I know, I know. It’s been pretty quiet around here.
But I’m still worried about being too bitter. I mean, I am too bitter. No worries there. I’m just worried about turning people off. I can get pretty hotheaded.
Here’s one I shouldn’t be able to blow too badly. My book came out. Bitter/Sweet: The Bitter Homeschooler’s Chocolate Cookbook.
That stuck-up Mad Editor is being all possessive about it, but it’s mine.
The printer promised it’d be ready this morning. I should have been worried by how hard he sighed as he agreed to that, but I decided that words are more important than noisy air.
It’s home safe and sound, but I was right to be worried.
Here’s a rundown on my glamorous life for the past 24 hours.
6:45 last night: Come home with son from visiting friends. Feel fine. Feel great. Greet husband cheerfully. Announce intention of preparing dinner after discreet visit to powder room
6:47 pm: Double over in said powder room under sudden onslaught of pain and pressure because my reproductive system loves me and chooses odd ways of expressing itself.
6:49 pm: Respond with highly inappropriate language to anxious questions from family regarding recent vocalizations issuing from yours truly. Finish with a request for the sweatpants that hang very, very loosely around BH’s waist.
6:50 pm: Stagger into bedroom, fall onto bed and alternate sprawling and doubling up. Announce intention of directing from bed as husband and son prepare previously mentioned dinner. Demand own share in said meal, and that right quickly, as pain and pressure have (sadly) done nothing to diminish appetite.
6:51 pm: Son asks in endearing voice if there is anything he can do to diminish my pain. Finds heating pad upon request. Is told to please turn said pad all the way up to a heat that will fry chicken. Said son asks if I’m “sure” this is a good idea.
6:51 – 6:55: More salty language from BH.
6:56: Brief but heartfelt lecture delivered by BH’s husband on wisdom of questioning any request made by BH at such a time.
6:57 – 7:15 pm: Husband and son make dinner, interrupted only by requests from BH for water, blanket, another blanket, Little Women, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, a handkerchief, and a willingness to discuss the pursuit of swift and certain death should pain and pressure decide to take up permanent abode in BH.
7:16 – 7:30 pm: BH consumes dinner in bed. Pain and pressure seem to be tapering off under combined pressure of heating pad, intemperate language, and veggie nachos.
7:31 pm: Assure son that am quite “up to” bedtime story, if he’ll just give me a minute. Am offended by his doubting look.
7:37 pm: Conk out.
10:30 pm: Resurface briefly. Castigate self for bad mommyness in missing bedtime story. Am consoled slightly by sound of dishes being washed (presumably by husband). Conk out again.
1:37 am: Wake again, this time long enough to remove bra. Prove beyond shadow of doubt that it’s topologically possible to do so without removing shirt.
2:14 am: Wake again. Wonder if will now be up all night. Entertain possibility of getting up and getting some work done in unaccustomed peace and quiet.
6:30 am: Wake again. Hear husband in shower. Realize that, in the words of C.S. Lewis, I have nearly “slept the clock round.”
7:30 am: Wake again. Can tell by (lack of) sound in apartment that husband has left for work and son is either still asleep or playing very, very quietly. Tell self sternly that this is quite enough and is time to get up.
7:35 am: No, really.
7:42 am: Seriously. Told printers I would arrive at 10:00 am to pick up book.
7:45 am: Plus must make pot of veggie chili for homeschooling potluck and craft fair.
7:53 am: Also double batch of brownies to give away in small luscious squares as publicity for new book, which I intend to attempt to sell at craft fair.
7:55 am: Address complaints from self of feeling rather “ooky” by explaining to self that ookiness tends to be relieved by sitting up, getting up, and moving around.
7:56 am: Inform self that she is not the boss of me, and that I refuse to get out of bed until ookiness goes away.
8:06 am: Give up. Roll out of bed, grumbling. Stagger down hall only to find son sleeping in particularly cute fashion next to most recent stuffed animal acquisition. Decide to go back to bed so as not to ruin the adorableness of it all.
8:06:15 am: Son opens eyes and smiles angelically, thus ruining any prospect of my returning to bed.
8:13 – 9:00 am: Prepare tea, nourishing breakfast, and double batch of brownies in kitchen roughly the size of a beach towel. Congratulate self on rock god status as slide pans of luscious brownies into oven.
9:03 am: Glance at unused measuring cup on counter. Realize that have neglected to include flour in preparation of brownies. Remove brownie pans from oven (remembering just in time to put on oven mitts) and stir flour into batter.
9:22 am: Remove brownies from oven. Pray to Shiva, Flying Spaghetti Monster, and anyone else who may be listening that adding flour so late in the game doesn’t inflict lasting damage on innocent brownies.
9:23 – 10:40 am: Eat breakfast, make chili, use intemperate language in arguments with son over which musical instrument he should practice in the time remaining before we have to leave (he wants piano, because he likes it best; I insist on violin, because it’s the most tiring and he’ll groan if he has to do it when we get home), print out more erratum sheets for current issue of magazine, put lots and lots of current and back issues of magazine in bags to take to craft fair, ransack house for dollar bills and quarters to take to craft fair, worry over wobbly-looking brownies, help son make signs for his adorable creations for craft fair, decide against taking shower in interest of saving time, wash face, brood bitterly over fact that men look “distinguished” and women look “old,” find keys, find sunglasses, find son, say tearful goodbye to stoic lizard (whose sunbath has been cut short by our early departure), scream at son to hurry, leave.
11:06 am: Try not to scream at printer, who has not yet started printing order he received from me on Saturday. SATURDAY. Hate self for not having called first to confirm that order has been completed.
11:07 am: Answer printer’s questions about page order and back cover copy. Negotiate with him to return in forty-five minutes to pick up whatever copies he has finished.
11:15 am: Arrive at park for craft fair. Son effortlessly snags space at table for adorable creations. Decide against setting up shop next to him, as would also be next to the minister’s wife and children, who have been known to make comments publicly about “that stupid evolution stuff.” Hate self for wimpiness. Hate self for bringing back issues with Darwin’s name splashed all over the cover. Hate self for moral cowardice.
11:17 am – 12:00 noon: Find table at safe distance from all things ministery. Check watch every 47 seconds until can safely return to printer for book.
12:02 – 12:17 pm: Leave son and merchandise in the care of trusted friends. Return to printers.
12:18 pm: Try not to scream at printer, who has not yet finished printing even one copy of book. Am calmed down by female employee, who is apparently only person working in shop who understands that printers stay in business by printing things. Am persuaded to wait for copies rather than going on rampage through strip mall in which printer’s shop is located.
12:30 pm: Return triumphantly to craft fair with books. Publicize this fact by screaming “FREE BROWNIES!” at intervals and indicating that recipe for said brownies can be found in book on page in book indicated by subtle hot pink Post-It note.
12:31 – 3:30 pm: Give away brownies. Do roughly $75 worth of book-and-magazine business. Call it a day. Go home feeling wealthy but allergy-ridden. Wonder irritably why parks have to be so grassy and full of nature.
So. The book’s home. Buy it. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.