Monday, December 19, 2011

It's Baaaack!!!

It's Sunday and you know what that means... It's Award Show time!!

Today's host is none other than Pepe the Singing Christmas Tree. 



Pepe doesn't know he has a terrible voice, so please don't tell him.

In case you're new here or it's been so long and you've forgotten, The Sarcasm Goddess Award Show is the most awesome sausage award show because...it's all about you guys!  Yay!

And maybe a little about me.  Or possibly a lot about me.

Since it's been so long since we've had a show, I'm going to try really really hard to make it all about you guys.

In case you're wondering, I still have super glue on my eye lashes, my hand is recovering from its Crock Pot burn and I didn't catch my oven on fire again.

Oh, didn't I tell you guys about that?  One night, approximately midnight, I was on the twatter, obviously, and I decided to make a pizza.  The fact that it was my second pizza for the day is irrelevant.  Probably.  After the oven alerted me it had reached 400 degrees, I opened it to put the pizza in and low and behold IT WAS ON FIRE!

First, I tweeted about it, of course.  And then I was like, "should I wake the husband and tell him about this fire, or deal with it myself?"

I decided to deal with it myself so later I could be all, "remember that time the oven caught on fire?"  And he could be all, "no," and I could be all, "that's cuz you were asleep," and then he could be all, "you seriously need to be supervised," and it would be the best conversation ever.

You guys should know I feel like I have a fever, but it could just be from remembering the fire.  Seriously, though, if I'm sick for Christmas someone is getting stabbed.

You probably think, that because of my anxiety disorder, I totally freaked out about the fire.  But that would be logical.  And my anxiety is very not-at-all-logical.  Actually, I was quite pleased about the fire.  True story.

You see, when I quit my job, the husband and I re-wrote our vows.

He vowed to be the sole financial provider and I vowed to clean the house, get published and put out any and all fires. I haven't done so well on fulfilling my first two vows so I was all, "Yay!  Fire! Time to pull my own weight."

Putting the fire out required a combination of turning off the oven, nearly climbing inside, catching my hair on fire, and a spatula.

I think something may be wrong with me.

Are you guys loving how this show is not about  me at all?

Before we start the show, allow me to show you the new features on my blog.  You'll see I've added a twitter button so you can be my twat.  Usually the "t" button is accompanied by a facebook and email and RSS button.  However, it took me two hours to get that twitter button on my blog - true story - so the other buttons can kiss my caboose.

If you want to know more about the Award Show, you can click here, here and here, but basically it's where I make kick-ass custom awards for my new followers, or in this case, people who followed me a long time ago but I've spent the last six months eating bacon and cookies and was too lazy had no time to make a show.  Also, all the hosts were kidnapped by alien pirates.  It's tragic, I know, but we don't have time to be sad.

So grab a drink - I usually recommend wine, but since it's the holidays I suggest egg nog or spiced apple toddy (I have no idea what that is, but it sounds fun so you should drink it).  There's a very good chance it's Monday  morning and you are reading this at work.  You should still drink away.  I'm sure your boss won't mind.

Please note: The Sarcasm Goddess Award Show assumes no responsibility if you lose your job for drinking whilst working.  Please drink responsibly.  I'm pretty sure that's good advice for everyone.

Let's get on with the show, shall we?  First, I must WELCOME and say THANK YOU to all my new followers.  You guys make me pee like an un-potty trained puppy. 

Okay, Pepe, are you ready to announce our first award recipient?


You have a very lovely voice Pepe, but we have a show to do.


Apparently Pepe's dipped into the egg nog.  Good help is so hard to find.

I guess I'll have to give out the awards myself.  You've heard me talk about our first recipient many times.  She has guest posted for me and we are eagerly awaiting her to knit legwarmers and wear them.  In public.  Everyone, please put your flippers together and join me in congratulating... Just Jennifer!



Congratulations Just Jennifer.  You inspire us all to be a little more awesome.

Our next award goes to a woman who is away ahead of her time.  Or possibly behind.  Either way, she inspired one of the greatest twitter conversations in the history of ever.  Please raise a glass and toast...Coffee Lovin Mom!


Way to go Coffee Lovin Mom.  No one rocks a thong onesie like you do.

And now to acknowledge some Awesome Sausage Commenters.  Just to be clear, Every. Single. One. of the comments every one of you leave, make my whole day.  My whole life.  I'm not sure if you all read the comments, but you should, because they're amazing.  Your comments are often better than anything I could ever post and I've contemplated not even posting and just reading the comments, but there seems to be something flawed with that method.

So in case you guys aren't reading the comments, here's a little of what you've  missed:

In response to my Someone Hide the Knives Post:

Annie said: Can't stand Walmart. Last time I was there this "hot" (in her own mind) middle-aged woman asked me where I got my headband. First, I WASN'T wearing a headband...that was my head. I wish someone would tell me they liked my eyelashes and I'd probably return for more abuse.

"First, I WASN'T wearing a headband...that was my head.Bahahahahaha, those Walmartians be crazy!

Rob Adams said: Shopping at WalMart = Bad Idea.  Shopping at WalMart during the Christmas season = Worst. Idea. Ev-ver.

I love a man who tells it like it is and kicks me when I'm down.  Thank you Rob!

And finally, yvonne@attractedtoshinythings said, in response to A Watched Turkey Doesn't Thaw:
"I FEEL LIKE I'M TUGGING ON HIS WEINER!!!"  *sigh* If I had a nickel.....

I don't think I need to explain why this comment is awesome sausage.

I would love to hi-light more comments, but I seriously think I'm getting sick. Which is making me pissed.  And when I get pissed, I throw things.  And the only thing in my hands right now is the husband's computer and the last thing he says to me before he goes to bed every night is, "whatever you do, don't throw my computer."

If you'd like to check out past award recipients or find out how you can get your own award, click here.

Happy Monday!

Friday, December 16, 2011

It's Official. I'm a Hooker.

My Mama would be so proud.  No really.  She would.  I'm not a street-walking hooker.  I'm a Helping Hooker.

And what, pray tell, is a Helping Hooker?

I'm so glad you asked!  Helping Hooker is the illegitimate love child of the Mama Bear Hookers Lydia and Kate at Rants From Mommyland.  They have started the most fabulous thing where people who really need help providing a nice Christmas for their family, whether its food or a few presents under the tree, can email Lydia and Kate who will match them up with people who want to be Helping Hookers.  Like me!

I've been trying to think for awhile now how I can makes someone's Christmas a little brighter.  You see, I am really blessed.  Like super blessed.  No I don't live in a mansion, or drive a fancy car or roll around in diamonds, but I don't think I've ever wanted for anything a day in my life.  But there are others, so many others, who are in need.  And I really really want to help, even if in just small way, so I was so excited when I read MommaKiss' blog who wrote all about the Helping Hookers program.  She's a Helping Hooker too! I hopped on over to Rants from Mommyland and signed up.

Now, for most people it's probably a very simple process: go to the store, by a gift certificate it, put it in the mail, make someone happy.  But not for me!  I was assigned a job and I take my jobs very seriously.

I got home from a Christmas party tonight and tiptoed into the bedroom so as not to wake the husband.  I located my hooker dress, the one from C's Bachelorette Party, and slipped it on.  And by "slipped it on" I mean danced and jiggled and hopped and wiggled my way into it.  It was tight when I bought in March, but now, after I've eaten 147 thousand cookies, well... let's just say the zipper doesn't go all the way up.

I grabbed my knee-high pleather hooker boots and slipped one on.  I hopped and nearly fell over as I tried to slip the other one on, which woke up the husband.  He looked at me, said nothing and went back to sleep.  Apparently there's nothing unusual about his wife putting on hooker boots in the middle of the night.

I'm sure you're all supremely disappointed to know I didn't go to the store dressed like this. I was planning to do my shopping online, but I wanted to take a picture first to prove that I fulfilled my Helping Hooker duty.  Plus, I've been wanting to give you all a Sarcasm Goddess Christmas card, and well, two birds one stone.

I lined up my camera, set the timer, and then everything went to shit.

You know those days when you're too dumb to function?  You know, like when you do something so idiotic it makes you wonder how am I even alive?  It happens to me more often than I care to admit.  Like last night when I was cooking a delicious Crock Pot meal.  The chicken had been in for a whole forty minutes and didn't look like it was cooking.  Instead of thinking, duh SG, it's a Crock Pot, the whole point is to sloooow cook,  I thought, my Crock Pot must be broken and touched the side of it to see if it was hot.

Guess what?  It was.  Like, really hot.  In case you've never had the pleasure of doing this, it's like reaching into the oven when it's on and grabbing one of the racks.  DO NOT DO IT!  It will not end well.

