nudle

Game day.

Usually I couldn't care less about football (and I'm the only one in my entire family who feels that way, which makes me feel that way even more) but I couldn't help but get caught up in this year's Seahawks saga. The rivalry, the stories, and going with Ewan to the playoff game for his birthday--being part of the whole scene made me appreciate this game that most Americans spend so much time and energy watching and talking about. Obsessing over. Then there was the sudden superstardom of Richard Sherman. Drama!

We saw friends at the game (and they're in New Jersey now, lucky fans).

Han and his friend, J., demonstrating the Seahawks' fierceness.

Our Superbowl party (for four) will include meat and beer and, probably, folding clothes.

How will it all play out?

Self pity and run-on sentence alert.

Last night I went to bed, Han got me up and I was angry and not very graceful, then I couldn't go to sleep so I got up and tried to squeeze out some words and it was not easy, plus I'm behind in my count for National Novel Writing Month, then I went to bed again and I felt numb and that worries me, and then Han got me up again at four because he had to go to the bathroom so when my alarm went off I felt tired and still numb, and that concerns me because of the Fresh Air interview with Allie Brosh who got depressed and had no feelings and now I'm sitting on the sofa and trying to make up some of the slipping, sliding word count and I'm having a tough time and thinking about how nice it would be to take a nap and it's raining and white outside and I still don't have that many feelings except a general sogginess, whereas last week I felt alive and happy and excited even though I was behind on my word count then, too, and now I keep wondering what is it all for, why am I even doing this and the evil voice of doubt is chatting away in my mind's ear.

I'm doing Nanowrimo.

Okay. That's all I can write because I'm about 2,871 words short of where I should be on day 12. I'm sitting on my blue sofa with my laptop open writing about a girl who lives in a house with a blue sofa, a girl who is getting herself into trouble even though she wants to change her world for the better. This girl loves her friends but hates Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio.

Hey, this is fun! Fun like running a marathon or giving birth is fun.

If you want to participate in National Novel Writing Month with me next November, check it out here.

Number two.

Hey, I submitted another story. That's two now. In preparation for my upcoming fame, Iona snapped headshots.

Short skirt long jacket.

So busy writing just ALL THE TIME.

Unfiltered.

Dear Han,

I am going to write this very fast so I can go write. Someday your mom is going to have a book on the shelves! I'm rolling a new project around in my head, and it's uncomfortable. So I'd better get to work!

But first...

It's been a long time since I wrote to you about you. You've grown about a foot and more into your sassy, headstrong, loving, observant self. When you're mad at me you shout, "I'm rude at you!" or "You're stupid at me!" But yesterday I did something to make you really mad, like insist that you get dressed before you ate breakfast, and you ran to the sofa, crying, and screamed, "I hate you, Mom! I hate hate hate you!" 

I don't hold that against you. It happens. 

You ended up completely missing breakfast, so it's lucky your preschool always has food on the table when we get there. You ate three bowls of granola and a lot of banana slices, and then you were your normal, non-demonic self again.

You only ever want to wear short-sleeved t-shirts, shorts and the checkered Vans you chose all by yourself when we went shoe shopping. You stick your hands in your pockets when you walk. You're missing your two front teeth and one on the bottom. It gives you a scrappy look. Plus, you need a haircut.

You love gum.

You notice everything! You're quick to smile and what you seem to want most (besides gum and love) is to make people laugh. You've discovered that the words "poop" and "toilet" and "butt" get laughs, so you use them frequently even though they earn you frowns from me. 

Lately, you've started role playing with your toys, using voices and creating worlds and characters. Iona did this at your age. (She still does it, I suspect, but don't tell anyone.) I love listening to you play by yourself in this way.

At school, you have friends you play with a lot, particularly Leo and Cormack. Cormack is missing a tooth, but Leo is the one who walked up to me the other day and announced, "I'm Toothless!" I was taken aback until he explained Toothless is a character in the movie, "How to Train Your Dragon."

You are the most curious person I know, and by that I mean you want to know everything, not that you're odd or strange. Yesterday the young tattooed philosopher window washer who was here at our house all day noticed how inquisitive you are. "That's good," he said. I agree.

I love you, Hanster Monster, to infinity and beyond!

Mom

My first.

(Annotations are mine.)

Today I got an invitation to Linkedin with G.B., a boy I used to know (because back when I knew him he was a boy, and will likely remain a boy to me forever even though we did meet again as adults at a class reunion that is slightly foggy to me, which is unfortunate, and I promise myself I will not drink so much Champagne on the way to other, future, class reunions). G.B. was a nice guy and it gave me a tiny warm feeling that he wanted to Linkedin. I know that G.B. Linkedin me only because the algorithm suggested it because other girls and boys from elementary school and junior high and high school have Linkedin me. (I actually don't know if anyone from those days has Linkedin me. Must go check, further delaying accomplishing anything. No. No. I will not do that. I will sit in this chair and write for real now. Not for this blog. But first I must tie up the ends of this inconsequential missive.)

Why do I get a tiny warm feeling at G.B.'s digital-only invitation to simply show we are 'professionally networked,' even though he works for a toy company and I sit alone trying to put words down so I can finish this infernal novel? I suppose it's because we want to be noticed and we have a primal need to belong. Additionally, I'll take anything I can get when I feel alone and scared, picking up my manuscript after being away reveling among family and drinking Chardonnay like a footloose bon vivant. Now I find myself in a dim, dank, hard-edged corridor with many doors that stretches before me like that hallway in Poltergeist. And offspring pick-up looms...

There is a cafe close to school that we visit on our way home sometimes. Usually it's when Iona's had a bad day, so we can get her a chocolate chip cookie. Han gets something, too, and sometimes I even get a scone or biscotti. They are nice. It's an old house with an aura of friendliness and neighborhoodiness. The people smile and recognize us. All these are good when you weren't asked to play soccer at lunch recess and even if you hate soccer, it would have been nice to be asked, and you would have even played, had you been asked. So when we found ourselves standing outside the glass front yesterday, I realized that my wallet was sitting uselessly at home and all I had was my checkbook. We went in anyway. I hate asking for favors which is a weakness of mine but I am able to overcome it in a lunch-recess-no-soccer-invitation emergency, which is a strength. So I asked if they'd take a check. The woman said, "How about if you just bring the money in tomorrow and take the cookies now. Would that be okay?" It was okay. So today maybe we'll go back, take money, and buy more cookies.

Wow. Brené Brown on the power of vulnerability. Worth twenty minutes.