Posts Tagged ‘Rejection’


May 26, 2015

I did it again.


I un-friended the ex once more on Facebook.

It was just taking up too much headspace.

And I really have more important things to do than look at any one’s news feed on Facebook.


Bye bye friend.

I won’t be calling, texting, or Facebook messaging you anytime soon.

Have a great life, you’re a great guy.

I don’t want to know anymore.

Lesson learned and really, not too badly done at that.

I never saw him, we never met back up, there was no break up make up sex.

Just two ships passing, very closely, but never together, in the night.

Fare thee well my friend and should we see each other out and about I know it will be with no animosity.

Moving on.

I dealt with the things that needed to be dealt with today, some clothes shopping for basics–bras, socks, etc. and a visit to the Genius Bar at the Apple store down town to migrate all my old files from my previous laptop to my new MacBook Air.

Done and done.

Although it still took two and a half hours to do it.

I was grateful to have a library book with me!

Even though I finished the book an hour before the migration of files was finished, I wasn’t upset about the situation.

It was far faster than the 46+ hours the system had told me prior to going into the store and having them do it.

The WIFI here has never been great, although I am grateful to have it, yes, yes I am.  And at one time when I was attempting to migrate the files myself the wait to do so was 96 hours.  I gave up.

I left the house, I went to work, I came back from work, I slept on it over night, it still was not done.


Better to do the direct to direct there in the store.

And it was good people watching.

Especially the young man who came in experiencing problems with his new Apple Watch.

You just settle down Mister Sexy Watch and stay awhile.

There was also a famous musician there, who sat across the table from me and kept catching my eye.

Not super famous, not like Kanye or something, but somebody Indy and just slightly older, maybe in his early 50s, but known.

I should have just said something, then I thought I may just know him from around, then I thought, maybe he was in Paris?  I met a few famous folks in Paris.

And when I next looked up, he was gone.

Bye bye mystery famous guy.

It made me think though, as everyone was bent over their laptop, MacBook, iPod, iPad, iPhone, and various other Apple devices, how much we all want to be connected and yet how separate everyone seemed.

It didn’t feel like two and a half hours.

And for that I am glad and I didn’t do much internet browsing, the little I did was only nettling my spiritual condition and when I gave it a thought, when I paused to flick a piece of hot pink hair out of my eye, I knew, life was too short for boring hair color and to obsess with anyone who has so obviously moved on.


Move on.

I don’t know what that looks like.

Or how that works, although I do know how it works.

The actions I take will create space for what comes next.

When I think about all the things I have gotten to recently let go of I know that I am having my fingers gently pulled off the things that don’t work for me so that I could be free-handed to accept the things that will work for me.

Bye bye scooter (recycled to scooter heaven).

Bye bye old laptop (recycled to the store).

Bye bye ex-boyfriend and old ideas about dating.

I am going to recycle those too.

My experience will be used again, I am sure of it, to help another woman walk through whatever she needs to walk through.

For that, too, I am grateful.

And as I did some inventory this morning before setting out on my shopping and laptop adventures, I also realized, hey, self, forgive yourself.

You’re human.

So what you called to have a coffee with your ex?

Who hasn’t thought or done the same.


God’s protection.

I got the final rejection and it didn’t sting the way it did the first time around and I can be easy in my self again.

Just let it go.

It can be easy if you just let it.

Give me all your lovin/and I’ll give you all of mine.

I even thought about starting another profile on-line.

But I held off there too.


Another thing I let go of that I forgot, online dating websites.

That’s right.



Free, clear, moving on.

I like it.

I got lost in the weird of my head and it’s not really a great place to be lost in, bad neighborhood you know, but fortunately there are lampposts that light the way back out as long as I remember to look for them and follow the light to the source.

It is only dark when I am inside my head.

Even when it’s grey outside, and believe me, it’s grey, it’s really a San Francisco summer.

Seeing all the stores down town with their summer seasonal displays of sheer dresses and light tops, shorts, and swim suits, sun hats and capris made me laugh as I wandered past in my layers and hand warmers.

There were more winter scarves on than summer shorts, I tell you what.

Even when it’s grey outside.

I bring my own color of love to the mix.

“OH MY GOD!!! I love her hair, did you see her hair, look!” the young teenage girl in the mall excitedly chattered to her friend.


