Don't bother me I'm writing

I think about quitting my job sometimes. I think about quitting my job and writing full time -- see where it takes me. Then I think I'm crazy. Quit my job -- I can't quit my job. C an I? Life's a gameshow that way. You're given approximately 2.8 billion choices to squander in your lifetime -- I did the math. Some decisions are easy -- or they should be -- wake up, brush your teeth, pick your nose -- eat the booger, don't eat the booger -- go to the bathroom, wash your hands ... It's not a science -- decision making. There's always an exception; some nimrod in front of you at Starbucks or McDonald's -- my husband's a repeat offender -- who can't make up his mind. He spends 15 minutes hemming and hawing over this value meal and that value meal and finally out of pure desperation orders two or three of everything on the menu. We all have our monsters. I can't decide what to wear -- ever . My closet glowers at me like a serial kille

I wonder if I had a gun; would my husband hear me better? Here I am writing, because I have the day off, and that's what I do on my days off -- I write or try to write through hundreds of absurd interruptions. I can't leave the computer unattended for a second -- I've come dangerously close to peeing my pants several times -- or my husband swoops in to check his Facebook, or his email, or his horoscope, or the 100 pimpest hairstyles for round-shaped faces. He can't be bothered to save my work. He can't be bothered to open a new tab. He sits there scrolling through status updates while I pace the room growling. And finally my absolute favorite part -- like he doesn't notice I'm there -- he "accidentally" shuts down the computer and looks at me with a startled "oops" expression as if to say "I didn't know you were working." It's always something with him. If he's not interrupting my writing time, he's at

Daryl Moody rides the bus four blocks to work every day, because he read somewhere that Europeans -- "the elites" if you believe as Mr. Moody does that all Americans are fat, stupid, uncultured swines -- are big on public transportation. His wardrobe consists of a black turtleneck that's two sizes too small; six brightly colored silk shirts -- red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple -- three identical pairs of black cigarette pants; two pairs of alligator wingtips in yellow and purple; one battered pair of knee-high, black combat boots; and a gray trench coat that converts into a cape for his meetings with the underground elven society. He ties what little hair he has back in a tight ponytail -- so tight that it lifts his eyebrows 4.4 centimeters above their natural position so he appears perpetually shocked and bewildered. Daryl works at The American Center For Research of Matters that are Questionable (The Center), which -- due to the questionable nature of t

I'm working on something a little different. Translation: I spent hours writing a brilliant story that I'm not quite ready to publish. Sometimes you just need to call it a day, snuggle up with your kids and try to sleep through the voice that's blasting your half-ass efforts that resulted in nothing suitable for publication. In the mean time: Meet Daryl Daryl Moody rides the bus four blocks to work every day, because he read somewhere that Europeans -- "the elites" if you believe as Mr. Moody does that Americans are fat, stupid, uncultured swines -- are big on public transportation. His wardrobe consists of six brightly colored silk shirts -- red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple -- three identical pairs of black cigarette pants; two pairs of alligator wingtips in yellow and purple; one battered pair of knee-high, black combat boots; and a gray trench coat that converts into a cape for his meetings with the underground elven society. He ties what

I saw an ad at work for a chainsaw the other day -- and NO I have no desire to embark on a violent killing spree -- I saw the ad and I went all tingly imagining the reaction I'd get just standing there with a gas powered chainsaw screaming in my hands. I'm a question mark on a good day -- the crazy b**ch who everyone knows they'll see on the evening news one night post flip out. What would people think? Would they run in terror? Would they laugh at the sight of little me wobbling against the wait and power of a tool that's not quite as big as I am? That's the kind of week it was -- so bad that fantasies of scaring the hell out of people were my only solace. I sat down to write several times and found that every story was either depressing or insanely violent, which isn't so bad unless your characters are easily identifiable as people you deal with on a daily basis. If your colleagues or loved ones recognize themselves as the morons you drowned in the

Lily had a bloody nose, and Jerod threw her Kleenex in the toilet. She sauntered into the family room an hour-or-so later and announced;"Daddy, I think I'm bleeding like Mommy does." "What?" Jerod asked her -- shocked and appalled that his daughter speaks fluent Tampax. "You know," Lily said rolling her eyes. "Mommy bleeds every once in awhile. Well -- I went to the bathroom, and there's blood in the toilet just like what happens to Mommy." It's the random, out-of-left-field stuff that makes life bearable. Take the recently-divorced guy who's never said more than "hi" and "have a nice day" to his women co-workers. He joined the girls for lunch one day and commented, "I'm either an alien or a non-practicing homosexual -- any thoughts, ladies?" I wish I could bottle those moments and store them for rainy, uninteresting days. Surprises past puberty are sort of like genetic mutati

