tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79127552001141927242024-03-04T20:03:51.622-08:00Don't bother me I'm writingABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.comBlogger134125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-72226619898850925992014-11-06T22:46:00.000-08:002019-02-28T11:46:06.040-08:00Huh, what?My husband complains that our children never listen. Sometimes he blames it on me, "You never make them do anything."<br />
I have a different theory.<br />
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I believe our darlings are mimicking their daddy's behavior.<br />
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<h3>
<i>Exhibit A: I'm in the bedroom typing.</i></h3>
The door and windows are closed. The television is off. The heat is on. I run to the kitchen for something to drink. The trip takes no more than 30 seconds. And when I return--the the door and windows are open. The television is on. The heat is off. My husband is watching a football game.<br />
<br />
"I'm trying to get some writing done," I tell him. "Maybe you could watch the game downstairs."<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
"<i>I said </i>I'm trying to get some writing done. Could you maybe watch the game downstairs?"<br />
<br />
"Huh, what?" He stares at me blankly.<br />
<br />
"The football game is distracting me. Could you please watch it downstairs."<br />
<br />
"OK."<br />
<br />
I return to my computer screen. <i>What was I writing about? People? Success? Failure? Winter? Cars? Cold? Football? Why is it so cold and...GOD DAMMIT! GOD DAMMIT!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I slam the door and lock it. I close the windows. I switch the heat on. I turn the TV off and rest for a moment on the edge of my bed.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. </i><br />
<br />
I shake my hands out to restore blood flow to my fingertips. I rise from my bed and stretch on my tiptoes--<i>up, down, up, down</i>. I slowly, cautiously return to my computer screen.<br />
<h3>
<i>Exhibit B: I hear footsteps on the stairs.</i></h3>
They're approaching the bedroom.
<br />
<br />
The doorknob rattles.<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
The doorknob rattles again.<br />
<br />
I'm holding my breath, waiting, waiting, waiting...The pokey instrument scrapes loudly in the knobhole, and "CLICK" the door is unlocked. It swings open slowly, and I turn to scowl at my husband.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing?" He asks me.<br />
<br />
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME? ARE YOU SERIOUSLY KIDDING ME?<br />
<br />
"What's wrong?"<br />
<br />
"I'm writing."<br />
<br />
"Why's the heat on? Why'd you turn the TV off?"<br />
<br />
"It was cold, and the football game was distracting me."<br />
<br />
He picks up the remote and turns the TV on.<br />
<br />
"We can watch something else," he offers. "What do you want to watch?"<br />
<br />
I launch out of my chair and do the only thing I can think of in the moment--I hop up and down like an unruly child.<br />
<br />
"What's wrong?"<br />
<br />
"I just told you. I'm trying to write, and you keep coming in here and turning the heat off and turning the TV on really loud. Has it ever occurred to you that your children get their listening skills from <i>you</i>?"<br />
<h3>
<i>Exhibit C: "Do you want to watch Big Bang Theory?"</i></h3>
"Go away."ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-70143436728043086202014-11-03T16:34:00.000-08:002019-02-28T11:00:23.540-08:00Children and A-holes<div>
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I'm a fairly dramatic woman with two fairly dramatic daughters; I've been waiting for, "I hate you," and, "You're the worst mom ever!" But my 9-year-old, Lily, caught me off guard a couple of weeks ago with this gem, "We used to be so close, Mommy. What happened?"</div>
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I swear it all went down in slow motion--the end of everything. There was no reason to get out of bed or brush my teeth or watch TV. There was no reason to go on living. I putzed around the house aimlessly. I picked a fight with my husband.<br />
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I cried all day until Lily got home from school, and I asked her what she was thinking. </div>
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She told me we drifted apart shortly after her sister was born.</div>
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"Ever since Ashlyn was born I've felt this way."</div>
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"Well, that was five years ago," I told her. "You don't think we've been close for five years?"</div>
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She shook her head.</div>
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"LILY! OH, LILY!" My heart was screaming.</div>
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Ashlyn saw that I was sad, and asked if she could brush my hair and make me feel better.<br />
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"I suppose."</div>
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I sat on my bed while Ashlyn pulled and tore at my hair from every direction. She hopped down and ran around to face me. She brushed my bangs away from my forehead and examined my face for a couple of minutes.</div>
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"Mamma," she said. "I just hate your bangs so much. You look prettier without them."</div>
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There were no appropriate words to convey my emotions at that moment. I was quite upset.<br />
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AND THEN without skipping a beat they asked me, "Mommy, when will you be done with our Halloween costumes?"<br />
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"NEVER!"<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"Ugly, aloof Mommy doesn't feel like making your Halloween costumes anymore."<br />
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I didn't really say that, but I wanted to--demon brats.</div>
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-60145109289602441492014-10-17T20:27:00.000-07:002019-02-28T12:50:27.877-08:00"I hate eveything"I try to keep things funny, so even when I'm a Debbie Downer there's an element of comedy to it, but I swear John Steinbeck moved into my head space this week, and he's kind of a joy sucker.<br />
<br />
I've got lots of things to be grateful for: a wackadoo cast of characters who are kind enough to call me their friend, wife, mother, daughter, niece, etc. I have two cats and a guinea pig and a house and shoes and coats and food and books and a Dyson vacuum cleaner. So it's mildly embarrassing when I reach the end of my thank-you list and still feel rotten.<br />
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Things go wrong sometimes. There's no rhyme or reason. They just fall apart. Is it worthy of saying "well done" when you make it through the day intact? Showered? Dressed?<br />
<br />
I pounded the crap out of my computer keyboard all week with these freakishly long fingers of mine, but nothing remotely life-affirming appeared in my word box. There were rants and screw-you manifestos; there were prayers for employment and please-pick-me letters, but nothing I wanted to share with the masses.<br />
<br />
My daughter Lily came home from school looking pretty beat down yesterday, and she didn't say much--just that she got yelled at because a kid <i>I </i>told her to be nice to was "shaking his booty" in the coat room and making a scene.<br />
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"I wasn't even doing anything," she said in a slightly raised voice. "I was just putting my coat away."<br />
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We were doing homework a couple of hours later when she finally hit the wall and burst into tears.<br />
<br />
"I'm having the worst day ever," she cried. "My teacher has a cold, and we had a substitute, and I wouldn't have gotten yelled at if my teacher was there."<br />
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I wanted to tell her, "people are assholes," but it wasn't what she needed to hear just then.<br />
<br />
"You have to speak up for yourself," I told her. "If you don't start now the people in your life will flatten you."<br />
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I scratch my head a lot more than I used to. I ask myself, "Is this for real?" a lot more than I should. And it worries me, like maybe I'm out of touch or crazy or wrong or stupid, but people are ridiculous.<br />
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We're like cows and rabid badgers, but mostly cows, and cows are scared of rabid badgers, because they're mean and they have rabies. It's not sustainable.</div>
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Most of us just want to exist--to laugh, love, eat, and sleep, but the outliers won't stand for it. They want to drag us all down. And they're winning. You can't just talk to people anymore. You have to go through a checklist first:Who's watching? Who's listening? Will this be taken out of context? Will I get sued for this?</div>
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It's the root of every real-world problem we can't solve. We're afraid to communicate with one another. We either say nothing or we filter our voices through an army of political-minded robots to reach the same end, which is nothing--hundreds of words to say, "I'm scared."</div>
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Take ebola for example. We've never really dealt with in the United States, so it's reasonable that our first responders made mistakes. Their inexperience isn't the problem. It's the fear of liability that allowed the virus to cross state lines. It's the breakdown in communication. </div>
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A nurse saw gaping holes in the containment process, but she couldn't just report them. She had to gather support from the other nurses and consult with a lawyer to make sure her job was safe. </div>
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Our need to assign blame created this environment where silence is rewarded over honesty. We ignore stuff all of the time, because doing something or saying something is too risky. People make mistakes, many of which are preventable with education and better processes. Shouldn't that be the starting point?<br />
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Imagine if common sense was the legal standard.</div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-47953733603920980662014-10-09T23:01:00.000-07:002019-02-28T19:13:48.174-08:00The robots are coming!I thought I'd sit down really quickly and transfer my blog to a different hosting space, because I was tired of the Blogger layout--I wanted something shiny and new. I wanted something that said, "Here's a girl who knows what she's doing; here's a girl who's clever and sophisticated."<br />
<br />
I am none of those things--NONE of them. "Really quick" turned into an 18-hour disaster from which I will never ever recover--like EVER. There were robots in my room. They crawled out of my computer to "guide" me through the setup process for my new blog space.<br />
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<h3>