At least I’m a hit with the kids.

And myself.

For reals.

This journey, this part of the path, has been a little rockier than expected, and although I have stumbled a bit, I’m picking myself up, dusting myself off, and letting go of the unnecessary garbage I thought had some value to it.

Obsession with and validation from an outside source does not bring my happy.

Only I bring me happy.


To be.

Once again.

In the pink.

Baby Girl–Chapter Six–Layla

May 14, 2011


“Elliot, I want a puppy,” I said turning over on to my side up onto an elbow.  His face was burrowed into the crook of his arm; all that was visible was a froth of curls and the tender brown skin of his neck.

“You want what,” he mumbled, voice muddled with sleep.

“A puppy, a puppy, a puppy, I want a dog,” I said with sharp emphasis, poking him in the ribs.  I got lonely waiting at the Lake for Elliot to get back from work with Leon and Billy.  I wanted company.

“Ugh, knock it off, I’m still asleep, it’s Saturday for Pete’s sake, let me sleep in on my day off.”  Elliot rolled away as far away from me as he could into the green wall of the tent.

“Oh, come on Elliot, get up please,” I pleaded.  Then I scooted right up next to him and although I had  I stopped prodding him, my hand still hovered over his back.  I began lazily tracing letters on his skin.

“Stop touching me,”  Elliot grumbled, burying his face further into the crook of his elbow.

I giggled.  Then I traced out the letters for, puppy on his back.

“Hmmm, I wonder what you are trying to spell, puck?”

“Try again, Elliot.”  My breath stuck in my throat, hitching a little, the warmth of his skin under my hand distracting me from my mission.  I leaned forward my mouth involuntarily drawn to his body.

“Umm, oh, I got it, a pup tent!  Well shoot, Carmen, I thought you rather liked our  current tent, but I suppose we could upgrade.”   He rolled over exposing rose-colored nipples that sat vulnerable and puckered in the sparse hair on his chest.

He eyed me, “you’re not going to let me sleep, are you?”

I shook my head negatively.

He sighend and crossed his arms over his chest, but I could tell he was trying not to smile.  “What is it you want?”

“A puppy,” I said very soft, very low, and almost under my breath, mouthing the letters.

“A puppy,” I repeated drumming my fingers on his taut concave stomach, brown from days outside—two weeks now of crewing with Billy and Elliot and his was baked browner than a walnut and all his body hair was bleached blonde.  He looked like he was covered in a fine dusting of pollen, a golden soft halo of sun always seemed to follow him.

“Wait, did I hear you right,” he said looking up at me with a wry smile curling across his mouth, “did you say guppy?”

“Ugh,” I threw my hand up in despair.  I turned around and looked at my toes, they were brown and dusty, a white tan line demarcating an arrow across the tops of my feet from my flip-flops.

“Jesus, Carmen, if you want a fish all you have to do is go down to the Lake, although God only knows why you’d want on of those mercury infested monsters.”

“Puppy!” I hollered and launched myself at him.  He ducked away, and then grabbed me around my waist.  He rolled me over and pinned me down onto the dusty sleeping bag.  I could feel the hard sheet of plywood underneath that provided a barrier between our backs and the sharp coral rock where we slept.  It had been a suggestion that Michael, ‘King of the Lake,’ had told us would keep the rocks from cutting into our backs.

I squirmed fiercely under his weight.  I tried bucking him off, but he had me pinned down, I raised my hips and thrashed around underneath him, but he just rode up and settled back down more securely.

“You done yet?”   He wasn’t even bothering to use his hands, he had them crossed over his chest, just his knees resting snug against my shoulders.  I jerked my hands out suddenly and pummeled his chest.

“I want a puppy, Elliot, I’m bored and lonely when you’re working if I reread The Vampire Lestat one more time I’m going to slit my wrists.”  My mom had me given the book in hardcover, as well as money in a card, to me for my birthday.  I felt vaguely guilty every time I re-read it.  My mom had no clue where I was and she had probably stood in line at Canterbury Books in Madison for hours to get Anne Rice’s signature on the cover leaf.

Elliot grabbed my flailing hands and pinned them above my head.

“So, you want a puppy, you don’t say?” He grinned evilly at me.

