Triple Pooper

(What? Two posts in one day???)

First, Lila dropped one on the floor behind the play house in her bedroom - in a moment of unsupervised naked-time while I was on the phone.

It's cool. I have two kids, I left her in only a diaper to answer the phone. My bad. I get it.

Second, The Boss man decides to fore go using the potty in favor of stinking up his pants, screaming all the way to the bathroom and then pitching a fit when I put him in the shower - not even as a form of punishment, but as a cold hard reality - if you get poop all over yourself, you will need to be cleansed.

Third, I take a walk (if only to get away momentarily from the feces flying in my house) to check the mail, and find my thin little self-addressed stamped envelope. The one I sent off with my short story manuscript two months ago. Of course, it would've been far too easy for it to have worked out so smoothly, and I am really happy that they even asked to read the thing in its entirety in the first place. But still. It's poop.

Things

I'm telling myself that I'm not going to cry.

Again.

I'm caught in a slow moving circle, every few hours feeling weighed down, pressing myself against the sobs, mostly managing to hold it in.

They beat me last night and I choked on my own tears, buried my face in the blanket.

Today has been better. Cried only once. Mostly I've been feeling the swollen pit of it in my stomach, turning sick with this weight, this worry, this anger. This sadness. But I only cried once. And that was only because I talked about it. Thought I could make it without my lip wobbling. But I couldn't.

Our world as we've known it has shifted, been pulled out from beneath us and left me grasping for anything for comfort. I've been telling myself that it's only an inconvenience, not a tragedy. And that the ache I'm feeling is that of change, of being forced out of a comfortable place, and not because it's the end of anything that really matters.

I tell myself these things: At least we have our health. At least we have our children and their health. At least we have family and a home and each other.

At least, at least, at least.

I didn't come here to tell the story again, I'm weary of repeating it, weary of it repeating itself over and over in my mind, feeling it hard and throbbing in my gut. I simply needed to come here for myself. To vent. To feel for a moment connected to something comfortable, something that I'm not letting go of.

I'm here because I'm exhausted and want to scream into ocean, let go of this burden, throw it out to sea and reel back in whatever is waiting to take its place.

But it's October in New England. And the ocean is a long cold drive away.

Sigh

I don't read Redbook magazine. And I am aware that this sort of editing and photoshopping is the standard on, I suppose now, all of the covers that are displayed in all their glossy glory at supermarket checkout lines across the country. But, it's because Redbook has been the sort of magazine I associated with middle aged housewives, as opposed to anorexic fashionista wannabe's, that this particular cover photo caught my eye:

I followed the internet trail to the website where it originated and was simply aghast. The larger flashing image between before and after shows in stunning clarity how much work was put into making an already beautiful woman look like an uber-slim, overly made-up bizzaro being. There is even a laundry list of the specific changes made (ahem - arms drawn in, hair added, hand removed, to name a few...)

(A small warning though, the language at this site is, at times, offensive.)

Um, No Thank You?

While searching for organizations that sponsor Walk-for-a-Cure type events, I was brought to what looked like a page of general cancer-fund raising information...and then I scrolled down and happened to glance at the google-advertisements on the right.

Ever the bargain shopper, this one really caught my eye:

"Save up to 50% on Cancer. Search over 15,000 sites with one click."

Um...I think I'll pass, thank you very much.

On My Mind...

Let's play a game called Where in the World is Mella's Thesis?

According to the reader reviewing it, whom I emailed on Tuesday: My thesis was received, read, and is "very well done." It is not, however, in my mailbox yet. It was due back to me on Monday so that I might have, say a day or two to revise it before getting it bound and shipped to the department chair for is final review, less than a week from today. Have I mentioned I haven't even received it back yet?

Another thing on my mind? The specks of mouse droppings that I found in my silverware drawer this afternoon. Seriously. Sure, my son may not be potty trained yet, but at least even he knows that it's not polite to do his business on someones eating utensils.

The mouse had been caught by the time I returned from work tonight - but still. Ew. Ew. Ew.

Also, I'm spending a lot of time thinking ahead. To life after graduation. This is mostly inspired by two things:
A) Family and friends asking, repeatedly, So, what are you going to do with your degree?

And

B) Sallie Mae sending me bills reminding me that I will soon be returning to my previous state of sending her slices of my paycheck for the next decade or more, thus I need to start making more money.

