Even in the quietest moments...

I wish I knew how to begin the novel that I want to write, and I wish that I had the time to write it. Alas, I have neither knowledge nor time, the perennial curse of the graduate student.

Some days I feel stupider than others, the days when I feel like my head is being pounded by miniscule hammer-wielding fairies (not unlike the elvin characters that lounge off my eyelids forcing soporific stupor). Today was actually not one of those, but mostly because I limited myself (thus far) to a very enjoyable treatise on the translation of humor (required reading authored by professor of class, but indeed one of the few obligatory ego-stroking texts that I found myself actually wanting to read).

Did I mention that I knew what I wanted to be when I grow up? Ok... top secret... a textual provocateur, a verbal whore... a traductora traidora... (among other scantily-clad things).

The sun is shining, the weather is sweet... makes you wanna move, your dancing feet... to the rescue, here I am, want you to notice, do you understand???

It was a Bob sort of a day, sunshine and outdoor play, and I used my super-mommy-powers to ascertain not only the location of the invitation, but that of the party itself. I then managed to materialize a suitable gift from closet stash-o-gifts, recycle an incarnation of wrapping paper, salvaged from the first box of Isabeline gifts sent by the Bobie (the second remaining sealed until her actual birthday next week), inspire Isabella to make her own card, walk her to the party at the nearby park, and maintain friendly conversation with several parents of children I have never met, but who all seem to know Isabella. In fact, these things make me feel like a decidedly bad mother, or a lax one anyhow: it seems that some people live exclusively through their children, creating a bizarre pastiche of "play-dates" pseudo-intellectual stimulation, "quality time" and paid-for organized group activities. I can't seem to get my shit together. I haven't even found Isabella a new dance class since we've moved to California, nor matriculated her in piano lessons (lacking the piano, a key component), and I never retrieve her from school any more. This is what it is going to be for at least the next six years (ahh commitment-phobe in me cringing and desperately tugging at leash) so I better get used to it, we better all get used to it, right? Only, that puts me in the role of the eternally egotistical self-centered bitch, which I'm not, at least not entirely...

But, I am suddenly much more certain of my trajectory, self doubt sloughing off in an intoxicating ego exfoliation, and I think that I am actually, in the right place.