The Socket is Void-Marcia

Okay...So. Um. There was this contest. It was perfect for me. Very slice of Life-y. My forte. So. Early on I check the calendar. I've got 'til Wednesday, Sept. 9. Perfect. I'll finish up, submit online, and head to Writers' group all proud of myself for my act of completion. Piece of Cake.

The thing is Tuesday morning, while helping my kindergartners color in the red/yellow/red/yellow pattern on their calendar, I get a jolt right through my yellow Crayola. Cripes, as Jennie would say, today (yesterday) was September ninth. I check for a flog over in Housekeeping so I can whip myself. Instead, I go home and keep trying. I attend all my appointments and make it to Open House and still keep trying. My husband isn't home. I feed the kids, I put them to bed. And still---yup--trying. I'd written versions of it before. I'd even had a beautiful weekend to tinker with it. I'd just miscalculated the birthdate. This is soooooooooo Marcia!

I really wanted that $3,000.

The contest submission deadline was 11:59 last night. I cut my last 36 words and pushed the send buttion. I would prove Christy wrong, I can handle modern technology! But my security shield was upset about something and wouldn't let me send, so I try something else. I have a full 30 seconds. So I try again, this time, all the words are there, my name is on it, the word count is right. It is still 11:59. Send! Annnnnh. Nope. "This socket is void." a little yield sign pops up. No kidding. I'm assuming that means the computer had instantly pulled the plug at the correct time. Smart computer there's no fooling you.

C'est la vie, c'est la guerre.

So, here. I give you the opening paragraphs to Real Simple's "Life Lessons" essay contest, ala Marcia's submission.


Somehow in the seven years I’d been with my husband, I had gone from being a free-spirited bohemian size-8 singer/songwriter/writer/actress of the Bay Area to a size 1X isolated, depressed, bitter, resentful, strident mother of one, trying to work from home out of her 1950s Ranch Style, with RV parking, in the suburbs of Medford, Oregon.

To say I was depressed is an understatement. I’d gone from wearing mini skirts and chandelier earrings to a tan pair of maternity pants I had no business wearing, topped with a blue short-sleeve sweater my mother gave me to conceal and flatter my burgeoning figure. Unfortunately, the sweater was missing a button, often slid off a shoulder and left a dirty bra strap showing. My glasses were missing one stem, and were scratched to the point of being useless. (My two year old, completely freaked out by any kind of constraint, regularly pulled my glasses off my face and flung them into streets and parking lots). Makeup was a smear of Chapstick. Getting to shower felt as likely as a trip to France. (I recently heard a mother say she strapped her kid in the car seat and put it on the bathroom floor—it was the only way she could safely shower without her son jumping out of his crib, climbing the refrigerator, or running down the street naked—Hello! Our kids must be related.)

At almost forty there weren’t a lot of mothers my age with young kids in Medford. The postman became my confidant. Chocolate became my best friend. I spent all my time looking back on who I used to be and what I’d lost. I forgot I had any power in shaping my future. I left my happiness in my husband’s hands and he was busy doing other things. I was in full blown mid-life crisis.

Then our house burned down.

I’m glad it did.


So writers and wannabes. Check your dates. Do your work. Meet your deadlines. Another "Life Lesson" learned.