Unfortunately, writing short stories isn't exactly lucrative.

And so, the big plan is to go back and rewrite, revise, and finish Revising Grace (which may or may not even be the title when I'm through) - finally.

In other writing news, I did finally hear back from the one very predictable "no" market that I submitted to. And, yes, it was a pleasant, though form, "No" - which is fine. It's the other's who have had my work for quite a bit longer, yet haven't responded, those are the ones bothering me.

There are other things on my mind, things much too large for this scattered-brain post.

They'll have to wait.

Anxiety

Lately, I've started feeling exposed.

More so, dread. A fist in my stomach. Anxious - but without provocation.

Driving home from a perfectly enjoyable evening with friends, my mind will start filtering through the conversations of the evening - things I said, how I responded to things other's said - and I start flipping through mental images of myself, trying to reconstruct in my mind, whatever folly I must have committed to feel such a sudden rush of embarrassment, that horrible swell from your stomach, like after you've crammed your foot in your mouth.

But as I said, it's without provocation. Logical Mella knows that she didn't say or do anything to warrant feeling like an idiot. Yet I do.

Same goes for writing, lately. Shortly after the whole Family Circle debut, I started to get waves of nausea at the very thought of people reading that story. I still haven't been able to pick up a copy of the magazine and read anything aside from the judges comments or the editor's note. And since then, I've begun to go through inner monologues after submitting work to other magazines. And, even after posting things here or on my other blogs. I contemplate taking down The Stealing Season all together. Simply because it's a place where I'm vulnerable. Exposed.

I'll probably think of this post on my drive home tonight and discuss with myself whether or not I should've posted it. If I should take it down.

Run. Hide. Squeeze my eyes closed and pretend that the world can't see me if I can't see it. (Oh, if only that were as true as my little Boss-man thinks it is...)

This can't be normal. These waves of anxiety. Perhaps, they're related to stress, to finishing things with my MFA, to graduating again into an unknown future. Or, maybe it's a fear of failure as I begin to submit work elsewhere - my stomach ties itself in preemptive knots, awaiting the rejection letter or email to come (as the little devil on my shoulder tells me it surely will.)

But, I do wonder if this is more than self-doubt or stress. And while I'm thankful that for the time being, I'm still listening to the logical side of myself, the one who assures me, they're not all going to laugh at me - And that, no, I'm not a blathering imbecile. It's still not a good feeling, this whole pit-in-your-stomach, state of constant fretting.

And on that note, I'm off to see my comforting, don't-take-yourself-so-seriously husband who always seems to be able to untie my knots, one way or another.

Gasp

Coming up for air. I've spent the better part of my morning at work sneaking word documents and typing feverishly.

The trouble is, the two final stories to be added to the collection are longer than I'd anticipated, and each has been written in drips and drabs, then cut and pasted and filled in and cut out and then re-cut and re-pasted and re-smoothed - so much so that now, I'm bleary-eyed and can't figure out (nor am I even able to read another word) if they even make sense at this point. What I need is a month to put them both aside, read some good literary short stories, clear my head, maybe write another completely unrelated quickie, and THEN return to re-read and revise these two.

Unfortunately, time is not on my side, and I'm reaching a point where the director of the MFA's words keep whispering to me "your thesis is a thesis - if you're going to continue growing as an artist, it's something you'll back on in ten years and probably see as garbage." Which is somewhat comforting. Except, I'd like for it to be good, at least, good enough for now. Good enough that I can let it go and move on.

I need another brain, one that isn't filled with these character's back stories. I need that brain to read these stories and tell me what they're missing (if anything), if they're confusing, if they're even sequentially in order enough to be a part of a draft of a thesis, or if I need to go back to square one...er, page one.

So, anyone know any good brains for sale? (Preferably ones that enjoy reading grad student fictional drabble?)

And, back I go...

Unfortunate Events...

You know how it is. You turn your back for one minute, to make some coffee, run to the bathroom, maybe blow your nose, you know, something quick and simple - and this happens:

And so you then put the culprit in lockdown for a few minutes, not as a punishment, but so that you can clean up the mess that has been made...only to walk in ten minutes later to find him pantless with poop everywhere, standing on top of a (poop smeared) toychest reaching a dirty finger toward the lightswitch.

(You can thank me for not taking pictures of the latter scenario...)