I'm A Working Girl Now

Once again, my adaptation and juggling skills are being put to the test. For the first time in eight years, I am officially a working girl. (Because, as you all know, I spent those last eight years on the couch watching talk shows and eating Oreo truffles. Blogger, SAHM, and {unpublished} novelist don't really count as "real" jobs, right?)

I'm forbidden to reveal anything about my job, pure torture for a blogger. I've signed a strict confidentiality agreement; if I tell you, I'd have to kill you...or just get fired.  It may or may not  have something to do with poles, pistols, or the Pythagorean theorem.

Honestly, I'm just thrilled to be able to spend a few hours with other adults wearing something besides yoga pants. If I planned it our properly, I'd wager a hefty sum (in other words, more than I'm making) that I could wear a different outfit each day. And I'm talking no repeats on tops, bottoms, or dresses. The clothes horse in me is biting at the bit to finally dust off some of my thrift store fashion finds.

I CAN tell you it's an evening job. Considering my shift lasts a solid hour past my usual 9:30ish bedtime, I'd almost consider it a night job. It's a stretch for our family; we normally eat dinner together every night, and I'm always the one who cooks (I like cooking).  Now I'm eating dinner at five, alone. I'm missing reading and snuggling time with my kiddo, the most cherished parts of my day. No evenings spent reading beside my hubby.  And  no wine during the week. Unbelievable, I know. I'm considering setting up a caffeine I.V. drip instead. Not nearly as much fun, but necessary.

Since I'm writing about jobs, I thought I'd link up with the lovely Nicole @Moments That Define for Listable Life.

5 Jobs I've had

1. Pirate Yes, I was the fresh-eyed, all-American girl in the polyester pirate costume standing outside Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World. Never. Again. Enough said. (Or to read why I Hung Mickey Mouse click here)

2. Ear Piercer Back in high school, I wielded the ear piercing gun at our mega-Claire's Boutique. Back then, earrings were "in" for guys, so I had a wonderful time making tough football players cry. Priceless. But the babies — oh, the babies — they'd be fine, just a little squirmy, as I did my best to draw even target dots on their tiny ears.  They'd smile as I lined the gun up, then POP...they'd pause for a second, then stare at me as if I was evil incarnate just before they screwed their face up and howled. That second hole was always tough.  I hated the babies, but I loved the boys.

Photo courtesy of ABC News

3. Bridal Boutique Manager I could tell you it was a magical job, filled with touching moments of teary-eyed and blissfully grateful brides-to-be embracing me after we found "the dress." It would be a boldfaced lie. I don't need to watch Bridezillas. I've lived it. On the bright side, I did get to try on all the sample gowns after hours. That was fun.


4. Japanese Hair product tester I can't reveal much, except that my DNA is on file in some Japanese laboratory. This makes me more than a bit nervous. At least I've never come across any weird pictures of my bad hair days on the internet. Yet.

5. Bra Fitter  Technically, I was the Men's Collections and Ladies Lingerie department manager at a major department store, but I measured women for bras as often as my sales girls did.  I've seen as many boobs as Hugh Heffner, except most were most certainly not Playboy worthy. I learned far too much about what happens when well-endowed women age (considering I was in my mid-20s and still small and perky, it was quite an eye-opener).  Guys' eyes always lit up when I mentioned that aspect of my job — until I described how cleavage can hang well-past a waistline.


Have you had any unique jobs?

When School Shootings Hit Too Close To Home

Today was supposed to be a day like any crazy/normal day: too much to do in far too little time, a new schedule, a new job, and I longed to sneak in some quality time without too much stress or drama.  Our early morning flowed smoothly, and Kiddo and I held hands as we walked down our sleepy street.

Once the school bus pulled away, once we saw all those little hands wave good-bye at us through the tinted windows, a few us exchanged our usual morning chatter. Except today was a little different.

I'm so glad I saw people here at the bus stop. I wasn't sure any of the kids were going to school today.

