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Here’s the pitch…

Posted on July 1, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I was going to throw up.

I was surprised it hadn’t happened already. For over a month I had been working up to it; filled with a mild anxiety that I shoved to the back of my brain, but this morning there was no pushing it down as it churned my stomach and rose to my throat. I was going to vomit on the first day of my Pitch the Novel writing conference. All I could do was bring gum and hope it didn’t hit my shoes or anyone else.

I don’t know what I was thinking signing up for a conference where the sole purpose was to put yourself center stage and sell your novel. My heart flutters just waiting to introduce myself in a group. Yet, in a moment of poor impulse control coupled with new midlife bravado, I hastily pushed send on my application and doomed myself to a month of indigestion and second guessing.

And now, it was here.

My husband had taken the next few days off so that I could attend, and he and the boys were dropping me at the train; the one he usually took to the office. “We’re a family of pitchers,” he said, ever the coach, “Now go get em.” I smiled but still waved goodbye like I was heading off to war.

Walking on shaky, stilted legs to the platform, I felt so out of practice for being a real adult. Yet I fooled everyone by sitting down and staring at my cell phone mindlessly. Monkey see, monkey do.  What can I say? Eee Eee Eeee.

Forty-two minutes later, I stepped out of Penn Station and looked around excitedly at the blur of the faceless and the colorful, the purposeful and purposeless. It may only be a short train ride, but I was a long way from the person who used to walk these streets. I muscled up some lost swagger, straightened my sunglasses and only tripped once as I strode to the conference building where around 50 or so others loitered. Taking a deep breath that may as well have been filled with helium, I waited.

After introductions, we were split into three groups and I filed into a room with 16 others.  It was central casting for farm girls off the bus in the big city.  Still, though our wide-eyed expressions were the same, we were quite the hodgepodge; our ages ranging from 20’s-60’s, our races and backgrounds as diverse as the stories we were telling. We were the women’s fiction/memoir group. Many in the room had traveled a long distance to attend this conference. I felt a little lucky and guilty that I had easily hopped the 8:08 for our 9am start.

Our group leader, author Susan Breen, a kind woman and former success story of the conference, explained that we would each pitch our novel for feedback and critique from the group, then she asked us to turn the chairs in a circle. Ugh. Why did people like that?  But of course, I turned my chair and we all faced each other expectantly.

While this was our practice day before meeting with the real editors, putting myself center stage and pitching wasn’t practice for me, it was go time. I sweat in my chair just watching the first person take the hot seat. I guess she did okay. It was hard to concentrate with the light pounding in my head and heart palpitations.

I was up next.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

I was going to throw up.

algonkian

 

 

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Dear Writers,

Posted on May 28, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m in deep.

Can’t sleep, can’t eat… as much, can’t focus on anything else. I’m going to bed well after midnight and waking up by 4:30am raring to go, excited to get back to my hard uncomfortable computer seat and write and edit, hone and cut and fix.

My butt is numb half the time but I barely notice. I’m writing and I’m in love… with my characters, with the process, with creating something outside of myself.

I’m so tired, but like my character who has started a passionate affair that is as good for her as it is bad, neither of us can stop. We are addicted.

It has always been this way for me; whether writing bad teenage poetry, heartfelt essays, journals on my children’s journey to life or longer works of fiction, when I’m in, I’m in. I love that moment when you realize something great is happening, your story is evolving and you’re into the action. You may be writing it, but you can’t wait to find out what happens next.

It’s a genuine gift to enjoy the process of writing; the agony, the thrill, the total obsessive consumption that has you by the balls and keeps squeezing no matter how many gives you say.

Yet it’s totally reclusive and really the height of narcissism. Apparently, I prefer to just hang out with the thoughts in my head, the stories and people of my own creation than do anything else. What is more alienating and totally self-absorbed than that?

But there’s always a rub. You’d like to hope that if you spend so much time writing, you would actually do it well. But there’s no guarantee of that at all. To enjoy the process is gift enough but to actually expect to be talented? To have enough writing chops to rise above? Well, that’s just arrogance, stupidity, and a necessary aspiration.