I can find the humor in most things, but sometimes there's really nothing to laugh at -- and when that happens I'm screwed; when all I can do is cry. I hate crying almost as much as I hate being naked -- it makes sense if crying is the emotional equivalent to being naked. (And I suppose naked people crying are funny, so at least I'm making progress.) But seriously, I'm in no mood to laugh. Therefore ... I sat down to write, and I won't stop writing until the led in my chest wanders to some other part of my body and poisons me slowly, but -- I'm going for random here -- the led is figurative and won't actually kill me, which should be a good thing, but today I don't care. Writing through grief is a bitch -- it's not productive like rage or happiness or even mania. Grief is mind numbing and slothish, and it wears you out. I advised a depressed friend once to throw her shoes at people and kick them until they cried -- I'm not wearing

It's funny how the things you expect will frighten your children -- horror movies, large bugs, axe-wielding psycho killers -- don't phase them at all, but stuff you never think about --  vacuum  cleaners, sock monkeys, flashlights -- will scare them into a coma. Lily was in the bathroom the other day, and Jerod and I were discussing something so important that I can't remember the conversation. We heard a bit of a commotion coming from the bathroom, but Lily often sings to herself on the toilet. Ashlyn will sometimes pound on the door and cry until Lily lets her in, and the two of them will bicker because: A -- Ashlyn is playing with something that doesn't belong to her; or B -- Ashlyn is holding the toilet paper hostage. Jerod and I continued talking until the commotion in the bathroom reached a higher pitch. We exchanged irritated scowls -- half curious in whatever shenanigans were going on; half exhausted at the thought of investigating the scene. It wasn't b

I grew up in a very opinionated household, and I often mistook my parents'  opinions for facts. So I argued passionately -- sometimes violently -- if a person dared contradict whatever crackpot ideas my mom and dad were rambling about the night before. No one ever schooled me on the rules of engagement for religious and political debates -- I learned by trial and error, meaning Sunday school teachers despised me. "See that little girl over there?" They whispered and pointed their mean, knobby fingers at me. "She asked today, 'Why do we pray to Jesus? He's God's son, not God." "You think that's bad?" Another teacher scoffed. "She told me, 'My dad says that Matthew says it's a sin to go to church. So why are we here?'" It's with that in mind I tell Lily -- and Ashlyn eventually -- "Whatever Mommy says about science and God and religion -- these are my opinions. I don't have the answers -- nobody

Sometimes when the alarm clock is screaming at you in the morning to get the hell out of bed, and all you want to do is bury your face in the pillow and sleep through the day; you should listen. It was cold and wet this morning. Traffic was already f***ed at 5 a.m. Rich Marriott, the morning meteorologist for our local NBC station, looked pleasantly miserable under his umbrella in the roof-top weather garden.  I couldn't think of a single reason besides needing money to show up at work, but I did what responsible adults do -- I swore at my husband for getting to sleep longer; I swore at the closet for being a mess; I swore at the house for being stupid; and I drove to work in goddamned Seattle traffic.  It was potluck day at the office, but I didn't bring anything, because I put off thinking of something to cook until it was too late to cook it. And then -- because everything crappy comes in clusters -- I got a visit from my fairy friend who screams in my ear ev

I normally use the first Wednesday of the month to bitch about how little time I have to write; how my husband gobbles up every spare second; how my children are a couple of basket cases. I'm changing things up today. Thankyous are in order I was a little bitter -- massive understatement -- following my departure from newspapers in 2009. In fact I gave writing up for nearly a year out of sadness and revolt that everything I'd worked for disintegrated in the flames of economic ruin -- that my industry purged me and thousands more like me for shiny new models with Internet prowess and video skills. (If they'd told us in college that paper would someday accommodate moving pictures, we'd have taken video classes.) I wallowed perhaps more than the average person is allocated time to be mopey, but my need to feel a notch above slothish eventually got the better of me, and I reunited with my special pen and spiral notebook. There are benefits to not being chained to a ne

It's so unfair that people expect me to have a job. I'm an artist. I create stuff that's really emotional, and I can't sit in an office all day -- I need to be free. Like I totally think the government should subsidize artists' living expenses, because we make the world a better place.  Business people are greedy -- all they do is work; and save money; and buy houses and cars; and get married; and have babies and dogs and stuff. What about me? I need to eat and sleep too, but I can't buy food, because no one will give me money. Even my friends and family turned their backs on me. I texted them for donations so I could go to Seattle and protest corporate greed in America, and all they gave me was $1. How messed up is that shit? I'm practically starving in my parents' basement, and they couldn't give me a few hundred dollars to fight capitalism? I'm talking about the greediest people in the world. But I showed them. I dyed my hair orange