Need to write

I can't find my journal, and I need to write something. I don't care what it is, I just need to get SOMETHING out and you guys are part of my outlet this morning, ok? Good deal.

The other day at the coffee shop I heard someone say something grammatically fucked, and apparently I wrote it down because I found a draft of a post that started a few weeks ago and it just contained this sentence, "That girl just looks the same for years. The whole time I' known her she's had the same way hair." I need to start writing dialogue like this.

My agent is reading my book this week. This is the scene I imagine if she sends me an email with a list of changes I need to make: I'll be sitting at my laptop Monday morning, sipping my coffee, and I'll excitedly click on an email from Agent Sarah (that's what I like to call her), I'll read the words, "This is great! But I propose the following changes before we send it out to publishers," and I will spew coffee onto my computer screen. The computer will short out, I will be unable to make changes to my book, and she will have to sell it as is. This is a winning scenario because it involves both coffee, and the publication of my book.

Thanksgiving was exhausting but overall good. First I went to Chris's apartment, ate with him and the kids, took the babies to my parents', and then to my Paw Paw's house.

Four scenes from Thanksgiving that are in no particular order, and will contain lots of run-on sentences:
At my parent's house-My grandfather slaps me on the back as I'm taking a bite of stuffing and I think, "Why did I sit next to this man?" He says, "What's going on with your book, fella?" I give him the update and he says, "When can I read it?" I laugh nervously and then realize he's serious. I say, "After it's been banned." Then follows a discussion about how some of the finest books in history are outlaws, which is a much less stressful conversation and I'm able to finish my stuffing. There's something unnerving about the thought of my grandpa reading a piece of my work wherein I use words like, "motherfucker" and "vagina breath." Ok, I made up that last one. Still, you get my point.

I'm at Chris's apartment, feeling very awkward that it's our first holiday separated, but we're physically together in the same kitchen, he's stirring the mashed potatoes, I'm carving the turkey, and I'm thinking about how our roles are reversed because usually he carves while I work on the side items, and while I'm thinking about this and starting to feel depressed I cut my finger and though the cut isn't deep, it bleeds a lot. I am relieved of turkey duty.

Early that morning, while I'm roasting the turkey to bring to Chris', I'm standing by the sink and I'm crying, and I remember that there's rum in the house. It's a stressufl holiday, so no harm, right? I take the rum, pour some into my coffee, take a sip or two, then I remember something my aunt told me about my mom. When my mom and dad were separated Mom was really stressed out, and so she would have a glass of wine a day. "Just one glass," she told my aunt. That's how it started. So I call an Al-Anon friend and say, "This is a bad idea isn't it?" He agrees, and I pour it down the sink.

I'm at my Paw Paw's house that night and the kids are running around with their cousins, while I sit at a table with my grown cousins, talking about the obscene amount of food we've eaten. While I'm talking I'm secretly envious because the four people at the table with me are each part of a couple, and they all have jobs. I begin to feel sorry for myself, and then am suddnely sick of feeling sorry for myself. I make a gratitude list in my head: I am grateful for being fed today, I am grateful that my children are with me, I am grateful that I'm sober and not crippled with depression, and I'm grateful that I have arms and legs that work and opposable thumbs. I feel lighter. I am able to eat more carrot cake.

And now I am unable to look at food. But I feel better having written. I'll let you guys know what Agent Sarah has to say. And I'll maybe let you read it after it's banned.

Hell's Bagel

It's 4:30 in the morning and Emma is awake. I got up at 3:45 so that I could get a head start with writing before the chaos of the day began and there she was, right outside my door at 3:50.

I used to have this theory back when Claire was a baby that the sound of my pen moving across paper was somehow loud enough to wake up children. Every time I tried to wake up early enough to get some good writing done, Claire would sense it, wet her diaper and start crying. The only evil streak that my children possess so far is that each one of them has an innate awareness of when I'm writing and an uncanny desire to stop it.



