I cannot allow myself to be motivated by fear. If I do that, I’ll spend the rest of my life not trying to do something I really think I should be able to do – even if I suck.
So I’m going for it. I read your comments yesterday and they made me do the ugly cry (luckily, I have no photographic evidence to support this) but they were right. YOU were right. And I thank you for it.
I don’t like to half-ass things. I go balls to the wall, y’all or I go home.
Deep breath. Don’t panic.
It’s time to put those essays into a single document and work my ass off on them.
And I will.
Because you believe in me, I can believe in myself.
Anyone have any suggestions for me? How the shit do I find myself an agent (AGAIN)?
“Okay guys, it’s time to get ready for bed! Ben, brush your teeth. Alex, go to the bathroom,” I holler from the other room, where I’ve been hiding from the Wii and it’s incessantly cheerful music. My head feels like someone stuck it in a vice and turned the crank to 11.
*Spinal Tap Interlude*
The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and…
Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?
Does that mean it’s louder? Is it any louder?
Well, it’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You’re on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you’re on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?
I don’t know.
Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?
Put it up to eleven.
Eleven. Exactly. One louder.
Why don’t you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?
[pause] These go to eleven.
That was like a guitar solo – BUT BETTER.
Anyway. My headache. It’s one larger than ten. It goes to 11.
But I’m not gonna be all Mommy Dearest about it – the kids aren’t at fault, but I’m totally itching to lay down in the dark and watch some Pawn Stars* before sacking out myself.
I can hear Alex’s padded feet tromping toward me for a quick cuddle goodnight and I open my arms for his embrace – which generally occurs at about 827 miles an hour. You gotta brace yourself for that one.
The other one, my big son, begins to wail. Not actual tears but like the typical teenage bullshit, “Oh my GOD, how DARE you, blah blah blah.” I try to ignore his outbursts, but rather than tire himself out (like I’m hoping), he just keeps on. I’ve never MET someone so good at thoroughly beating a dead horse until it’s nothing but dry bones.
He’ll go on for hours – bemoaning his horrid fate of having to brush his teeth, which, I should tell you, Pranksters, is, according to him – “the WORST thing that could ever happen to him.” He’ll argue that point too. Just like he’ll argue that the sky is, last time he checked, green and not blue, and really Mom, how could you be SUCH an IDIOT**.
I’d probably let him continue to rail on and ignore him, but he’ll follow me around like the world’s crabbiest puppy, making damn sure I’m good and aware that he is not happy with me. Nothing is immune to his attacks – chores he’s been doing for four years are still the OTHER worst thing ever besides that one worst thing that was worser.
If I ask him to vacuum, it’s like I’ve asked him to vacuum with his nose. If I ask him to put something away, it’s like he’s stepping on broken glass to perform such a deadly chore. When I tell him to brush his teeth, it’s like I’ve told him to do so with tin foil.
I’m about ready to show him footage of kids in third world countries just to drive home the point that hey, it’s not THAT bad. But he’d probably tell me he’d rather be there, living in a hut, without a Wii, away from Yours Truly.
Ah, the teenage years. So glad you’ve visited my house.
Unrelated (totally related): Anyone want a surly 10 year old? He’s sure anywhere is better than here.
*Hey, at least it’s not the Kardashians
**the Internet wonders the same thing.
This gem was waiting for me in my inbox. It was too good to keep to myself (feel free to share your OWN fitness ideas in the comments):
Dear Aunt Becky,
Here is one of my favorite fitness tips: you MUST take it seriously or it WILL NOT WORK.
Take a walk…a long walk..alone and away from the kids.(In your yoga pants and Reebok’s)(of course)(NOTE: I have not been compensated in any way to endorse Reebok’s)(I wanted to sound like a real, professional blogger for a minute)
Your walk will be very enjoyable. You will notice the things you’ve never noticed before while in a car. That interesting twist of the trunk of that tree. The amaaazing cloud formations, the squirrels bustling about woods (or are they humping?)
Your feet wont even notice they are walking! You may even get lost (WARNING: this is very probable if you are anything like me!)Don’t forget to bring your Ipod with some Ingrid Michaelson and Freddy Johnson…they have never sounded so good as when you are doing this regime!
(This is the calorie burning section of this essay, so please pay special attention)
After finally arriving home, go immediately to the top of the armoire, (or wherever your favorite hiding spot is) and reach down a Kit Kat from the Kit Kat Party Bag. (Reaching is imperative,as that is the stretching section of the work out) (I am a big fan of parenthesis)(if you cant already tell) Continue reaching /opening/eating until you are sweating. This is how you know the workout is successful! Yay! You’ve done it!
I believe in you, Aunt Becky. I know you can do it, girl.
Call me if you need encouragement.
Love you lots,
PS: you can further the benefits of this workout by following the Kit Kat section and going into the kitchen and cooking the family a fantastic dinner with the specific nutrients found in butter, cheese, deep fried foods and chocolate!