Thursday, June 24, 2010

I Am Too Tired To...

How tired am I?

Two* tired to finish the title of this post apparently.  Just wanted to let the Internets know I'm alive (in case anyone cared). (*Updated the next day when I'm not so tired.  Apparently I was also too tired to use proper grammar.  Two tired?  Two?  I could change it so I don't look like such a moron, but two reflects the feeling of the moment, so I'm leaving it.)

I started running this week.  The answer to your question is, yes it's been hell.  Except it actually hasn't. It's actually been kinda awesome.  Mostly because I thought running would kill me and it hasn't, so... Yay for being alive.  Running has made me too tired to post.  I tried last night.  I sat down in front of my computer and stared at it for five minutes and fell asleep.

I know you are all dying to know what the blogger handbook says about having seven followers, and I promise you it is coming.  Yes I am aware that I have eight followers - yipee! - and therefore must also tell you what the blogging handbook says about eight followers.  So, I am behind and my life is completely overwhelming and tired. I mean, I am tired.  Did I tell you that already?  What was I saying?  I literally just spaced out with my hands poised over the keyboard, staring at the screen as if words were going to magically appear.  I do hope if words were to magically appear they'd be better than the ones I'm writing right now, because honestly, what am I talking about.

Oh yeah.  Eight followers!  YAY!  Internets join me in welcoming Ashley R.  Technically, Ashley R. is the split personality of another follower and so technically, according to the blogging handbook, I only have, like seven and three fourths followers, but I say SCREW THAT.  It's my blog.  I'll do what I want. So, I have eight followers.  Welcome Ashley.  I lover you lots.

It has occurred to me that by announcing the name of every new follower, I may be discouraging people who are secretly reading my blog in the bowels of their closet with the lights off because they don't want anyone to know they have any interest in the goings on of this blog,  from becoming followers.  So...................I'm going to come up with a solution to that problem.  I think.  Maybe.  I don't know.  I'm really tired.  Did I mention I was tired?

Anyway, what I really wanted to say, besides letting you know I was still alive and boring you with five or so paragraphs of mind numbing crap, is that THIS WAS AN AWESOME WEEK.  And not just because running didn't kill me, but because one of my friends had a baby.  A perfect baby boy.  I have not met him yet, but I assure you he is perfect.  And one of my friends kicked cancer's ass.  She's been in remission for five years, had her final check up and is cancer free!

So that  is what I wanted to tell you Internets.  That this week was totally kick-ass awesome.  Which means that next week is going to suck.  Big ones.


Mah Book Progress:

Hahahaha.  What book?

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Marriage Advice

Sometimes I don’t understand your rules.  You’re okay with some things, but other things, ones that are almost exactly like the things you are okay with, you’re not okay with.  I don’t get it.
Mark Williams

Tip Number Four

It is important to do nice things for your spouse.


You are on your way home from a long hard day at the office and you call your husband. He has just gotten home from the store where he picked up the dinner you requested.  After talking for a few minutes, he says.  “Man, I’d really like a whiskey and Coke tonight.”

You reply, “Then you should have one.”

“We don’t have any whiskey,” he replies.

“Sucks for you,” you say.  Now if your friends were with you, they might say, “he picked up dinner for you, and you won’t offer to pick up whiskey for him on your way home?  Wow, what a bitch.”  But trust me.  You aren’t a bitch, because your husband, who recently became self-employed and reports to no one, (except you, of course) spent the last two hours watching Mexico and France play each other in the World Cup.  You are not self-employed, do report to someone, and spent all day working your ass off, so he can get his own damn whiskey.

He says, “Oh, I guess my attempt at subtly didn’t work, did it?  I was hoping you’d pick it up for me on the way home.”

You sigh and say, “okay, I’ll get it for you.”  But before he can say thank you, you say, “forget it.  It’s pouring up ahead.  I am not getting soaked to buy you whiskey.  If you’d asked me five minutes ago when I was passing a liquor store and it wasn’t raining, I’d of gotten it for you.”

He says, “okay,” without sounding disappointed or dejected because he is way more mature than you and doesn’t throw a fit when he doesn’t get what he wants.

You continue to talk to him and he thinks you are on your way home, but what he doesn’t know is that you make a u-turn at the light and head to the liquor store, the one you passed five minutes ago where it wasn’t raining.

He says something but you don’t hear it because you see the flashing red lights ahead at the railroad track and are thinking NOOOOOOOO TRAIN and scream “oh crap!  Oh Crap! CRAP! AAAAAAA”  To which your husband replies, “okay, bye.”  Seriously, bye? You start to floor it, intent on passing through the guard rail thingamajig as it’s coming down, but then think maybe you only get one free pass on going through railroad guard rail thingamajigs in your life and you already used yours up a year ago. (True Story)  So you slam on your brakes and wait for the train to come, hoping it is not one of the move-5-miles-per-hour trains that makes you want to get out of your car, run alongside the train, hop inside and punch the conductor in the face.

But it is one of the fast moving ones with cars whipping by so rapidly it makes you nauseous so you have to close your eyes.  But you know sitting in your car with your eyes closed is a bad idea because then you aren’t aware of people trying to come to your car and rob you, and, even worse, you aren’t able to jump out of the way from the meteorite flying towards earth, destination: your driver’s seat.  So instead of closing your eyes, you put your hand over them, spreading your fingers slightly so you can keep your eye out for burglars and flaming stones.  Oh, and so you’ll know when the train has passed. 

After waiting fifteen thousand hours, the train is gone and you are on your merry way.  And…it is now pouring, most likely harder than it is in the direction you were going when you saw rain ahead and decided to turn around.  To avoid the rain.

You continue on because darn it, you’ve invested the time and you’re committed to seeing it through; I mean, because you want to do something nice for your husband. You pull into the parking lot of the liquor store, park the car, and before you turn it off, you turn on your right turn signal, then your left, then your headlights and your brights, before finally realizing what you actually want to do is turn off the windshield wipers, which is the knob on the other side of the steering wheel.  You look in your purse, open your wallet, and stare at your credit card for two minutes before you realize what you are actually looking for is your umbrella.  (You are reading this thinking why would I do either of those things?  And to be perfectly honest, I have no f’ing idea.  All I know is that you will do it.)

