This is not a funny post, and honestly, it shouldn't be. I posted a bit of this on facebook the other day, but a momentary rant made me really start thinking about what's going on in today's political climate. This will be my only post on politics in this season (unless, of course, I "misspoke" in which case a PR person will shrug and comment somewhere on my blog that I didn't mean what I said. Even though I do, indeed, mean it).
Know what happens when you give away your rights over and over to government entities for "protection"? YOU GIVE UP YOUR RIGHTS. Know why we have the first and second amendments? Because when the US was a colony we didn't have the right to protest or stand up for ourselves. That's what the founding fathers intended with the Bill of Rights, with the Constitution, and with the freedoms we TOOK for ourselves in this country.
I resent that the political party originally valuing personal responsibility, financial independence, and small government influence/interference has become a Christian Coalition front-man pushing EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE sorts of controls on US citizens. Guess what? Religion has no place in government, and it BURNS me that the same party that bitched and moaned about a Catholic taking office (Kennedy, hello) is the SAME party pushing for more and more religion-driven-morality laws in the current government. Yes, Republican uber-conservative-religious-fanatics, I'm talking to YOU.
I resent that the political party originally valuing civic duty, taking care of the less fortunate, and ensuring the welfare of many over the wealth of the few has become a fucking nanny party determined to erode common sense and ANY sense of responsibility in favor of taking away my personal rights, particularly the right I have to protect myself with a gun, if necessary. That's right, uber-liberal-do-gooder-busybodies: I'm talking to YOU.
What the hell happened to all the MODERATES? You know, the ones who have common sense and can agree with some basic principles on both sides?
Seriously, what happens when we give up our rights? We lose them, and it takes a goddamn revolution to get them back. I'm not interested in a revolution: in a war people suffer on all sides. I'm interested in the government pulling their heads out of their ASSES and making some sense, because right now the Right is alienating any female citizen who has ever been assaulted, victimized, harassed, or is terrified of someone else forcing her to make health decisions without her consent. The Left is alienating honorable men and women who feel strongly in their right and ability to protect their own lives and loved ones, and who understand that NO GOVERNMENT SHOULD EVER be in a position of absolute power over its citizens. Know why?
Absolute power corrupts. Absolutely. (Thanks, Spiderman!)
See what I mean? Democrats and Republicans are EXACTLY THE SAME. They both want to take all the personal control of our lives, (Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness, anyone??) our forefathers and -mothers fought and died to take back from a colonizing empire that held us hostage.
Ever since 9/11 we've been giving away our freedoms and our rights in the name of "safety" and "protecting life."
But freedom isn't safe: it never has been.
You want to give up your rights, fine. I think you're fucking stupid, but it's YOUR choice to do so. However, you don't get to give up mine for me in the name of "keeping me safe" or "for my own good" or because you want to control my body and my choices.
Government busybodies don't belong in my bedroom, in my gun cabinet, in my phone/email/facebook/twitter/etc, in my diary, in my bank accounts, my medical records and decisions, or in my marriage.
I value my freedom. I respect the men and women who, over CENTURIES, have given their lives for that freedom. I would like to see this election result in protecting our hard-won rights and freedoms, not either fanatical agenda.
Sigh. End rant.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
My Dogs: Too Lazy To Rip Each Other's Faces Off.
In case you were wondering, Thor wouldn't allow me to put the "Happy Fucking Birthday" hat on him. Apparently he has more pride than Chewy, who allowed it but only with a cranky face. This is not the same cranky face I get when it's time for nail clipping, ear cleaning, or bathing...but it's close.
The other night my fool furbabies were lying on opposite sides of the living room. Husband was gaming in his reclining chair with Chewy chilling under the footrest (so he couldn't close the chair and get up, of course) while I lazed about on the couch with Thor and caught up on Lost Girl (If you haven't seen this show yet, WATCH IT. It's funny and sexy...hello...main character is a Succubus...and all manner of awesomesauce).
I dont' know what the hell was in the air, but much like brothers my two dogs occasionally pull the "I'M NOT TOUCHING YOU" shit with each other. Only with teeth. Chewy, our mild-mannered stuffed-animal-serial-eviscerator started it.
And steals Thor's toys (in this case that used to be a turtle, but the shell is ripped open and he's mid-evisceration).
Usually Thor doesn't care (note his tongue sticking out).
