Thursday 13

Hello!  As you can see, I’m back in blogland once again, and this time we’re going to revisit my 13 goals for 2007, and see how I did.  Let’s begin, shall we?

1.  Lose 10 pounds.  Ah, a noble goal.  Happily for me, I can keep this one for 2008.  This year, though, I just know I can do it. 

2.  Redecorate the bedroom.  Score!  I totally did this one, and it turned out great.  If I can figure out how to load actual photos from my camera into WordPress, I’ll show you all how pretty it is.

3.  Clean out the attic.  Well, I get half on this, because I did clear out a ton of stuff, but it’s not finished to my satisfaction.  I get to keep this one for next year, too.

4.  Obsess LESS.  Telling yourself you’re going to STOP obsessing is just setting yourself up for failure, if you’re an OCD champ like me.  I did do better this year, even without the wonderful help of Doc Beth (my therapist, people.  But I didn’t even GO in 2007!), and hardly any help from Doc X(anax).

5.  Landscape.  This goal sucks.  Must hire help in 2008.

6.  Make deadline for Veiled Passions.  Slam dunk.  I turned this book in a week early because I was in NYC, and I hand-delivered it to Kensington.  I rocked the deadline.

7.  Get on a schedule, and stick to it.  Sometimes it’s as if I haven’t even MET me.  This goal is funny, and so am I for putting it on my list every year.

8.  Drink less Starbucks.  Another score!  I hardly ever go anymore, despite my family’s insistence that they must knock on my office door (ignoring the pink, padded Do Not Disturb pillow that hangs from my doorknob).  This was actually a goal set to facilitate Goal #1, and while it didn’t seem to help, I guess it didn’t hurt.  The 10 pounds are still 10, and not 15.

9.  Improve eating habits.  This is really a code for ‘no cookies for breakfast.’  I succeeded about 3/4 of the time, allotting for failure due to Aunt Edna’s monthly visit from Red Bank.

10.  Organize closet and armoire.  Sweet!  Another goal bites the dust.  I even kept them tidy, you guys. 

11.  Paint more often.  I hardly painted all year.  The truth is, I’m a terrible painter (of pictures.  Of walls, I rule.), but I love to do it.  I don’t think one should have to be good at something to enjoy it.  That said, it’s hard for me to make time to do something that is so ‘unproductive.’  Which, DUH, is why it was on the list.  I am going to stick this one on my 2008 list, too.  I really ought to spend more time doing things that make me happy, even if it means ignoring other tasks that seem more pressing.

12.  Improve my golf game.  I don’t know if I got much better, but I had fun out there.  I wore a bucket hat, wing-tipped golf shoes, argyle and plaid.  I swung my pink sticks around, and I played four rounds without losing a single ball.  I drove the cart.  I spotted frogs, hawks, swallows, deer, and foxes.  I wore my kilt!  And I remembered that golf is a metaphor for life; it can’t be won, only played.  With that in mind, I played fair, used proper etiquette, tried to not take it too seriously, and drank beer.

13.  Take TIME.  Everything goes so fast.  I try to remember to take a few minutes every day to wrap my hands around a mug of tea and be quiet.  To be present in that moment.  To think about my riches, my blessings, and to be grateful.  This is last on the list because it’s the best goal to set, every year.

Look, Kate: I’m blogging!

My house is clean, my pages are getting written, the bills are paid, and I’m back on schedule.  I’m even down two pounds.  However, just to keep me humble, ShopNBC decided to not take my order for The German’s watch, and when I tried to rectify the problem?  That particular lovely is sold out.

Fortunately for ShopNBC, I’m too tired to launch into a full-on Scottish rage (the likes of which, if you haven’t seen one, is a fearsome thing).

So I’m doing everything properly: not eating past 7pm, avoiding alcohol (behold my formidable self-control!), no tea or coffee after 3pm, a warm bath or shower before bed, lights low, no television, a peaceful book (what’s more peaceful than Foreign Words And Phrases?), and STILL, I woke at 2am.

Okay.  Now that you’re updated on me, allow me, if you will, to launch into an unreasoned and not-particularly-well-thought-out tirade.

I’m late to the party.  My excuse?  I’m tired.  But it seems people have been getting all hot under the collar (again) because a feminist (who happens to be a lesbian – which, if you ask me is entirely pertinent.  I mean, what does she care what we Hets are into?), Julie Bindel, had this, amongst other things, to say:

“This is what heterosexual romantic fiction promotes – the sexual submission of women to men. M&B [Mills & Boon] novels are full of patriarchal propaganda. I can say it no better than the late, great Andrea Dworkin. This classic depiction of romance is simply “rape embellished with meaningful looks.”

