Tomorrow, the Spouse the Nine Year-Old and I will be headed to the Jersey Shore for a week. Posting here will be sporadic, at best. So–to keep you occupied while I am away, how’s about you let me know what you’d like to talk about here? Or not talk about (yes, I know I am obsessive about Clive. I can cut down, honestly I can! No. I can’t. I am too far gone).

In writing news, my agent sent out That Subtle Knot and expects to get feedback in a couple of weeks, give or take a few nail-biting hours. I am more than halfway done with the super-sexy novella, and On Bold Adventure (aka Richard Sharpe Settles Down, At Last)is burning a hole in my brain, so that will be September’s project.

I have no Life News, except to report that my mom–The Queen of Flakes–actually remembered to call me on my birthday, although she did not remember precisely how old I was.  One step at a time, right?

I am in the land o’ the lakes, basking in the no-nonsense love of my relatives (”We like you. You’re one of our favorite relatives. It’s hard to believe you’re so normal, given your mom.” Which is better than what some of her other siblings say, such as “I can’t believe Abby’s still alive.” (my mom doesn’t take great care of herself.))

My son is out power-washing the deck with my uncle. How much more suburban does it get?

I am contemplating getting to bed not too late and having time to write my synopsis, which a new kick-ass friend just bitched me out about (”Wait. So you’re holding your career up writing this other thing because you don’t want to write a synopsis?” “Uh. Yeah, I guess so.” “You know how dumb that is, right?” “Uh. Yeah, I guess so.” Notice what a sparkling reply I give.).

Then onto something resembling a career, right?

After some sleep. And, perhaps, a little Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt.

So my mom is visiting (going really well, actually, a total surprise for anyone who has ever met her, met me, heard of her, or ventured here. So yay), and I know she likes suspense drama. A ha! I thought, we can watch MI-5!

BBC America no longer has them on demand. WAAAAHHHHH!

So what do I do now?!? I am SO not watching Robin Hood. My mom would add to the excruciating pain by being a mom, and asking, “Who’s that? Why is that person there? What did he say?” I can’t wait until I reach that level of baffled cluelessness.

And the Synopsis Of Doom is haunting me.
And I have a great Che Guevara t-shirt story, only it’s too hard and complicated for me to write down. So you can’t stand in awe of my quick wit.
But I got a huge weight-on-shoulders project mostly done today, so that is good.

All in all, I guess things are okay.

So Mom called today, very apologetic that she hadn’t called me back. And honestly, I believe she was–she is just kinda clueless, sometimes, and we both know she wasn’t crazy about being a mom, but she likes me okay.

And here is some fun with our new scanner:

This was taken close to twenty years ago. I used to wear contact lenses and very, very dark lipstick. I still wear silver hoop earrings a lot, but my eyebrows aren’t quite as heavy-handed, I don’t think.

Anyway, my mom and I look a lot alike, don’t you think?

This is the message I left for my mom today:

Hey, Ma, it’s Megan. Did you know that all across America mothers are weeping because their children don’t call? But I called you six days ago, and you still haven’t called me back. So, um, happy freaking late Mother’s Day and all, Mom. I hope you’re doing all right. Call me when you can.

Too harsh? Not harsh enough? You’d think I would get used to her laissez-Megan attitude, but it still smarts. I know she’s not dead, because I made her boyfriend promise to call me if anything happened to her.

I got my Mother’s Day nap, yay, and a hanger steak and key lime pie and this beer, a collaboration between Brooklyn Brewery and Schneider-Weisse (weiss beer is my favorite). I haven’t drunk it yet, it’s waiting for me. Like a golden liquid beckoning in the vista.

I got the first of some revision feedback today, so I can dive into Road to Passion and get working.

I called my mom on Friday, she STILL hasn’t called me back, so I didn’t bother trying on Sunday–I think that makes me a bad daughter, for sure, but honestly? A mother who doesn’t call her daughter back? Close to Mother’s Day, when her daughter is a mother? Pardon me for being pettish.

This weekend I wore the Goal Diet Jeans, the ones that I promised I wouldn’t wear until I could wear them comfortably. And now I can! I’ve lost about ten pounds, and want to go down a little bit more, so those jeans are loose and stuff. I guess moving, stress, lack of sleep, stress, panic, etc. does have its benefits.

Perhaps there is a bright side to having shared a house with my mother: I am not particularly perturbed by the utter chaos of the apartment as we continue to pack. Granted, she left when I was 13, but I think that was long enough to get me inured to a fantastically messy abode (I have already mentioned, but she’s a recovering hoarder. She just told me she finally got rid of a sweater she bought in the ’60s, and she found the bottle of perfume my dad gave her when I was born. It was all evaporated; I am, after all, 43).The husband, OTOH, grew up in the opposite situation. Poor guy.

But how often are you ever to make everything ALMOST EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANT? (Price and other opinion person depending).

Never, I’d say.

This last room is the Son’s, who chose Bayberry Blue as a compromise to a black room. His door, radiator, and loft bed will all be black, however.

You know hoarding is the illness du jour? Well, the therapist my mom has been seeing for just that problem used pictures from my mom’s apartment to demonstrate what she was talking about. My mom is so ruefully proud.

She has, however, offered me anything I want from her lifetime of hoarding. Therapy seems to be working, although no, I don’t want the long-expired can of French-cut green beans, thanks anyway, Mom.

(This is not a picture of my mom’s apartment, although it could be).