Just a Few Hiccups

I am hiccuping as if I've swallowed an entire swimming pool and it wants back out. My husband and daughter are sleeping soundly, as are the two cats at my side. But I am out here in the blazingly hot living room hiccuping until my chest hurts. What in God's name caused this all of a sudden? I haven't eaten or drunk anything in hours.

The only thing I can think is that the newly posted lecture in my writer's workshop has set my insides whirring. My brain has set off the fire alarm to let me know I am certifiably insane for taking on this workload while minding an ever more active toddler all day and night. Or maybe my stomach is complaining because it sees the onslaught of caffeine coming and it wants none of that. Actually, any part of me could be unhappy with this trauma, except perhaps that small corner of my brain that says, "Lady, you're gonna have to get off your ass and do something constructive unless you want me to torture you for the rest of your God given days."

That small quadrant of grey matter is Queen of this castle and, as it seems, quite powerful enough to take on any protestors in my life. Amazing. Now I just need it to figure mathematical probabilities and algorithms or whatever it takes to go home with a vault full of cash from the casino.

So it Begins...

Much to my own surprise, I have actually begun my writing workshop for the spring. I was on the fence about whether to enroll because of the stress it will put on each of us in my family for different reasons. Ultimately, I realized that I just have to kick myself in the ass and go because it's easy to use any excuse not to do something. I could easily sit here on the couch and watch some inane television for the next four months and happily pass another season. I could just as easily take this class and get little sleep for the next few weeks and feel accomplished. So I chose the latter.

I'm practicing my late night writing session capabilities right now. Fortunately for me, I've been an insomniac most of my life. But, I'm hoping to get things turned around a bit so I write in the normal world's morning instead of the just past midnight morning. We'll see how I do.

My class is an online class. This is strange to me because I feel like it could be any other day of my internet browsing--it doesn't quite feel serious yet. Hopefully it will. There are actually 16 people in this class. Amazing. One of them could be somebody I've run across on blogger. I'm about to check that out. It would probably be my little secret because God knows my readership could stand to be bigger here.

I'm reading your blogs, though. Ask me a question for my next entry...

Press Releases and Day Old Chicken

I've been giving some pointers on writing a press release in the last week and I realized two things. First, that I am so incredibly happy not to be immersed in the storm of "releasing" some corporate development to the media on a daily basis. I mean, who really cares that AOL bought some other small website or that some new executive got hired at one of the studios. Yawn. Secondly, I learned a lot more than I even care to know at this point. I'd like to put my years as a corporate communications monkey in the circular file, if you know what I mean. I'd rather change smelly diapers all day then hear another pep rally inspiring the team to arrive at 5 a.m. in order to release this "big" news. What a bunch of bull puckey.

Well, at least some one I care about is actually benefitting from my knowledge by torture. In the aftermath, I'm trying to reheat an entire chicken in the oven. No small task, my friend. In yet another scheduling debacle yesterday, I prepared a whole chicken that we did not eat. So it spent the night soaking in its own juices (i.e. fat globules) and now I'm trying to coax the thing to heat in the oven. Perhaps the Chinese leftovers will come to the rescue again.

I must sign up for my infamous writing workshop now before I miss the deadline or all the classes are full.

A bientot.

Passata and Kalamata

I fished through several recipes from my BBC cookbook today and finally found one
a) for which I have most of the ingredients and
b) my hungry/picky family will not complain about, here at the homestead.

Most of the recipes use fantastic ingredients only found in the Scottish Highlands or Heathered Moors or something. Many of them use ingredients I've never heard of in my life. Today's selection: Passata. What the hell is passata? I had to Google it and figured out that it's some kind of crushed tomato paste that's probably somewhere in between the varieties we have in U.S. stores. I'll be substituting smashed up canned tomatoes, thank you.

Brits. Geez.

Yeah, I know, we love 'em anyway.

At least I have the black olives in stock (California, actually, not Kalamata).

In other ground-breaking news, my husband agreed that Mommy and Baby should sign up for our respective classes. I'm happily buzzing about looking for which ones can handle us. Something active for baby to expend energy so she'll nap, something somewhat stimulating for Mommy to remember she has a brain. As you can see, Mommy has taken to talking about herself in the third person, so it is questionable.

Off to set my salivary glands going in the kitchen.

Pennies from Heaven

My husband and I are trying to decide which classes to enroll our baby in, what classes to enroll Mommy in and if we can finally put a few sticks of furniture in our living room. Such a mundance conversation, I know. The funny part of it is that we really shouldn't be paying for any of it right now. But we're going to anyway--after all, it's the American Way. I wouldn't want us to be un-American.