But it wasn't a teacher work day? Spring break had long passed. Why wouldn't they be going to school?

Well, the shooting...some kid threatened to do a Columbine at the school...

I was suddenly wide awake.

That mom saw something on Facebook last night, just another news thread or rumor flying through cyberspace faster than a speeding bullet.  I hadn't seen anything yet. I'd been focusing on fixing breakfast and packing lunchboxes, tying shoes and sneaking in some snuggle time.

I hurried home, more curious than concerned. There was nothing on our local newspaper website. Ditto on a quick skim of the television news sites.  My TV screen just replayed footage of the space shuttle flying piggy-back on its final journey and local traffic snafus.  What shooting?

I finally found a snippet, a short one minute video, on some third-rate news site.

 Last fall, a student at our high school threatened to walk into the lunchroom and start randomly shooting. A fellow student told his parents about the threats, the parents called the cops, and the potential shooter was arrested. He said he'd been bullied as a freshman. He'd been inspired by Columbine. The attack was planned for three days before the Columbine anniversary. Today.

"4/17/12 is gonna be a day to remember dat day will bring joy to me and saddness to otherz"

The 18-year-old was charged with attempted felony murder as well as written threats to kill or do bodily harm; he was booked at the county jail months before his diabolical plan could come true.  Perhaps that's why I just glossed over the story — I didn't hear about it until after he'd been arrested, after he'd been taken out of the picture, and the police swore our children would be safe and protected.

He was subsequently expelled.

However, this morning's harried research unveiled that prosecutors decided not to charge him with a crime. They decided he never took steps to actually commit murder and they found no weapons or ammunition in his home. They also said that since his threats were not directed at anyone in particular, they did not rise to the level of a written threat.  His neighbor swore he was just an average boy-next-door, just another normal kid living in our quaint little suburbia.

That boy-next-door was arrested again in March for trespassing. He just walked into one of his old classrooms and took a seat. Such a simple act, yet the ease at which he could do it sends shivers down my spine.

He's free now, today, the day of his proposed massacre.

I'm scared. No, whether rational or not, I'm terrified.

You see, my son's elementary school is just across the street.

These things aren't supposed to happen around here.  We bought our home a decade ago partially due to the prime school district, a vital consideration long  before we ever started trying for a child. The highly rated high school looks like a small community college campus, with sprawling brick buildings sheltered below mature oak trees. It's nestled between a little white church and a shuttered sub shop.  Even with the recession, most of the cars in the student parking lot are far more luxurious than my own. It was supposed to be a good, safe school.

And today, my baby, my only child, will go about his day on his relatively open elementary school campus within spitting distance of this threat.  I'm tempted to go and eat lunch with him, so I can sit with my eyes glued to the cafeteria door, the unmanned door, that squeaky old metal door anyone could walk right through. Anyone. I  mapped out the exits in my mind — would it be better to dash for the restrooms or try and hide in the kitchen, cowering behind industrial cabinets, a la Jurassic Park? Would I shout to save all the children, put myself in harms way to shepherd them to safety, or would I just snatch my own child and scurry away? I'm not a hero; I'm just a mother desperately in love with her son. I don't want these thoughts, they don't belong in my protected little world, but I don't know how to smother them.

After I hit the gym this morning, I just couldn't stop myself: I cruised by the schools. Both campuses looked quiet and serene on this sunny morning.  Though another article I read said local police would be providing extra security today, I saw no hint of anything amiss.  The high school parking lot wasn't full; how many parents kept their kids home today?  Stopped at the light between the two schools, I fought the urge to march into the front office and whisk my baby home to safety. How could I leave him there just yards from the scene of a potential massacre?  How easy would it be for the devil to march across the narrow street?

How much can we really protect our children?

Not five minutes ago I stepped out of the shower and heard sirens in the distance. It's lunchtime. Panic welled within; I swallowed it back, bitter as bile. On the TV, smiling news anchors discussed gym memberships and doggie day cares. Nothing devastating could be going on two miles away, just feet from my baby, right? 