However, when he DOES care he reminds us all that German Shepherds have...very scary teeth. I've never been able to catch a good pic of Thor's teeth, but if you've seen ANY cop show with K-9 officers, you know what I mean. His lips curl up and he growls deep in his chest.
And Chewy stares back at him from across the room, growling. Occasionally they get up and have a scuffle (which can move furniture, since they're 100 and 145lbs). It should be noted that CHEWY ALWAYS LOSES, yet he usually starts the trouble. Sigh. When I get home from work and Chewy has a new scab on his head I know they got into it (again) and Thor (again) held Chewy's head in his mouth like "Dude, I could bite your face off, so leave me alone. Go find a toy to rip apart. I'm fucking sleeping!"
On Wednesday they were both too lazy to actually do anything except stare and smart off at each other. So for two full hours Lost Girl had this really fucked up growling-dog undertone to the soundtrack. Later that night they cuddled on the guest bed together, so apparently the argument was over.
At least I haven't had to yell "THOR! STOP HUMPING YOUR BROTHER!" for a few weeks.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
My uterus is expired, because I say so.
This is not one of those "I must justify why I'm not having kids" posts. Mostly, because I don't generally justify my choices to anyone but Husband (because he has to gets to live with me).
My impending nephew's estimated arrival is next month already. I make it sound like he's being delivered by a DHL truck or UPS guy...indeed, I'm sure my sister and her S.O. would be THRILLED* if a truck driver delivered their spawn.
I am excited as hell to be an aunt again, and am already spoiling him rotten with clothes and toys. Mwahahaha. We haven't even gotten to mountain dew and candy during babysitting..I mean...noisy toys for birthdays/Christmases/fun presents...I mean...NEVER MIND. Hopefully my sister won't read this anytime soon, or ignore it altogether (seriously, it's your best option).
I never had a burning desire to be a mother. Nearly all of my friends (of both sexes and all orientations) knew "someday" they'd have kids, I knew I wouldn't. No, really: in elementary school I wrote short stories about bears ripping the arms off of people and hated playing with dolls. I'm just not driven by the biological clock my friends talked about. Many of them said (often in a condescending or smug "I know more than you" tone, which made me want to punch them in the face...with love, of course) that "eventually you'll be DYING to have one and you'll change your mind," or even better: "but you'd be such a great mom!" Whatever THAT means.
Yeah. Hasn't happened yet. Not when there are so many Verruca Salts in public, providing excellent birth control tantrums that keep me happily swallowing my pill each night.
As it happens, both of us generally adore kids. Husband is one of those weird baby-whisperer types: they immediately fall asleep, content, when he picks them up.
It's fucking creepy, honestly. I think he gives off a secret baby-sleep-gas or something.
The annoying thing is, I always said I'd never get married, but then I met Husband and my devious (and deviant) heart did a 180... and I ended up married. Having changed my mind about the merits of a committed, married relationship I wanted to give myself wiggle room afterward in case my uterus pulled a similar 180 and demanded spawn (and peeing 7,000 times a day and puking for 3-6 months, both of which I already do thanks to a bladder the size of a peanut and allergies that hit hard from April -October).
After all, I try to be open minded and accepting of growth and change . I hear you snickering: I didn't say it always WORKED, just that I TRY to be open to change. Judging judger.
Anyway, I told myself we could discuss and change our minds until I turn 35**, but after that I'm done and the factory's CLOSED. There are multiple reasons for my arbitrary cut-off date, both logical and not, but this isn't really about the reasons...it's about the door closing. See, I hit that milestone this month, and I'll admit it came with a momentary twinge of concern. Will I regret not having babies someday when I'm an old fart and everyone else is showing off their grandchildren in the home? I don't feel inferior or lonely or less-than-a-woman for not having babies, so I don't think so.
I have an awesome husband and a life filled with love. I'm happy to leave motherhood to those who really ache to be moms. I wrote here a while back about the importance of aunts/uncles/adult role models, during a time when I was still considering whether I wanted to change my mind and have children. Ultimately, I'm still ok with my decisions. I'm still happy being an aunt the kids can come to when they're too embarrassed or scared to talk to their parents. And I still plan on spoiling OPK as often as possible.
*In case you didn't catch it, this is sarcasm
** Yes, I do understand that I could still have a perfectly healthy baby after 35. I have friends who did exactly that. I didn't say it wasn't an arbitrary number: it's MY number.
