Sometimes I wonder about people and their defining moments. At what moment does someone go from someone who paints to Painter? Someone who blogs to Blogger? Someone who crafts to Artist? Someone who writes to Writer?

For some it might be when they start getting paid to do it. Or when others begin to call them by the title. Or when they’re recognized for it.

I wavered a bit on posting this here because I’d already written about it in my writing journal. It’s so not a huge deal and yet it is, because it is my first. A few weeks (okay, like a month ago) I wrote out an entry in my writing journal about how I was fit to be tied and full of jealousy because GreenEyes was writing for a national publication and here I am, calling myself a writer and I’m writing for diddly squat. I blog, but I only call that writing in terms of counting the words for my annual word count goal. It does help me express myself but I blog to blog and not to write or craft or create. It’s nothing I am doing on purpose to have my talent recognized.

So I decided to get off my literary ass and start writing something that could be posted somewhere and sit for eternity. I admit that I did not aim very high. I submitted a piece that I spent quite a bit of time on to a short story archive– the kind of place where they’ll post pretty much anything.  The other was a bit more discriminating, but too late, I realized that they hadn’t posted a story since Fall of 2009. The backlog, if they’re even posting new stories, is likely huge. I don’t even want to worry about that one.

I submitted my short story, entitled ‘Try To Say No’ about a girl trapped in a friends with benefits situation that she can’t get herself out of, about a month ago, I’d guess. Maybe less time than that. Yesterday I got an email that it was accepted at short-story.net. WOOP!

I don’t know if, at this point, I call myself published. I may save that distinction for a more discriminating entry process. I DO know, now, that my work (besides the fanfiction that I have written which is strictly for fun) is part of an archive and will remain there until… well until the site goes down, I suppose!

What I do call myself, now, is writer. And not even tongue in cheek and rolling my eyes and pretending to be modest about it. I also need to call myself busy working on some other pieces. Like finishing my NaNoWriMo piece. It’s STILL not done. I may have to go back, in the story, and start from a different angle, or something. Or figure out how I want it to end and work my way backward.

Maybe I’ll finish it before NaNo2010 begins. : /

Weekend roundup– first off, how was YOURS?

Mine actually went okay. The Tour went fine, took all of ten minutes. Dad liked my place, said it was very nice. I don’t believe I cleaned and scrubbed and fluffed and shined and worried and shopped for a ten minute cursory overview. I am going to appoint myself the Queen of Overreacting. If ever you need someone to overreact to something, please consider my services. I overreact for cheap!

For the first time in my life, he had no criticism or ‘helpful ideas’, but then again that’s kind of my mom’s department. She’s nosy (where I get it from) and will scan a room and go ‘mmmhhhmmm…’ which means something but she won’t come right out and say she doesn’t like something. But nope, not dad. No offers to fix anything or paint anything or arrange anything, which was great. I didn’t want to go through the discomfort of declining and then later him holding it over my head when he wants something… ‘remember that time I did that thing for you? I need you to do something for me now.’ Nope. Leave it alone. I’ll do it myself.

We did have a slight snag. I arrived at my Aunt’s house on Saturday at 11:30am, which would have been perfect timing to drive 45 minutes north back to my place, have lunch, and then drive back down south for his nephew’s basketball game at 3pm.

Except no one was at the house. I rang the doorbell and knocked and rang the doorbell and knocked and nothing. So I get back in the car and call my dad. He answers. “What are you doing?,” I say, sounding irritated. “I’m outside the house, no one is answering the door.” I get a curt, surly, “Well if you would have been answering your phone, you’d know we took your Aunt D to the hospital this morning.”

Color me shocked, confused, and a little pissed off, because my phone has not rung all morning. I have no voicemail and no missed calls. “Just say right there,” he snapped. “Roz will drive me to the house.” And hangs up. I am left to fume inside my car at my Aunt’s house, thinking of the things I am going to do to his cell phone when he gets in the car. Dreams of snatching it from his hands and throwing it into the street and then running it over dance through my head. I already know what has happened. He is dialing the wrong number, again.

Cousin shows up, they both get out of her car and my dad has this stony expression on his face, his lip curled in irritation. This look used to send ice through my veins and make my butt go numb.  It almost has this effect on me as I watch him stomp toward my car, before I remember that I am just a few weeks shy of 36 and he can’t really hurt me anymore.

He opens my door and yells, “Girl, what is wrong with your phone?!?!” I reply, “Nothing’s wrong with my phone, I haven’t received any calls today!”  I show him the call log on Berry. NOTHING. He whips out his phone and dials my number and hands his phone to me and says, “The message says you’re not taking calls. I couldn’t reach you!”

