Edgy Mama

You may think I’m smooth. You may think I’m edgy. You may think I’m graceful, cool, and collected. You’d be thinking wrong on all accounts.

I’m a klutz, a dork. My small-boned, English rose exterior hides a wreaker of havoc, a visitor of multitudinous emergency rooms, a woman whose ability to get into ridiculous situations is legendary.

Just this morning, I bumped my head, hard, on our breakfast bar, for no reason other than I’d forgotten, for the fortieth time, that it juts out from the counter, and that, when I’m picking a Cheerio up from under it, I must move in a way so my head clears the overhang. Luckily, my four-year-old son, with an efficiency born of much experience, pulled Boo-Boo Bear from his special place in our freezer and applied him to the fast-swelling knot on the back of my head.

And just two days ago, I came this close to perishing, yes, perishing–in a bathroom stall in a public restaurant, no less.

Having to avail myself of the facilities is, unfortuately, all too frequent for this 40-something mother of two. In this case, the toilet stall had one of those sliding latches on the door, but my latch wouldn’t slide. After playing with it for several seconds, I realized that the knob that held the latch on was racheted too tightly. I loosened it slightly, slid the latch to, and gave the knob a twist to hold it in place. Then I took care of my business.

When I reached to undo the latch, I realized that my incredibly strong fingers had turned the knob too tightly. It was well stuck. I was well stuck. I pulled, I gripped, I jiggled. To no avail. Then I heard someone else in the bathroom. Just as I was about to call out to her, to explain my silly predicament, I heard the door swing shut, and I was plunged into darkness. Being a conscientious enviro-type, she’d flicked off the light as she left the room. Clearly, she had not realized that she was leaving me locked in a two-by-two stall in the dark, with only dirty porcelain and cold tile for company.

So, there I was, locked in a toilet stall in the pitch-black dark. By myself. Would I have to yell until some poor soul walked by and decided to investigate? Would they decide not to investigate, remembering last week’s story about what happened when two Panther cheerleaders were confronted in a toilet stall? Should I just wait there until someone else decided to use the facilities? Could I wait? I mean, I couldn’t see anything. What if something was crawling up the plumbing pipes right now? Something that had been lying in wait for just such a moment? An evil creature, covered in excrement, that would leap from the toilet bowl cackling with glee at discovering my inability to escape?

In a moment of adrenaline-fueled panic, using all my meager strength, I pushed the latch once more. It moved–a centimeter. I pushed again. I wrenched that damnable little silver knob, cursing it mightily. Spawn of the devil knob. Demon knob. Knob belonging in the seventh circle of Hell. Burn, knob, burn.

Finally, succumbing to my anger, the knob spun, the latch released. The stall door hit me in the face. And I ran.

UPDATE: I submitted this post to November’s Blogging For Books (B4B) contest, and it has been chosen as a top seven finalist. Woohoo! Go to Joshilyn Jackson’s blog for information about B4B and to read the other finalists’ stories and misadventures.

Our new e-mail address for submissions is not yet working. In the mean time, send your submissions to janus@annefittenglenn.com. For guidelines, scroll down to CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS.

Thanks Screwy and Theseus for submissions. Chad, get to it guy!

I don’t like to shop. Well, let me clarify that. I don’t like to shop discount. Yes, hippie-enviro-chick is admitting to her inner princess.

Today, in a quest for that most elusive yet most important of ALL clothing items, I went to Goody’s and TJ Maxx, as recommended by my friend Nancy, who does like to shop. I had never been to Goody’s and my palms started sweating the second I passed through the glass door. Nervously, I approached the racks. Searching, searching, ah–a sign–”Denim Nation” clued me in. Yes, the elusive but necessary jeans in multiple shades of blue awaited.

Daunted by the sheer numbers, I began flipping hangers. Then I noticed the sizing. Typically, I wear a 6 or an 8, depending on the pants. For some reason, these jeans were sized in odd numbers. I thought well, 7 is between 6 and 8, perhaps it will be perfect. But no, the 7s were too tight, while the 9s were too loose, although one of the 7s was too loose and one of the 9s was too tight. Got that?

And the array of designs? Staggering. Sequins, stiching, cut, rise, appliques, pockets, labeling–all different, all confusing.

Here’s what I want in a pair of jeans: low rise (but not so low that I have to, ummmm, shave); full coverage behind (maybe when I was 20 my butt crack was cute, but these days I’m trying not to embarrass my kids too often); slimming effect (lift the behind, flatten the pooch); boot or flare cut (thank god pencil-thin jeans are “out”–I never could get them over my Wonder Woman calves); length appropriate for a 5′6″ woman (the one pair of jeans I have now are frayed at the heels from dragging the floor); oh, and priced at $50 or less. I’d settle for half of these specifications. Clearly, I am asking waaaaay too much.