My impending nephew's estimated arrival is next month already. I make it sound like he's being delivered by a DHL truck or UPS guy...indeed, I'm sure my sister and her S.O. would be THRILLED* if a truck driver delivered their spawn.
I am excited as hell to be an aunt again, and am already spoiling him rotten with clothes and toys. Mwahahaha. We haven't even gotten to mountain dew and candy during babysitting..I mean...noisy toys for birthdays/Christmases/fun presents...I mean...NEVER MIND. Hopefully my sister won't read this anytime soon, or ignore it altogether (seriously, it's your best option).
I never had a burning desire to be a mother. Nearly all of my friends (of both sexes and all orientations) knew "someday" they'd have kids, I knew I wouldn't. No, really: in elementary school I wrote short stories about bears ripping the arms off of people and hated playing with dolls. I'm just not driven by the biological clock my friends talked about. Many of them said (often in a condescending or smug "I know more than you" tone, which made me want to punch them in the face...with love, of course) that "eventually you'll be DYING to have one and you'll change your mind," or even better: "but you'd be such a great mom!" Whatever THAT means.
Yeah. Hasn't happened yet. Not when there are so many Verruca Salts in public, providing excellent birth control tantrums that keep me happily swallowing my pill each night.
As it happens, both of us generally adore kids. Husband is one of those weird baby-whisperer types: they immediately fall asleep, content, when he picks them up.
It's fucking creepy, honestly. I think he gives off a secret baby-sleep-gas or something.
The annoying thing is, I always said I'd never get married, but then I met Husband and my devious (and deviant) heart did a 180... and I ended up married. Having changed my mind about the merits of a committed, married relationship I wanted to give myself wiggle room afterward in case my uterus pulled a similar 180 and demanded spawn (and peeing 7,000 times a day and puking for 3-6 months, both of which I already do thanks to a bladder the size of a peanut and allergies that hit hard from April -October).
After all, I try to be open minded and accepting of growth and change . I hear you snickering: I didn't say it always WORKED, just that I TRY to be open to change. Judging judger.
Anyway, I told myself we could discuss and change our minds until I turn 35**, but after that I'm done and the factory's CLOSED. There are multiple reasons for my arbitrary cut-off date, both logical and not, but this isn't really about the reasons...it's about the door closing. See, I hit that milestone this month, and I'll admit it came with a momentary twinge of concern. Will I regret not having babies someday when I'm an old fart and everyone else is showing off their grandchildren in the home? I don't feel inferior or lonely or less-than-a-woman for not having babies, so I don't think so.
I have an awesome husband and a life filled with love. I'm happy to leave motherhood to those who really ache to be moms. I wrote here a while back about the importance of aunts/uncles/adult role models, during a time when I was still considering whether I wanted to change my mind and have children. Ultimately, I'm still ok with my decisions. I'm still happy being an aunt the kids can come to when they're too embarrassed or scared to talk to their parents. And I still plan on spoiling OPK as often as possible.
*In case you didn't catch it, this is sarcasm
** Yes, I do understand that I could still have a perfectly healthy baby after 35. I have friends who did exactly that. I didn't say it wasn't an arbitrary number: it's MY number.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Mini-Donut-Trucks Date Back to the 1600's
Oh, you didn't know that?
Well, neither did I, until the Mini Donut truck parked outside my booth at the MN Renaissance Festival on Saturday. Nope, not kidding:
(Pic courtesy of PJ, who posted it on facebook today, because the one I took with my non-renaissance-iphone didn't turn out). What this picture doesn't include is the costumed street performer who stood next to the truck for the entire day, 9am to 7pm, holding a sign that just read: REALLY?
Other fun shenanigans at the Renaissance Festival last weekend:
One weekend down. Six to go. If you're in MN, stop by!
Well, neither did I, until the Mini Donut truck parked outside my booth at the MN Renaissance Festival on Saturday. Nope, not kidding:
Other fun shenanigans at the Renaissance Festival last weekend:
- It rained Saturday night, so there were large puddles everywhere Sunday. Two street performers pretended to fish in a puddle outside my booth. Husband said "the only thing they're likely to catch in there is an STD."
- DonutTruckGate and the new Mermaid Peep Show (which you have to pay extra for and is located in the Children's Realm of the festival, which I find amusing...although it may be touted as "See a Mermaid" instead of "Mermaid Peep Show." Semantics.) were the topic of every improv bit for pretty much every entertainment show at the festival.
