When life is great and I’m feeling happy, energized, hopeful, content and ready to take on the world, I have nearly zero desire to write.

With that in mind,

did I ever tell you the one about Curtis Sittenfeld?

She’s about to publish her fourth novel. I read about it in Time. The premise looks intriguing—two sisters share a psychic ability, one is wild; one suburban; they have to come to terms with it all for some reason or another.

CS had a daughter in 2009, who would be, what, four now? I looked it up. And she already had two or three novels out by then that had I think been bestsellers, had her picture in Vanity Fair, wrote articles for Salon, was in the New York Times, went to Iowa Writers’ Workshop for her MFA, which is the best creative writing program in the universe from what I’ve heard, Stanford and Vassar before that, and I’m not linking shit about her. She has enough publicity. Her star be bright enough.

From what I read online in a speedy sleuthing, she was into writing and pursuing it since high school—even won one of those Seventeen magazine contests.

Me, I stumbled upon writing at the age of thirty, though I will admit that Sister Valerio loved my descriptive piece, My Moldy Avocado, when I was a junior at Sacred Heart. That was maybe my first inkling that I had literary talent.

So Why Curtis?

She wouldn’t even be on my radar if our paths hadn’t crossed at a Mediabistro event in 2004—nearly a decade ago—when Star Craving Mad had just been published. Prep was about to drop.

Soon after our journeys forked far away from each other as she went on to publish two—now three—more novels while I had a kid at the same time my novel was released—to zero publicity, crappy sales and nary a mention in the media.

The night we met, I was poised to be the next Sophie Kinsella, the “hottest project” around according to an email my agent showed me, and Hollywood couldn’t wait to get its little mits on my book.

Then—pfft. Nada.

Her bestseller begat two more, now three. American Wife was published the year she had her daughter, in 2009. I had another baby in 2006. I published one essay in an Anthology in ’08 and finally wrote a draft of a novel my agent wanted to represent in 2010. I am still working on it nineteen (well-deserved) rejections later.

I’m not supposed to mention these rejections, but I do because I believe in transparency. I believe that the more honest we are about our struggles, the calmer we can be through the shitstorm. If we’re assured that the vast majority of people are not graced with an easy life, and have their own uphill battles, we can find solace knowing that our struggles, as unique and personal as they feel, are typical.

Too often in our culture the end result—the product—is the highlighted thing. How much more validating, celebratory and joyous is it to know what hell a successful person went through to get to the top of their chosen mountain? Maybe this is why my heroes of popular culture are the ones who struggled mightily and prevailed. Louis CK. Marc Maron. Anne Lamott. Gwyneth, Curtis, Lena and Kerry? Not so much.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get to the top. I don’t know if writing novels is my jam anymore—certainly not a basket I’d throw all my cage-free eggs into—not at this point. I rarely even read novels. They just don’t grab me. I still love good sentences and snappy writing, and I did just finish Wild (a memoir) and enjoyed it enough to read the whole thing. Mostly though, I read about fitness and health. I ogle female bodybuilders. I leaf through magazines like US Weekly and Time, where I learned about Sittenfeld’s new book.

And I felt that familiar stab of jealousy that I am primed for and prone to since for-fucking-ever. And then I gave myself a talking to.

I said, Elise, how is it that you have thing one in common with this woman anymore, this woman who’s clearly devoted her life to being a writer and to writing. You’ve embarked—organically and happily for the most part—when you’re not comparing yourself to others—on a less writerly path.

Sure you still work on it. You’ve got your novel in progress. Your agent. Your writing workshop. But it’s just a part of you. You’ve got this house in the ‘burbs. Two kids who don’t have a nanny, a maid or a housekeeper. Because those jobs are YOURS. You have a husband who you actually enjoy hanging out with, friends you love to laugh with and a passion for fitness and health that you’re pursuing—fitness blogging, pursuing your personal trainer certification. (True story!! Like how I slipped that in there?)

It’s about more than writing for you, E. There’s no need to take her successes personally, and I know you know that. But still. There never was a reason.

It all boils down to self-esteem. You know this. Of course you want the recognition for your writing talent and it hurt like a motherfucker when her book did so well and yours sank to the bottom of the ocean unnoticed. Especially since the night of that Mediabistro event you behaved like you were a superstar, to the audience and to Curtis, over martinis at Fez. Her book hadn’t come out yet. And then it did. And she was written up in Elle, your favorite magazine at the time. And oh god, the mortification! How it ACHED. The AGONY. It was humiliating.

And every time you’ve seen a pink grosgrain ribbon since then, you’ve shivered and felt like someone just tied the thing around your sternum and pulled as hard as they could.

Every time you’ve seen her name in a magazine, her book in a store… She has a wikipedia page. You have nothing. Compared. So you lose. In the game you invented.

Why would anyone do that to themselves? Why would someone inflict such pain upon themselves, especially when they know better? Why is it that you still struggle with this game? Playing it and losing and then writing about it? It’s possibly your most written about theme.

Maybe because you get to writing when you’re in pain. Because writing started out as therapy for you. Healing. And over a decade later, it’s still about healing. And that’s why you’re not drawn to novels but rather non-fiction. Because your life isn’t about Being a Writer. It’s about finding contentment with who you are. It’s about healing from a fucked up past—and we’re not talking blame here. We’re talking your own fucked up actions that undermined your sense of self again and again, all of which you’ve written about!

To be fair, I doubt you would have been so awful to yourself if you hadn’t learned the terrible craft from your parents and half-siblings, but you still have your very own history of rotten behavior—toward others, but most of all toward yourself. And every day that you make healthy choices you marvel at how normal you’re capable of being. How Normal is what you’ve been after all along, and how you got normal confused with “special.”

