Ding Dong to the Rescue

I can't even tell you how happy I am that Hostess went back to wrapping Ding Dongs in foil. I don't know when they did it, but I remember how upsetting it was when they switched from foil to plastic wrap. I curse plastic wrap. Everything delicious should be wrapped in foil. Gum. Cadbury Creme Eggs. The aforementioned Ding Dongs. And that's everything I can think of right now.

So, after I heard that Hostess was doing the bankruptcy thing two months ago or so (my word, I've been eating Ding Dongs for TWO MONTHS?), I thought I'd do them a favor and buy some Ding Dongs.

I curse that delicious mistake.

Yesterday was hard. Corbet yelled a lot. His naps were too short. I didn't get much sleep the previous night. Turns out he has a cold. But anyway, here's how I coped: 

Beautiful hockey-puck, foil-wrapped dessert.

 Empty foil means full belly.

p.s. No. I know. These photos are A-MAZ-ING. I'm not a professional.

Eleven at Night. Exhausted. Bitter. Lame Post. Do NOT Read.

Tonight Stoker and I had a chat about dreams and crap. The thing is that dreams are stupid. Well, that's sort of the conclusion I came to. And by dreams I mean aspirations or desires, not the kind that you have when you're asleep, although those are stupid crap too, nonsense and whatnot, though sometimes I sincerely believe I have the foretelling in my dreams. No kidding. And by foretelling, I mean "the foretelling," as a peasant might say back during the feudal days of yore.

So, the problem with dreams is that, if you're me, then you get hung up on them and they make you do lame things, like have fears that your life will pass you by and they'll go unfulfilled. And you'll be this selfish beast who looks back on her life and manages to have regret, though she's only in her early thirties, and despite all the accomplishments she's racked up, gets blinded by the things that she didn't do.

Ok, so enough of the cryptic talk. I'm talking about writing and all that shizz. And by shizz I mean shit, a word that I haven't used on my blog for a long time because I'm trying to have class and be a cut above all the clever, ironic, and crass shizz that permeates the web, but tonight I don't care to be all that. I'm feeling down. Beat up. Tired. Exhausted. And I'm listening to that repetitive song "The Greatest" by Cat Power, which somehow seems fitting. I didn't even do it on purpose, I kid you not. I was just perusing my iTunes library, looking for something that I felt like listening to, and I didn't feel like listening to anything, and then bam, there's Cat Power, and I was like, click. Ok. Fine. "The Greatest." Yes, once I wanted to be all that. And now. Nothing.

I remember once, when I was like seventeen or something (wait, isn't there a song with lyrics about "when we were seventeen" or something? Janis Ian? Someone else?), I asked my mom what happened to her dreams. Did she achieve them? Or maybe I asked her about something else, like how come her sense of humor wasn't as awesome as mine? (No, I swear that IS not what I asked my mom, but I have no proper recollection of what it was) I just remember the answer to whatever obscure, naive, and probably rude question I asked her (that's half my problem, I ask people questions even when they're rude questions, only to realize once the words have left my mouth that WHOA, that was rude. Idiot).

So anyway, her answer was, "Because Nikki, life beats you down, you know? It's hard. It squeezes those things out of you."*

You may ask, "Those things?"

No answer for that. Probably fun. Wonder. Awe. Or something altogether different. It fit into whatever context the conversation was in, but the point is, I get it now, Mom. Beat down. Yes. That's how I feel.

In any case, Stoker and I were having this conversation. I was trying to justify why I even give a shit to keep writing (not to him, to myself, he's supportive), because it's rough right now. I have no time, somehow.

I laugh to remember now, how naive I was before Corbet was born. Oh man it's hilarious. Just after he was born, I recall telling my mom before I lost my voice (for three months, that was a bitch), that I was going to go to Starbucks with him and write as he sat, peacefully (didn't say peacefully, but that was the image in my naive little mind), in his car seat and slept or stared at the ceiling, and every now and then, I'd stop and feed him or something. But mostly I'd just be able to write. And all would be cool and perfect in my little Utopia.

Ha. Hahahahaha.

Oh Cat. How you so understand me right this minute, singing about being dumb and young and naive and stuff and thinking the world was your oyster.

I'm feeling bitter right now.

The problem is that I have no right to be bitter or full of any sort of regret. My word. I'm a spoiled individual. It's true. I have this perfect son. He turned nine months old yesterday. He has these amazing blue-green-brown eyes--that everyone mistakenly calls brown because they don't look closely, because they're not his mother, I guess--and they're so beautiful and sharp. He sees everything. And his smile is personally responsible for global warming because I'm pretty sure it melted the ice caps when he glanced northward one day. One look. That's right.

He laughs and I die. He reaches one tiny milestone and I'm aglow with the most repugnant parental pride the world has ever seen. Yes, I'm that arrogant that I think my parental pride wins out of all the other parental prides out there.

