A Word about Confidence

I've been thinking a lot about confidence lately which may or may not have been triggered by a recurring argument the husband and I have about his fashion choices. Our overplayed ditty goes like this:

Me: I'm not leaving the house with you until you change shirts.
Husband: This shirt looks great.
Me: You look like white trash.
Husband: I look fabulous!

It's only beginning to sink in that he believes this. I've very helpfully explained that this particular shirt negates everything attractive about him, but he insists that his hot bod is enough to counteract the cloak of ugly that this shirt represents.

The shirt in question is old enough to vote, has the sleeves ripped out down to the belly button and proclaims HELL YEAH in 400-point lettering.

The point in question is that perhaps it's better to live in his world.

He has no shortage of confidence and is generally content with himself. I wave to him from the other end of the spectrum and am never content with myself.

Neither of our mindsets seem to alter the outcomes of our lives terribly, so maybe I should just learn to have some confidence in myself as well. It would be nice to not obsess about what people might think about every single thing and whether I'm pleasing everyone I ought to be pleasing.

In school my teachers chastised my parents for being so hard on me, which they assumed from my anxiety over my grades. My parents chastised my teachers for making assumptions. I was hard enough on myself without their help.

So where does one go about finding some of this confidence? I can't imagine it's tucked inside my empty wallet, fat rolls, dirty car, tiny house or ugly-earlobe-havin' ear. Do they sell it at the Stone Cold Steve Austin t-shirt stand?

I think until I find some of my own I'm going to borrow my husband's confidence. We're married and doesn't that mean we're required to share with one another? I'm pretty certain I saw that in the contract somewhere.

There's a fine line between self-assurance and arrogance, but I'm beginning to realize that it's not any more hairline than the crack between humility and low self-esteem. This isn't the nineties. Low self-esteem is kind of passe. And frankly, it's as unattractive as a Stone Cold Steve Austin shirt.

The Newlywed Game

Being a newlywed is super romantic.

We take a lot of walks through sun-dappled wheat fields and we often take baths outside as the sun sets. Or was that Cialis? It's all a blur.

Last week when I returned home from New York, the husband was delighted to see me. He picked me up from the airport, drove me home and humped my leg before returning to a vigorous round of Mortal Kombat.

The next day we went to an eight hour, 93 degree wiffleball tournament for charity. I threw up a couple of times from heat headaches and Mark napped in the grass between games. I amused myself by putting Cheerios on his forehead so that the team dog would slurp them off his face while he snored.

We've both been working a lot lately and the cat is feeling neglected. True story. In fact, our neighbor has also been working too much for her cat's comfort level and she was just informed that her cat needs to be put on Prozac. I don't like to brag about our cat, but I should probably mention that clearly she's more mentally stable than the one next door. Gabby doesn't need Prozac. She'd have to wake up once in a while to be depressed.

But anyway, back to the romance.

The other day my husband offered me ten dollars for a sexual favor. I'd like to say I'm kidding but that would be lying. Then my face would turn red and I'd stutter a little and you'd know it was true. I'm a terrible liar.

And apparently a terrible lay.

Because, really? What can you buy with ten dollars? I'm pretty sure not even a lap dance at a gentlemen's club.

I'm not necessarily up to speed on the current pricing modules for hookers, but I'm fairly certain that a ten dollar anything is not going to come from anyone you want to be touching. And I'd definitely be suspicious about what else comes with that ten dollars. Like crabs. Or the AIDs.

So, yeah. I'm gonna go ahead and say he might need to work on the romance a little. But then again, I could also change out of my sweatpants some weekend. I hear marriage is a give and take.

I'm not giving him shit for ten dollars.

New York, David Thorne and My Expensive Fuck

I was in New York all week and some things happened.

The first exciting incident was eating matzo ball soup because New York has better Jewish delis than Minnesota which probably surprises you. I'm not Jewish but I do praise Jesus over good soup.

I met David Thorne at the Book Expo, which was delightful because we're both cat lovers and writers although to be fair about 195,000 more people have read his book than mine. That's just an estimate. I don't know how many people have to read your book before New York puts you on their list, but I bet 195,000 people have read his book or at least his Missing Missy email.

David said he will read my book if I send it to him which was possibly an offhanded lie to pacify a fat girl in the autograph line. I'm hopeful though because I feel like we really connected on so many levels as indicated by the expression of close kinship on his face. He probably smelled my cat*.

Nobody has read my book yet because it turns out there's a small speedbump in my path and the speedbump is named Fuck.

As in: Oh, fuck! They won't print my book because it has four-letter words in it.

So I need to find a new printer which sucks because the reason I picked the place I did is that their pricing was much more affordable than the eighteen other places I checked. I was pretty pissed when I found out a couple of days ago.

