Because Your Mama's Worth a Buck

At least, I would assume she is. I know I am. I even asked The Husband I was worth a buck and after his face stopped contorting itself into inexplicably pained expressions, he totally gave me the thumbs up.

I figure that means he was too overcome with emotion to say the actual words, but awkward silences and dirty jokes are our love language, so I am confident in telling you that his thumbs up meant "Yes, my love, I would certainly buy you your book for 99 cents on Amazon as it is currently on sale through May 9 for 99 cents if your book was not, in fact, your book." And then he would pause, look into my eyes lovingly while trying not to laugh, and say "You are totally worth a buck. I'd give you a buck all day long."

Isn't he romantic? This is exactly why I said yes to becoming Mrs. The Husband fourteen years ago. He's a keeper, this guy.

To celebrate Mother's Day and the BabyFat sale, I'm going to have a little fun. I have a 24-hour giveaway on Amazon for ten winners to get a kindle copy of my book. No purchase is necessary, but you can't win the book if you already own it. (I might even run another contest before the sale is over just for fun!) 

How else can you be amazing and support me and this crazy writing dream?

If  you just wanna be awesome and help me claw my way to a spot on the Amazon bestseller list, you are more than welcome to gift Babyfat to everybody you have an email address for. Your mother-in-law, wife, girlfriend, sister, best friend forever, and that mom you made eye contact with at the last PTA meeting would be very grateful for your consideration and very impressed with your taste in books. Because really, BabyFat is like six degrees of separation from Neil Gaiman because Jenny Lawson blurbed the book and I tweeted Neil asking if I could send him and his wife, Amanda Palmer, a copy of BabyFat and he actually wrote back and said yes and...

Wait. That's only three degrees and now possibly a PPO, so it's probably a good thing I screen-shot that tweet so I have something to hold on to. Did I have a point here? Oh yes...BabyFat is on sale, I want to know how many mamas you know that you think are worth a buck, and I love you. 

Don't forget to enter that contest

The end. 

One of my favorite features in the book is that each chapter starts with a social media update from friends and followers. 

One of my favorite features in the book is that each chapter starts with a social media update from friends and followers. 

For Authors: An Alternative to Book Cover Posters for Signings

*DISCLOSURE:  I received my gallery wrap canvas for free and paid for shipping, but the following is being shared as my own opinion and recommendation because I love you like that.

I'm THIS CLOSE to my first official author appearances at local libraries and am so very excited. BabyFat: Adventures in Motherhood, Muffin Tops, & Trying to Stay Sane launched in September of 2015 and it's only taken me until yesterday to start getting my shit together on the author marketing front. (read: this is as far as I've gotten.)

I'll be reading at my local library next month and branching out from there to other Maine libraries. From there, I'll be working my way south through New England over the next few months. If you're a fan and interested in having me read in your area, leave me a message here or email me at aspiringmama@gmai.com so I can try to make it happen. For now, though, I wanted to share something pretty cool!

I'll take a canvas over a poster any day of the week. Cover art by Michelle Fairbanks of  Fresh Design BC.

I'll take a canvas over a poster any day of the week. Cover art by Michelle Fairbanks of Fresh Design BC.

Part of the prep for a book reading/signing is the swag and the book signage stuff. I'm still working on swag - probably postcards and bookmarks - but I've got the signage taken care of. Almost every article I found when googling how to prep for an author signing included mention of a framed full-sized poster of the book cover. Functional, maybe, but I wanted something a little bit different...more stable and durable. I found it on collage.com. My timing is impeccable because there's about 12 hours left (as of 6:18 p.m. EST) to take advantage of the killer sale I found on the 16x20 gallery-wrapped canvas I made with the BabyFat book cover. It's normally $89, so $29 isn't a bad deal, right? Shipping works out to be another $25 so out the door, you're looking at about $60 bucks for durable book cover art that is sure to get noticed. 

I'll update with a photo once my canvas arrives. Don't miss out on the sale, friends. Authors, I'm talking to you...but the sale is open for anyone interested in creating their own masterpiece. I've used collage.com a few times in the past for juried art show entries and have never been disappointed in the quality and service. 