“Elliot,” I said thrashing about harder, drumming my feet on the plywood, “don’t do it, don’t! Don’t! Don’t! No!”

Elliot was leaned over me still holding down my hands with his face directly above mine, a long chain of spittle dangling from his mouth.  I whipped my head back and forth trying to avoid being drooled on.

“Ew, oh god, oh gross.”  The spit was bare centimeters from my face.  Elliot suddenly sucked up the drool then quickly swooped down on me and licked my face.

“Oh my god, stop it, icky! Damn it! Elliot knock it off!”

“What?  Come on Martines, a puppy’s going to lick you and drool and slobber all over you, are you sure you want a little slobber monster?”  He licked the other side of my face.  “It will also probably pee all over you too.”


He leaned up and smiled, “yes?”

I stared at hard, him panting and began to speak, and then quickly shut my mouth.

“What, are you ready to say ‘uncle’ yet, or do I have to really drool on you?”


“No what?”

“No, I’m not going to say uncle.”  I turned my head and buried it as far into my shoulder as I could.  I mumbled something into my armpit.

“What was that, you want to surrender?  What did you say? Louder, please.”

I whipped my head out of my arm and glared at him, “I want you to kiss me.”  I hated asking him to kiss me, loathed it, despised it, it infuriated me that I had to ask.  Worse yet, I could not stop myself from asking.  The sex at the motel had not coalesced again, with the exception of a few brief make out sessions.  We had not talked about what it meant to either of us, the sex, the lack there of, or the infrequent kisses that blew out of nowhere like a tropical storm and then disappeared, whipping my heart all over the place not knowing where to seek shelter or what to say until it happened again.

Elliot looked down at me and blinked slowly.

“Oh, never mind,” I said between gritted teeth.  “Just get off me, you fucker.  I don’t want you and I don’t want a stupid dog either.  Now get off!”

Tears stood in my eyes, hot and furious, I shook my head, I’d rather be spit on than cry in front of him.  Elliot let go of my hands and I socked him in the stomach.  “Get off me asshole.”  I shoved him in the chest.

He caught my hands flat against his chest and trapped them there.  I felt his heart boom under my palms.  He bent from the waist forward and then leaned in and down, keeping my hands locked against his body.  He kissed the corner of my mouth, soft, sweet, and tentatively.

I froze.

Then he kissed the opposite side of my mouth.  My body relaxed and my fingers rose up his chest and dipped gently into the ledge of his clavicles, my thumbs pressed lightly down in the hollow of his throat. His hips pushed against mine.  I could feel him erect and crooked against the crease where my leg joined my body.  He looked at me, I up at him.  I raised my shoulders up off the plywood reaching with my mouth to his, but he held himself just beyond my deprived mouth.

I sighed in supplication.  He kissed the tip of my nose.  I moaned undulating my hips into his, “please, oh please, please kiss me.”

He kissed my forehead.

“You are so mean,” I whispered.

He shook his head at me and smiled, then he closed his eyes and brushed my lips with his mouth.   He was sweet like nectarines and salty at the same time, like pulled salt-water taffy.  His tongue slowly lolled over my teeth, tapping each one gently, playfully stroking me softly and insistently.

I gasped at the intoxication of his lips and then down bit lightly at him, nipping his mouth.

He groaned  and crushed his mouth to mine.  I kissed him back fiercely.  And the sun rose higher in the sky.  The fish swam laps around the Lake.  Cars passed unnoticed outside the hooch.  Clots of clouds drifted above.  Elliot breathed me in and I breathed him out.  My hands clenched in his opening and closing like star flowers.  I tried to push his hands down onto my breasts; he ignored my demands and kept kissing me.  I tried again. He sighed, shifted tightly, his entire body tensing, then he abruptly stopped, pulling quickly away from me.

“Come on Martines, let’s go get you a dog.”  He backed away from me and got up, walked away and outside.  I heard him urinate down by the Lake.

“Fuck. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you!”  I lay heaving with pent-up hormones winging through my body, oozing out my skin.  I closed my eyes, drew in a few deep breaths and composed myself.