You go in to the liquor store, locate the Canadian Mist (CM), and guess what?!  It’s on sale!  You grab it and notice Crown Royal (CR), which is your husband’s fav, is also on sale.  It’s still slightly more than the CM so you decide to figure out the cost per volume to see which one is the better deal.  You look at the CM: it’s $xx.xx for 1.5 liters.  The CR is $xx.xx for 750 ml.  Oh, crap.  You have to do math.  You tell yourself it’s easy, so easy, the easiest kind of math there is.  All you have to do is multiply by a hundred or move the decimal two places or something to convert liters to milliliters and then take that and divide by the cost, or multiply or find the square root, or oh my gosh you’ve been standing here for five minutes and cannot figure this out.  You call yourself a moron and are determined to find the answer, but then you realize it’s an exercise in futility because you used up all your brain capacity trying to turn off the windshield wipers and find your umbrella.

You stick with the CM, grab a 2 liter of Coke, and some Ginger ale and Grenadine for yourself – you are getting frisky ta-night!

You get up to the counter a half a second before some lady and out of your periphery you can see her shooting daggers at you.  The cashier asks for your ID, which you expect because you are often confused with a twelve year old, and you can see the woman looking smug because clearly you are about to be rejected from purchasing alcohol, have your “fake” ID confiscated and be arrested by the police.  But none of this happens because you are, in fact, legal. Somehow you resist the urge to turn to her and say, “in your face, biatch.”

You step outside and guess what?!  It’s stopped raining!  See what happens when you do nice things for your spouse?

On the way home you check your phone to see if your husband’s called because you should have been home ten minutes ago and the last thing he heard before he hung up with you was, “oh crap. Oh crap. AAAAA.”  No missed call.  Clearly you are lying dead in a gutter somewhere and he doesn’t give a shit.  You decide if he does call you’re not going to answer in order to make him worry.  But then you remember make your spouse worry unnecessarily was not one of the things they taught you in pre-marriage counseling.  Come to think of it they didn’t really teach you anything.  All you remember is the pastor asking your husband why he wants to marry you and he said something really sweet like, “she is my best friend and the love of my life.”  And then the pastor asked you why you want to marry your husband and you said, “I don’t know.”  And there was lots of awkward silence. 

You continue on home and still cannot believe you were not able to figure out a simple liter to milliliter conversion and feel like a first-class idiot; but you take comfort in the fact that you totally rock at those complex word problems everyone always has so much trouble with.  If a small town girl living a lonely world takes the midnight train going anywhere, and a city boy, born and raised and south Detroit takes the midnight train going anywhere, what time will their trains pass each other?  Simple: never.  But more importantly you don’t stop believin’ that one day they will.

You have a sudden, inexplicable urge to listen to Journey*, so you go to number 5 on the mixed CD you made, crank up the volume and sing like a fool.  (Yes, you actually have a mixed CD with Journey on it in your car.)

You pull into a guest spot of your lovely townhome community because one of your husband’s five thousand vehicles is in your driveway and look at the clock in your car.  6:19.  This does not immediately alarm you.  Until you look at your phone to see if you missed a call from your husband. You didn’t.  (What.  An.  Asshole.) And notice that your phone also says 6:19.  Which is exactly what time it was when you left the liquor store and checked your phone to see if your husband had called.  The liquor store is five minutes from your house, seven if you catch a few lights, which you did.  Your blood goes cold and suddenly you wish you weren’t so good at word problems because you know if you leave the liquor store at 6:19 and drive for seven minutes, get home and it’s still 6:19, it means you are dead. 

You realize that you must not have stopped when the railroad guard thingamajigs were coming down and were thusly pummeled by a train.  Or maybe you did stop in time but were crushed by a meteorite. 

You get out of the car, shocked that you are dead and yet still here and think that you must be having a Ghost moment except that you are Sam and your husband is Molly and you expect to walk in the house and find him sitting at the top of the stairs rolling a glass jar with a penny inside right before he lets it go and it crashes down the stairs.  You are wondering how you are going to find Whoopi Goldberg and if ghosts can buy plane tickets because you need to get to NYC and on a subway to find that guy who will teach you to move objects with your energy or anger or something like that, when you look up and see your husband walking toward you and he is smiling.  You then realize you are probably not dead, unless he can tell you’re a ghost and he’s all happy because unbeknownst to you he has a ghost fetish.  In which case, ew.  You are so not in to that.  But he says, “let me take that for you,” and grabs the bag you are holding.  “I was getting worried about you because you should have been home by now and the last thing I heard was you screaming so I came outside to wait for you.”  Then he looks down, notices the CM in the bag, gets a big smile on his face and kisses you.

And you are really glad you are not a ghost, because being married to your husband for almost five years isn’t enough.  You want at least five more.  Or 55.  Whichever comes first.

Moral of the story?  If you do nice things for your spouse you will be granted superpowers – like the ability to make rain and time stop.  Oh, imagine the things you could do.


*At my funeral I want there to be a slideshow of pictures of me (because even from heaven I will enjoy looking at myself) played to the track of Don’t Stop Believin, and all of my guests (yes, if you attend my funeral, I consider you my guest) must sing along and dance in the aisles.  Greatest. Funeral. Ever.


Mah Book Progress

Current Number of Pages: 74
Number of Pages Written Today: 0

Friday, June 18, 2010

Father's Day Gift

Yahoo just reported that for Father's Day, I'm not allowed to give my Dad this:

CRAP!!!!!!!  Now what am I supposed to do?

Yahoo, I would appreciate receiving these memos a little sooner. You know, before I spent hours upon hours making this little gem.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Excitement. There's Lots of It.

Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.  
Rainer Maria Rilke

Holy.  Cow.  You guys, I am beyond excited.  I’m ecstatic.  No, elated.  No, overjoyed.  Really, there are no words.  The most amazing thing has happened.  And I totally want to tell you.  Except everything’s a little backward because I didn’t post yesterday.  I meant to.  I wrote my little story, but before I could post it I got tricked into exercising.  Running, to be more exact. And the last time that happened was never.  So you can understand why I came home and instead of posting, fell asleep standing up.  So now I can’t tell you what I want to tell you today without first telling you what I wanted to tell you yesterday.  Except that today I learned, thanks to my husband, that what I was going to post yesterday wasn’t exactly accurate, although had I posted what I wanted to post I would have known that, and then, well, I’m not really sure what I would have done.  Confused yet?  Don’t worry.  Clarity is coming.  What I’m going to do, is post below what I would have posted yesterday as if it was yesterday, and then after that I’ll provide an update, which will make everything make sense.