Okay, I’ll admit, I gave up after trying only about six pairs at Goody’s and five pairs at TJ Maxx, but I was completely demoralized.

So on the drive home, I fantasized my ideal jeans quest:

EM walks into clean, well-lit, spacious boutique. No one is there. Then, like a genie popping from a bottle, an adorable gay man appears.

“Hi, Jonathan,” I say.

“EM,” he says. “You look fabulous! Oh my god. Turn around.”

I twirl, then receive air kisses on both cheeks from Jonathan.

“O, those boots are to die for, girl,” he says.

“These?” I look incredulous. “Just a little something I picked up last time I was in the city.”

“Fab,” says Jonathan. “Now you need some jeans, don’t you? I knew just from the look on your face.”

Turning, he sashays over to a shelf where perfectly folded jeans glisten in the amber glow of the recessed lighting. Running a finger down the stack, he plucks out a pair, like a magician pulling a card from a deck, without even rustling the razor-sharp arrangement.

“Try these on,” says Jonathan. “And don’t take off the boots.”

I enter the vanilla-scented dressing room and pull the soft denim up my legs, wiggling it over my derriere. I zip, I button. I strut out to stand in front of the three-way mirror. I smile at myself when I realize that the jeans have made my bod look like Kathy Ireland’s.

Jonathan whisks in, handing me a flute of sparkling wine.

“Just a little something to take the edge off.”

“Perfect, just perfect,” he says, examining me as I slowly turn, watching hawk-like for imperfections.

“Can you get me two more pair?” I finally say.

“Of course,” he replies. “Consider it done.”

We toast each other with our crystal glasses. The wine bubbles on my tongue.

“And,” says Jonathan. “I have two pima t-shirts in chocolate brown for you as well.”

I smile, feeling giddy with good will and well-fitting jeans. If only Jonathan weren’t gay.

(Crossposted from Joshilyn Jackson’s blog)

Welcome to Blogging 4 Books. The Original Rules and the FAQ are hosted on The Zero Boss, because he made it up.

The short version: You blog on a chosen topic. You post a link to your blog entry in the comments below this entry. B4B closes at MIDNIGHT your time next Monday.

If you have no blog, you write the essay and cut and paste it (no attachments please) into an email to Anne Fitten (the Bloggess behind Edgy Mama) and ask her sweetly to host it for you.

Your special guest blogger this month is Heather Truett, a young minister’s wife and mother who who charmingly blogs about her family, her faith and her lipgloss addiction at Madame Rubies. She will narrow the entries down to seven.

If you are one of the seven finalists, your entry will be read by author and former three question guest Megan Crane. You remember MEGAN, right? From Three Questions? She will pick first, second and third place. First place gets a signed first edition of her new book, Everyone Else’s Girl in which a quintessential “good girl” discovers she may not be so good…

And now, THE TOPIC!

Since Everyone Else’s Girl is all about choices (in the same way that I am all about Darkside M&Ms OH and those LIMITED EDITITION Hershey Kisses with the cherry filling which I am absolutely not eating even though SOON you will never be able to get them anymore and WHY do I keep falling in love with weird, temporary candies that will all LEAVE ME heartbroken and betrayed with nothing between me and utter madness but stupid Halloween Mini-Twixes which I am heartily sick of but in this chocolate deprived state would probably still, yes, kill for….DEEP BREATH, and someone please pass me the Viactive Chews. THANKS.) Megan wanted you to have at LEAST two topics to choose from. SO. This month….

1) In the book, Meredith has to go back home and live with her parents again. Um, allow me to say, Yikes! So this month. spit in the face of Thomas Wolfe and write a blog entry about “going home.” You can be as literal or figurative about that as you need to be.

OR

2) Meredith thinks she has to be the good girl, the good daughter, because she thinks that’s how others see her– only to learn that maybe she’s the only one who sees herself that way. Write about the gap between the way people see themselves versus the way they actually are.

GO!

The last quiz I posted was all about girls (Which Halloween costume….?). This one is mostly for the guys. So which Action Hero are you?

If I had a Y chrom, I’d be:

You scored as James Bond, Agent 007. James Bond is MI6’s best agent, a suave, sophisticated super spy with charm, cunning, and a license’s to kill. He doesn’t care about rules or regulations and is somewhat amoral. He does care about saving humanity though, as well as the beautiful women who fill his world. Bond has expensive tastes, a wide knowledge of many subjects, and is usually armed with a clever gadget and an appropriate one-liner.