* All opinions are always my own on Aspiringmama.com, and always will be. Thank you to Collage.com for helping me create a beautiful gallery wrap of my book cover for my in-person BabyFat events!

Servin' Up a Sample: BabyFat Excerpt, Chapter Two

Yes, I know the book launched in October of 2015. I'm also Mexican and have ADHD so, by my calculations, I'm showing up for this party right on time.

You're Welcome. 

I've been asked a few times where readers can find an easily accessible book excerpt from BabyFat: Adventures in Motherhood, Muffin Tops, & Trying to Stay Sane, so I figured the easiest place to make that happen was right on the blog. I'm sharing chapter two with you, Internet. Click here for the Amazon link if you like what you read enough to buy the book! 

Cover design by Michelle Fairbanks. Find her on twitter at @freshdesign_BC

Cover design by Michelle Fairbanks. Find her on twitter at @freshdesign_BC


Chapter 2: Gimme an F! Gimme a U!


@FreshDesign_BC: Just fished a towel out of the toilet and had to tell toddler to stop licking the walls. Seriously.


July 28 

Ever have one of those days that starts out with unicorns and rainbows and then somehow magically warps itself into someone pissing in your Cheerios? 

While youre trying to eat them?

For me, that’s today. Mom, Pati, and I decided last night to skip Eliana’s gymnastics class for once and venture into town for our first look at the Tucson Mall. The Husband and I moved here from the East Coast in March for his new job. Because my father passed away just a few weeks before my thirtieth birthday, Mom joined us on our move cross-country. It’s all part of a deal my father struck with The Husband that said we’d look after her after he died. Pati must have stowed away in my mother’s suitcase because she wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. 

Pati showed up six months after my mother. I’m sure it had to do with Pati needing to be near my mother after losing our dad. She’s the baby of the family, so I bitched and moaned about Eliana losing her playroom and then drove to the airport to pick her up. 

Anyway, the plan had been to be out of the house by 9:15 a.m. to arrive at the mall by 10 o’clock. With a forty-five minute drive to sales and civilization, I wanted to make sure we got the biggest bang for our buck when it came to gas and mileage by spending the whole day there. We all figured we’d be fine since Eliana’s woken up at the crack of dawn since we moved here thanks to her internal clock still being stuck on Eastern Time. Good for me since having my mother and sister in the house makes it so easy to revert to family habits like sleeping in until noon. So I didn’t bother setting an alarm.

That was my first mistake.

I’m cocooned in bed, still thanking God and all of creation for my all-weather Ikea quilt. It might be 100 degrees, but I have an innate desire to be wrapped up in all things snuggly. If Ikea didn’t exist, I’d be sweating my ass off with one leg hanging off the bed for ventilation like The Husband does. 

I can hear Eliana laughing and talking in the kitchen with my mother, who graciously takes the morning shift so I can recover from my vampire-friendly writing routine. Figuring I’m two hours ahead of schedule, I roll back over and pass out for a few more precious moments of sleep. Staying up until 4 a.m. has earned me the right to more than three hours of sleep, and I’m estimating it’s about 6 a.m. I’ve got time to kill, right? 

My cell phone vibrates loud enough to shake me out of my haze and I reach for it, still groggy, to Tweet whoever it was that tagged me. It isn’t until I’m already bending over the sink to wash my face and hastily yanking on a pair of Lane Bryant crops that I realize it’s already ten minutes later than we had planned on leaving. 

Shit! 

I barrel downstairs, fully dressed and expecting my mother to be ready with diaper bag in hand, Eliana dressed, and choosing the “baby” she wants to bring (baby Elmo almost always wins) with Pati cranking the air on the minivan so we don’t melt en route to the mall. 

“Mama!” squeals out my fuzzy-haired, diaper-clad Eliana as I run into the kitchen. “I LOVE you!” She emphasizes the word “love” like Elmo does in the theme song to his own show. 

My mother, still in her pajamas, laughs at Eliana’s reaction.

“What’s so funny?” asks Pati. She is still sporting the bra-less PJ look that tells me we are not getting out of the house any time soon. 

“Funny!” Eliana repeats with a mouthful of waffle. 