So I have him. And he lived. I thought he was going to die during my labor because I could hear his heartbeat drop to a dangerously slow pace with every contraction. And nothing went right and it was the scariest moment in my life when the midwife told me I needed a C-section, because, well, midwives. They're all au naturale, and suddenly they're recommending a C-section. But I prayed hard and he lived and I lived. And here we are.

And my voice came back. I was sure it wasn't going to. I was afraid it wouldn't. And yeah, it came back.

And I'm in Utah and it's the most beautiful desert flower in the world. And here I am.

So how can I have regrets? How can I be so ungrateful to feel upset that I don't have time to focus on this ONE dream?

I can't. That's part of why I feel so frustrated.

And Stoker said to me, tonight, something that just grounded me. That people who get their dreams just want to get a paycheck, to pay their bills. And that's true, I know. But me writing stupid stories that maybe one person might read is beyond money.

A billion people have said it, since cavemen were first dipping their fat fingers in pomegranate ink** and drawing circles and bull-horns on the cave wall, and I'm going to say it too. I have to write. (In Cavemanese: "Me have to draw bull." Stupid joke. But. Yep. Gonna leave it here.)

It's not about being read, though I would love that to happen. It's about organizing my thoughts. It's about pulling the chaotic world into my head and spitting it out into something that makes sense to me. When I write, I feel I've fended off confusion.

Not only that. I look at the world and see so much that's hideous, but among all that, there's this beauty. And I want to capture it. I have to express it in words. In stories. Stories organize matter for me. I narrow the scope of the enormous, massive, daunting universe into this small lens and focus on a small area that represents everything all at once.

And it gives me peace.

Welp.

Anyway.

I'm not saying my dreams are dead. I've just got to figure out how to have my cake and be able to eat it too. I totally can. I won't give up! Dammit. I won't! 





*Never call me Nikki, unless we're extremely good friends or you've been calling me that all my life. Or our life. Together. The life we've been living together.

**Pomegranate ink. The first ink known to humanoids.

Being Honest With You, My Dear Blog

You wouldn't know it, but I tend to hold a lot back. A LOT. A. LOT. But starting today, I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm going to be more open about things. Is that cool?

Good.

I think I've made this promise before, in other blog posts, but I mean it this time. I really do.

What I usually hold back is, well, the truth about what I'm doing and whatnot. I usually only write about the safe things, things that I'm not afraid for people to know, like me exercising (kicking arse!), running races, music I like, and my random thoughts about current events. Typically those are rants, the ones about current events, and even there, I hold back. I could rant so hard it would burn your brain into a skull-puddle. Skull-puddle. How does that sound? *shiver

Anyway, I hold back the most about my writing. Back when I put links up to some of my stories, you wouldn't know it, but that was huge for me. Enormous. It was quite scary, too. And so far, it's been terrible. No one has even noticed them. I think twenty people have read the stories and they were all in my family.

No big deal. That's what happens when you don't advertise. Plus, who wants to pay for MY stories when you can read my blog for free? My blog is so fascinating. Who needs to get their fix from my stories?

Right now, all that's going on my life is: 1) taking care of Corbet (my son, born eight months ago); 2) maintaining the house (that's hard, if you've never done it before, it involves things like sweeping, folding laundry, dusting blinds, etc. Sucky work, but someone's got to do it); 3) exercising like a banshee; got to get that lithe figure back, you know, ha. Ha ha ha. 4) hiding from the neighbors, who turn out to all be in my ward because I'm back in Utah now ("I saw you out running yesterday." Is a phrase I've heard several times already from ward-members. Still not used to it.); 5) taking care of Corbet; 6) trying to find time to write.

The other day I made a goal. I'd work on my stories DURING THE DAY AT SOME POINT. MAYBE WHEN CORBET IS NAPPING*.

I accomplished that goal once or twice. And then the laundry piled up. And Corbet tried to eat a dust-bunny he found under the linen rack in the master bathroom. That's when I realized I hadn't swept in over a month. So I cleaned. Still haven't swept, but I cleaned the bathroom. Good job, me.

And now I've only written at home once in the past two weeks. Last night. I threw in a scene that was partially inspired by the song "Cough Syrup" by Young the Giant. I liked that song BEFORE it appeared on Glee.

I hate Glee.

Anyway, great song. Can't stop listening to "Islands" by Young the Giant, either. And you know what? That band is awesome. I'm in love.

Anyway, I threw the "Cough Syrup" scene into the manuscript that I finished a month or so ago. The manuscript only took me two years to write or something. Ha. Ha ha ha. That's partially because I had a baby during that time. Writing was difficult while pregnant. And then I had some health complications. I know! Excuses, excuses. So, I think the scene works. I need to reread it again, and touch it up, but I think it's daring. And right. It fits. It really does.

So, there's some info about my writing, which has proven to be the hardest thing for me to write about on my blog. Weird, I know. But honestly, it's because I'm afraid to be a failure.

You know. I just want to grow. Somehow. To combat that feeling I constantly have of being in a state of permanent regression. Like Mister Kurtz. Day by day. The older I get. Perhaps it's merely the "the more I know, the more I realize I don't know" phenomenon, and I'm suffering the symptoms of it. Who can say for sure?

