Don't bother me I'm writing

Just as I was preparing to hit "publish" with immense satisfaction, I heard the sounds of Lily's shrill voice: "Eww, gross. Get away from me. Don't touch me." Followed by, "Mommy. MOMMY. Ashlyn took off her poopy diaper, and there's poop all over the floor and the couch, and the dog is eating it." This latest string of events ties in perfectly with today's themes of catastrophe, fatalism and stupid dumb luck. I don't know how other writers get through the holidays -- especially writers with children -- but I've written nothing substantial since the last week in November, and I'm feeling rather bitter about the ongoing drought. Furthermore -- the powers that be having a little fun at my expense -- all the gossip shows are profiling new authors who share something quite depressing in common -- medicare. What if the world does end on Dec. 21, 2012? I have less than a year to publish my book, and -- looking at the thing ...

I'm nesting. I'm not pregnant or ever planning on becoming pregnant again. I'm nesting because our house is full of crap -- shiny bobbles, musical toys, farm equipment (?? ask my husband) -- which makes it difficult for a person with ADD to concentrate on breathing let alone writing. I had a wonderful cozy room for writing and reading and hiding from my family, but somebody sent us a rather large play farm for Christmas. It's an awesome toy -- it has its own circuit board and all of the 9,999 pieces light up with the flip of a switch -- but it's taken over my dining-room table that seats 8 people. So I tore down my writing room today to make room for my children's toys. The process started in Lily's room, where I filled two wardrobe boxes and two standard-size moving boxes with toys from just her closet. There's still shit everywhere. I realized about half-way through the process of clearing Lily's room that I didn't have any place prepa...

I haven't written a word in eight days -- EIGHT DAYS of sitting on the floor sewing and sewing and sewing. My knees are sore. My back is sore. My hands are sore. My eyes are sore ... My body hurt less mountain climbing. But it's all for my children -- that's what I keep telling myself. I'm making heart-felt Christmas presents for my little girls, but the joy and the love are fading with every straight pin I step and/or sit on and every pop from every aging joint in my body (I haven't written "ARGGGG" in a long time). I have so much to write about and absolutely no brain or energy or motivation to spew the words. I shall return. I promise. Unless I die.

It's official -- my husband is a hoarder. He talks a lot of trash about my piggy habits, but he collects more garbage than a dumpster diver -- nuclear exit signs, rubber bats (the mammal kind), beer caps, melted candles, bread ties, expired coupons, patriotic Bics, broken pieces of shit, used stickers, every card he's received in his lifetime, decades old Halloween candy, lights for every holiday ... the list goes on and on. I spent the entire day knocking out the 4-foot pile of junk that's accumulated over every surface of our  furniture and counters. I filled most of a Rubber Maid with toys from McDonald's and birthday-party gift bags that Jerod -- not the children -- wants to keep around the house for sentimental reasons, I suppose. I found vials of stink-bomb solution, shoelaces, crusty Play-Doh, a lifetime supply of bubbles, dried-out felt pens, half-sucked lollipops and some other stuff I couldn't identify. The short of it:  I'm falling asleep ...

Imagine: The only child who pokes holes in her parents' condoms to get herself a sibling. The social outcast -- who seeking a day off from school -- tries to break her leg on the stairs. The underage smoker who tapes her school picture to her father's expired driver's license. The inexperienced driver who wrecks the family station wagon in the driveway and stages the scene to look like a bicycle accident. My repertoire of failed plots and harebrained schemes leaves characters like Lucy Ricardo and Mary Clancy -- mother of the scathingly brilliant idea -- with something wanting. Plotting is something of an addiction, really. And even now -- having been foiled in every dastardly deed -- I frequently entertain the most ridiculous scenarios perhaps to make life more interesting. But here's the thing -- the single most important tenant of plot-building -- less is more. Bold and beautiful schemes are a blast to ponder, but near impossible to execute. The Forge...

Why am I a writer? I could be a plumber or an architect or a serial killer or a psychiatrist or a banker or a goat farmer or a meth dealer or a lawyer or a cheerleader or a stripper or a tax collector. But I'm an emotionally disturbed writer with a butt-ton of issues. I've been sitting in the same spot all day cussing out every word in the English language, because there isn't one that says what I want to say. I don't know what I want to say, which is 100 times more irritating than not knowing how to say something. I have a serious case of poopy brain. It's been stalking me since Thanksgiving, and now it's here stinking up my writing and my mood -- aarg! This week has been a blur of children and company and new jobs and family and holiday preparations and alarm clocks and voices in my head telling me to jump -- "Jump now. It's quiet down here ... Jump. Jump." So I'm calling it a night, despite the hours I put in writing ...

