Chicken And Cheese

Hold, Please

Mrs. Chicken — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 16:50:41 +0000

Cecil's feet, my shoes.

I’m a mess.

A busy, busy mess. Someone reminded me last night that it’s been a “hot minute” since I’ve written here, and that’s the gospel truth.

My kids were sick, I’m writing like a madwoman to pave the way for a major paradigm shift in our household next year, and oh, yeah, I went to Blissdom and then Hollywood.

And you? What’s keeping you busy these days? Tell me. And I promise I’ll be back as soon as I am able.

I miss you. I really, really do.

Crooked Road

Mrs. Chicken — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 19:10:06 +0000

I’m sitting at the Opryland Hotel and Resort in Nashville.

It’s Sunday, and everything is closed. All the bloggers have gone home. My new friend is in an airport in Ohio. The lovely ladies who ferried me here by car should be more than halfway back to Chambana now.

I am sitting at a metal table, one eye on my anemic laptop battery and one on the clock. In a few hours a driver will call me and I will gather my luggage for a trip to the airport.

From there I will get on a jet-plane and land at LAX around 8 p.m. California time. Tomorrow, at 8:45 a.m., I’ll get prepped for an appearance on a national talk show prompted by something I wrote about something that someone else wrote.

After a weekend spent meeting the three-dimensional women behind the one-dimensional blogosphere, I am on sensory over-load. My heart pounds randomly and I find myself weeping all of a sudden after a video call with my children.

This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t me.

I’m surprised to find myself literally aching for my children, their wee bodies pressed up against mine in a morning cuddle. I miss Lucky Charms between my toes, snot in my hair. I miss the dirty diapers and the dinner dishes and I miss my husband.

But this is it. This is me, right now. This is the Big Kahuna, the Brass Ring, The Opportunity That Came Knocking.

Once upon a time, a young woman in a black dress got a job offer that would have pushed her to do more, be better. It scared her. She sat in a roadside rest stop on the Massachusetts Turnpike and dialed the number of the man making the offer.

He had a movie still of “Citizen Kane” in his office. He said he thought she had promise, this man. The girl? Did not think so.

“No, thank you,” she said.

That same girl sits in Nashville today, limbs literally trembling with anxiety and fear of flying, both real and metaphorical.

I’m scared, friends. Living dangerously comes with a price sometimes. I wanted this for so long — to be recognized, validated, singled out — and now that I am I don’t know what to do with it. I keep turning it over in my hands and waiting for it to come together and make sense.

It doesn’t.

I miss my babies.

I miss my husband.

I miss my kitchen and my minivan and my green PJ pants.

But this time when the call came I said yes. The crooked road behind me dictated it be so. I wear a talisman around my neck, a locket. My father rides on my shoulder and whispers in my ear.

Jump, he tells me.

And I do.

Imposter

Mrs. Chicken — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 02:06:27 +0000

In about 11 hours I’ll be on the road to Nashville.

I’d planned to come back home to Chambana the same way I left: In the car, with two of my pals. Instead, sometime on Sunday I’ll board a plane for Los Angeles.

A little ditty I wrote up over here in about 30 minutes last week caught the attention of some TV talk-show producers and they looked me up.

Today I spent a half-hour answering questions fired at me from an assistant producer for the Dr. Phil Show while I had my toes painted for Blissdom. Before we hung up, I took a deep breath and asked:

“OK, so here’s the deal,” I said. “I need to know if I’m coming out there or not. I need to pack and I need to arrange child care.”

He told me to pack as if I was going to LA — like a “good Girl Scout” — and he’d get back to me. Fifteen minutes later, he called back.

Sunday, I’ll land at LAX and make my way to an as-yet-decided-on hotel and my mom will meet me out there. The next day, we’ll be backstage. And then, I will be on stage.

To say I am freaking out is to say that Madonna has had a little work done on her face. I am FREAKING RIGHT THE FUCK OUT, PEOPLE.

And I can’t even think about that, because tonight I am too busy feeling tremendously sad that I am going to be away from my babies for five days. I’ve never been away from Henry at all, and only overnight from the girl.

It is so ridiculous — even as I shopped for a dress today, I felt like an imposter as the words came out of my mouth:

Why are you shopping today? How can we help you?

Ummm, I need something to wear on Dr. Phil?

Ludicrous! I don’t know how this happened to me. All I know is that it happened really, really fast. I just hope I don’t get whiplash.

OMG! Like, Squeee!

Mrs. Chicken — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 02:21:07 +0000

I’ve been at this whole blogging thing for a long time now.

I hit “publish” for the first time in 2006, back when the blogosphere was still pretty small — at least as far as moms go. It felt like a little neighborhood designed just for me: interesting, funny women who were dealing with some of the same issues that I was back then.

I remember the first year that I really felt like I wanted to go to BlogHer, and I couldn’t. It just wasn’t in the cards for me. I watched and read from afar as you all met and cemented the friendships you’d made in the ether. With each passing year that I didn’t go, I felt more and more conflicted: I wanted to be there but I couldn’t figure out a way to go without opening so many Pandora’s boxes.