"We're helping hands," they told me. "Please remain calm while we help you."</h3>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlu0BAqpS1Jy2_-fyzUyyPBIK54SsH7tuLHeD7VK8cOa9gJT2Spat1zpc2NNShKwttyB0LLZVRC4zydkUPwPEalLe7BIHRTfikJT3oLfcrnGdeZYWoAm1cTN7b4VkT7XXNLZMYR58DZK-/s1600/zombie+robot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="https://www.flickr.com/photos/scottjohnson/sets/72157613733326214/" border="0" height="520" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlu0BAqpS1Jy2_-fyzUyyPBIK54SsH7tuLHeD7VK8cOa9gJT2Spat1zpc2NNShKwttyB0LLZVRC4zydkUPwPEalLe7BIHRTfikJT3oLfcrnGdeZYWoAm1cTN7b4VkT7XXNLZMYR58DZK-/s1600/zombie+robot.jpg" title="Zombie Robot Scott Johnson" width="326" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: right;"><i>Zombie Robot by Scott Johnson</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was prompted by a friendly pop-up window to answer a series of extremely personal questions as completely and honestly as possible (* requires an answer):<br />
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1. Full name *<br />
2. Age *<br />
3. Gender *<br />
4. Sexual preference *<br />
5. Marital status *<br />
6. Number of partners *<br />
7. Drug use (including prescriptions) *
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<div>
<br />
"You've got to be kidding..."<br />
<br />
One of the robots grabbed my arm to prevent me from closing my browser.<br />
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"You cannot exit the program," they told me. "We are here to help you. Please answer the questions."<br />
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I tried once more to close my browser, but the robots wouldn't let me. They strapped me to the chair and approached me with a pointy object attached to a long cable.<br />
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"You cannot exit the program," they repeated. "We will retrieve the information if you cannot answer the questions."<br />
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"Why do you need to know how many sexual partners I've had or what drugs I'm on?"<br />
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<h3>
"Your answers will help us personalize your blog space," they answered. "Please remain calm while we help you."</h3>
<br />
I told the robots I changed my mind. I told them I was happy with Blogger.<br />
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"I'd like to delete my account, please."<br />
<br />
"You cannot exit the program. Your content belongs to the program."<br />
<br />
Wait a minute.<br />
<br />
"Like hell it does!"<br />
<br />
I rocked back and forth in the chair trying to loosen the straps around my chest and ankles. It was no use though, the robots were much too strong for me.<br />
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"Please remain calm while we help you," they said again, plunging the pokey thing into my arm.<br />
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"Thank you for answering our questions. Your registration is almost complete. Please select from the list of gadgets and apps to improve your blogging experience."<br />
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The list was impressive. I almost forgot about the rapey robots while I pondered the advantages of a proofreading app--human editors can be so tiring after all.<br />
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"Does your program understand context?" I asked.<br />
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"We are helping hands," they said. "How may we assist you today?"<br />
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"Does your program understand context?" I asked again.<br />
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<h3>
<i>"You asked: Does your program understand context? Is that right?"</i></h3>
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"Yes," I said.<br />
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"There are no matches for 'context' in our database."<br />
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I was quite irritated by this point. It was 2 p.m. My kids would be home soon. I had to get rid of the robots.<br />
<br />
"I'd really like to delete my profile."<br />
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"You must complete the registration process before you can delete your profile," they said. "We will complete your registration for you if you require assistance."</div>
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There was an ad for one of the Law and Order TV shows playing on the bottom right corner of the page. It reminded me of an old public service announcement with Sam Waterston.<br />
<br />
"I have robot insurance," I shouted as loud as I could. "You can't do this to me."<br />
<br />
The robots' heads spun around five, maybe six times. Their eyes flickered.<br />
<br />
"You chose: Delete my profile. Is that right?" They asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I answered.<br />
<br />
The robots removed my restraints and assured me that my Blogger profile was still active.<br />
<br />
"We are pleased we could assist you today," they said. "Please check your email shortly for an audio transcript of this service call."<br />
<br />
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The robots crawled back into my computer, and I spent the rest of the day reformatting my Blogger blog. Please keep negative feedback to yourself, <a href="https://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/old-glory-insurance/n10766" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">or I will send the Helping Hands to your IP addresses. </a></div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-80019514977128412102014-10-07T21:43:00.000-07:002019-02-28T09:37:48.830-08:00On a different note...<br />
I had some really fantastic crap to write about today, but it got a little rowdy here this afternoon, and I went completely off the rails.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My 9-year-old daughter, Lily, is learning the violin; her best friend, who comes home with her after school, is learning the viola; and one of the neighbor boys is learning the trumpet. All three of them were in my living room this afternoon practicing their instruments. AND (suspenseful music) it was totally F-ing awesome--the craziest, loudest afternoon ever. I loved it.<br />
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<br />
I ended up playing my own trumpet--sorry neighbors--for three hours. My wrists hurt from holding it. My mouth hurts from blowing it--I don't care. I can still hit the notes above the ledger lines. I'm a brass goddess. BOOM!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I used to play that thing out my bedroom window every day from the time I got home from school until way past my bedtime. It was the first and only thing I kicked ass at academically, and then I gave it up in high school to chase boys and kill brain cells.<br />
<br />
I accomplished jack shit on the writing front today--which isn't entirely true, because I started a lot of stories, saved, and closed out of them for lack of focus and motivation.<br />
<br />
Lily was reading on my bed, while I was bitching out my computer for failing to make my words awesome--for failing to make me the best writer in the world.<br />
<br />
"Do you know the difference between <i>supposed to </i>and <i>want to</i>?" She asked me.<br />
<br />
"MM Hmmm," I replied dismissively.<br />
<br />
"You just said, 'I'm supposed to be writing,' but that's not true," she said, wagging her finger. "You want to be writing. 'Supposed to' means you have to, and you don't have to write anything."<br />
<br />
"Potato, po-tah-toe."<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
She's right. I don't <i>have </i>to do anything. I mean aside from breathing, and eating and drinking liquids so I don't die; everything else is a choice. So I'm choosing to write about nonsense, because I need to feel like I accomplished something today. And reacquainting myself with the trumpet doesn't have the same accomplishment weight that writing does.<br />
<br />
Even when the writing is complete shit, at least it's out of my system so there's room for something less shitty to grow in my brain.<br />
<br /></div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-4493458615937481402014-10-04T17:37:00.000-07:002019-02-28T16:47:35.200-08:00Someone died in the bathroomI woke up this morning to my youngest daughter, Ashlyn, shouting, "Mommy! Mommy! Did someone die in the bathroom?"<br />
<br />
My kids say a lot of weird things, so I wasn't alarmed, but she wouldn't shut up.<br />
<br />
"Mommy! You got to see this. I'm serious. You really got to see this. Someone died in the bathroom, Mommy."<br />
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<br />
It was 8 a.m., and I knew I should get up, but I didn't want to. The bed was comfy, and it was still quiet outside, because it's Saturday.<br />
<br />
My husband left before sunrise to go fishing, so the only schedule I had worry about was mine, and I never have a schedule. But I still had Ashlyn screaming at me that someone died in the bathroom.<br />
<br />
I jumped out of bed angrily and stomped the six-or-so steps to the master bathroom. Ashlyn was correct.<br />
<br />
There appeared to be a crime scene in my powder room. There was a zigzag trail of bloody footprints between the vanity and the shower. There was blood spatter on the mirror and down the side of the toilet, and there were three blood-soaked washcloths in the sink.<br />
<h4>
<i>"Mommy," Ashlyn shouted. "Someone died in all the bathrooms."</i></h4>
And sure enough, it looked like Jack the Ripper had a party in all three of my bathrooms. I found it peculiar that each scene was perfectly contained. There were no trails between the bathrooms--not a single drop of blood on the floor anywhere.<br />
<div>
<br />
I stood there in the doorway of our downstairs bathroom perplexed--rather impressed that such a thing was possible. I was still very tired, clutching a now-cold cup of coffee in my hand when Ashlyn started screaming again.<br />
<br />
"Oh my God, Mommy! It's in your bed too."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbP_rN7AChUDDVrq2JL15Ixj98qCTuGsF18_r7F-IDmQxrGVMH0a_h4UESjYCtplsvnYnei28lo8Tcl_OAFg577At-qhZXWadPTMx8OdXCrFjPLwtJJthd43NZmCQybZMBzLFsUfRHlq8/s1600/Evidence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbP_rN7AChUDDVrq2JL15Ixj98qCTuGsF18_r7F-IDmQxrGVMH0a_h4UESjYCtplsvnYnei28lo8Tcl_OAFg577At-qhZXWadPTMx8OdXCrFjPLwtJJthd43NZmCQybZMBzLFsUfRHlq8/s1600/Evidence.jpg" width="360" /></a><i>WTF! WTF! WTF! WTF!</i><br />
<br />
I hurried back up the stairs, and there was the culprit, my 9-year-old daughter, Lily, with a crusty red face curled up in my bed. She'd obviously had a nosebleed overnight--a bad one by the looks of her and the rest of the house.<br />
<br />
"Lidy sure is good at bloody noses. She bleeded in all the bathrooms and all the beds too. Why did she do that, Mommy?"<br />
<br />
<i>Why, indeed. And how? How did she bloody every bed and bathroom, and drip nowhere in between?</i><br />
<br />
"No one's dead at least." <br />
<br />
Ashlyn shook her head at me like, "Duh, Mom," and climbed into bed next to Lily. I was pretty much awake by this point, so I turned on the computer and sat down<br />
<br />
