Tomorrow, the 2008 Donors Choose Blogger Challenge begins. Donors Choose is an incredible organization that matches teachers in high-needs schools with people who are willing to give. Teachers register with the site and describe what projects they need sponsored, and donors can pick and choose which projects they want to help fund. Donors receive thank-you notes from the teacher and from the students, as well as the satisfaction of knowing they made some teachers' lives that much easier.
So the Blogger Challenge is just a bunch of us bloggers competing over who can raise the most money. I would like to win this thing, of course, but more importantly I want to get a big fat bunch of money raised. So I ask you, the readers: what sort of hoops would you like to see me jump through in order to raise some money? I can and will humiliate myself on video, if it's for a good cause. As long as it doesn't involve anything death-defying, expensive, or nude, I will consider it. Please email me your ideas at finslippy AT gmail DOT com. Be gentle. And hilarious.
My Blogger Challenge link will be up tomorrow morning. I can't wait!
UPDATED TO ADD: There are going to be some gifts given away, in exchange for donations. If you have an item or items you want to give away to a Finslippy reader, now's your chance! Email me.
My cat tried to kill me. But I'm sure I had it coming.
It all started when I mocked my cat's ass on Twitter. Izzy the cat is—well, she's become a big girl. She rapidly morphed from an adorable teacup-sized kitten to a hulking mass who causes the house to shake when she jumps off a chair. Here is what she was:
And here's Izzy now!
She actually looks relatively slender here, due no doubt to her slimming black hue. She's way more of a moose than you can tell from the picture. In real life, she causes people to exclaim in surprise when they see her. She's not small.
I don't even know how she fits on this windowsill.
I know that this is partly our fault. Or at least it's our fault for not addressing the issue as soon as we noticed her rapid expansion. It occurred, as these things do, after she was spayed. When she figured there was no reason to keep up her girlish figure. She let herself go, and we let her do it.
Look, now her back-fat is causing her to slip:
So lately it seems that she is too heavy to clean herself. Specifically, she cannot reach her butt. And this is disgusting. I even tried cleaning her myself—out of love, yes, but mostly disgust—but the fur is all matted, and now there's no getting it out. It's clear that we need to take her to the vet and get the whole cat-butt problem worked out. She's also apparently incapable of cleaning her back, now, and let's face it, it's really hard to pet her when she's like this. Our love, apparently, is conditional, and the condition is "must not have pooplets stuck to ass when you rub our legs for a pet."
Oh wait, I just found a picture in which her enormous girth is revealed.
NOW YOU SEE. Quick, look away—I can't be sure what prolonged viewing of her Rasputin-like gaze would do to your brains.
I feel bad for her, but that didn't stop me from writing a Twitter about her ass. And not a few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen, and Izzy dashed in front of the doorway, causing me to fly across the room, landing on both wrists and one knee. I had to lie there for a while. Henry came in and offered to kiss my knee, but I demurred. Over the next few days, my knee turned all kinds of colors. My parts hurt. But it could have been much worse.
I have never almost been killed by a cat before, and it's a humbling experience. I can only conclude that Izzy can read, and that she's following me on Twitter. She's probably reading my blog. So I just want to say here that 1) my cat is beautiful, no matter what condition her ass is in, and 2) I was wrong to publicly mock her. Oh, and 3) I am sure that if we take her to the vet it will be so she can be admired, and not to have her hindquarters shaved and a tasteless diet food prescribed. In conclusion, my cat is beautiful. A big, beautiful beast.
If I don't post in a couple of days, you'll know that she didn't accept my apology.
For those of you not living in New Jersey or regularly checking the Star-Ledger's site, I was featured today in the paper and the Star-Ledger's Parental Guidance blog. I can't think of a single complaint about this interview, which is unusual for me. I wasn't renamed Alice Brady, and the writer actually made me sound like an intelligent, reasonable being, neither bitter nor narcissistic. I'm not sure how she accomplished this, but I won't question her methods. Thanks, Carrie!
And now I suppose I should prove myself worthy of her kind words by, uh, writing something, or whatever. Hrrrm.
