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Writing Wrongs

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.

One…Two… Three! Get Out Of The Pool!

I was taking my time, shuffling through my suitcase, trying to figure out my strategy. Two of my three boys and my husband were already at the hotel pool for some night swimming. My middle son, Michael, and I were milking it. He hadn’t decided if he wanted to have a stomach ache, and I hadn’t figured out how to get out of going to the pool.

I usually never even bring a suit, since I have a general dislike of all things water – pools, beaches, my body in a bathing suit. But, for some reason, on the same mini-vacation where I had forgotten to get a pedicure or bring a razor, I had shoved a suit in my bag last minute. Once Michael declared himself fit to swim, I had to make a choice – to wear or not to wear. After some mental tennis, I decided against the suit, instead throwing on a cover-up dress to give the illusion of pool ready, without showing any reality.

Once there, I immediately remembered why I hate indoor pools; the chemical smell, the contrived heat, my children playing in a tank of wet doom. I could never find any true comfort, just an agitated impatience. I sat next to my husband and checked my phone. It was already after 8pm. That was the gift of night swimming. It didn’t last too long.

We rotated our eyes from boy to boy to boy; one a good swimmer, one decent and one new. It was monkey in the middle. One. Two. Three. One – My oldest, playing with a blue ball in the middle of the pool; pushing it under water, then watching it shoot up out of the water and retrieving it. Two – Just a bobbing blonde head and orange goggles, doggie paddling toward the far edge. Three – Right in front of us by the stairs, practicing his swimming.

“Mommy, watch this!” he squealed, his dark curls matted against his head, his dark eyes alight with excitement. Dramatically, he climbed up two of the steps, readying himself, and with one mischievous look back at me, jumped.

That’s when the lights went out.  Complete and utter darkness engulfed the pool area.

I stood, both immediately and in slow motion, surrounded by blackness and the unreal echo of water and people freaking out. Mute and drowning in fear, I reached for my husband. My worst nightmare was this second. My children were in that pool. We needed to jump in. Now.

But before we could, the lights flicked back on.

My heart pounded wildly, and my head whipped around. One – Still in the center of the pool. Two – Hanging on to the edge. Three – On the steps.

The whole thing lasted maybe five seconds. Probably less. I took a deep breath, relief filling my lungs. Then, finding my voice, screamed for my kids to get out of the water.

I knew going to the pool was a mistake.

When I'm on duty, there's only daytime swimming

Yup, you’re cute. Nope, not coming in.