"Hey, Mom," Ashlyn said. "Someone better clean those messes up before Daddy gets home,"<br />
<br />
"Yes, Ashlyn. Someone will clean them up before your dad get's home. But I have a feeling he's already seen them."<br />
<br /></div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-86943184618275160552014-10-01T19:40:00.001-07:002014-10-08T17:33:53.030-07:00Here I go againThere's this line in the beginning of Say Anything that always plays in my head when I experience a game-changing setback. Corey Flood, who's recently attempted suicide over some douche bag, says, "So I'm single now, and everything's changed. I hate it."<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
The cadence and the absolute surrender to a crappy situation resonate with me. It's customizable too, just replace the word "single." </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
In my present state of affairs the word is "jobless."<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h4>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"I'm jobless now, and everything's changed. I hate it."</i></span></h4>
</blockquote>
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<br />
Employment to my disorderly brain is that immobile point dancers focus on when they're spinning. It keeps me from falling on my face, or doing anything crazy like writing a book, or emailing people to tell them what I <i>really </i>think about them.<br />
<br />
It seemed like a good time to resurrect my blog, although I lay awake most of last night worrying I won't have anything to write about the day after tomorrow or the day after that.<br />
<br />
"Who cares?" A wise person asked me. "Are you getting paid for it? There's no real pressure at all. Just write."<br />
<br />
JUST WRITE!?<br />
<br />
I guess I can do that. It's been nearly two years since I've "published" anything. There must be some post-worthy stories from that time gap if nothing current seems interesting-enough to write about.<br />
<br />
I took a European cruise with my aunt and divorced parents, for example. If I can't make something out of that, I should give up writing altogether.<br />
<br />
So here I go again...</div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-54984701834819931972012-11-07T02:58:00.001-08:002014-10-08T17:34:27.657-07:00Insecure writer's support groupSome people go on vacation to vegetate -- to chill the hell out. I go on vacation to write, but it usually happens that other things get in the way like VACATION and children and "knock, knock -- housekeeping."<br />
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<br />
This time was different. I went to Hawaii for a week with my dad -- no kids, no husband -- just me, dad, my computer and a couple of spiral notebooks.<br />
<br />
It was hard at first to get my bearings. Until a week ago it had been something like 41,200 minutes since my last writing moment, one of those heaven-sent minutes in which I happen to be sitting at my computer, or I have a pen and something to scribble on -- my skin for instance, because I haven't carried a notepad around since I stopped reporting the news (insert frowny face here), and even then I rarely had a notepad when I needed one -- I took notes on napkins and empty cigarette boxes.<br />
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
ENOUGH rambling -- I havent't written much since I got promoted to leader of <i>I think I signed a contract that prohibits me from telling you exactly.</i><br />
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</div>
</div>
<div>
But I got promoted, and I make more money, and while that's mass rad, super awesome, WOW, fabulous -- it consumes ALL the time. I do important things now between shooting my coworkers -- and being shot by my coworkers -- with rubber bands, Nerf darts and little balls of paper and tin foil. I spent all of last month, breaking computers. It wasn't Premeditated -- just a series of freak slayings, which is probably what every serial killer who's been arrested told the cops in interrogation "I didn't mean to kidnap and strangle them; it was an accident."<br />
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<div>
I attend lots of meetings about things that ONE, make no sense to me, and TWO, have nothing to do with me. I spill at least one cup of coffee a day. I get yelled at and praised and yelled at again in the same sentence. And all I write lately are meeting notes and bitchy emails to my coworkers about job performance and so forth.</div>
<div>
<br />
It's dark when I board the bus in the morning. It's dark when I board the bus at night -- I get home, hug my kids, eat whatever is handy (even Drano if we had some), and before I sit down it's time for bed.<br />
<br />
I was READY for a week-long writing fest -- it could have been in Burien, WA., so long as there was someplace to sit undisturbed for hours at a time. Lucky for me that place was a beach on the Island of Kauai.<br />
<br />
I spent most of the first and second days fretting about things at work, checking emails, chatting online with coworkers until they begged me to leave them alone and start my vacation.<br />
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<br />
I eventually wrote myself over the starting hump and went through two spiral notebooks in one day.<br />
<br />
My first milestone -- I made it past the 150 mark on my book. I could be as far 200, but I haven't typed them up yet, which brings us to my second milestone. I discovered I'm much more productive with a pen a paper than I am with a keyboard and a backspace button, so the next time one of you non-writer folks suggests a computer instead of my reliable spiral notebook -- watch out for my foot in your ass.<br />
<br />
My third and favorite milestone: I nearly completed a sex scene. It's sad really -- and funny -- my character almost got laid, but due to my discomfort with intimacy he got blue balls instead. (I'll find myself a therapist for that one.)<br />
<br />
So yeah, it was a good writing week, and now that I've discovered how much easier it is to write with a pen. I may have a couple more good writing weeks on the mainland.<br />
<br />
Mahalo!<br />
<br />
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<i><br /></i>
<i>* <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/p/insecure-writers-support-group.html" target="_blank">The Insecure Writer's Support Group</a>: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!</i></div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-51058926118792235092012-10-03T14:58:00.001-07:002014-10-08T17:35:04.915-07:00Insecure writer's support groupListening to the radio on my way to work this morning I learned that Internet Use Addiction was recently added to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders, which got me thinking -- perhaps there's a writing addiction disorder.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
If the clinical definition of addiction is any compulsive behavior that interferes with your life and relationships -- I'm definitely an addict. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's a wonderful scapegoat -- addiction. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I finally lose it and shave my head and burn down my house and crash my car into the gun range clubhouse, I can blame it on my writing addiction -- "I'm sorry officers. I was suffering from writing withdrawals. It's a real thing -- look it up in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I feel like a fraud these days calling myself a "writer." I don't write; I think about it all day while I'm busy with other crap, and when I finally get home and lock myself away to put words into sentences with periods and commas and quotation marks nothing happens -- or nothing good happens. I'm sure my family considers the door slamming, hair pulling and loud swearing SOMETHING.<br />
<br />
But similar to coming off of cigarettes, alcohol, heroin or crack cocaine -- I feel anxious, delusional, nauseous, homicidal and depressed if I go too long without writing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm itching for a pen and paper -- and a <i>40-sack of verbs</i> -- <i>F yeah</i>. Hook me up, dude."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<i>That </i>would be something -- if I met with shady characters in dark assault-me alleys to purchase writing time. It works for druggies. And what honest-to-god druggie doesn't have a buttload of crazy stories to wow strangers on buses or long-lost relatives at family reunions they -- the druggies -- weren't technically invited to? </div>
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<div>
Ermahgerd! It's like totally brilliant. I'll scuzz on the streets for a while, and my family will force me into treatment -- I've seen it on A&E's Intervention. I could write a novel in a treatment facility or at least catch up on my blog. I'd have to invent something stronger than a writing addiction to get into treatment obviously -- buy a junky's pee and fake withdrawal symptoms. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I did drama in college -- I can pull off tremors and cold sweats no problem.</div>
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<i>* <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/p/insecure-writers-support-group.html" target="_blank">The Insecure Writer's Support Group</a>: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!</i></div>
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-18236350722451749052012-10-02T23:06:00.000-07:002019-02-28T10:28:41.617-08:00Put down your weaponsBuck Henry and his posse of toothless, pickup-driving hillbillies are down at the gun range again blowing sh*t up and polluting my writing space with their god dammed racket.<br />
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I'm one POP away from marching over there and taking them down with my husband's pink remote control airplane or maybe his potato gun. </div>
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It's 8:00 at night. I think it's quite reasonable to expect all gunfire will cease by the time some boring people go to bed. </div>
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I'm trying to concentrate here, but my train is interrupted every half second by explosions and echoes of explosions and the faint clang -- they're a mile away -- of Henry's moonshine jugs being tossed in the back of some buttworm's rusty hunting vehicle.<br />
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What if I started a commune next door to the gun range?<br />
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What if I blasted sitar music and tantric chanting on really BIG -- for lack of any audio words -- speakers?<br />
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I know a guy who sells patuli-scented tiki torches and sandalwood peace arches.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Imagine: free-range chickens in bullet-proof vests -- obviously -- and a token furry naturist couple.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll find me some yurts, a dozen-or-so barefoot beatniks, a ton of Kevlar and some tambourines, and we'll see how the trigger happies like it when their space is interrupted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband says I'm unreasonable, but I don't think so. The gun guys can shoot round the clock if they want to -- I just think out of common courtesy they should use silencers after 7 p.m.
