I’m Moonlighting Tonight

It’s difficult for me devote time towards unpaid activities that are meant only to feed my creativity.

Yeah, I know, that probably reads a little bit like I’m stretching my truth as I sit here typing on a blog every night that pays zero payola.  But here’s how my mind works:

Creative Me: Oh, you’ve got 30 minutes, an hour, two hours? You should work on your novel.

My ego: Your novel? Are you kidding me? Do some writing that will get you PAID.

Creative Me: Like what?

My ego: Like pitching an article to a publication that will pay you for it, or doing your 9 – 5 job. If you’re not going to get paid, then you really need to [insert boring task or chore like load of laundry, clean out daughter's dresser drawers, grocery shopping].

Creative Me: You’re right.  Focus on money.  That’s always the right answer.

Of course, focusing on money is not the right answer here, but it does serve my need to procrastinate when it comes to feeding my creative passions. So to counter this capitalistic drive I have to keep turning the screw, I’ve decided to take on a few more writing tasks—beside this one—without the end result being a paycheck.

My first step into this uncomfortable zone: an article due tomorrow to Today’s Woman about the four books that helped me cultivate my passions.  I asked to write the piece in exchange for them to let my byline push my blog’s URL.  I figured, if anything, I could maybe grab a few more readers.  We’ll see.

What books did I write about?

• The Artist’s Way (of course)
• Your Heart’s Desire
• Write It Down Make It Happen
• Anything by SARK

You can read the rest of the article in the October issue of Today’s Woman.

Let the Deconstruction Begin

It is 12:35 a.m. I have no business being up this late. But, here I am typing something to keep my daily commitment.

We had one of those ultra-suburban, bourgeoisie days—shopping at Bed, Bath & Beyond, Target, and even Lowes.  We couldn’t have been more middle-of-the-road, middle-class Americans if we wore khakis, crocs, and LL Bean polos with the words husband and wife embroidered on them.

Oh well, it’s not the worst way to spend the day…and, now, I’m sitting atop my new comforter which I love, love, love.  We’ve finally moved our bedroom from what will soon be our new downstairs living room into our actual bedroom.

The real work begins this week. My husband will start demo’ing the rest of our downstairs. Tearing down walls, pulling up carpet, asking me to bring him random tools from the garage that I won’t be able to find in a million years.

He’s claiming that it will be a done deal–tore down and rebuilt to our liking–before our baby arrives. I’ll be sure to keep you posted!

Really? That’s Who You’re Choosing?

I’m so offended, I can barely blog. Seriously, Sarah Palin is supposed to be legit bait to lure Hilary lovers?

Really?

I just…I can’t…I mean…really?

Not that I would ever turn Republican—I was on board with Obama the second Hilary wasn’t an option. But, really…what strategist on the McCain team got everybody thinking, “Wouldn’t Sarah Palin be great?” Karl Rove’s gotta be smirking through his double chin right now, the whole time shaking his fathead and saying to himself, “Amateurs—this crew is a bunch of amateurs. Do they really think they’re going to steal win the office with a second runner up in the Miss Alaska beauty pageant?”

From the limited research I gathered, here’s a quick run down of her fast-tracked political career: PTA -> City Council -> Mayor of Wasilla, Alaska population less than 10,000 [New Albany, Indiana has a population of 36,000] -> Governor of Alaska -> United States of America Vice President nominee. It’s like an infomercial for some new-age self help program: “Just twelve years ago, I was serving on the city council for Wasilla, the fourth largest city in the sparsely populated state of Alaska. AND NOW, I’m up for Vice President of the United States! Can you believe it?!”

I’m starting to think that it’s such an amateur-looking move that maybe it’s so genius I don’t get it. Like some kind of high-level accounting theory. It’s not supposed to add up to the politico-layman’s eye.

Of course, there’s a bit of me reeling in delight. Isn’t this great news for democrats? Didn’t McCain just screw the pooch with this choice? Then again, I never would have guessed W. be around for eight years either. My political savvy is a little less than savvy.

Things You Won’t Read Here

Not knowing what to write…I’m going to write what I know I probably won’t ever write (did you get that?).

