infuriated them.......and of course, that is accompanied by the guilt, and the inner dialogue which kicks into high gear at a higher volume, and makes me, well, a teensy bit crazy.

Today, I got really aggravated at work. There was a communication problem, perhaps a language barrier, or maybe I was just being an impatient, short tempered bitch. God knows stranger things have happened.

And today, when I was frustrated, and I tried to explain why I was frustrated, I was unsuccessful. I don't know why. It was as a result of a mistake made by someone else, and perhaps by the end of the discussion, I was no longer trying to be diplomatic - or friendly. I ended up being quite, well, loud.

And here's the thing. I am aware. I try. I apologize. I make amends. I try to change. I OWN MY ISSUES. But when it's just plain NOT my issue......well, fuck 'em.

So, today, when I was frustrated, I ended up having to apologize - and I wasn't even sure for what. And that really pissed me off. More then the *thing* that had frustrated me to begin with. Because dammit - I didn't do anything to apologize for. Being loud is not a crime. Frankly I was loud only because the person I was speaking to was louder. And the person who was really the root of the problem doesn't like loud. Doesn't like swearing either. But usually, is fairly good at communicating, or asking questions, or clarifying. Not this time.

Luckily, in this case, it was a very minor issue - just an order that was screwed up at the cafe. But It was screwed up three times over, and by the third time, the customer was aggravated, and I was aggravated on their behalf - and my own. In a job that is a fast paced as the restaurant business, there is not a lot of time to walk back and forth to the kitchen because of forgotten items. If I have forgotten the items, then it's my problem, and I deal with it. If it is someone else's mistake, I accept that shit happens, and wait for them to fix it, while appeasing the customer.......But if there is a mistake, and I point it out, then I damn well expect a quick fix - just as fast as I would be expected to respond if I had made the mistake myself. (And for the record, I have been known to RUN when necessary.) And if something is missing because we are OUT of it, and I was never told, well then, you had best have a few options for me to present the customer.

Stony silence is not one of the options.

I have the next several days off - or maybe forever.......but whatever the outcome, I would just like to reiterate.....a lesson that can be applied to so many of our life experiences......

If you fuck up, own it. Just own it. It's yours. Fix it, or apologize, or compromise - but make it better.