- Apparently said ridicule was so exhausting for management that by Sunday afternoon that someone asked the donut truck to leave. So he set up on the other side of the parking lot and continued to sell to patrons. Kudos to him! It wasn't HIS fault stupidity ran amok and likely screwed him out of many sales.
- Participants park in a gravel pit. A deep gravel pit, filled with looming pyramids of sand and rocks, excavation equipment, puddles that can swallow your car, and six inches of mud. Oh did I mention there are NO LIGHTS down there, so when workers are done at 8:30 or so they're navigating in the pitch black to try to find their cars in a maze of filth and deadly obstacles? Yeah.
- The shuttle driver who is SUPPOSED to drive workers down to their cars (for safety purposes...ie so they don't get hit by lost drivers trying to find their way OUT of the pit) decided to call it a night at about 7:30 on Saturday.
- Another shuttle driver made pretty raunchy comments about bouncing boobs (yes, most all of us women out there wear corsets or bodices, and they DO push our cleavage up. It was the style of the Renaissance.) and actually stopped the bus and asked workers if he could WATCH THEM CHANGE. What the fuck, dude? He's been reported. I wasn't on the bus at the time. I likely would've popped him one and gotten fired, so it's probably good I wasn't there.
One weekend down. Six to go. If you're in MN, stop by!
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
My loved ones are assholes. Well, some of them, anyway.
So my meetings today were over early and I had a horrid headache, so I went home to work from the couch. Because my company is FUCKING COOL like that.
I took a bunch of ibuprofin and thought a hot shower would help kill off the tiny evil gnome attempting to burrow way out of my temple.
OF COURSE my husband decided to take the afternoon off (without telling me...sneaky bastard) to do applications and get ready for fest.
OF COURSE he got home while I'm in the shower.
OF COURSE he had to open the goddamn bathroom door and yell "What are you doing home??"
Fucker. I almost broke my neck and screamed bloody murder.
Being naked and terrified in my shower HAD to be shared, so of course I told the email group about it later...but they're on his side.
Z: Oh man, I wish I had a wife so that I could do that to them :p
C: oh yeah, hands down attempted spousal murder is the best part of marriage.
Indeed.
Payback, dear husband, will be a bitch...as soon as I can figure out something appropriately evil.
I took a bunch of ibuprofin and thought a hot shower would help kill off the tiny evil gnome attempting to burrow way out of my temple.
OF COURSE my husband decided to take the afternoon off (without telling me...sneaky bastard) to do applications and get ready for fest.
OF COURSE he got home while I'm in the shower.
OF COURSE he had to open the goddamn bathroom door and yell "What are you doing home??"
Fucker. I almost broke my neck and screamed bloody murder.
Being naked and terrified in my shower HAD to be shared, so of course I told the email group about it later...but they're on his side.
Z: Oh man, I wish I had a wife so that I could do that to them :p
C: oh yeah, hands down attempted spousal murder is the best part of marriage.
Indeed.
Payback, dear husband, will be a bitch...as soon as I can figure out something appropriately evil.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Well. I have nothing for this.
Apparently the people who produce the dictionary are all on acid. Prepare for my English Major rant forthwith (disclaimer: I can't spell "February" without spellchecker help AND I often say "Liberry" instead of library, knowing full well it pisses people off).
Sexting, Flexitarian, and Aha Moment ARE NOT WORDS. Who sets the goddamn standards of the English language anyway? I'm all about adding them to the slang dictionary, because that's what they are. SLANG (Slang: an informal nonstandard vocabulary composed typically of coinages, arbitrarily changed words, and extravagant, forced, or facetious figures of speech).
PS: In case you needed proof of the hubris that is Oprah: apparently she had the fucking GALL to sue Mutual of Omaha over an uncopyrighted phrase that's been in the American lexicon since at least 1939. Because she's apparently 1) immortal (the only way she could've "invented" that phrase...and the idea creeps me the fuck out) and 2) so important that gold flake falls from her lips instead of spittle. Just...ugh.
Fuck you, Websters Dictionary for putting shitty slang into the goddamn dictionary as though it's actual English. Next you'll be adding "Liberry," for crying out loud.
