Writing Woes from a Wannabe

I have a confession. Not the kind where I promise to say 25 Hail Mary’s and not think about eating meat for a week but one that I need to release into any other open space than that of my mind.

I would have much rather surrender my 17 year old self to the wrath of my mom finding out about boy friend number 3 making it to my bedroom. It was easier to ask for someone else’s forgiveness.

Truth is, I’m intimidated to call myself a writer. I mean I don’t even know what it is to feel like a writer let alone proclaim myself one.

Where the English degree should be hanging on my wall sits the photo of my then 9 month old showing off his spanking new teeth. My dictionary, like my thesaurus tickles a cough out of me every time I dare decide to breeze through the fragile pages. And my vocabulary didn’t exactly encourage me to be the loudest speaker in the room.
No, I couldn’t be a writer.

I just like to write. I breathe in my conscience and release my dearest feelings on naked lines. I like to strip myself of the woes on my back and jumble them around till they make sense on a page. I like to feel the frustration trickling out of my mind leaving tear stained blotches of words in its wake.
I just like to write.

Whether that makes me a writer or not it’s still true. I enjoy the game being played with paper and pen.

And as sure as I can say my name I’ll be able to say I just like to write.

Cheers,
TheDecader

Daily Decader Tip

Sometimes when you feel like a monkey in a cage, get outside.

N***as Ain’t Sh*t

 

N***as ain’t sh*t Yo

 

Yesterday as the sweet aroma of sour laced the air and the conversation poured from the bathroom window into the buzzing night air, my friend, Lucy blurted the words right before chugging down the rest of her Stella.

Nowadays it seemed as if none of my girls could get drunk without the words tumbling out. When I glanced at my husband we shared the same thought; at some point he wasn’t shit either. I’ve had my fare share of soggy pillow cases and what I could only describe as fairytale excuses when confrontation reared it’s ugly head.

I’d Like to Enjoy Growing Up

“Hey I’m at your door. I got some Merlot!”

The text message sprang at me effectively ruining my appetite for a peaceful night curled up with Rum Raisin and a meticulously rolled up joint.

Nevermind I had high hopes for Detective Amaro’s freedom on the finale of New York’s finest Special Victims Unit, but it was a Wednesday.

I get it; her 20’s were up at the stroke of midnight and the looming decade called for a night of drunk laughs and slurred i remember stories. In my heart I wanted so much to pull the energy from the soles of my feet and toast with her but the awkward quiet she opened my door to wasn’t the inviting she expected.

Sometimes I’m Not The Best Mom

The strong aroma of the chlorine water permeated the air already filled with toddler squeals mixed in with the occasional stern warning. My 2 year old bolted out his stroller impatiently stomping his brand new DC sneakers waiting on me to get my shit together.

Before today, our only sense of adventure was a walk through the neighborhood park or a day slapping paint all over the easel so this was a big deal. Personally I was looking forward to a medal if I survived the day; it should read “Official Mom”.

Walking into the waiting area I swore the clerk hiding behind her laptop pierced her lips when I approached her but it was easier to think she had just let out a tiny burp.

Truth is, I’m a 24 year old stuck with a 16 year old face and a 2 year old toddler who I’m convinced is already half my height. My tattoos cover half my body and my piercings make me uncomfortable around veteran moms .

So just imagine how much I wanted to die when the locker room doors gave way to a hive of half naked moms toting swimsuit clad tots. The stares didn’t make me half as uncomfortable as the open changing area or rather the open area.

It was only a matter of time before my hands had steadied enough to strap on my bikini and as i made my way to the pool I flirted dangerously with the idea of fleeing.

Nevermind that I knew nothing about swimming myself,I had to stick it out.
No. I couldn’t be a punk. I wanted that medal.

The water was warm and as I took a deep breath I secretly wished the water to drown the nervous pitter patter dancing around in my stomach. I could see the giggles bubbling up from splashing limbs as balls and fishes and ducks served as their prime targets.The eyes that turned to invite us were warm and welcoming; nothing like the cold stares I had conjured up in my hasty imagination.

Looking back, I am not sure if it hit me then or in the 40 mimutes of waddling around playing Humpty Dumpty and Tick Tock in the water but it dawned on me that I was being silly. And maybe a beer after that to admit I wasn’t being silly because of my anxiety, but because I wasn’t ready to give the whole experience a chance.

I didn’t want to have a nice time really.
I wanted to have something to rant to my husband about so I could feel better about my ugly fear of meeting moms.

I didn’t want to enjoy it.

It makes me feel as if im inserted into the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond when Deborah is coerced into throwing a Tupperware party and the poor thing didn’t even know what Tupperware was. I don’t have mommy etiquette and I have no idea what this parenting thing is about.

But that’s okay.

Sometimes I forget the bigger picture; my little guy is the focus here and as long as that smile on his face is always real then I’ll be OK.

How about you?
Please tell me I’m not the only one to feel this way!

Cheers,
TheDecader