Oh, but I must warn you, this is exciting stuff.  If you tend to pee your pants from excitement, you may want to wear a diaper, or change into your Granny panties, or at least put a towel under you.

Yesterday’s post:

Hello Internets.  It’s been a pretty big week for For the Love of Writing.  I have received more comments in one week than I have in the history of my blog, which has totally made my day, no my week, okay my whole life.  To all of you who commented, you have my deepest appreciation.  I was so excited to see your comments, I peed myself.  But just a little.  Oh fine, a lot.

But that’s not all.  Brace yourself folks, this next one is BIG.  I have a new follower.  Internets please join me in welcoming Young boy Dan.

This means I have six followers.  Six!  I am beside myself with excitement!!  Young boy Dan came just in time because I was about to be kicked out of the blogging world.  For having less than six followers and no comments.  It’s the number one rule of blogging.  You have a certain amount of time to get comments and at least six followers or your blogging license is revoked for being a loser that no one cares about.  I kid you not.  It’s in the blogging handbook that every blogger must read before they can type even one word on their blog.

Don’t believe me?  Fine.  I will read to you directly from the blogger handbook. 

Bloggers have 5 months and fourteen and one half days to acquire a minimum of six followers and get at least three comments in one week or your blog will be shut down because you are a loser and no one cares what you have to say so you should just shut up.

See?  I told you it was there.  I don’t know why you have to question me all the time.

So keep those comments coming people!  Unless you have something mean to say.  You need to keep those comments to yourself.  Not because I’m sensitive.  No no.  It’s for your own benefit.  If you say something mean, you give me the right to make fun of you on my blog, for thousands, er six people to read, or punch you in the throat.  Or both. Most likely both.  And I don’t want to do that to you.  Because I am nice and I care about you and deep down I think you are nice too, you just feel compelled to leave mean comments because either a.) you are jealous of me, but that’s okay, because pretty much everyone is jealous of me, it’s really not your fault that I am a way more awesomer person than you or b.) no one has ever said they care about you.  But guess what? I care about you.  So, that problem’s solved and also, by reading my blog you increase your awesome status every day, so maybe, just maybe, one day you will be as awesome as me.  But probably not.  Still, keep your mean comments to yourself.  Otherwise you are a jackhole and no one likes a jackhole.

Six followers!  Six!  And comments!  To all those reading and not following, become a follower.  And leave comments.  (If it sounds like I’m begging, it’s because I am.)  It’s super easy to follow a blog.  You just click on the little follow link and sign in with an email address and password and sign your name in blood, and promise to give up your first born, or something like that.  Honestly, I’m not sure because the process confused the crap outta me.  It took me three weeks to figure out how to follow my friend’s blog and eventually I ended up following it twice as two different identities.  True story.  But I am confident you are way more smarter than me and will figure it out.  And if I get one more follower it means I’ll have seven.  Seven!  And you will not believe what the blogger handbook says about having seven followers.  I can’t tell you right now, but trust me.  It. Is. AWESOME.

Upon going back and reading this, I’m beginning to think starting this blog was less about sharpening my writing skillz and more about my need for attention.  And I guess that’s okay, because ultimately it was about having other people read my stuff without me freaking out.  And until this blog started only 2.5 people knew I wanted to be a writer and my biggest fear was having people read my stuff, which is kinda a problem when you want to write books, get them published and have people read them.  Granted, what I write on here is neither the style nor similar in content to my book, but it is helping me overcome a huge obstacle.  I only have to take 3 Xanax now, instead of 5, after I post something.  (I deeply apologize that this is starting to sound like a session with my therapist.  If I had a therapist.  But I don’t.  So I guess, Internets, for now you are my therapist.  Congratulations.  It is a big, HUGE job, because I Have Issues.) 

So, while this blog has accomplished something positive, it has produced something negative.  As in negative book progress. Until a few months ago when I had a killer thirteen page writing streak, there’s been nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.  Major writer’s block.  And whenever this happens I go back and read what I’ve written and think it’s all crap and it should be burned and acid should be poured on my computer to erase any evidence that it ever existed.  But I know that even when it hurts to write and even when all I write is crap, I should continue writing.

All this to say, Internets, you are my accountability partner.  You know, like one of those people who helps you to not drink before nine a.m. because they call you and ask if you’ve been drinking before nine a.m. and you have to tell them the truth, because that’s how this whole accountability thing works, and eventually you stop drinking before nine a.m. because you don’t want to tell your accountability partner, yet again, that you’ve drinking.  So…at the end of each post I will tell you how many pages I’ve written that day.  I’m hoping eventually I’ll get tired of telling you: Number of Pages Written Today: 0 and eventually start writing something.  And when I do say I’ve written a page or even a paragraph, there better be all kinds of Kudos, compliments and Way to Gos in the comment section or I will punch you in the throat.  Or possibly cry in the corner.  Which would make you a sucky accountability partner and therapist. And that does not look good on your resume.  Trust me.

Okay, I think I’ve wasted enough of your time.  I'm off like a prom dress after the guy you went to prom with drops you off at home so you can do a quick wardrobe change before the guy you wanted to go to prom with comes to pick you up for the after party.

Mah Book Progress:

Current number of pages: 74
Number of pages written today: 0 

Okay, that was yesterday’s post.  Exciting wasn’t it?  Not the whole accountability partner and therapist thing.  I brought down the excitement level with that cuz I basically just dumped a boatload of responsibility in your lap.  So, good luck with that.

You have to admit the six followers and comments part was pretty exciting though.  I checked my blog yesterday during lunch and saw that Young boy Dan became a follower and I started hyperventilating, because…well you know why, we’ve already covered that.