So…Top Ten Posts You Won’t Read Here

1. What I accomplished the month I gave up television
2. Why I love Kenny Chesney
3. How to organize your kitchen pantry in ten easy steps/Household chores that make me squeal with joy/Keeping up with laundry like a pro
4. Living without ice cream is possible…and fun!
5. My favorite snow ski locations/cruise ship vacations/Alaskan getaways
6. How I always look so polished—from my hair to my toes!
7. Picking that perfect pair of jeans
8. Why I wake so early and get to work by 8:00 every day (I can’t even write about getting to work by 9:00 everyday)
9. Camping brings out the best in me
10. The dentist chair: no place like home

Well, I’m glad I got those out of the way.  Maybe now that I’ve narrowed down what I won’t write about, I can get back to writing what I’m supposed to be writing about–whatever that may be.

Bring on the Heartburn

I have heartburn and it makes it hard to write. And swallow. And eat anything, even ice cream—my pregnancy staple.

The only time I ever suffer through heartburn is during pregnancy and now it’s back full force. You’d think being pregnant would be enough, but nope.  There’s heartburn, 3:00 a.m. charlie horses, wretched exhaustion, and for me, tender moments of bitchdom.

One of my cousins LOVES being pregnant.  That blows my mind.  I love complaining about being pregnant, but that’s as close as I get.

And here I am again…whining about being with child.  Let it be known through and through that I’ve wanted this for a long time.  We tried to get pregnant for nearly two years before it finally happened and stuck.  So in the big picture—I want all this stuff I’m whining about, but I also want to whine about it.  It’s one of those perks that come with being a female as far as I’m concerned: complaining about getting what you want.  Which reminds me of another pregnancy symptom: irrationality.  That’s one of my favorites.

But still, complaining does make it sound a bit like maybe I want things different—which I absolutely do not.  I’m thrilled with how things are going.  The heartburn, the discomfort, crying at every DNC speech I’ve watched so far…keep it coming.

In fact, let’s do a quick top ten list of things I LOVE about being pregnant:

1. My belly being so big, it doesn’t much matter what size my thighs and butt are
2. Not feeling badly for having Breyer’s Natural Vanilla ice cream for breakfast and again for dinner
3. Feeling him kick like crazy inside me (this is also weird and bizarre, but it does make me feel good)
4. Thinking about what’s to come (I weep with joy every time I see a baby in public now)
5. Laying in bed with my husband while he rubs my stomach
6. Napping all the effing time (even at work) and nobody thinking twice about it–or, at least, not saying anything to me about it
7. Pedicures
8. The baby
9. The baby
10. The baby

So maybe I can say, “I LOVE being pregnant.” It’s just a few extracurriculars that don’t make my top ten list.

Do You Have the Time?

A dear friend of mine who is going through a bit of a transitional period made the comment awhile back that she was going to give herself time.

I love that idea: Give Yourself Time.

So often we are filling our days with crap to do that we forget the most basic and luxurious gift we can give ourselves. Time. We can do whatever we want with it. We can push through days nearly out of breath and wishing we had two more hours when 10:00 p.m. rolls around.

Or we can just sit, for just one moment and not do one thing. We can busy ourselves with doing nothing.

This morning I lost my patience with my daughter. It started with toothpaste. She went from, “I can brush my teeth MYSELF,” to “I can put the toothpaste on my toothbrush MYSELF, MOM!” (The mom part was said with that annoyed teenager voice that my daughter has already perfected at age four.) It escalated from there and ended with her crying and me getting more mascara on my eyelids than my lashes.

After rinsing her toothbrush off and sending her to the timeout chair, I took a moment and a few breaths. By now, there was no way we were going to make her 9:00 a.m. preschool start time. So I stopped. I went in and shared the timeout chair with her as I belonged in it as much as she did. I held her, told her how sorry I was and we started the morning over.

I gave myself a small sliver of time to start over this morning.

In the larger scope of life, I think it’s just as important to give myself bigger gaps of time–a week, a month, a year. Whatever it is I want to do, change, or improve, the best thing I can give myself is the time to do it.

Ummm…I’m Sold

Michelle Obama just became one of my new favorite people.  Her keynote address this evening at the Democratic National Convention was phenomenal.

I’m not going to write anything here that’s not already being pushed through the wires, so I’m going to skip all my ga-ga, I can’t believe how great she is commentary.  But she really does make you proud to be a woman, a mom, an American (and I’m so not the patriotic type, but holy-moly, God Bless America!).