I try to limit my dumbf*ckery to once a week, but tonight my mask was looking a little rough.  Like, it was falling apart.  I think its been doing some hooking without me.  So, I super-glued it, waited five minutes and put it on.  It took approximately 3.2 seconds before my eye started to burn.

I immediately yanked off my mask and closed my eyes.  When I tried to open them my lashes were stuck together.  I had also jammed my finger in my eye, which actually landed on my brow.  When I tried to pull it away from my face, I couldn't.  That's right folks, I F*CKING SUPER-GLUED MY FINGER TO MY FACE and also nearly glued my eyes shut.

I am the worst hooker ever.  I think that's the first thing they teach you in hooker school, whatever you do, don't glue your eyes shut, dumbass.

I started flushing out my eye, but had mascara on my lashes.  Soon it was hard to tell whether my eye was burning from the super glue or the pools of mascara in my eye.  When I finished flushing my eye, I grabbed a tissue and dabbed my face, trying to keep as much of my Helping Hooker makeup in place as possible.  Apparently, there was still some glue on my eyebrow because when I pulled the tissue away much of it was still left on my face.

This is exactly why I should not be left unsupervised.  Ever.

I finally said, "screw it," and left the bathroom.  But you should know, I've already gotten up three times while writing this to repeat the process and I no longer have mascara or makeup on the left side of my face.  It seems more appropriate, somehow, that I only have half of my face done up.

I consulted the back of the super glue tube and it said in case of eye contact I should flush with water and call a physician, but honestly, that just seems like a really awkward conversation.

Me: Hello, I was getting ready to take my Helping Hooker picture and I got super glue in my eye.

Physician: Um...Helping Hooker?

Me: Yes, it's just like a regular hooker, but with more helping and less sex.

Physician: I see...and where does the super glue come in?

Me: I had to fix my mask.

Physician: Your mask?

Me: Yes, my mask.  I'm The Sarcasm Goddess.  I wear a mask because I'm paranoid.

Physician: Ma'am, I believe you've called the wrong number.  Let me give you the number for the Mental Help hotline.

Wow, this post really did not go according to plan.  But then, I'm a hooker.  I must be prepared for everything.  I'm pretty sure that's the second thing they teach you in hooker school.

And now without further ado, proof that I am a Helping Hooker.

The Bag of Knives are in case anyone tries to stop me from doing good deeds.  Obviously.

And now, the most bestest Christmas card you'll ever receive:

I originally wanted to give you guys a photo from the whole family, but the husband and Sweet Riley are sleeping. 

Guess what?!  The fun's not over. I'm super excited to link up my Christmas Card with Jamie at Chosen Chaos.  Go check it out and link up your card.

The point of this post, which has no doubt gotten lost in all of my tomfoolery, is that I have the chance to make someone's Christmas a little brighter and I am so happy about it.  If you'd like to be a Helping Hooker, check out the post at Rants From Mommyland and contact Lydia and Kate.  Let's make this the most magical Christmas EVAH!

This post is also linked up with Where's My Glow for FlogYoBlogFriday.  WOOT!

FYBF

Monday, December 12, 2011

Calling All the Mamas and the Papas

I’m so glad I have so many moms, and maybe even a few dads, who read my blog, because I need your advice.

I do not have kids, well not human ones anyway.  I have dogs.  If you’re one of those people who hate when people compare human kids to dog kids, then you might want to skip today’s post.  But you may also want to read it because I’ll probably give lots of examples of why I’d be a really terrible parent and then you can all ban together to form a coalition and create flyers and mail them to all the storks that say “Don’t ever bring this woman a baby.”  And the storks will listen to you and you’ll feel like you just saved the world from the zombie apocalypse or a rabies outbreak or the very viral and deadly goat flu.

And then the rest of the world will think you’re a hero and tell you you’re pretty and buy you presents and it will be the best day of your whole life.

I hope you appreciate the things I’m willing to do for you.

The husband and I are planning a trip.  It could be in the next week or sometime in the next year, or possibly the next ten years.  My extreme paranoia prevents me from telling you when, or where, we will be going, but we’ll most likely be staying at the Ho-tel Mo-tel Holiday Inn.

We are thinking of boarding Evil Cody.  He’s not really evil.  He’s just high energy.  If he were a person, he’d be on Ritalin, or maybe forced into a drug induced coma so the rest of the world can have five seconds of peace.

I found the Canine Country Club online, which is a place that lets the dogs run free all day long.  They even get to sleep in a giant living room on blankets and beds or couches or anywhere they want.  That’s right, NO CRATES.  I love this idea because no woman will ever be good enough for my baby boy!  Wait…I think I mean that crates aren’t good enough for my dog.  That previous sentence is what I’d say if High Energy Cody were a human child and grew up and got married.  Yeah, I’d be a terrible MIL and criticize my DIL’s cooking and cleaning, and the way she got her hair did. (Which by the way, MY MIL has never done.  Ever.  It’s like she never got the memo on how to be a terrible MIL.  Or maybe she did, threw it away and decided to an awesome MIL.  She’s a rebel like that.)

I called the Canine Country Club and spoke with the owner.

Me: So they just get to run around all day?

Owner: Yep.

Me: And what happens if there’s a fight or two dogs don’t get along?

Owner: Oh in nine years I’ve never had a problem.

That’s cuz she’s never met High Energy Cody.

Owner: But I don’t take just any dog.  They have to pass an interview test.  We’ll let Cody play with a few of the other dogs and see how they get along.

Awesome. I hope those other dogs like non-stop jumping in their face, and nearly getting knocked over and having their rest on the couch disturbed by another dog coming up and talking, “nnmm, ohmnb, onmenm.” That’s Cody talk for, “get up; I want to sit there. well actually, I don’t want to sit there, I just don’t want you to sit there.”

Mah baybee’s such an angel.

Or maybe he’s a brat.  (But really, he’s an angel.)

This is where I need your advice, moms and dads.  What should I do to prepare Cody for his interview?  Should I sit down and have a talk with him?  Bribe him with bacon to be good?  Implement a rigorous don’t-annoy-the-other-kids obedience training in the next twenty-four hours?  Or should I just let him be himself?

And what about during the interview?  What should I do if he’s really high-energy, aka annoying, and all the other dogs are like, “dude, get this psycho outta here”?  Should I make excuses for him?  Scold him? If he starts peeing on everything should I laugh and say, “boys will be boys”?  If he starts humping all the pretty girls, should I smile proudly and say, “he takes after his father”?

And what if he fails the interview?  I don’t think I can handle failure.  Not because we won’t have a place to send Cody and therefore won’t be able to go on our trip (I’m sure there’s some place that will accept him, like Canine Boot Camp).  But because I was a perfect child.  I never failed at anything.  Ever. 

If he fails, does that mean that I failed?  Does it make me a bad mother?  And what about Cody?  Does that mean he’s a terrible child because he “does not play well with others”?  Should I use this as a teachable moment and explain to him what he could have done better? 

Will his self-esteem be shattered?  Will he start using drugs and listening to angry music?

Should I tell him he did nothing wrong and all the other dogs were just jerks?  Chances are, that’s what I’ll do.

Sometimes we take High-Energy Cody and his brother Sweet Riley to the dog park.  Sometimes skirmishes break out.  After we separate the dogs, I’m all, “those other dogs were terrible.”  And the husband’s all, “it wasn’t the other dogs’ fault, Cody was trying to jump all over them and Riley was barking in their faces for twenty minutes.”

And then I’m all, “don’t say that about mah baybees! they’re perfect angels!”  And then I tell them they are THE BEST DOGS EVAH! and to just keep on being them.

Which is probably exactly what I’d do if I had human kids.

Teacher: Your son Johnny punched Tommy in the face today.  He’s a terrible kid.

Me: What?! No he’s not.  I’m sure Tommy did something to deserve it.  I mean seriously, just look at him sitting there quietly, minding his own business, drafting a memo to the President on how to accomplish world peace.  That’s a troublemaker if I ever saw one.  Come on Johnny, let’s go see who else you can punch in the face.

I’m trying to determine how many anxiety meds I can take and still be coherent enough to drive to the interview.  I’m guess twelve.

Should I give Cody some of my anxiety meds?  Should I dress Sweet Riley up as High-Energy Cody and try to trick the interview-er?  Should I borrow another dog that looks just like Cody for the interview and then the day we drop the actual Cody off, hand the owner the leash and run away real fast before, in his excitement, Cody rips a six inch gash in her leg or causes her to punch a co-worker in the nuts?

I’m freaking out!  Please!  Tell me what to do!!!

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Someone Hide the Knives

First, I love you guys. Seriously.  Many of you suggested I make BOTH kinds of cookies and I was all, "duh, me, of course you should make BOTH; your bloggy friends are so smart."