Dear Ms. Bindel,

First, I’d like to point out that your rhetoric will have zero impact on the Romance Publishing Industry.

Second, please allow me to peruse some of the woman-on-woman erotica stories that get you hot (you know you’ve got some), and from those I will form vastly incorrect opinions of all lesbians.  This will be very helpful in understanding each other, I’m sure, and I’m equally certain that they do not contain any stereotypes or fantasies that would not play in real life, so you have nothing to fret about.

Third, I’d like you to examine yourself (no, not with a mirror, silly!), and really give some thought to your stance, which really boils down to: Some Books Are Dangerous.  As an obviously educated woman, do you truly think that this is the platform from which you want to speak?

Fourth, why is your vitriol aimed at what women may or may not choose to read?  As a feminist, aren’t you all for women having the choice to decide for themselves what they will and won’t do, and wouldn’t you agree that this should extend to their reading material?

I should hope, rather desperately in fact, that you aren’t fearful that we lowly, breeding women can’t think for ourselves.   

Fifth, is it really so threatening that heterosexual women might have fantasies that repulse you?

Frankly, I like men, I enjoy looking at their bodies, and I love having heterosexual sex with my husband.  I also like it when he puts me up against the wall, kisses my neck, and gently pulls my hair, but that’s another story (which may make it into the romance novel I’m currently writing – wink, wink.  Don’t worry, you don’t have to buy if you don’t want to.).

And finally, I’d like to just say that this is what I have, what I bring to the page when I write.  This what I like, and by extension, it is who I am.  I’m sorry you have a problem with it, but honestly, I think it’s inappropriate that you would so publicly denigrate an entire genre, simply because you don’t like it.  I believe you ought to have a better reason than that.

It smacks of the school yard, frankly, that the books on my shelves aren’t as good as the books on yours, and that I can’t come to your party if I don’t hate what you hate. 

Well, I don’t hate it, and for the record, my Kathleen E. Woodiwiss novels are right beside my Nabokov collection, and yes, Ms. Bindel, I have read them all (and my lips didn’t move, either!).

Inexorably,

Tracy MacNish, Romance Novelist   

AND, more on this front, some English man who no one has ever heard of (Tad Safran) had a lot to say about American women being vapid and vulgar, all too concerned with our grooming and not so much our manners.  To him, I can only say: Hullo, govna, and thanks from the bottom of my tiny, soulless heart for pointing out that we American women are more than just fat.

A Sleeping Beauty,

 I am not.  No, rather I am an ungroomed, puffy-faced, foul of mood girl with a decided lack of motivation.  Someone kiss me!

Stayed awake this morning.  Will question the wisdom of that later today.

Hey.  Isn’t it ironic that since I embarked on my mission to redecorate my bedroom with a “restful” theme, I’ve yet to spend a whole night sleeping in it?

Last night’s dinner was divine.  The German informed me that I am NOT to make such a meal again.  It seems he lacks proper self-control when faced with such deliciousness.

So, at some point in the near future, I’m going to “guest blog” at a rather hip and popular blog on Lifetime TV’s site.  I’m super nervous.  I mean, let’s face it: my blogging here lacks any sort of informative material, unless you’re DYING to know just how little I sleep, how much I want to lose 10 pounds, and how often I despair over the fact that I can’t seem to do either.

Anyway, I need to come up with a topic STAT.  And I need to seem super fun and also very witty.  This is very hard to do when sleep-deprived.  GOT TOPIC?  Drop it in the comments.  Baby Tracy is hard up.

So I ordered new bedding for my dream cloud.  I tried to find a picture to show you all, but everyone’s got “copyright” issues.  (Which, to the inquiring readers of this blog who are wondering where Tracy’s pithy post re: Oh, The Places You’ll Go went, please note that Dr. Seuss’s “people” are really uptight about his work being used for blog-fodder, despite the writer’s attribution.  Even WordPress said they were being ridiculous!)

An Aside:  Kate R – you’re awesome, and I love you.  Like, schmoopy kind of fan-girl love, okay?  Deal with it.  And maybe you’re depressed – crap happens, but look on the bright side.  At least you’re getting your rest.

All right.  I’m going to shower, dress, apply make up (spackle and paint), and get to work.  I’ve got a story to tell, you see, about a love triangle, grave-diggers, gold-diggers, and obsessions that skew the senses.  If any of you ever read this novel (due out in 2009), and you notice that all the characters are pushing through fatigue to do things they must, you’ll understand.

Still Alive

You guys, if insomnia burned calories, I’d be a bobblehead.

This morning I went back to bed.  This is a major thing, here, people.  Normally, I just stay awake, trying to function.  Usually by about 8pm, I begin to talk really fast, and The German starts answering me in monosyllables, as he (correctly) assumes that I am not really listening to myself, much less to his responses.