Fear bugs me, anyway, and when I finally realize I'm being afraid, I try to woman up and confront it.

This is me confronting a fear.

Thanks.



*This kind of planning always results in the plan's ultimate destruction. Son won't cooperate when I plan to do things while he naps.

On the News, Again. Couponing.

I think I must be in some cosmic alignment right now.

I stopped at the grocery store for a couple items I couldn't get last week and bam! Someone from Channel 4 news asked if they could interview me for a piece on couponing. Can you believe it? I just barely started using coupons when we got back here to Utah. Money's tight and all that, so, you know, every bit of savings counts. The main thing about couponing is if you have a budget–when you only have $75 dollars to spend on groceries, finding coupons means you can fit more into that budget.

Crazy, I know. That's how money works, kid.

You know, before Corbet was born and I was working, I didn't have time to care about this stuff. But now I just sit around all day being lazy, watching crap shows like Rachel Ray and Anderson (I like both of those shows and they're not really crap, that was sarcasm), and eating bon-bons.  It's true. So I can get more bon-bons for my money if I clip coupons.

Anyway, so, last November, around Stoker's birthday, while I was at the Gateway mall in SLC, I was asked by a Channel 4 reporter if they could interview me for a piece on Johnson's Baby Wash. Whoever did the piece erroneously called me Nicole Smith. SMITH? Come on! Welp, anyway, my married last name is as common as Smith, so at least they remembered that it was a common one. Nice work.

So, if you look up the interview, Corbet looks adorable. He was riding in the Baby Bjorn and he had on his cute crocheted hat one of his aunt's made him. That was the best part of the interview. Corbet. I'm sure they asked me because he was freaking gorgeous.

I worry (of course there had to be a worrisome element to all this cosmic awesomeness) that these two interviews (if they even actually use the footage of me today) will accumulate to my fifteen minutes of fame and after this, no more. It would be excellent if rather than news interviews about random household concerns, I was being interviewed because of my profound blogging wit, or because someone had made a movie based on my socially critical short story, Life Feeds. Wouldn't that be amazing?

Either way, at this point I'll take the news interviews about couponing and Johnson and Johnson's cancer causing Baby Wash for the sheer excitement of being asked about my intriguing life and stirring opinions.

Had a Dr. Who Dream Last Night, But that's Hardly the Point

Last night I was driving to the cafe to do a bit of writing. It was dark, and now that I'm in Utah again, beautiful. Listening to songs from the official soundtrack to the piece I'm working on as I drive helps me get in the right frame of mind, so of course I was listening to the official soundtrack. The lights from the city make the sky glow and the trees are all skeletal black frames against the bright sky. It was a serene moment, but there was something missing.

Angst. Oh yeah. ANGST! Where has it all gone?

Then I realized, my son was born last June and so now there's always something to live for. He's this brightness in my life that pushes away all that crappy darkness that sometimes closed in on me. And that feeling of desolation was always worse during Utah winters. But now I am home, Utah is my land, and these are my people, here. I have a son and a husband and I don't have to feel that loneliness the harsh winters could always generate for me.  Not anymore. Weird. I never thought, back in the day, that I could feel so much more lightness.

A brooding, black and white shot.

Corbet at 5.5 months. He gets handsomer every day. Handsomer?

Maybe it's just a result of fewer hormones, or maybe it really is that I have someone who needs me more than anyone has ever needed me before.

Having a baby is difficult, no questions there, but it's also the greatest thing to ever happen to me. Sometimes I feel like the Grinch, and just looking at Corbet makes my heart swell to ten times it's original size (I may have mentioned this before). Honestly, I wonder if it could ever make my chest burst, because it feels that way.

Speaking of this, I met this girl the other day who's about to have a baby. She's married, 24, and somehow, SOMEHOW, she's going to give the baby up for adoption. What?! No idea how this works or how someone makes a decision of this nature. I mean, I can imagine a couple of scenarios, but I can't understand how she could go to full term and, with a father for the baby nearby and everything, simply put him into someone else's hands.

I told her it was cool that she'd have the baby and everything, because that's better than the alternative (my opinion after having had my own), but wow. That's got to be crazy. All that effort. That time. That energy spent growing the baby, and boom, you give it away.

The only thing that made those nine months of hell worth it was to know that I'd have a baby at the end of it. I had no idea how it would feel to have a baby and everyone said, "You can't imagine how much you'll love him till you have him." And they were right. Now that I know better, there's no way I could have just given Corbet away.

In any case, here I am, old and without angst. But not without crazy passionate responses to the insanity of the world. Go figure. I'm exhausted already. I have no idea how I'm going to make it to ninety-four. Wish me luck!

Best Doctor ever. In a snowstorm. Wait. Is that Utah?

p.s. Had an awesome dream last night. Flying. Etc. And I was Rose Tyler for a bit, then the Tenth Doctor. And did I mention there was flying? And it was a new episode of Dr. Who with the Tenth Doctor. If I keep having awesome dreams like this, I might make it to be an old woman.