Because tangled in all the insecurity and dedication, the loving and the hating is the hope that one day you just might hit on something good enough to rate. Something that will give others a moment of enjoyment or a secret thrill; will keep them on their toes, at the edge of their seats, reaching for tissues or whatever emotion you’re trying to convey.

Because a writer wants readers, needs them, and we also want our work to be recognized. You can’t sit for that many hours, days, weeks, months by yourself and then not crave worldwide domination, I mean some peer recognition. Not just your mother or your friends nodding and clapping – although where would we be without those claps and nods? – but the writing community; which if you’re relatively unpublished translates to an editor or an agent, and of course worldwide domination.

But no matter about that. It’s the carrot on the stick before us, a hope, a pipe dream, but onward we charge because we need to write. There is no other choice.

We are in deep.

book

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Writing from memory when your memory sucks

Posted on April 30, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I may have discovered a stumbling block to my writing endeavors. It’s my memory, which kind of sucks. I swear, I can’t tell you all the things I’ve forgotten.

Seriously, I can’t.

Recently I was getting excited about an idea I had to write a book of essays on my father, organized semi chronologically through afflictions. Chapter one: Alcoholism or My father is a floor mat. Chapter 2: C is for Cancer. Chapter 3: Drugs are fun! Hey, let’s do them all! Chapter 4: Back operations and body casts. Chapter 5: Paranoia, anxiety, depression, oh my. Chapter 6: Holy shit, what happened to your colon? Chapter 7: I’ve fallen and I somehow manage to get up to do it again and again and again…Chapter 8: Is that a pain pump, or are you just happy to see me?

Now I know you’re just dying to read what will clearly turn out to be the feel good book of the summer, but the problem is that when I go over it all in my mind, it just lumps together into a pile of suffering; a giant of tumor of addictions and ailments. Which came first the back operation or the depression, the drugs or the pain? I can’t remember specifics. Was the heart attack 1996 or 1997?

So how can I write about it honestly when I can’t even really remember it? Can that be considered creative non-fiction – me flubbing the details but nailing the emotion?  Maybe, but I don’t think so.

That’s why I used to only write fiction. Fiction is fabulous. You don’t know something, you make it up! Well, maybe not if you write historical fiction or technical stuff, but generally, in fiction your imagination is your memory.

Wouldn’t it be great if you could do that in real life? Damn, I can’t find the keys… why they’re right there on the table, silly. Nervous about a job interview, well don’t be, you’re going to nail it. Not in the mood to make dinner, you’re so lucky, your spontaneous, amazing husband is about to walk in early with take-out from your favorite restaurant.

Having the power to create a story is such a gift, but somewhere during the creation you have to give up some of that power as well. You go in thinking your character is going to rob a bank or betray a friend, but then the characters take on a life of their own and all of sudden, you’re not making all the decisions, they are. There’s no relying on memory; you just need to choose from as many paths as your creativity and your characters allow. If it’s true for the storyline, it’s true.

So given my limitations, I’m not really sure how to proceed on the project regarding my father, or whether I should proceed at all. Of course even with non-memory challenged people, there’s still selective memory and varied perspectives to contend with. We really do create a lot of our past according to our emotional recollection and not necessarily what actually happened or when, so maybe there is a case for my version of truth.

I should probably just go back and edit my most recent manuscript of sex and betrayal in the suburbs. It’s a whole lot lighter and sometimes reality is really not as good as the reality you create in fiction.

Now, if I can just remember where I put those pages…

 

Yup, last place I'd expect them.

Yup, exactly where you’d expect a manuscript to be – on the floor in the corner, of course.

 

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Good Enough! vs Good Enough?

Posted on April 8, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

When I’m in one of my gym classes, I can’t help but assess the assets in front of me. I size them up. Not to judge them in any way. It’s not about them at all. It’s about me. It’s about how I stack up.

Almost always I’m on the losing end of my self-assessment. No matter if I’m at my heaviest or at my most fit, I’m never good enough.

I’ve done this for as long I can remember. As a teen, I remember myself as the cute girl’s side kick; my best friend was really the one to want. I was always smart but never remarkably so, if you ask me.

20 years later and I haven’t changed. When I make cupcakes for my kids, I’ll always nod semi-approvingly and say, “They may not be so pretty, but they work.” When I put on a pair of favorite jeans, the best I can manage is, “They don’t look terrible.” When I size up those behinds in front me, I’m always shaking my head and accepting that while I could look worse, I don’t look all that good either.

