The Shark has Officially Been Jumped (Alternately: How I almost killed myself at Barnes and Noble)

I'm going to share a secret with you guys: I've kind of always wanted to be a writer.  Like, for reals.  I even had a one time shining star moment in my single digit educational years when I pulled off some trophies and such for my "writing".  My creativity.  My unique je ne sais quoi - if you will.  Those days have clearly passed as my brain has been plundered by too much nonsense and filled with too many quotes from The Simpsons.  The only things I've managed to pull off in the realm of published work has been the world's most boring Master's Thesis (only quoted by a few poor students in China and likely an obligatory mention by the NPS), some articles for Jacksonville's Folio Weekly (thanks John for the opportunity! wave) and a rejection from Jane magazine (but only because they were closing their mag, holla! it's almost like I got published! They said they really liked my article... right?).  Even though I've had a rather blah writing existence, I still harbored hope that one day I'd have the fortitude and enough Vodka to pull off something that a few kindered spirits would read, come to love... and maybe purchase on their Kindle or something - or even just borrow from the library.  I harbor no delusions of NYTimes bestseller lists or any of that, really.  So I clung to my tiny hopes until an innocent trip to Barnes and Noble brought me to this:

What. The. Fuck.

Really?  REALLY?!  Hillary "songbird/actress/tween sensation" Freaking DUFF?!  Is now a published author?  Hello world?  Um, how is this fair?  Possible?  ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!  Now, don't get me wrong, I harbor no ill will towards the Duff.  I'm sure she's a very nice person, I mean that.  She's never made it onto my specific list of scorn or anything, but come on!   And the kicker?  The kicker is that it's apparent that Ms. Duff has found herself so inspired by the current (and hopefully flagging - because really?  if Hilary Duff is publishing in this theme, it's time for the literary world to MOVE ON.  Maybe compelling tales about secret Repbulican/Democrat lovers?  That's just about as likely as vampires, right?) paranormal/vampire/werewolf/things that go bump in the night - zeitgeist that she was so compelled to ink out her own tale.  I, of course, gathered this information from reading the cover only.  Now, not being a huge fan of the Twilight series (although I openly admit to having read them quickly while very pregnant and yearning for trashy escapism) I do not know this for sure, and do not want to risk infiltrating my computer and FBI traced cookie system to any websites that may likely contain what is probably thousands upon thousands of wannabe fanfiction excerpts - but a LOT of crap is getting penned.  There are THOUSANDS of people out there writing their little hearts out without a fly's chance in a honey factory of getting published.  I feel for them, and even though I have no interest in writing anything using somebody else's creations, I do give them credit for being inspired enough to actually put pixels to screen and write something.  Anything.  Even if it's crap.  Even if it's crap based on mind-boggling bad writing that somehow captured the imagination of much of the World's (mostly female) population.  *sigh.  Once again, I'm off an a tangent (hence the reason I am not a published author - although, James Joyce is the biggest tangential writer I've ever read, and yet somehow he continues to be considered brilliant... perhaps my deep loathing of his work is really a nefarious connection.  I am Joyce reincarnated! Or likely not).

So anyway, where am I going with all this.  Well, seeing the well meaning and likely hopeful budding author, Ms. Duff, with a stand at Barnes and Noble caused me great pause.  What the hell am I doing?  The thing is, I don't even know what kind of writing I'm even interested in putting out there.  I've got relative tomes on my laptop filled with craptastic prose.  At least Hilary actually DID something.  (I'm assuming she wrote this all by her self, of course, benefit of the doubt here...).  And, of course, being a celebrity, had no trouble finding someone to represent her.  Because, if you're a peon like moi, you will NEVER GET AN AGENT.  Just sayin'.  Even if you're Hemmingway.  But, I just like to whine about how I don't have time to get anything done, am too exhausted to finish the laundry and before I know it, it's ten o'clock and time for night night.

I read, A LOT.  Tons.  I'm really good at reading.  I should be a professional reader, I think.  I can speed read, retain a lot of information, and pass reading comprehension exams like I was the one who wrote it. I'm that good.  I'm a huge fan of Margaret Atwood, whose own brand of science fiction is chilling, disturbing, and highly engaging and thought provoking.  I love essayists like David Sedaris and I love me some trashy romance novels as well, (hellooooo Kindle!)  I love to read biographies about famous politicians wives.  I scour parenting books hoping for light bulbs to flash over my head with brilliant suggestions for not screwing up my kids.  I devour the Times and WSJ online, and I enjoy a good perusal through Tattler now and again, just to keep my hand in.  But how would I write?

Part of me has such a short attention span that I'm sure essays and short stories are the way to go.  But, the last thing I want to become is the poor man's David Sedaris.  You know, like Chelsea Handler (who, to be fair, can be pee your pants hilarious at times, but really, there's only so many tales of one woman's oft used vagina that I can take, you know?).  I've brewed up a few novellas, dabbling in weird Asimovian themes (much to my father's delight, I am sure), but they suck.  So, DELETE.  I've never been into poetry, so don't even suggest it.  Except for the occasional humorous Haiku, I'm pretty much the anti-poet.  I've considered children's books, but I use "like" and "fuck" too much.  I might accidentally slip something inappropriate in, and that would be tragic.  (Remember Carri Bradshaw suggesting her magic cigarette children's book to Big's ex wife?!  LMAO!)  I've considered screenplays and stage plays, but I'm too improv-oriented for that to be serious.  Plus, writing dialogue is a pain in the ass.