That’s what I said. And it helped.

xxx

With self-esteem so tender, brittle, it’s no wonder her life took a mere week to lose all meaning. Her kids and spouse are all she has left. Sucked up three seasons of The Walking dead in as many days. Now she’s onto Weeds. Season 8. Wishing she had a sister—one with both of the same parents—to corroborate the injustices of her childhood, to stroke her cheek and validate her worth because it still gets hazy, even after all these years. Is this shameful?

Luckily she still has working fingertips and a dark sense of humor to complement her melodrama.

Plus! Homicidal fantasies of revenge on the bitch who tried to take her out. Dog shit pin cushion anyone? Auschwitz my ass you LOSER.

She wishes she could be less cryptic but this sewage needs to be leaked so she can move the fuck on. That and it’s time to pick up the kids.

Love and kisses,

PS, she doesn’t feel like a complete idiot. All that stuff in the previous post rang true once.

I have been happy for quite a while now (knock every splinter of wood before I jinx it)—consistently content even before the magnolias blossomed. I attribute this achievement—and I call it an achievement because I’ve been working for this my entire life—to a combination of things that I will list as they occur to me.

1. Drugs. For me it’s an SSRI. Lexapro. This drug keeps me from falling into pits of despair like I used to at least twice a year, usually triggered by feelings of jealousy and inadequacy when faced with someone who’s successful in ways that I want to be successful.

2. Boundaries. A) If I limit my consumption of popular and social media, I have less of a chance of pushing my own buttons with the aforementioned jealousy mishegoss. Maybe this is why I haven’t blogged in so damn long. B) Limiting my exposure to miserable, toxic, shoulder-chipped humans who do not recognize or celebrate the spark in me (or the world) keeps me from doubting myself to a debilitating and dysfunctional degree. Cut those assholes loose and don’t look back.

3. Dogs. Did you see Dogs Decoded? It’s a fantastic documentary about dogs, a species I have come to adore with dreamy, doe-eyed baby-talk. It turns out that petting your doggie or even gazing lovingly into one another’s eyes releases a surge of oxytocin. Just like when I used to breastfeed Spike and Peaches. My babies!!! Maybe this is why I keep wanting more little doggies. (Note: Bryan will divorce me if I bring home another dog, which would undermine my dog-driven happiness, so that means it’s not going to happen. Sniff.)

4. Endorphins. I have been working out like a freak. Six days a week. Determined and focused on gaining muscle, strength, endurance, immortality, a tight butt, etc. Almost every day I get an endorphin boost. Makes me feel GOOD. I love moving my body and challenging it to achieve things I couldn’t do the week before. I call it “that badass feeling yo.”

5. Protein. Whether I am Paleo, Primal or not (and I am not), protein is where it’s at. Fat too. They are the feel good foods. Okay, so are carbs. Eschewing crap and eating delicious, nutrient-dense macros and not skimping on protein or fat makes me feel sated and wanting for nothing. Except maybe a second helping.

6. Laughter. Does anyone remember it? I’ve made some new friends in boot camp and we laugh our asses off together and give each other shit in loving ways. Making fun of myself helps. Joking with the family. Watching South Park. Reading Thug Kitchen. And making fun of people I hate and not giving myself shit for it. It’s FUN to hate on stupidass motherfuckers. Because they’re STUPID.

7. Working. Teaching my writing workshop has boosted my confidence and given me something concrete to do with my talents that does not include waiting around for someone to deem my latest creative effort worthy. And I make some money. I love money.

8. Creating. Writing novels counts but I’m not really writing one right now. I am writing prompts. And I email myself and consider cooking, loading the dishwasher and vacuuming a creative act. Here’s another one: Peaches stayed home from school with a fever. First time she’s done that in over a year by the way. I spent most of the day trimming the dogs’ hair and only slightly ignoring Peaches. First Coco. Then Nyla, not that she needed it, but I wanted to spread the torture—er, LOVE.

9. Sunshine. Getting outside in the sunlight. Taking vitamin D if I or the sun remain under wraps.

10. Splurging. Whether it’s getting my hair ombre’d or having an Americano with a pal, splurging makes me feel alive. As long as I’m remaining responsible and not undermining the children’s college savings, of course. Ahem.

11. Perspective. There’s a better way to compare myself that will leave me feeling blessed rather than yearning for more and hating on myself.  In other words, fuck Gwyneth Paltrow. And remember that most of the world would kill to be in my forty-dollar shoes. Educated. Homeowner. Indoor plumbing. Healthy. Married. Mother. Access to good food. Kids at an award-winning school where the teacher doesn’t have to buy them supplies out of her own pocket. There are problems. And there are PROBLEMS. I have the little kind.

12. Giving back. I know this sounds cliche. But it’s true. There’s too much bounty in my life not to. This can be anything from rescuing cute doggies to volunteering at the school library once a week to taking my writing workshop to a class of West Philly third graders, where one Pakistani boy wrote about how hungry he was; how hungry his father was. His story broke my heart and his smile melted my eyeballs.

13. Sleep. Oh my god I love sleeping. If I get enough I am prepared to face the day. If I don’t, watch the fuck out. It’s going to be ugly.

14. Thankfulness. ‘Nuff said.

2004

The cliches are all true.

2005

Especially now, with both kids engaged—at times reluctantly—in after-school activities.