No one warns you about this kind of thing before you become a parent. The unthinkable. The unimaginable. When I finally see my baby dash off the bus this afternoon, relief will wash over me like a cool shower on a sweltering August day. I'll be counting the hours.

Joshilyn Jackson made me change my book

While I sucked up every little hint of writing advice offered at the UCF Book Festival a few weeks ago, one session threw a wrench in my WIP.

I've already blogged about sitting utterly enamored in the audience, scribbling away in my old spiral notebook during Writing Place: New Fiction form the South: with Nicole Louise Reid, Joshilyn Jackson, and Karen White.

Joshilyn Jackson described writing her most ominous novel, Backseat Saints, as a journey into the depths of hell and back. After she rose from that dark place, she pleaded with her agent and publisher to let her write a nice, funny book. Since she is such an amazing writer who they didn't want to go completely off the deep end, they said of course dear, whatever you want.

So she wrote a light, funny book. And the readers she trusted with her newborn words said it was good, but it just wasn't her.

Don't be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.

She had to go deeper, let her characters crawl into a dank, tight grave reeking in desperation and heartbreak. And she rewrote the whole damn book. And that book, A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty, ended up being the perfect blend of laughter and drama, at times leaving you gasping, at others snorting sweet tea out your nose. It worked. Well.

Her words seemed to glow across the room like firefly had spelled them out in a country dark night sky. (Didn't you  ever read Sam and the Firefly?)

 

My most "popular" writing piece of late came not just from my heart, but from a time when that fickle organ had shriveled into a dull husk cowering on the bathroom floor. It was a dark piece, but it was transformative as well: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  (That should be my new writer's mantra.)

I thought about a piece Joshilyn posted on her blog back in February, an utterly devastating, fearsome, and transparent piece. I could see her heartbreak scrawling across the screen with each word.  Though the damn post made me cry,  it was a thing of beauty just dripping with an overwhelmingly distinctive voice. I actually made my Hubby read it, as ingesting the words seemed to be the only way to explain just how powerful a voice in writing can be — he cried too. (Okay, I didn't get wife of the year that night, and we spent our pre-dinner wine time reminiscing about our lost furry babies, but I needed to prove a point.)  Go read it, you'll understand: Faster Than Kudzu: No Pictures.

We all have our own dark places, pieces of our lives we've buried deep within — areas riddled with cobwebs, weighed down with concrete blocks of guilt, and permeated with the lingering coppery stench of blood. Our characters should as well.

Don't be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.

You see,  at the time I'd heard those words, I'd been about chest deep in my second draft, working in plot changes and character developments.  I'd been plagued with this niggling feeling that something was still missing, my main character need just a bit more motivation for her actions. 

Evie needed to go to her dark place.

Don't get me wrong. There's plenty of  death, deception, and all that other nasty stuff already in there. (And believe it or not, it still kind of funny. At least I hope it is.) My Evie's life had basically turned into a twangy country song: she'd lost her husband, lost her house, lost her money, lost her sanity, and she's pretty sure that if she had a dog, it would've been hit by the garbage truck, too. But she had to lose something else, something not superficial, to keep propelling her through the plot.

So, I've spent the last two weeks trying to work that extra element in, weaving it into my story like  raven's wing black streaks into a braid. 

And I think it's working.

Thanks Joshilyn.

lady luck

“When I was a little girl, I used to run around in the fields all day, 

trying unsuccessfully to catch ladybugs. I’d get tired and lay down for a nap. 

When I awoke, I’d find the ladybugs walking all over me.”

 ~Under the Tuscan Sun

Some days you just need to take a break from the never-ending chase, 

relax, smell the salt air, read a book by the shore.

Take a moment to clear your head, savor a moment of pure kismet,

forget to keep score.

