Forced write numero dos.

I don't feel like writing. At all. But I have been on a roll lately and it only seems right that I continue the trend, whether I want to or not. I was totally sick last night, barf and all. If it weren't for the fact there are 4 1/2 weeks left and I am out of days and it would have cost me like $240 to be gone.... I would have totally stayed home. Ginger Ale and Zofran were by bffs today. I was pissed when I went to get Ginger Ale number 2 from the teacher's lounge today, only to realize some ass hole drank part of it and put it back in the fridge. I am totally making a fridge sign for tomorrow that reads: "Dear darling one who thought it was neccessary to steal and consume *part* of my ginger ale then place it back in the fridge, The soda you steal today, could be laced with Ex-Lax tomorrow. Be nice. heart, Karma." I'm attempting a delightful straight veggie salad with a vegan dressing tonight to see if it is nice to my system. I need a weekend, a day off, and a serious nap.

Tis nothing but a shitty first draft.

This caught my attention today.... my bff 4/E tagged me in this diddy she found on Facebook. It comes from the glorious Anne Lamot. Her book Bird by Bird is amazing... the first chapter, "Shitty First Drafts" makes the even novice writer hopeful they will be Pulitzer material someday. After all... that's where we all start. She says, in all her brilliance:

"Anne Lamott

I had a great idea for a new book, although come to think of it, maybe it is just a Facebook post. But it would be called Pre First Draft, and address the way we suit up and show up to be writers, artists, and general tribal-two-stomp creative types.

I think it would begin with an admonition: if you used to love writing, painting, dancing, singing, whatever, but you stopped doing it when you had kids or began a strenuous career, then you have to ask yourself if you are okay about not doing it anymore.

If you always dreamed of writing a novel or a memoir, and you used to love to write, and were pretty good at it, will it break your heart if it turns out you never got around to it? If you wake up one day at eighty, will you feel nonchalant that something always took precedence over a daily commitment to discovering your creative spirit?

If not--if this very thought fills you with regret--then what are you waiting for?

Back in the days when I had writing students, they used to spend half their time explaining to me why it was too hard to get around to writing every day, but how once this or that happens--they retired, or their last kid moved out--they could get to work.

I use to say very nicely, "That's very nice; but it's a total crock. There will never be a good time to write. It will never be easier. If you won't find an hour a day now, you won't find it then."

It's the same belief as thinking that once you lose weight, you'll begin to feel good about yourself. No, you won't. If you're not okay with yourself at 185 pounds, you're not going to be okay at 140. It's an inside job.

How do you begin? The answer is simple: you decide to. Then you push back your sleeves and start writing--I.e., scribbling words down on paper, or typing at a computer. And it will be completely awful. It will be unreadable shit! You won't have a clue how it account to anything, ever. And to that, I say, Welcome. That's what it's like to be a writer. But you just do it anyway. At my church, we sing a gospel song called, "Hallelujah anyway." Everything's a mess, and you're going down the tubes financially, and gaining weight? Well, Hallelujah anyway.

So you decide to get back to work creatively, and you write up some thoughts or passages or memories or scenes. Then what? Then you write some more. Everywhere you go, you carry a pen, and take notes--ideas will start to come to you. You'll see and overhear and remember things that you want to include in this mysterious quilt you're putting together, so you jot them down. Imagine a rag-bag guy who lives inside you, who collects images, descriptions, holy moments, snippets of funny conversation, for you to use in your writing--but he doesn't have any hands, and needs you to help him amass the rags with which you can make squares for the quilt.

That's all you have to do today: pay attention--being a writer is about paying attention. Stop hitting the snooze button. Carry a pen with you everywhere, or else God will give me all these insights and images that were supposed to go to you. Hang up a shingle on the inside of you: now open for business. Wow! You won't have to wake up at 70, aching with regret that you threw your creative essence under the bus. And if you already are seventy, then you won't have to wake up at eighty, confused and in despair about how you let your gift slip away. Because you will have been writing--or dancing again, or practicing recorder--every single glorious, livelong, weird, amazing day."

 so here I am... 3 months later. I have tons of drafts of posts lined up in this thing... but for a reason or another they didn't get posted. I am making my spring annual trip to "the bad place". What that means for those that have never been there is that I would rather just hole up in a cave in my pajamas and eat Golden Chick rolls and pepsi until I vomit-- than have to deal with real life. It is kind of a depression that hits me straight in the lady balls year after year after a culmination of school stress and.... well, real life. Imagine if 400 channels were constantly playing in your head all at one time, and your remote was broken so you couldn't mute any of them. Sucks huh? Hoping it will all go away soon-- just in time for summer. Well, until that roll and Pepsi shipment comes with my cashmere jammies and cave reservation, i'll keep truckin.