But onto the church ladies at the Waffle Cafe. There are about seven of them and they come in with this priest who's about 25 years younger than them, and the who is the object of their devotion, like the son-who-is-a-gateway-to-the-afterlife that they never had. What I find classy about them is the way they dress and carry themselves. Dove gray suits, heirloom jewelry, and those diamond pendents on their blazers, like angels or turtles. Hair always done just so. Lots of makeup and bright pink lipstick. I wonder if the AARP deals out pink lipstick to women when they turn 70.


A couple of weeks ago they came in during a busy time and they were insistent that the priest get his bagel as soon as possible, even before other people who had ordered before him. They called him "The Father."


"The Father needs his bagel," one of the old ladies said, creeping up to the counter with severely pink lips.
"The Father?" I asked, thinking that if this woman's father was alive I would be impressed if he could choke down a bagel without blending it first.
She pointed to the priest, who was sitting patiently at a table of old ladies with his hands folded. "Yes, The Father. He's in a hurry, and he needs his bagel, please."
"It'll come out soon. He's got a few orders in front of him."
"But it's just a bagel. Can't you get it out now?"
"It's not a matter of what it is. It's the order in which he, um, ordered."
She frowned and shook her head, possibly thinking, "Say hello to Hell for me."

Two minutes later a lady with a darker gray suit and pinker lip stick shoved her way through the crowd and said, "Excuse me, young lady."
I was pouring coffee out of the thermos and turned around. "Yeah?"
"The Father as been waiting for his bagel. He needs it now."
I handed the fresh mug of coffee to the customer who'd been shoved aside by God's Bagel Police.
"Should be soon," I assured her.
She bore her pink-lipstick stained teeth. "Where's the owner? Where's Brad?"
"He's not here this morning."
"Well, tell your cook The Father needs his bagel now."

So I went over to Henry the cook. "The Father needs his bagel."
"Who's the father?" he asked.
"That dude over there. The church ladies keep calling him 'The Father.' He told me his name was Bob."
I pointed to the order ticket above the stove, the one that said, "side bagel - cream cheese - Bob."
"Tell him he's third in line," said Henry.
"The ladies say he needs his bagel now."
Then Henry said something that I'm sure I'll see him in hell for. He popped a bagel in the toaster and told me to stay put. Thirty seconds later he tossed the half-toasted bread on a plate, threw in a side of cream cheese and said, "There's your fuckin' bagel."
"It's not mine, it's Father Bob's."
"GET IT OUTTA HERE!"
So I delivered it to the table. And there was much rejoicing.

You know, I started this post about a week and a half ago. Now I am sitting in a different coffee shop that I am not working at, where there are no priests, gray suits, or Bobs in sight. I'm at Fair Grinds Coffeehouse, the place where the pretty hippies go. You know, ones who bathe, and have jobs and laptops. So i guess I should broaden the term "hippie" to "hippie posers," ones who wear long skirts they make themselves with their sewing machines, and dred locks but also stopped smoking weed five years ago. This person would be more of a hippie fashion kitten. And once I get a sewing machine, that kitten will be me.

I've got to finish the book by the end of this week so I should get started back on it. Just needed to finish this post because it's been bugging me that I left it half done. Been busy lately. But haven't we all?

late

Woke up an hour late. Have to get the kids up, dressed and fed. Have to brew the coffee. Then take kids to beforecare. It's my first day of work. Um...why am I blogging? Oh yeah, WISH ME LUCK!

Hamsters with jet lag

I have to rush this morning, but I must share something I read on The Writer's Almanac yesterday. Apparently, there's an an annual ceremony called the Ig Nobel Prizes. They are "held on the campus at Harvard and handed out by real Nobel laureates. The prizes, established in 1991, are a parody of the Nobel awards and are for achievements that 'first make people laugh, and then make them think.'

And they really do! "Recent science and technology awards have gone to Argentinean scientists 'for their discovery that Viagra aids jet lag recovery in hamsters' (Aviation); and a Princeton professor claimed the prize in literature recently for his 17-page cognitive psychology report entitled 'Consequences of Erudite Vernacular Utilized Irrespective of Necessity: Problems with Using Long Words Needlessly.' The awards ceremony, held in early October each year, always concludes with the proclamation: 'If you didn't win a prize — and especially if you did — better luck next year!'"

This is the kind of stuff that rekindles my faith in the silliness of mankind.

