12/31/09. Yesterday, I reached my annual goal of submitting my work to publications 100 times, so I cheated a bit and counted my submissions today towards my 2010 total. I’m pleased with the acceptances this year by Harpur Palate, South Dakota Review, Crossed Genres, and the King County grant, and I’m still waiting for responses on many. I had bizarre acceptances from two places that I’d submitted my work to as much as 3.5 years ago and/or withdrawn my work from, and one small journal published my work without asking (but at least they let me know after the fact). I haven’t written much, but at least I’m still hanging in there on the business end.
12/30/09. My seven-year-old son, “LM”* spent last week at the community center holiday day camp. On the first day of camp, the director called me to tell me that he had a problem: LM’s shoe was on the roof. LM had done a high kick, up sailed the shoe, and that was that. The shoe could not be retrieved. LM assured us that on Christmas night Santa would stop at the community center first, where Saint Nick would find LM’s shoe on the roof when he landed. Santa would then bring the shoe here and put it in LM’s stocking.
Sure enough, there was LM’s missing shoe (complete with the smelly sock that flew up with it) in LM’s stocking on Christmas morning. It wasn’t the coal we had been threatening, but you’d never think a child would be so thrilled to find a dirty, soggy shoe in his stocking.
*My son is not my biological spawn and as yet is not my legal child, either. Although I am the one who cleans up his vomit, gives him cookies while refraining from eating them myself, tells him 43 times a day to hike up his pants, and (worst of horrors), is forced to leave the liquor store while vodka-shopping** when his school calls my cell to say that he’s in trouble again, I am not legally his mother. This technicality requires me by confidentiality agreement (who the hell knows what I signed during the process of foster-to-adopting? I would have signed away my firstborn, but the whole problem was that I didn’t have one) to cast a certain aspect of anonymity upon his mischievous, already-too-big person.
Thus, I dub him for the purposes of this Blog The Little Monster (LM), a name I affectionately called him to his face on Halloween and sometimes not-so-affectionately call him when he is not around. Thankfully, these days he is more often The Little Monkey than The Little Monster.
**My liquor store now carries bacon-flavored vodka, as well as wasabi-flavored, rootbeer-flavored, and bubble-gum flavored vodka. Can you guess if any of the flavors I’ve listed is a joke?