The chocolate ones came out as the winner and I would totally make them, but I don't have all the ingredients.  I would go to the store and get the missing goods but I can't.  Cuz I'm lazy.  And also?  I already went to the store.  Wal-Mart to be exact.  And I've spent the last 4.5 hours bashing my head into the wall.

Seriously, WTF is up with that store?  I'm convinced that in order to shop there you are required to have your brain surgically removed from your head.  Yes, I shopped there which means I must also be missing my brain, and I don't disagree with that, because seriously What. Was. I. Thinking?

In a fit of temporary insanity I decided to go to the land of Walmartians because I needed to get grocery things and non-grocery things and I thought I would save time by going to one place (Wal-Mart) instead of making two stops.  Save time by going to Wal-Mart?  Ha! Haha! Hahahahaha!

How I did not stab someone, I do not know.

Walmartian #1: Hey, I'm going to cut you off with my cart and then give you a dirty look for getting in my way.

Walmartian #2: Hey, I'm going to stop in the middle of the aisle and dig my underwear out of my butt for ten minutes and as soon as you try to go around me I'm going to body-check you into a shelf of canned goods.

Walmartian #3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8: Hey, we're going to celebrate our family reunion in the middle of the frozen food section.

Every time, EVERY TIME, I go, the cart I get has a jacked up wheel and I end up fighting with it the entire time like a mental person, which actually makes me fit right in with the other nutbags.  And as soon as I touch it I feel like I've instantly contracted 427 STDs.

Oh and here's a newsflash, lady with the unfortunate fashion sense and 1980s hair cut.  The express lane?  You know, the one that says 20 Items or Less? Means you only get to go through this lane if you have a TOTAL of 20 items or Lessssss.  It does not mean you get to do FIVE different transactions of 20 items.  It also does not mean you get to hold up every single item to your husband or boyfriend or sugar daddy and  say, "I got this for Bobby.  Do you think Mary Sue will like this?  These wings are for Lisa."  And please don't say, after ever transaction, "I've been a naughty girl."  It makes me feel like I need to hose myself off with bleach.

I was on the brink of losing my shit by the time it was my turn to check out with my four items, but shockingly the salesgirl was NOT a total moron.  She also told me I had really pretty eyelashes and then I was all, "all shucks, thanks, Wal-Mart really isn't so bad."

And I kinda didn't want to stab anyone any more. 

But then, on my way out, the exit was blocked by the I-Don't-Know-What-20-Items-Or-Less-Means Lady who had teamed  up with the Geriatric Wheelchair Gang and was all,"Heyyyy, you guys want to see what I bought my Ex-Mother-in-Law?"  I managed to maneuver around her and get out of there before I saw what the gift was, but I can say without a doubt the best gift this woman has ever and will ever give her Ex-Mother-in-Law was becoming her Ex-Daughter-in-Law.

The next time I decide to "run into Wal-Mart real quick," please stab me in the kneecap or entice me in another direction with a batch of cookies.  Thanks.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

I Don't Actually Have Anything to Say

So I'm still recovering from NaNoWriMo which is taking way longer than I thought it would.  Apparently I used up a year's worth of motivation in one month, so now all I want to do is sleep and watch Christmas movies.  And get fat.

Technically, I don't want to get fat but I'm just accepting it's going to happen. It's the holidays.  There are cookies.  I'm eating them.

Also, you should know I'm losing feeling in my right big toe. It started last night at about 1 a.m. and has continued ALL DAY LONG.  I'm actually too freaked out by what this could possibly mean to check the all-knowing WebMD, so if anyone has any idea of what is happening to me, please let me know.  Unless it means I'm dying.  In that case, don't tell me. Cuz I really like surprises.  But if it means I'm dying in the next 24 hours, I think I want to know so I can shove as many cookies in my fat face as possible.

I made my first ever chicken pot pie today.  It's so good you'll want to rub it all over your body.  Or maybe just eat.

Or!  You could do both!

Wow.  I just blogged about what I made for dinner.  This blog is going to some really lame places and I am not pleased. I blame my toe.

I could go on about how I could use my unfeeling toe as an excuse for all kinds of despicable acts, like not showering for six days and running over old ladies in the supermarket, but honestly, shoving toothpicks in my eyes sounds more appealing.

Before I go, I need your advice: which batch of cookies should I make next?  The snowballs with mini chocolate chips or the chocolate cookies with peanut butter and/or white chocolate chips.  Please be sure to answer; the cellulite on my ever-expanding ass depends on it.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

It Is Finished

51, 893 words in 30 days.  I completed NaNoWriMo with four hours to spare.  A full report is coming soon. Or possibly later. I've been up for 27 hours, writing for the last 19.  Normal twatting, blog reading and regularly scheduled programming of awesome sausage blog posting will return shortly, but first I must collapse.

Congrats to all fellow winners!


Wednesday, November 23, 2011

A Watched Turkey Doesn't Thaw

The Day of Thanks is fast approaching and I was all prepared to write a post about all the things I'm thankful for, but then I had a panic attack so now you get this.

I have no idea what "this" will be but I'm pretty sure at the end you will either feel drunk, confused or want to bash your head into a wall.

Good luck.

Why exactly did I have a panic attack?  No good reason other than my brain hates me.

And also?

I lost my list.

The list that had every detail of Thanksgiving Day planned to the very second.

11:00 a.m. chop apples
11:04 a.m. wonder if apples are all the same size
11:07 a.m. panic cuz one apple slice is slightly smaller than the others
11:08 a.m. eat the smaller slice, glancing around nervously hoping that no one will notice.

Okay, so it wasn't exactly like that, but it was my guide to the Best Thanksgiving Evah!!

I prepared it over a month of ago.  Had my menu planned.  My shopping list ready, items listed by category and order of navigation through grocery store.  There was my "A" shopping list and my "B" shopping list.  And my recipes and the order of cooking each dish.  And for how long and in which pan the dish would be cooked.  And in which pan the dish would be served.

On any given day there are 27 dishes in my sink, 14 pairs of shoes scattered throughout the house, bras hanging from the banister and the ceiling fan and the chandeliers, laundry ev-ery-where, but when it comes to a party? I organize the shit out of it.  There is a plan.  A carefully constructed plan and NO ONE CAN DEVIATE FROM IT!

But then I lost the f*cking list and all hell broke lose in my mind.

Also?  For the last day or so I've been all, "hey I should thaw the turkey. i think it's time to start thawing the turkey. look! the turkey's frozen, I'm going to thaw it."  But then?  I just didn't.

So on top of my brain telling me I was a total f*ck up who should just do everyone a favor and throw herself over the balcony, the f*cking turkey is still f*cking frozen.  Like a lot.

You probably expect that that literally sent me over the edge of a cliff, but honestly?  The same thing happened last year and everything was fiiiiiine. 

You know what else happened last year?  I got to experience the joy of yanking a turkey's neck out its ass.

I'm sure you're all saying yeah yeah, we all do that.  big deal.

Yes, but as you were yanking and pulling and twisting and yanking and turning because the turkey's rectal cavity or chest cavity or whatever cavity was still kinda frozen making the neck stuck to the roof of said cavity, think that just maybe you weren't yanking on the turkey's neck, but um...its...er...um...I'm not really sure how to say this so I'm just going to say it really fast  IfeltlikeIwastuggingontheturkey'swiener.  Honestly you guys, I don't know what's more traumatic, yanking a turkey's neck out its ass or a turkey that has a 12 inch wiener.

The husband stood by providing moral support while I screamed "I FEEL LIKE I'M TUGGING ON HIS WIENER!  I FEEL LIKE I'M TUGGING ON HIS WIENER!" and did this weird hoppy squirmy dance thing and my hand literally started to freeze because I WOULD NOT let go of the wiener.  I mean neck.  When I finally pulled it free I wanted to do a victory dance, cry, and throw up all at the same time.

It was not the best of times ya'll.  And guess what?  I'm only hours from doing that again.  Only this time, the husband won't be there.  Which means, TWITTER, that when I started twatting about 12 inch frozen turkey wieners in a slightly hysterical tone, you better f*cking be there.

I apologize if you are offended by the obsessive use of the f*ck word in this post, but before you judge me, you try spending five minutes inside my brain in the throes of a panic attack and tell me if "shuckydarn" will cut it.  I assure you, it won't.

I did manage to find my list tonight and have spent the last three hours forcing my heart to return to a normal steady beat.  The tablecloth and napkins have been ironed.  The table has been set.  The fridge is organized.  The baking dishes and pots are arranged in order of use, the serving plates have been assigned, the kitchen is ready for a flurry of cooking activity and the turkey. is still. frozen.

