In an effort to inspire me and get my dormant creative juices going, I’ve sort of gotten back into reading. Keep in mind that I’m still the mother of a toddler and school-aged child who just recently moved into their first house and is barely holding all her crap together, but I am determined to make time in there somewhere.

Lucky for me, I don’t have a specific genre I favor. Reading is reading and, until my late college years, had always seemed like a chore… save for the few V.C. Andrews books I read in grade school when “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” just wasn’t cutting it. Now I happen to like it which is bonus since I want to actually write these things for a living. Missing a genre gene gives me more than ample picking for selections. And my lack of genre specifications doesn’t stop with books. Music, movies, television. If it’s intent on capturing my attention, I’m all over the place.

Imagine my surprise and delight when a book suggestion was e-mailed to me via Borders. And the advertisement for this book included a link to a trailer. And I go, “Trailer? This IS for a book, right? Did they make it into a movie already? Did I read that wrong?” And I go back and realize they’ve said nothing about a movie, just a trailer. And now I’m all intrigued. And then they say the trailer includes interviews from Joss Whedon and Damon Lindelof . And now I’m just about ready to lose my junk because I admire Joss Whedon and LOVE me some Damon Lindelof (who is a Taurus, just found that out, and now I’m all HAWT!) because I like nerds and I dare you to make fun of me. So I’m going to the trailer because now, on top of being enticed by the trailer, I’ve read the premise of the book and the story includes essences of religion and superheroes and good and evil and I’m all SHUT! UP! So then I look at it:

And it is then, and only then, that I pass out. Then I wake up and add it to my Shelfari list of books I really, really, really, REEEA-LLYYYYYY want to read. Like now.

BFam and I have been having intense conversations off and on the past few weekends. The weekends are really the only time we have to spend together as his schedule has picked up from intense to oh my God you cannot be serious! Like any parent, we have to wait until our children fall asleep before we’re allowed to remember what it was like to live a life without them. And since it’s illegal in most, if not all, of the fifty states to give your children sedatives without them having a predetermined medical condition warranting such a thing, we have to be law abiding citizens and go the normal route. Waiting. Sure, we have the fifth of bourbon just in case, but who really wants to deal with hungover children? Hungover adults aren’t fun. Hungover children is just asking to put your life on hold for 24 hours. Who has that kind of time?

Kids asleep, we talk about the meaning of life and our order in the universe. OK, maybe not that heavy but pretty close. Our biggest topic of discussion, other than the recent political frenzy or natural disasters, has been the meaning of life. Not existentially speaking, but careers. Why are we punching in and punching out to nothing? What is this 9-to-5 garbage and why did it sound so much better coming from Dolly Parton than it actually is? BFam is in a void, a constant struggle he’s having with himself to determine what he is meant to be doing. What will make him happy? What will start a fire under him that will not only challenge him but wake him up every morning and, probably, keep him up all night? Besides me? I try throwing around the same hyperbole only to be shot down with “Really? You don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing? Because isn’t there a book you need to be writing or something? You know what I’m going to start calling you? The great starter. Because you don’t finish crap.”

And I go, “SHUT UP!” because I’m all mature like that and, really, that’s all I’ve got. Thanks honey.

So I spend the nano-seconds of free time I’m given to research other writers who have gone before me and succeeded. And I read their bios. And I get inspired because look at them! They were unsure of themselves just like me! They’d had personal and career struggles before hitting it big! And they had kids to juggle while trying to write their books. And they had someone in their corners telling them they were idiots not to keep writing! And to take it a step further and try getting published! Look at that! I’m not the only one! Then I read the stories of those who felt they really, truly had something and are stuck being unrecognized and shelved like so many other aspiring writers. And I’m back to feeling defeated without even trying. Didn’t think I knew what my problem was, did you?

Now then. Here I am. Knowing my calling. Feeling my calling. Fearing my calling. I am fortunate to have even gotten this far in the discovery of myself. And the real question I should be asking isn’t “what?” but “what now?”. [Special shout-out to BFam for the well timed and much needed kick in the pants.]

Me and change don’t really like each other. I’ve learned to tolerate him, but a prefix is still required when I address him as we are not out of the woods on formalities. Change invades my personal space. He’s always all up in my face trying to make me do things against type. I think he even talked about my mother behind my back a few times. I’ve tried telling him to back the eff up, but change is about as stubborn as my two-year-old and, if you’d ever met my two-year-old, you’d know the depth of that statement.

The recent flurry of political activity, with emphasis on what’s being stressed from the Democratic camp, is change. “No way, no how, no McCain” and, my personal favorite, “Eight is enough.” You’ve heard it no matter what your party preference. No one wants to relive the hell endured these past eight years. No one. And during this time, change and I have come to amicable terms. I am beginning to understand him and he is helping me realize that, while he may be pushy, he means well. That the pushing is only necessary because I, too, am just as stubborn as he in not giving in to my usual way of doing things. I may be drowning in a sea of bull, but it is me who is refusing his life preserver.