Then today, I again checked my blog during lunch and O. M. G.  I have seven followers  SEVEN!!!  I was so excited, I started shaking like a puppy who is so happy to see you, and his tail's wagging so fast his whole body moves and he pees on the floor.  That totally happened to me, prompting weird looks from my co-workers, who told me to stop licking them and made me clean up my own pee.  Which totally sucked because puppies (almost never) have to clean up their pee.

But nothing could damper my spirit folks, because I HAVE SEVEN FOLLOWERS!  I called my husband on the way home and said, “I have seven followers!  Tabitha B. is following me!”  And he said, “she started following you yesterday.  I thought you knew that or I would have told you so I could see you get really happy.” Then I said, “Would you clean up my pee?”  And he said, “What?”  And then I said…oh who cares what I said because I HAVE SEVEN FOLLOWERS!!!!!

So, Internets, please join me in welcoming Tabitha B., mother-to-be.  (Seriously, I should be a poet.)  Welcome Tabitha.  We're so happy to have you.
Seven followers, folks.  You know what that means.  I can reveal what the blogging handbook says about seven followers.  But not just yet, because I want to revel in the moment. And because I like keeping you in suspense.  So check back soon.

Now I’m off.  Like a prom…oh yeah, one more thing, the handbook also says something about eight followers.  So if you’re reading this and not following, become a follower, would ya.  Seriously.  JUST. DO IT.

And now, I'm off like a prom dress on a girl at a cheap motel who broke up with her rich vapid jerk of a boyfriend three weeks before prom for the inspiring sensitive poor guy who can only afford this by-the-hour roach infested den of sin.

Mah Book Progress:

Current number of pages: 74
Number of pages written today: 0, but the day's not over so keep your fingers crossed.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Marriage Advice

You are a maze of inequity.
Mark Williams 

Tip Number Three
Be sure to have pillow talk every night before bed.


Me: Would you still be with me if you found out tomorrow that we are brother and sister?

Mark:  No.

Me: WHAT?  Why not?

Mark:  Because you'd be my sister.

Me: Only by blood.

Mark:  (says nothing, just gives me a look.)

Me:  So you'd be able to turn off your love for me, just like that?

Mark: I'd still love you, just in a completely non-sexual way.

Me: You wouldn't be sexually attracted to me any more?!

Mark: No.

Me: So if I pranced around naked in front of you, you'd feel nothing in your downstairs?

Mark:  Are we seriously having this conversation?

Me:  I can't believe you wouldn't be with me!

Mark:  As brother and sister?  That's gross.

Me:  It'd only be gross if we grew up as brother and sister.  If we just found out, it wouldn't be gross.

Mark: It would be.

Me:  You are totally hurting my feelings.

Mark:  Why are we talking about this?  It’s two in the morning  This conversation is completely ridiculous.

Me:  It's totally diculous (I don’t know the opposite of ridiculous).  We could be siblings.

Mark: I doubt it.

Me:  I don't believe you wouldn’t be with me.  You would.  I'm going to forge a DNA test that says we're related and then make out with a guy in front of you to see if it bothers you.  It would.  I know it.

Mark:  That's a good idea.  Why don't you get started on that?  Wake me when you have the DNA test.

Me: I really wish I would have known about this before the whole "for better or for worse" part of our vows.  Had I known “for in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, till death to us part" had the conditional: as long as we are not brother and sister, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have made that long ass trek down the aisle.

Mark: (heavy sigh)

Me: You know when I ask you questions like this, you're supposed to say, "I'd be with you no matter what," right?

Mark:  Fine.  I'd be with you if I found out you were my sister.

Me: I don't believe you.

Mark: Good night.

Me: Good night.  I love you.  In a completely sexual way even though you are my brother.

In conclusion: Two essential components of a happy marriage: pillow talk and love.  The unconditional kind.  I love Mark even though he could possibly be, and most likely is, my brother.  And he loves me even though I make him endure conversations like the one above.  We rock at this marriage thing.

Monday, June 14, 2010

The Fall of Troy...Or that Other City

This message pops up on my computer screen every five seconds: Auto Protect Security detects Trojan Horse as a threat.

Trojan Horse a threat? Ya think? Inside that horse are a bunch of people waiting to burn down your city and steal your princess. Or something like that. I don’t really remember Greek mythology. All I remember is that Brad Pitt was jacked up and hawt and by the time it was all over, my shirt was soaked in drool.

Oh, and by the way Auto Protect Security, you’re a little late with the warnings don’t you think? The city of Troy could have used a little notice before that other city deposited a giant horse in the middle of their city. Or was it Troy that gave the other city the giant horse? I do not know. (I also do not actually know if the Trojan Horse story was part of Greek mythology or a real story or the story of how a condom company got its start.) But what I do know is that shortly after Troy, Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt broke up (I think. The timeline in my head is kinda fuzzy), so not only are you responsible for the fall of an entire city, but you broke up the greatest marriage in the history of ever.

Way to go Auto Protect Security. Way to Go.

Friday, June 11, 2010

So many things

So many things, I don’t know where to begin.
I guess I’ll start with the most pressing issue. I am going to pass out. Not sure why. I was sitting at work being a good worker bee when the feeling came over me. I figured I was working too hard and should take a break to read the newspaper. One story led to another and I started reading about rabies (which is a whole ‘nother story for a whole ‘nother day) and the I’m-going-to-pass-out feeling became worse. And I thought I should stop reading, but I didn’t. And then my boss came by my office to say bye for the day and told me I didn’t look good and I’m all like, “I know. I’m going to pass out from the rabies.” He did not comment, and I’m starting to think he is realizing I’m not quite right in the head.

I decide to leave work. I was going to organize my desk and then leave, but I figured if I feel like I’m going to pass out, it probably means I’m dying and I didn’t want my last actions on earth to be cleaning my desk. Honestly, no one on their death bed says, right before the bright light sucks them into the sky (I love you, Molly. Ditto Sam. Ghost anyone?), “I’m so glad my desk at work is clean and organized.”