Okay.  I’m way behind schedule.  Here’s a quick summary:

MQ = 6.5

Thing to be grateful for:  My bedroom.  It’s all creamy, dreamy golds and ivory.

Music to listen to whilst I clean:  Everclear.

What’s for dinner?  Broccoli cassarole, noodles, roast chicken, rustic bread, salad.

Something to look forward to:  Taking my son to NYC next November.

My current mood:  Lonely.

Thursday 13

13 things to do when you’re awake at 4am.

1.  Hate everyone who’s sleeping.  I mean, really hate them.  Muse upon why it is that THEY sleep and YOU don’t.  Feel the hatred seep through pores.  Wonder if hatred causes insomnia.  Try to not hate.

2.  Think about today’s (which is actually yesterday’s) scene.  Mentally improve upon it.  Plan tomorrow’s (which is actually today) scene.  Get the mental image.  Hold it until it’s sure to take.  Try to force the memory to work.

3.  Think about new ideas for cute pedicures.

4.  Invent new companies to start.  Picture self as crisply effecient CEO of own incredibly successful business.  Imagine the trappings of success: Television interviews, exciting travel, swanky flat on the Upper East Side, a cottage in Key West.

5.  Mentally decorate swanky flat, saving cottage for later. 

6.  Suddenly recall that the energy bill is late.  Watch as swanky flat is replaced by current house lit with candles (for reason other than ambiance). 

7.  Recall old mistakes.  Wish for Rewind Button.  Try not to hate again, as memories surface of various injuries done unto self.  Wonder how some people can be so shitty.  Wonder if self is ever that shitty.  Hope with deep passion that the answer is no.

8.  Try to guess the time without looking at the clock.  Make a mental bet with self what the time will be.  Accuracy within three minutes = an oddly smug satisfaction.  Peek at clock.  Mentally groan at time.  Calculate how much time left in night.  Hate the sleepers some more.

9.  Try to remember scene improvements/plans.   Try to decide if it’d be best to just get up and write them.  Decide to try to sleep.  Need sleep.  Must sleep.

10.  Wonder if the shitty people are sleeping.

11.  Try to think of just ONE attainable thing to ask for anniversary.  Try really hard, and realize upon coming up empty that just about everything self wants is completely, absurdly out of reach, and that self really wants far too much and also very little.  Wonder if self is contentedly satisfied or has incredible sense of entitlement.  Decide it’s the former.  Fear the latter.  Descend into self-loathing.  Muse upon how horrid self is, for self-loathing is self-indulgent.

12.  Think.  Think. Think.  Tell self to stop thinking.  To close eyes.  To relax.  Realize that the pain in arm is from digging own fingernails into skin.  Decide that what self REALLY wants is a vacation from self.  Muse upon this for long while.  Realize most people would also love this.  Try to think of a way to make this into a business.  Remember film Total Recall.  Realize self isn’t the first to realize this desire.  Wonder if such a premise is possible.  Begin decorating Key West cottage.

13.  Glance at clock.  6:24.  Start to drift off.  Slide into dream state.  Find that Kurt Russell (circa 1987, Overboard) is there.  Dream Kurt loves Dream Tracy.  Dream Tracy runs her hands over Dream Kurt’s muscled arms.  The German’s alarm begins to beep.  Reality Tracy makes gutteral sound in throat, mentally curses like George Carlin on crack.

Laugh and the world laughs with you…

Cry, and you cry alone.

Sage advice from my eighth grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Kohler.  She was a formidable woman, tall, white haired, and imperious.  For some reason, she liked me well enough to pass along that advice when I was down in the dumps (as if I didn’t already feel completely bereft.  Smile, clown!  Smile!).  It’s rather cold advice, if you ask me, illustrating quite pointedly just how lonesome sadness is.

Utilizing Beth’s MQ* standard of measurement as pertaining to the state of mental health, I’m clocking in at a solid 9.

Reaching deep, here, people.  Beating it back with a stick.

Five things I’m grateful for:

1. I don’t have to see or speak to another human until 5pm.
2. The German.  He held me last night and said it’ll be okay.  Sure, he watched TV over my shoulder, but hey.  He showed up.
3. My car.  I love my bicycle, but my car takes me where I need to go even when it’s raining.
4. Tea with honey.  I plan on chain-drinking this all day while I write.
5. Writing.  True – it’s the writing that puts me in these moods.  Nothing else has the power to make me feel like such a failure.  It’s ironic, then, isn’t it, that it’s the writing that bails me out.  It’s my escape hatch.  It’s sure no picnic being me, right now.  I’ll go be them.

