When I was a teenager, my brother would occasionally look at me, raise one brow, and say, “You’re bubbly.” Translated into Non-male, I’m pretty sure that meant, “You’re bouncy, flaky, and way too girly.”
My brother is a very patient person, but I tried his patience whenever I thought it convenient, necessary, or just plain entertaining. Case has been the size of a football player since the sixth grade. If he had a mean bone in his body, I never would have made it.
I don’t get bubbly very often anymore. Sure I get happy, excited, gassy, but not jump-up-and-down, flap your arms like Wallace, giggle like a twelve-year-old bubbly. I like to think I’m a little too mature for that. But I’m bubbly today, and I’ll tell you why.
But first, because I’m becoming fond of torture in my advanced years, I’ll tell you all the reasons it could be. (But isn’t.)
It’s not because we refinanced our house this week. Even though Kory—my adorable, number-loving, engineer hubby—is very pleased with the rearrangement of figures in our mortgage, I can’t quite work up the energy for so much as a “Wee!”
I’m not bubbly because Monkey stayed out of the principal’s office this week, is making great progress in his school work, and managed to be really nice to his brother last Sunday.
And I’m not bouncing because Chunky’s homeschooling is going great, he’s kicking four-year-old patootie in gymnastics, and he made real strides toward blowing his own nose this week. (An aside: You can pick your nose. You can pick your friends. And, apparently, you can pick your son’s nose when you’re so tired of hearing “mmmfflork” every three seconds that you stick your pinky up there and dig out the offending boogie yourself.)
I’m not overjoyed because Bubba and I found some really awesome MIA black velvet stretch boots on Endless for half price. I’m not bubbly because today I added 30 whole seconds to my top jogging time, bringing me up to a minute and a half.
And I’m not ecstatic because I found an instant mix for Hot and Sour soup that tastes great, looks like barf, and only has six carbs.
I’m thankful for all of the above. But I am pee-my-pants happy that my novel Brandy and The Vine will be on the desks of nine editors very, very soon. I got the email this morning that my proposal and manuscript are ready, set, GO!
I’m not counting premature poultry here. Maybe you think I should reserve the bubbly for when/if I get a contract. But I feel like celebrating this step regardless of whether or not Brandy finds a publishing house. It feels good to be here, and I am giddy with excitement.
If my brother were here, he’d definitely be raising that brow and muttering something about excitable females. And then I’d steal and hide his book—just like I did when we were kids—and demand that he party with me.
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