My next door neighbors have a pig.
Well, they had a pig. And then that pig got sick and died, and they got a new mini pig, according to my five year old daughter who is more social than I am and has conversations with neighbors and doesn’t yet avoid midwestern small talk like the plague.
All I know is that when I escape to my porch throughout the day for coffee and a cigarette, that little fucker squeals and I’m never sure if it’s the baby I thought was sleeping or the toddler I thought was watching that new Disney movie on netflix about conspiracy theories and mildly racist anthropomorphic animals for the 200th time.
Also, let’s clarify that I do not live on a farm. There is no logical or legal reason, but I’m gonna blame Mike Pence. Because he seems to be an advocate for such creatures.
So, anyway, now you know about my mini pig problem. Thanks, internet. I feel better.
While we’re at it, other things I’m currently struggling with:
- sleep with a five week old human in the house
- replying to emails
- the number on the bathroom scale vs. the number on my clothes tags
- laundry that I sorted into piles on the kitchen floor with good intentions
- trump signs in trailer park yards and the fact that I moved back to the bible belt
- the number of stupid people I follow on twitter
- trying to cook anything that isn’t frozen or prepackaged
- procrastinating making a dentist appointment
- how to fit 48 hours into 24 every single day
- having too many ideas and not executing any of them because adhd and fear of imperfection
This year, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to have a blog.
I spent January through April hating sponsored post obligations and fighting my inner rebel telling me to do something better with my time. In May, I wrote about hating mommy blogs and quitting mine, and I had national television producers blowing up my inbox and calling my friends and family. In June, I was bouncing emails back and forth with a handful of major publications wanting me to write for them. By July, I’d signed a contract with a management agency to put my writing in print. Which is laughable, since I have to actually write something in order to print and sell it in the form of a book.
Today, right about now actually, I’m supposed to be flying to Atlanta and checking into a swanky hotel to be showered the rest of the week with sponsored gifts and hashtag-ready dinners. Towards the end of summer, I was asked to speak at the Social Influencer Travel Summit on the topic of authenticity in writing. A few days before I gave birth in September, I cancelled the trip and declined the invitation. Shortly after that, they thought it was cute to remind everyone how drunk I got last year on all their free booze.
At the end of last month, I shared some photos I hate and some vague tip of the iceberg details testing the waters. I had to stare at that post for hours wondering the same question that he asked me along with threats and pleas to take it down – why share this? But that’s what happens when someone invades your mind and their voice becomes a resident in your thoughts. You question yourself. I try to read your messages thanking me. I try to let it sink in when you tell me you’re inspired or crying over my words. I try to comprehend all the emails I’ve received urging me to please. keep. writing.
The past few weeks I’ve stared at the bookshelves in our living room for hours while rocking the baby, wondering whether what I have to say is worth it. I could fill page after page, but then there’s no turning back.
So, baby steps. I’m here now. We’ll see what happens next.
- that time I said fuck it to Facebook marketing and asked everyone to just be my friend instead. add me.
- this death cab video about how to get started in life is fucking everything
- $20 and 3 hours = what I spent this weekend buying a “scarecrow family” and planting evergreen bushes for fall. being an adult is stupid.
- fuck baby spider nests
- last Saturday a cell phone fell from a fall festival ride and hit my son in the arm in the middle of a large crowd and it was panicky af and I wondered if they sell bubbles we could grow children in instead of the real world
- the girl on the train aka the book on my end table that I still haven’t found time to read
- whatever kind of day you’re having at least someone didn’t just vomit down your back into your shoe as you’re walking out the door, which is more than I can say about my afternoon