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-50482861654445996162012-09-24T23:59:00.002-07:002014-10-08T17:36:33.475-07:00We fear changeI'm like Mikey -- the kid from the Life cereal commercial, "Let's give it to Mikey.<br />
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He won't like it. He hates everything."<br />
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We all know that Mikey ended up liking the cereal, and I would have too if someone told me I would hate it. That's just how I roll -- stubborn and immature. </div>
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I'm rather childish about a lot of things, but someone thought it was a good idea to put me in a leadership position at work -- that's not to say I'm unqualified. I've performed very well in every job I've had since high school. It's just not something I expected -- to be a supervisor.<br />
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It's exciting. It's scary. It's sad -- I wouldn't be taking this job except the person who currently fills it is running off to Hawaii for something -- let's face it -- far better than anything Seattle has to offer. It's change, and I hate it. Even when the change is something really good like a better job with more money. I'd be just as happy for things to stay the same -- same boss, same coworkers, same hours, same desk.<br />
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Money's not my thing. Don't get me wrong -- I love to spend it. But my job satisfaction has little to do with the size of my paychecks. In fact I can't say precisely what I earn in a week, because I've never checked my pay stubs (Jerod does the banking). Whether or not I like my job depends solely on the people I work with. If I like them; the job is awesome. If I hate them; the job is unbearable, though I've been very lucky not to have <i>that</i> problem.<br />
<br />
I worked in a newsroom where conversations ranged from "Which city council member would look most hideous in a denim g-string?" to "Which reporter's husband gets the most air time on the police scanner? (That would be mine.)"<br />
<br />
I arrived at work one morning to find a baby rat in a box on my desk. The sports editor found him the night before in the photo lab, and figured <i>I</i> could save it because my dad was vet.<br />
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That same sports editor -- when he was a lowly intern -- wrote a series of blurbs about everyone on staff called Meet the Press and introduced me to our readers as the reporter whose husband collected scented candles.<br />
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Journalism teamed me with more hysterical, too-weird-to-be-true characters than any person deserves in two lifetimes -- the jock arts editor who apologized a dozen times a day for his gas; the irritating muppet who was unacceptably cheerful at 7 a.m.; the OCD hypochondriac who yelled at his computer; the really tall girl who fell out of her chair at approximately the same time every day ... they were my peeps, and I miss them terribly -- the ones I don't see anymore, because some of them are still very much in my life.<br />
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Jerod advised me shortly after I was laid off not to expect that kind of working environment again -- "consider yourself lucky to have had that at all." And I did, but I couldn't accept that no job -- no office -- would ever be as fun.<br />
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I'm pleased to report that Jerod was mistaken as he usually is. Three years following his gloomy forecast I'm working with a fabulous group of hooligans at a pretty big technology company with an infinite supply of soft drinks, coffee, tea and milk.<br />
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The atmosphere is a lot like a second-grade classroom. We are tasked with improving the accuracy of an undisclosed search engine -- doing so requires us to analyze some of the silliest, grossest, disturbingest things on the Internet, including poop, kittens and naked and/or dead people.<br />
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We respectfully shoot rubber bands and Nerf darts at each other; we talk colorfully; we laugh about queries like "how do I masturbate." There's a great deal of pranking -- we call it trolling -- too. A cardboard castle was erected over someone's desk; a swear jar may have bankrolled a third of a $12 mango margarita in the bar downstairs; a battery-operated kitten nearly killed the sweetest member of our team; there was the Husky voodoo doll; and an incident involving endless tea bags and a potato.<br />
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My biggest complaint is the turnover. Most of my colleagues are working one-year contracts at the end of which they'll take their mandatory 100-day breaks. Some of them will come back and some will find better jobs in better climates -- it's great, but it sort of sucks too.<br />
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I'm lousy at goodbyes. Sure, we're all friends on Facebook, or LinkedIn, or whatever social media network suits your fancy, but it's not the same. I miss people when they go, and it's awkward, because I'm not an affectionate person.<br />
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I say a lot of I-hate yous and I'm-mad-at yous -- of course I don't mean it. I'm too guarded to say something mushy like "I'm sad at you," or "I'm glad I got to know you," or "I'm really going to miss you." I'll just stalk you on the Internet and bomb your Facebook page with all of your least favorite things. <i>And I know what you're thinking</i>, "I'll just get rid of my Facebook."<br />
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I wouldn't recommend it.<br />
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I was a really good journalist. I will find you, and you'll be sorry.<br />
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-59692715814128898442012-09-20T21:44:00.000-07:002014-10-08T22:05:54.901-07:00Sibling rivalryAshlyn screamed at me the other morning, "MOMMY! You NAKED! (I was in my bathrobe.)"<br />
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And Lily said, "You don't need to broadcast that for the whole entire planet."<br />
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And Ashlyn said, "MOMMY! You NAKED!"<br />
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And Lily said, "You're a redneck, Ashlyn."<br />
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And Ashlyn said, "I not a redneck. You a redneck Bay-bo (that's Ashlyn's pet name for Lily)."<br />
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It's funny listening to my children quarrel. I never had a brother or a sister to fight with, and most people upon learning this tidbit about me roll their eyes, sigh deeply and announce "Well that explains a lot."<br />
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I'm loud, opinionated, <i>occasionally</i> self serving, impatient, bossy and a tiny bit aggressive -- it's got to be the Only Child Syndrome. Bleh!<br />
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I am who I am -- it's only loosely related to the number of puppies my mother popped out of her womb (one). I'm <i>colorful</i>, because my parents are CRAZY. (They're nuttier than a couple of rum-soaked fruit cakes.)<br />
<br />
<i>But </i>I have lived my life always searching for that sibling my parents never gave me.<br />
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I latch on to people -- adopt them whether they like me or not. It's not something I'm proud of -- forcing myself on random folk who were nice enough to talk to me <i>once </i>or merely make eye contact.<br />
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My imaginary psychiatrist says I'm sociopath, and I can't disagree with him. I've been known to stalk, accost, irritate, threaten and obsessively love people. There's rarely any malice in it, but the parents of the guy I hung up on 912 times in seventh grade didn't care about my motives -- <i>I was shy</i>. It's not like I wanted to kill him or anything -- just kiss him.<br />
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Maybe there's something to this Only Child Syndrome. I might have stayed out of trouble as a youngster if I'd had a brother or a sister to tie me up -- hair pulling, screaming, scratching, spitting, biting, blaming, tattling ... There wouldn't have been enough hours in the day to stalk people <i>and</i> battle with my sibling(s).<br />
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I only hope my daughters realize how lucky they are to have each other -- if for no other reason than they won't be labeled sociopaths by an imaginary psychiatrist, because they'll never be lonely enough to invent such a person.<br />
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-39811836798768818672012-09-13T22:24:00.000-07:002019-02-28T11:42:34.891-08:00Dammit, Darla!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Lily tackled me on my way out the door.<br />
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"Wait, Mommy!" She shouted even though she'd knocked me to the floor, and her mouth was an inch from my ear. "You can't go yet. I have to give you something"<br />
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She wrapped one arm around my leg to keep me disabled; stretched her body as long as it would go without compromising her grip on my ankle; and plunged her free arm into a ratty basket that shouldn't have been on the floor in my bedroom -- that's another story -- and pulled out a tiny, brown horse.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHAb0O2TVkv5eKjGpNJ4f8exniuri68lRh-DiF1VR2XfAiXkymA8663TfzJzspR1IQuTED7JBF7uRRTYZPWUeRoDWt2VHwpA4q9QoB48CLq4rNmMyjchfdmsRMqVhXxi-DhFT7h8QEs8h/s1600/photo+(10).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHAb0O2TVkv5eKjGpNJ4f8exniuri68lRh-DiF1VR2XfAiXkymA8663TfzJzspR1IQuTED7JBF7uRRTYZPWUeRoDWt2VHwpA4q9QoB48CLq4rNmMyjchfdmsRMqVhXxi-DhFT7h8QEs8h/s400/photo+(10).jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
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"Darla will go to work with you today," Lily said placing the horse gently in my hand. "She's a good horse. She will take care of you and keep you from getting lonely at work."<br />
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I grabbed Lily's face and kissed her nose and forehead.<br />
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"OH MY GOSH -- I love you SO MUCH!"<br />
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I felt a little <i>crazy</i> taking a horse to work -- even a tiny horse. What if someone in the office had an allergy? What if someone complained to human resources that my work area smelled like poop?<br />
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"Her poops smell like rainbows, Mommy."<br />
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I tucked Darla carefully in my purse -- compared to the wreck of a bucket she'd been in, my Coach handbag should have been like Heaven to her, but she wanted nothing to do with it. She kicked and screamed for several minutes -- it could have been the leather. Perhaps a long-lost friend or family member provided the hide for my purse -- poor Darla.<br />
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She rode the rest of the way in my hand -- which reminds me: Darla's poops don't smell like rainbows. I thought about taking her home, but the traffic was terrible. I pondered briefly: <i>How much trouble can a tiny quarter horse get into?</i></div>
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STUPID QUESTION.</div>
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My grandfather, The Lawyer, taught me a couple things. </div>
