Writing Just to Write

This entry will have absolutely nothing to do with anything.  Or, perhaps it will contain a massive lot of something to do with everything.  Are they the same?  Quite honestly, I’m about half into a generously poured glass of chardonnay, so it’s becoming difficult for me to differentiate.

Yes, I said chardonnay.  Wine snobs, do not judge.  I adore reds.  Really.  But let’s face the facts:  It’s summertime in southern Nevada.  One hundred and ten Fahrenheit degrees shimmy outside my door.  My backside resides on the sun.  I want something chilly that doesn’t contain rum, vodka, or whiskey as any of those evil suckers will not only make me anxious as all get-out (if you know what I mean… ahem, ahem), but will knock my sun-scorched rear into next Tuesday.  This does not bode well with a tot running around.  In fact, I almost feel guilty with my slight wine buzz.  Almost, but not quite. My darling girl has been a festering pustule of mayhem since 6:30 am.  However, she’s had her bath and is happily watching Blue’s Clues for another ten minutes (which will undoubtedly seem like a year to me and a nanosecond to her) until bedtime.  So…  Zero guilt.  I shall drink away, enjoy at least another hefty glass of subtly oaky chardonnay with its hint of vanilla (do I hear groans?) and begin my (in all likelihood, soon to be incoherent) colorful blog entry.  So pour yourself a drink and venture on.  No- really.  Get up.  Open up your refrigerator or liquor cabinet.  Imbibe.  It’s Saturday night and we’re home- some of us with kids.  Many of us single parents of two year-olds.  Good God do we deserve a dash of liquid happiness right now.

Let’s start with the subject of toddlers and how one 39” tall, two-and-a-half year-old (she’s unusually tall) can drive a sensible, grown adult to the border of madness within a few hours of her waking.  I firmly believe nearly all toddlers are bipolar.  They lovingly “pet” your head one minute, kick your cheekbone karate-style the next, and then hug you and tell you “I love you” right after their vicious attack.  Such cherub loveliness butts against devilish motives in darling Maya, who, thank the heavens above, now peacefully slumbers.  Adorable, evil, loving, brutal, sweet daughter of mine.  I should have a xanax lick clinging to my refrigerator right above the Leap Frog alphabet toy; out of reach for Maya, but at the perfect height for my face.  Even better—prescription strength Ben & Jerry’s.  “Magic brownie” and cookie dough mix.  Hallelujah.

Next up:  lack of men in my life.  Or, for that matter, even just one man.  It was a choice I made for myself and for Maya.  For a long, long time, I stayed out of the loop just in case her dad decided to choose us instead of, well, everything else he was doing.  Pathetic?  Perhaps.  But it is what it is.  Or was.  After a while, I went on a few dates and came dangerously close to hooking up with a gorgeous man who looked a lot like Jonathan from the HGTV show Property Brothers- height, clothes, unshaven face, and the whole bit (why am I describing him?  Because he was HOT!), but realized that I wasn’t ready for any sort of relationship.  Even a very short-term affair.  Basically, I needed to get my shit together before bringing someone into my life.  Formulate a new plan for myself since my previous idea of traveling around Europe after Josh graduated (which would be right now) was not going to happen with a tot in tow- even if she does understand and even speak some French.  (Her sitter is French & Maya is freakishly smart.  Scares me.)  Where was I?  Oh, yes— get shit together.  Formulate new plan.  Determine exactly what sort of man I want in my life.  Check, check, and check.  Well, pretty much.

Fast forward to now.

Now, I’m ready.  Especially now.  These past few days have pushed me over the edge.  I want more.  I’m waaaaay overdue for some lovin’.  A kiss.  A touch.  More than I will mention here because I have family members who read this and I don’t care to share those sorts of xxx thoughts.  Let’s just say that the only man has been Maya’s dad for… well, years.  It’s time to say:  Bring it.  I am ready for whomever you decide to write into my life, dear universe.  If I might make one request:  I have a bizarre attraction to Scotland and I love a man who can cook, so if you would be so kind as to introduce me to a tall, meaty, Scottish chef who will adore me and my daughter, I would be ever so grateful.  Add smart and funny, too.  Non-smoker.  Loves dogs.  Er… you know what I want.  I trust you to send me any amazing man who will adore us and make us laugh…

Now for the real issue:  Writing.  I have been so off-track lately.  I’m so displeased with my lack of ambition as of late.  Yes, I’ve had a lot going on in my personal life, but when it boils right down to it, issues are just excuses.  No excuses.  Finish what you start, right?  I can’t blame it on the kid.  I can’t say it’s the heat.  It’s me and that’s it.  I told someone recently that he was all talk and no action.  Lip service is lame.  If you can’t back your words with action, you might as well not say anything at all.  Show it.  Same goes for writing.  You have to do it.  I have a story I must tell.  If I don’t spit it out, these characters will continue to stalk me and I won’t be able to focus on anything else.  They follow me around, night and day.  Whisper in my ear.  Carry on conversations while I’m out on my morning run.  They are relentless and they demand to be heard.  So, I collected all random scribbles, all notes, all character sketches, plot ideas, and my unfinished novel and combined it all into a folder.  I’m making everything way too difficult.  The story wants to be told; I’m merely a vehicle.  I just need to sit still.  Sit and write.

Other random things:

Nutella rocks.  I don’t need to add anything to that.

Bacon is king.  Don’t need to add anything to that, either.

I wonder if I could make a Nutella fondue with bacon as a dipping item.  Don’t laugh.  I know you’re picturing it right now and you’re wondering if it would work.  Next party, I’m doing it.  I don’t have any vegan friends.  Or if I do, they eat bacon.  Everyone I know eats bacon.  It’s BACON!  (You totally said that in your head with that voice in the dog commercial, didn’t you.)  Oh yeah.

“Heinous fuckery most foul.”  -Christopher Moore.  Fool.  I don’t know why I like that bit.  I just do.

I’m off to bed.  Sleep while the tot does because when she wakes, the skies tremble.

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