I was 7 years old. Mrs. Corvette had just assigned our second grade class a creative assignment that I actually believe changed something inside of me for the rest of my life. Fold a stack of colorful construction paper in half and staple it together to resemble a book. Now, write your very own story. ::::::::A toothless smile followed by FIREWORKS in the brain!!::::::::::
I’ll never forget it. The Lonely Rose; Written and Illustrated by Elizabeth Gonzalez and Lily (whose full name I obviously won’t disclose but who will forever have a special little place in my heart for sharing that memory with me). The details are a little blurry but it was the story of a beautiful rose who grew in a garden full of another type of flowers. The rose felt different, alone, and left out and this made her very sad. Buried in this seemingly simple little story made of construction paper were themes too complex for just any 7 year old to comprehend: acceptance, self-love, confidence, leadership, friendship…
It was kind of a big deal you know? Well, at least I thought so, because by the time we turned in our story I was literally asking Mrs. Corvette about the publishing process and thanks to her serious encouragement and positive soul, I took my little wanna-be-writer complex straight home to the Yellow Pages and took my shot at calling random children’s books publishers and not asking, but demanding to have The Lonely Rose published into a “real book”. I meant BUSINESS. Oh little Ely. You brave little soul. Fearless. We could all learn something from my 7 year old self. Shit…even I can learn something from it. I was ruthless. I may as well have been pulling up to the second grade on a Harley with ripped up sleeves and teardrops tatted beneath my eyelids.
Needless to say, every teacher in Banyan Elementary who heard about my grown up moves called me “Miss Journalism” for the rest of my elementary career. And I never stopped writing. I never got anywhere past my journals and failed attempts at thinking about maybe trying to come up with some kind of novel, but still, I never stopped writing. 23 years later and all along I’ve been waiting for my day, waiting for my moment, waiting for my big break, for my “idea” to unleash the monster author from inside, but nothing yet… “YET”.
In the meantime, I became a multi-tasking, indecisive, loud, brutally sarcastic, bat-shit-crazy mom who works full time in the medical field and found a passion for baking and designing fondant cakes as a side-hustle while simultaneously aspiring to be a humor-blogger but barely has time to take a dump in peace. BAM! So GOODDBYYEEE Lonely Rose, and HELLLOOO Diaries of a Defective Mom. I have no fucking clue what I expect to gain from this blog or if more than 2 people in this entire world will ever even bother to read it. But if 2 people in the entire world read my blog and I can make 1 of the 2 smile, or laugh, or inspire them in some psychotic way or another, then my mission would be complete.
The reality is that I’ll be 30 in 10 days and I am nowhere near having my shit together. I don’t even know if I’m sure what I wanna be when I grow up and I sure as hell have a lot more questions than answers. I believe in the Universe, the Laws of Attraction, Adam Sandler, Chelsea Handler, Tina Fey, anything hot pink, and evolution and I live my life seeking the WAY in which to accomplish finishing the moutains of laundry that are now almost kissing my popcorn fucking ceilings. To top the frappuccino with whipped cream, motherhood failed to come with a Sanity-Back Guarantee or a receipt. So I’m forced to carry on with malfunctioning brake pads on my emotional impulses, loose screws in my head, a rusted up soul, a missing filter (like literally, I wasn’t built with a filter), and a mouth that sounds like an 18 wheeler horn on crack. Yes, the fuckery is seriously fucking real.
So this is it! I’m here because I’m really great at vividly expressing myself in a way that is basically like, we’re sitting in front of each other having a completely inappropriate twisted conversation at Starbucks and yes, people are staring,and oh look…there go ALL of the shits I give. Writing is my psychiatry, my triple shot 3-equal venti caramel macchiato, my neon-lit exit sign when I’m lost in a pitch-black maze being chased by my own demons. Writing has saved my life. I might as well keep having fun with it and rip a new one in the cliché of this blogging era where any and everyone who breathes is a “blogger.” Oh and sorry…I won’t be demonstrating any bullshit DIY projects for you to pin-hoard and never actually do. Because face it, you just won’t. I’d rather entertain you with another reason to whisper “what the fuckkkkk???” to yourself on the daily.
My name is Ely. I’m a defective mom. And these are my diaries.
Let’s do this shhhiitttt!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!