Our Easter Bunny should be fired

 First a confession: I have apparently turned into my mother. I used to tease her about the chocolate Easter bunny who lived in our freezer, only to be resurrected each year for a one-day appearance in my basket.  Well, it seems I have outdone her, because I have THREE bunnies in my freezer.  Someone, come and eat them, please.  I'm afraid if I leave them together much longer they will multiply (you know how those bunnies can be).

And the sad thing is, Kiddo had no idea these bunnies were making a repeat performance.
 Bad Easter Bunny.

Saturday morning I woke up at 6:45 in a total panic.  Oh Crap! The Easter bunny forgot to stop by our house!  I woke my husband, flew to the bunny's secret lair and snatched the loot, and was about to grab all the empty eggs for stuffing when my Hubby woke up enough to think. Someone had to.  "Uh, honey," he said. "It's Saturday. Easter is Sunday. Today's our anniversary."   

Oops. I knew there was something special about the day.   Not sure which is worse: forgetting Easter or forgetting it was my twelfth anniversary. Bad Mommy. Bad Wife.

I considered resigning as Easter Bunny. If only I could fire myself.

The REAL Easter morning went well, at least. That tricky bunny decided to make Kiddo hunt for some of his presents this year, and stuffed a few eggs with clues.  I was absolutely thrilled when he dug into his new Titanic books and legos and left the wii toy to sit alone by the television.

He's my kid after all.

For the last...six years (geesh, time flies) we've spent Easter afternoon at our friends' parents farm. They throw a big old fashioned  potluck and egg hunt, and we look forward to it each year.

Half a dozen folding tables hold mugs filled with dye, stickers, and crayons for drawing.  A few years ago, someone decided that garbage bags saved the kids from dying themselves, and they all get decked out in this trashy fashion statement. Outfits saved.

While the eggs dry, it's time to feast.  The buffet fills the farmhouse's wrap-around porch, and folks line up on both sides to load their plates with everything from home-grown beans to turkey and ham. 

 You have to clean your plate before you are allowed to hit the dessert buffet. Yes, dessert buffet. I crammed down two slices of cake (luckily there was no banana pudding this year or I would have popped). My friend totally stole my idea and made this adorable Peeps sunflower cake. (Okay, she had no idea I saw the pin on Pinterest and I was too lazy to make it myself.)

The kids run wild for a little bit while the adults digest. 

Then the kids are corralled  inside while most of the adults hide the eggs.  Hundreds of eggs: each child dyed a dozen, then there are huge storage bins filled with stuffed plastic eggs. We spread them over a couple of acres, in citrus trees, on tractor wheels, in plant pots, and tucked in Spanish moss gracefully drooping from oak trees.  Big kids go to one side of the house, little ones on the other. It's still hard to believe my Kiddo is one of the bigger children now. He was just 2 1/2 the year of his first hunt.

My baby's grown a little bit.

Funny how he has dirty knees in both pictures. Some things never change.

 

Funny how other things can change in the blink of an eye.


On the way home, we passed by another group of Trayvon Martin supporters marching through downtown Sanford.  Back to life, back to reality.

Because Stormtroopers Read Too

While wandering the main floor of the UCF Book Festival last Saturday,

 I caught this Stormtrooper in the act.

No, not in the act of defending Darth Vader, or blasting away at the good guys, 

but casually perusing the author booths. 

Reading book jackets.

Because Stormtroopers read, too. Remember that kids. . .

Review: Confessions of a Scary Mommy

Today is the big day! Confessions of a Scary Mommy hits the book shelves everywhere.  I shall start by assuming you all know about Scary Mommy. If you have somehow lived under a cyber rock for the last few years, here's the rundown:

The blog: Scary Mommy: an honest and irreverent look at motherhood — the good, the bad, and the scary. Thousands of moms flock to her site religiously for a daily dose of wit with a side of mom-bonding.

The woman behind it: Jill Smokler, a Maryland mom of three, and the reigning queen of dishing out motherhood's dirty little secrets.  "Erma Bombeck-style insights...about the underbelly of marriage and parenting...to a new generation of women." ...yeah, yeah, yeah... She's funny, she's real, you'll wish she lived next door so you could vent together over margaritas.