In other, non-ranty, news: it appears some interesting searches have resulted in views of my blog. I'm baffled about what someone was looking for when googling "hot pink stop sign." I mean...really.
I'd like to point out that if someone's itchy after going to Valleyfair it may be time for a shower. What the hell...just...what the hell.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
I met The Bloggess! And nearly made a mess in CVS. These are not related.
On my 35th birthday (which was Friday) I met Jenny Lawson. (I also received a beautiful necklace and various forms of most excellent sappiness from my husband, but those are mine and I'm not sharing).
I stood in line for the book signing after hearing her read a chapter of her book, Let's Pretend This Never Happened. If you haven't picked it up yet GO BUY IT NOW. You'll laugh your ass off. She was funny and charming and I (according to my husband) was awkward and looked fairly constipated when I met her. Of course I did...the bruised tailbone I received a few months ago when I fell down my stairs felt like someone was stabbing me in the butt after two hours in a metal folding chair AND I had just enough people in front of me in line to give myself major anxiety about just saying hello to the woman. I'm sure my face was pinched and whatever I said was ridiculous. Sigh.
(Ok I'll be honest: I remember every word exchanged and exactly what I was thinking at the time, because I couldn't get a fucking NORMAL sentence out of my mouth or sound like a friendly person and the internal me just kept screaming "JUST BE NICE YOU DUMBASS!!")
I DID manage to give her a bottle of wine (Mad Housewife, because it always makes me laugh) and get a picture without falling down. Hopefully I didn't terrify her, because it was decidedly a high point to my birthday.
Of course, if meeting Jenny was one of the high points, there must be a counterpoint. Indeed...let me tell you how I almost shit my pants last night. Because I can't just get drunk on my birthday weekend and get hungover like everyone else...OH NO. I get my body's overactive rebel-forces going all Swat Team instead. Because that's how I roll, apparently.
Yesterday evening my sister, her partner (significant other and baby daddy sound stupid when I write them out), my aunt and her family all went to dinner at Cheesecake Factory. We chatted and ate tasty food and cheesecake without any major mishaps.
Only when everyone left my guts were...complainey. Yes, that's the best term for it. So I went back in, but the women's bathroom was full of teenage stripper wannabees in platform six inch spike heels. Watching them dance back and forth on those silly shoes waiting impatiently to pee would've been hilarious, except there were six of them and only three stalls. And at this point my guts were SIGNIFICANTLY MORE COMPLAINEY. Did you know there's NO WAY to cross your legs as a last resort in that situation? There isn't. I tried. Also, I imagined the chorus of "EWW" if I actually got a chance to get into a stall, and I gave up.
Hoping I could at least get into my car and sit (which might help) I hobbled all the way across the large parking lot, cursing my IDIOCY for just parking and not valet-ing the entire way. I'm sure I looked like I had a broken leg. I sat in the mustang, because of COURSE this only happens when I'm in the nice car, and begged God to let me NOT poop my pants in the middle of the Southdale parking lot. Sigh.
Once I could move again (a good five minutes passed of a sweat-and-curse inducing battle for bowel control) I started the car and left the parking lot. As fast as that sports car can go...and she can indeed go FAST. Until I'm stuck behind a blue-haired old lady who insists on creeping through the intersection (there were NO GODDAMN CARS COMING you idiot...MOVE YOUR ASS!!), screaming at her. My windows were up, thank you, and it was dark, so I'm fairly certain she didnt' see me wishing for her immediate smiting.
I made it two blocks to a CVS, chanting "just another minute, be an adult and control yourself!" under my breath the whole way. Then I tried desperately to hobble nonchalantly into the pharmacy (BLESSEDLY EMPTY).
Those fucking pharmacies are HUGE and the restrooms are not labeled anywhere. I think when I finally found the women's room I would've just given up if it'd been occupied. It wasn't. Thank the gods for small miracles.
Of course, as I washed my hands I realized there are cameras everywhere in these stores, and undoubtedly I'm on tape frantically searching for the bathroom and duck-walking in there. Determined to look like I Meant to stop at CVS, I thought "well I'll just pick up some water like I was thirsty."
Yeah right. Like that'll fool ANYONE.
So I grabbed some feminine hygiene products also, because why else would a woman my age stop at a pharmacy at 10pm on a Saturday night?