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No. 1: "Even a fish would stay out of trouble if it kept it's mouth shut." </div>
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No. 2: "Don't ask a question unless you're prepared for the answer."</div>
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Darla caused a lot of trouble, and while I accept partial responsibility for the damages, I did not paricipate in or condone her shenanigans AT ALL.</div>
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I'm a web analyst on the Special Queries Team for a major search engine which means my coworkers and I get the unique privilege of examining and labeling the icky stuff -- porn, STDs, bodily functions and tattooed rectums -- people look for when they think they're alone. </div>
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I should have known that Darla, whose life consisted of little girls' tea parties, Barbie, Hello Kitty and the color pink, would be changed by the Internets. It's just -- she's a horse. </div>
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I never dreamed she'd be interested in my work or even understand it. But I know now -- magical plastic farm animals are just like people. They talk like people. They think like people. They plot like people.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhInsCcfZSIMZlhvqQeMJr3JlBPGMx4pksj0PZNoBdL8-inKvKx98QNBe_rtrTBI9jtp_t3x8ICoffAOsLu6L1pMhBe_JwlGYY1w1vZNl3fQqasR77HIw3SG1_kaGLyNPQyFofDhTEN-i/s1600/photo+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVhInsCcfZSIMZlhvqQeMJr3JlBPGMx4pksj0PZNoBdL8-inKvKx98QNBe_rtrTBI9jtp_t3x8ICoffAOsLu6L1pMhBe_JwlGYY1w1vZNl3fQqasR77HIw3SG1_kaGLyNPQyFofDhTEN-i/s400/photo+%25287%2529.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
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I returned from a bathroom break and found Darla logged onto my computer. She'd been researching porn giant Ron Jeremy -- she visited his Wikipedia page and his official fan site. I couldn't believe it. Darla was looking at porn on the Internet.</div>
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"Dammit, Darla!"</div>
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She printed inappropriate pictures under my alias and taped them to my coworkers' desks. She stole someone's cigarettes and disappeared for an hour.</div>
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I only found her because a couple of ladies on the elevator were convinced their waiter at lunch put hallucinogenic drugs in their salads. </div>
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"You saw it too?"</div>
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"It must have been a joke, but I swear that horse moved."</div>
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"It was smoking a cigarette."</div>
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"I think we should go to the emergency room."</div>
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I pretended not to hear them, but I felt terrible and amused all at once. Those poor women were about to call their husbands -- "We've been roofied!"</div>
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"Dammit, Darla!"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNwOYSstLEgGE3fEsmCQtj8eFUACAMCOF9AhCcHKzkVwx5hgb-B1b1QEX3o501vn3hEpWPdR_Wz6xIf6VulaEoDrgfB_rfjtLMUUhS-zPMzX8TnuU6l5oYlAcyboaa3UekY-WgKX6nb7U/s1600/photo+%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNwOYSstLEgGE3fEsmCQtj8eFUACAMCOF9AhCcHKzkVwx5hgb-B1b1QEX3o501vn3hEpWPdR_Wz6xIf6VulaEoDrgfB_rfjtLMUUhS-zPMzX8TnuU6l5oYlAcyboaa3UekY-WgKX6nb7U/s400/photo+%252813%2529.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
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The building was buzzing with stories of a 2-inch tall horse -- a drunk horse obsessed with pornography; a naughty horse with a mouth like a sailor; a rock-star horse singing loudly about vaginas. </div>
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"It's something in the food ... in the air ... We're all hallucinating ..." </div>
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I followed the hysteria to a conference room on the fifth floor where I found Darla propped against an empty bottle of whiskey. She'd finished off Grandma Dorey's Black Velvet. I was keeping it in my cabinet at work for after-hours pickle backs -- "WTF, Darla?"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpxDTDYeT6JuZy1CZw2le4LMFrwoFvnBa92ZteDNZY9CSp2KijabuzokAmTPohjFXpo1xsTf0I-zBCu72qratXi162vvqsBcx36znSPOBFEL6fHlBiR_6paMGnftO2KWEdf2Ft8h93Iep/s1600/photo+%252812%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpxDTDYeT6JuZy1CZw2le4LMFrwoFvnBa92ZteDNZY9CSp2KijabuzokAmTPohjFXpo1xsTf0I-zBCu72qratXi162vvqsBcx36znSPOBFEL6fHlBiR_6paMGnftO2KWEdf2Ft8h93Iep/s400/photo+%252812%2529.jpg" width="460" /></a>
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I shoved her in my pants' pocket and returned to my office.</div>
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Darla chewed a hole in my pocket and escaped without my noticing. She visited all 26 floors of the building and returned with several bags of rubber bands strapped to her back. I ignored her hoping the lack of attention would dissuade her from causing any more trouble.</div>
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It did not. </div>
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Darla catapulted herself onto my coworker's desk where she cracked open a travel-sized tequila that didn't belong to her and shot rubberbands at everyone in the room. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPzHrQSWYk_4do8eJlHf1cXQOk9joCN5l_UuvdlpmBHFUBgsS6FQy3eI2VrF7Y42gjwH1Nqr1yx_agzWMw2bBW97UKk6xWRLewHM7psq76aptLN6WV2ZC7_LNFsMbr3JXkD9c7hHiW2Im/s1600/photo+%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPzHrQSWYk_4do8eJlHf1cXQOk9joCN5l_UuvdlpmBHFUBgsS6FQy3eI2VrF7Y42gjwH1Nqr1yx_agzWMw2bBW97UKk6xWRLewHM7psq76aptLN6WV2ZC7_LNFsMbr3JXkD9c7hHiW2Im/s400/photo+%25289%2529.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
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We don't have a lot of rules in the confines of our computer bay. We keep things light and adventurous most days, but Darla was pushing it. She was messing with <i>Captain Kirk's</i> stuff -- Captain Kirk isn't his real name, I don't know his real name. He's just a guy who looks like Captain Kirk, and he's very protective of his stuff -- his emergency tequila in particular.</div>
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The Captain is generally pleasant and sporadically funny, but he's incredibly anal about the order of his desk accessories. </div>
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Darla was crapping all over his keyboard, spilling alcohol on his post-its and disturbing the line that the chords from his earbuds make across his desk. </div>
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"Dammit, Dar ..."</div>
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It was too late to stop her or fix what she did. The Captain had returned from lunch, and Darla welcomed him with a barrage of rubber bands. One of them pierced the skin under his eye. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ITtEczIwc1Xu-fTW_EWkUifkuYswI64CCNeiCvjhBR8OSFpSDg9A3UUD3MmELDjwgH1zT-H9CyStepG3jsiRi7Fg9v_T-a6yqOPDFPnS9Bu45GSeqoacSrOtkMo2xfsE5CEDnqRQ_scv/s1600/photo+%25288%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ITtEczIwc1Xu-fTW_EWkUifkuYswI64CCNeiCvjhBR8OSFpSDg9A3UUD3MmELDjwgH1zT-H9CyStepG3jsiRi7Fg9v_T-a6yqOPDFPnS9Bu45GSeqoacSrOtkMo2xfsE5CEDnqRQ_scv/s400/photo+%25288%2529.jpg" width="460" /></a>
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He wiped the blood with his finger and examined the mess on his desk.</div>
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"Darla did it," I yelled pointing at the inebriated horse. "I tried to stop her, but ..."
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It occurred to me then how ridiculous I sounded -- that I couldn't stop a 2-inch tall plastic horse from wreaking havoc on a 26-story fortress of glass and steel and concrete and security-guarded doorways. </div>
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"She belongs to my daughter. I'm sorry."</div>
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The Captain picked Darla up by her nose and flicked her into the air like a paper football. </div>
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Darla crash landed in a cup of water on my desk.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgguy6qq-VeNj5zCHyZazOAJUOs_VonR4dX_pX0vSH_IyAtXpBNe0HE-9UZm1IAYMap7J7fc8jUo7VRfckDO2KzqPS0Tm7uU5mcwnKDCfU4oZWkc7bihwlCR-Omdr8c3qTbQcYTiXAs28pP/s1600/photo+%252815%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgguy6qq-VeNj5zCHyZazOAJUOs_VonR4dX_pX0vSH_IyAtXpBNe0HE-9UZm1IAYMap7J7fc8jUo7VRfckDO2KzqPS0Tm7uU5mcwnKDCfU4oZWkc7bihwlCR-Omdr8c3qTbQcYTiXAs28pP/s400/photo+%252815%2529.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
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I thought she was dead at first. She didn't move or make any noises -- I felt relieved for a moment then panicked. How would I explain to Lily that I let her horse die? </div>
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I pushed the cup to other end of my desk and pretended not to care that I let Darla drink herself to death and watch pornography on the Internet. </div>
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That's when the wretching started. </div>
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I peered into the cup and saw Darla attempting to stand. Her legs wobbled once, twice, three times, and she fell -- over and over again she tried to stay on her feet and crashed. It amused me for a while, but the sound of her throwing up and falling all over herself was distracting and tiresome.</div>
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I scraped her off the bottom of the cup and walked across the plaza to the transit center where I tossed Darla in an open bus window.</div>
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"She'll find her way home," I whispered. "I'm not lucky enough to lose her."</div>
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-11749988810054617652012-09-12T01:32:00.000-07:002019-02-28T11:06:28.242-08:00Technology is the DevilComputers suck -- they really do. They suck enormous rhinoceros balls, and I hate them.<br />
<br />
There's one thing worse than having nothing to write about. It's Having something absolutely brilliant -- so fabulous that you're pissing in your pants all day you're so excited -- and you get home, and you <i>can't</i> write, because your computer chooses that one day in a million to flip you the bird and take a big crap on your hopes and dreams.<br />
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That's my story tonight.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUfAys7eSDWNjbf1Sd6wqt7ihWOS3ZQvqVtvsLj7jYV-dz3DnPO49ztYSsJ64_eWUpNCEXlXEJlUsabhqeQQNGv6cHFi8_4w6cjtlVQfoUzcLWL5qOku40vHVzHSH1LA9RU7x6pqom8ic/s1600/rhinoceros.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQUfAys7eSDWNjbf1Sd6wqt7ihWOS3ZQvqVtvsLj7jYV-dz3DnPO49ztYSsJ64_eWUpNCEXlXEJlUsabhqeQQNGv6cHFi8_4w6cjtlVQfoUzcLWL5qOku40vHVzHSH1LA9RU7x6pqom8ic/s400/rhinoceros.jpg" width="460" /></a></div>
<br />
I ran in the house after work and headed for the bedroom to type up my masterpiece. My computer was NOT happy to see me.<br />
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It wouldn't do anything that I wanted it to do. All of the USB ports were dead. I couldn't transfer my pictures from the camera. And finally after reading I-don't-know-how-many articles about Universal Serial "B"-somethings (USBs) THAT PIECE-OF-CRAP machine wouldn't even start. It gave me some bullshit message "You're computer cannot start ..."<br />