Even with my latest manuscript, I have a very difficult time just admitting I think it’s good. If you ask me about it, I’ll first need to go through a bunch of hedging… “It’s not the same kind of writing as my essays… It’s just an easy beach read… It’s not going to win any awards or anything…”

Why do I undersell myself every chance I get? How can I expect anyone to take me seriously when I can’t even take myself seriously?

I’m always in awe of the people around me who possess the confidence to sell themselves. I remember at work watching guys march in and strut their stuff. Generally I never thought their ideas were any better than mine – often I didn’t think much of them at all; but they walked the walk, while I slouched and stumbled.  They believed in themselves, while I always felt a bit like a fake.

Yet, day in and day out, I sit here and type away my thoughts, my stories, my life. And almost every day, I’m at that gym working my tail off, although mostly it stays on. I must think it’s worth something; I must think I’m worth something to keep at it.

And I guess I do. I mean, I do.

But admitting that puts all sorts of expectations out there. If I told people my book was great would they agree or be disappointed? I couldn’t stand the disappointment.

I read posts on Facebook by bloggers who confidently say things like, “I’ve written this really important piece that we need to be talking about.” And I’m fascinated. How do they say that about their own work? How do they put themselves on such a high level? Not only is their work ‘important’, but we, as a general population, should be discussing it?

Sometimes it makes me roll my eyes, embarrassed by their self-serving assertions, and other times I’m beyond impressed. Go them, I think. Kind of like when I first watched Lena doing her naked all over TV thing.

Like my grandmother would say, “No one’s gonna toot your horn but you.”

I think I need to start trusting myself and my talents. I need to start thinking that I am really good and worthy and deserve success. I mean, I’m smart, I’m funny and gosh darn it, people like me.

It’s true.

Now I’ve just got to believe it.

toot toot

Toot

 

 

 

61 Comments

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Accepting rejection and eating the cookie crumbles

Posted on February 25, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I was trying to corral the kids into the kitchen for lunch when I heard the shuffle of heavy feet and the clank of metal on my front porch. I glanced out the front door window in time to see my mailman already trudging back down my walkway to his truck. A large manila envelope jutted conspicuously from my box.

I paid it little mind. There were kids ignoring me and grilled cheese burning; the yellow already darkening into a nice crisp brown that no one would eat but me. Removing it, I slid another slice of cheese onto a fresh piece of bread and placed it in the toaster. I had already used the skillet to make eggs this morning; there would be no buttery pan-fried grilled cheese until I did the dishes.

As I absently peeled and sliced apples, placing the scoffed at skin in my mouth, I wondered about the package. Had I ordered something from the Gap? Amazon? I couldn’t remember. I did order cookies, but that came in a box from UPS. What could it…

Oh.

It was what I had been waiting for, for over a month. Only, I knew before even opening it that it wouldn’t be what I had hoped. The envelope was too thick. In fact, if it had been good news there wouldn’t be an envelope shoved in my mailbox at all. It would be a phone call.

I finished making the kids’ lunch; ignoring their whiny pleas for more milk and attention and anxiously retrieved the package. It held the weight of hundreds of pages of devotion and hard work, of many late nights and early mornings blissfully obsessed.

Normally, I’d leave the envelope on the dining room table and stare it down for a few hours; building up the negativity in my head, making it real, understanding it, while still somehow holding out the hope in my heart that it wasn’t true. That it was in fact just protocol to return a manuscript along with a glowing letter of acceptance.

Impulsively, I ripped open the package. Then, breathing deeply, I gave myself a minute to process.

It was exactly as I expected. Rejection.

I had a flashback of my younger self in the exact same position. Different house, less wrinkles, eyes wider, but yes, me, holding another heavy yellow envelope to the same unfortunate end.

I sighed with disappointment, and then sucked it in and up.

“Anyone want more grilled cheese?” I asked, returning to my real life; the noisy kitchen, the dishes in the sink. Who needs legitimacy and acceptance? Who needs dreams realized? I was needed right here and right now.

Three animated little faces completely ignored me.

“Um, boys?