I grab the phone, wishing I had the nerve to do what I really wanted to do with it, and glared at him over the display. “That’s not my phone number,” I growled at him. He blinks. Then his eyes close and he sighs and he knows, now, that he’s done it again. Dialed the wrong number. I punch up my actual number, saved in his phone with no name. “THIS is my phone number! If you’d called THIS number you would have reached me!”

I’ve never seen my dad look sheepish in all of his life. The look on his face as he ducked into the car and put on his seatbelt was priceless. Not that I enjoyed making a fool of him at all, but I felt good for not just cowering in his presence like I am 15 yrs old, which is what I normally do when he gets mad.  Growing up, I could get hit for just looking at him wrong. He demanded contrite obedience. We weren’t allowed to argue or talk back.

He apologized as I backed out of the driveway, and I accepted his apology and then said, “don’t let me near that phone, I might toss it out the window and run it over.” At which he laughed, and said he didn’t know I could go ghetto. I can’t, really, but I like for people to think I can.

I had planned to take Dad to lunch at Houston’s, one of my favorite places that was quick and close. Before I could open my mouth to tell him so, he declared that he wanted to eat lunch at Popeyes Chicken. I rarely, if ever, eat at Popeyes. In fact, when we went to dinner on Tuesday, I was all happy to take him to this cool place in Midtown but he seemed uncomfortable, like he would have been happier at Red Lobster. Except I don’t eat at Red Lobster. I may be becoming one of those Atlanta snobs that I hate so much. Damn!

So, because they don’t have Popeyes in Podunk, WA and he wanted some Popeyes Chicken,  I shrugged and directed the car north. There happens to be a restaurant mere minutes from my apartment.

Popeyes it is.

Joe's Tree

We love you and miss you everyday.

September 8, 1985 to March 8, 2008

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened. – Dr. Seuss

A few years ago, I was in a pretty dark place. Morale was low at Chez Jones. I was in a low paying job working for a man I HATED. I was behind on bills, including my car payment, and was worried everyday that the finance company would come and get it. I was living paycheck to paycheck, hand to mouth, trying to survive after deciding to move from Washington to Georgia. It was exciting at first, and then after the excitement waned, the culture shock set in. I was starting to think it was a mistake to move away from everything and everyone I knew to start over at the other end of the country.

One afternoon, I was sitting in my apartment, watching movies I’d rented from Blockbuster. I was bored, since I didn’t have cable (hence the movies, because otherwise my attention span is way too short for them). I wanted to go for a drive so I got up, slipped on a pair of shoes and got in the car.

I always went to the same place, a construction site a few minutes away. I would park and sit back and watch as building after building, balcony after balcony, terrace after terrace were built, brand new, from the ground up. After the complex was built, I’d sit and watch moving trucks pull in and out, imagining the people settling in and enjoying their wood floors and ceramic tile and new appliances and their pool and clubhouse. After I stopped acting creepy, I’d start the car and drive back to my craptastic apartment and sulk. I thought I’d never be able to afford to live there.

Years passed. I got another job. And then I got a raise. And then I switched to a different company in the same family of companies and got a 20% raise. Every day– or at least every few days, I’d drive past that complex and glance over at those apartments and *sigh*

My lease was expiring in yet another apartment of craptasticness, the apartment with the neighbors that worked in a bar or something because they came home in the middle of the night, every night and shook my walls with their sexcapades. Or their arguments. Or their socializing.  Not really impressive, because the walls were made of Kleenex and dust. I could hear my neighbor peeing.

Understandably, I wasn’t renewing my lease. I hate to move but I love a new apartment, and a review of my finances revealed that I could, in fact, afford to live where I really wanted to live.

In May of  2009, I finally bit the bullet and moved to the new complex down the road, the one I watched being built, the one I drove past and *sighed* at and dreamt about. And it was everything I ever dreamt it would be.

Well, except for the part where they gave me the wrong apartment first.  I took my tour in March. Picked out what I wanted. Waited and waited and waited for May to arrive. I was so excited about my hardwood floors! I am ridiculous about hardwoods– I never want wall to wall carpeting again, ever. I check in and get my keys and……….wall to wall carpeting.

It also wasn’t awesome when they didn’t have the apartment I wanted available, so I had to move my cable and utilities and belongings (still wrapped from the movers) into a temporary apartment, try not to get settled, and then move everything again six weeks later.  Did I mention that this apartment was one flight up, and this was just a few weeks after I fell down a flight of stairs and sprained my ankle? Good times.

But when I finally got into my new apartment, it was bliss. It has been bliss from day one.