“Nothing is funny, baby girl. We’re running late, so let’s get moving,” I say, hurriedly calculating my breakfast points and shoveling three-fourths of a cup of Chex into my mouth while Pati runs upstairs to get dressed in the ten-minute window I’ve just allotted her. Drill sergeant-ish? Perhaps. But I know my family. Either I light a fire under their asses now (and keep myself focused in the process) or we won’t be leaving until well past lunch. 

“Aren’t you coming?” I ask my mother, who has made no move to change out of her pajamas. 

“You guys go ahead,” she says. “It’s too hot to leave the dogs outside and I don’t want to crate them all day.” She nods at the couch where our dogs, Finnigan, a border terrier mix, Catherine (Cat) the Great, a Rottweiler, and Francis, our street mutt, are all lounging. The first two are mine. Francis belongs to my mother.

“Damn it!” I hiss when I stub my toe on a chair in my rush to stock the diaper bag full of cloth diapers, wipes, a spare outfit, and a snack. Pati rushes back down and follows me out to the minivan, her desire to shop clearly stronger than the desire to spend forty-five minutes running up my water bill while showering.

“Damn it!” Eliana is on a roll. She does a killer parrot impersonation and keeps the show going while I strap her into her car seat and head out of our subdivision. I don’t mean to brag, but this little girl has always been pretty far ahead of the game when it comes to verbal skills. This is great when at pediatric well checks. Not so great when you happen to have a penchant for dropping more “f-bombs” in conversations than most convicted felons. 

Finally, we are on the freeway heading for civilization.

I’m still pissy from running late, so Pati shifts her attention between her iPod and answering Eliana’s occasional questions about why the airplanes in the sky are going back to their families or where the caballo-horsies are. My Spanish skills call me out as a hyphenated American to the family members who are on permanent visas (and any Mexican with a regional accent), but I’ve been trying to teach some of what I remember to Eliana. The result is usually an adorable mix of baby-voiced Spanglish. 

I concentrate on staying calm while navigating one-lane roads behind a long line of drivers content to coast along ten miles under the posted speed limit. Let me just put this out there: I’m from Detroit. Motown and Big Beaver, exit 69, baby. Seventy-five means eighty and stay the hell out of the left lane if you weren’t prepared to drive like a maniac. Needless to say, it’s been a little difficult adjusting to driving down here in the land of desert and tumbleweed. Then again, my sisters like to say that riding shotgun with Mama Leadfoot and her potty mouth has always been a fantastic form of free entertainment. 

“We’re almost there,” I finally announce, after checking the GPS. Thank God. I need some real food and I can’t wait to…

Dammit!” 

My sister is too busy focusing on my barely contained rage to stop and laugh at the chipmunk-voiced profanities being repeated from the car seat as I continue to throw them out. “What’s wrong? Are we out of gas or something?”

“I wish,” I sigh, pulling into the very same emergency vet clinic I was at two days before with an injured poodle I found wandering my subdivision. This was the last destination I’d entered into my GPS, of course. In my haste this morning I hadn’t thought to enter the address of the mall. Angrily chewing on a baby carrot (zero points!), I Google map the Tucson Mall on my iPhone. The last forty-five minutes have been a total waste of time and gas and my perfectly laid plans for a long and relaxing day strolling the air-conditioned mall are continuing to blow up in my face. I silently thank God The Husband wasn’t with us. He’d be the first person to point out that I and my crazy self like to make my own life more difficult by rushing everything and then ending up surprised when I find I’ve done something stupid.

I consider turning around and going home. I’m tired, cranky, and need to eat. Carrot sticks and cucumber slices only work for so long. But I promised Eliana a surprise and staring at the flashing “Open” sign in the veterinarian’s window from her car seat doesn’t quite cut it. I hastily plug the correct address into the GPS and breathe a sigh of relief. We’re just twenty minutes away. 

Thankfully, Eliana’s a pretty patient kid. I reach back with one of those snack trap cups filled with dried cereal to tide her over and head back onto the road. I’ve got a sea of pizza and Chinese takeout to navigate in that food court just to get to my low-point cold-cut sub. 