Loud music for breakfast

For the last two months I've been working at a breakfast cafe Uptown on the weekends. I would name the place but I got in trouble for talking about the fire department that I worked for and ended up having to go back and delete every post with their name in it. This makes sense. They're political, they rely on votes to keep them up and running. Their name in this blog can only bring them ruin. In fact, did I say fire department? I mean, the sewage and water board.

Anyway, moving on. This breakfast joint which I will call "Waffle House"...what do you mean that name's taken? Ok, no problem. So "Waffle Cafe" is in a pretty neat part of Uptown. Lots of bohemians and lots of rich people who started out as regular bohemians, but ended up making lots of money and still listen to Phish. There's a piano player who comes in every day and sometimes a dude on a stand up bass will join him. On Sundays there's a guy who come in with a horn, which always makes taking orders interesting.

Customer: I would like a [sudden trumpet blast] with a cup of [blat!]
Me: Did you say an eagle with a cup of syrup?
Customer: No, no. A [blatty! blat! blat!] with a [pianist sets piano on fire, horn player plays with teeth and crowd goes wild].
Me(pretending to write something): Excellent choice.

Five minutes later I bring him a bowl of oatmeal and hope for the best.

My hearing has gotten so bad over the years and the music and the chatter in the place always drown out whatever desperate plea for food a customer is giving me. I should learn to read lips. The only word I can understand by watching someone's mouth move is "coffee" but that's just because coffee and I have a symbiotic relationship. If I was blind and deaf and someone said the word coffee from across the room I would still approach them with an empty mug and demand that they share.

This is my heroin, people, my shameless addiction, and it makes total sense to me why whenever I'm in desperate need of a job I gravitate towards places where I can get it on tap for free. During my interview my boss asked, "So what draws you to the food service industry?" I glared at him with blood shot eyes and said, "Coffee." He said, "But surely the customers-" And I said, "Hand over the coffee and there won't be any trouble." And at that moment he knew I would be a faithful employee with an everpresent mug in hand.

Until this past weekend when I gave him notice. Oy. I hate giving notice. He understood, and he and the cooks are sad to see me go. I always put in the most interesting orders. "That guy over there would like eggs with a side of hammock." "Do you mean ham?" the cook will ask. "Maybe," I'll say, looking hopeful.

This weekend will be my last two days there, then on Monday I start technical writing for a company which I will call "Big Technical Company With Lots of Engineers and No Trumpets." As long as they keep the coffee comin'.

Tune in tomorrow when I share about the cafe's church lady groupees. This is the entourage of a priest who all come in on Saturday mornings, and it is these ladies' goal in life to make sure that the priest is taken care of as if the fate of their souls depends on him getting his bagel in a timely manner. Hopefully the Catholic church will not ask me to delete that post in a couple of weeks. In fact, did I say "Catholic church?" I meant, "Jay Leno Fan Club."

Mmm...that's good cheese

A couple of weeks ago I bought one of those refrigerator magnets that say things. I was never one to boast a magnet or a car decal that advertised my state of mind, other than the name of a band I liked or (in the case of refrigerator magnets) a place I'd been. And the places I've been haven't been too exciting. People don't pass by a refrigerator magnet that says "Biloxi Beach" and say "You've been there too?! Well, goddamn!" Once, I had a sticker on the back of my car that was a silhouette of Bill the Cat from Bloom County. There he was, tongue hanging out of his mouth like Gene Simmons, with his tagline next to his head, "Ack!" That pretty much summed up my state of mind at 18.

So now I've got this refigerator magnet. I saw it at Barnes and Noble and when I read the first few words I thought, "This would be good to read when I get up in the morning. It's cheesy, but I could stand some cheese in my brain food diet." Here is what it says, "Be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars. In the noisy confusion of life keep peace within your soul." It's helped. It helped this morning in fact when I was getting the kids ready for school and there was, well, a lot of noisy confusion. It's the "be gentle with yourself" part that helps me, really. It's so easy for me to beat myself up for not doing a perfect job in the mornings of getting everybody out the door.

I've got some good news. I got a technical writing job! It's like a real full-time writing gig that I can support myself on! This is a first, people!