I have lots to write about, so y’all may get a couple of posts today.

First, I need to luxuriate for a moment in Asheville’s election results. Our funky town of 69,000 elected her first black mayor, who also happens to be a kickass woman. This from a city whose minority population tops out at 17 percent. We are so cool. If you’re really interested in the story and in some incisive political commentary, visit Ashvegas. He was up all hours of the night compiling data and giving insight (which he does so well).

In other election news, my good friend, Holly Jones, was easily re-elected for a second term on city council. And, for the first time in years, the progressive vote will rule council. Power for the people, y’all.

I adore election day. I love to vote. I love wearing that little “I Voted” sticker all day. I love taking my kids to vote with me. I love staying up late and checking election returns. I love living in a town like Asheville where I actually either know or have, at least, met, all the local candidates.

Anything interesting happen in your towns yesterday?

This is it, boys and girls. Flasheville is about to explode.

We are now accepting submissions of flash fiction. You, too, can be a published writer.

Send your edgy, engaging, typo-free works of 1,000 words or less to flashus@flasheville.com.

Include your work in the body of the e-mail with a word count (that means NO attachments).

Please include a SHORT (one or two sentences) biography of yourself, with a link to your website or blog if you have one. Failure to follow guidelines will result in public flogging and derision on our widely read blogs.

We will e-mail you if and when we publish your piece, if and when the site gets up (soon, Eddo, soon).

All fiction is open to comments from the public. If you can’t take the heat, stay out of Flasheville.

I spent the weekend at the North Carolina Writers’ Network Fall Conference here in gorgeous Asheville. The atmosphere was much more relaxed than that of the Yosemite Conference I attended in August (details of that are in my August archives if you’re interested–suffice it to say, it was stressful).

Many of the workshops at this conference focused on craft, and I was reminded that, even those of us who write daily and have the audacity to refer to ourselves as writers, need immersion in craft occasionally to stretch and exercise our writing muscles.

Louise Hawes, published YA novelist and writing teacher, noted that luck and talent are gifts, but craft and drive are pursuable. Our job as writers is to hone craft and remain driven in the face of rejection.

Overall, the conference instruction was uneven. Two of the workshops I attended were excellent, two were so-so, and one was downright bad. I am a difficult audience, though, as I have taught writing courses, and poor Ash had to hear how I would have taught a subject differently or better on several occasions.

Having buddies (Ash and Theseus) with me was great, and given that I talked both into attending, I’m glad the conference was, for the most part, worthy. Ash is blogging about the conference as well, so check it out.

One of the highlights of the weekend was when I was chosen by instructor Alan Michael Parker to be Bob Marley. Yes, I–small, blonde, female, and o, so white–wrote a paragraph from the point of view of the great reggae singer. And then read it aloud, complete with a bad Jamaican accent. That stretched my writing muscles to the point of glycogen overload. Which was invigorating.

A few kid tales from the week:

My boy’s report of a dream he had: “Mommy, I was at Show and Tell and my Show and Tell turned into a big monster. It was a big, ugly monster. But I turned into Batman, and I flew up to the ceiling. Bam, Pow, Kick. I knocked that monster down to the ground. And we all lived happily ever after.”

My girl’s class took a field trip to Linville Caverns. My friend Nancy was a parent chaperone and told me this story: at one point, the tour guide pointed out a particularly large, thick stalactite, and asked the students what they thought it looked like. One kid said, “A carrot.” Another said, “A horse’s hoof.” My daughter raised her hand and said, “A penis.” The guide looked at her, smiled, and said, “A peanut?”

“No,” my girl replied. “A penis.”

And yes, she’s been asking lots of pointed questions lately, which I am answering gently, but veraciously.

I haven’t written much about my personal life lately. Possibly because it’s busy, but dull. Here are the more intriguing bullet points:

I’m behind on editing my novel, but I took a big, deep breath yesterday and e-mailed Gravity Defiant to The New Yorker (start at the top, right?).

I’ve been consulting part-time for a Organizational and Development Consulting Firm (trying to pay off my new computer).

I’ve been enmeshed in volunteer work for my daughter’s school’s new playground and political activism for a friend running for City Council.

I’m going to the NC Writer’s Conference all weekend, here in Asheville, with a couple other blogger/writer friends.

My kids have shared an horrid head cold with me.

Flasheville should be up in the next week or so, I hope.

News from you?