Wrestling With Self-Doubt

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I'm having a crappy day.  The gloomy grey "I may rain on your ass any minute now" sky isn't helping, nor is the fact that I have contractors yelling and stomping up and down the stairs.  The yelling really isn't their fault.  They're trying to thread wires through the ceiling so one guy is in the attic and one is in the bathroom and yelling is the only way to communicate.  And I'm sure given the choice, they'd rather not have me sitting here, in the middle of their work either.

But the real reason for my "down-on-life" attitude is I received an e-mail from PMA (Publishers Marketing Association) informing me that after thorough review,  Lessons In Stalking was not selected for distribution with the major distributors to book stores. The consensus was the book wasn't strong enough to compete with what's already on the market. 

I'm not even depressed so much as I've moved into a "whatever" mood.  That's much more dangerous.  Depression  can be shaken off.  The lethargic "whatever" tends to linger longer.  And frankly, I don't entirely disagree with the assessment.  While I stand by my book's content, I wish I had chosen a different cover, title, and interior font.  I don't think what I selected is doing me any favors in the marketplace. 

I'm supposed to be coming up with a marketing plan, speaking plan, outreach plan, blah blah blah for the book and myself and I am just so not in the mood.  One part of me is  excited by the idea of more of a speaking career and really jumping in and making things happen.  The other part of me is saying, "Are you an idiot?  Why introduce all that stress into your life? Go watch Survivor with the rest of America and get over yourself."

I'm inches away from launching into a "Why am I here and what is life all about and why do I try?" soliloquy so I think it's time to stop.  Bad poetry can only follow, and no one wants to see that happen. 

Decorating Diaries: Eat My Contractor Dust

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Gasp!  Choke!  The contractors are here--the contractors are here!  And I have the contractor dust settling around my home to prove it. The electricians were here today, installing the canned lighting in the ceiling.  But there was something like an extra ceiling for them to go through, so there was massive amounts of drilling and crawling around the attic and insulation sticking to workboots as they walked around the house.

I wasn't home for most of this.  I showed up at 3:30 as they were cleaning up.  God love them, they'd found our tiny little dustbuster (our vacuum is in our upstairs guestroom closet--not a natural place to look).  So this young guy is walking around our floors, doubled over, trying to catch all the stray dirt and grime with this dustbuster.  So sweet, but not very effective.  I went behind him with a broom and dustpan and swipe with the Swiffer, but it didn't make much difference.  This is the kind of dust that settles in the cracks and only a good mopping will get rid of it.

I'm not so upset.  Dust means work.  And right now we have a tile floor, counters installed, 90% of the lighting done, and they're coming tomorrow to measure for the granite countertop.  I may actually have a bathroom by the end of the month.

Our bedroom may not survive though. That's where the worst of the dust and grime is being tracked in.  I think it's time to move our nighttime abode to the upstairs guest bedroom.  Less chance of a choking hazard, that way.

But some cleaning will get done this weekend.  I'm having my children writers critique group (Ladies, we must think of a name for ourselves) over Wednesday night.  I don't care if they drill to China in my bathroom that day, the house will be clean that night. Time to bond with the mop.

Eating At Airports

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After a wonderful visit with my family, I'm back home in NC.  I'll post pictures of my visit just as soon as my brother-in-law (AHEM!) e-mails them to me.  I know you're all dying to see Aunt Di-Di in action. 

Thought of a blog entry on the plane ride home.  I was on an itty-bitty United charter flight which was a problem for anyone over 5'7" as that's about what the ceiling topped out at.  The flight attendant came back with the drink cart.  "May I get you anything?" she asked.

"Coffee, black, please," I answered.

She gave me my coffee and a bag of spicy mixed nuts and pretzels. I tore open the bag and started chomping.  And it was then that the topic for today's blog entry occurred to me.  I had the frightening realization that I will eat anything a flight attendant hands to me.  No questions asked.

Let's think about this.  If I were at the store, I would never buy this spicy nuts and pretzel mix.  Too many calories, I'm not overly fond of salty foods, etc.  Even at a party, I would pass it by for the same reasons.  But hand it to me in a semi-claustrophobic encased metal environment and I'm all about the spicy nuts and pretzels.

Odd eating habits don't just extend to on-the-airplane eating, either.  I consider eating in an airport terminal a caloric free-for-all.  I stopped at a Starbucks this morning inside the airport before my flight and along with my decaf, skim-milk latte,  ordered up a king-size apple fritter.  Now, I would never  order the fritter in my day-to-day life.  But I didn't even blink an eye at the airport.  I needed breakfast, the fritter was there, end of story. 

For some reason, I seem to think foods eaten in an airport don't count.  Like I think the Universe should see that I'm stuck in a huge, gritty, dirty, loud place with crying babies and way too many people trying not to look smug and self-important as they talk into headset phones and therefore the Universe should balance the equation by not having any food I eat in this yucky place "count."

At least, I'm hoping that's how it works.  'Cause that was a really good fritter.