I ended up at Target, last night. I hit a couple of stores, nothing was really inspiring, I had to get toilet tissue anyway and the bath dept at Walmart completely sucks, so I just went to Target. Spent exactly $101.24. See?  $100 Store!

I got most of my cleaning taken care of in a few hours, and  I realized, again, that I love my apartment, in it’s halfway-decorated-but-now-the guest-bath-has-a-rug-and-a towel-and-a-soap-dispenser-and-the-master-bath-has-a-new-shower-curtain loveliness.  Since things are sparkling and glittering and all in order, I was reminded of the things I coveted about this apartment, the things I would dream about when I sat in the parking lot and watched them being built– the gleaming wood floors, the garden tub, the spacious floor plan, the ginourmous patio, the new appliances (including Washer/Dryer) the Valet Trash service. The way I get SO much sun in every room, which is great for someone who needs sunshine to be happy, my full view of the pretty courtyard and the lush, green trees behind the complex.

Some refinement is needed tonight, but I’m not cleaning like the military is coming to inspect( even though my dad IS ex military, and our house was always spit-shine clean). I don’t need to impress him– I moved down here by myself and 7 years later, I am thriving. I’m going to show him my life as I live it, in a city that I love, in a place that I love and am proud to live in.

At least that is what I am going to be telling myself as I give my dad the tour of my place and tell him not to look in the closets.

Have a super Friday and a great weekend everybody! What are your weekend plans???

So, in my efforts to stop acting like an asshole because my dad is in town, I drove all the way out to forever, picked him up, drove 20 minutes north in rush hour traffic to take him to dinner, drove him SOUTH again and then drove all the way back up to NW Atlanta where I finally sat down around 9:15. Holy. Mother. But I had my shrimp and grits and my stomach is HAPPY.

On the way home from the restaurant, my dad called my mom. I guess to gloat, or whatever. Then he said something about having not seen my apartment yet and asked my mom to talk to me. What am I, five? She says, ‘do what you have to do so your dad can see your apartment.’ She says this in a tone that is not to be argued with. I tried to say no. In fact, I said no several times. Why doesn’t no work on them?

It’s not that my apartment is… well it’s just that… I mean, no one ever comes over. It’s very comfy and now I have to clean for company. I have a bedroom and a guest bathroom that have never been used, let alone furnished or decorated. I don’t have a table. And the entire time I lived in Podunk WA, my parents never cared about my damn apartment. GAH. So I guess on Saturday I have to drive out to get him, and bring him up to this side of the world so he can see my apartment.

I am trying not to roll my eyes, because frankly my parents love the crap out of me and they are proud of me and they want to be close to me. SO. Hence the trying not to be an asshole about it. It’s hard and kind of pitiful when you have to scold yourself.

So today I get to go shopping for a little bit of house stuff. I was thinking of Marshall’s or Tuesday morning. I hate shopping for clothes. LOVE shopping for housewares! And I think I am going to have someone come in and give me a good, thorough clean.  For spring. Yeah, that’s the ticket!

Dinner went fine, by the way. A few awkward pauses. I am kind of a weird person anyway, off in my own world. Several times, he was like, ‘why didn’t you just…..?’ I just shrug and go on my merry way. Don’t like the way I do things? Don’t be with me when I do them. I am me, get used to it.

We talked a lot about my mom. She is not doing too well– not dying or anything, just not living well. Back in 2001, she had the RNY Gastric Bypass. A year or two later, she was in the hospital with complications. And now she is having the same issues she was having in 2003. Her stomach is protesting anything solid. I guess she is down to just over 100 lbs right now, which blows my mind because she used to be pretty heavy. In addition to the weight loss issue, she is not dealing well with Joe’s death at all. My dad says she has been on sleeping pills since his death and she’s having a lot more bad days than good ones. She has an injury from a car accident years back and her job is a bit physical, so that makes working hard.

We also talked a bit about depression. Mine specifically, and then he asked some questions about one of my friends that was diagnosed BiPolar 2. He acts like I never told him about my bouts with depression, but I did. I sat right at that kitchen table and told both of my parents about that. He doesn’t remember. He also doesn’t remember telling me that we had a family member that was institutionalized for Schizophrenia and other mental disorders. He was all shocked that I knew. ‘You told me!’ I said. He just shrugged.

He tried to go in on me, all about calling more often. Excuse me, I talk to you people frequently and you don’t tell me these things, so come on off of beating that dead horse.

In all, I was pretty proud of myself, had a good meal, he ended up paying for dinner (woop!) and I didn’t go straight home from work and get in the bed, so yay!

Tuesday meeting on Thursday today. Reports. Oy.