It’s about time that I started kicking my own ass. Again.
I’m not behind for once, per se, but I ain’t winning any races.
What the eff am I talking about? The following:
In a month and a half
I’m getting my new tattoo. I’ve put down a deposit on it, the consult’s been done for weeks and the left side of my waist is aching for the pain, screaming, ‘bring it’. Problem is, this tattoo is a three hour deal, being done by an artist who charges $160 an hour. And I should tip. The deposit was only $100. You do the math, there. And then, right after that…
In two and a half months
I’ll be getting on a plane, after dropping Isobel at a friend’s house. At BlogHer ‘09, I’ll be staying in a hotel room with three other bloggers, live blogging two sessions, probably getting a set of somethings pierced, maybe a small tattoo and attending a couple of parties. Of course, I’ve only bought airfare for there, so far. And paid my portion of the hotel deposit (I kind of had to, since I booked it on my card). And I have a pass to the whole weekend, cuz of the live blogging.
I still have to come up with a flight home – cuz the family hanging onto Isobel for three days will probably want me to come back – my portion of the room, body changing moneies and the most important part: a lush-fund. After that three-day drinkfest of sisterhood (during which I will not puke, I swear)…
In three months
I’ve agreed with the ex to scale back the support payments as per our agreement last year. This means that to maintain the same standard of living – which isn’t much, but we’re happy, so fuck it – I’m looking to make a few more hundred a month, writing. Every month. Small scale, right? Not when there’s tattoos and vacations to pay for and everywhere you look, people are woe-ing the economy. I’m actually a little nervous. Which means…
Within the next month
I’ll be putting a lot of effort into writing more, shamelessly self-promoting, rebranding (including redesigning this blog and a few others), applying for more work and officially, launching a new site, with my real name and everything on it. For seducing would-be clients away from people who actually know how to write, and hopefully into my email inbox.
Also, I’ll be doing some sexy reading – about business plans and writing – so I can add that onto the ‘folio. I seem to remember, pre-Isobel, that I was kick ass at the business stuff, but have no recollection why, how, what. But you know, that’s not even the largest stressor. What is, is that…
In four months
Isobel will be starting preschool, going for 2 and a bit hours each day, Monday to Friday. No biggy about her going, or about her being worried about separating from me. No concern that she’ll get sick more, or eat the wrong foods. Not even a bit chagrined about having to wake up earlier each morning, to get her there on time. My panic comes about when I realize that I won’t be there to wipe her ass and I only have four months to teach her how.
She’s done it once before, so determined to do it herself and in her own way that she adamantly didn’t listen to me about directional behaviour (or the need to FOLD the paper, not CRUMPLE it. Dammit.). She came down with a heinous UTI within two days.
So, I haven’t let her do it again, since. How does one teach a little kid with monkey arms but a complete lack of coordination and extreme case of wilful ‘I do what I want, not what you say’ how to make sure she’s skid-free?
It boggles the mind, all of the heavy shit I have to deal with, doesn’t it?
I suddenly know that things are changing around these parts. How? How do you know that I’m not just saying the same thing as I keep saying and then in a week, I’ll take it all back, without actually taking it back (and god, isn’t it annoying as fuck when I do that? I hate it when other people do.)?
Read. You’ll see. Something kind of huge, if you’re me.
Thursday morning, I baked.
It was the first birthday of my favourite baby and so, in her honour, Isobel double-checked to make sure that they passed the first cupcakes ever [as far as I know] test.
They seemed to okay.
Of course, the real test is on a fresh pallet.
And her older sister and her mom, aunt, grandma and dad liked them, too. Score. Not horrible for wheat and dairy free. Got the job done and such. Good experiment with two new pseudo recipes and a piping tip. And, on we move…
This family. They’re special to me. The baby’s mom is one of my best friends, a complete mix of acceptance and support, whilst still being a tad pithy at the right times and sarcastic just when I thought snorting tea was impossible. Her husband and her love each other, they love their kids, they’re stable in a way that I’ve never known couples living in my neighbourhood, in a one-bedroom apartment on one and a half people’s incomes could be. They’re an example of what to do in some ways, because regardless of whatever’s going on, they just love each other.
Friends WIN.
They’re watching Isobel for me, when I’m in Chicago this summer. Without even blinking, she offered to take her so that I can go, worry-free. Without even a shred of remorse, she’s thought of how she can help me and Isobel by stretching her already small living space to fit one more. Without me owing her, or them, anything.
Friends WIN.
There’s a few occasions that come about, wherein they’ll invite Isobel and I along for a family moment. Like tonight, when we were invited to the beach for a picnic. Like yesterday, when we were invited for the afternoon pseudo birthday party with Grandma and Auntie, and then to stay for dinner, as well. Like Christmas, which was the first time I met her mom, someone I’ve come to care about (even from a distance and with virtually no contact).
This is kind of a big deal to me because a) I don’t do family-stuff, since my family and I have virtually no non-electronic contact with each other and b) when I became a single mom, family time kind of went out the window. I knew that after 5pm, the dads would come home and the friends we’d hung out with all day were of a sort off limits, because not they could enjoy their family time. Weekends were reserved for the extra special family time and holidays meant family time with extra family.
It’s been nice when we’ve been included in their family time, because to me, they are as important to our daily happiness as family is. Friends can be family, too, you know? Anyway…
Her mom is gorgeous. My friend (and her husband)’s got something to look forward to in the coming years, because if she follows in her footsteps, which I expect she will, she’ll gracefully change, while seeming ageless. Her mom is warm. And witty. And caring. I can see where my friend got a lot of herself from. Her mom even included Isobel and I in her gift giving. (Thank you, again, lady.)
Isobel has received a My Little Pony that she will not not sleep with, and in general, it has had to travel with us every where in the past 24 hours. Including to the bathroom.
I got this book.
She said that the reason she gave it to me was because reading it, she was reminded of me. Of my writing style. She thought that it was something that I could have written.
{She reads this blog, in case that wasn’t obvious.}
A published book, that sells on Amazon, that has had multiple favourable reviews done in its honour – written by an author who has since published at least another three.
I didn’t tell her she was wrong. I don’t think I blushed, nor did I change the subject as quickly as I possibly could. I was humbled and awed, but I was mostly appreciative and said thank you multiple times.
Me. I didn’t argue, or try to talk her out of it. I didn’t run screaming from the room, with my fingers in my ears, singing la-la-la-la-I-can’t-hear-you! I accepted her praise – or what I think of as praise, because, come on, this is a freaking published book that people, like, buy and read and stuff – and I was okay with it.
So, in case all the details got lost in my little meandering tale, the point was: I didn’t die. I accepted a compliment. I even believed it.
I just might be considering myself a writer, after all.
{There’s more photos on my flickr account, but one final one, of the cutest baby, ever, maybe, in history.}