What's your favorite Thanksgiving dish?  Mine's a bottle of Xanax and a glass of wine.  Gobble Gobble!

 

Monday, November 21, 2011

Failure is Definitely An Option

I know I’m a little late to the party announcing this (as my friend Just Jennifer pointed out), but I’m doing NaNoWriMo.  I’m sure you are all well aware of what this is by now, but in case this is your first time hearing about it – hello, how was life under that rock? – NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month.  It’s where a bunch of us completely deranged, over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived individuals think it’d be a good idea to write a novel in one month.

50,000 words to be exact.  During the month of November.

For those that didn't catch it the first time, that's 50,000 words in thirty days.  Well technically, it’s 30 days, but really it’s more like 29 due to the stuff-your-face-full-of-turkey-until-you-pass-out day, that we in the States refer to as Thanksgiving.  Honestly, who has time to write on Thanksgiving?

Speaking of turkey.  Does anyone actually eat it?  I shove my face so full of mashed potatoes, creamed corn, green bean casserole, buttery rolls – OMG THE ROLLS! – that by the time I get to the turkey I’m all “meh.”

I suspect I’m not the only one who does this.  In fact, I know I’m not, as many people have told me they do the same.  Which means the turkey is more of a decoration, a garnish, much like parsley or those edible flowers which are totally safe to eat but no one actually does.

I’m sure all the turkeys would be delighted to know, right before their heads are lopped off and shoved up their asses for some poor unsuspecting girl, *ahem* me, to retrieve at a later date, that they are giving up their lives to be Table Art.

I believe I have digressed.

I blame NaNoWriMo.

When you’re under the gun to write 50,000 words in a month, you tend to ramble.  It’s diarrhea of the keyboard at its finest.  You’re likely to type any and every word that pops into your semi-lucid mind, not caring whether it makes one iota of sense, advances the story line, or more than likely, digs you deeper into a shit-storm of car chases and alien robots and flame-throwing monkeys and OH. MAH. GAH. WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH TWO PEOPLE WHO ARE INCAPBABLE OF HAVING A CONVERSATION TO TELL EACH OTHER THAT THEY REALLY DO LOVE EACH OTHER! NO REALLY!  THEY DO!

I suppose it’s a good thing my main characters are completely and utterly inept of saying how they really feel or I’d have a 200 word story and fail miserably at my first NaNoWriMo attempt.

(Has anyone counted the superfluous words in the blog post?  We’re 420+ words in and I’d wager that  more than 200 are completely and totally, absolutely without a doubt, unnecessary.  Much like this parenthetical statement.  Wow, if this were part of NaNoWriMo I’d be kicking ass.)

When I boarded the train to Crazy Town, I, like many NoNoWriMo-ers, was afraid I’d never reach 50,000.  I got off to a ridiculous start, writing all through the night, pausing for lunch, writing two more hours and collapsing some time after the 9,000 word mark.  That was all on November 1st.

According to the NaNoWriMo stat counter I was on track to finish in, like, six days.  But I knew better.  I was headed for burn-out.  For staring out the window, and wearing a track in my carpet (if I had carpet) as I lapped the couch, and lighting candles and drinking coffee and then tea and then hey-let’s-try-coffee-again-surely-this-time-it-will-inspire-me.

I plowed through the writer’s block, my fingers banging away at the keys despite having no idea what to write.  It wasn’t that I didn’t know what the next scene was going to be, or the one after that, and after that.  It was that I couldn’t write it.  I had the whole darn story written in my head but when it came to transferring those words onto the screen? Fuhgetaboutit. 

To be totally clichĂ©, pulling the story from my characters has been, at times, like pulling teeth.  At one point, the dialogue I was writing so was terrible I said to the husband, “If I overheard these two people having this conversation I’d punch them both in the face.”

I’ve literally thrown crap on the screen to keep this story moving.  If Beverly Diehl is reading this, she is cringing at my incorrect use of “literally,” but I assure you Beverly, there is actual crap on the screen.  It’s just in the form of poorly constructed sentences and throat-punching inducing dialogue.

I could go on and on about this but I’m sure you all have more interesting things to do like flossing your teeth and cleaning the crumbs from between your couch cushions.  I wrote this post so I have it on record that I am participating in NaNoWriMo.  There’s no backing out now.  Public humiliation is a powerful tool to keep one motivated- I believe it was @AFoggyMama who told me that in the days before NaNoWriMO as we geared up for the What-The-Hell-Were-We-Thinking event.

I suggest you all pre-order your very own copy of my NaNoWriMo novel, which is currently titled 50,000 Words of Unadulterated Garbage.  (That's my title, don't you even think about stealing it.)  Crap like this only comes around once in a lifetime and you don’t want to be left out on the cold bleary streets of Chicago, darkness rapidly approaching with nary a dime to your name.  You best start looking for a bench to spend the night, hopefully one with a roof. And overhead light.  You bend your head and trudge forward against the unrelenting wind.  Yeah, light would be good.  Although likely to prevent you from getting a good night’s sleep, hopefully it will discourage the rapists and thieves.  A good night’s sleep.  Your sardonic laugh is drowned out by the howling wind.  You’re spending the night on the streets of Chicago, like a good night’s sleep is actually a possi…

The hell?  Chicago? My main character’s supposed to be in New York.  When the freak did she get to Chicago?  I didn’t even know she bought a plane ticket!!!

So yeah.  That’s how NaNoWriMo’s going.  More than 35,000 words in and only nine days to finish, my fear now is that I will reach 50,000 words and my MC’s will still be giving each other one-word answers and sucking down coffee to swallow away the words they really want to say.

Are you participating in NaNoWriMo?  How’s it going?


Friday, November 18, 2011

I Did Me Some Learnin

Since I quit my job last month to be a full time writer I've learned many things about myself and life in general.  And what better way to share those things than to link up with Rach at Life Ever Since for Life Lessons!

Let's get started, shall we?

I have learned:


1. That if I don't have to get up and go somewhere every morning I can go days without showering.

2. Just because I have time to do laundry, doesn't mean I will.

3. I can eat an obscene amount of Oreos in one sitting.

4. Without real things to worry about, simple tasks like brushing my teeth seem very overwhelming.

5. Although most of my day consists of going from the bed to the couch to the coffee maker and back to couch, I manage to make a YUGE mess.

6. We do not, in fact, have cleaning fairies who make my mess disappear when I'm not looking. (this lesson was especially heartbreaking to learn.)

7. I have no shame in shuffling down my street at 3 pm in my pajamas to take my dogs out to pee.

8. If I have one meeting a week, I whine about how busy I am.

9. Valerie, from 90210, is a total bitch.

10. Lingo is the worst game show ever invented.

11.  We should totally bring back the $25,000 Pyramid.

12. Pants without an elastic waistband should be illegal.

13. Bras are overrated.

14. The only true worry I have is whether Amy will stay with her fiancĂ© or return to the love of her life in my current WIP. 

15. Life. Is. Good.


Wednesday, November 16, 2011

The Tragedy of All Tragedies

Many of you probably know that I was the victim of a very terrible tragedy.  My blog was recently infected with a virus.

Well technically, my blog wasn't.  But a blog I had linked on my sidebar was flagged for malware and I was guilty by association.

Cue PANIC ATTACK and IMPENDING SENSE OF DOOM.

I was alerted to this very terrible thing by @chemgirljaime and then @jenannhall and I immediately called the husband and had a nervous breakdown.

He was all, "don't worry, it'll be fine.  let's go to lunch."

And I was all, "DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?!!  MY BLOG IS INFECTED!!!"

He picked me up and drove us to a very fine dining establishment called Ruby Tuesday's and I proceeded to have to lose my shit the entire way.

Me: I'm supposed to find Webmaster Tools.  Webmaster Tools.  Where is it??  Great!  I don't have it!  My blog will be infected FOREVER!!!

We were shown to our table and the husband was all, "let's have a nice lunch and worry about it later.  i'm sure we can fix it."

Me: Nooooooooooo.  We have to fix it NOOOOOOOOOOW.  Find Webmaster Tools.

The husband (taking my phone): here it is.

Me: Gimme!

I followed the steps to find out if I was diagnosed with malware.  And guess what? I wasn't.

Happy day, right?  WRONG!  Google chrome was still telling my followers that I was infected.

Me: What am I going to do!!!  What if I'm infected forever?  I will lose all my followers!  I'll have to start blogging all over again.  No one will ever trust me ever again!  My life will be over!  OVER!

The husband: I'm sure we'll fix it.  Don't worry about things that haven't happened yet.

Me: You say that now, but what if the virus travels to your computer?  To your files?  Last night I backed up my blog to the hard drive.  WHAT IF THE WHOLE HARD DRIVE IS INFECTED?!! AAAAAAA!!!