I’m sitting at the traffic light pondering what brought on the I’m-going-to-pass-out feeling when I see a worker guy hacking at a concrete pole with a butter knife and the pole is crumbling. And I’m thinking are you kidding me? All it takes is a butter knife to take down a thirty food concrete pole? I mean seriously, how irresponsible road construction company or light company or whoever you are. Once people realize how easy it is to demolish a concrete pole there’ll be a run on butter knives at wal-mart and next thing you know they’ll be crumbled poles all over town. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t using a butter knife. Maybe he was using a mallet, or a mallard. Which one’s the duck? Still, duck or no duck, is that really all it takes to destroy a concrete pole? Seriously, all the guy would do was tap it against the pole and pieces of concrete crumbled to the ground. Okay, so maybe there was a big machine on the other side of the pole that was drilling in to it or shaking it or something. The point is, where was that pole going to go once they got all the way through it? It was like those guys in the forest who are sawing a tree and are standing on what they think is the opposite side its going to fall, except oops, wrong side and they get crushed. That was about to happen people! And the only good part about it was watching myself almost get crushed by a pole made me forget my I’m-going-to-pass-out feeling. So, silver lining there for sure.

The light finally changed and I was out of harms way, but I did keep looking back in my mirror as if the pole was going to come after me. On my way home I kept wondering and wondering and thinking and pondering what it was that brought on the I’m-going-to-pass-out feeling and the nausea. Did I mention there was nausea?

And then I remembered. I was, as I said before, sitting at my desk like a good worker bee, buzzzzz, and for some reason I imagined my finger breaking and my bone protruding through the skin. And there’d be all kinds of blood and did I mention the protruding bone? I kept telling myself to stop thinking about it, but I just kept picturing that bone and got more nauseous and passed out feeling. And then I imagined myself actually passing out and my face falling forward and landing on my keyboard where my finger with the protruding bone is and the bone would go through my eye…

And the bile is starting to rise in my throat again as I write this, so let’s move on to the next thing shall we?

Macs. As in computers. I was reading a post from one of my favorite bloggers ever, or as she would say, in the history of ever, and she was talking about how she recently got a Mac and was freaking out because you can’t right click, and then I started freaking out because I’ve contemplated getting a Mac for a long time, but I am a creature of habit and loathe change, but Macs are supposed to be so great for people who like to do creative stuff, and hello have you read my blog? Mac poster child right here. But seriously, no right click? It’s like someone saying you’re no longer allowed to breathe air. And your like, “but my body needs air to live.” And they, as in the people who make Macs, are like, "nope, sorry, you can’t breathe air; you have to breathe lithium.” And you’re like, “yeah, I’m pretty sure that’ll kill me.” That’s exactly what no right clicking is like. Breathing lithium. And dying.

Next thing: I’m thinking of changing the name of my blog to attract more readers. To something like I’m Going to Punch You in the Throat. And you’re like oh my gosh that’s so violent, but actually it’s the anti-violent. See, people who are googling methods of hurting other people will see I’m Going to Punch You in the Throat and click on it thinking they are going to get some great ideas for punching people in the throat. But instead they’ll find my inspiring, uplifting, feel-good stories and their whole attitude will change and instead of punching people in the throat they’ll want to hug people. Except being hugged by a stranger is way worse than being punched in the throat by a stranger, so maybe that’s not such a good idea for a name. How about the Goddess of Sarcasm or Sarcasm Goddess (because two words are always better than three. Unless those three words are I love you, then they’re all pretty important. If your boyfriend is only able to say two of them: Love you, he has commitment issues, and does not, in fact, love you. If you only say two of those words to him: I Love, he will fill in the blank with something you do not, in fact, love, you only tell him you do.) Or maybe I’ll just be the asm Goddess so that way you can insert your favorite asm before goddess and I’ll be that for you. Except the only other asm word I can think of besides sarcasm is orgasm and I like you and all, but I don’t think my husband will support me being your orgasm goddess.

Basically this day was a colossal fail. My bone protruded through my finger and I almost passed out. I found out that Macs are trying to kill me. I almost got crushed by a pole and I was unable to come up with an awesome new blog name to lure people to my blog. If I can’t lure them to my blog, how am I going to force them into becoming a follower so I have more followers and more people to pitch my book to so I can tell my publisher I have throngs of people waiting to read my book so hurry up and publish it already?  By the way, I don't actually have a publisher, so if you're reading and this and you are a publisher and want to publish my book, lemme know, would ya?

Maybe I should just change the whole premise of my blog to puppies doing cute things. People love puppies.


Honestly, did anyone not see this coming?

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Marriage Advice

Olives?  I've never seen you put olives on your taco.
Mark Williams

Tip Number Two.
It is important for one of you to remain sane at all times.  This one is very important.  It will prevent one or both of you from getting into some serious trouble, aka getting arrested and probably losing an awesome friendship.

Me (after visiting our friends who recently had a baby): You know our baby will never be as happy a baby as Camilla, right?

Mark: Right.

Me:  I mean, seriously, she is the best baby ever.  She like, never cries.  Our baby will cry all the time.

Mark: Right.

Me:  So we shouldn't even try to have our own baby.

Mark: Right.

Me:  We should just steal J and P's baby.

Mark: Ri...what?

Me:  We should steal Camilla.  You'd help me right?

Mark: No. You are crazy.

Me:  But she's the best baby ever.  Would you at least cover for me?

Mark:  No. You are insane.

Me:  Do you think they'd still be friends with us if we stole her?

Mark:  No.

Me:  I think they would.  I mean, we'd let them see her every other weekend and holidays and stuff.  They are, technically, her parents.  In that they share the same DNA.

Mark:  Did I mention you are crazy?

Me: So you're not going to help me?

Mark: NO.

Me: Fine.  (pout in corner)

Me (five minutes later):  You're not going to tell J and P I want to steal their baby, are you?

Mark: Probably.

(Update:  Last weekend, Mark totally told them I want to steal their baby.  But they probably thought he was just kidding, because this is the type of stuff we joke about (like the whole butt baby thing), so phew.  Except J reads my blog and now she knows I wasn't kidding and is probably in the process of getting a restraining order, but please don't J.  I was totally kidding.  Just like I was about the whole rabies thing.  You can keep your happy baby.  I'll visit her every other weekend and holidays.  And you can supervise me the whole time.)

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

I Don't Get Technology

Writers aren't exactly people.... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.
F. Scott Fitzgerald

I Don't Get Technology
By Kelley Williams

If you were attempting to have a life today, don’t read this post. You’re going to be here a while.