But my day has finally come.

I’m going to Blissdom.

It’s just right for me; not too big, not too small. So many of the women I’ve admired and cheered for, so many of the women who have been there for me as I made my way to this place in my life will be there. Friends new and old.

Tanis and Casey and Jennifer and Heather, Christina and Hollee and the famous Alli Worthington, who I knew as Mrs. Fussypants — and so, so many more.

I’ve hidden my face for so long. My inner high-school freak is jumping out of her skin, but in the interest of living dangerously (and by the way, I did cut my hair), I’m telling her to shut the fuck up, already.

I’m coming to see you. And I am going to let you see me.

I cannot wait to LMFAO with you. Like, OMG. *squeeee!*

Engine Engine No. 9

Mrs. Chicken — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 09:00:00 +0000

I’ve been the caboose ever since the August afternoon I submitted my resignation from my job as a marketing manager at a well-known international company.

It was a job I took five years prior for a host of reasons, none of which matter now. The bottom line is that I believed my writing career had come to an end, and if someone wanted to pay me $70,000 a year to take this paper and put it in that pile and answer the phone, I could live with that.

Turns out I couldn’t, though. And when I skipped out of that claustrophobic office building for the last time, I happily gave up my role as the economic engine of my family of three.

It was for Emmie that I finally made the call. I couldn’t leave her behind each day for a cube upholstered with the airline-grade carpet. She was far too precious. I needed her in my arms.

I was grieving, finding my way as a new mother. I shed that marketing job and grew a new skin. I wrote here and there — mostly here, in an earlier incarnation before blogging became the new black.

***

Last week, I paid my babysitter $230. By my calculations, that means I worked for 23 hours. Not a lot, really. But more than I’ve worked in the five years since the day I left the workforce. I work on my own terms now; that is the only benefit to a freelance life.

I am compensated fairly for my work, and the hours during which I’m not making a tangible profit I spend my time crafting my plan for the future.

My balance is still off, but the ground gets steadier day by day. The baby needs me less and I love him more, a combination that makes leaving for a coffee shop and a keyboard sometimes fraught with angst. But at the end of my day he raises his arms to me in a salute.

Mama! Mama! he cries, his smile lighting the room like a torch. Mama! Hug!

He is no worse for my absence. He plays with a trusted and loving caregiver. She kisses him goodbye and I know my son is in kind and capable hands. The girl is at school, learning her letters and cultivating a love for stories. She reads to me from a book that lies on the floor.

I am tired from my day and happy to be home. I make dinner with children underfoot. The earth tilts in my favor.

***

My husband and I are discussing the future. He’s an academic; the academic world is in chaos. Too many candidates, not enough professorships or money to go around. Furloughs here, pay cuts there. The economics are simple: I make more money right now, just as I did all those years ago.

We talk about the state of affairs.

I am the caboose, I remind him.

I bring up the rear. It is what I’m used to.

He turns to me, looks me square in the eye. You, he says, are the engine now.

I stand, staring at him, and realize that what he says is true.

She Wants To Be A Writer

Mrs. Chicken — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 02:11:31 +0000

She let me dry her hair tonight.

Usually, we let it air-dry after her bath. By the time she gets out and gets dressed, we’re tired. Ready for the day to melt into evening. But in the mornings we all pay the price when she screams as the brush makes its halting way through her tresses.

Today during our weekly shopping trip I wandered down the hair-care aisle, eyes scanning the shelves for something, anything that would help get her wild locks under control. I settled on rose-scented leave-in conditioner.

We got them from the tub in tandem; he took the girl, I took the boy. Towels, lotion and diaper. PJ pants and a shirt. Her collar was soaking wet.

Baby girl, I said. Tonight Mama is going to dry your hair with the quiet hair dryer.

Oh! How she protested. But the blooming rose on the pleasingly shaped bottle worked its magic on my little girl, the embodiment of P.T. Barnum’s famous statement about fools and their money.

I spritzed her head and aimed the dyer. I pulled the brush gently through the shiny dark waterfall of hair and let it fall between my fingers, felt it tickle my wrists.

Mom! Mom, the hot air in my pants makes me sweaty!

She squirmed, I smiled. Soon a silken ribbon of hair laid beautifully flat from brow to back. I turned her to me, tucked a stray tendril behind one ear.

She ran off to show her father. I sat on her bed and thought about a heart-stopping moment earlier in the day, when she thudded down the stairs from her pink seashell of a bedroom.

Dad, will you staple my book together? I wrote a book. That’s what I’m going to do when I grow up. I want to sell books.

I thought you didn’t want to have a job, her father replied, a chuckle in his throat.

I do! I do want a job! I want to be a writer. A writer, like Mom.

My breath caught in my chest.

A writer.

Like Mom.

A life filled with words can be as sharp and cutting as the fine edge of a blank sheet of paper. It is a life hard-earned. It is not an easy life, but instead is fraught with rejection, judgment and repeated, bruising injuries to heart and soul. It is hard work for little reward beyond the private satisfaction of creating something beautiful, if only once.