The husband: I'll worry about that when, if, that happens.  And then I'll deal with it.

Me: You won't be so calm when all your stuff is gone.  FOR-EV-ER!!!!

The husband:  You see this?  How you're acting and how I'm acting?  This is the perfect example of two ways to deal with a potentially bad situation.  You can freak out before you really know anything has happened, or you can remain calm until you know the entire situation.

Me: Something really bad has happened!  MY BLOG IS INFECTED!!!!  AND YOU WON'T BE CALM WHEN ALL OF YOUR FILES ARE DESTROYED!!!  FOREVVVERRRR!!!!

The husband: Put your phone away and let's try to enjoy lunch.

Me: We're going to end up homeless!!

The husband: Eat your salad.

Me: We'll be digging through dumpsters for food!!

The husband: Eat your salad.

Me: I'LL NEVER OWN CUTE SHOES AGAIN!!!!

The husband: Eat your...

Me: Fine.

For those of you who like visuals, here's what "enjoying our lunch" looked like.





We then proceeded to have a "discussion" about mayonnaise.  The husband likes to dip his french fries in it, which makes me want to vomit all over the place.

Me: Mayonnaise is a spread, not a dip.

The husband: It's both.

Me: No, ketchup is both.

The husband: Nope, you're wrong again.

Me: Being wrong again implies I was wrong a first time.  Which I wasn't. I'm never wrong.

The husband: Nope.  Wrong again.

Me: BE NICE TO ME OR I WILL THROW MYSELF IN FRONT OF TRAFFIC!!

The husband: Wow, you really know how to shut down a conversation, don't you?

Me: DON'T JUDGE ME!  MY BLOG IS INFECTED!!  CAN WE HAVE OUR CHECK?  WHERE IS OUR CHECK!!!!!

This went on for quite some time.  We got home and the husband calmly backed up his files and then ran away from me.

I turned to the twitter.

Me: HELP MEEEEEE!!  I'M DYYYYINNNNG!

Twats: We are here to help!

And they were.  Not one, not two, not just three of them.  But many amazing twats walked me through this terrible tragedy.   I would no doubt be eating my hair and rocking myself in the corner right now if it weren't for them so I'd just like to talk a moment and acknowledge each one of them.

@chemgirljaime, @jenannhall, @mommy2cents, @blogginglily, @mytimeasmom, @supermomboots, @JessCJared, @troublesometots, @SingleishMom, @analogyqueen, @Thypolar, @onechunkymama, @nearnormalcy, @notbagels

I think that's everyone, but if I missed someone please feel free to yell at me.

As for the rest of you, follow these twats!  They are amazing and are there for you in times of tragedy.  And what can be more tragic than an infected blog?  Absolutely nothing.

******************************************************************
Although this blog is one of sarcasm and should not be taken seriously AT ALL, I would like to point out, especially since this is the season of thanks, that I am EXTREMELY BLESSED and there are very real tragedies in this world happening to people every day, and if this is the worst thing that ever happens to me, I will consider myself a very fortunate girl.

Oh, and if anyone is wondering, all I had to do was remove the link that had been flagged with malware from my blog and the problem was solved. 

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Just Plain Awesome

Twitter is a strange, but fabulous place.  Sometimes you form a rock band - #VaginaShenanigans ! - sometimes you have very stimulating conversations about Disney princesses - love you Belle - and sometimes you challenge a fellow twat to a guest post using a combination of the most exciting words in the English language - which is exactly what happened with the lovely, the talented, the awesome Just Jennifer.

I recently challenged her to write a guest post for me including the words vagina, bacon and legwarmers.  I received regular updates from her via the twatter while she was writing it, and at one point she said she removed part of the vagina and I was all, what??!!! you removed part of your vagina!  that's a little drastic, don't you think?  I mean, I appreciate your commitment to guest posting, but that's really not necessary.

Turns out, she only removed words about vagina, not her actual vagina.
Phew.

So without further ado, let's welcome Just Jennifer.  Please show her some love.  I've put her through a lot.
(Since she wrote this in a conversational way, I've added commentary in blue).


Hello Sarcasm Goddess fans!  I’m a fan too.  Love that lady!  My blog is called Just Jennifer, but SG likes to call me Just Plain Awesome and I kind of love it.

Although I’m not sure why she thinks I’m Just Plain Awesome.  (Cuz you are, duh.)  Yes, she and I have lots of things in common.  We’re both only children, she’s Italian and I’m ¼ Italian, our husbands have the same name and we’ve never had the chicken pox (no lollipops, please).  But I’m just a 37 year old married mom.  Sure, I can be funny sometimes, but nothing like The Sarcasm Goddess.  And while I like to think I’m a decent writer, SG is a REAL writer.

Anyway!  I’ll take it.  I do love praise.

Awhile ago on Twitter SG challenged me to write her a guest post using 3 words: vagina, bacon and legwarmers.

There, I just used them.  That’s it for me.  Thank you very much for reading.


* * * * *

Uh oh.  I think I hear SG having a panic attack.

Yeah, I just threw my computer, I was so pissed.

It’s OK, it’s OK, I’ll write more!

Oops.  Is this why people say I'm dramatic?  Whatever. You owe me a computer.

So when I first discovered For the Love of Writing there was a lot of vagina talk.  At first I was all, seriously?  Vaginas?  Really not a fan of the word.

I mean, check this out:
“The word ‘vagina’ is a Latin word meaning ‘a sheath or scabbard‘, a scabbard into which one might slide and sheath a sword. The ‘sword’ in the case of the anatomic vagina was the penis. Love and war, it would seem, have been connected in the minds of people for millennia.”

Nice.

Yeah, nice.  I am officially traumatized.  No one is sticking a sword in my vagina!

But hey, it’s cool.  I mean I have a vagina (or a puddy or vajayjay like we tend to say around here).  And I’ve used it…for…you know…things.  Oh!  Like having babies.  I’ve popped 2 babies out of mine and lived to tell the tale!

The next post I saw here was all about bacon.  Well, what’s not to love about bacon?  Except for that pesky little artery-clogging detail.  My children like bacon so much they have dubbed themselves “baconaholics”.  Crazy Aunt SG would be so proud!

My heart is swelling with pride.  Or maybe my arteries are just clogged.  Seriously, though, love your little baconaholics!

Bacon really does make everything better.

Don’t argue!  It does.  I can’t say anything bad about bacon.  Except, again, that it’s really not good for you.  I’d venture to add that I actually like turkey bacon, but I’m afraid SG would come through the screen and slap me.

My last assigned topic is legwarmers.  Why have I seen SG tweeting about legwarmers lately?

Uh, cuz they're awesome sausage.

I think it was @SarcasmGoddess @chicktuition and @therobotmommy I saw tweeting about legwarmers one lovely evening.  And I think the conversation turned to bacon and vaginas…..which is probably how I got this guest post assignment.

It’s becoming so clear now.

I grew up in the ‘80s so I know about legwarmers.  They, um, warm the legs.  Yeah, and they are mostly worn by dancers and those doing aerobics.  Neither of which was me.

I’m picturing Olivia Newton John in the “Let’s Get Physical” video.

Loved that video!  So stylish!

Ah videos.  Another ‘80s phenomenon.  Legwarmers and music videos go together!

You know what doesn’t go together?  Legwarmers and the year 2011.

I’m no fashionista (shared that!), but why, why, WHY must these things come back around?  I can handle the leggings and chunky bracelets.  But I’ve never understood the reason for legwarmers and therefore can’t see why they’re making a comeback.  Please feel free to enlighten me.


You know what?  I'm not sure why they're making a comeback either, Just Jennifer.  But, I think you should find out for us.  For your next challenge, you must wear legwarmers for one week, go to five different places and write about your experience.

Alrighty then!  I feel I have successfully completed my task.

Mrs. Goddess?  Do I get an A+?


You, my dear, get an A+ 100 smiley face gold star.  I am so happy to have your Just Plain Awesomeness on my blog.  We all eagerly await your report from your next assignment.


Now everyone go check out Just Jennifer's blog and continue to tell her how awesome she is!  And don't forget to participate in her weekly linky Terrific, Grateful, Important Friday.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The Truth About Zombies

Is there any hotter topic right now than zombies?  I can barely check the twatter, read a blog post or walk down the street without hearing about the zombie apocalypse.  We all know it’s coming.  And we all know it’s going to be bad.  Very bad.

The best way to prepare for the zombie apocalypse is to stock up on guns and flamethrowers.  And ice.  I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna be hella pissed if chaos ensues and blood and brains are everywhere and I can’t get a cold drink.  Everyone knows you can’t fight zombies with a parched pallet, and tepid water just will not do.