I watched them chewing their sandwiches, talking over one another, my youngest practically standing on his chair in his inability to contain his energy. It was like I didn’t even exist.

It was too much.

“Who wants cookies?” I blurted out suddenly and all three faces snapped to attention.

“Cookies!” They chanted merrily and my youngest ran over to hug around my legs. My other boys joined in and soon we were one clump of bodies jumping gleefully.

Finally, I was feeling some love.

And it was a good thing because I was about to cry.

rejected2

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A review of books and parenting

Posted on August 15, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Okay, so I’m a week or two, or three, over deadline, but the last challenge in the 31 days to a Better Blog over at Yeah Write was to write a review. Even though I’ve never written a review, I’ve recently read some pretty good books, so I figured, why not? And because I’m quite the multi-tasker, I thought I’d try a double review, of both books and my parenting skills.

How do those things tie together you wonder? Let me introduce you to my rating system.

1 star – I’m making fresh dinners, playing ball with the kids on the lawn, going bike riding, etc… Book? What book? Oh, right… that thing in my bag getting covered in cookie crumbs and marks from loose crayons.

2 stars – Kids and I are running and playing. The book comes out randomly while waiting for kids to finish up whatever they are doing. Still rather watch Housewives.

3 stars – I’m reading while pretending to watch kids play on lawn. Here’s an iTouch, kid, now go away. We’re out for pizza dinner, where I read and ignore their antics, oblivious to any dirty looks.

4 stars – Hiding in bathroom to finish chapter. Will fix your boo boo after I finish my page. Here’s some scissors, go play outside. How annoying, you want to eat? Fine. Humph! Sure watch TV all night. Just don’t bother me, I’m reading.

Now that you know the system, here’s a review of the last four books I’ve read.

I just finished Plan B by Jonathan Tropper. Tropper wrote, This is where I leave you, one of my favorite reads, certainly of last year – or it may have been the year before that, who could tell with how fast these years fly. It may even make my all-time top 10, although I’d really have to give that some more thought. Anyway, total Tropper voice in a likable ensemble, only he’s 30 years-old and having an identity crisis… Who am i? What am I doing with my life? Whine, whine. Filled with fun, 80’s references and easy to read, but lacking the depth, heartbreak and hilarity of This is where I leave you. Plan B gets a B –  2 ½ stars.

Me Before You by Jojo Moyes. I picked this book up because I read somewhere that Anne Lamott recommended it. And truly, since reading Bird By Bird decades back, I will read whatever Anne writes and I will read whatever Anne recommends. I still fondly recall being so inspired by that book, I’d run to my desk early to ignore my work and write. Ah, those were the days.

Me Before You is the story of a quadriplegic who wants to die and his caretaker who has no life. Sounds depressing, but it’s actually not heavy handed and I was completely sucked in. So sucked in that for the three nights it took me to finish, my kids had cereal and milk and apples for dinner. Which is way better than when I was reading the Hunger Games, because no one ate during the 18 hours it took me to finish that book. Me Before You – 3 1/2 stars.

Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight is about a mother trying to piece together the details surrounding her daughter’s unexpected death by retracing her last days on social media. Once I started, I was hooked. Reminiscent of Gone Girl in the suspenseful pacing, and changing perspectives, just not as psychotic or as good. A great summer read, even after summer. Solid 3 stars.

Starring Jules by Beth Ain. Yep, it’s a children’s book. This charming story about a feisty 2nd grader preparing for an audition for a mouthwash commercial completely captures youth in all its nervous hopefulness. From navigating friendship to conquering your fears, Jules voice is so truly, precociously eight, you can’t help but love her and root for her. What made this book even better was that I could enjoy it with my kids, so I couldn’t ignore them at all, thus placing its rating completely off the charts.

So what I’ve learned here is that unless you’re reading together, good books mean bad parenting. But that hasn’t deterred me. Hopefully, my kids will see how much I love books, then someday they will ignore their own children. A parent can only hope. books

 

 

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Writing Wrongs

Posted on May 23, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

For my whole life, writing  has been part of who I am.