In some ways, being a writer is a lot like being a mother.

My girl has long, dark hair that falls in soft waves down her back. It resembles mine, but is far more beautiful, as if by passing it down to my child it became a distilled, more pure version of my own.

She is she and I am me, but forever we are entwined. I hope with all my might that her life is like her tresses; better, brighter than mine.

Month 17

Mrs. Chicken — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 15:00:58 +0000

He is so perfect right now, sweet and ripe like a berry on the vine. I want to pluck him and stash him in my freezer, to preserve his freshness just as he is today. My Babyman, at month 17.

The Year Of Living Dangerously

Mrs. Chicken — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 01:06:58 +0000

I never keep my resolutions.

Last year I vowed to be more organized and to shower every day. My life is more chaotic than ever and if you want to know about my personal hygiene, just take a whiff of my armpits.

So am I making any resolutions in 2010? No, no I am not.

In 2010, I will turn 39, just a hair’s breadth away from that mid-life year of 40. So many high numbers, so much time wasted thinking I wasn’t good enough to do that, wasn’t talented enough to try this.

No more of that kind of thinking.

I know I can take chances. Just look at this blog. In March 2006 I wrote a 50-word post that was more of a plea than an announcement. If I hadn’t taken that leap, I’d still be where I was back then career-wise — absolutely nowhere. I also would never have met my friend Laura, who is now my business partner.

And people, if you’ve ever filed for an LLC, you know that being business partners with someone is pretty damn intimate. I bet if you asked her, Laura could tell you what size underpants I wear.

Risks, two big ones right there. So I know I have it in me.

This year I will put together a book proposal, because not one but two people I admire said I’m good enough. Last year? Pshaw! I’d have laughed in your face. Not me, I would have said. I’m not good enough.

But you know what? I’m going to channel my inner Stuart Smalley and tell you that yes, goddamnit, I am good enough. I have stories inside me — otherwise why would you keep coming here? It is better suited to my shtick to tell you that I can’t do it. That so-and-so is doing it, or that woman with the Very Popular Blog is going to do it so who the fuck do I think I am?

I’m a writer, goddamnit, and a good one. Better than some who already have contracts signed in dry ink. Does that offend you? Should I be concerned that I’m coming off as arrogant?

You know what? I don’t care. See? That’s me, living dangerously.

I’m not going to hide behind silly pseudonyms anymore. I’m going to tell you my name, and I am going to own the consequences. I am going to write as boldly as I ever have, and if people don’t like it, they can lump it.

You know what else I’m gonna do? I’m going to quit being an Alpha Mom and a Zeta Wife. Life isn’t all about the kids. I love my children to distraction, but I’m not going to let that love blind me to the passionate man who stands behind me at the kitchen counter to cop a feel.

I’m not going to brush that man off with excuses anymore. I am going to be there, like I was in the beginning. I am going to be Alpha Mom and Alpha Wife.

I am going to experiment with my life. With my hair and my make-up and my clothes. I am going to wear outfits that are too young for me. I am going to cut my hair short, grow it back and start all over again.

I am going to make this my year. I am going to live every single goddamn second as if it were my last. Because you know what? When my father died, I promised him that I would.

I stood in front of 800 people who came to honor him in the church where he walked me down the aisle, my little sister and brother behind me. We took turns eulogizing him.

I went first.

Daddy, I said. I looked at his coffin in front of me. Daddy, I said out loud, I will never, ever waste another minute of my life again, Daddy.

In the five years since that sunny August morning, I did exactly that. I wasted millions of seconds of a life that could be very short indeed — as his was.

I’m not going to do that anymore, Daddy. I promise.

My name is Amy, and this year I am going to live — fully, completely … and dangerously.

From Me to You

Mrs. Chicken — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 05:00:50 +0000

Merry Christmas, my friends. And to all a good night.

The Kindness Of Not-Quite Strangers

All I Want For Christmas

Mrs. Chicken — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 02:42:18 +0000

Dear Santa,

You have to admit that I’ve been a very good girl this year, or at least for the past six months.

I worked very, very hard at getting my shit together during the latter half of 2009, and I feel I should be rewarded for all my efforts.

This year for Christmas, I would very much like the following:

A job for my husband, who is smart and handsome and charming.
Peace of mind for my beautiful daughter, who frets much like her mama well into the wee hours of the night.
A guardian angel for my dare-devil son, who manages daily to send my heart into my throat with his antics.
A companion for my mother, who deserves happiness and company as she enters her 60th year.
Continued success for my sister and brother.
A huge burst of enthusiasm for my BIG BIG PROJECT, which is just getting off the ground.
The time, energy and creativity to continue on the professional path that I see before me.
The time, energy and creativity to make my marriage stronger and better and more solid.

But what I most want for Christmas, Santa, is January. Bring it soon, please. I’ll be waiting. With cookies. And maybe even some milk.

Or beer.

Love,

Mrs. Chicken

Chicken And Cheese

Hold, Please

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