***


Poundage Peepers Journal

Subway six-inch turkey and ham with cheese and veggies: six points

Baked Lays, one bag: two points

Diet Coke: zero points


***


Awesome. I survive the mall with its giant and soft pretzels, with only an eight-point dent in my daily allotment. My wallet? Yeah, that took a hit. 


***


Maybe for you it’s balancing kids and a job or rocking the Soccer Mom thing. Or maybe after grocery shopping and getting the kids from school and making a dinner they won’t eat because the crusts aren’t cut off, you move the clocks up an hour without telling them and sit down with a glass of wine after the house is quiet instead of digging the elliptical out from under the pile of winter jackets. Maybe then you channel your inner Orphan Annie and focus on the fact that the sun will come out tomorrow and then you can try again. 

Maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s my hypoactive thyroid or my insulin resistance or my PCOS, which I like to refer to as The Trifecta of Excuses for a Fat Ass. I’m one of the lucky ones who can claim a reason for my muffin top. It might be easier to blame the doctors who have, for the most part, left me on my own to figure out what works and what doesn’t. After all, they like to say things like “eat less, exercise more” while throwing prescriptions at me as they move on to their next patient, leaving me to run back to Dr. Google to research diets and lifestyle changes and fix myself. 

But now that I’m finally back on the right medications and working on my diet, I’m finally realizing a very important distinction: My medical conditions are just medical conditions. They are not reasons to stay fat. And under no circumstances are they ever to become reasons to stop trying to lose weight

That, my friends, is where I screwed the pooch. I let my body become its own excuse. 

Why bother when nothing I do seems to work, right? 

“You’re so lucky,” I’d gush to new mom friends who were trim and fit and rockin’ their MILF status like a shiny new engagement ring. “I wish I could have lost just a few pounds! And here you’ve already lost it all and then some!”

They’d smile brightly (but not too brightly so as to not hurt my feelings), always rushing to make me feel better with a, “Yeah, but look how good you look considering…”

Considering. The Trifecta of Excuses implied but not named. 

So consider I did. Eventually I considered myself lucky to only have gained the weight that I did. Then I considered myself resigned to my fate. I began to consider eating peanut butter from the jar with chocolate chips sprinkled across the top as a pick-me-up snack. Then I woke up one morning feeling like crap and wishing I could feel as good as I did before I started considering, so I decided to do something about it.

That’s when I joined Poundage Peepers.


July 31

The Husband is thirty-six today and I’m having fun reminding him that I was just a little eighth-grader when he was walking across the stage to receive his high school diploma. He counters by reminding me that he is regularly confused for a twenty-something while the last time I got carded was before I became a Mrs.

His eyes disappear into a smile.

So far, everything is going great. We have a small group of friends over and our shindig consists of good food and plenty of booze. I’m enjoying the fruit plate I prepared for myself and doing a mental tally of the points I’ve saved up for this very splurge. 

Thanks to some very careful working of the system with plenty of veggies and fruit that barely put a dent in my daily points allotment, I can have a few more glasses of wine before I even have to worry. 

Happy Birthday, Daddy!

Eliana blinks up at me, her fork poised over the plate. She’s waiting for the signal to strike. “Now, Mama?” She looks hopeful. 

“Now,” I say, kissing her face before it’s covered in frosting.

“Birthday cake!” she squeals, her brown eyes crinkling in a smile just like her dad’s, and dives in with the delightfully carefree outlook of a child unaware of the complexities that come with fat grams, cellulite, or calories in versus calories out. I’m jealous, but plan to make sure cake remains a magical part of her childhood—like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy—for as long as I can.

I’m proud of myself, considering I chose a really bad week to jump on the weight-loss bandwagon. First we had the mall food court full of Bad Food the day after our first meeting. I even behaved at The Husband’s birthday dinner at Joe’s Crab Shack last night. It was his suggestion, and I promised him naughty things for choosing a place where I could truly enjoy myself. Shellfish is my favorite food group in the whole world, and minus the butter you can eat a shitload of the stuff without breaking the calorie bank. 

“It’s good stuff, isn’t it?” a little girl asked me from the next table, her mouth formed into a silent “O” as she watched me suck a crab leg dry with all the gusto of a porn star wannabe. Jenna Jameson, eat your heart out.