<br />
"Thank you! Thank you <i>very</i> much. I didn't know that. How <i>incredibly</i> helpful."<br />
<br />
I turned the machine off and on again, and it went into some diagnostic mode, at which point the blinking light on the thing for my mouse indicated my USB ports were working -- TOO BAD THE COMPUTER WAS STUCK IN PRE-START-UP MODE!<br />
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The damned thing was so unruly I'm still awake at 1 a.m. composing this lame-ass excuse on my work computer *** which doesn't have anything I need for the awesome thing I'm writing -- in case anyone was wondering "why didn't she use <i>that</i> computer instead?"<br />
<br />
I COULDN'T!<br />
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The good news: I got my computer working long enough to get the stuff I needed for the mass rad story I'm writing.<br />
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The bad news: It's 1 a.m. and I need to go to bed.<br />
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-54134683954993290722012-09-08T21:53:00.002-07:002014-10-08T17:54:46.493-07:00That is inappropriate!My daughters' favorite word is "inappropriate."<br />
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<div>
I remember the first time Lily used it -- she was 4.<br />
<br />
I'd been yelling at Jerod for letting her watch Adult Swim on Cartoon Network.<br />
<br />
The two of them were huddled on the couch watching Family Guy. Meg, the daughter, fell IN LOVE with Brian, the family dog -- he took her to prom; he dumped her; and Meg in retaliation tied him to a chair in a candlelit room and threatened to <i>make</i> him love her.</div>
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"IN-A-PPRO-PRI-ATE, dude. So inappropriate."</div>
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I changed the channel and went upstairs to change my clothes at which point an argument ensued between Lily and Jerod. Lily was yelling something about rules and "Mommy said," and Jerod was shushing her.<br />
<br />
"No DAD," Lily screamed. "Mommy said I'm not allowed to watch Family Guy. It's INAPPROPRIATE."<br />
<br />
I'd made my way downstairs by that point and was trying desperately not to laugh at the redness of Lily's face or the veins bulging from her throat and forehead.<br />
<br />
"INAPPROPRIATE!"<br />
<br />
It was great when she used it on Jerod, but now that she's turned it on me as well -- it <i>is</i> a bit tiresome.<br />
<br />
Lily's very conservative.<br />
<br />
Dresses must always be paired with leggings.<br />
<br />
Tank tops show off too much skin.<br />
<br />
"That's inappropriate for school, Mommy."<br />
<br />
<b>The values police</b><br />
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Ashlyn told me the other night while we were watching Tangled (that's our bedtime movie), "Fwin Y-da a good guy, Mama. I yike him."<br />
<br />
"Is he handsome?" I asked her.<br />
<br />
"Yep," she said smiling.<br />
<br />
And Lily chimed in, "Is that necessary? <i>Really</i>? Should you <i>really</i> be discussing boys in bed, Ashlyn?"</div>
<div>
<br />
"Dat's <i>inappopiate</i>?"<br />
<br />
My immediate response was laughter. I cracked up a full five minutes -- howled til my stomach hurt and my eyes watered -- before the questions started buzzing around in my brain. How did my 7-year-old know the difference between G-rated and PG-13-rated pillow talk?<br />
<br />
I didn't want to know.<br />
<br />
My girls are very good at spotting bad behavior -- when Daddy farts or Mommy uses a bad word; when people are kissing on TV; when Mommy yells at Grandpa over politics ...<br />
<br />
"Inappropriate!"<br />
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-1596663754097276432012-09-05T09:49:00.003-07:002014-10-08T17:55:24.778-07:00The insecure writer's support groupThe ground is important -- for several reasons.<br />
<br />
<b>Among them</b><br />
<br />
Gravity makes no sense without it -- <i>there's no mandate</i> that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground <i>is</i> important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.<br />
<br />
I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.<br />
<br />
Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?<br />
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<b>Ask Alice</b><br />
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None of my friends growing up were impressed with Disney's Alice in Wonderland -- it disturbed them.<br />
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It seemed rather normal to me and comforting that someone in the world thought like I did -- that flowers and animals should talk, that all doors should lead somewhere silly, that people should grow and shrink with every meal, that falling down a rabbit hole should be an adventure as opposed to a nightmare.<br />
<br />
But now that I'm a grown up I've forgotten all that Alice logic -- the curiosity that helped her through her journey.<br />
<br />
The last few months might have been less harrowing if I'd asked myself more often -- what would Alice do? Would Alice surrender if something didn't go her way? Would Alice let her problems -- health crises, financial crises, marital crises, disorganized cupboard crises, any manner of crises -- stop her from being Alice?<br />
<br />
No -- <i>she</i> wouldn't. She'd scarf down a magic mushroom grow 20-feet taller and take care of business -- "Oh poo, I'm not afraid of you. Why you're nothing but a ... (fill in the blank)."<br />
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<br />
<b>Put your feet down</b><br />
<br />
Life is full of ups and downs -- it has to be, otherwise it ceases to <i>mean</i> anything. I think perhaps the duration of a down period depends on your attitude and willingness to roll up your sleeves and say "F*** you, Life."<br />
<br />
My excuses for not writing have run the gamut -- I don't have anything to say, I'm uninspired, I'm too depressed, I'm hungry, I didn't sleep well last night, I'm mad at my husband ... The truth is I've let my depression and anger about my circumstances stand in the way of my happiness.<br />
<br />
Funny things are happening all around me.<br />
<br />
My 3-year-old, Ashlyn, is stripping in the back yard -- "I anna pee in ta gwass! I anna pee, Papa!"<br />
<br />
My 7-year-old, Lily, tells her dad at bedtime -- "You're a tiny action figure, Daddy."<br />
<br />
I'd have a million things to write about if I stopped worrying so much about other people's expectations -- how many "likes" I'll get on Facebook, how many "hits" I'll get on my blog. None of that crap should matter -- it didn't when I started. <i>NO</i>. I need to get F*** over myself, put my feet on the ground, and start writing.<br />
<br />
<i>* <a href="http://alexjcavanaugh.blogspot.com/p/insecure-writers-support-group.html" target="_blank">The Insecure Writer's Support Group</a>: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!</i>
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-84156901448386529442012-09-03T19:59:00.000-07:002014-10-08T17:55:53.210-07:00Courage under fireCall me SUPER Crazy Cat Lady.<br />
<br />
I rescued my beloved feline, Buddy, from -- dun dun dun -- CERTAIN DEATH this weekend.<br />
<br />
My friend's dog, "Puppy" -- a sweet-as-can-be mutt, who may or may not have a drop or two of pit bull in her -- joined us for a barbecue on Sunday. She was prancing merrily in the back yard until one of the children left the slider open.<br />
<br />
"Puppy" ran inside to scope things out, which I really wouldn't mind if Buddy tolerated dogs, but he doesn't. Buddy's hated dogs since he was a kitten and fit in the palm of my hand.<br />
<br />
I found him July 5, 1998 yowling from the bottom of a covered manhole in Bremerton, WA.<br />
<br />
Jerod and I had been fighting the night before, and I was stomping my way to the ferry terminal when I heard Buddy's scratchy voice screaming from under the ground somewhere. I squatted over a nearby manhole and pulled on the cover until it popped loose and the weight of it threw me backwards.<br />
<br />
I poked my head in the hole to see what I could see, and a tiny pair of green eyes looked up at me from the darkness. I climbed down the ladder, wrapped the rat-sized kitten in my sweatshirt and headed back to Jerod's house -- Buddy purred the whole way there through run-ins with an angry rottweiler and a pervy security guard.<br />
<br />
He's a big cat now -- lots of gray fur everywhere and a scrappy-looking face that makes me think of Cypress Hill -- "Don't you know I'm loco ese?"<br />
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He thinks he's a tough guy, but he's really a scrawny wuss beneath his heavy coat and attitude.<br />
<br />
He growls at children and attacks dogs and wildlife like a pint-sized Cujo. I've rescued him from possums and raccoons -- lucky for him, the only dogs he comes in contact with are wussier than he is.<br />
<br />
I don't know "Puppy" that well, but she wasn't the least bit intimidated by Buddy's irrational display of temper. She looked curious at first -- "What's the matter with you, Cat?"<br />
<br />
She bounced around him a couple of times inviting him to play.<br />
<br />
Buddy punched her in the nose several times and spit in her face.<br />
<br />
"Puppy" was looking irritated and seemed to be asking -- "You wanna piece of me?"<br />
<br />
She'd every right to fight back, but as strong as she is my 14-year-old cat didn't stand a chance. I launched from the couch like a missile and threw myself over Buddy, who kept on advancing towards the dog, despite the person on top of his back.<br />
<br />
"Puppy" was running circles around us -- "You wanna go? Huh, huh? You wanna go?"<br />
<br />
I wrapped my arms around Buddy, but he kept breaking free. He clawed my arms and chewed on my fingers desperate for a piece of that dog. I heard people talking in the background.<br />
<br />
"Do something," I panted. No one seemed to hear me.<br />
<br />
Buddy bit my hand again hard, and I almost lost hold of him.<br />
<br />
"SOMEBODY GET THE DOG," I managed to scream. "GET THE DOG."<br />
<br />
I slowly rose to my feet when I heard "Puppy" padding towards the door. Buddy bolted down the hall and up the stairs leaving me shocked and bloody in the family room.<br />
<br />
I've got two holes in my left thumb -- one through my fingernail; I've got claw marks up and down my right arm; there's a chunk of flesh missing from somewhere around my armpit; and I pulled something in my shoulder rolling around on the floor.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure if Buddy was a person, he'd sue me for saving his life -- that's how grateful he was.<br />
<br />
It doesn't change the fact that I'm a HERO (with a really sore thumb).<br />
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-65074742549743192902012-08-30T23:59:00.000-07:002014-10-08T17:56:32.452-07:00A Valium would be good hereWhen will I learn: FOOTBALL IS NOT MY FRIEND.<br />
<br />
It's <i>SO</i> beyond stupid.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>My</i> team will <i>never</i> win -- especially when <i>I'm</i> watching.<br />
<br />
It makes me want to stab people, and I'm certain the stress of the 2003 Apple Cup gave me shingles, which <i>I </i>wouldn't wish on a <i>Husky</i> or a <i>Duck</i>.<br />
<br />
Wazzu opened the season with an embarrassing loss to Brigham Young -- 6 to 30 -- though my Cougars were ROBBED of TWO touchdowns for bull sh** holds. Even the BYU-loving announcers conceded one of the calls was outrageous.<br />
<br />
What is it about this pastime that turns me into the Exorcist girl? And what would they say at the ER if I told them I had football demons inside of me?
