Crazy Times & Good Times

The last twenty days have been abso-fucking-lutely wild.

And the previous sentence is especially indicative of the last two days.

This morning was a rainy day from hell in the Big Apple.  I schlepped around in my new rain boots with my shi-shi dog (he's really very cute, 13 lbs though), my laptop, the minimal amount of makeup I've finally convinced myself is minimal (read NOT) all tucked in my huge metro tote - along with my bum freaking knee, and a stained Burberry raincoat trying to hail a cab for 40 minutes.

Okay, I'm spoiled.  I know I'm spoiled.

But the difference is that I spoil myself.  No one else does it for me.

When I was younger, in a middle school tucked away deep in the heart of my beloved Texas, kids made fun of me for what I wore.  I didn't get to pick out my clothes--instead, Mom shopped the sale racks, and I made do with that combined with hand-me-downs from my cooler older girl cousins in their twenties.

Kids at school made fun of me, telling me I looked like the sale rack at Wal-Mart.

(Reality:  She liked to shop sales racks at Sears, K-Mart, and a short-lived venture called Ventures.  She didn't buy my clothes from Wal-Mart.  Now I buy clothes from Wal-Mart cause they're cool, inexpensive, and I don't give a flying mother-F* what anyone thinks.)

I digress.

I don't want to spew labels, but the reason I shared that little tid-bit is because I surmise my insecurities from those younger days results in some unnecessary splurging on my part.

Besides, when I moved to New York, my idea of comfy clothes was a casual pair of jeans with a nice top.  After a many months of observing my fellow females in the city, I did the following:

• Swapped out my mid-length fake nails in a pink and white manicures for shorter, sportier, squarish real nails in Essie colors Mademoiselle and Sugar Daddy.  So sheer and light, it looked like I had nothing on.  Au naturale at it's best, but it felt classier.  Besides, the loser I dated when I first moved here told me he loved my fake nails because they looked like a porn star's.  That was a smart display of my sterling judgment, now, wasn't it?
• Traded in my jeans from Lerner (Now it's New York & Company) and multitude of t-shirts for boho-chic casual wear and short, edgy night wear.  I spent many a winter evening freezing my high-heeled bare legs and ass off in a mini-dress near the warm hot dog carts, on my way to clubs or after all the fun had been had and it took forever to hail a cab.
• Bought a Longchamps tote.  It's brown.  So fucking cliche.
• Invested in my first pair of Tory Burch flats.  I think they got ruined after I wore them to death and was stranded outside during a Nor'easter.  I still own several pair, but they are NOT Reva, and I think they're classy.  I also don't wear them out, I keep them under my desk at work, so it's like a professional investment.  

So yes, I'm spoiled with my expensive companion in my overpriced rain-gear while we are on the work to his daycare near my work.

And I'm cursing like the dirtiest sailor on his way to hell because people in New York have no sense of humanity when it comes to hailing taxis during rush hour.  They will physically push you down or RUN YOUR ASS OVER to steal your cab.  It's survival of the fittest, and this morning I was weak, drenched, and sweaty under my layers even though it was chilly outside.

So I spent a lot of the day grumpy.  Agitated at problems I have to fix that are seemingly impossible because I don't own the making of the decision, I simply try to guide the way.  Pissed off at things beyond my control happening in my personal life that make me want to scream until I'm hoarse, but then I checked some stats and reviews on my book...I started out thinking I'd be happy if one person bought the book, and ecstatic if I had even one review.  

I'm amazed, overwhelmed, and so incredibly grateful to the people who have taken the time to read the story of Grace and Sean, two characters that literally argued in my head for a whole freaking year while I tried to get their tale right.  I'm even grateful to the people who didn't like it because they mostly railed against the actions or attitudes of some of the characters...

Not the writing.

And that's what fucking matters.

The writing - the words - the way it all ties so beautifully together...

If you give me one star because I make you angry at her or at him, bring it on.  For every person that comments it's well-written, I die a little death.

La petite mort.

If I get one star because the storyline seems cliche, I'm ok with that.

Ultimately, we're all a cliche.

My cliche right now is that in some small, immeasurable and intangible way, I am living my dream.  It's terrifying putting yourself out there at the mercy of others, your thoughts and words and ideas and hopes but...

Even while other things look like hell in a hand-basket, I am living the dream I've dreamt since I first became entranced by stories and books.

I'm going to get straight up Aesop on this blog that no one probably reads (hopefully, because I'm not making sense right now) and string together my disjointed thoughts in another very cliche way:

Ultimately, money, labels, luxury -- none of that matters.  What matters is doing the things that have always scared the shit out of you but the mere thoughts of those same things excite you like nothing else.  That is happy.

So thank you to everyone who has purchased, read, loved, and hated State of Grace.

I'm happy.  

(And also slightly pissed, because I just wrote 910+ words that could have gone to Sophie and Lucas)