Perhaps the absolute most important thing you can do to prepare for the zombie apocalypse is to blog about it.  Obviously.  Blogging is the answer to everything.  Which is why my friend Danielle at MotherhoodTruth  created Zombie Tuesday.    Because we all know when this shit goes down, it’s starting on a Tuesday.

This is first time I’m linking up with Danielle, because honestly?  I’m not a zombie expert.

Shhh.  Don’t tell anyone.  It’s kind of embarrassing.

The only thing I do know is that zombies have big asses, an annoying voice and view marriage as a giant publicity stunt.

Oh wait.  That’s Kim Kardashian.  It’s amazing how easily I get the two confused.  (No disrespect to zombies, of course.)

Perhaps I should do some research.  Be back in a sec…

Okay, so according to the Google these are some things you should know about zombies and the impending apocalypse:
  • Zombies want to eat you
  • Stay in densely populated areas
  • Stock up on food
  • Sacrifice your friends whenever possible
  • Remove a zombie's head from it's body to destroy it
Now this is all very well and good.  But I was shocked that nowhere in my researching did I find reference to the most very dangerous thing about zombies.  I suspect it is because of the great Fear of Retribution should one merely utter their most despicable sin.  But have no fear, Sarcasm Goddess is here!

Truthfully, though?  You should have fear.  Lots of it.

Because the truth is, zombies are all around you.  There is probably a zombie in your home.  Yep.  They can move right in without you even knowing it.  The scariest part is you won’t even recognize it as a zombie.  In fact, it will look a lot like you - if the two of you stand in front of a mirror, you won't even know who's who - and it will sound just like you.

That’s right, no low moaning braaaaiiiiins.

In fact, its favorite thing to moan is Orrrrrrrreooooos.

And you’ll be like, “No zombie, I just had 37 Oreos.  I cannot eat any more.”

And they’ll be like, “Moooooorrreee.”

You’ll try to ignore it.  I’m going to do laundry, you decide.  But the zombie, who sounds so much like you it’s eerie, suggests that you sit on the couch.  Maybe check the twitter.  For just a minute or two.  Or possibly an hour.  Or twelve.

And you’re like, “No zombie, I must do the laundry.”

And the zombie’s like, “Twiiiiiiiittterrrr.”

And so you give in.

Five minutes hours later, you decide you should change out of your pajamas and put some real clothes on. Maybe even some makeup.  You look at the zombie and suggest that maybe she should also put on some real clothes and makeup.

But the zombie tells you no.

You try to argue that’s is three in the afternoon, but she's all, “pajaaaaaaaaaamaaaaaas.”

You agree to stay in your pajamas but tell the zombie you’re at least going to clean the house.

“Noooooooo,” she says.

“But it's November 8th and the Halloween decorations are still up,” you argue.

Somehow the zombie convinces you to NOT put away the Halloween decorations and eat a pound of bacon instead, some of which was left on the counter over-night.  You decide that it’s probably not a good idea to eat it.  Because you are smart.

But the zombie tries to tell you to eat it and you’re like, “Ever heard of food poisoning?”

“Baaaaaaaaaacooooooon.”

“Fine!”

And so you eat some.  But just a little.  And then you consult the internets to see how long you have until your ass explodes from dysentery or e coli or something equally sexy.

The zombie, in that voice that sounds just like yours, tries to convince you it’s not a big deal.  Tries to get you to eat more until you finally muster up the courage to throw it away, run from the room and hide under the covers…Which is exactly where the zombie wanted you to end up.

“Take a naaaaaaaaaap.  Watch a moooooovie.  Grocery shopping?  Who caaaaarrrres.”

Do you see how dangerous the zombie is?  Before you realize it your house is a mess, you’re smelling your dirty laundry to find something semi-clean to wear, your ass has grown six sizes from Oreo consumption and you’re digging through the trash for rotten bacon.

Wait, what?  Okay maybe not that last one. 

But the rest?  Completely true.  Zombies make you lazy.  Zombies make you fat.  Zombies make you smelly.  Zombies make you completely, totally, utterly unproductive.

The truth is, the zombie apocalypse has already started.

So, how many of you have a zombie living in your house?



Thursday, November 3, 2011

And Then!... I Don't Know What Happens Next. I Have Writer's Block.

Have you guys met my friend Elise aka @NoBagels?  She blogs at Things That Are Not Bagels.  She's hilarious, and I suspect a spy, even though she claims otherwise, because her name is not really Elise.  Anyway, if you don't know her you should.  Because she saved my life once.

True story.  I was about to be eaten my an alligator and she twatted me, which is to say she sent me a tweet.  How exactly did that save my life?  Well you see I was dreaming about being eaten my an alligator.  Now you may argue she didn't save my life because it was only a dream.  But not so.  See alligators are just like Freddy Krueger.  If they kill you in your sleep, they kill you in real life.  This is basic science.

She's also the smartest person in the history of persons.

Why?  Well...

I sent a tweet to @jenannhall of Just Jennifer saying I had writer's block and wondered if she had any advice.  She responded by asking whether I'd had anything remotely healthy in the last several days.  I struggled to make the connection, but she's a mom and they worry about things like that.

Well @notbagels jumped in and said that in order to cure writer's block I should do the following:

1. Listen to 4 "story" country songs
2. Write 1500 words about one of them
3. Drink wine
4. Return to work

I was dubious about the 1500 words, because HELLO I can't even manage to write one, but she did save my life, so I figured she knew what she was talking about.  So I took her advice.  However, I combined steps one and three.  I figure the sooner wine is involved (no matter what the situation) the better.

The first song I listened to was You and Tequila Make Me Crazy by Kenny Chesney featuring Grace Potter.

At first I was super confused.  I was all, "the husband?  I didn't know you wrote songs."

You want to know what phrase, besides "I love you" the husband says to me most often?

"You drive me crazy."

Aww, thanks honey.  You make me crazy too.

While I found this song to be super sweet - it was a love song from the husband to me, after all - it wasn't exactly a "story" song as @notbagels instructed.

I knew just the song I needed: Don't Take the Girl by Tim McGraw.

Not only is it a good story song, it is the song that made people think I was a lesbian.

Perhaps I should explain.

Which I will do.

But first let's listen to the song.

Johhny's daddy was taking him fishing
When he was eight years old
A little girl came through the front gate
holding a fishing pole.

His dad looked down and smiled
said we can't leave her behind
Son I know you don't want her to go
But some day you'll change your mind

No Dad!  Don't do it!  Leave her behind!  Trust me on this.  This is only going to end badly.

And Johnny said
Take Jimmy Johnson

The racecar driver? Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's not going to go, but nice try Johnny.

Take Tommy Thompson

Yes! Great idea Johnny.  Take him.  Even though he's a little jerk who puts frogs in Mrs. Gillicutty's desk drawer.

Take my best friend Bo.

He's not that great of a friend Johnny, but yes!  Take him!  Anyone's better than that blonde haired blue eyed Sally with the tough exterior and the sweet heart.  She's only eight but wow can she cook a mean apple pie.  And her skin is so soft.  Not that you should be touching her.  You're eight years old, Johnny.  For crying out loud child, get your act together.

I wanted to say " get your shit together" but it seems wrong, somehow, to curse at an eight year old.  Good call, me.

Take anybody that you want, as long as she don't go.
Take any boy in the world, Daddy please...
Don't take the girl

If only your father had listened to you Johnny.
You know that saying, father knows best?
Not true, Johnny.  Not true.

Same old boy, same sweet girl
Ten years down the road
He held her tight and kissed her lips
in front of the picture show

Stranger came and pulled a gun
Grabbed her by the arm
Said if you do what I tell you to
There won't be any harm


Run Johnny run!  Leave the bitch behind!

And Johnny said,
Take my money, take my wallet
Take my credit card

Really Johnny?  Is she worth that twenty-seven fifty you have in your wallet?  I highly doubt it.

Here's the watch that my Grandpa gave me.

No Johnny!  Not the watch! Your Grandpa gave it to your Grandma when he left to fight the Nazi's.  It was his promise to her that he'd come back.  She'd lay awake at night listening to the tick of the hands.  As long as it ticked, she knew his heart was still beating.

Keep the watch Johnny!  Give up the girl!

Here's the key to my car.
Mister give it a whirl, but please...
don't take the girl

Seriously?  It's a 1957 corvette.  You don't know it now, but one day that will be a classic.  Honestly, have you seen the red leather interior?  Men today would give up their left testicle for that car and you're willing to give it up for some broad with a nice rack?

Priorities Johnny!

Same old boy, same sweet girl
Five years down the road
There's going to be a little one
And she says it's time to go.

Way to knock her up there, champ.