Today was a very long day, and I can safely say I'm not man enough to make it as Homemaker. I love my children, but I also love the feeling that I've accomplished something -- anything -- worth while. To illustrate just how lousy a homemaker I am: Ashlyn is sitting here beside me drinking the last bits of pop from the four cans of Coke Zero I have stacked on my desk. I'm sitting in my unmade bed writing my blog while Harry Potter babysits my daughter who's now emptying my pop cans into a cup that she dug out from god knows where. Jerod left for work at 5:30 a.m. and it all went down hill from there. Some of it's bad enough that I don't want to share. And you know -- if you've read any of my previous posts -- that I love sharing everything.  Here goes: I forgot to give the girls their toothbrushes this morning so they didn't brush their teeth. I dumped out two bowls of cereal before I happened upon the only flavor that Lily will eat-- whi...

I'm an unhappy riser -- anyone who's ever had to wake me up will attest to this. They might go a step farther and tell you I'm a belligerent, rabid b**ch in the A.M. I am -- especially when I wake up late. Mornings have always been a challenge. And most people know better than to pick a fight with me while the gunk is fresh in my eyes. But for whatever reason my husband -- once again -- strays from the pack in this arena. Too bad for me -- I've given him a buttload of ammunition since I started this blog. And there, of course, is the downside to admitting your foibles to the world. Someone will undoubtedly turn them around on you, and you -- like me in many a heated argument -- will be completely disarmed by your clever diction. And so I was this morning. I woke to my daughters screaming playfully, but alarmingly loud in the bathtub. The time on the clock was 8:10 a.m. giving Lily just 25 minutes to get dressed, fed and out the door to school. And seeing as ...

Oh, to have some time and peace and quiet. I wonder what it would feel like to not hear any voices all day -- to not be asked to wipe someone's butt, or blow someone's nose. I'm on break, but it's not really a break. Anyone with children knows that the work away from home is the break. You don't get lunches at home -- you don't even get bathroom breaks. You can try to close the door, but someone will barge in on you:  "I have an emergency. My sister yelled at me, and I told her not to." Or, "The cat is under the bed, and she won't come out." Or, "I can't find my Lalaloopsy doll." Or, "Daddy yelled at me for breathing." The joys of being home with children. I can see why housewives take to drinking. I'd have gin and cocktail olives for breakfast every morning with orange juice and vodka, if I wasn't operating under the delusion that I'll block out something here and there to work on my 50,0...

I was offered this advice today:  "Try writing something cheerful and funny for a change -- you've been awfully depressing lately." To which I said, "WHAT? "Do you watch the news? Who wants to get on the computer after being thoroughly brought down by the events in the world and read this depressing sh*t?" "WHAT?" "Well, if you're incapable of having an adult conversation ... " So -- in honor of That Person I will share another humiliating tale from my childhood, and make no mention of poverty and other stuff that annoys me. Stars and Stripes Forever It turns out my daughter Lily is a real patriot. She's been strutting about singing the Star Spangled Banner and God Bless America non-stop since Veteran's Day. Her little voice belting out "for the ramparts of the free gave proof to the night that our ramparts were streaming ..." reminds of me of a rather embarrassing solo I performed at a su...

WARNING: The following post is a rant. Do not take it personally. I love you dearly, my dearly beloveds. I love making gifts -- and I enjoyed making yours, in particular. May your homes be filled with warmth and apple cinnamon spice. Bless you. It's only Dec. 1, but it feels like Christmas Eve. Parties, crafts, shopping and all of the normal day-to-day chaos -- running after two small children, nagging my husband, cursing my mother's email about the top seven "superfoods" guaranteed to keep you bright and sparkly until the FDA labels them carcinogenic and suggests we eat cardboard. I'm a bit of a party poop this evening, because it's that time of year when I dig out my artist's cap and get busy making Christmas presents for my dearly beloveds, who I'd happily shop for if I had any money. I hear folks complain about capitalism and useless merchandise and corporate monsters and blah, blah, blah. The alternative -- homemade Christmas -- is a pai...