2006

Like time flying. She’s recently become an Olympic sprinter, though Spike might not see it that way, waiting those interminable days until his birthday, X-ing the calendar squares. To him, time moseys, dawdles. To me, the speed machine zooms past in a flurry of school, homework, family dinners, baseball games, piano lessons, summer camps, Hanumasses and Christmukahs, Pei Wei outings, Lego constructings, tantrum throw-downs, sister-punchings, laundry-spinnings, dog-walkings, lap cuddlings, story readings and of course iPod Touch gaming.

2007

He’s grown so fast. That’s true too. Like a weed. Shooting up, up, UP like a plastic parachute guy. Radiating outward like a star, or like that smell from the laundry hamper, the basement, the bathroom. OH, BOYS.

2008

Spike says he feels no different today but he would have preferred staying home from school to put together his Star Wars snap-together kits and shoot Nerf darts all over the house.

2008

He woke up at 6:30, ran upstairs to wake me—oy—and asked if Daddy had left for work yet. Daddy had gone to buy surprise birthday breaksfast bagels but I didn’t tell Spike. I stretched and tried to fall asleep again while Spike perched on a chair and looked out the rain-spattered window. I finally roused when Swamp Chicken returned and the boys had their bagels.

2009

I packed lemon bars for the special school snack. Spike is not a cake man. Lemon bars. Rice pudding. Ice cream. I was advised for the first time not to join the class for a round of Happy Birthday. Spike’s in third grade now. He wanted me there. Teacher, not so much. It’s cool. We cool. No, really.

2010

Tonight, a special birthday dinner—Spike’s choice. On the menu, chili-lime chicken wings, country-smoked sausage, raw carrots, cream-dried beef. A balanced meal! For dessert, ice cream sundae bar with Kit-Kats. Smells like a party.

2011

This is the last year of the single digits. Then doubles till 99. Whoa.

2012

The cliches are true. The time, the growth, and even that one about “enjoying this time because it goes so fast.” If I had a nickel for every time a well-meaning older parent told me this when I was in the throes of wishing the kids would just grow up already! I’d have a lot of nickels.

Time does fly. And that one about small kids, small problems; big kids….It’s true that parenting doesn’t get any easier, but at least we can joke about it now.

2013

xxx

It’s that tension thing. It’s like I can’t be a novelist if I’m not obsessed with something diametrically opposed—like fitness. Doing the Body Yenta thing calms me down regarding writing. I get antsy if I feel I’m limited to any one thing. And if I were only pursuing fitness goals, I’d feel shallow and vain 24-7. Keeping the writing bit in place helps with that.

But oh my god. The writing. It’s almost time to submit my umpteenth draft of this latest creation to my agent. I’m getting good feedback from a couple trusted people who will be thanked profusely in my acknowledgements page. But there’s one person I forced the novel on (note to self: NEVER DO THIS AGAIN). I told her, you must read it! And finally she did. And guess what? She doesn’t care for it. In her words, “I feel like I can put it down and have no desire to pick it up again.” And, “It’s not as REAL as your first one.”

I feel mildly crushed by this. Slightly crazed. A trickle of homicidal. And yet again, I take her opinion with a grain of coarse gray sea salt. Because this person happens to be my mother.

Sigh and double sigh.

My mother features heavily in this book. This *might* be partly why she’s not so into it. But what would I do without her? Who would I characterize in novel form? The mother scenes leap off the page, and it’s not just me who thinks this.

Oh, it’s all so meta and weird.

I think my dream has solidified now—to see my mother characterized on-screen in a movie adapted from my book. I might just jizz myself if it actually happened. And if she could live long enough to see it. Oh that would be GOOD. Then she could gloat and glare her way down the red carpet.

Ugh I just don’t know. Because what if she’s right? What if the book’s no good? Did she have to plant that seed of doubt where doubt plants grow so easily? Or did I plant the damn seed by insisting she read the novel?

Oh here’s how she started the conversation. She walked into my house last night—to babysit, bless her soul—and proclaimed, “So, I’m three quarters of the way through your—what do you call it?” Disdain running in thick globs down her every word. My step-dad and I exchanged possible answers to help my mother with the “what do you call it” bit: Bowling ball? Gold club? Um, I don’t know, BOOK?

It doesn’t help that I came across a one-star review for Star Craving Mad on Amazon today, as I lay in bed slightly hungover from half a bottle of dry riesling followed by a couple snifters of mind-blowing 87-proof 16 year-old single malt Scotch last night. What can I say. I needed to let loose. Because along with my mother’s glowing approval of my creative endeavors, I learned that the ex-husband of one of my closest friends died unexpectedly. Massive heart failure. Here one minute—vibrant, successful, healthy, forty-three like me… And the next—BAM. Gone. It was a surreal, devastating day. My mother, really, she was just the slice of bitter orange on top of the 2-22-13 Shitday cake.

NOTE: hungover in bed reading negative reviews of your novel is no way to have fun.

Then again, Who Cares. People are dropping dead. Let’s keep things in perspective. ANY publicity is good publicity. And if someone hates something I’ve written enough to comment online about it, then at least it prompted a reaction. And of course to that loser who couldn’t even bother to spell-check her review, FUCK YOU.

Anyway the review was from years ago. And my job is to roll with it yo. To show up and do my writing and screw what anybody else thinks. Even my dear mother. This be my thing—another Yentafesto if you will: Do what I do creatively to please ME. A crappy childhood will do that to a sensitive girl with artistic leanings—let alone precarious, precious middle-aged existence on this fucking miraculous planet.

Here’s to success. And naps. And a fucking book deal, and being ALIVE.

I love you all. Yes, even you, Mother.

xxx

I was so excited that I cried tears of joy just seeing him walk onstage. I was shaking, and grinning, and I thought the whole time that I would totally have sex with him, even though he’s paunchy and bald.