“Yes, thank you,” I said indignantly as I cracked into another leg, stopping only to gobble up a shrimp. I’m not sure if she was amused or horrified, so I smiled and took a breather. Her mother told her to stop staring and I can bet I was the topic of conversation on the way home. 

But I can’t help it. Ever since I was a kid and made trips to Red Lobster for shrimp cocktail and raw oysters on my birthday, seafood has been the ultimate escape for me. Normally I behave with a bit more decorum, but I had starved myself all day to allow for a nice splurge with some wine and baked potato. All bets are off and I was attacking those crab legs like a death row inmate enjoying her last meal.

“If this had been our first date,” The Husband said fighting laughter, “you do understand that I probably would not have called you for a second, right?” 

I shot him a death glare as I finished up. 

“Oh fuck off, sweetie. I love you, too.” 


***


August 2

While there are a few lucky ones, most of us are still not fitting into our pre-pregnancy jeans anytime before the baby’s first birthday. More likely, we are leaving the maternity ward looking like we still belong there. 

“When are you due?” ask kind strangers as they reach for our still swollen bellies. Maybe our children are with Daddy, or perhaps we have left them with the sitter for some much-needed “me” time. Either way, there is no outward evidence to match up with the baby belly we’re sporting. We raise an eyebrow, defensive. Where the hell does this asshole get off? 

“I’m not pregnant,” we respond stiffly. “In fact, I gave birth six months ago.”

Or maybe it was six years. In any case, our bodies were irrevocably changed the moment we crossed into the second trimester and there really was no turning back. The world no longer revolves around us. Our needs are not foremost in our minds. The role of mother (what baby/toddler/child/teenager needs) now comes first. Who has time to devote to a regular workout schedule when trying to juggle diaper changes, playdates, laundry, soccer games, parent/teacher conferences, and that precious little thing called sanity? 

But, well, there are those who are living proof that balancing Motherhood and Self—while only slightly easier than impossible—can be done. And to be perfectly blunt, I think it needs to be done, or we chance losing ourselves to the motherhood role. I’m not saying to let the kids go feral and start roaming the neighborhood in packs just so Mommy can get a few precious moments to herself, but it is necessary to refocus our lives to keep ourselves somewhere at the top of our own priority lists. Because if we lose ourselves in the effort to be all that we can be to our kids, what are we really giving them? 

So it’s time to get busy and find my body; the one I lost when I pushed a baby out and let myself go to hell. Just let me change this diaper first.

Unfiltered in Black & White: 4th Trimester Bodies Project

I have so many words to share but I'm still processing. It's not every day that Ashlee Wells Jackson asks me to participate in a photo shoot for the 4th Trimester Bodies Project. And it's even rarer still when I drive four hours, through the fear and self-doubt, and find myself in front of   a real photographer for a real photo shoot while wearing nothing but a bra and panties. 

I won't lie. I wanted to turn back. 

But I didn't. 

Because, body image. 

Because, eating disordered past.

Because, BabyFat.

Because, Girl Body Pride.

Because, self love.

Because, setting examples and raising my daughter

Thank you, Ashlee, for the gift of being included in the 4th Trimester Bodies Project. Photo courtesy of Ashlee Wells Jackson.

Thank you, Ashlee, for the gift of being included in the 4th Trimester Bodies Project. Photo courtesy of Ashlee Wells Jackson.


In Which I Promise Not To Fill Your Inbox With Useless Crap

It's only taken me six years to put a newsletter together. Obviously, I'm a bit behind the 8-ball on this one.

It's not that I was purposely slacking on this very obvious (and necessary) piece of the platform puzzle. It's more, I think, that I had told myself I didn't deserve one until I had a book to push. Updates like author appearances and signings and launch parties and all the lines connecting the dots in between are just the kind of thing I sign up to learn about from my favorite authors, so I convinced myself to wait.

And wait.

And then I just forgot about it because I was too busy tying to take the scenic route to becoming an overnight sensation.

I promise not to fill your inbox with useless and pointless crap. In fact, if you give me your email address and sign up for #TeamBabyFat, And to celebrate the #BabyFat launch, I'm giving away one signed copy of my book to newsletter members signed up by midnight EST, on September 28 (that's my launch day, y'all!) Of course, I'll be announcing the winner ....wait for it... in a newsletter update. 