Where does this leave me?  Well, back where I am currently.  Sitting at my kitchen counter clacking away on my aging Macbook, sipping on some wine and squinting at the screen while thinking, "Jeez, I need to get some new glasses".  The Duffster's foray into tree murdering publications might have inspired this post, but really, this kind of thing is always on my mind.  What I'm not doing.  What I'm not doing that I wish I was doing.  And that, my four dear readers, is what this post is about.

So, well, I guess it just comes down to me, once again, doing what I do best.  Bitching about the world and not doing a damn thing to change it.

A little story, from yesterday.

In pictures.

Isla says, "I want to put shoe here" (points to foot)

Ronan offers his shoe putting on expertise

Sake is bored by this entire process

Eventually, the shoes are forgotten.

Totally Worth It.

It started happening again.  I thought I was too old for this crazy hormone skin craptastrophe (my word).  But apparently not.  As a *ahem* thirtysomething woman, mother of two, with a major cross country move in, oh, four days, my skin began to freak out.  In fact, I think it was direct 'brain-to-skin' communication: my brain - crazy, frazzled, stressed, blah... my skin - crazy, frazzled, stressed, blah.  There was a problem.

So, a few weeks back, about a month after all this began and my usual skin care regime was clearly not cutting the mustard - or, purifying the pores, what have you, I dragged my sorry epidermis to the local skin care source.  Sephora.  I meandered around with my little silver and black mesh basket.  Casually nodded to a few black clad "beauty experts" (um...hmmmm) and basically had no idea what to try.  Which $30 -$60 SLS free cleanser?  "They're probably all the same", I told myself.  It's all a gimmick.  I'm just as well off using Dial.  *boo hoo.  Woe is me*.   But then, there it was.  The Clarisonic Mia.  Just resting on the shelf, silently, yet urgently calling to me.  "Give me a try...you've read all the reviews...I'm worth it...".

I pondered.  I stood in front of it for quite some time (well, not too much time, my mother was feeding my kids soft pretzels just outside the shop, so I had to decide somewhat quickly).
Was this ridiculously expensive device that I had scoffed at for so long actually worth it?  Several weeks of craptastrophe skin basically decided for me.  It was worth a shot.  I was seriously desperate.  I put it in my little basket and collected my Beauty Insider points...

The first week...not much happened.  In fact, I actually noticed a few rather unsightly pimples form (but go away quickly - thank you two rounds of Accutane in HS!  Spots last only a few days if I get any! Woo!)  But the cloudy, lifeless texture of my skin began to transform.  One morning, after a minute of delightful washing with the Clarisonic... I noticed my skin looked "brighter".  Sort of like when I use a highlighting cream.  I smiled at my complexion for the first time in weeks.  "This is nice", I thought.  And since then, slowly, but surely, my skin is looking better and better.  The sand papery stressed out texture is becoming smoother.  The color, more even.

Now, I do sort of feel like a total sell out for basically reviewing a beauty product on my blog.  And trust me, no one is paying me.  But as someone who has rapidly allowed her personal care to nosedive from regular haircuts, pedicures, waxing, exercise, and the like, to usually remembering to floss, I think this is worth a mention in all things mom, and definitely a "favorite thing".  So yeah, I know it's actually Father's Day this weekend, but you know, while you're out, get yourself a little something nice too, you know?

One of those days

You know you are just having one of those days when all of the following happen at once: You are suffering from a crazy, immediate onset headache directly behind your left eye, while on the phone with the lady at the Thai Restaurant you are trying to order take out from, but you can't understand really what she's asking you and you just keep saying "Yes" and "Chicken" and then hope that whatever you actually DID order is tasty, all the while your 8 month old is furtively trying to shove dog food into her mouth and your two year old is standing on the trash can and you can smell that his diaper needs attention NOW and for whatever reason, you are still annoyed by the latest blog update from a newbie mom extolling the virtues of CIO and you find yourself wondering for the 103904983094823048th time if really, you shouldn't just do it, too, but then have the same gut feeling that it just isn't right for your family that you have every time you visit this thought. So... you mentally berate yourself again for letting the kids watch too much television, become melancholy that they both really really need hair cuts and loathe yourself once again for eating three more Reeses hearts after you were just complaining to your friend about your still squishy post partum belly.

But then, upstairs, while you are done changing your dear son's poopy diaper (the third!! that day) and you change your daughter's pants because they are wet from her having gotten ahold of your son's cup of water and dumping it all over the floor then proceeding to crawl through the subsequent puddle, you smell her head while putting on her socks and she smells like maple syrup (albeit due to the maple syrup flavored Gerber puffs she had been eating earlier - snack FAIL), and that maple syrup smell is sweet and pretty, and you are happy.

Update: So, my husband goes to pick up the Thai food, and here's the pick up transaction:

B: Picking up order...blah blah

Thai Restaurant Lady: Oh, so your wife called the order in.

B: Erm, yeah.

Thai Restaurant Lady: Why didn't she make you dinner?

I cannot believe I was judged by the Thai Restaurant Lady!

Oh, and instead of the Satay I ordered for Ronan, we got Pad Thai!