Monday, October 31, 2011


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.


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?


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.


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.


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."


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.


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


Everyone knows third times a charm.

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


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.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Make It Stop!

You know those people in life who know stuff about everything?  And they're constantly telling you about all that they know, and it's constant, as in ALL.  THE.  TIME.  The knowing and the telling and more knowing about everything, constantly telling and knowing and more telling and telling and never shutting up about the knowing.  And you're like there's no way that's true and even if it is I don't care and just shut up already and now you're just making shit up because I know for a fact that's a lie and OMG if you don't shut up I'm going to shove my dirty sock in your mouth except I don't wear socks so maybe I'll just shove my foot in your mouth except ew I don't want your spit all over me, and dude what is up with your tongue, seriously stop doing that, it's disgusting, are you part reptile?  I wish you were all reptile so you couldn't talk and tell me all about all the things you know and seriously can't you see that I'm busy and wow, you are seriously still talking.



Is it just me or I am nauseous from all your talking?

Oh, and remember the time you told them you're going to a wedding and they asked where it was and you said it's 2 hours north, east or west of, but DEFINITELY NOT south, of Atlanta.  And then they asked what the groom does for a living and you said he has a marketing job in D.C. and then they replied, "oh, well then the wedding will be south of Atlanta."

And at first you were all, "did you not hear me say that I was absolutely positive the wedding WAS NOT south of Atlanta?"  But then, thankfully, before you looked like a total idiot, you remembered that, according to the Rules of Wedding Planning, there is a direct correlation between the groom's occupation and the city in which the wedding is held, so of course the wedding is south of Atlanta.

Unfortunately, though, the bride and groom seemed to have forgotten this rule, and low and behold the wedding was actually north of Atlanta.  A debacle ensued as you tried to convince the about-to-be-newlyweds that they are getting married in the wrong city.  You even tried to get your know-it-all friend on the phone to convince them otherwise, but strangely they wanted no part of it.

Honestly, what were the bride and groom thinking?  Don't they know what a wealth of information they are missing out on?

You try to thank the know-it-all for reminding you of such an important rule so you can pass it on to other about-to-be married friends so they won't make the same mistake as the aforementioned bride and groom, but the know-it-all has already moved on to telling you about even more things that they know!

Hmm, really?  $100,000 WOW.  No way!  He said that?  Really?  Mmm... hmmm, the hole was that big, eh? Mmm, yeah, hold on, I'm looking for a sharp instrument....mmm, really, the Queen of England, no way...hmmm, butter knife could work... Turtles?  You don't say.  Gee golly that's amazing....hmmm...a pencil, yeah that's much  better.  Oh please keep talking and don't mind me while I shove these very sharp pencils in my ear.  You may want to stand back though, there's probably going to be blood.

Before I enter a permanent world of silence, let me just say, I'm so glad we've had this talk.  No really, I am.  I don't know how I've lived my entire life without knowing such copious amounts of utter bullshit.

Thank you.  No really, thank you, for so richly enriching my life.

Seriously.  You.  Are.  The.  Best.

But you already knew that, didn't you?

I apologize if you found this post difficult to follow.  Just know that there are people who know stuff...about everything.  And they will tell you about it...constantly.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

I Am. Number Seventy-One.

 I was lucky I found what I wanted to do early in life.
Steve Jobs

Three Dog Night sang 1 is the loneliest number.

Moms of toddlers call the 2's terrible.

Everyone knows 3's a crowd.

And 71?  Well I don't think 71's ever meant anything...UNTIL TODAY!

Guess what?  Guess what guess what guess what?!!


Hold on, let me catch my breath and I'll tell you.  I am sooo excited!

Okay, many many months ago I entered the Writer's Digest Writing Contest.  It was my first contest and wow did I pick a big one!  Doing this was a YUGE deal for me, not only because OMG you guys it's the Writer's Digest Writing Contest, but it was officially the first time I was telling people to judge me.  Or rather, my writing.  Which is much scarier than being personally judged.

Any writer will tell you (as all you bloggers out there know) that writing something, creating something, and putting yourself out there is A BIG DEAL.  It can be exciting, and liberating, and cathartic.  And?  It can be freaking scary.  Because once you put your work out there for people, it becomes theirs.  Theirs to embrace, to love, to share.  Theirs to scoff, to hate, to criticize.  To reject.


That's exactly what I was expecting to get when I entered the contest.