No offense to my hairful slim husband.

Louis did an hour and a half of new material and I was heartened by a particular bit that I inappropriately yet typically shared with the kids the following morning. They giggled charitably despite their obvious squirms of discomfort.

I am a monster.

Louis said that his divorce is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He’s an excellent father because he only sees his kids for half the week. As soon as they split for their mom’s he pours a bottle of whiskey all over himself and sits naked in his own filth until ten minutes before the kids arrive the following week.

What do you think kids? Should mommy and daddy get a divorce?

NO!

They weren’t into it. Which means they either love me or they’re total masochists.

I told Bryan we should get a divorce and split the kids, that I’d be mom of the century then. Especially as I’ve been so irritable lately and have fantasies of living alone in a pristine little house, perhaps in southern France. But no dice. He said if we divorce, I’ll have to take the kids for the whole week, every week. So it’s better to stick together. Right now, for instance I get to blog because he’s here, grilling cheese sandwiches for the wee ones. Ka-ching!

And come on. Cut me some slack. It’s January. Bitter cold. Ahead of us lies February. March. A cold, bleak nothingness for miles. And we’re dealing with lice. Again. Oh God grant us mercy.

The second reason I haven’t been blogging more frequently is because I’ve been blogging for other people—ghost blogging. I can’t tell you where. It’s a secret. I wouldn’t be a ghost if I told you. And I’ve been running my writers’ workshop. And offering to barter web copy services for everything from piano lessons to boot camp. And walking the dogs of course.

I’m getting entrepreneurial. I have to. I’m actually paying attention to the budget now. Shiver. I have children. (Miracles.) And on most days, a life I actually want to live in—a huge step forward for a girl who used to yearn to be Madonna.

For far too many years.

Like one of Salome’s seven veils, the veil of imminent accolades saving me has finally slid off my boot-camped body in a cloud of whispered curse words. I cannot rely on an ancient adolescent dream of fame and fortune to save me anymore.

I’m totally serious this time.

Maybe it’s the numerous rejections on my novel, rejections which taught me that the road from written work to paycheck is rocky at best, possibly washed out from the storm at worst. Not that I won’t persevere. But money must be made NOW. And to rely —at this stage of the game—on one single tenuous venture to pay off, is just, excuse the un-PC term, retarded. I hate/love to use that word. I know it’s wrong, but it fits so perfectly. There. That’s how I feel about that.

Also, while vacuuming the house yesterday I thought of certain family members who over the years, not to mince words, treated me like shit from the time I was small until, well, the other day.

This might be like duh to you, but I think my dreams of “making it” were my way of proving to them that I was worth something and that they were wrong about me. Which of course really means that my dreams of making it were ways of proving my worth to myself. Which means that by yearning for something I didn’t have I was constantly undermining what I did have.

And as I was vacuuming I realized how I’ve already made it, illustrated thusly:

I zoomed around the house muttering things like, “Fuck them. They’d never give me the credit anyway, even if I was on the bestseller list. They’d say they felt sorry for me, selling out, having my priorities screwed up…” And, “They don’t even vacuum! They’re fucking slobs. I keep my house clean, man…” And it dawned on me that I loathe these people, despite the blood connection. “Who gives a shit what they think anyway?” I went on. “One of them thinks she’s related to Jesus and the other one thinks Obama is the devil. Just whose respect am I soliciting here? Undiagnosed mental patients, that’s who.” The anger was oozing out of me as dirt hurtled up my Dyson.

The sobering decision to abandon my stranglehold on publishing success—call it my amazing cure from mediocre-itis—was further reaffirmed last night as I spent way too much time reading about my two greatest jealousy triggers, Lena Dunham and Kerry Washington, both of whom share a personal connection with me. It is awards season after all. These two are all over the fucking place. Ugh.

Like I’ve blogged before, Lena attended Saint Ann’s School where I worked. She was in like fourth grade when I was there in my thirties. OUCH. I have yet to watch Girls (I have watched Tiny Furniture) but am enjoying the backlash I see littered all over cyberspace.

Kerry and I spent a summer together as students in Michael Howard Studio‘s summer acting conservatory. We did scenes together, like this improvised one where I embodied the essence of my cat’s infected eye, thus manifesting a heroin-addicted sibling to her I forget what, but she was the strong one. I was the desperate one. Kerry and I ate lunch together. Made fun of the other students. We were tight. She mailed me letters and postcards afterward, invited me to a barbeque at her parents’ house which I blew off thinking, this girl is a third of my age.

She was nineteen and flirty, about to complete her senior year at George Washington University. I was twenty-seven and married. Kerry had gone to school with Gwyneth Paltrow at Spence. She was an only child with incredibly supportive parents. She got an independent film and an agent right out of college and has been rising ever since. She is huge right now. The industry suits her.

The industry for me was more like a bad case of scabies. I grew a rash of low-self-esteem and starved myself, eating nothing but bunless soy burgers and low-fat plain yogurt with a spoonful of peanut butter. I was on The Zone. A friend joked that when I turned sideways he couldn’t see me anymore. My values got totally screwed up. I smoked. I drank. I practiced scenes in my acting class wearing nothing but a thong. I made out with unsavory dudes on camera and stripped to barely nothing for numerous independent “films” which I pray you cannot find on the internet. (This is not an invitation for you to try.)

The one time I emailed K-Wash from a computer in midtown where I was temping, after I’d declined her barbeque invitation and upon stumbling across the trailer for Save the Last Dance with that dour-faced blonde—this was when I was still pursuing acting—she responded that she was “too busy to get together” but “hoped that I was still beading jewelry.” She’d bought a necklace of mine during the conservatory. I found her email undermining and condescending.