I have worked for the same firm for four and a half years. This is a long time for me as I’ve never been anywhere more than a year. I’m not exactly what you’d call flighty, but I require a challenge and loads of mental stimulation. If these things are absent from the equation, I am absent from the job. This company of mine has faced a booming influx of new hires recently. New hires that bring their different skills, different look, different backgrounds, different upbringings and different personalities. If you’ve ever had a Myers-Briggs-Jung personality profile done, as I have, you’ll know what I mean when I say I’m an ISTJ. The “J” in that ISTJ equals “judging”. Amongst these new hires, I have - in my mind - already judged them and given them a three month probationary period. In this time, they have to prove to me why they’re not idiots. I have no fair basis for assuming such a thing about them yet it is in the natural order of things, and the way my brain functions, which leads me down this dark path of cynicism. Most never get to three months because they’re just that nice. Or just that smart. Others are treating their three months like a bar tab.

I am judgy. The legal system loves me. Not in the picked up for prostitution running with the wrong crowd knocked over an old lady-kind of way. More like the elected Supreme Court judge-kind of way. Yet unlike a real judge, I don’t wait to hear all the evidence before making my ruling. I quietly observe the situation and take note of everything that’s not said. Body language. Eye movements. Hand gestures. The overall scent of someone. Sounds like an animal? Yeah, I know. Freaks me out, too.

When Barack Obama made the cover of Time Magazine, I instantly didn’t like him. I believe the words “antichrist” came from my lips. Before you gasp, realize I was not the only one with this thinking. I had never heard the man speak. Never knew what his voice sounded like. Never wanted to see his face. If the magazine was found lying around the house, face-up, I’d quickly flip it over. He freaked me out. In a way, he still does. I’ve never seen such a rallying around one person in my life. When he speaks, the world listens. Closely. Too closely.

[Image courtesy of Getty Images.]

Over time, I’ve come to appreciate his message, what he stands for, and his proclaimed intent for this country. Yet I am still apprehensive. Change may be good but, if forced, it can backfire. Against many a Democrat in my circle - and I am surrounded, let me tell you - I will watch the Republican National Convention just as I watched the Democratic National Convention. I do myself a disservice as an affective judge by not seeing both sides of the coin. And if I really want to make the attempt to get on a first name basis with change, I should do so fairly. Even if that means my grandmother will want to hang me on a clothesline by my nose hairs. So be it.

[Image courtesy of Barack Obama | Flickr.]

Though my judging and unwillingness to change has caused me nothing but grief in the past, I am willing to meet change halfway for the sake of my sanity. I don’t know the outcome of my decision to go this route, but blind pessimism has been my BFF and the play-cousin to change long enough. I may not be ready to jump into the deep end, but I’ll dip my toe in the fount.

Yesterday was Mooter’s first day of first grade. I tried my best to be Suzy GoodParent and take photos of my child leaving the house. But Murphy’s Law was in full affect. So pictures were not in the cards. What replaced this ambition was a sense of hurried chaos between bites of cereal, hair combing, getting dressed and feeding/walking the dog. If you’ve ever experienced such a morning and was still able to wear a photographer hat, I hate you. Oh, and you’re not human. Yeah, just want to throw that in there.

In the midst of the screaming, running and yelling, I managed to pin Booger down for her ritual morning hair brushing. In the summer, I like to keep it basic with what I like to call the Queen Onion Blossom ponytail. Observe:

See how easy that looks? You’d have no idea that any screaming and kicking was involved in its creation just by looking. Oh, but banshees of the East and Westward winds were summoned. Every time. No exceptions. For no God forsaken reason except to punish the person brushing - NOT COMBING - her hair. Me.

Hair brushing typically commences in the bottom bunk of her sister’s bed. And poor Mooter has to sit next to her crying, whining, she-devil of a sister the entire time the process takes place. Why? Because her sister is in this phase that I’m sure all little sisters go through. The phase of imitation. She must be near her sister at all times. Following her every footstep down to the heel. Playing with her hair. Blowing in her face. Putting her finger in her nose (her sister’s, not her own, because where’s the fun in THAT?!). Standing thisclose to her face and calling her name. Repeatedly. And there’s no other way I can show you how much I love you and want to be just like you than to torture you within an inch of your life. For motivation, I tell Mooter she can have any cookie she wants. Because enduring hell requires a certain type of initiative when it’s for the duration. And sitting next to your sister watching only the television shows she likes listening to her cry and squeal in imagined agony is a special kind of hell and, dammit, Mooter is a special kind of sister.

Until Booger catches a glimpse of her sister, who she wanted so desperately to sit beside her during this time, not crying. And looking at her. In perfect calm. And whatthehellareyoulookingat becomes yet another excuse for Booger to turn on her little sister charm. What is this charm? Well. Mooter has lead in her butt. Born with it. She can’t help it. Ask her to put on her shoes or any article of clothing first thing in the morning and you’re asking her fifty million times. Or you have to endure the diatribe about why shoes have to hurt and oh, you can’t put them on because you need help but you’ve never needed help before but now you need the help because how is anyone expected to put on shoes and watch television at the same time, Mother?! So “please put on your shoes” turns into SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND PUT ON YOUR SHOES! Booger, never one to miss an opportunity, echoes HUSH YOO MOUF AN’ PUT YOO SHOOS! to which I reply AND YOU HUSH YOUR MOUTH, TOO! which is met with okay.

Imitation is not reserved for her sister and can be used against her at any time. All I want to know is when the I hate you stay out of my closet and out of my life-phase begins.