Doctor says the baby's fine
But you'll have to leave
Cause his momma's fading fast

What kind of jerk doctor doesn't let you stay to say goodbye?  She's the love of his life, doctor!

Sheesh.  Some people just don't understand love.

And Johnny hit his knees and then he prayed
Take the very breath you gave me
Take the heart from my chest
I'll gladly take her place if you let me
Make this my last request
Take me out of this world
God please...
Don't take the girl.

Great.  Are you happy Johnny?  I'm freaking crying over here.  Tears.  Streaming down my face.  You're lucky I'm not wearing mascara.

Johnny's daddy was taking him fishing
When he was eight years old.

Yeah yeah.  We know how that ends.  Thanks, Johnny's dad.  Thanks a whole freaking lot.

So why did this story make people think I was a lesbian?

Well in college, my friend A and I were listening to it while lying in her small twin bed and when the song was over we turned and just looked at each other.  We were devastated!  But it was at that moment one of her hallmates came in.  To see us gazing at each other.  She slowly backed out of the room.

Rumors started to swirl after that.

But we showed them!  We dragged every girl into my friend's dorm room and made them listen to this song.  There were tears everywhere.

College was fun.

I'm not sure if I've reached 1500 words yet, but I'm definitely drunk.  And sorta sad... which is exactly the emotion of my main character in my current work in progress.

Off to go write!

Thanks Elise aka @notbagels.  You've saved me again!

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Terror Has A New Face

See this face?
This is the face of evil.

Do not let the wide eyes fool you into believing he’s innocent.  And the gray beard does not mean he is old and feeble.

Quite the contrary.  He is agile and spry.  And quite the conniving little bastard. 

I mean that in the nicest was possible, even though I shouldn’t since the little shit is constantly plotting the demise of me and the husband.

The Guinness Book of World Records may call the honey badger the most fearless animal in all the animal kingdom, but that’s only because they haven’t met The Cody.

Talk about not giving a shit.

Oh, you’re lying on the couch trying to watch a movie?  The Cody doesn’t give a shit.  He’s going to jump directly on your face.

Oh, you just put a fresh pillow case on your pillow?  The Cody doesn’t give a shit.  He’s going to sit his ass directly where your eye will be when you snuggle down into your sheets.  It’s called pink eye, bitch!

Not convinced he’s that evil?

Look what he did to the husband awhile back.






And that was when The Cody was excited to see him.

Recently, The Cody managed to neutralize both the husband and me in a matter of seconds.  We were taking him and my other dog, Sweet Riley out for a walk – that’s right, The Cody doesn’t give a shit about biting the hand that feeds him and takes him out to pee.  But then, if you had the power to obliterate someone four to seven times your body weight by simply walking, would you give a shit?  Probably not.

The sun was shining, but there was a breeze, finally making the temperature cooler than stroke inducing.  The birds were chirping, the butterflies were dancing, the tree branches swayed happily, and a whole bunch of other stuff that sounds lovely but didn’t actually happen.

We had gotten about three steps from our door and were standing in the middle of the road.  The husband was holding the dogs, Sweet Riley in his left hand, The Cody in his right.  I was standing on the husband’s right side.  The Cody had lagged behind us to pee on an exposed electrical wire, or something.

Suddenly he comes dashing forward, flying in front of us.

I immediately panic.  Leash burn.  We have those retractable leashes, and if you’ve ever had any experience with one of those slicing across your skin while the animal at the other end of the leash runs at breakneck speed, you know it hurts like a mother.

In college, the leash sliced across the back of my knee – you know, where your leg bends? – and I vowed NEVER AGAIN! would I fall victim to The Leash.

So The Cody is flying forward, running diagonally which means the leash is in direct position rip into my outer thigh.  I immediately drop down, squatting in the middle of the road.  The husband does the same seconds later, which I assume is because he too fears The Leash.

The Cody decides his reign of terror is not yet complete and decides to dart forward again, causing the husband’s arm to lurch forward.  His arms are above my head and when his arm jerks so does his hand (duh) holding the leash, causing it to smack directly into my face, right above the eye.

I shoot up, my hand flying to my eye, which I’m confident has been split open.  I’m waiting for warm blood to start running between my fingers. 

I start toward the house.  “Are you okay?” the husband calls out.

“No!  I got hit in the face!”

Now, had I not been in the throes of my own pain, I might have heard the agony in the husband’s voice.  I might have turned around and seen him bent over, hobbling toward the house.

I go inside and look in the mirror. Shockingly there is no cut, no blood, no shattered bone.  I glance out of the corner of my eye and I swear I see a look of disappointment flash across The Cody’s face before returning to its normal “who me?” expression.

“Do you know what happened?” the husband asked, back inside the house too.

“Uh, yeah. I got hit in the face with the leash.”

“Yeah, but do you know why?”

I looked at The Cody.  “Because that dog is a jerk and is trying to kill me.”

As it turns out, The Cody’s plan was even more devious that I thought.  You see, as I fell to me knees trying to escape The Leash, my arm swung backward – as The Cody knew it would do – and made direct contact with the husband’s balls.  Which was why he had also dropped to his knees.

So there the two of us were, bent over in the middle of the street with looks of agony on our faces.  (And I wonder why my neighbors think we’re strange.)

Do you believe me now?  The Cody is pure evil.  The husband and I have no doubt that if we ever became incapacitated and are lying helplessly on the floor of our house, The Cody wouldn’t wait for us to die before ripping the flesh from our skin, helping himself to a tasty little snack.

 Who me?



Please note that I love my pups very very much, like an insane amount -yes even evil Cody - so please refrain from posting any animal hating comments...or I will have The Cody cut you with his talons.  Just kidding.  Kind of.

Monday, October 31, 2011

Delirium

Before we get to today's post I want to say a YUGE giant welcome and thank you to all my new followers!!!  It means so much to me that you read my crazy insanity and one day I'll get my act together and get a fancy schmancy comment system thingy and comment and interact with all you awesome twats.

Secondly, I know I haven't been around here much and I haven't been visiting your blogs and I really appreciate that you all are still stopping by when I do post and leave comments.  Comments make me pee, but in that awesome, feel the warmth spread kind of way, not in that did-you-just-pee-your-pants-in-public-again-what-is-wrong-with-you kind of way.

Thirdly, my story The Playground Knight, which I linked up with Romantic Friday Writers, was selected as the Featured Writer which means so so much to me!  All the stories and writer's are so incredible and I'm honored to be selected!

And now, it's time for the post.  You should be warned that I wrote this a few days ago at the height of delirium.  I'd had about two hours sleep coming off of about seven hours sleep total over the last four days.  I passed out shortly after, re-read it and was all the hell?  I can't post this.  But guess what today is?  Halloweeeeeeen!  And if there's one day a year it's okay to be a complete psycho, it's Halloween, so here you go.




So, I have news.

Raise your hand if you think I’m pregnant!

I’m not.  At least I don’t think so.  I guess you never know when the stork’s going to come and drop a baby in your head and then your butt will fall off and you’ll have to dig around and find your baby.

I’ll give you one billion dollars if you can name that movie.  Or maybe just a hug.  Either way your life will be changed forever.

So this news I have?  I meant to tell you guys like two weeks ago, but then I freaked out and didn’t share it cuz I had given myself a deadline, or a target date, or something, for which to share this epic news. Me and deadlines?  Not so much.  Except for this current deadline, which is actually working out quite well.  Of course now that I said that, I’ve totally screwed myself.  Nice going, me.

Confused?  Don’t worry, you’re just delirious.  It’s no wonder, existing on wings and Oreos and coffee and two hours sleep.

Oh wait, that’s me.

Did this post have a point?  Seriously, you guys, you should think things through before you start writing.  Maybe make an outline or something.  How irresponsible of you to just sit down at your computer and start typing.  Honestly.  People come here for relationship advice, to seek the answers to life’s greatest mysteries, to get sound medical advice (seriously stop scratching it and go to a doctor).  Blogging saves lives.  You can’t just go into it all, hey-I’ll-just-write-the-first-thing-that-pops-into-my-head.

Wait…

OMG you guys.  Is it just me or is this post out of control?

It’s not my fault (of course not, I try to never take responsibilities for my irresponsibleness).  Did I mention I am running on no sleep?  And chicken wings.  And Oreos.  Lots of Oreos.  And coffee.

P.S. my body hates me.

And while that is colossal news, it is not THE NEWS that I wanted to share with you.

Are you ready?

Hello?

Is anyone still here?

Stop trying to hide; I will always find you.

Somewhere, the husband is calling a mental hospital to see how quickly he can have me committed. 

Phst.  He thinks I’m crazy?  He’s the one who chose to marry this.

Shhh.  Do you hear that?  That’s the sound of people unfollowing me.

*Tears*

Okay, are you guys finally ready to hear my news?