I’m just going to say it: I weeped.  Yes, I cried when she started talking about how she wants to see a country lead on dreams and not fear.  And yes, I am pregnant and overly emotional, but I don’t believe I was the only one who let some tears of wonder drop listening to our next first lady.

Sure it was most likely written by other people, sure she was trained (but, she wasn’t overly polished—just right.  I know–I can’t stop gushing about her), and sure, rhetoric only goes so far.  But for the first swing at bat, she knocked it out of the park.

Just Do Something Already

It’s been difficult for me to carve out a whole lot of time for creative endeavors.  This blog is the biggest commitment I’ve got going on a creative level (that and  the miracle of creating a whole new life within me).

But I’ve been a bit more than scatterbrained when it comes to my creative writing.

I have taken one step towards narrowing in on my goals…I’ve found an “accountability partner” who is much more in-tune with fulfilling her creative drives than me.  We’ve only met once, but if we can keep it up, she’s going to be a good influence on me.

The task I’ve given myself for the coming week: Make some writing goals with this novel I’ve been working on (actually, “not working on” is more appropriate as of lately).  I’ve come to a block with it and up popped another idea for another novel and I keep thinking, maybe I should follow that idea for awhile.  But then that just means another writing project I haven’t finished.  And who wants that weight on their creative shoulders?

So this week, I’m going to get serious with my creative writing goals.  Make some lists, and do my best to nap only once a day.   As this point in time, I’m not caring too much about how shitty the book is, I just want to type: The End.

Hugging a Cactus

I was thinking I wanted to appreciate this experience more–the experience of being pregnant.  The number of weeks I probably have left are in the single digits (8? 7?) and there is a very, very good chance that I won’t be pregnant ever again.  Of course, I’m not saying never for a reason here.

Pregnancy is not one of my favorite states of being.  As most of you who keep reading know, I’ve trudged through snarling most of the time and faking a grin when I had to.  But now, I’m choosing to appreciate the full experience to the best of my ability. I’m going to embrace it like…like…alright, the only analogy I’m coming up with is like I’m bear-hugging a cactus.  And that’s got such a negative connotation.  But we’ll go with it.  I’m going to embrace it like I’m hugging on a cactus–and LOVING IT.

So how do I do this?

The difficulty is that the experience of pregnancy is full of conflicts for me.  The personal and the public act that is happening.  Pregnancy and birth are the most common of human experiences: every single one of us has been born and many of us have given birth.

And then there’s the flip side to this very public process. The personal experience of the mother carrying a body within her own a body.  A living person who at this point of the game kicks and squirms and pushes on you from the inside. It’s mystical and magical and a miracle.  It’s also just nature and how life survives and endures.  But there it is, this baby, inside you already becoming familiar with the sound of your voice, your heartbeat.

And that’s how I do it.  Knowing that every time I wake up in the middle of the night because I have to pee once again even though I’ve already been up three other times; every time I can’t get comfortable sitting down, reclining, laying on my side, standing up; every time I eat just a little something and end up feeling like I forced down two large chili cheese nacho plates—that each of these small moments of discomfort are tiny pricks when taking in the enormity of the situation.

What I’m Doing on Saturday

It’s Friday night with Saturday just around the moonlit corner.

Another extra-warm August Saturday to spend however I want. I’m making some cookies in the morning for my neighbors. (My signature chocolate chip cookie recipe–I use double the chocolate chips that Nestle Tollhouse recommends and then I make them extra big).

In the evening, I’m seeing Vicky Cristina Barcelona which I hope is as entertaining as Tropic Thunder was funny (if you’ve been thinking about going to see Tropic, go see it right now. It’s so worth seeing, I may have to see it again).

And in between I will continue to grow anxious with my coming baby. Seriously, I’m getting so excited that I’ve nearly gotten over my whole delivery anxiety. My daughter was a bear to get out—I couldn’t believe women would do such a task multiple times the first time I lived through it. But here I am, ready and waiting like a six year old for Santa.

A new baby boy. I absolutely can’t wait. (Not that I have a choice.) Every time I see a baby now, I about pee my pants. I remember when we brought my daughter home from the hospital. My husband and I would lay her on the bed between us and just stare at her waiting for her eyes to catch ours. She was this miracle that we couldn’t get over. We still can’t.

And now we have another one coming. I’m going to spend my Saturday in thanks.