As some of you know, my son is currently enrolled in half-day kindergarten, which is (I'm trying to phrase this delicately) kicking my ass all over town. Half-day translates to two hours and fifty minutes, and factoring in the time it takes to walk him there and back and then answer a few calls and maybe make some lunch for myself before I keel over, I'm left with exactly three minutes to write. (Don't double-check that math.) In general my son is an easygoing sort, the type of kid who can be left alone for hours while he builds deadly Lego constructions, so I thought our mornings would be full of him playing while I, you know, channeled the Muse. But lately he wants quality time. With me. And you've seen those eyes; how can I say no to those? Even if his eyes were squinty and not particularly disarming, how can I turn away my baby when he requests a little face-time? I cannot. And so I have been listening to story after endless story, stories I can't really follow involving superheroes and Star Wars characters involved in multi-tiered conflagrations, and my brain, it is crammed full of five-year-old chatter. Inventive chatter, to be sure, but chatter. General Grievous! Trans-warp systems! Alien nanotechnology! Etc. So now I can no longer put sentences together in a way that sense they make good. Soon, though, the child will tire of me and let me get some work done. And then, crap, I'll have no excuse.
I think I made my son sound more obnoxious than I meant to, in yesterday's post. The whole "OF COURSE I" whatever is such a put-on that I find it really amusing. He uses this voice that's not quite his, a sort of a mock-yell, and he quickly reverts to his charming self. It's sort of our schtick, that I ask the questions I'm not supposed to ask and in return he's indignant. In general, I've made it a goal of mine to not complain about my son in this venue—it just doesn't feel fair to him anymore, now that he's growing up (despite my best efforts) and not a baby with the typical baby issues. So. Okay!
On Monday Henry was sick-ish—just unwell enough to spike a fever right before school started, but then well enough to spend the next three hours demanding playground time. I denied him the playground, because I am a Cruel Woman who does not want him to have Fun on the days he is Afflicted with a Malady, but it was a beautiful day and I got stir-crazy so I suggested taking the dog for a walk.
Henry agreed, and took the camera. He took many photos that look just like this one:
But then I suggested he take a picture of Charlie, and he really got some good shots, if I do say so myself.
I like this extreme close-up of Charlie blissed out on whatever godawful substance he located on this tree. .5 seconds later, he peed on it.
Then Henry gave me the camera, and I watched him and Charlie running amok in the park.
Doesn't he look sick?
I would have been more upset about the lost half-day of freedom if my son wasn't such good company. (Most of the time.) Not that I was unhappy to see him off to school the next day. Sorry, kid, but mama's got to have her writing time, else she goes crazy. Thank you for understanding.
Henry is shocked—SHOCKED!—that I dare move around in space and talk to him and have the gall to ask him questions. He learned from someone (I'm still searching for the source, and I will find it, oh, and how that person will rue the day) to answer every question with the handy phrase "Of course I (fill in the blank)." The above should be stated in weary indignation, as if the questioner should really know better by now. "Did you have a good day at school?" I might ask. "OF COURSE I didn't!" This is usually followed by violent eye-rolling and the occasional drop to the floor. His horror that I would dare ask such a question renders him incapable of bearing his own weight. His legs have simply given out from the shock. And yet here she comes again, with more questions! "Did you have gym today?" The eyes roll around and around. "OF COURSE. And it was BORING. All we did was WALK in CIRCLES."
Even if the response is positive, the affect is the same. "OF COURSE I had a good day at school. I only had the BEST DAY EVER. AAAAAAH." "And what made it the best day ever?" I might ask. "Obviously, that I WAS THE BEST KID," he booms, "And of course I ANSWERED EVERY QUESTION RIGHT." Then he throws himself to the ground because he can't believe he has to WALK with ME. GOD.
On the other hand, he's answering my questions this year. He can act as tough as he likes, but I'm still getting the precious, precious info. I realize that being excited to hear that "Nicholas STEPPED on my FOOT during LINE-UP" is pretty pathetic. But seriously, it's the most he's told me since the day he entered preschool, all those many years ago, when he wanted to marry me but didn't want to tell me what they ate during snack time.