<br />
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<br />
I was jumping on the furniture, screaming myself horse, ordering a bunch of college KIDS<i> </i>to "eat sh** and die." They couldn't even hear me. <i>The neighbors could hear me </i>-- the entire city of Bothell too -- but my team was getting its ass kicked in Utah, where I'm pretty sure even my loudest LOUDEST screams never registered.<br />
<br />
My dad was here too bating me into political debates during every timeout and commercial interruption -- "All that hate. You better watch yourself, you're beginning to sound like a Republican."<br />
<br />
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH -- I HATE EVERYONE!"<br />
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-35771342180494836872012-08-20T22:01:00.002-07:002014-10-08T17:58:07.932-07:00Of course you realize this means warLife's given me a lot to write about lately but nothing I want to publish on the Internet. God knows there are shit-tons of idiots out there who broadcast everything on the Internet from their morning poops to their evening circle jerks.<br />
<br />
I'm not one them.<br />
<div>
<div>
<br />
Health scares, financial hardships, family feuds -- they've all been stewing for the past three years. They're still stewing, and all I want to do is hide -- just bury my head in the sand and wait for my f***ing <strike>prom</strike> <strike>funeral</strike>; whatever John Bender would say to a 35-year-old Claire Standish. (I love The Breakfast Club.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I'm getting at in this scenic-detour sort of way is that I lack the energy -- moxy -- lately to spin my bull s**t into funny anecdotes on the trials and tribulations of being a tortured artist, writer, mother, wife and web analyst. There's only so much Bad News a person can take, and I reached my quota two months ago. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>The good news: I'm done hiding</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It's time I give Life a swift kick in the balls -- no more apologies for writing; no more accepting "I'll do _____ tomorrow;" no more waiting on hold; no more nodding "yes" when I really mean "no;" no more idleness; and no more compromise. I'M DONE. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Exhibit A: "Get rid of your crap!"</b><br />
<br />
After years of begging Jerod "Let's have a garage sale," I took the choice away from him. We're having a garage sale this week, and whatever toys the kids and Jerod leave laying around the house -- stacked on my kitchen counters and cupboards -- will be sold or donated. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Exhibit B: "We do it the old fashioned way, we earn it!"</b><br />
<br />
I complain about the same stupid things over and over again -- day after day -- and nothing changes. An hour ago -- Jerod interrupted my typing. (I was in our room with the door closed.)<br />
<br />
"What are you doing?"<br />
<br />
"What does it look like?"<br />
<br />
"Are you working on the blog or the book?"<br />
<br />
"I'm typing. Does it really matter <i>what</i> I'm working on?"<br />
<br />
He looked at me with a shocked, confused expression like I've never complained about his interruptions before. MOTHER OF PEARL -- He's <i>proofread</i> a dozen posts about them. <br />
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<br />
Last night at 9:30 -- I told him I was going to bed.<br />
<br />
"Good night."<br />
<br />
I was just on sleep's doorstep at 10:25 when he barged in the room -- the door was closed, the lights were out, the T.V. was off.<br />
<br />
"I didn't know you were sleeping in here."<br />
<br />
"Are you kidding me?"<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
There will be NO MORE FREE LUNCHES in this establishment -- be prepared.<br />
<br />
Want something from me? ANYTHING?<br />
<br />
EARN IT!</div>
</div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-25586618760506236132012-08-13T22:15:00.002-07:002014-10-08T17:58:33.095-07:00Steal my identity? You can have it!Someone stole my identity last week to buy virus protection software from AVG -- $46.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The bank called to verify whether or not I made the purchase -- I hadn't used the card since early 2011, so the late-night transaction struck some awesome banker as peculiar (thank you, Conscientious Banker). I was't aware that I had $46 available to charge on that card, otherwise I'd have purchased something much more exciting than virus protection -- the premium protection package at least.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wonder: what kind of genius is clever enough to access my account -- and then so stupid to use it, considering I owe more money than I'm worth? I can barely pay my bills. In fact I call my husband and the bank at lunch time to verify I have sufficient funds to purchase food, "I'm really hungry. Can I buy a sandwich?"<br />
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<div>
Money is so tight I turned to the "interesting" section of Craigslist to see about a shady job or scheme to supplement my income.<br />
<br />
There were several opportunities, one involved a series of unfortunate scenarios based on old-school Nintendo games -- Super Mario Bros. and the Legend of Zelda. I was hoping for something more wholesome -- something that didn't require a towel and tetanus shot.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A listing caught my eye, "Jolly. Fit. Relaxed. 8'8" illegally evicted SGF looking for a room to rent (The "G" is for giant, though I do enjoy gay folks of all shapes and sizes)."<br />
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"My name is Gertrude, and I am a giant. I'm moving to Seattle, because I hate people, and everyone tells me 'you're so unpleasant; you should live in Seattle.' I was pleasant in Idaho until my neighbor had me evicted for arousing her husband, who apparently has a fetish for really tall women. I'm clean and fit, and nobody will rob you with a giant in the house.<br />
<br />
<i>* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests.</i>"</div>
<div>
<br />
A giant? I pondered the benefits of housing a giant. If it happened some day that I couldn't pay my bills; having an 8'8" woman with calves like tree trunks and thighs like granite that could crush a repo man's head like an egg would be useful.<br />
<br />
Gertrude moved in yesterday. She's already chased off three door-to-door salespeople; a popcorn-pedaling boy scout (that was unfortunate); a politician; and my parents (a couple of times).<br />
<br />
Let this be a warning to all you wanna-be identity thieves: take my debt nicely, or Gertrude will ram it down your throat.</div>
ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-82560420332466713112012-08-08T22:44:00.002-07:002014-10-08T17:58:48.201-07:00I want a vote, dammitI've had it. I'm done, fed up, exhausted, annoyed and not happy.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our fridge died, because someone -- I'm not pointing fingers -- left the freezer open while we were on hellcation last month. We've kept things chilled with bags of ice treating our refrigerator like a giant beer cooler. But the scorching temperatures we endured last weekend were too much to keep up with.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I poured myself what should have been a cold glass of water on Sunday -- it was warmer than my pee. Jerod said the fridge was fine, but I could smell and hear the food rotting as I drank my hot beverage in our 92-degree kitchen. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My dad, a brilliant bacteriologist <i>and</i> veterinarian, begged us not to poison the children with potentially rancid food -- "Let me buy you a fridge."<br />
<br />
It arrived Tuesday -- a lovely white refrigerator with french doors and a night light and a water dispenser and a pocket butler who wipes your bum ... I've been dreaming of this day for five years -- the day our ecru, dirty-looking refrigerator would be replaced with a new, stylish model that matches the rest of our white appliances. And here it was my dream realized.</div>
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<br />
I giggled all day at the thought of my kitchen color coordinated -- finally. The magic was waiting for me at home. I'd waltz through the door after work and find instead of an ugly box heavy with detritus -- magnets, stickers, old notes and out-dated phone numbers -- a bare, sparkling white refrigerator. I envisioned choirs of angels with doves and lilies in the heavenly light that was my new appliance.<br />
<br />
The reality: Jerod defiled my refrigerator's beauty with a bunch of crap he pinched off the dead fridge.<br />
<br />
I was staring at a map-by-magnets-and-brochures of my marriage -- the "don't molest the wildlife" flier we got in Yellowstone on our first anniversary; a calendar from 2004, the Mariner's 2008 game schedule; expired coupons from the Pizza Hut in Pullman (that's 400 miles away) ...
