Don't bother me I'm writing

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. 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. 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? 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 emp

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." 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. "We're helping hands," they told me. "Please remain calm while we help you." Zombie Robot by Scott Johnson 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): 1. Full name * 2. Age * 3. Gender * 4. Sexual preference * 5. Marital status * 6. Number of par

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. 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. 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! 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

I woke up this morning to my youngest daughter, Ashlyn, shouting, "Mommy! Mommy! Did someone die in the bathroom?" My kids say a lot of weird things, so I wasn't alarmed, but she wouldn't shut up. "Mommy! You got to see this. I'm serious. You really got to see this. Someone died in the bathroom, Mommy." 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. 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. I jumped out of bed angrily and stomped the six-or-so steps to the master bathroom. Ashlyn was correct. 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 t

There'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." The cadence and the absolute surrender to a crappy situation resonate with me. It's customizable too, just replace the word "single."  In my present state of affairs the word is "jobless." "I'm jobless now, and everything's changed. I hate it." 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 really think about them. 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 th