I felt like a giant asshole for contacting her. I was a giant asshole for contacting her. I would have responded the same way she did. I was a temp. She was a star. We hadn’t talked for years and all of a sudden I see she’s getting famous and I’m like, Yo! What up girlfriend? It’s me! Remember? How’s about we grab a coffee one afternoon and you tell me all about your fame trajectory? I swear I really used the word trajectory in the email. I may as well have thrown a pie in my own face. Dumbass.

The good news joins us from Team Louis CK. He had this other bit in his show about progress. He said that there are two ingredients for progress, improvement, success, what have you. The ingredients are 1) self-hatred and 2) regret. He said that the people who tell you (in a falsetto lisp) It’s all about loving yourself. I have NO regrets… are LOSERS. And it’s only by realizing that you’re a total fucking idiot for things you’ve done that you get to the next level of intelligence. Because you didn’t know what a schmuck you were when you did the stupid thing. You couldn’t have known. But NOW you know. And that makes you smarter, and thus better than you used to be. He’s a guru, man.

So now Kerr-WA’ is posing it up on the red carpet flanked by Samuel L. Jackson and that other guy. He’s a genius. They’re all geniuses. And so generous to work with. And brilliant. How marvelous!

But earth to Elise: Kay-Wah is a decade younger than you and HAS NO CHILDREN. So tomorrow, please regret your idiotic ego-crushing concept of limited success and comparative loseration that has zero to do with you. And remember: this mocha pixie has no one depending on her for (in alphabetical order) acquiring snacks from out-of-reach cabinets, applying band-aids, bathing, boo-boo kissing, bribing, carpooling, censoring YouTube videos, chicken cutting, cooking, de-lousing, educating, feeding, ferrying, guiding, hair-brushing, homework helping, housekeeping, hugging, inking permission slips, jotting lunch-box notes, kelp-flake sprinkling, kite-string detangling, laundering, mashing potatoes, motoring all over creation, nagging, niggling, nudging, operating electronic devices, packing lunches, plucking ticks, punishing unacceptable behavior they learned from me, querying for play-dates, relegating duties that may or may not be executed, reneging on poorly offered promises, resolving conflicts (usually poorly and ineffectively), schlepping, scrubbing oily lunch totes and filthy feet, shoe-tying, toilet wiping, treat-divvying, umbrella holding, untying knots, van driving, watering (like plants, especially at bedtime, with ice cubes in sippy cups with specifically chosen color-coordinated bendy straws), xylophone purchasing, yam-peeling and zig-zagging all over the house searching for lost Bey Blades.

I’m THROUGH.

And the same with Lena fucking Dunham, that little potsticker, who’s twelve. God bless them and their success. Poo fucking poo as my mother would say.

I know I am repetitive in these posts, in these egoistic life issues. I guess this is where I come to rant. If you’re following along at home, I apologize. But A) this is the stuff that pours forth from my chapped fingertips and B) progress travels in spirals. For me anyway. It seems I must circle an issue I want to overcome for many dizzying revolutions, studying it from every angle until I’m nauseous, so that I can finally trudge forward a wobbly inch, vomit on my shoes and begin the next circuitous course.

Which is my ass. The final frontier.

Thank you Ladies and Gentlemen. Good night!

xxx

Christmas. Merry. Happy. Joy. Stress. Angst. Guilt. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. Ah, the holidays.

So there’s this family. Two kids—a boy and a girl—and their parents. The husband is a musician who’s traded his passion for a desk job to support the family. Husband is a realist. A self-described pessimist. A worrier. His parents came from modest means. They wash Zip-lock baggies and reuse them. They shop at Sears and couldn’t care less about fashion and trends. They save and invest wisely. They are secure and live well within their means.

The wife though, she comes from a family that never discussed money. She learned early on to equate material possessions with status. She knew envy and jealousy intimately. She knows better most of the time. She knows she needs to rid herself of the belief that money equals worth and that without it she will forever be some type of loser.

And yet. Her gratitude grows as fine lines etch themselves into her face. She lounges in a world of comfort. After seven years in a gritty urban apartment she finally has a house in a beautiful area—her childhood neighborhood. Her own sink in the bathroom. Central air. This makes her feel rich, and sometimes act like it too. She is quick to rationalize a batch of custom-designed t-shirts, say, and then regret the unreturnable purchase later.

The husband of course shares this house and has his own sink too. But he’s from Brooklyn. That’s where his musical comrades still live for the most part. And he misses them.

The wife writes novels. She retains her high hopes. She is a self-described optimist who embraces her delusion of imminent financial reward.

But as their savings dwindle, because each month finds them dipping in to make ends meet, the husband grows wretched with anxiety, any happy disillusionment waning in the burnished light of middle age. His hair is turning silver. He’s in his forties. He works in an office without a window. This is IT. What’s the point?

He loves his kids. He’s a family man. The wife, well, sort of. She’s more of an escapist. Escaping into her head. into her artistic passions. The kids, though she adores them, interrupt her reveries. She admits it. She feels guilty for it. She looks on in awe, wonder and resentment as her husband forsakes his own desires to play boring games with the children. Flinging plastic monkeys into a plastic tree.

But I digress.

The holidays arrive—Christmas and Hanukkah—and with them, a new host of stresses. The daughter is easy to please. She’s into fashion and has another year before she demands real Uggs. Real American Girl dolls.

The boy. He’s prickly. They call him The Porcupine. He bristles and feels easily slighted. For Christmas the kids receive a much coveted iPod Touch to share. A 4G. Refurbished. But that is to be the last present they open. Before that the kids open piles of gifts. Mostly clothing. Because Santa’s practical and $229 is a huge chunk that leaves little left for thirty-dollar Lego sets.