<br />
<br />
"It was too white," he said. "Trust me. This looks a lot better."<br />
<br />
"You can't even tell that it's new. All you can see is the junk."<br />
<br />
(Insert Jerod's stupid robot dance.)<br />
<br />
That's how it goes here. I want things to look a certain way, and Jerod arranges them in whatever order I find most offensive and hideous. And when I complain he dances or farts or sings about pooping. I'm half tempted to burn down the house -- that way he'll have no surfaces to stack moldy gingerbread houses or empty egg cartons or dried-out Play-Doh and Play-Doh containers. </div>
<div>
<br />
Some people think it's <i>sooo</i> sweet that Jerod is sentimental with his magnets and his garbage, but I'm the one wading through poo in the morning just to get a glass of water.<br />
<br />
HE NEEDS AN INTERVENTION.<br />
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-89833764705324943222012-08-01T19:00:00.000-07:002014-10-08T17:59:12.654-07:00Insecure Writer's Support GroupIt feels like a psycho killer chopped me into pieces and tossed them out the window of his orange 1962 Chevy pickup truck while driving in the middle of nowhere somewhere.<br />
<br />
Life happens to the best of us -- bankruptcy, death, illness, birth, natural disasters and office moves all at the same time so you're drowning every morning before you even step in the shower. There's a lot going on in my circle, and most of it is completely out of my control, which is great -- I guess, if you're one of those serene, wise folks they write about on refrigerator magnets. I'm not. I'm unstable which means I worry too much about the crap I can't control and not enough about the crap I can.<br />
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<br />
For example: they told me at work "you may be relocated."<br />
<br />
"No," I shouted.<br />
<br />
"It's out of your control," they told me. "We need to make room for new employees."<br />
<br />
"What about my team?"<br />
<br />
"Get back to work."<br />
<br />
I couldn't get back to work. I stared around the room at all of my coworkers, most of whom I'm very fond of, and wondered how I would manage in a different room with new people.<br />
<br />
What if they don't like me?<br />
<br />
What if they smell bad?<br />
<br />
What if they're boring?<br />
<br />
Will they toilet paper my desk when I go on vacation?<br />
<br />
Will they complain if I sing songs about bodily functions?<br />
<br />
I couldn't sleep, which made me unreliable and bitchy, and my kids complained that I was mean to them, because I was tired and impatient and yelled at them for every little thing.<br />
<br />
"STOP CLIMBING THE DOORS!"<br />
<br />
I chewed my nails until my fingers bled, and every night after work -- when I usually sit down and write -- I lay on the couch pouting and yelling that everything sucks all of the time. My husband's clients never pay him on time; our mortgage is late; our house is dirty; the neighbor across the street is plotting to kill us all; my dad's going to buy a motorcycle and drive on the freeway; my kids will be teenagers someday; it smells like Old Spice; and Mr. Jefferson died a week ago and nobody even told me.<br />
<br />
No wonder I haven't been writing.<br />
<br />
I was really broken over it -- not writing -- until I stopped caring. There has to be some flexibility in your schedule for emotional breakdowns and inconvenience, otherwise you'll have an aneurysm or a heart attack and die. You can't do anything when you're dead.<br />
<br />
<i>* The Insecure Writer's Support Group: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!</i>ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-60174236629699613772012-07-30T22:54:00.001-07:002014-10-08T17:59:50.756-07:00You gotta have a goalYou know as a writer you're desperate when you start quoting prostitutes. Not the gritty, toothless variety you find near the airport; but the fairy-tail hookers depicted in misguided 90's-era chick flicks like Pretty Woman.<br />
<br />
<b>Kit DeLuca</b>: "You just can't turn tricks forever. You gotta have a goal. Do you have a goal?"<br />
<br />
<b>Angel</b>: "Well, I always wanted to be in the Ice Capades."<br />
<br />
I'm not sure why the lines popped in my head this morning -- I haven't seen the movie in years -- but there they were like catchy lyrics playing in my brain all day -- "You gotta have a goal. Do you have a goal?"<br />
<br />
I went with it, because I'm not on speaking terms with Inspiration, and I've already said I'm desperate.<br />
<br />
I have lots of goals or impossible wishes that I file under "goals" for lack of a better lable. They hit me throughout the day, and I share them without considering if they're appropriate or not -- or crazy or not -- and my coworkers look at me in alarm -- "You want to do what?"<br />
<br />
<b>I want to pick a bar fight with Muhammad Ali</b><br />
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<br />
My ass has never been properly kicked. There was a big, nasty girl at day camp. She threw an eight-ball at my face and made my eye bleed, but she swore she didn't mean it.<br />
<br />
I've been threatened several times.<br />
<br />
Lindsay R. from high school wanted to kick my ass, because my voice was annoying.<br />
<br />
I've been slapped, tackled, slammed against walls and stepped on. Someone dropped a tuba on my head in 10th grade, but that was an accident.<br />
<br />
A snotty bar bitch sicked her glam squad on me, because I wrote a song about her and told everyone she had herpes -- she was <i>doing it</i> with a boy my friend liked, and she was mean. We never exchanged blows, because I'm small, and someone's always there to protect me whether or not I deserve protection or want it.<br />
<br />
It would be awesome, for a runt like me, who's neither landed nor received a proper punch, to say "Muhammad Ali kicked my ass at a sports bar."<br />
<br />
<b>I want to be a body snatcher</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
I was thinking the other day I need to occupy a different body for a while -- take a vacation from myself. Instead of a month-long walkabout in France or Italy or wherever people go for month-long walkabouts I’d inhabit people like resorts and poke around their lives a bit.<br />
<br />
I’d start with Scarlett Johansson, because Marilyn Monroe is dead -- and if she wasn’t she’d be too old for my purposes.<br />
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<br />
I’m uncomfortable in my skin, and I mean that literally. I’m good with the inner me -- my brain and my spirit and the rest of the crap that makes me a person. It’s the physical me I’m at odds with. Swimsuits and form-fitting clothes make me stabby. I can’t sit comfortably in a chair unless every square-inch of me -- below the neck -- is covered. I use objects of convenience -- purses, coats, pillows -- to hide behind, or I’ll cross my arms for lack of suitable shield.<br />
<br />
If I occupied Johansson for 24 hours I’d do everything naked -- gymnastics, grocery shop, fetch the mail, take a jog. I’d go bowling with Lewis Black and invite Mickey Rourke’s Whiplash to spend the night -- appalling I know, but Ryan Reynolds didn’t cut it; I like things interesting, scandalous.<br />
<br />
<b>I want to be a man for one year</b><br />
<br />
It's no secret -- I care what I look like more than I should. Mornings are some kind of hell -- getting dressed ; drying my hair; putting on makeup ... INSANITY. But I have to be presentable for those moments throughout the day that I'm faced with my reflection in an office window or a bathroom mirror. I have to be OK with the person staring back at me<br />
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Hair and eyeliner -- those are my tells. If my hair's soaking wet in a messy bun atop my head, you can bet I didn't sleep well. If I'm not wearing makeup, I'm sick and/or pissed -- I might have a tan, but that's rare.<br />
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I want to be a man -- addadicktome.<br />
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For one thing, I'd avoid my period without the hassles of pregnancy, birth-control injections, surgery or menopause. The plumbing is simpler too. I could pee wherever I wanted -- no more waiting in line for a toilet.<br />
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Men have it easy. They just don't know it, because none of them are creative enough to conceive of being women unless they want to be women forever.<br />
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I want a <i>temporary</i> sex change -- a break from bras and tampons and menstrual migraines and Lady's Gillette and makeup.<br />
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<b>I want to be a weirdo</b><br />
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Success at last.ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-63242500700914869432012-07-24T23:27:00.000-07:002014-10-08T18:00:18.338-07:00My funny bone is angryShould the world end on Dec. 21 as predicted by the usual crazies; I'll at least be satisfied that my final year here was anything but boring -- "Hoo-yeah, Master Chief."<br />
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It's actually been well more than a year since my life was last boring. I'm not sure it's ever been really boring by normal people's standards, but according to my scale things were pretty dull five years ago. </div>
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I was a journalist. My husband was an engineer. Our daughter, Lily, was a quiet, somewhat sociopath-like child who pooped on the potty at school but refused our potty at home. We fretted stupid things like furniture and televisions; year-end bonuses and vacation time ... Life was comfortably stale, or it seems so looking back. </div>
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Now I've got two kids and a job that has nothing to do with journalism that doesn't pay the bills. Jerod's a general contractor, which looks good on paper. The hangup is a lot of people are deadbeats, and contractors can't afford to sue them.<br />
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I don't worry anymore about the furniture except in my fantasies when I win lottery and buy new-smelling sofas and super-plush carpet and stainless steel kitchen appliances. I lose sleep over big stuff like mortgage payments; electric bills; medical insurance; whether or not my husband will get paid this week and next week; the leak in the roof; my job; the button that I sew and resew on the only pair of jeans that fit me; tutoring for my daughter; quitting smoking; not quitting smoking; and early-onset Alzheimer's disease. </div>
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I'm finding it increasingly difficult to laugh things off as I usually do; and who am I if I'm not funny? I hate this strain of angry that bites down and won't let go -- the angry that eats you up and breeds little, angry soldiers inside of you like a virus. It's got me on me knees. It's got me wondering; will it ever let up?<br />
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I compiled this list of funny/notsofunny-awful things I'm mad about to fill the menacing gap in my writing:<br />
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<li>I received a complaint that I say "vagina" too loud and too often -- it makes people nervous.</li>
<li>I started my period the day before Warrior Dash -- a 3.5-mile obstacle course featuring hurdles, barbed wire, cargo nets, fire and a waist-deep mud pit. There's gravel in my uterus.</li>
<li>My father-in-law kicked me out of his house, and my husband went on eating dinner, smiling like nothing happened.</li>
<li>I walked into the doctor's office last week with a weird-looking bug bite on my head, and I walked out with a presumed case of lyme disease -- presumed, because the doctor didn't test my blood -- "No need to." She was <i>pretty</i> sure a strong dose of antibiotics would kill the infection.</li>
<li>I hate lists.</li>
<li>My husband began a sentence -- "I <i>let</i> you come home and write ..."</li>
<li>I haven't bought shoes in 14 months -- I was so desperate the other day at Goodwill I shoved my feet in a horrid pair of candy-pink platforms that were two sizes too small.</li>
<li>My husband is waiting for a $6,000 check he was supposed to get in JANUARY.</li>
<li>The sunburn on my nose is peeling.</li>
<li>My mother's thinking -- "Make a list of the things you are happy about."</li>
<li>I'm out of funny things to write.</li>
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7912755200114192724.post-90862442902676100802012-07-18T21:19:00.001-07:002014-10-08T18:00:35.648-07:00Amazing business opportunitiesI've got some brilliant ideas for side gigs to help support my writing; let me tell you. They're all things I came up with at work, which should tell you right away they're completely mental, because I judge Internet search queries for *BLEEEEEEP*.<br />
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<b>That being said</b></div>
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My first idea snowballed out of a query for a terrible STD -- I'm not going to name it, because none of you want to see it. But the idea is -- since I've judged countless pictures of countless diseases (CONDOMS are your friends, people) -- I could be the underground icky-bumps-and-scabs analyst helping sex addicts avoid embarrassing trips to the doctor. All I need is a lifetime supply of antibiotics ... </div>
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<i>Next up</i> -- penis-shaped packing peanuts. There's a market for them. SERIOUSLY. People look for penis-shaped everything -- cake pans, dog toys, slippers, thermoses, pillows and more. If I have my way everyone will pack their valuables in cushiony biodegradable tally whackers. </div>
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What I'd really like to do is invent a device that will punch you in the face when you enter a stupid query in a search engine. For example -- you type "What kind of body piercing should I get?" BAM -- your nose is broken. "How do I have sex?" BAM -- you swallowed your teeth. "What does Brigitte Nielsen look like?" BAM -- you have a concussion. </div>
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Every punch would trigger a .25 cent deposit in my off-shore bank account, and I'd become a millionaire overnight. </div>
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ABnormalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02707133403797871999noreply@blogger.com1