First of all, did you notice that I put a search function in here? Did you notice? It's below the fold, on the left. My margins are getting a little too chock full of stuff, I know. If I had any design know-how in any way I would fix all of this, I really would. I would design the crap out of this site. Instead I just tootle along with my Typepad templates, hoping no one notices what a mess this is all is.
Secondly, have you been reading Wonderland? Because last Friday I wrote about Henry's eccentric food habits, and I've been too scared to go back and read the comments. In my imagination, my Wonderland readers have all joined against me and taken over the site to discuss what can be done about my poor mothering skills. So why don't you see what's up over there, make sure it's safe for me to return.
Finally! Are you aware that I am going to be in Brooklyn this Friday, signing copies of Sleep is for the Weak? Did you have any idea? And do you know that this means you can meet me, in person? I mean, you won't know it's me, of course, because due to my overwhelming social anxiety I have to wear an oversized papier-maché Dumbo head. I also hire other people to wear copies of the head, to serve as decoys. It's pretty confusing. Just be glad I don't wear the rest of the costume anymore. Progress!
As I was saying. The signing is at 5 p.m., at the Tea Lounge , 837 Union Street, in Park Slope. (Coincidentally, my second post ever written, back when I thought this site would only be read by my husband, was about the Tea Lounge.) I will be signing with my esteemed peers Rita Arens,Liz Gumbinner, Joanna Polyn, Doug French, Karen of Cheek, AND Stacy Morrison. That's a lot of talent in one room. You can purchase your copy of Sleep is for the Weak right there, too, so you don't even have to bring a copy with you! How could you not come? You couldn't. Not come. So come. Good. Thank you.
I'm walking Henry and his friend Luca to Luca's house. They've been playdating over at our place for the past two hours, but I managed to bore them until they decided that Luca's was more fun. "If you say so," I sighed, and cackled silently to myself.
On the way to Luca's we're talking about the dead squirrel. The dead squirrel has been a topic of conversation for the past week or so. It's lying at the bottom of a sewer grate next to Luca's house, and Henry and his friends can't get enough of it. There can never been too much dead squirrel, apparently, in the mind of the almost-six-year-old. I have not seen the dead squirrel yet, and Henry is talking it up.
"Mom, you finally get to see the dead squirrel," Henry tells me. It's like Christmas in September!
"Henry, I don’t want to see the dead squirrel," I say. Luca stares at me in amazement. Not want to see a dead squirrel? What kind of machine am I?
"It's been dead for a while," Henry says. "It's not like a squirrel anymore, but like the outline of a squirrel."
"Wow, that's really not making me want to see it."
"No, it's cool. It's all sort of curled up."
"It doesn't look dead," Luca observes, and Henry agrees. "It looks like it's pretending to be dead."
"I'm just not into seeing dead things, is all."
"It just has this cut on it, and these swipes of white across it." The way Henry says "swipes" while sweeping his hand across his body is both sort of adorable and also really gruesome. I hope he's talking about the squirrel's fur, and not some kind of putrefaction.
"Mom, really, it's no problem. Just look at it."
We are now on top of the sewer grate. The kids peer in. I can't see anything. The way the light is angled so that I can pretend to look, but in fact I can see nothing.
"Was that cool?" Henry asks me, once we're done.
"I don't know, Henry, I like squirrels," I say, which isn't exactly true, "I don't want to see one that's dead."
"Mom, you don't have to worry about that squirrel." He pauses. "You should worry about all the other squirrels."
Luca asks, "Why does your mom have to worry about the squirrels?" Now Luca's looking a tad concerned.
Henry looks at his friend. "Luca. The world is going to end. Did you know that?" Uh-oh. Poor Luca, I think.
Luca is now gaping at Henry.
"The world had a beginning, so it has to have an end. Everything with a beginning has to end."
He got this from his father, by the way. Or possibly me. At any rate he didn't come up with it on his own. Just so you know.
"Everything has a beginning and an end," Henry says, "Unless it's infinity."