Seriously, it's like you forgot to take your ADD meds today.

Here goes…

I quit my job.

To be a full-time writer.

Cuz clearly I have mad skillz and important things to say.

Clearly.

Did I mention I’m an unpaid full-time writer?  That’s right.  I was all, steady paycheck?  Psht.  Who needs it?  Homelessness is fun!

Seriously though, the husband has a job.  And I’m…creative.  I know you all enjoy reading this blog for free, but I know you’d love it even more if you were paying to read it. 

Okay, probably not.

Which is why I’ve hacked into all your back accounts and set up a direct deposit of fifty dollars a month from your account to mine.

Okay, fine.  I didn't do that.  It’s what I would have done, but apparently the government frowns upon that.  I know, right?  This is America, national government.  Stay out of our lives.  MY BODY MY CHOICE!

Or something.

Everyone knows I’m totally kidding about the hacking thing, right?  Got that CIA, or FBI, or AARP or whoever it is in charge of arresting people for that stuff?  It was a joke.  And a rather funny one, might I add.

Okay, fine.  It wasn’t funny and I shouldn’t have said it.  But I’m not sorry I did.  It’s called freedom of speech and you can’t take that away.  I’m pretty sure Toby Keith said that.  Or maybe not.  Either way, he likes shoving boots up people’s asses.

So yeah.  I’m a full-time writer now.

The written word’s about to get a whole lot sweeter more poetic more psychotic.

This post is one giant pile of verbal, er, written, diarrhea.  I do not have any opinions on the government or the current administration on anything resembling any sort of political thought whatsoever.  I did not attempt to hack into your or anyone else’s bank account and I never will.  You should pretty much disregard everything in this post.  Except for the part about me being a full-time writer.  That’s totally true.


So, are you sufficiently terrified?  Me.  Too.

Happy Halloween!

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

If Only I Had Said What I Wanted...

Hey guess what?  I have a blog.  I know. It was a shock to me too.

I know you're all expecting something awesome, and witty and funny, but today, all I have is marriage advice.

I shouldn't say it like that.  "All I have" makes it sound like you're getting something sub-par, less than stellar, lame.  But if you've read the marriage advice I've given in the past, you know it is anything but lame.  It is stupendous.  And relationship saving.  You're welcome.

We all know it takes a lot of things to make a marriage work,  but what is the most important component to a successful marriage?  That's right.  Wine.  Communication.

We know about the importance of using "I" versus "you" statements, and being a good listener, and finding ways to compromise, and counting to ten before you lose your shit over the dirty socks that were left in the middle of the living room floor.  Again.

We work really really hard to do all of these things, but sometimes, communication still breaks down.

And that's okay.  As long as you recognize it and try to learn from it.

Take for example, a recent drive-thru experience the husband and I had.   Now, neither one of us is a big fan of fast food.  But sometimes, on road trips, it is necessary.  Especially if you're starting out at 8:00 a.m. and you were up till to 2:00 a.m. talking with your super fabulous friend J and you don't seriously expect me to get up right now I just went to sleep omg someone give me coffee before I stab you in the face.

Also?  We love us some McDonald's breakfast.

Okay, so technically I'm the only who wants to roll around in a pile of Egg McMuffins while simultaneously eating their cheesy, eggy, Canadian bacony goodness.

But I've digressed.

We were in the drive-thru and the husband was placing the order.

Guy: You can place your order whenever you're ready.

Me: I want a number one with a coffee and I also want a bottled water.

The husband: I'll have a number one with a water instead of a coffee.

Me: No, I want the coffee.  And the water.

The husband: Okay, we'll have a number one with the coffee and a bottled water.

Guy: You want two bottles of water?

The husband: No, one.

This is going well.

Guy: Okay.  How many cream and sugar?

Me: A lot!

The husband: A lot.

Me: Four creams four sugars, four creams four sugars, four creams four sugars!

The husband: *silence*

Guy: Okay, that'll be $5.

Me: Why didn't you say four creams four sugars?

The husband (throwing his hands up): Cuz I don't know what you want!

Now at first I was thinking  are you serious?  You don't know what I want?

But then I realized I had committed the number one sin of being a poor communicator: Expecting the other person to be a mind reader.

How often have you gotten upset over your spouse/fiance/significant other not doing exactly what you asked?  I'm guessing a time or twelve.  But did you ever stop and ask yourself, am I clearly expressing my wants/needs?

It's difficult to take a good hard look in the mirror and realize it's you who may be to blame.

But I didn't need a mirror to realize I was at fault this time.

Let's take another look at the conversation.  The husband asked me how many creams and sugars I wanted, and I responded "a lot."  Now "a lot" can mean different things to different people.  To some "a lot" may be two, to others it may be twelve. To me, it is four.

But how was the husband supposed to know that unless I told him?  He may be many things, but he is not a mind reader.  What I should have said is, "I want four creams four sugars."

Wait...

Okay, I said it.  But maybe he didn't hear me.  There was a lot of other noise that could have distracted him, like wind, and...stuff.

I shouldn't have just assumed he heard.  I should have said it again: four creams four sugars, four creams four sugars.

Wait...

Okay, okay.  So I said it twice.  Ladies, since when has your man ever heard you the first two times you said something? 

Exactly.

Everyone knows third times a charm.

If only I had said, "Four creams four sugars, four creams four sugars, four creams four sugars!"

Wait...

Yeah, I give up.

Whatever. Communication is overrated.  Someone pass the wine.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Oh The Horror!

Today I'm participating in Write On Edge's Red Writing Hood prompt: Compose a post in the form of a text - 160 characters.  Your text must elicit or express fear.

Here goes... 

For weeks I’ve watched your daughter. She shouldn't have done that and now she must pay.

I'll be waiting when she leaves class.

I hope you've said goodbye.


The first time I read the prompt I didn't realize it had to be a TEXT and wrote something else which I wanted to share cuz I have to say it's been rather fun, in a twisted sort of way, to explore the dark side...
 
He watched.
 
He waited.
 
And when the time was right, he stepped from the shadows and slit her pretty little throat.


Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood

Friday, October 14, 2011

The Playground Knight

First, I want to thank all of you for your excitement and congratulations and amazing comments on my I Am. Number Seventy-One post.  You all are so so amazing and it truly means the world that you were so happy for me.

Now, for a little fiction.  I'm linking up with the Romantic Friday Writers for their "First Love" prompt.  This isn't exactly the most romantic short story ever written, but there is the hope of future romance.  Be sure to check out the other stories!



The Playground Knight 

She pulled off the road and put the car in park.  Five minutes.  That’s all she needed before she went home.  She took a deep breath and told herself not to cry, but the tears defied her and sprung to her eyes.  Defeated, she dropped her head in her hands and let the sobs overtake her.

It felt good to let the dam break, but she needed to stop before her eyes became puffy.  He couldn’t know she’d been crying.
 
Kristy looked in the visor mirror to wipe her eyes, but something outside the window caught her eye.  
 
She’d parked in front of a playground where a young boy was pushing a little girl on a swing.
 
Suddenly, she was transported back twenty-five years to the playground at Parker Elementary.
 
Tommy Wilkerson liked to play with bugs.  And lizards.  And would catch frogs and hide them in Mrs. Goldman’s desk drawer.  He was always filthy, mud on his shirt, sand in his hair, dirt on his face.  She never paid him much attention; he was a boy, and an icky one at that.
 
Billy Wilder was a bully.  He mostly picked on the other boys, but one day he decided to target her.  He tripped her on the way to the swings, getting her favorite yellow dress dirty.  Before the tears could spring to her eyes, Tommy ran over and pushed Billy down.
 
“Don’t you know you’re not supposta be mean to girls?”
 
From that day forward, Tommy was no longer an icky boy.  He was a hero.  She loved him ardently all through elementary and middle school.  She cried hot tears in her pillow for six weeks when he moved away freshman year. 
 
Breaking away from the past, Kristy looked down at the gold band on her finger.  She’d dated a lot of guys since the day she’d been rescued on the playground, but in the end she didn’t marry the knight.  She married the troll under the bridge.  Like Billy, Ray Thatcher didn’t know you’re not supposed to be mean to girls, as evidenced by the bruises beneath her shirt.
 
He was waiting for her to come home with the damn fixins for the damn chili like he’d asked her the first damn time and if she didn’t hurry, more bruises would follow.
 
Kristy shifted into drive and looked at the playground one last time.  The children were running to the slide. The little girl tripped.  The boy stopped, held out his hand and helped her to her feet.
 
Kristy put her foot on the gas, but instead of driving forward, she made a u-turn.  She wasn’t sure of the direction she was headed, but she knew where she was going - to find Tommy Wilkerson, her first love.