We might be moving. The apartment down the hall, about 200 square feet bigger, is coming available in March. If I can handle the rent increase, I’m taking it.
On the baby blog I write for, Angie has sponsored a giveaway from her online store. Please enter, pimp it out for extra entries and tell your mother in law to enter, too.
The tattoo that y’all were voting on the placement of? Ribs are winning. I’m terrified of the pain, honestly. When I had a quick chat with the artist about where I was thinking and mentioned the fear, he said, “well, if you’ve had a kid…” and I quickly corrected him about how I was that chick in the hospital, screaming. That they had to give me morphine, gas, an epidural AND a spinal block. Back labour – it rocks.
Because of the little giveaway that I did this month, a few friends got the hook-up as well. I’m going to, in the spirit of fun and the week of the Bloggy Giveaways Carnival, ask you to leave a comment with your contest URL. That way, if you’re giving something away, your trackback will get extra pimpage.
I got another blogging gig today. This means double the money, another 12 posts to write a month and did I mention, double the money. Meaning, not needing to rely on JDawg’s support. Freedom, babies! I’m super psyched and start on Thursday.
I’m thinking of trying an experiment. Since I keep falling asleep when I put Isobel to bed and cuddle with her, maybe I’ll just start going to bed when she does and wake up uber-early. I have it in my mind that I might get a lot more accomplished that way, what with four hours having passed before she wakes.
Have you voted for any of my awesome friends in the 2009 Bloggies? Please do. These bloggers are money, doing beautiful things.
I’m thinking, if she has to give up dairy completely, I might as well, too. It’s not really fair to her and it will make it easier, since she always wants whatever I’m having. So I need dairy-free resources and dairy substitutes. Cuz soy and rice milk products? I generally hate that shit.
Your emails and comments on yesterday’s post made my fucking day. Thank you for being you all. I love you for it.
I’m offering up a second placer prize in VDog’s contest. Go see her to enter.
Isobel ate tomato soup today. And a sandwich comprised of hummus, avocado, corned beef and soy cheese. If you knew her pickiness like I do, your mind would be fucking blown.
This guy wears button flies and awards the loser. Unlike some button-fly hating folk. Made me laugh. Laughing is good.
Another plus? Realizing that I did not, in fact, watch the first disc of part one of season six of Sex and the City, whereas I thought I had. Fabulous.
A negative? Wearing the jeans that actually fit with the uncomfy button, which led me to undo it for half of the day, which led to me appearing to be emulating Lindsay Lohan.
Are you familiar with that phrase? As I wrote it, it seemed so cliché, as if the world would know exactly what I meant – but then my usual sense to second-guess came in and it just seems off. Maybe I’ve altered a coined phrase wrongly.
The point is this: I have and currently do, own so many different voices, sometimes it seems there’s no amalgamation. I am at different points:
- The party girl with the dirty mind,
- The sensitive soul, who wants nothing more than to heal others,
- The philosopher, intent on expanding her own and other’s horizons,
- The mother of Isobel, both boistering and limiting, intent on teaching, discipline and caring,
- The bibliophile, obsessively taking to words on a page at a cost of sleep,
- The bearer of bad news, guilt trips and castration,
- The lover, giving and simply whole-seeming.
All of these different facets exist at different points in time – none coexist. I cannot be the lover at the same time as the dirty-minded rake; being Isobel’s mom cannot happen while I am being the bibliophile. I can try to put on more than one hat, but ultimately, I end up failing in all directions, not just the additional ones.
It’s caused me a lot of identity crises over the years. I can remember speaking of it during one rare conversation with my mother when I was 11 – that I didn’t know who I was, because it was as if I was eight people living in one mind at different times, sharing space, but only when the other people had vacated. My brain seemed a time-share, to put it in more real-world terms.
And it’s gotten more complex over the years and a lot of those people I am have been crafted, leaving me literally with no identity other than a sham of a scam of a person who doesn’t exist.
I’ve been writing a lot, lately – here, there, not everywhere, but also in between. And each address that my words call home is written by a different person.
A beauty editor is peppy and positive, using words like fabulous and glorious in a completely unsarcastic way. The baby advisor is half intellect and half peer – though that peer is refined from stereotyped jokes, 100 ways to say ‘your baby’ and a hidden alternative health agenda. The aspiring novelist wants to put characters to page like the one that you know here, but doesn’t know how to do that fictitiously. The blogger is right from the heart, but still censoring slightly so as not to bring politics or religion or hatred thereof to the page.
All different, nothing the same.
It makes me truly wonder if writing will be a peaceful or tormenting thing to me. If I can make it as a writer – have people option and buy and ask me to autograph my words one day – will it mean a further dissolution of self? Has there ever been a Self? Will there ever be.
But now, I must pause to remove my blogging hat and return to the infant advisor persona, then drink some more of the drug du jour – mon café avec beaucoup de chocolat et une demie-cuillère de sucre – and put more angst into a novel that has no direction or maybe even future.