Genius, right?

I know. That's why I make up up imaginary worlds for the people in my head who make the big bucks, you guys. WINNING. 

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Operation Book Launch: System Shutting Down

I'm the girl who prides herself on not giving a shit what the peanut gallery thinks.

I'm the mother raising the daughter to be a chingona and has learned that I can't raise her to be this Spanglish BadAss Bitch, write about it, hashtag instagram images with the #Chingonafest & #BitchRedefined, and then expect that the girl being raised to be her own woman isn't going to look at me sideways and ask why she can't say the word because how is it wrong to say a word that it's okay be be? Which is the long story version of: I'm the mother who's daughter loves to tell people that Chingona means Bitch and Now Isn't That the Most Interesting Thing You Ever Did Hear?

I'm the lady who likes to say what I say and write what I write because I need to - but for me first. The reader always comes second. I don't know if this is normal or self-serving, but I'm not sure how else to operate. Either I feel good about (even better for having written it) sharing what I do or I just don't share. That's bad. It's like the literary equivalent of rush hour in metro Deroit.

Total. Bottleneck. 

So I write and share I continue to do. 

I say bad words for good reasons and understand that not everyone likes what I say or how I say it and (99.999995 of the time, I'm absolutely fine with this. I'm a big girl. I expect critics and welcome trolls. Bring it, sister. I made you a cupcake for getting the party started.)

I'm all these things, and yet I'm none. For as badass as I claim to be, I'm also unsure. For as DGAF as I used to be, I'm flustered and Oh My Word and Where's the Fainting Couch, Dammit? What if I flop? What if I don't even make a ripple? What if the last six years have been wasted because I'm only good at writing and suck at making noise on my own behalf? 

And that's when the sickening realization hits: I have Stage Fright!

See, New Writers/Bloggers/Aspiring Authors? It's not just you. I'm pretty sure NOT freaking the hell out makes you an asshole or something. If I remember #Blogher14 and Rita Arens on her publishing panel, the exact quote is something like "Unless you a total dick or something, your life isn't drastically changing after you've got a book out there." 


Note to self: Stop Being a dick, keep writing, refocus, get a grip, and that just about covers it, I think. 

Bring Your Own Transitions

A few observations as I sit down today for the FIRST TIME to work:

*24 is not enough of anything. Especially when referring to cupcakes and hours. 

* it's 10:36 pm. Good thing I moonlight as a normal human who wakes with the sun and .... What? Not buying it? Yeah. Me, neither. 

* It's entirely possible to get so far behind oneself that's one can check out one's own ass. Beyoncé ain't got nothin' on what I'm looking at right now. Oh hell no. 

* Living in the wilderness is great when avoiding holiday family drama. 

* Living in the wilderness sucks Ginormous Huevos when trying to revise a book, launch a site, homeschool a kid, shower, have sex not involving batteries, or sleep. Why? Because wild moose are notoriously shitty baby sitters and you're left to balance the world on your shoulders. This is harder than it sounds because...

* You're already breaking a sweat trying to keep all the plates spinning with one hand while not spilling any vodka out of the bottle you're holding with the other.

* An iPhone 6 plus is a beautiful thing. (Keep up with me here, people. There's no time to dawdle on pesky details like transitions here.) 

* That Friendly Facebook app I downloaded because it promised to always be nice to me and let me think less is *not* a beautiful thing because beautiful things are not battery sucking vampires.

* Logging into and out of multiple Facebook accounts is a gigantic pain in my bootylicious ass.

* Why's everybody hating on battery sucking vampires? WHAT DID THEY EVER DO TO YOU, HUH??? WHAT???

* Relaunching a website that means the world to you while revising a debut book and fulfilling a lifelong dream, while noble, is also proof of insanity and will hold up in court. 

*  All the good things you've ever wanted in life can, and will, happen at the exact same fucking time. 

* All the good things you've ever wanted in life can, and will, happen at the exact same fucking time is actually Swahili for What Else could Go Wrong?

* Only stupid people, usually attached to silicone and questionable acting skills, ever ask that question....