I wrote poetry in my youth; yearning, emotional verses mostly about boys, but also about my feelings. Genius like,

Why
only troubled souls become writers.
Laughter.
Those who can’t deal with the real.
Deep, despondent hermits
Why didn’t my mother like me
Why didn’t my father listen
Laughter.
One face
two face
my kidney on my face
my heart in my fingers
Laughter.
All the world’s a stage
so put on a happy face.

Yep, I wrote that, decades ago. I know you’re amazed by my depth, right? Can’t you just feel the kidney on your face? Bahaha!

Sadly for the world of poetry, I moved on to  sexy, fun novels with a bit a danger and mystery. Think Sydney Sheldon mixed with Danielle Steele. In one, the main character was stunning and incredibly smart with a striking, yet highly glorified, resemblance to the person who wrote her. I took those rejections quite personally.

For my short, undistinguished yet entertaining career, I worked as an advertising copywriter selling glamorous commodities like moisturizer and headache medicine. But the children took me away from all that, and now I work for me, my name is Ice Scream Mama.*

Sorry, Charlie. Got carried away there. (Extra scoops if you picked up the reference.)

Anyway, after having lost all ambition related to something other than a solid night’s sleep and a making it out of the house without pancake in my hair, I finally rediscovered myself with this blog. Blog. What does blog stand for anyway? Big Love Or Go? Bring Lots Of Goodies?  Beings Letting Out Garbage? Ideas, anyone?

Now what was I talking about? Hmm. Give me a minute. Right. The blog. I love it. There’s pressure, there’s feedback, there’s structure and networking. There’s satisfaction, and it feels good.

I still have a brain! Hallelujah!!

So when two (Double yay!) of my essays were chosen for the most recent Life Well Blogged book, rainbow sprinkles filled my sky. I could barely control my excitement when I pulled it up on my Kindle.

There it was! An essay by me!

Wait, that’s not me. Crap. My name is spelled wrong. Wrong! I’m finally in print and it’s not me!!

yep, not my name

yep, not my name

I tried to have it fixed, of course, but was told that it probably couldn’t be corrected on Kindle. Still, they assured me that it was correct in the print version.

By the time my copy arrived, I was foaming at the mouth and practically ripped the envelope open with my teeth. Ohhh. It looked nice. I pet the cover lovingly.

life well blogged

Quickly, I flipped around and found one of my essays, “If you stop trying to touch my books, I’ll give you a cookie.” One of my favorite essay titles. Wait!

BOOBS!! BOOBS!!

BOOBS!! BOOBS!!

Books? What?!

It’s supposed to be BOOBS!!

Crap again!!

I quickly flipped to my other essay, “Daddy, what’s a boner?” This was the one on Kindle that had my name spelled incorrectly. Here it was fine.  So, we were one for one going into the ‘About the Authors’ section.  And my name is… correct! I start to read. “Alisa is a SAHM to three boys, wife to Mr. Baseball and daughter of a sad man.” Yes! “When not burning cupcakes or schlepping kids, she can be found hiding in her closet with a tub of ice cream.” Yes!“I promise you’ll be back for seconds.” Wait… I think something was missing there. “She is a married mother of one.” No! NO! NO!

life well blogged booboo

Where did that come from? That doesn’t even make sense.  Sigh.

The puff of publication pride  sufficiently deflated, all I can say is, it’s still better than having a kidney on my face.

Tragic, really.

Tragic, really.

*Reference from the opening of Charlie’s Angels, of course.

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My Writing Process. But first, I Need to Flip the Laundry.

Posted on April 11, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I’ve been meaning to write this essay about how I write my essays. You know, the ‘process’. All writers have their own individual approach to writing. Some just sit down and bang it out. Some bang and then sit down and write. We all have our own way. No judgment.

So I had the idea, but I couldn’t figure out how to best structure it. I mulled it over a bit, and then put it on the back burner. A few days later, I picked it back up and tossed it around. Then I did what I usually do at this point, which is, to continue dragging my feet, literally, and go for a run.

Often, I come up with a lot of my ideas while running. With nothing but time to kill, it’s the perfect opportunity to brainstorm. So I plod along plotting my stories, constructing brilliant first lines and clever turns of phrase.

When I mercifully stagger back to my door, I head straight for my dining room chair, aka my work seat, where, with sweat dripping on the keypad, I quickly get down my thoughts, before they are incinerated by my awesome calorie burn. After this initial burst, I go up for a shower, and let my ideas stew in the hot water for at least 10 solid steaming minutes.