Driving down the highway, past the Coral Castle, past the Home Depot with its lines of men queued up along the drive with signs on cardboard: “Carpenter for hire, cheap,” “Roofer,” “Plumber,” “Dry Waller.”   Then on down past the K-Mart and the Rite Aid drugstore.  Finally turning into a parking lot next to the ubiquitous Circle K.

“I think this is the place,” Elliot said looking at the scrawled map he had drawn on the backside of a newspaper advertisement.  We had picked it up at the market along with cigarettes, splurging on Pall Malls and Camels.  Elliot had gotten paid again for another full week of work—under the table and in cash.  I, however, was still out of work and decided to look through the want ads for a job in a bar or restaurant.  We had seen the large banner for the SPCA hung above a trailer in a lot next to the Sonic Burger we liked to frequent, I had gotten the idea for the puppy from the shelter’s sign.

Elliot wheeled the Datsun alongside the trailer.  It was a temporary unit for the  Miami Dade County SPCA Humane Society.  The day had barely begun and already the heat was rippling up off the asphalt.  I could not imagine that the animals inside could be very happy, even with the air conditioner above the door frantically pumping out the facility.

I bounded out of the car, “Come on Elliot,” I said and raced up the steps.  I  knocked on the door to the trailer and pushed it open at the same time, then stepped into a vat of muggy damp dog soup.  I gagged at the smell, urine, canines, feces, fur; the trailer had very bad ventilation.

“Hi there,” a female voice rang out from the desk directly to the right of the door, “can I help you?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly, to the woman with brown hair and glasses sifting through a pile of manilla folders on the desk.  “We’re looking to adopt a puppy.” Elliot had quietly slid in the door and was standing just behind me looking toward the kennels.  The dogs had begun to bark and whine in their cages when we entered.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the woman, “we don’t have any puppies right not, it’s not puppy season.”

“What,” I asked crestfallen, “what do you mean, you don’t have any?”

“Well, they’re not in season,” said the woman.  “Dogs only have about two, maybe three heats a year, so you really only get puppy’s twice a year.  And right now we’re sort of in between that time, so no puppies.  But we have lots of lovely dogs that could really use a good home.”

“Oh,” I said in a quiet voice.  “Ok,” then I  turned away from the desk.  “Come on Elliot, let’s go.”

“Hang on a second, Carmen, let’s at least look,” said Elliot.  “We’re here, might as well take a gander.”

He went ahead of me down the middle of the trailer peering to the left and right.  The he stopped, squatting down outside the kennel of a medium-sized dog with black fur, white chest, and white socks.

“What about this one here?  She’s pretty cute.”  Elliot leaned in, “ain’t cha girl, you’re a good girl, I can tell.”  The dog had come up to the door of the kennel and was licking Elliot’s hand.

“Elliot,” I said petulantly, trying not to pout and failing.  “I want a puppy, not a full-grown dog, I want a baby that we can train right from the beginning, not a dog whose bad habits we don’t know.” I didn’t even bother to walk away from the door; I stood halfway out the threshold, about to go down the steps.  I was ready to get out of the smell and go back to the Lake.

“Ah, come on Carmen, at least say hello to her.”  Elliot said and cocked his head at me, puppy dog looks from two different sets of eyes.

“Ugh.  Fine.” I turned away from the door and walked back into the trailer and down the narrow hallway to where he was squatting.

“Look,” he said, “isn’t she pretty, she has such soft fur, and this star on her chest.”

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“Well, just look at those eyes, of course she’s a she, it’s obvious.”  If dogs could bat their eyelashes, she did.

The woman at the front desk called back to us.  “Your boyfriend’s right, she’s a girl.  Border collie, three, maybe four, I’m almost a hundred percent sure pure bred.  In fact, I’m surprised no one’s claimed her yet.”

“What do you think?”  Elliot asked again, he had not pulled his hand out from the cage and was now petting the Border Collie underneath the her chin.  Her eyes pleaded with me.  His eyes pleaded with me.

I stood up quickly, steeling myself, “No.”  I said firmly, “I want a puppy.”

“Fine,” said Elliot shrugging his shoulders and withdrawing his hand, “sorry girl.”  He looked at the dog sadly.

The dog thumped its tail and chuffed under its breath.  My heart leapt up a little, but I was not going to be swayed and I turned away and walked to the door.

“Oh, now, are you sure,” asked the woman, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her respond that positively to anyone else.”