I'll write about it some more later. My timer is about to go off. Yes, I set a timer for this blog. It was hard to wipe the dust off of this thing and start writing again. The last few months have been really hard and painful. There have been good times, though, and Chris and I are getting along. That's the important thing. I've resolved not to write much about our breakup out of respect for Chris, my kids, and my in-laws. There will be no rants or anything like that. I'll write about how the kids are doing though. They're having a rough adjustment, as expected, but they are still their wonderful little selves. We're falling into a new routine, which helps. Claire starts guitar lessons on Wednesday, Christopher's gonna start basketball in a couple of weeks, and I found art lessons for Emma.

I will leave you with an Emma quote for the day. It's taken out of context, but even put back into context it's still just as whacky: I learned the hard way not to fall asleep on a lamp.

Tadpole kisses

The day before yesterday Emma asked me to step into the kiddie pool with her and I hesitated because it was loaded with tadpoles. This happens every summer. I fill up the pool for the kids to play in, they have a fantastic day splashing around in the sun, and drinking from the hose, then the pool sits out for a couple of days and WHAMO! We walk outside one morning and find a pool full of tadpoles. It's like a pregnant frog hides in the grass somewhere just waiting for the pool to lie low a few hours so she can jump in there, have her babies, then sit back and say, "Go ahead! Dump the pool! Kill all of my children! I dare you!" And we don't. We just can't.



So what are we doing with our summer now? A lot of tadpole study. We're watching them grow from little sperm-like things, to much uglier, fatter, tear drop shaped creatures with legs and googly eyes. Emma and Christopher like to step inside the pool with them, a kind of "swimming with the dolphins" experience in our own backyard. When Emma invited me to get in there with them I curled my lip at the idea. Not only is it loaded with tadpoles, but the water is greenish-yellow and there's some sort of fuzzy green stuff floating around, which I think is what the critters are feeding off of. But the kids have been going through so much disappointment lately that I had a hard time saying no.



Chris and I are splitting up. I know it must be strange to announce this on my blog, in the middle of a tadpole post, but really there is no good time to bring this up. And I won't go into details but let's just state the obvious and say that it's hard and painful for all of us. We've pushed back his move-out date a couple of times but now it's officially August 2nd, and in the mean time we're all in this strange, painful limbo.



We're trying to make the things as easy on the kids as possible. Not fighting in front of them, letting them know they're loved and all of that stuff. One thing I need to work on is remembering to not take out the stress on them, or to just walk around constantly stressed out. They're learning right now, right at this very minute, how to handle stress and they're taking tips from me whether I like it or not.



That's why I decided to get into the tadpole pool with Emma when she asked me to. At first I said no and then I thought, "What am I gonna say? No, I'm kinda busy. I'm going to go look at our family pictures, cry, and feel sorry for myself." So I stepped into the pool, and for a few seconds I regretted it. The water was warm, and I imagined that I was wading in an enormous puddle of baby frog pee. As I slid my feet acoss the bottom of the pool, I stirred up all that green fuzzy stuff it settled on top of my feet, like slimy dust bunnies. The tadpoles darted away from me like they were little Japanese people and I was Godzilla.



"Stand still," Emma said. "They'll come up to you if you stand still."

"I'm good," I said. "They can stay over there and I'll stay right here, you know. Diggin' the slime."

"But they tickle your toes!" she squealed. "It's like they give little kisses! Stand still!"



I stood still. She just seemed too delighted by the idea of it to refuse her. And in a few minutes I understood why. The tadpoles got curious about those size 11's standing in the middle of their pool, and they swam up to investigate. The way the tadpoles investigate you is they mosey on over and nibble your feet. And it really does feel like tiny, tickly kisses! In a few mimutes Emma and I were both standing still in the pool giggling while swarms of tadpoles kissed our feet.



Maybe this will be something she remembers. I can't control that though, what my children will rememeber out of all of this, and what they're going to feel and learn. But I'm going to remember it, how on an excruciatingly painful morning, when I was feeling like a failure as a spouse and a mother, I took a break and giggled in the backyard with my daughter. She's a good kid.