"What's infinity?" Luca asks. Henry tells him, in great (and somewhat incoherent) detail. Luca looks around him, as if the world doesn't make any sense anymore. You think you're just going to enjoy a little dead squirrel, and the next thing you know your entire worldview is being shattered. The poor kid had no idea what he was getting himself into, asking for a playdate with my son.
I've been thinking a lot lately about the creative process. Partly because Scott has started this amazing project, after years of talking about it but not doing much of anything. The one thing harder than starting is starting after years of talking about starting. Talking can kill the urge to create. So I'm sort of dying of pride, over here, while my husband works and works and keeps working, like he's a professional. I am a little in awe.
I've also been thinking about it because a reader (hi Sharon!) recently expressed surprise that I struggle with writing. I'm a little embarrassed to even share that with you, because it's kind of ridiculously flattering. It's also woefully inaccurate. So I wanted to reiterate to her, and you guys, that writing is a struggle for me, and always will be. It's the nature of the game. It's always hard, especially if you're doing it right. You're always aspiring to be better than you are, so no matter how much experience you get, it's always an uphill battle. Always, always, always.
Not to mention that whole "inner critic" hooha that anyone creative has to deal with. I am amazingly accomplished at beating myself up. I tell myself I'm too old, that all really talented writers were published much earlier than I ever was, that I don't have enough publications under my belt, that I should have written my novel when I got out of graduate school, that there are X number of writers who left my writing program when I did who are all on their second or third or seventh novel while I'm still not even a third of the way finished with a short story collection. I tell myself blogs are useless, that this site is a waste of time that's taking away from my Precious Writerly Resources. Or I tell myself that I'm just a blogger, as if blogging is somehow less relevant, so I shouldn't bother writing anything else. I tell myself that because I don't have large expanses of time to work I'm never going to reach my full potential. Or just decide that I suck and everyone who hates me is right and I'm never going to blah blah blah blah BLAH. It's a miracle that I get anything done, I'm so busy giving myself a hard time.
But everyone does this. This is how the mind works to stop you from writing. Creating is scary, and your brain wants you to run from scary things. For some reason it forgets about the rewards that come from risk. The brain will also do this for painting, or dancing, whatever creative work you do. I also draw and paint (in an extremely amateurish fashion, mind you) and I've been finding all sorts of reasons not to do either these days. The light in my dining room isn't quite right. I need better materials. My sketchbook is either too large or too small. There's nothing good to draw in my house, and I don't want to leave the house to draw because then people will look at what I'm doing. I can't remember how paints work. Watercolor paper is expensive and don't I need to stretch it, or something? Also my brushes aren't right. I have numerous excellent reasons for never attempting to create any artwork ever again.
Then yesterday I sat down and, while my brain screamed NO! DON'T! STOP!, I sketched for an hour. I sketched my cat, and my foot. Exciting, no? It was crappy and I did some terrible work. When I was done that voice in my head had been reduced, temporarily, to a mouselike squeak. And I felt like a superhero.
The only way to win over that voice is to work despite it. Doing stuff is always better than not doing stuff. Period.
Here's an inspiring talk on creativity by Ira Glass that another lovely reader (hi Erin!) sent me.
In a similar vein comes this anecdote from Art and Fear—which is a brilliant piece of work, by the way, chock full of quotables. A ceramics class is divided into two groups. The first group is graded on quantity: it doesn't matter how good their stuff is, just how many pounds of work they end up with. The second group is graded on quality: it didn't matter how few pots they create, just how perfect the final product is. Can you guess who ends up doing the best work? It's the quantity group: the students who churned out work day after day and learned from their mistakes. Meanwhile, the quality group had wasted time mulling over how they could achieve perfection, so by the end of the class they had "little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay."
It's all about working and working and working some more, no matter how crappy you think it is. You are never the best judge of your work, so shut up and work and don't stop to wonder why it's not a masterpiece. Remember what Voltaire said: "The perfect is the enemy of the good." He probably wrote that after spending an hour whining about how he'd never be as important an Enlightenment figure as that fathead Rousseau .
Don't sit and agonize over how you're not good enough. Don't leave yourself with a pile of dead clay. Start and keep going; if you stop, start again, and keep going.