Remember when you were younger and you were up on the latest slang, and knew what the latest fashion trends were the day before they became fashionable, and knew how to work all the latest technology, like how to turn on a computer and copy and paste (because that’s pretty much all computers were capable of back then) and make a call on a cell phone (back when cell phones were actually used for making phone calls) and spell BOOB on your calculator, and hit your head on a brick that looked like every other brick except this one produced a mushroom that gave you an extra life in the magical world of nintendo? And remember how the adults were all like, “how do they do that? I don’t even know where the ON button to my computer is and the phone I use is still attached to a cord and I don’t have a calculator but look at my super cool adding machine and Mario and Luigi make the best pizza?” And you were like, how do they not know this? Do they live in a cave four thousand feet below the surface of the earth?

Well I have totally become one of those adults, in the areas of slang and technology, that is. I was never one to be down with the whole fashion thing. My friend once asked me if I liked her capris and I told her her hair looked the same to me. But I’m okay with not being uber fashionable because everyone has their own style and that’s what makes us us. I mean, I wish I had the balls to wear a studded leather jacket over a hot pink bikini top and a green feathered skirt over parachute pants and black high tops with the laces untied to the movies. Not because I want to dress like that, but because I admire people who don’t give a crap what others think of them. And suddenly I feel like I’m sitting in my therapist’s office.

Back to the situation at hand.

Technology. I don’t get it. I mean eventually I do. Kinda. After my husband explains it over and over again.


Mark: I skyped today.

Me: Ew. Go to the doctor and get some medicine. And don’t touch me until it’s all gone.

Mark: No, it’s not a disease. I was talking to someone on my computer.

Me: Like IM?

Mark: No. Like on the phone.

Me: Your computer has a phone in it?

Mark: No.

Me: Oh, you were on your iphone?

Mark: No, I was on my computer and I was talking to someone like I was on the phone.

Me: Why didn’t you just use your phone?

Mark: Because he was in Jordan and it was free to talk this way.

Me: I went to school with a girl named Jordan. Ever since I started working, I’ve wondered if when people call her they ask for Mr. Jordan Razzdazzle and if it’s happened to her so many times she started making business cards with her picture on them, which I always thought was kinda cheesy, but now I can see how it could be useful.

Mark: Are we done talking about skype?

Me: I told you. Go to a doctor.

And remember when you were younger and the newest technology came out and you just had to have it? And you knew exactly how to use it before you even removed it from the packaging? Well, now I find myself actually resistant to new technology. The version of word I use is so old it has a red squiggly line under the word blog. (I assume the latest version of word doesn’t have the red squiggly line under BLOG, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t use it. But if it does have the red squiggly line, what the heck new version of Word, get with the times.)

And don’t even get me started on facebook (red squiggly line under that word too). I don’t get it. I remember the first time my friend told me about it in college. He was all jazzed, “dude, there’s this site you can go on and meet lots of people that go to UF.” And I was like, “are you kidding me? You’re going to go on a computer to meet people you could walk outside your door and talk to? That’ll never last.”

But guess what? It did! And I am against it. Completely and totally against. Morally, ethically, religiously, against it. Because I. Don’t. Get. It. Poke someone? If a man comes up behind a girl on the subway and pokes her in the rear with his you-know-what, he gets arrested. But do it on the Internets and it’s okay? I don’t think so.

Oh, and Mafia Wars. What is that? Seriously, what is it? I can’t even make a joke about it because I don’t know WTF it is!!

And I won’t even begin to describe the hot mess I was when Yahoo changed the look of their home page. My husband had to spoon feed me chicken broth just to keep me alive while I pulled out my hair and rocked myself in the corner for three weeks. I mean seriously, Yahoo, could you be any more of a jerk? It’s my homepage. Do I go into your house and put the tv where the fridge is and the fridge in the backyard and the grill in your closet? No, because I am not a total bag o’ douche.

And will someone please tell me what the heck an app is? Everyone’s always all excited about the latest app, but the only app I know is short for applicator which is a device that helps woman insert tampons into their hoo-haws, and call me crazy, but I don’t think everyone’s running around all turned on by the latest tampon insertion device.

And ipads? Really? Is all the newest technology code for feminine hygiene products? Is it like some secret language men developed to get away from their girlfriends when they’re on their period? Does “Dude, can I come over and check out your new ipad?” really mean, “Dude, I need to get out of my house asap. My girl’s PMSing right now and is out of her damn mind.”

Honestly, I’m surprised I’ve figured this whole blogging thing out. And by figured out, I mean I manage to put words on a screen. I go to other people’s blogs and they’ve got pictures and videos and cool graphics and a colored background, oh my! Don’t get me wrong, I like the look of my blog. Minimalism is totally my thing. I’m a why-have-pics- and-vids and why-use-two-words-when-one-word-will-do kinda girl. But then again, you already knew that.

And speaking of words! What the heck are kids talking about these days? I was talking to a teenager awhile back and she was telling me about this guy who creeps. I was like, “he’s a creep?” And she said, “no, he goes out creepin.” And, I kid you not, in my head imagined a guy ducking behind bushes, peeking into windows, walking in a stealth-like fashion, you know, creeping around. Apparently what was going on in my head was playing out on my face, because she said, “no, like he goes and meets up with girls. You know.” And I was all like, “Ohhhh. Yeah.” Except that I didn’t know what ‘meet up’ meant. Like does he meet them for lunch? Somehow I don’t think that’s right. Does he make-out with them? Have sex with them? Do everything but? I honestly did not know. But I was having a conversation with a teenager, so it was not appropriate to delve further. So for, like, ever, I had a fuzzy idea of what ‘creepin’ meant. And then I watched the Jersey Shore, and I was like, finally some clarity! But actually, no. Everything on that show boggles my mind and after watching it I thought maybe it had something to do with gym, tan, laundry. And btw Jersey Shore, laundry, really? Laundry? Couldn’t you have come up with something a little more, I don’t know, not stupid? How about gym, tan, liquor, since every time I watch you guys, you are getting wasted. Or what about gym, tan, like to fight, since every time I watch you guys, you are beating the crap out of someone. Or even gym, tan, like to pick up skanks and make-out with them in the hot tub, is better than gym, tan, laundry.

