Nope. It's not Friday anymore. It's now Saturday! Which means that I didn't post anything in over twenty-four hours. Thankfully, I received no panicked calls from The Madre or any of my other regular blog readers (who are, frighteningly enough, growing in numbers weekly).
I would have posted something earlier, but the very pricey commercial internet connection we have decided that it didn't like Blogspot and would deny me access to anything but the main page for several hours. I tried just about everyting before figuring out that it was beyond my control: purging my cache, tossing my cookies, spewing out my temporary internet files, vomitting up a restart or two... Nothing worked. So, I had to do, like, other things. You know, spend time with my children and clean my house. It was a traumatic experience I hope not to relive in the near future.
After the antics of the gremlins on Wednesday and Thursday, I decided I would keep them in on Friday. We would do home stuff, like read, making crafts, play outside, build forts and other fun, constructive things I read about in parenting books. I could be the Betty Crocker of moms, finding all sorts of ways to feed their young minds and encourage family bonding time.
Instead, we ended up with several unstoppable fights. Time-outs did nothing. Idle threats from a bitchy pregnant lady (that would be me) did nothing. I could have plowed through every dust-ridden parenting book on the shelf and I swear nothing would have worked. They were hell bent on seeing who could cause the other to lose even more hearing and taking their near-insane-at-this-point mother along for the ride. If I was Betty Crocker of parenting for even an instant, I was now standing, dumbfounded, in the kitchen holding burned cookies with my apron on fire.
So, I did what any good mother would do: I threw them in the van with the Spongebob movie, some wireless headphones and happy meals. I got the pleasure of listening to cheesy pop music and a greasy burger and fries for the second day in a row that I could barely stomach due to this lovely third trimester friend named Indigestion. However, I also had the priviledge of going to a drive-through Fourbucks and found the acidity of the coffee rather soothing. It breaks down the fat, you know. And the nice thing about Fourbucks is that even the decaf tastes like getting a boxing glove in the face. Nice and bold - just the way I like my men. Er, my coffee.
I was terribly sad to leave the boys with Geekster tonight so I could go to my 12 step meeting. I cried all the way there.
Ok, I didn't. Not even close, actually. But in all honesty I felt a bit guilty pacing the house for 15 minutes before leaving. Like a caged tiger waiting to be let out into the arena to munch on fresh gladiator, I couldn't wait to get out tonight. After last night's hose fiasco, I feel mostly justified in my desire to go out publicly without their company. Still, I love my kids and I sometimes feel bad for needing personal time. Even I have a conscience, you know.
After the meeting, I was asked to write an article for the community newsletter. Sweet deal! I've been desperately wanting to kickstart my freelance writing career, but I haven't written up a single proposal letter yet. This came out of left field and I couldn't be happier about it.
One little problem though: not only is it free work, but I can't take credit for it. That's right, smartypants, it's a 12 step newsletter. "Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions" and all that rot. Besides which, even if I could take credit for it, I don't know if that would go over very well.
Dear Sir or Madame,
My name is The Maven and I am a published author. You can find my work in the August 2006 edition of XYZ, which is a newletter written by and for alcoholics and drug addicts.
I don't believe my addiction issues with impact my work. Alcoholics are generally very prompt people who tend to take what they do seriously. After all, we're the first ones at the bar and the last ones to leave. This should show the potential of my commitment to your publication.
Sincerely,
The Maven
That right there could win me some major career brownie points. I know all about brownies from some of the wonderful things I've done in my past. I especially know special brownies. The kind aunty Stella makes to celebrate her big winfall at the bingo hall.
Finally, I wrapped up the night having coffee with a friend. We chilled out for two hours and talked about how dysfunctional we both are. I've figured out something really neat: everybody is royally screwed up, whether they know it or not. But the people who know it are the people you want to hang out with. People who think they have it all together are in denial and thus are more prone to unhealthy acts. Why didn't I think of this before? It would have saved me a lot of trouble in the friendship department. Also, it's so much more refreshing to be able to openly say 'Hey! I'm a giant screw up! Neat, huh?'
If anything, my 30s will be filled with honesty. I'm so tired of this 'look at how normal I am' routine I was trying to pull off in my 20s. I have never been, am not and will never be 'normal'. I'm the girl who listens to D12 in her minivan. The one who nicknames her children 'the gremlins' and tries to pass it off as endearing. The one who hated doing daycare so much that she created several blog posts counting down the days until it was over. The one who writes open letters to Hollywood Stars on her no-name blog. The one who knows damn well that people read said blog because they want to know if that spun chick from Canada has finally gone over the edge today.
Together, I am not. A source of amusement, I most certainly am. And the best part? When you read my incredulous posts, remember that there's not even a trace amount of alcohol or drugs coursing through my veins. I'm writing completely sober.
