Me Me Me

A little more on my head: it’s not the sort of pattern of baldness that you get with thyroid problems, so I’m not worried about that. It could be alopecia—no health care = no certainty as to a diagnosis—but my father has an auto-immune disorder that resulted in itchy, patchy baldness, and now I have itchy, patchy baldness (two patches so far, with several others thinning out alarmingly), so we’re just assuming that it ain’t nothing but a family thing. The progression of my father’s disease was halted by medical intervention, but it was lengthy and expensive medical intervention, so I’m just looking at getting and hemming some cloth for kerchiefs. Oh, and my mom has me rubbing diaper ointment on my head, since she thinks that it is a panacea. I don’t know whether you saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but the way that the father of the bride feels about Windex is the way my mother feels about A+D ointment. It can’t hurt to try, anyway.

In fact, let’s make this the me post. I’m working on two romance novels right now. I’m hopeful about being able to sell them, although we’ll see. But I decided that it made more sense for me to knuckle down and try to write something salable than work on my probably unreadable dream novel, and I’m enjoying the work more than I expected to. Less art and more storytelling. Part of this is because I’d like to be able to do more things for the kids, things that take money, and if I could sell a romance novel a few times a year (of course, one every couple of months is my secret ambition, but I am trying to sound reasonable), that would go a long way toward Music Together classes or what have you. And I need new clothes. Whine whine, we are so poor, but I’m down to two pairs of yoga pants and I’d really like to be able to just get a pair of jeans or something, you know? Unless I wear my nicest clothes (in good shape, because I never wear them), I look poor. And I don’t exactly mind—I am poor—but I’d like to have a couple more pairs of pants, and maybe a couple of wrap skirts, and some kerchiefs. A couple of t-shirts would be good, too. Whenever we get a little money, it goes to the kids—and I think that they should be our top priority, and my small upcoming freelance check is going to get Joey summer clothes—but at some point, I need things. So it’s time to try harder to make some money.

I’ve been in contact with Mom #1, who probably needs a blog name at this point. Molly? She looks like a Molly. At any rate, Molly’s girls got badly sick, so I took them dinner one night last week—I’ve offered to do so again this week, since the girls are improving so slowly and now Molly’s husband has fallen ill. But I think either I will bring dinner by or we’ll have a playdate and I’ll bring something else (I’m thinking homemade twinkies, infinitely better than the store-bought kind). Molly seems like a remarkably sweet person, and now that the Mister is going bajillions of miles away, I’m going to need to make friends here more than ever.