You see, I'd like to be even more American and write the Great American Novel. Uh, correction--the New York Times Best Seller Great American Novel. No sweat, right? Before I can do that, though, I have to be a great American capitalist, feeding the coffers of those pillars of education called writer's workshops. Essentially, I will have to force myself to write in the wee hours at the cost of precious sleep, since that's the only time the baby sleeps and I don't. Then I will scramble to read the endless pages of my twelve classmates on the day of class, writing my comments in the margins on the way to said class. All this blissful torture for the mere pittance of $600 U.S.

Then the furniture will cost us a few thousand and Gymboree or some such will add a $300 cherry on top of our debt sundae.

So, off I go to convince my otherwise intelligent husband why this agenda is valid.

To be continued...

Entertainment for All Ages

I'm hibernating for the winter. It's too cold here for me and the onset of winter every year pushes me into an ever-longer state of hibernation. When I first came to New York, I was trying to be brave and often walked around in negative-temperature-with-wind-chill situations wearing nothing but my work suit. One night, I walked from one end of Midtown to the other, literally the entire width of the island of Manhattan, wearing crepe pants and no overcoat. After I arrived home and saw how red raw my legs and hands were, I decided I must be out of my mind. Every year since then, I've acquired more and more winter supplies, but, ironically, have ventured outside less and less.

So, inside my warm home, I find entertainments for myself and my daughter. As you'd imagine, there's plenty of TV watching. But, there's also lots of puzzles, games of chase, snacking, pretend with toys, building a false sense of excitement about looking at the computer, etc. My daughter has made leaps in her development as a result of all this indoor entertainment. She can perfom all life's necessary tasks now: changing the channel, increasing the volume, turning the TV on and off and repeating just about anything she hears. And only 20 months old!

She can tell you the schedule of all her favorite cartoons and knows the shows you like, too. Hmmm, unless she's going to work for TV Guide...

I'm on the hunt for another mommy and me class to force me out the front door.

A Tune to that Name

The minute I hear one of the names with which I have a memory association, I find it hard to think of that name in any other context. If I meet a new person with the same name, I am predisposed to thinking of that person as having a similar personality. Eventually I do get past that, but usually the original name-to-personality connection overshadows the new one. Here's a few from my real life for kicks:

Natasha--a girl that my first serious boyfriend had a one-night stand with before we started dating. She moved in two doors down from me while we were together and I realized she still wanted my boyfriend. I failed to recognize the ominous foreshadowing of her arrival. We began arguing about her intentions and his and these "talks" about her started the swift decline of our relationship.

Annette, Janette (and variations with the correct spelling)--one in the same to me. The two worst bosses I have ever had. Both petty, ungrateful, lazy and deceitful. Anything with a 'nette on the end sounds a general alarm. I should thank them, though. That double threat confirmed my decision to get the hell outta advertising, I mean Dodge.

Mark--one younger man that sucked me in and spit me out, one older one that wasn't sure of his orientation and one co-worker that pestered, challenged, pushed and annoyed. Actually the last proved the best of the three musketeers. Years later, I keep contact with him.

Kyle--my first college boyfriend that charmed me silly first semester and shattered me completely second. My complete devastation at his hand forced the writer inside me out. I wrote. I gained a reputation for my prolific writing. A rapt audience of several people, unbeknownst to me, were reading my many letters to him. Then I began to journal.

So many more which I'm sure will come to me in my dreams...

Born Again M.F.A.

I drove around Sarah Lawrence this weekend and was pleased to see how picturesque and charming it is. It has the same English country/Tudor/cottage architecture as the rest of Bronxville and much of Westchester. It's quite a small campus, though, compared to where I spent my undergraduate career. It's smallness gave me trepidation. How can such an institution have a name with weight? How can the program truly be comprehensive if there are only a handful of students and faculty? How can I be accepted if there are dozens or hundreds of applicants for a single digit class size? How will I know if the program is even what I need?

I've had many conversations about why I want this degree. I'm not entirely sure what all my motivations are, but I know that I will feel a great sense of accomplishment if I'm able to do it. It was a struggle for me to get through college between working two jobs, having little passion for my major, lacking effective study habits and just plain tiredness. Oh and there was that little habit of wanting to attend parties every weekend and, uh, meeting eligible gentlemen (boys, as it were). At a certain point, you just stop caring and plow through like a mule. Maybe this second degree is a means of redemption in my own mind.

I just want some respect. Is it so much to ask? It's funny that an anti-authoritarian like me actually wants to be in a position of respect. It's all too ironic and psychology textbook-like. I want to make a living doing something I love, contribute something positive to my own reputation, for once, and leave a proud legacy. It's amazing how I can persist in my (delusional?) optimism despite so many shoeprints on my face.