And I was (relatively) okay with that.  It was my first contest.  All writers must go through rejection.  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  You don't know until you try.  The first time's the hardest.  It will make me stronger.

All those it'll-be-okay-don't-have-a-nervous-breakdown-when-you-get-rejected thoughts have been running through my head for months.

I submitted three entries, one short story and two personal essay/memoirs.

I wasn't hoping for the Grand Prize - the story that would be awarded the best out of all the categories combined.  I wasn't hoping for first prize in my category.  I wasn't even hoping for the top three.  Or the top ten.

All I wanted was one of my stories to be in the top 100.  Number 100 would have been just fine with me. It would have been more than fine.  Fan-freaking-tastic is what it would have been.

Why was I wishing for the top 100?

Because the top 100 story winners in each category have their name published on and in a special competition edition.

All I wanted, all I hoped for, was to have my name appear on that list.

I hoped, but I braced for rejection.

I knew the top award recipients would be notified in October.  Any day now, I'd be rejected.

And then today I went to grab lunch.  While I waited for my order to be ready I checked my email.  Any new blog comments?

No blog comments.  But there IT was.  The email.  From Writer's Digest.

I sucked in my breath.  It's okay, I reassured myself.

Dear (me):
One of my most enjoyable tasks as editor of Writer’s Digest is passing along good news to writers. This is one of those fun occasions. It is my pleasure to tell you that your entry This Was A Bad Idea, has been awarded 71 place in Memoirs/Personal Essay category of the 80th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition! We will mail your...


What?  Did that say 71?  It couldn't have.  71 is in the top 100.  I must have read it wrong.  Let me try again.

One of my most enjoyable tasks as editor of Writer’s Digest is passing along good news to writers. This is one of those fun occasions. It is my pleasure to tell you that your entry This Was A Bad Idea, has been awarded 71 place in Memoirs/Personal Essay...

It says 71.


I didn't scream.  I didn't stand on my chair.  I didn't run around the restaurant and kiss babies and give out high-fives.  I just sat.  Stunned.


I got seventy-one.


They called my name.  My food was ready.  I smiled.  I grabbed my to-go order with the biggest smile on my face.  The Crisper's lady gave me a look.  It started to hit me.  Seventy-one!  I wanted to shout.

OMG OMG OMG!!!  I did it!   I did it!  I made the top 100!  My name will be on the list!

Do you guys know what my new favorite number is?

Seventy-one! Beautiful, glorious 71!

In high school, if I got a 71 on a test it was an epic fail.  But 71 in the Writer's Digest Writing Contest?  The most perfect, amazing number there is.

Seventy-one may seem like no big deal to some. It may seem insignificant, not worth mentioning, or writing about, or touting as a success.  And that's okay, because to me?  It is exactly what I wanted.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  I did it, you guys!

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Going to the Chapel...

I, Sarcasm Goddess, take you iPhone to drop down stairs

and lose in my purse,

to use as my alarm clock (even though you decide not to work on really important meeting days)

and stay connected to the twatter,

to sling birds that are oh so angry

and direct me to the nearest purveyor of bacon,

to get me lost in strange cities (really? you think I should drive down this creepy dirt road to nowhere, and by "nowhere" I mean "barn filled with kidnappers, cannibals and axe murderers?")

and not remind me on road trips that Chick Fil A is closed on Sundays (causing me to drive 40 miles out of the way in order to NOT get one of their delicious sandwiches - isn't there an app for that? honestly),

to obsessively check my email for blog comments (seriously, no new comments?  it's been 30 seconds since I last checked. you must be malfunctioning again),

to keep me entertained while I wait in the car for the husband to go into Panera to buy me a bagel cuz I'm wearing shorts and I haven't shaved my legs in days and I'm too hairy to be in polite company,


 if you autocorrect "hell" to "he'll"

and "shit" to "shut" or "shot"

and "twat" to "tears" or "teat" or "test"


I will shove your face down a toilet or throw your ass in the wash.

This is my solemn vow.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Tis the Season to Crap Your Pants...or the Bed

You guys know Nightmare on Elm Street right?  The horror movie where Freddy Krueger invades your dreams and tries to kill you. The scary part, aside from those crazy-ass fingernails, is that if you die in your dream, you die in real life.

Well, I had my very own version of Nightmare on Elm Street two nights ago, except I wasn't asleep.  I was awake and thought I was going to die.  I'm not a death expert or anything, but I'm pretty sure if you die when you're awake, you die in real life.  So naturally, I was effing terrified.