Then I wondered if piss is considered a four-letter word.

Then I wondered if I should go back through my manuscript and change every questionable word like they do on the radio but nobody ever buys the radio version on iTunes. Duh.

I only use offensive language for emphasis. Just a sprinkle, like salt.

OK, perhaps I emphasize a lot, but this is my own book. I write stuff for the company I work for and I totally respect when they tell me that I can't use four-letter words all over, say, their website, but this book is mine. For corn's sake, I'm the opposite of being published - I'm paying someone to just print it for me, and they still boss me around about what I write.

Fuck that**. The customer is always right and I am the customer this time.

Except that they win because they can JUST SAY NO and now I have to find a new printer who will let me say fuck and shit like that, which apparently costs much more than saying fudge and shucks. I bet David Thorne didn't have to pay extra for the dirty words in his books.

Also I got in an unmarked car in New York which it turns out is not the same as a yellow cab. I was thankful that he only raped me for twenty dollars over a five buck ride because vagina rape would have been much more serious. I learned a valuable lesson about being too dumb to navigate around large cities unchaperoned.

I'm home now, though. My unmarked ride cost a extra few bucks and my mouth is gonna cost me a whole lot more than that. This probably means printing 200-300 books instead of the 500 I thought I'd be able to print, so David Thorne will still be quite a bit ahead of me in the reader department. And possibly that weird lady at the book show who writes bodice-rippers and had crazy snagglehair.

Fuck.

*My husband will undoubtedly point out after reading this that it's his cat, not mine, which is technically true since he had her first but referring to my stepcat seems awkward in print.

**See, that sounded more emphatic than for corn's sake, didn't it?

The Zombies

So not that I'm superstitious or anything (my fingers are totally crossed behind my back, dudes) but if this is the beginning of the zombie apocalypse I'm probably screwed.

We've got a Florida face-eater, a Texas toe-taster and a Maryland brain-muncher and I don't even really like more than a bite or two of steak. When it's been cooked.

In hindsight perhaps I should have been running for my life at the zombie 5K this weekend. You know, for practice. But 5K is way too far to run if the zombie chasing my ass isn't for realsies. And unfortunately, probably still too far for me to run when the actual end of the world comes.

Shit.

I've seen the Walking Dead, you know, and frankly I'm not interested in all that camping. It looks like a lot of work and also uncomfortable. If I have to sleep in a tent the rest of my life, the zombies can just have me. I've consulted Gabby and she agrees, we're staying put. We'll send Mark when we need supplies because he may enjoy an excuse to be violent.

Our home will be our fortress because there are three steps up and one of them is pretty steep. I feel safe here for now and when it is time to move on, you can bet it's not going to be to a tent. If half the world is dead then surely I can find a nice house on the lake.

But for now I have to pack because I'll be in New York all week so let's hope this shit doesn't spread as fast as herpes or Kim Kardashian.

The Fix-It List

There's a lot on my fix-it list right now and I'm too damn expensive. My brakes were broken so I had to pay for new ones. My head is broken but they don't sell those at the mechanic or anywhere else for that matter.

I've been having a tough time lately with mental illness or possibly AIDs or maybe just hormones. OK, no AIDs but it could definitely be either of the other. My anxiety is out of control, my sleep is restless and I seem to have a three-degree range of comfort or else I'm bundled up and freezing or sweating copiously.

Mark and I walked to a diner half a mile down the road and he leisurely straggled behind me the whole way.

"Relax," he pleaded. "It's not a race."

Good point. I am always hurrying frantically. Breathe.

The server brought our drinks and asked who the Diet Coke was for. I grabbed it and as the guy walked away Mark snorted. "I think it's pretty obvious who gets the Diet Coke."

Excuse?


"You are so fucking rude," I spat. Luckily he couldn't see the tears welling behind my shades.

"Huh?" He looked bewildered.

I fumed.

"I seriously can't even believe you. You're so rude. That was a jackass thing to say."

Mark's jaw dropped. "What did I say?" He appeared genuinely confused.

"YOU CALLED ME A FATASS!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"YOU SAID HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN WHERE THE DIET COKE WENT!"

He choked on his own drink. "He asked who had the lemonade first and I said me. So I figured there were two drinks and he knew which one was mine therefore should be able to figure out where the other one goes.

Oh.

I didn't hear that part.

Mark asked if perhaps I'm still adjusting to my new medication and I suggested he shove it and told him they're testing my hormones. His theory is that I'm beginning menopause.

"THE DOCTOR DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THAT!" I hollered at him.

"Yeah..." he reasoned. "She was probably afraid you were going to stab her."

Then he thanked me for a lovely date and held my hand the whole way home. Apparently he's afraid I'll stab him, too.