“I’m sure you say that to everyone,” I said trying to keep the edge of sarcasm out of my voice.  The dog thumping it’s tail at me was not enough.  I wanted more.

“No, actually I don’t, she’s not a dog that lets people approach her, usually she cowers at the back of the kennel.  I’ve never seen her actually come up to the door of the cage, let alone allow some one to touch her.”

That would be Elliot and his magic.

“Oh,” I said softly chastised, I looked down at my feet.  “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to imply anything, I just, I just really had my heart set on getting a puppy.”

“That’s ok,” said the woman, “I completely understand, come back in a couple of months, we’ll be inundated.”

“Come on,” I said to Elliot, he was still sitting squatted down back by the dog.

I tried to not roll my eyes and I turned and walked outside, then the dog whined.  I stepped down the top step and the dog barked once sharp and loud.  My heart leapt again, I sighed and looked up at the blue sky without a single cloud drifting in it.  Really?

“Fine,” I said, “you win.” I turned back into the trailer.  Elliot and the dog both were grinning at me from down the hallway, two sets of wide eyes, two goofy wolfish grins.

“Oh alright.”  I said throwing up my hand in exasperation. “ I guess we’ll be taking her.”

“Yeah, ya see girl, I told you we’d convince her,” Elliot tossed his hat up into the air and the dog barked again leaping about the cage ecstatically.

The woman smiled at us, “she really is a good girl, Border Collies are so smart and very, very loyal to their owners.”

“Great, just what I wanted a collie,” but I smiled and my heart finally settled down in my chest.  We filled out the forms, using the address of the house that Elliot was working on with Billy and Leon as our place of residence.  The woman never asked for proof of residence or to look at our driver licenses.  She took Elliot’s $20 and put it in an envelope and pinned that to the outside of a folder.  Then she opened the cage to the dog’s kennel and led her back to us.  It took perhaps five minutes.

“What should we name her?”  Elliot asked me as we pulled out of the parking lot.

The dog was perched on my lap.  She felt good, not too heavy, but solid, compact, and sturdy.  She also did not have a mangy dog smell to her, rather she smelled clean like straw and fresh swept earth, and something hinting at sweet, like clover grass.  I held by arms around her and breathed in her subtle country perfume.  She grinned and shoved her head under my chin.  Then she licked my face.

“Ugh, stop it,” I said laughing.  She kept right on licking my face.  Elliot laughed too.

“I bet she’s hungry, whaddya say girl, want some lunch,” asked Elliot reaching over and patting her head.  He pulled into the drive through of the golden arches.  “Three double cheeseburger meals, two with Cokes and one with water.”  We could not splurge on Sonic Burgers all the time.

“Ok girl, lunch time,” I said unwrapping the cheeseburger as we pulled away from the drive up window.  I set it on the floor of the car.  She nuzzled at the burger sniffing the meat for a few seconds.  She licked at it, then nosed off the burger meat from the bun.  She ate the bun, licked the cheese off the meat, even ate the pickles and the tiny minced onions, but she left the hamburger patty alone.

“Smart dog,” said Elliot.

“Layla,” I said suddenly with a wide smile, “her name is Layla.”

Layla barked in affirmation.  It was a good day to be a dog.


April 30, 2011

I was asked this evening what’s keeping me from sending out my book.  And as I hemmed and hawed and twisted my ring around on my finger, I finally looked up at him and breathed and said, “fear”.

I am afraid.  Not of the “no”, but of the “yes”.  I am afraid of success.  Silly as that sounds.  I am also afraid that there aren’t enough words.  Or that I’ll get published and then the next book will bomb.  Or that I need to polish more.  Or that I don’t have what it really takes.  Like what the fuck does that mean anyway?

Bullshit, I don’t have what it takes.  I write every day.  I not only write every day, I write a blog every day and I write three pages long hand in my journal–without using margins–I’m sick like that.  I also work 50 hours a week nannying for two 17 month old girls who are wicked smart and handfuls on a good day.  I bike commute to work.  I cook all my own food.  I care for two cats (ok, that part is fairly simple, but there are some responsibilities that need to be met daily around them).  I do the deal every day.  I have commitments and people that I regularly, like freaking clock work, show up for.