You know, now that I think about it, I’m not sure I was ever up on? down with? slang. When I was in elementary school there was this girl who was thirteen because she’d failed kindergarten like nine times and it was rumored that during football games (I went to a pre-K through 12 school) she would sit in the tunnel slide on the playground and let boys finger her. And when I was nine and I heard that I imagined boys poking her in the arms and legs with their fingers. I even told my dad, “hey dad, there’s this girl at my school who lets boys finger her during football games.” And he was all “that’s nice honey.” But I’m sure inside he was freaking out because OMG my nine year old just talked about fingering.

So I guess slang was never really my thing either. Except that I don’t think ”fingering” is slang for anything. It pretty much is what it is and I’m pretty sure it’s not letting a boy poke you in the arms and legs with their finger.

Oh! Oh! But I did recently find out some computer slang. I follow this blog of this one woman who is totally happy and upbeat and writes about her children and gardening and likes to make faces with punctuation. You know like this : o) and this :( (which she hardly ever does cuz she’s so happy) and this :oP, which I always took to mean she was sticking out her tongue, but apparently it’s internet slang for oral sex (which, if this woman knew that, she would probably die. Which is why I didn’t tell her. Hi, you’ve never met me, but I wanted to let you know you are giving the Internets oral sex when you do :oP.).

Ha! So there. I’m not totally un-hip. Kids are still saying hip right? No? Sigh. If only there was some magical place I could access from the comfort of my room whilst sitting in my pj’s and type “what do all the cool kids say these days?” and have forty-two million, nine hundred eight thousand and twenty-three answers pop up, each one more bizarre and unrelated to my question than the next. But that’ll never happen, because seriously, computers can’t talk to you, so how would that work?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to mail my friends a letter to find out what’s going on their lives and then I’ll try to get through all eight levels of Mario Brothers in one life. I’m so close!

Monday, June 7, 2010

Marriage Advice

I've been married for almost five years and thus feel duly qualified to give marriage advice. You're welcome.

Tip Number One.

You should always be honest with each other. Always. Honesty is one of the most important components of a healthy happy marriage.


Me: Honey, would you support me if I wanted to try out for American Idol?

Mark: No.

Me: Why not?

Mark: Because you can't sing.

Me: But what if I really really wanted to? What if it was my life's dream? Would you go with me and cheer me on?

Mark: No.

Me: What if I said screw you, I'm going to anyway? To fulfill my dream.

Mark: I'd punch you in the throat so you'd be incapable of singing and therefore unable to humiliate yourself.

Me: Awww, you'd really do that for me?

Mark: I would.

Me: I love you.

Honesty. It's the best policy.

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Mannequins Need Love Too

The difference between fiction and reality is that fiction has to make sense.
Tom Clancy

Mannequins Need Love Too
By Kelley Williams

I have a confession to make. I recently molested a mannequin.

I was at the mall the other day to purchase my favorite perfume before meeting up with my friends to see Sex and the City 2, when I got a little distracted. By a shirt. With sparkles and sequins and beads and all kinds of awesomeness. And I HAD to try it on.

But of course the only shirt in my size was on the mannequin – one of those headless, armless, legless ones with the hanger coming out of its neck.

I felt all kinds of bad undressing her in public, but I was without a doubt going to rock that shirt, so my actions were completely justified.

I never made it to the dressing room, however, because I held it up to myself and it was way too big, and did I mention it had sparkles and sequins and beading? Honestly, who wears that?

So then I had to dress the mannequin, which was way harder than undressing her. And much more embarrassing. For the both of us. There was much groping of her lady business just to get the shirt past her butt and hips. And I was all, “I’m so sorry. I should have you dressed in just a minute.”

But it took way longer than a minute, and the groping was getting out of control and my face got red, because, seriously, I’m molesting a mannequin.

And it got worse before it got better. In fact, there was no better. Because I lost my balance a little. And fell forward. Just a little. But just far enough for my lips to Brush. Her. Breast. And the mannequin totally got turned on.

And then I felt like the one who was molested.

“You are such a pervy whore,” I said

To which she replied, “Mannequins need love too.”

“Yeah, no,” I said, “And how are you even talking? You don’t have a face.”

And then I saw the cashier lady reach for the phone to call security. And I was off like a prom dress at a hotel your date’s na├»ve parents paid way too much money for because they want their son and his friends to have a nice place for the post prom party to “eat smores”, “sing Kum Ba Yah” and “watch the sunrise.”

Sigh. I wish I had their naivety. I too was once an innocent. Until I was molested by a mannequin.

Friday, June 4, 2010

I Don't Even Know What to Call This...

but I wish you happy reading. And good luck. Lots and lots of luck.

Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum.
Graycie Harmon

So the other night I ran in to CVS to buy six things. Had they not been six vitally important things, as in my life depended on purchasing them, things like mints, lifesavers and Cherry Coke, I would have left them on the counter and spared myself from the tale I'm about to tell. But as I said. Vitally important. Cannot leave store without them. No matter what the cost. And believe me, friend, the cost was great.

I was third in line behind a nice couple, who must also have been purchasing something vitally important because why else they would stand for this I do not know, who was behind a portly pink woman. I would like to call her the portly pink pig because alliteration rocks my socks, but I am a nice person and I like pigs and I would not want to insult them by comparing them to this woman, who upon further reflection I think must have been an alien sent to see how much torture we humans can endure. And I’m pretty sure those of us who stayed in line passed the test, which actually means a big fat fail, because to pass a torture endurance test you must have a high tolerance for torture. So basically we’ll be the first ones the aliens take to their spacecraft to experiment on. Because of our torture tolerance (seriously, alliteration, I heart you.) And if you are still reading this, you too, must have a high torture tolerance. Your torture tolerance towers above all others. You are a towering torture tolerant.

What was I talking about?

Oh, right. The portly pink woman (PPW) who held up the line at CVS for forty-five hours due to the 37 things in her cart that she insisted be rung up as eight different transactions.

