A Few on Friday

So I guess the bowl post touched a few nerves, eh?  That was one of those posts that demanded to be written.  The bowl broke, the interactions with the kids happened, and then it was like my outstretched hands led me all zombie-like to the laptop to quickly tap out a little essay. 

That was when I realized that writing is a lot like an addiction.  In fact, if you look up the "Signs and Symptoms of Alcoholism", just replace Drinking with Writing and it's actually kind of funny.  My favorite list is of course on my bookmarked website, WebMD.  If you want to have a little giggle, click here and then do the word-replacement thingie.  Or heck, replace it with whatever hobby/passion/coping mechanism you enjoy.  Like Words With Friends.  Or running.  Or scrapbooking.  Okay, I'll stop now. 

Disclaimer:  alcoholism is serious and not a laughing matter, of course. But the point is, I was so hypnotized with writing yesterday that I cut it kind of close getting to work.  I made it, of course, but still had words and sentences and images crowding my brain.  Took me a while to clear my head and get down to the business of playing with beautiful 4 year olds for the day.

I've been having some very interesting back and forth chatter (via email) with a bestselling, and amazingly talented, author.  Said author is giving me some seriously awesome words of wisdom and advice.  Said author would also no doubt deny ever knowing/talking to me if asked, so I'm going to keep the identity of said author private.  But one of the things they've shared with me, about writing, is that when you're first starting out, you have to be your own employee.  Like, you have to be your own agent, your own editor, your own publicist.  They told me that this is one time in your life when you can't sit back and kinda hope for, or wish for, or daydream about success.  They told me, "If you think what you produce is worthy of recognition then you have to be the one out there promoting yourself." 

Therein lies my conflict, and may possibly be what is holding me back from greater things:  I don't like to toot my own horn.  Do I like what I write?  I do, and I don't.  Sometimes I love it.  Sometimes, when I'm writing a post, I find myself crying but I'm not aware of it until a teardrop plops on the keyboard.  There are times, too, where I am disgusted with what I've written, and when I'm done reading the finished product I feel almost ashamed.  Like I did the other night when I made, and sadly also ate, Impossible Cheeseburger Pie. Please don't judge me.  We had all of the ingredients and honestly, my boys will inhale that kind of meal.  They get that from their father and his bizarre affection for Tater Tot Casserole.  Bleah.  But yes, that was me standing there in the kitchen, eating the edges of the Impossible Cheeseburger Pie like I do with pans of brownies.  Now excuse me while I go to WebMD and substitute Drinking with Eating.

But that's beside the point.  Point is, if I want my writing out there, I need to be the one spreading the news.  And that's hard for a wallflower like me.  (ha).  Really, though, I have some weird Midwestern modest passivity thing where I find it hard to brag, almost impossible to accept praise and accolades graciously.  So it pains me, almost physically, to ask people for help with anything, including something as innocuous as "Hey, take a look at what I've written, and tell me what you think". 

Apparently, though, that's what I need to be doing.  So if you see me standing there, with a horn in my hands and cheeks flushed, know that I'm trying really hard to toot that horn.  And if you want to help with the tooting, please spread the word.  If there's a post I've written that has really resonated with you, something that you think other people would like to read, go ahead and share it.  And here's the Minnesota Lutheran speaking:  Or don't share it!  Keep it to yourself, because I'll still be here clickety clacking away in the dark morning hours.  But I've received some amazing feedback, and the part of me that isn't swathed in insecurities and self-doubt would kind of like to see where we could take this.

That said, here's a few.  The kids need to get up and get going to we can get this Friday started, so it'll be brief, I promise.

1.  If you see me today, please avert your eyes from the tiny red spot on my nose.  The other day I noticed a little spot there, and as I leaned forward towards the bathroom mirror, I gave it a little poke.  A little squeeze.  And apparently that little red spot is directly connected to an artery, because I bled like a mother-effer for a good half hour.  Seriously.  Like, I had to stick a tissue on my nose like the men do with shaving cuts.  That was hot.  Anyhoo..the only scar from that bloodbath is a tiny red spot on my nose.  But it reminds me of that Seinfeld episode, where George bought the cashmere sweater for Elaine.  The one that was deeply discounted because of the tiny red dot on it.  George was all, "Nobody will notice it."  But everyone did.  And that's how I feel about my spotted nose.  So please, to quote Megan from Bridesmaids, as she was perched upon the sink dispensing of her food poisoned innards, "LOOK AWAY."

 God, I love that movie. 


2.  Note to the manufacturer of Moroccan Oil:  You need to put a little note (or for those of us who can no longer see, a big note) on your bottles warning customers about the damage your admittedly awesome product can cause to clothing!  My friend Kelly sent me a swag bag of Moroccan Oil products at Christmas time last year, and it is truly the only product I have found that will tame my frizzy hair.  No, it doesn't give me soft, bouncing ringlets or waves, but it does make my hair less sharp and dangerous.  I don't have strands of hair, people. I have stalks of hair.  But I put this oil on, every morning after my shower (can I tell you how working every day has improved my personal hygiene routine??).  Yesterday when I got to work I looked in the mirror and noticed a big splotchy blob on the front of my shirt, where my wet hair falls after I get dressed.  It looked for all the world as though I had barfed on myself en route to work, and then scraped it off in the parking lot.  I was sad.  Now I am more careful, and today I am wearing one of my giant t-shirts until my hair dries.  But you've been warned.  And by the way, Kelly??  I am now addicted to this stuff.  I just ran out of the cream and am picking up a new bottle ASAP.  THANK YOU!

That's all I have right now, people.  Time to boil an egg for breakfast and then ease on down the road. 

Happy Friday, my friends!  Be safe and be kind.