I guess Mrs. Kohler’s long dead by now.  That’s a shame.  If she were still around I’d love to ask her exactly what benefit she thought her words would bestow upon me.  And I’d love to ask her where you go from there.  Keeping yourself to yourself is fine, but when you’re mired in self-loathing, playing nothing but lonely games….well, I guess I’m not so much worried about whether or not I’m keeping the troops entertained.

OH!  I just thought of One More Thing I’m Grateful For: Depression kills my appetite.  I’ve already lost weight.  Another few days of this, and I’ll be back into my old trousers.  So no one try to cheer me up.  Not only am I likely to rip your face off, but I’m hoping to be lithe and svelte in the near future.

*MQ = misery quotient

Tale Of Woe

I’m depressed.

I tried everything to unslump.  So far, nothing’s worked.

Any suggestions?

Notes From an Insomniac

Breathing and sleeping are pretty much like a given for most of my fellow human bretheren.  Oh, how I hate you all!  With your full lungs and your bright, rested brains.  You can all just kiss off into the air, okay?

With that off my chest, I can continue.

You guys, I’m so excited.  Whilst lying in my bed this morning (from 3:30 until 6:30), I nailed down my next few chapters.  I can see it all so clearly, now.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you all know I’m ALIVE.  The next few days will find me at my desk, pounding out the scenes.

Insomnia – you’re so fabulous!

On a more serious note – Megan Frampton’s dad passed away very suddenly last week.  He was truly an amazing man; a Harvard student at 15, a Pulitzer prize winning journalist, and a really great dad.  Jeff McLaughlin was both humble and brilliant, a rare combination, for sure.  He was just the sort of man I’ve wished I’d been born to, and Megan is one of those great daughters who knows just how blessed she was.  She’s going to blog about him all week in tribute.  Check it out:  www.meganframpton.com.

Confessional

Forgive me, Self, for I have sinned against You.

It has been two weeks since I last exercised.

I am not keeping house to Your standards.

The bills are late.  Again.

I filled You with Chinese food and rusty nails.  For this, I am both regretfully ashamed and yet satisfied.  For this sin alone, I beg for mercy.  The flesh is weak.

The laundry has piled up again, despite Your loving provision of a HE washer and dryer.  Yes, MySelf, I do know that there are women in other countries who must beat their laundry on rocks in murky rivers.  I would in turn beat myself as penance, but it would hurt and I don’t want to.  The flesh is sensitive and bruises like a peach.

I have failed to nourish You with high-fiber breakfast cereals, despite the many boxes in the cupboard.  Instead, I have poured coffee with cream into Your sacred vessel, and neglected food entirely.  Can we call that a penance, and have the Chinese food thing be a wash?

I procrastinated.

I talked too much and said too little.  I know how much MySelf loathes this practice.

I still haven’t pressed the new window treatments for the bedroom, despite Your preference for a serene environment and Your need for aesthetic harmony.

I neglected to wash Your face before bed.

I dressed You in sweats.  Again.  For this, I ask for leniency, MySelf, for I was swayed by the comfort of an elastic waistband and fleecy lining.

To show my repentance, I vow to:

Clean up the house.

Start the laundry.

Write 2000 words.

Pay the bills.

Get dressed in attire suitable for being viewed by the public.

Walk the dogs.

Go to the market and procure the makings of a nourishing meal.

Hug husband and son, tell them what they mean to me.

Exercise more self-control with my mouth.  I do know the power of words, and will wield it more judiciously.

Stop at the liquor store and  -  nevermind.

Please forgive my many trespasses, and bestow upon me a guilt-free conscience.  I am lowly, and I am humble.  I am weak, but I am also determined to improve.

Amen.

Monday Morning Check In

Last night I made a traditional Sunday night dinner: Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, broccoli, salad, and garlic bread.  and THEN, after I cleaned it all up, I baked chocolate, chocolate chunk cookies.

I am a domestic goddess.  While my men ate cookies, I abstained whilst I did my son’s beading on his Mohawk project.  I fancied myself a paragon of dieting willpower and parental helpfulness.

I ate a cookie with my coffee this morning.  Willpower forgotten, I am a slut for cookies with coffee.

So, the German’s knees are a little better.  He went to work today, the son is at school, and I will virtuously closet myself in my beautiful office for a day of writing.  (Right now, I’m in my German’s office.  My computer lost its Internet in a tussel with a computer virus.  I keep meaning to have it repaired, but no Internet = higher productivity.  So now my laptop is functioning as a really expensive word processor.)

My German’s office has a great big leather desk chair, a kicking stereo system, and plain beige walls.  My office has a pale pink ceiling, chocolate-cherry walls, hanging glass lamps, leopard print lampshades, a water feature, and bookshelves.  This tells you everything you need to know about our differences.

We’re supposed to have 50 mph winds today.  For some reason, I’m really excited about this.