By the time The Porcupine receives his fourth shirt, he is in tears. His mother, bless her escapist, delusional heart, feels horrible, as does his father.

The mother thanks Whomever for her Lexapro because this would be an event that would catapult her into a shameful despair. And she decides that now is a good time to relish the wisdom of Wendy Mogel, who says that childhood disappointment is a wonderful and valuable experience, because it will teach this boy to ride the wave gracefully as an adult. It will make him resilient.

Still, she makes a mental note to nix the clothing gifts next year. There are countless other ways to disappoint the boy. No worries there.

A plan must be put forth. Control must be taken. The husband fears poverty. The wife fears—what? Hopelessness.

Finally numbers are crunched and tallied and hung out to dry. It’s not like they’ve never budgeted before. They have. And it’s never worked. But this time is different. Because this time the husband at least, for the first time, is performing without a net. And as the wife watches him tiptoe across the wire, she too knows she must touch down to earth. Steady as she goes.

The wife receives a number. THIS is the amount she has to spend every month. Every week. On food. Vet bills. Clothing. Spend more, and savings sinks. When savings sinks, so does husband. Buoy both by frugality. Spend what you have, not what you aspire to have. Don’t be like these people:

Be like this man:

The wife watches these two documentaries back to back. With a tremoring heart she realizes she has something in common with the queen of Versailles. It is a willful denial of financial reality. It stings to recognize herself in this wacky tacky siliconed lady.

And when she watches Bill Cunningham patch his cheap rain poncho with strips of duct tape, when she witnesses him remain unmoved by the coterie of high society and happily sleep on a mattress perched across a quartet of milk crates all while delighting in his artistic work, she realizes that his is the mindset she intends to embody. To be a person who has so much inherent confidence and integrity that she will not ever mistake material wealth for self-worth. To see the folly and foolishness in being a slave to money. To be clearheaded and love herself at all times, in all company. This could very well keep her within her budget.

Must she always have a guru? No. But a candle to light the way never hurts. She’s always looked to other people as examples of how to live. People are always candles. Leading her toward or away from true riches.

The success she’s determined to achieve is more than just publishing books or amassing wealth. It’s loving the life she has in the process.

And in the process of taking control, of knowing the numbers intimately, the husband finally exhales and unclenches. And rests. And uncovers a sliver of merry, happy and bright.

xxx

And I made spaghetti. The real kind. With FLOUR. Because I have fallen so far from Paleo grace that my ass may as well be made of Turkey Hill peanut butter cup ice cream shoved between two halves of a giant chocolate croissant. Hell. Make it a chocolate croissant on one side and an almond croissant on the other, and add a scoop of mint chocolate chip.

Because since I’ve been working out four days a week, God forbid I actually give myself the body I want by eating right too. With me it’s either/or. Either I eat right and sit on my ass, or I eat like hell and work out like a crazy person. Or maybe all the boot camp just makes me hungry, which is ironic. Meanwhile I’m forty-three so why not eat for crying out loud. Death is coming. I can’t ignore it anymore. And delicious creamy ice cream is so fucking satisfying. Not that I was starving myself before. It’s just, ugh. I don’t know. But now that I just talked about croissants and ice cream, I am drooling.

So I’m standing on my makeshift stage performing for the kids. The dinner show. My stage is the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. My prop is a mildewed dish rag. I’d given them an excellent dance party extravaganza just that morning, to my current fave Gaga song, Scheiße

And now, with the sun down, the menorah lit and the tree plugged in, it’s time for the comedy revue. It’s time to introduce my kids to Louis CK. Because that is the kind of impaired parental judgement I inherited from my mother, who happens to be with us this night to watch the kids while Bryan and I go to this coffee meeting thing at the school. Spike tested into the gifted program, see.

There! I said it! I did the unthinkable and told you my kid is special. Extra smart. I am such an asshole. This is the kind of thing I’m never supposed to do. We have an agreement, the other parents of gifted children and I. Except for one neighborhood loudmouth who when she picks up her kid in the afternoon, bellows so everyone can hear, “Chelsea!!!!! How was CHALLENGE!!!!!?” That’s what it’s called. Challenge. And I want to punch her in the neck. But I know how she feels.

The topic of the coffee thing is, “Traits of the Gifted Child,” and I need reassurance that my kid’s traits are typical. Traits like having a shitty work ethic, for instance. In the world of the gifted, this is called perfectionism. Spike isn’t a high achieving bright young boy who works diligently, goes above and beyond the call of duty and struggles gallantly through his initial failings to come out on top. No. Spike does the least amount of work required not giving one whit about penmanship, consequences or grades. He falls to the floor in a foaming rage if blindsided by unexpected assignments, and nearly forgets his backpack on the way to the minivan in the morning. Ah, my gifted little one.

But I figure I’ve blogged about my kid shitting teal poop balls when he was four—even posted pictures of the horrible, fascinating things. I told you about the time he told me to fuck off last year, and I’ve posted thousands of grievances, fears and horrors in between. So I figure he deserves some props. He’s a smart motherfucker ladies and gentlemen.

Also, there’s this. Spike’s eight years old now and is about to have his own internet persona because Santa is bringing him and his sister an iPod Touch to share since mommy’s phone only has so much room for all their shitty apps and that makes me a potential double asshole, because they already fight and now I’m giving them something they have to share, AND something I will not allow them to play with any time they want. I am basically paying $229 for a family headache.