Two words in that sentence should stand out to you:

1. Cart. Cart. She had a cart. At a drug store. As much as I’d like to blame the PPW alien for causing me to spend my night in CVS, aliens get blamed for enough stuff, like the pyramids, except I don’t know if we so much blame them for those, or credit them for those, because really they are a wonder, one of seven in the world I believe. But I’m not sure. I could Google it, but I’m a Yahoo girl, and what does this have to do with anything? Oh, yeah- aliens getting blamed for stuff that is all CVS’s fault. CVS, you are called a drug store for a reason. Drugs* are supposed to fit in your pocket. So they are easily concealed from law enforcement. No one wants a cart, CVS, to transport their drugs. It arouses suspicion. So by providing carts, you enable PPW’s to fill them with things like eight thousand cases of Pepsi, and diapers and baby wipes, and nail polish, and nail polish remover, and candy bars, and, and, and…she wants to purchase all of these things as…

2. Eight. Eight. Separate. Transactions.

Why does she do this? Coupons, of course. Stacks and stacks, and piles and duffle bags full of coupons. Which apparently can only be redeemed with the right combination of diapers, baby wipes and Pepsi. And Pepsi, and nail polish remover. And Pepsi and a candy bar. What, cashier lady, you didn’t know that this combination of soda and chocolate meant the candy bar only costs 55 cents? Void it and ring it up again, biatch. What, cashier lady, you didn’t know that those diapers were on sale and you don’t have anyone on the floor to double-check and your manager is on the phone and there would be no one to cover the register if you left to go check the price and the line is enveloping the store in one giant boa constrictor death grip like my hands will be around your neck if you don’t go check the price on those diapers? Oh, you will go check? That’s what I thought, biatch.

This went on. And on. And on. I was about to slam my tampons on the counter and scream, “This isn’t worth it! I’ll just bleed all over myself!” Like that woman said to me when I was leaving the library one day awhile back. She was all “hey lady roll down your window.” And I was like “heck no psycho. Go away.” And then she shouted, “can I have some change so I can buy a box of coblahblah?” Except she didn’t actually say coblahblah. She said something that started with co and I couldn’t understand the rest so I was like, “oh sure you want to buy a box of coblahblah, more like a box of crack. I am not giving you money for drugs, now get out of my way.” And then she screamed at me, “I have blood on my pants!” And I was like “Ew crack whore. TMI.” And then I wondered if crack whore is even an accurate statement or if it’s just one of those things we say, like meth head and jumbo shrimp. I mean, why do we even call them crack whores? Is it because all crackheads are whores? Or do all whores do crack? And if neither is correct, who are we offending more by the pairing of the words? Crackheads or whores? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

After leaving said crack whore I call Mark and am all, “you’ll never believe what just happened to me,” and I begin to tell my tale. When I get to the point of telling him she screamed at me that she had blood on her pants, the light bulb turns on and I’m like, “oh my golly wolly Mark, she didn’t want a box of crack she wanted a box of…”

“Kotex,” Mark finishes for me. Which means he realized long before I did that a box of coblahblah was not a box of crack but a box of tampons, and I’m not really sure what that says about him, but what it does say about me is that I am a terrible woman for not realizing the plight of my fellow menstrators. In my defense, though, I’m a Tampax kinda girl so my senses were not tuned in to the butchering of the word Kotex. I used to use Kotex until I realized Tampax was better for girls with a wide set vagina and a heavy flow (Mean Girls anyone? Seriously, tell me you’ve seen Mean Girls or else I’m the one with TMI.)

So in conclusion ladies, if a crazy lady comes up to your car and asks for change for a box of coblahblah, have a heart and give it to her. She’s on her period. And by denying her, you are forcing her to spell it out for you, which is humiliating. And if you’re as clueless as I am, it will take your husband to explain what she’s asking for, and by then it’s too late. You’ve left her to fall victim to the sharks and vampires. Way to go.

And that is my advice of the day. Now I’m off. Like a prom dress in the back of a station wagon.

What? I didn’t start this post talking about blood and crack whores? I was talking about an alien at CVS and I didn’t finish the story? Really, I don’t think it matters. I highly doubt anyone is still reading.

Oh fine. I’ll continue. (I should find it disturbing that I just had a conversation with the Internets, but I have conversations with myself on the daily, so really, it’s a step in the right direction if you think about it.) I didn’t slam my tampons down on the counter - because tampons wasn’t one of the six things - and storm out - because I’d stuck it out this long and I was committed to seeing it through to the bitter bitter end.

The cashier with the perpetual head cold was all kinds of stressed out by the PPW alien and kept asking her how many more transactions and glancing nervously at the mile long line, as if we were suddenly going to attack her and tear her limbs from her body and start eating them, which would be totally ridiculous because then who’d ring us up? We’d be in CVS for, like, ever.

PPW was finally done, just in time for her husband, who’d been chained to the bike rack outside, to break free and ask her, “what the heck have you been doing? You’ve held up all these people.” And she was all, “this is the way CVS makes you do it, cuz you can only use one coupon at a time.” And the cashier was like, “this was not the right way to do it, but that’s beside the point. Now get out biatch.”

And I was all like, “you go cashier lady with a perpetual head cold. Btw, you should seriously get that checked out. You’ve been sick for like five years.”

The cashier lady did not respond, because apparently I said all that in my head, and rung up the nice older couple in front of me, who I’m pretty sure purchased KY warming gel, and then I totally understood why they waited out the PPW alien.

FINALLY, it was my turn to purchase my six items. The cashier apologized profusely and I said, “no problem.” And then I was tempted, so tempted, to ask her to ring up each of my six items as Six. Separate. Transactions. You know, for old times sake. But then I envisioned the CVS card she’d fashioned into a shank while the PPW alien was strategically sorting her items for maximum coupon benefit lodged in my aorta, and thought maybe now is not the time for jokes.

The End.

*I don’t actually use, deal or buy drugs. Nor advocate the usage, dealage or buyage of drugs. This post was one of sarcasm or satire or something like that. Drugs are bad. You shouldn’t do drugs. Mmkay? Especially the marriage-you-wanna. (South Park anyone? No? Seriously people, you need to brush up on your tv and movie references.)

P.S. This post is probably littered with typos. But trust me, they're there on purpose. I'm sure of it. It enhances your reading pleasure. You're welcome.