Back at the computer, the screen and I stare each other down. Where am I going with this idea? I wonder. Will this work? I write another sentence or two, then feel an overwhelming urge to check my emails. When I come up with nothing, I move on to Facebook and Twitter.

Back to the essay. I re-read. Delete a line and rewrite. Add another line. I sit back and assess. It’s not bad.

I feel the urge for a snack.

No. I need to focus. Write another line. Hmm… should I get some frozen yogurt? Or maybe an apple with peanut butter? Focus! Soup?

I can’t stand it. I’ll be right back.

I go for chocolate and peanut butter yogurt with a medley of toppings. I’m making cones and dipping them as I type. I’m in such a happy, satisfied place. I write a few more lines.

Oh, I’m in the groove now and knock out a whole paragraph. It’s good. Woo. I’m exhausted, I need a break.

Check email.

Check Facebook.

Check Twitter.

Make a phone call.

Go back and re-read what I’ve written. Decent open. Entertaining middle. Tweak. Tweak.

Get up for more sprinkles. What? I need more sprinkles. It’s part of my process.

Just a few more lines and I’m done.

I’m antsy. I need to pee.

I’m almost finished. So close. Tweak. Tweak. Twitter.

I just need the right ending.

Check email.

Re-read.

Make another cone.

Oh, I’ve got it!

Check Facebook.

It’s perfect.

Hang on. I’ll be right back…

Busy, busy, busy.

Quiet. I’m working.

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I Get Schooled By Social Media

Posted on January 29, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Lately, I’ve been trying to learn a thing or two about blogging – how to increase readership, when and how to post things on FB for the most views. Stuff like that. I got most of my info perusing Jeff Bullas’ blog. I started off reading, Signs I Wasn’t a Good Blogger and continued from there. It was good stuff, unless you consider that according to his seven steps, I wasn’t a good blogger.

The last bit of information that my brain absorbed before my 5  year-old started crying for cocoa puffs for dinner, was that to increase FB interaction and encourage comments on your blog, you should ask a question.

Why?

Glad you asked. I wondered that as well, especially since so many of the blogs I read seemed to end in a question. I saw it in action on Facebook pages as well. According to my research, uh Jeff, it’s simple. Ask a question… get an answer. Genius, right? (You don’t need to answer that.)

I figured I’d put my new wisdom into action. I had just written a bittersweet post about my grandmother, who died young and how I regretted our lost relationship. I figured I’d ask an intriguing question on my FB page to encourage people to click the link and read the essay. It was a perfect opportunity. Now I just needed the bait.

After some fiddling, here’s the question I came up with – Has someone you loved, died too soon?

Provocative, I thought with satisfaction.

Within seconds, responses poured in. Wow. That question bit really works. Happily, I began reading comments. Someone had lost grandparents, someone lost a parent. I grimaced a bit, and apprehensively wrote my condolences. More comments. More condolences. The uneasy feeling inflated to a balloon the size of Snoopy in the Macy’s day parade. What have I done?

That’s when the last comment came in. A reader shared her husband’s passing only a month before at age 53. I stared at the screen. Oh my God. I panicked. What could I say to her? What was there to say? How could I put a question like that out there? What the farfignewton was I thinking?!

I shook my head with dismay. I fretted. I worried. I responded with my sympathies. It felt completely inadequate. I felt like a total ass. I needed to stop this immediately. I wrote a general comment about my insensitivity and stupidity and then deleted the whole bit.

I let out a big puff of relief. It was gone. I worried that the people who had opened up and shared would think I was discounting their feelings by deleting the post. I really hoped I didn’t offend them. Jeez, that was some learning experience.

I walked into the living room, the sweat still wet on my brow, needing to confess my thoughtlessness. My husband listened to me go on about people I didn’t really know, who were so open to sharing their sadness, especially the woman who lost her husband.

Do you know what my husband’s response was? Of course you don’t. But it wasn’t, “That’s terrible,” or “Wow, you screwed up.”

He asked, “You know where we keep the important papers, right?”

Uh, what are talking about here? “The important papers?” I repeated hesitantly.

“Yeah, you know, the insurance and our financials and all that.”