And in his burgeoning maturity, Spike knows what a blog is and that I blog about him and let me tell you, he is not thrilled about it. Which means my days are numbered. So I should say some nice things about him. This is also partly why I barely blog these days. I feel gagged and bound. But I’m figuring it out.

So for a reason that escapes me, I’m acting out my favorite Louis CK bit where he’s walking through the crowded New York City sidewalks with his daughter, and she’s talking to him, and he can barely hear her and finally he turns to her while saying, “Excuse me sir!” to the exasperated pedestrian behind him, and then says to his daughter, “What’s that sweetie? Yes some dogs are brown,” and my kids are laughing, begging me—do it again Mom! And my mom is cracking up and I am basking in their adoration.

But since we live in the internet age, it’s not enough to act out this hilarious, inappropriate segment to my kids. I have to go and find it on YouTube and show them. But I can’t find it anywhere and Spike is supposed to be practicing piano before we leave, and the dishes aren’t going to wash themselves—Lord knows my mom isn’t touching them—and before I know it, I’m attached to the laptop by that invisible steel cable, the addict in me tweaking, and the kids and my mom and I are all huddled around staring at Louis, laughing with both glee and mild terror while he calls his daughter a fucking asshole and describes how she’s laying on the floor naked and delighted, spreading her vagina with her dirty little fingers.

I look over at my husband in the kitchen. He’s scraping leftover marinara into a jar and shaking his head, marveling at the scene before him. But since he has not raced over and slammed the laptop shut, I figure what we are doing is fine. A teachable moment even. Because Bryan is less impaired than I am in the good judgment department. Still Spike says, “Boy, I hope that guy’s daughter never sees this,” which, um…

Yikes.

I’d like to blame this chick for everything, because when I did my search, she said on her Flickr account that the bit I was searching for was in Louis’s Shameless show, but it was not. And it was so funny, and so wrong, that I did not press pause. I did not click the tiny X in the red circle. Instead I completed the circle. From mother. To daughter. To the next generation. Happy Hanukkah kids. This is what grown-ups really think of you.

Then this morning, I’ve got to take Coco to the vet to get her fixed—yes, we adopted ANOTHER dog! Which I never officially blogged about because I facebooked it and then it seemed beside the point. But Nyla is so attached to me—she’s on my legs right now as I type—and Bryan was SO not feeling the love. And Nyla I felt could use some help coming out of her little doggie shell.

Plus I figured I needed a good distraction since I was finally progressing with my writing—revising, submitting, teaching, working here and there writing copy for other people—that I started lurking around Petco Saturday afternoons—that’s when the Philly Paws van comes—and I met Coco and that was that. She’s fantastic and has been from the start. Such an easier transition. Just like going from one human baby to another. It’s not as life-altering as the first time. And Bryan adores her.

Coco is the gray toy poodle I always wanted, inspired by my friend’s dog Hugo, pictured above, who I fell in love with a couple years ago. But it turns out Coco’s blind in her right eye, which makes me an even bigger hero, and this morning was her appointment for the vet to get her fixed. You have to agree to do this as a responsible pet rescuer.

I had to wake up at like six-thirty, which I practically do every day anyway but for some reason when I got home I was so exhausted and shaky with hunger—thanks carbs—that I skipped boot camp and inhaled a bowl of yogurt with honey-roasted almond slices and candied ginger pieces and then grabbed the laptop. Now that I’d blown off exercise class, I figured I may as well be completely unproductive and find that damn Louis CK bit.

Five hours later, having watched Shameless twice, sleuthed Wikipedia and sorted through other odds and ends, Eureka! The segment I was looking for is in his 2008 show, Chewed Up. Just like my morning was. All chewed up like a pencil someone left on the floor. Because Coco’s a chewy little thing.

I can’t wait to show the kids. Enjoy. It’s four minutes in.

And Happy Hanukkah.

My fingers hover over the keyboard wondering what the hell to write. Sandy was devastating. The election, for me anyway, was a relief. Now it’s Veterans Day and the veterans are being thanked. Thank you veterans. Thank you hurricane clean-up volunteers. Thank you linemen and women. Thank you donators. We give thanks every night in my house. Thanks that we have heat, electricity. Hot water. Food. Health. An internet connection. Coffee. Pie. Snuggly fitted fleece jackets with those neato holes in the cuffs for your thumbs. Poo poo as my mother would say.

I’ve been revising The Housewife and the Healer again. I think it’s my seventh revision. Maybe seventeenth. It’s been fun and rewarding and educational. I shared parts of it with my family over the weekend. The parts that feature the heroine’s mom, I read to my mom over a venison dinner Swamp Chicken made, complete with homemade shoofly pie. Even Spike hung around to hear my story, and laughed like a giddy goof at all the curse words, family bickering and frustrations endured by the cast of fluffy suburban characters.

It was heartening and validating to read aloud what I’ve worked on for two years, and to see the laughing faces of my family. I hope my son will be inspired to struggle through a story of his own one day. I like that the kids have watched me write, get rejected, write some more, get rejected some more, write some more and so on. Enduring the struggle is where it’s at. I’ve quit a million things in my life. I know what it’s like to be a quitter. To feel resentful. To be jealous of successful people for whom the world is seemingly delivered on an engraved silver platter. But nobody has a monopoly on talent and talent is overrated. And aside from the ones gifted with dumb luck, the ones who make it are the ones who keep going. Keeping going is my new thing. I have visions of myself crawling across the finish line, exhausted and bloodied, sweaty and possibly incontinent, reaching out to grab my motherfucking book contract. God, please. I won’t take no for an answer. Lord hear my prayer, etc. L’chaim!