Now that we've cleared that up, Jill Smokler wrote a book. A pee-in-your-pants, snort-coffee-out-your-nose, funny kind of book. Confessions of a Scary Mommy, hitting stores April 3rd, is not a highbrow work of literature. It's a book about stretch marks, snot, and shitting on the delivery table. It's also about cutting yourself some slack, having compassion for fellow moms in the trenches, and maintaining a sense of humor as necessary skill for survival. It lifts the sacred veil off the face of motherhood, revealing that none of us really have any clue what we are doing. It's about REAL life.

The book's twenty-seven chapters cover everything from delivery room dramas to competitive birthday party planning.  Each is only a short snippet — kind of like a Reader's Digest or Men's Health article — perfect for a quick read while hiding in the bathroom with a sleeve of Oreos and a shot of tequila.

Each chapter starts with a round-up of "Mommy Confessions," anonymous admissions taken from Smokler's highly poplar blog boards where moms air their dirtiest laundry. Many will make you laugh, some will make you gasp, and most will make any mom nod her head in agreement while shouting, "Hell, yeah!" because, well, we've all been there. (And yes, there's even an App for that.)

As to be expected, Confessions of a Scary Mommy doesn't sugarcoat any aspect of modern motherhood.  If you are not a mom yet, you may be outrageously offended by some of the off-color confessions and candid reality checks. How dare some mothers think these things, let alone say them! These women are EVIL and don't deserve to raise a child! Ditto that on the brand-spanking-new first time moms still jacked up on the delicious new-baby-smell high. They'll fall from their pedestals soon enough, and they will come crawling to this book and to the blog to get them through the day.

If you are a mother and you cannot find something to relate to in the first chapter alone (even if you are afraid to admit it) you LIE. Or you are a cyborg, Stepford Wife, or on some really, really good grown-up drugs.  From the dreaded mommy guilt to aching ovaries and swearing at our children when they act like little shits (in our heads, of course) — we've all been there. And it is an utter relief to realize we are all a part of this vast sisterhood of Scary Mommies.

This book will scare some people — absolutely— there's foul language and feces and brutal honesty.  Confessions of a Scary Mommy may terrify my expecting cousin, but I'll buy it for her because she deserves to know what she's getting into. And for my mom, so she realizes I now understand all the crap I put her through. And for my Mother-In-Law for — nope, never mind — she'd drop this book like a flaming shit bomb at the first "fuck."  She's of the generation who believes some things just aren't said. I think these things should be screamed from the rooftops, so this generation of moms can be saved from a lifetime of self-flagellation and vodka tonics at 10 a.m. They need to know it's okay to not like your children every second of every day, even though you love them fiercely. They are okay. Scary Mommy said so.

The only thing missing from this book was a few more pages. I would have loved for the chapters to be longer, explored in more depth, but then no busy mom would be able to sneak in enough time to read it.  Call me selfish, but I just didn't want Confessions of a Scary Mommy to end.

So buy it. Yourself. It would make a fabulous Mother's Day gift, but you know your husband won't remember, so just put a nice bow on it and call it even. Consider it a belated Push Present.  Because you fucking deserve it.

Confessions of a Scary Mommy
by Jill Smokler
Gallery Books, 208 pages
$10.20 [hardcover] $9.99 [Kindle]

Authors & Aspirations at the UCF Book Fest

I slogged through cross-town traffic, a torrential thunderstorm, and skipped my Kiddo's soccer game to attend the University of Central Florida Book Festival. It was totally worth it.  I hadn't set foot on the college campus since a Tori Amos concert a lifetime ago. I put on my big girl panties and a trendy outfit (so I wouldn't look like one of the college kids' mothers, which technically, I could be) and marched into the arena...alone.