* Right before the serial killer says BOO And they get their totally reasonable camping stilettos caught in the mud created by the sprinkler that appeared out of nowhere, thereby losing their balance and tripping, headfirst, into the wood chipper. 

* The serial killer now feels cheated and doesn't have time to remind you about the BYOT (Bring Your Own Transitions) rule for the parties he hosts.

* Which means there'll be a prequel to explain how his mother loved him a little too much. 

* It should be noted that the wood chipper most likely was stored with the sprinkler. 

* SHHHH. stop. Don't think. Logic is not your friend in times like this. 

* Unless you're the only remaining character who is now guaranteed at least one bad sequel.    

* Sleep is for pussies. 

* Motherhood is not for the weak. 

* Why aren't there any support groups with sponsors and 12-step programs called Partners of Creative People? 

* The Husband has forgotten what sex is, which is for the best until the revisions on BabyFat are completely and totally done and my editor signs off on my sanity. 

* I may or may not have called him BabyFat while last in the throes of passion. 

* I hate writers who share updates like Thank You Supportive Family and Friends for Taking Care of my Previously Feral Children While I Revised this Book. 

* And by hate I actually mean I want to be them. 

* Blogs don't write themselves. 

* Writing a book is hard. 

* Revising and revising and revising and PLEASEGAWDJUSTMAKEitSTAHP without losing my shit is harder. 

* I want my mommy. 

* She's pretty badass, having once pushed me out of her vagina and then being gracious enough to let me get all the glory in every anniversary of the day her lemon pushed out a watermelon. 

* I will never eat watermelon again. 

* or cabbage. 

* The cabbage thing Jeanne's fault

* Now I want to make a reverse birthday card that reads "Thanks For Pushing Me Out of Your Vagina, Mom!" 

* Tthe last man who said I had all the time in the world for book writing, living in Maine and homeschooling one child, is still living. 

* I have incredible restraint. 

* Thanks to my imaginary court approved insanity defense, the next one is getting a boot up his ass. 

* It's now 11:39 pm. 

* I need to revise.

* I need to plan world domination, which includes a podcast and gaining public interest.  

*i just wrote a blog post instead. 

BabyFat: Vote for the Cover Design!

For the new kids in class, let  me simply say I am the most indecisive woman in the world. New restaurants and menus are potential marriage wreckers, second guessing always means I made the wrong choice the second time, and asking the waitess to take back the meal I hated and bring me the one I said I wanted to try first instead mean that desiging the BabyFat: Adventures in Motherhood, Muffin Tops, & Trying to Stay Sane cover is like watching a tennis match between two crazed squirels.

I love my designer, Michelle from Fresh Design, and I think we need to be friends In Real Life. But before I ask for her address to exchange Christmas cards, I figure I'd better get her a final answer on the bool cover.

That's where YOU come in, Internet. Let's not pretend here. I suck at making decisions and you know it. The easisest way to resolve this situation is for you to help me make the final decision because narrowing down to the baby tush concept was hard enough and I can't make any more decisions this month or my brain may implode.

So you get to choose, Internet. 

Which cover do you think says New York Times Best Seller? 

Here's the deal, Internet: I will choose the cover that YOU choose. Each one shown here has its own appeal, ands while I do have a favorite or two, I'm not at all set on one over the rest. Considering my publisher's desire to get BabyFat actually published and in your hands -- a desire I fully support, by the way -- I figured I needed to own up to my lack of ability to make Actual Decisions to keep this train on track.

So vote! And if your're interested in joining my #BabyFat Street Team to help get the word out about my book, send me an email to aspiringmama@gmail.com (subject line: #BabyFat Street Team), friend me on Facebook, or tweet me with the hashtag so we can make All the Noise together! (Speaking of All Things BabyFat, did you submit your tweet to appear in the book yet???) 

I can't wait to see which you choose, y'all. Also? I'd been wondering when one stands on their probverbial mountain top to share with the world how she nearly fell down dead when Jenny Lawson agreed to blurb my book, but I guess that cat's outta the bag now. File this one under: It Never Hurts to Ask and Anybody Who Says Social Media Friends Aren't Real is An Asshole with No Friends on Social Media.