Cue the awkward turtle swimming by...

It's 8:15, do you know where your husband is? Yep. Mine is assisting coaching a basketball game, and I am not there. ASSISTING. It's weird to think of him as just an assistant coach, when our whole married existence he has been a head coach of his own basketball program. I also feel lost because I am not assuming my position behind the bench smiling as he looks back at me with his eyes saying, "What the F was that?!? Did you see that call? I am about 2.5 from throwing this clipboard at a ref..." I am not sure how I feel about the oh so many changes swirling about. I love our son with all my being, and being home with him right now is the absolute right thing in the world... but I can't help but miss the feeling of hardwood on my butt from sitting in the bleachers of a basketball gym. We'll get our shot here in a few weeks when a home game comes around. I will be excited to get to show Jax the ropes of basketball game watching. Maybe i'll teach him a few cheers along the way.... I used to be a cheer coach in my past life too. Did you know that?

By the way.... did you notice I am writing? I need to get in the habit of doing it more often. 9 months of Jaxon's life has gone by, and I have done a horrid job of cataloging it. Just awful. I bought the coolest baby book I could find, with all kinds of places to write things down. Guess when the last time I wrote in it was?..... yep. His 2 week check up. IN FEBRUARY. I get a little P-O'd when people tell me "Girl! You have a baby, it's all good! Things like that happen..." Yeah. They do... but too many things are 'happening' and I am not sure how I feel about being ok with my life just crumbling out from under me! Try these on for size:

1. My house MOST of the time looks like something straight up out of Hoarders. No lie. There have been dishes in my sink since Sunday night. THey are still there.... they may still be there tonight, because I am too tired to even think of fooling with them.

2. My bedroom has gone from Sanctuary to insane asylum. It is floor to ceiling of crap. Mostly laundry in different phases of life.... dirty, clean, and questionable.

3. I can't remember the last time I wore make up.

4. I can't remember the last time I cooked a meal for my husband that didn't involve a microwave or something pre packaged.

5. I've used a good majority of my birthday money on Starbucks because I don't have time to eat breakfast and can't afford to stop there every morning otherwise... seeing my barista Deeanne (yes... we know each other) makes me smile. There's a new guy though in the mornings, and he gets on my nerves... and he doesn't know my name... AND he can't pronounce Caramel Brulee Latte. Or when I ask for a triple grande, he has to get clarification on what I mean.... and he doesn't understand that a Venti Ice water means the big cup... not the little cup.

6. I don't know what it means to exercise unless I pick up my child.

7. I eat bad food, because it makes me happy, and because I am busy.

8. I cry inside every time I have to go to school because I drive an hour to there and an hour home and I miss out on time with my son.

9. I cry again because my students are horrid and I can't afford to be a stay at home mom with a little boy I really want to see... because I see him less hours a week than the "other" kids...

10. I am sucking real bad at the little things that mean a lot (ahem... lesson plans) at work. I never used to be late in turning in lesson plans, or showing up for or remembering duty. It doesn't matter what time I leave my house... and I usually leave around 6:30 in the morning... I still don't get to school until about 8.

11. I can't manage to get ahead in any aspect of life.

Is this normal? I am sure it is... and I know someone is going to tell me it gets better... but when? I'd like the pipe dream i'm chasing to come true. Maybe I should just take that money going to coffee and start buying scratch offs.

Did I mention I am writing again? It's kind of a big deal... I like it a lot. a real whole lot....

It's also my BFFs birthday this week. I probably won't get to see her. That's another story. I miss her like crazy. I have realized lately just how lost I really am without her guiding me along. Maybe that's why I suck so bad this year as a teacher? I've had to completely go solo without my safety net.

So the random blabbing this is turning into is my cue to push publish and call it a night. Hopefully my darling son will sleep in his crib the whole night... as much as I LOVE him snuggling in between me and daddy at night, I would like some normalcy back. Just a little. Do I sound like a whiney grump yet? Maybe I need some wine to stop whining. Ugh.... Thanksgiving break, are you here yet?