So, yes, I do have what it takes.  I just happen to get in my own way a lot.  Too much, and I set really high expectations for myself, dare I say “perfectionist”?  Which is just another way to spell miserable.

However, as I was telling the gentleman asking said question about what is holding me back, I did come to the startling conclusion that I have not had to be beaten into quite as much humility around my book as I have in the past.  Usually I am in tears in the some remote corner of the Lucky Penny with a cup of bad coffee, breaking down to John about how come I haven’t gotten my shit together yet.  I don’t need to be knee capped by the pain to take some action, nor do I want to be, hmm, this might be called growth.  I have been getting the pain nudge of recent, I was thinking about Baby Girl last night right as I was getting ready for bed, and have realized that it will just get worse before it gets better.

I know from past experience.  Believe me do I know.  I wrote the fucking first draft to this book six years ago.  Six fucking years ago.  Holy shit.  It is time to stop procrastinating.

I do all sorts of crazy ass things trying to get around working on the book too, which makes me laugh–I have worked harder at avoiding the work than doing it, easier softer way, my ass.  Here are some of the things I have done to prolong the agony:

-Applying for the Stegnor Fellowship at Stanford, because then I really will have the chops to write.

Applying to the MFA program at UCSF, because as John Ater has told me, I really need a MFA to get published, I think he was being ironic.

-Buying a new computer, said computer I’m writing on now, with the complete intention of reworking my book to send out to publishers and agents to get really good at down loading pirated movies off the internet.

-Set aside time in my schedule to write, which has actually worked.  Oh, wait, shit, work on my book, not my blog, not an essay, not a list of financial goals, not my spending plan, or my grocery list, or a sonnet.  My book.  Huh?

-Beat myself up, buried the manuscript under a pile on my desk and pretend it’s not there.  I’m looking at it right now.

-Wallowed in self-pity.

-Decided to move to Paris and obsess on that rather than focus my energies on my current situation and do the work necessary to get it published.

-Sent it out to friends, but not asked them for feed back.

-Not send it out to friends that have said they were interested.  They’re just saying that right? Because they’re friends.  They tell me I’m pretty too.

-Not used the ridiculously complimentary letter of recommendation Alan Kaufman wrote for me.  He’s just saying I’m a talented writer, well, because he’s nice or something.  Or he’s got an agenda, or some such bullshit.  I mean the letter was wicked.

-Decided to go to school to be an elementary school teacher.  I mean why not try to launch a career as a public school teacher during a time of education duress in a state that has an enormous inability to educate its children, let alone pay a school teacher what they need to pay the rent on a studio in the city.  There’s something wrong with the idea of having to take out student loans in excess of what I already owe to go to school to make less money than I make now.

-Jesus, fuck.  I could go on.  But let’s not get depressed here, shall we, it’s late.

As I was talking to him with the tawny eyes.  I realized that if I can be open and vulnerable and not run away from the feelings, that they won’t kill me!  How come I have to learn this lesson over and over and over again?  Isn’t once enough, or fifteen times for that matter?

So, I hereby resolve to take one, ONE, action tomorrow around my book.  And further more.  I commit to start posting excerpts of the book here, in my blog.  Maybe that will light some fire under my ass.

Because as I was in tears in K’s room today struggling to fold her laundry, mitigate a toddler fight over the potty training book, juggle the incoming texts from the various parents, and just, I don’t know, breathe, it struck me that I could be using 1/16th of the energy and be getting back a lot more for my efforts.

And frankly, I don’t want to be telling myself in another couple of years that after this next nanny gig I’ll be getting myself out there as a writer.  Making it as a writer, oh, I don’t know, successfully.  Paying the bills with what I love to do.  Write.

I mean, c’mon, Martines, it’s 1:13 a.m. on a Friday night and what are you doing?


I could be making out for Pete’s sake.


January 26, 2011

First one in the e-mail today for the book.  Actually, that’s not true, I did have it rejected by another agent long ago, but I can’t remember her name.  I do remember the feeling of utter joy when that original agent responded to my query with a request for more of the work.  But after that, there was no follow up.

So, this technically is the second rejection.  My friend Matthew’s book was rejected 60 times.  It was just finally picked up.  Which means only 59 more agents to submit to.

