Pushing Cheerleaders Down the Stairs

FML. Y’all know what that means, right? Good, okay let’s move on.

I am normally a glass is half-full kind of girl. When it comes to other people, I wrap my arm around them and I tell them the one thing they need to hear to get through the storm. My grandparents owned and ran a pretty well-known restaurant (at least in Western Maryland), and planted in the deepest parts of my memory banks, I can hear my grandmother’s sweet southern voice repeating the same piece of advice to an employee who seemed to be not putting their best foot forward or having a bad day.

Act enthusiastic, and you’ll be enthusiastic.

Rah, rah, sis-cum-bah!

Sometimes I’m all for it. Sometimes I have plans A-G loaded and ready to go. Able to handle whatever scenario fate decides to throw at me. I’m a firm believer that the universe gives you back what you give to it. If you look for the doom and gloom, that’s all you’ll see. So don’t do that. Find the good.  Remember my last blog about lifting each other up? Do that.

And sometimes….FML. I take a great pleasure in throwing the proverbial lemons to the ground and jumping ENTHUSIASTICALLY until they are nothing but useless, mushy pulp. It feels good.

For me it’s always the smallest thing; the thing that means nothing to anyone except me because I can control it. The thing that anyone with a rational mind would ask: Why does it matter?

Because it does.

August was amazing, and September will be ground-breaking for me. I have spent more hours than I expected to prepare for the release of The Dreamer. Bookstores are contacting me, bloggers are clamoring for ARC copies, Beta readers have been too kind in sharing their excitement over the book. I spent a few days updating my website, pretty pleased with myself despite my limited WordPress skills.

I made a book trailer. For those of you who don’t know, it’s basically a commercial for your book, like a movie trailer. It’s the newest task you’ll find on the syllabus on any given How to be An Author 101.  As I watched it in its final state and the music swelled with emotion, writer me shouted:

Hell yeah, that’s MY book!

Seriously go watch it. It’s awesome.

I’ve gone from working one day a week to five, because there is need for it. The book fair is soon, SO MUCH book fair.

If you’re a book lover, this will be your heaven. Authors, prizes, giveaways, and much more!

Amazing things.

But you know what preoccupies my mind? My Fitbit. The one thing that I can control completely, and I am failing at. I was the leader of the pack, walking every morning and often passing my 10k steps by thousands more. But then I got a 72-hour something or another and didn’t walk. Then I got a migraine that was the monster of all migraines, snatching me from life as I knew it for nearly a week. Finally, crying uncle, it yielded to the heavy duty drugs offered to me in an IV drip at my local emergency room at 4am.

My children were home, all damn summer. The end result of me trying to balance being the Mom that they’ve come to expect all their lives, and being the career girl that I’m still figuring out, my housekeeping went wonky. I think I would have rather burned the joint down than to invite a neighbor in for coffee.

Finally, last week my husband took some mercy on me and cashed in some vacation time. Together we picked up the house and put everything back in their places. We promptly took the kids anywhere and everywhere in order to keep it that way until school started.

Monday morning rolled around, and I was ON TOP of the world! I got up at 5am and got my tush to the gym. Yes, I am the kind of person that will drop the F-bomb without blinking, but finds the words butt or ass offensive…I don’t know, I’m weird. Got my kids out the door, and headed over to my girlfriend’s house for our annual summer survivors’ breakfast. Which, this year turned into lunch too, so everyone must have had an equally challenging 10 weeks off. I came home and was determined to get my bathrooms sparkly clean. I had a week long, EPIC battle plan and TOP-NOTCH numbers rolling with those little starbursts on the Fitbit.

And then it happened.

Being all full of myself as a multi-tasker, I poured a liquid cleaner on my bathroom floor to perk up the white grout (seriously, WHY is white grout a thing? Whoever decided that it should be a thing is the devil) and used the waiting time to clean my children’s toilet.

I have boys, enough said.

I return to my grout, forgetting completely about the hazard zone I created not 10 minutes before. Three steps in, I’m sliding all over the place, hands waving in the air, and legs going every which way. I DID NOT FALL. I did, however, badly sprain my ankle.


I’m watching in nervous anticipation for the piles to start happening on the kitchen table. Once a pile happens, it spreads like wildfire. Beds are going unmade, which as you all know, is the first sign of the apocalypse. The battle plan lays in wait, and the nefarious to-do list grows in power.

At least I can still work. That’s good.

But it’s the one thing that eats at me. My damn Fitbit. I was looking so forward to getting my numbers, my better than yours numbers, and my stickers. I have been robbed of my summer goal of walking the length of New Zealand. Sure, I’ve seen the London Underground, and the Serengeti, and all of Italy. But somewhere in my mind, a little voice is laughing at the ridiculousness that I haven’t yet conquered New Zealand.

Instead the little device that I’ve gone all of my life not needing just sits here next to these stupid crutches I’m on, taunting me.

Rah, rah, sis-cum-bah!

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