I looked at him mutely. How did we get here? I refused to answer. I would not discuss even the possibility.

“Well, do you know where they are?”

LALALALALA. I wanted to scream and cover my ears. No no no!  Instead, I spat at him, “Yeah! I know! I know! Sheesh!”

He smiled and went back to whatever he was doing on his iPAD.

I sat across from him distressed and annoyed and confused, but wiser. I had definitely learned something today.

No question about it.

Are there any questions you wished you never asked?

(Better, right? 😉 )

 

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Read here for a (blogging) good time! #pay it forward

Posted on November 8, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

*This was last week’s Blogger Idol assignment – to give a shout out to to some great blogs you love. Read below, if you don’t already know them, you should check them out…

And if you’re feeling like giving back a little, go to www.writersarethenewrocks.blogspot.com and vote ice scream mama. I would so appreciate. 🙂

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I never understood the whole internet dating thing. I mean, fall in love with someone you never met? How bizarre. How in the hell? And then I did. Multiple times. Sometimes at the same time. Often, I go back and forth between them all.

This wasn’t me at all. I married the first boyfriend I had, and now here I was slutting around the internet with people I didn’t really know. But they made me laugh, and sometimes they made me cry. So I didn’t get dinner and a movie, they brought out serious, real emotion in me, stuff that lay buried under massive loads of laundry. I didn’t expect any of it. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.

I hear my husband calling me. “Are you still on the computer?” or “The kids are hungry and playing with scissors!” But I’m in love. And when you’re in love, everything else takes a back seat, right?  

My cynical husband will roll his eyes. He believes there is nothing genuine out there on the internet. But now, having immersed myself into this world for the past four months, I am floored by the people I have found. People who put their hearts and souls out there every day. People who struggle. People who live wild, crazy lives. Mommies. Lots of mommies.

So whether they know it or not, I am in love and stalking, I mean following, so many rocking blogs. Here are a few that bring a little extra something something to my days.

Ask Outlawmama why her skirt smells like pee, or how she and her husband get their sexy on – and she’ll tell you a story. A real, funny, generally embarrassing story that will have you nodding your head with glee. Maybe that’s why she’s constantly at the top of the charts at YeahWrite, an amazing weekly writing competition for bloggers and writers. Outlawmama knows just how to capture a moment. It doesn’t matter whether she’s talking about her bad bangs or her bad self, she makes me laugh at life and all its crazy.

When I want to hang out with my best friend, I turn to Ateachablemom. She’s in the trenches with snot on her shirt and insecurity in her eyes. She right in the thick of that wild jungle called mommyland, just trying to do better and doing the best she can. She’s constantly learning and teaching. When you’re with her, you know you’re not alone. She’s me. She’s you. She’s fabulous.

Watch The Landy climb big snowy mountains. Watch the Landy work out! Watch the Landy race in mud! I never thought I’d be into this blog about an Aussie guy on a mission to climb a mountain. But dag nabbit, he rocks! He is a real man, with a sensitive side who waxes poetic while jumping from planes, roaring through rapids, lifting small buildings in a single bound! Every time I read his posts, I want to cheer – GO LANDY GO!!! I swear you won’t be able to help yourself.

I met Pile of Babies here on Idol and got to know her and her blog a little better through our interview assignment. All I can say is – Awe.

First with her, because we were in different time zones and at 7:30 pm her time, 10:30 pm mine – she had a quiet house with her twins already asleep while my three boys were running in circles in their underwear.

And then there’s her blog.

I simply loved every single thing I read. Meredith takes all the stuff in life that makes you want to pull your hair out, and instead has you peeing your pants. You will be both amazed and amused by her bravery to tell it like it is, and do it with insight, humor and a ton of snark. Mostly, you’ll be laughing your ass off. Not many people could write hilarious posts like, “Your threats do not scare me small person.” and “Having twins is not adorable but thanks.”  If those titles alone don’t make you check out her blog, well than you must be, “Drunk, or 4 years-old“.

So forget the dishes, the kids and whatever other mishegoss you have going on, and go hang out with these guys. I promise, you’ll be totally entertained while you laugh, cheer and virtually fall in love.

It’s a beautiful thing. Just don’t ask my husband.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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