Apropos of Nothing

I love that phrase, "Apropos of nothing." It's gets stuck in my head sometimes...

apropos of nothing, apropos of nothing, apropos of nothing

I'm looking in the mirror and I'm thinking, "Hello, Jennifer, who sees strangers judging her sweet, fluffy puppy for acting like a puppy and then double-judges herself, thinking she must have failed in her dog training somehow to have a five month old pup who doesn't behave perfectly whenever they go somewhere exciting.

Hello, Jennifer, who thinks, if I can't handle the judgement of strangers regarding my actually very well behaved dog, then I definitely can't handle kids. And then judges herself again for looking for yet another excuse for why she can't handle kids because they are SCARY, like cutting off a piece of your heart and then letting it go off and have adventures without you and when the heart-piece does well, say, slays the dragon, everyone cheers on the heart-piece, but when it does poorly, say, fails to save the princess too, then everyone turns to the mother and shakes their heads and thinks how she failed.


Hello, Jennifer, who is scared of change. Who sobbed—sobbed—when she got her period because she wanted to stay a girl forever and who has no interest in changing her body again just to cut off a piece of her heart because she thinks sometimes that her heart must be rather small, or at least she is too selfish to share it, or maybe she was overly generous with the few people she's shared it with and thinks there isn't much left to go around.

Hello, Jennifer, who is relieved to have a day alone to write and no puppy to care for, even though she keeps looking around, expecting to see him at her feet and then, with a turn of the head, realizing he is not there. Jennifer, who has bad dreams and has always had trouble sleeping, except in college, but who has not had trouble sleeping once since getting this sweet, fluffy, demanding dog.

Hello, Jennifer, who is thrilled about her new novel revisions and yet is stalling in actually writing them because sometimes—no, always—the idea is better than the reality. That is true in fiction and life. She learned that as a child, recognizing that the glittery anticipation of Christmas Eve was always so much sweeter than the lovely presents in the morning.

Hello, Jennifer, who is sick and tired of YA books, or any books, where the Other Woman is described as having an ample chest while the main female does not. When are we going to stop writing books that act as if having boobs makes everything easier when in fact, for some girls, say a girl named Jennifer, of which there were many in the 80s, who was the only girl in her ballet class who needed to wear a bra with her leotard and who did not have a womanly figure, just a baby fat teen figure with boobs on top and hated it and hated the guys who sneered at her. She did not get asked to any dances, despite the boobs, in case you were wondering.

Hello, Jennifer, who needs coffee and is tired and misses sunshine and her puppy and is happy it's Friday.

Time to get to work."