The star of this movie was not Freddy Krueger, it was The Husband.

I've told you how the husband often talks in his sleep, tries to warn you that "they" are on the ceiling, gets irritated when things aren't properly explained, molests bedroom furniture.  All normal sleep behavior of your average adult, which, really, is hardly worth mentioning.  I mean seriously, making out with a lamp?  Who doesn't do that?

But the other night, the husband took things to a whole new level.  Maybe he was just trying to get into the spirit of the upcoming ghosts and goblins holiday, but I wish he'd leave the scary  movie acting to the professionals.

As usual, the husband fell asleep hours before I did.  I finally turned off the t.v. around 2 a.m. after my brain could no longer handle the intellectual stimulation of The Jersey Shore.

As soon as I turned off the t.v. the husband started laughing.  Now you should know the husband's laugh is one of the greatest sounds ever.  Usually.  It's hard to describe, exactly, but it's one of those contagious laughs that makes you want to laugh even if you don't know what he's laughing at.  Simply put, his laugh is funny, and happy and makes birds sing and rainbows appear out of nowhere.  Usually.

But the other night?  It.  Was.  Evil.

Like a clown.  A really evil clown.  I have never heard anything so terrifying in my life.  Not even in the most scary movie I have ever seen, which quite honestly is not very scary because scary movies make me crap my pants.  And while I'm generally okay with pissing myself on the daily, I draw the line at crapping.  It's called standards, people.

I didn't even ask the husband what he was laughing at or try to wake him up.  I just froze in terror.  I assumed he had been possessed by an evil clown, probably Stephen King's It, and I did not want to attract his attention.

I was still as I could be, hardly breathing, my heart thundering in my ears.


I felt his weight shift.  I could not see him in the dark, but I knew he was leaning over the bed.  Reaching for something.


I heard the rustling of paper.  Maybe it was a candy wrapper.  Or one of the four thousand receipts on his nightstand.  Or perhaps it was notebook paper.  Really though, the type of paper was inconsequential because there was no doubt in my mind he was fashioning it into a shiv.

Or worse...

The husband and I keep so much crap on on bedside tables there's enough material there to make a machete, or even a machine gun, or one of those army tanks with the big long canon looking arm thingies.  He could have been making a whole arsenal of weapons...




I couldn't take it anymore.  If I was going to die I was going to face death head on.

Me: What are you doing?!

The husband: Playing with your fish

Me: My fish?

The husband: You gomphph fish.

Me: My go fish?

The husband: Your gold fish.

Me: What gold fish?

The husband (exasperated): Never mind.

Of course! Gold fish!

Golly did I feel silly.  The husband was just playing with our gold fish.  I mean, we don't have a gold fish, or any kind of fish for that matter, but of course he was playing with it. After all, fish are one of the most playful pets one can have.

Normally, I would have kept talking to the husband to see what other ridiculous things I could get him to say.

But I wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't just "playing with my gold fish" to entice a larger, more dangerous fish...

Like Jaws.

Can I come sleep at your house?

In case anyone is wondering, the husband would NEVER hurt me.  While I was slightly terrified at the time, it is NOT because I thought the husband was actually going to hurt me, not in his sleep, awake, accidentally or on purpose.  Maybe, kinda, sorta, sometimes, I tend to have the dramatics.  Everyone clear on this?  Good.

Saturday, October 1, 2011

There's Something In My Pocket

What's that in my pocket?  No, it's not a lizard.  It's...legos!!!

I am so excited to announce that I am the featured blogger at Legos In My Pocket!

I want to give a special thanks to Miss Allie for nominating me.  And I owe Jaimie of Legos In My Pocket insane amounts of bacon to make fup for being such a terrible bloggy friend.  I sent her everything two days, late, and then forgot to send a picture and the links to my favorite blogs.  Thankfully she's such a sweetheart and didn't tell me to take a hike.

Answering Jaimie's questions was one of the hardest thing I've ever had to do (and no, I'm not being sarcastic. gasp!).   She asks those tough questions like tell me a little about yourself and what is your favorite movie.

Seriously people, those questions are not as easy to answer as they sound.  But you what the best thing about doing those things that challenge us?  It makes us better, stronger, more awesome people.  So thank you, Jaimie for making me all of those things and THANK YOU SO MUCH for featuring me on your blog!

Now everyone, get on over to Jaimie's blog and find out all the things you've always wanted to know about me.

Legos In My Pocket