Where do I send it next?  I was thinking William/Morris, but I could not for the life of me get their direct webpage to load anything other than vocal/musical bookings.  I tried a number of times last night and nada.

I figure I need to find one agency a night to submit to (not that I’m actually going to submit to one a day, I’m too fucking tired for that right now), and start a list.  I’ll hit up the next 59 agents and keep a tally.

And who knows, maybe it won’t be 60.  Maybe it will be 75, or 100.  Truly, I don’t care.  I wrote the book.  I wrote a book.  I WROTE A BOOK!  That’s what matters.  I can get rejected til the cows come home; yes I am from the Midwest.  As long as I acknowledge that I did the work to prepare for those rejections.

Heck, everybody gets rejected.  And I’ve been rejected loads of times for jobs, dates, schools.  You just saddle back up and check another one off the list.  The nice thing about rejection is that, “now you know”.

Whereas I used to just live in this fantasy world, of wouldn’t it be nice when so and so and I get together.  Wouldn’t it be great when my book gets picked up by Curtis Brown.  Wouldn’t it?  But I didn’t take the action to actually find out.  I would just sort of haphazardly daydream about it.  Because if I took the action and got rejected I’d be crushed.

Well, willingness without action is just fantasy.  And I am striving to live in the present, in reality, so to speak.  And the neat thing about getting rejected is it allows me to move on.  And I’ve gotten faster at it.  I used to pine over a boy, pine.  And it would take me literally years to do anything about it.  And then, oh, the rejection would hurt, hurt, hurt.

Now, I just ask ’em out.  A no is a no, a yes is a yes, and a maybe is a no.  I have gotten a lot of no’s, a few maybes, and a couple of yeses.  And I have killed the fantasy faster each time.  And one of these days, either I’m going to ask out the guy or he’s going to ask me out.  I know that because I’m willing to get rejected.

And I’m willing to have my book rejected again.  As long as I keep sending it out to the universe.  This was not the agent for me, or for my book, and that’s ok, because I know there is one.

I know it.

Fear of the Apple People

January 29, 2010

I know I have a problem when I need to ask my friends for help.  I know I have a problem when I need to ask my therapist for help.  I know I have a problem when I have to go to a twelve step program for help.  I know I have a problem with my MAC and I cannot for the life of me pick up the phone to call Apple and ask for help.

This is so annoying.  I cannot even begin to express the level of annoyance I have with myself over this.  It’s pretty simple, all in all.  I got myself a re-furbished MAC book for Christmas.  I ordered Ipages and paid for it.  I tried to install and it didn’t work.  I called Apple and they gave me a code to put in.  It didn’t work.

So, instead of asking for help.  I, a) blog about it; b)ignore it; c) don’t tell my friends about it; and d)feel like an idiot for not being able to down load software I paid for.  Obviously, all of the above.

My therapist believes that it is due to my rough upbringing.  Having to be an adult far before I was capable of making adult decisions, of being put into circumstances that demanded adult response.  And thus, now, as an adult, I feel great fear around letting others know I’m actually a complete Luddite around machines and computers.

I suppose that definition is not quite accurate, I mean I do e-mail, I FaceBook, I am currently posting a blog, but ask me how to categorize the fucking entry and it will take me an hour to figure it out.  That’s the issue here.  I want to be the one to figure it out.  You’d think after all this time, I would stop trying to figure it out.  Figure it out is not a slogan you hear anywhere, but man, does it beat a mantra in my brain.

I had a supervisor once who was pretty intimidated by me.  Granted, I was not the nicest person to her and I had a huge superiority complex, still do really, but I will never, ever forget the day she caught me trying to load the Post-it dispenser.  I must have been trying to get the little pink accordians of paper into the dispenser for a good five minutes, when she came over and loaded it in three seconds.

“You’re pretty smart, aren’t you,” she said with a smirk.  “But you don’t know how to load a Post It dispenser, do you”?

“Ah, nope, ” I replied, chagrined.

She walk away without showing me how.  This is my fear.  I will call Apple, I will tell them I don’t know what I’m doing and they’ll hang up and laugh at me.  Now I know it’s completely idiotic and they record phone messages just for these kind of circumstances, but truly I can hear the tinny laughter of some woman in India giggling away.

Please, God, help me pick up the freaking phone.

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