Below, Spike’s ”ninja” costume. I am fully aware that he looks more like an Afghani woman in a burqa. Does he realize this? No. Did he have fun? Yes.

Peaches was a “vampress.” I wish I’d gotten a good shot of the makeup we did that made her look like a goth teen tart. My lord that girl is growing up fast. Lost two teeth in as many days. I love the inner creases of her elbows. 

I continue to fall madder and madder in love with my pooch. We’re working on a new trick—shake hands. Such a high aptitude doggie. Again, poo poo.

I spent the better part of last week—far too much time—indulging my ridiculous and dysfunctional fantasy of getting another dog. Nyla wants to be with me always. I could stuff her in a totebag and take her with me everywhere, but I also have visions of rescuing another needy dog, of finding a playmate for her, someone to keep her company while I go to boot camp and Trader Joe’s. Unfurtunately Nyla is not a dog person. She is a people person. Here are the dogs we scheduled meet-and-greets with: Cookie, a labradoodle. My favorite, though kind of drooly. Nyla would rather have been alone, but tolerated Cookie Monster gallantly.

Molly, below. An Aussie shepherd mix. So sweet. Nyla could not get away from her fast enough.

Gucci, below, or as Spike spells it, Goochie. How much cooler is that? Nyla HATED the Gooch. Way too barky.

In my time allotted to procrastinating my writing work, I scour Petfinder and Philly Paws for blackish gray versions of Nyla, so that we may one day have a pair, like salt and pepper shakers of furry, loyal love—loveballs. But the truth is that Nyla does not seem to want to share her queendom, and in the end it’s her call.

poo poo, as my mother would say.

xxx

I found this set of cockandballs at my local cafe. It’s a twenty minute walk from my house, or a five minute drive. Four if you speed.

Deep in conversation was I with my new writing friend Carmelita* who incidentally, owns a tiny wide-faced black pug. Pugsy* and Nyla met last night at the Howl-o-ween dog costume parade. I think they are going to be fast friends. At least I hope to force Nyla into a canine friendship come hell or high water. Unfortunately we got no good photos of Niles as a bee or Pugsy Peacock, or the bulldog dressed as a harem girl, or the grand prize-winning shih tzu elephant or the disco chihuahua, because I hired the kids to photograph the event and all we got were thumbs and flash spots. C’est la vie.

Also, we got there late due to the kids’ conflicting piano lessons, so we didn’t get a chance to enter the costume contest, something that provoked Spike to repeat, We could’ve won! every two minutes and then pour a cup of cold water into my lap, which he says was an accident. I screamed at him, he cried, the woman sitting next to me gave me a dirty look, and at the end of the night I vowed to take the contest seriously next year, because I like to win. I’d love for Nyla to go as Gaga, or a bellhop but would consider Peaches’s desire for her to be a mermaid or a princess. Will be thinking hard about it and scouring the sales post H-ween.

So. Deep in conversation at Delancey Bagels was I with Carmelita. She is the kind of fast friend who laughs at my jokes and buys my books and reads my blogs, but she’s smart and funny and quick herself so it’s an even bigger ego boost—my inner needy narcissist’s favorite type of gal. No pressure! Just sayin’. Just keeping it real. That’s how I do.

It took maybe ten minutes of blathering on about myself before I realized that this tiny dicky graffiti was hovering just inches from my face, begging me to notice its scribbled liveliness. Wish I could have gotten a less blurry photo but at least it came out at all. Ahem, kids.

Um.

The point is that I broke through a barrier this week. I grew a set of balls.

I taught my first writing workshop. I planned for weeks. I came up with writing prompts, fiction and memoir elements to discuss, and I Xeroxed hand-outs. I lectured, scheduled and surmised. I let them know when it was time for a fifteen minute break and told them where the closest Starbucks was.

My students, they TOOK NOTES on what I said. I looked up from my notes, saw them scribbling, felt compelled to shout TITTIES! (but didn’t). It was heady, exciting. Exhausting. I collected checks and cash. Surreal.

And somewhere in the middle, I realized that all the work I did to make that one three-hour class a success would have to be repeated five more times, and then more if this thing takes off. And then I realized that it was fine with me, that my mind was spinning after class with what to do for the second meeting.

My students are jewels, wonderful spirits and writers all. I feel blessed and lucky to have them, and finally like the adult I always craved to be, after YEARS of being the girl—THAT GIRL—who cried in the bathroom at every one of her very low responsibility jobs over the past what—twenty years?

Of course I didn’t give a shit about any of those jobs, not the way I give a shit about writing and being a writer. What I cared about was how people perceived me. I wanted everyone to think I was all that and a bag of barbecue chips. Now I just want to supplement my family’s income so we can eat out and vacation without having to wring our hands in fear for our bank account. And I want to do it using my skill-set—writing. And gosh darn it, I did it.

It’s almost agitating, teeth-grindingly uncomfortable to finally get to a place I always wanted to go. I fear for my self-esteem—that it will get hijacked, and that everything I worked so hard for will disintegrate under a vinegary salad of mental self-harm. But apparently that’s normal. It’s an adjustment period. And I always have my magic pills.

I remind myself that I was once in this exact spot, when I started dating Bryan. When we fell in love after years of my yearning for assholes and being alone and feeling like everyone knew something I didn’t.

Here’s what I know now. Everyone gets insecure. Everyone feels like a fraud sometimes—everyone who’s sensitive, honest and self-analytical, anyway. And people who live their dreams know they have to push forward anyway, that fear is just fear and the thrill of following your bliss is a reward in itself. The bigger fear is not to try.

At 43, life is too damn short to believe the naysayer inside. I imagine he has the tiniest balls.

xxx