Sanity: 0
The Maven: 1
Booyeah.
I would have posted something earlier, but the very pricey commercial internet connection we have decided that it didn't like Blogspot and would deny me access to anything but the main page for several hours. I tried just about everyting before figuring out that it was beyond my control: purging my cache, tossing my cookies, spewing out my temporary internet files, vomitting up a restart or two... Nothing worked. So, I had to do, like, other things. You know, spend time with my children and clean my house. It was a traumatic experience I hope not to relive in the near future.
After the antics of the gremlins on Wednesday and Thursday, I decided I would keep them in on Friday. We would do home stuff, like read, making crafts, play outside, build forts and other fun, constructive things I read about in parenting books. I could be the Betty Crocker of moms, finding all sorts of ways to feed their young minds and encourage family bonding time.
Instead, we ended up with several unstoppable fights. Time-outs did nothing. Idle threats from a bitchy pregnant lady (that would be me) did nothing. I could have plowed through every dust-ridden parenting book on the shelf and I swear nothing would have worked. They were hell bent on seeing who could cause the other to lose even more hearing and taking their near-insane-at-this-point mother along for the ride. If I was Betty Crocker of parenting for even an instant, I was now standing, dumbfounded, in the kitchen holding burned cookies with my apron on fire.
So, I did what any good mother would do: I threw them in the van with the Spongebob movie, some wireless headphones and happy meals. I got the pleasure of listening to cheesy pop music and a greasy burger and fries for the second day in a row that I could barely stomach due to this lovely third trimester friend named Indigestion. However, I also had the priviledge of going to a drive-through Fourbucks and found the acidity of the coffee rather soothing. It breaks down the fat, you know. And the nice thing about Fourbucks is that even the decaf tastes like getting a boxing glove in the face. Nice and bold - just the way I like my men. Er, my coffee.
I was terribly sad to leave the boys with Geekster tonight so I could go to my 12 step meeting. I cried all the way there.
Ok, I didn't. Not even close, actually. But in all honesty I felt a bit guilty pacing the house for 15 minutes before leaving. Like a caged tiger waiting to be let out into the arena to munch on fresh gladiator, I couldn't wait to get out tonight. After last night's hose fiasco, I feel mostly justified in my desire to go out publicly without their company. Still, I love my kids and I sometimes feel bad for needing personal time. Even I have a conscience, you know.
After the meeting, I was asked to write an article for the community newsletter. Sweet deal! I've been desperately wanting to kickstart my freelance writing career, but I haven't written up a single proposal letter yet. This came out of left field and I couldn't be happier about it.
One little problem though: not only is it free work, but I can't take credit for it. That's right, smartypants, it's a 12 step newsletter. "Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our traditions" and all that rot. Besides which, even if I could take credit for it, I don't know if that would go over very well.
Dear Sir or Madame,
My name is The Maven and I am a published author. You can find my work in the August 2006 edition of XYZ, which is a newletter written by and for alcoholics and drug addicts.
I don't believe my addiction issues with impact my work. Alcoholics are generally very prompt people who tend to take what they do seriously. After all, we're the first ones at the bar and the last ones to leave. This should show the potential of my commitment to your publication.
Sincerely,
The Maven
That right there could win me some major career brownie points. I know all about brownies from some of the wonderful things I've done in my past. I especially know special brownies. The kind aunty Stella makes to celebrate her big winfall at the bingo hall.
Finally, I wrapped up the night having coffee with a friend. We chilled out for two hours and talked about how dysfunctional we both are. I've figured out something really neat: everybody is royally screwed up, whether they know it or not. But the people who know it are the people you want to hang out with. People who think they have it all together are in denial and thus are more prone to unhealthy acts. Why didn't I think of this before? It would have saved me a lot of trouble in the friendship department. Also, it's so much more refreshing to be able to openly say 'Hey! I'm a giant screw up! Neat, huh?'
If anything, my 30s will be filled with honesty. I'm so tired of this 'look at how normal I am' routine I was trying to pull off in my 20s. I have never been, am not and will never be 'normal'. I'm the girl who listens to D12 in her minivan. The one who nicknames her children 'the gremlins' and tries to pass it off as endearing. The one who hated doing daycare so much that she created several blog posts counting down the days until it was over. The one who writes open letters to Hollywood Stars on her no-name blog. The one who knows damn well that people read said blog because they want to know if that spun chick from Canada has finally gone over the edge today.
Together, I am not. A source of amusement, I most certainly am. And the best part? When you read my incredulous posts, remember that there's not even a trace amount of alcohol or drugs coursing through my veins. I'm writing completely sober.
Sanity: 0
The Maven: 1
Booyeah.