Vendors, authors, and makeshift bookstores filled the arena floor.  There were twenty-one author panels spread across four meeting rooms to choose from, and a few times it was a tough call  deciding which session to attend.  In the end, I sat in on:

The Liberal Arts Life: From Jazz to Journalism to Novel to Script: keynote author James McBride

Writing Place: New Fiction form the South:  Nicole Louise Reid, Joshilyn Jackson, and Karen White

Stories From the Ladies of the South: Rachel Hauck, River Jordan, Marybeth Whalen, Lisa Wingate

Killing People in Exotic Places: Nancy J. Cohen, Bob Morris, Neil S. Plakcy

Embracing Imperfections through Young Adult Lit: Ellen Hopkins, Jessica Martinez, Ty Roth


Some of the authors I've known and loved for years, some tickled my interest, and some I simply must go out and read their books immediately. Or as soon as I eke out some time.

As a lifetime lit fan, occasional book reviewer,  and aspiring author, I hung on every word spewing from these successful writers' mouths. I thought I'd be generous and pass along my favorite tidbits gleamed from the wonderful panel discussions.

James McBride (The Color of Water, Miracle at St. Anna,  musician, journalist, and screenplay writer): Learn to fail, and fail better — every successful person has learned to accept his failures and move on.  Since I'm prepping myself for the excruciating process of finding an agent and landing a publisher, I MUST remember this. If The Help was rejected 100 times, I can't imagine how thick my stack of rejection letters will grow.

Nicole Louise Reid (So There!): A successful writer is someone who is good at lying, not in person, but on paper.  I'd never read any works by her before, but her reading was lovely, her words were lush, lyrical, and from the heart...or at least that's what she'd like you to believe.


Joshilyn Jackson (A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty, Backseat Saints): People should buy your book not because it's good, but because your whole heart is in it.  And don't be afraid to let your characters go to dark places.  I'll admit, Joshilyn was my main draw. I've loved her work since I read the first page of Gods in Alabama years ago, and I totally have a writer crush on her now.  I've been reading her blog Faster Than Kudzu, for a while, and now that I've met her, I understand. Shes whimsical, slightly manic, and funny as hell.

And, as you can see, my new BFF. Or writing partner. In my DREAMS.  I can only hope that by standing so close to her I sucked up a few drops of her writing talent by some type of  author osmosis. (Hey, I could write a story about that...)  (And I look totally horrible in this picture, I blame it totally on the kind old guy behind me who snapped the shot without any time for me to stand up straight or position my arm properly. It's not that fat, I swear.)




Rachel Hauck (The Wedding Dress) Fiction is hyperbole, life on steroids, so yes, writers always take from real life.  Character inspirations, settings, and scenes are all around you — suck them up.


Marybeth Whalen (The Guest Book, She Makes It Look Easy) If it's a priority, you can make it happen. Marybeth has six kids, and still can balance the writing life and family life. I have no excuse. We live in a very visual society now; write it like you'd see it.

Neil S. Plakcy (the Mahu mystery series) I don't get mad at people anymore. I just kill them. (In his books, of course.)

Bob Morris (Baja Florida, Bahamarama) I like to put real peoples' names in books, just too see if they actually read them.

Ellen Hopkins (Crank, Perfect) Another reason no one should ban books, or consider certain books inappropriate for a certain age: it's better to let people, especially teens, learn about the bad things in life, the rough patches, through a book. It gives them a frame of reference, a way of coping with a difficult situation.  And every time (I) am told one of my books has been flagged as inappropriate, I send a stack of letters to that person, letters from fans stating how that book saved their life. I fight for it.



I caught author Karen White (who was charming, witty, and wonderful, but I neglected to take notes of any of her sage advice) signing an e-reader cover instead of an actual book. The wave of the paperless future?

 I had a wonderful, enlightening day.  I also managed to get scared out of my mind by my most-likely masochistic career choice.   I can only dream I'll be invited to attend one year as a published author myself.

And if not, I just discovered I SHOULD have applied to attend as a blogger. I totally missed an awesome Friday night meet and greet with the authors. Lesson learned, failure noted and accepted. I am taking notes.