Of COURSE the cashier was a boy. Sigh. And of COURSE he started a discussion with me about how funny it is when women send their husbands in for tampons. We laughed at the oddities of pharmacy cashiering (my first actual job was doing just that) and how weird it is when someone buys a box of condoms and a box of enemas. Because if I'm going to be embarrassed about something, I like to take it ALL the way. He totally knew I was only there to poop.
All plans today have been cancelled in favor of staying home and taking Imodium. And cheesecake. Oddly enough, the chapter Jenny read on Friday was the one about...ahem...foolishly taking too many laxatives. It's hilariously gross and even better when she read it out loud (now I have to re-read the book so I have her voice narrating in my head...because I'm like that). Today I'm pretty fucking sure that particular choice in readings was some sort of warning from the universe of my own impending doom.
Still. Awesome.
I stood in line for the book signing after hearing her read a chapter of her book, Let's Pretend This Never Happened. If you haven't picked it up yet GO BUY IT NOW. You'll laugh your ass off. She was funny and charming and I (according to my husband) was awkward and looked fairly constipated when I met her. Of course I did...the bruised tailbone I received a few months ago when I fell down my stairs felt like someone was stabbing me in the butt after two hours in a metal folding chair AND I had just enough people in front of me in line to give myself major anxiety about just saying hello to the woman. I'm sure my face was pinched and whatever I said was ridiculous. Sigh.
(Ok I'll be honest: I remember every word exchanged and exactly what I was thinking at the time, because I couldn't get a fucking NORMAL sentence out of my mouth or sound like a friendly person and the internal me just kept screaming "JUST BE NICE YOU DUMBASS!!")
I DID manage to give her a bottle of wine (Mad Housewife, because it always makes me laugh) and get a picture without falling down. Hopefully I didn't terrify her, because it was decidedly a high point to my birthday.
Of course, if meeting Jenny was one of the high points, there must be a counterpoint. Indeed...let me tell you how I almost shit my pants last night. Because I can't just get drunk on my birthday weekend and get hungover like everyone else...OH NO. I get my body's overactive rebel-forces going all Swat Team instead. Because that's how I roll, apparently.
Yesterday evening my sister, her partner (significant other and baby daddy sound stupid when I write them out), my aunt and her family all went to dinner at Cheesecake Factory. We chatted and ate tasty food and cheesecake without any major mishaps.
Only when everyone left my guts were...complainey. Yes, that's the best term for it. So I went back in, but the women's bathroom was full of teenage stripper wannabees in platform six inch spike heels. Watching them dance back and forth on those silly shoes waiting impatiently to pee would've been hilarious, except there were six of them and only three stalls. And at this point my guts were SIGNIFICANTLY MORE COMPLAINEY. Did you know there's NO WAY to cross your legs as a last resort in that situation? There isn't. I tried. Also, I imagined the chorus of "EWW" if I actually got a chance to get into a stall, and I gave up.
Hoping I could at least get into my car and sit (which might help) I hobbled all the way across the large parking lot, cursing my IDIOCY for just parking and not valet-ing the entire way. I'm sure I looked like I had a broken leg. I sat in the mustang, because of COURSE this only happens when I'm in the nice car, and begged God to let me NOT poop my pants in the middle of the Southdale parking lot. Sigh.
Once I could move again (a good five minutes passed of a sweat-and-curse inducing battle for bowel control) I started the car and left the parking lot. As fast as that sports car can go...and she can indeed go FAST. Until I'm stuck behind a blue-haired old lady who insists on creeping through the intersection (there were NO GODDAMN CARS COMING you idiot...MOVE YOUR ASS!!), screaming at her. My windows were up, thank you, and it was dark, so I'm fairly certain she didnt' see me wishing for her immediate smiting.
I made it two blocks to a CVS, chanting "just another minute, be an adult and control yourself!" under my breath the whole way. Then I tried desperately to hobble nonchalantly into the pharmacy (BLESSEDLY EMPTY).
Those fucking pharmacies are HUGE and the restrooms are not labeled anywhere. I think when I finally found the women's room I would've just given up if it'd been occupied. It wasn't. Thank the gods for small miracles.
Of course, as I washed my hands I realized there are cameras everywhere in these stores, and undoubtedly I'm on tape frantically searching for the bathroom and duck-walking in there. Determined to look like I Meant to stop at CVS, I thought "well I'll just pick up some water like I was thirsty."
Yeah right. Like that'll fool ANYONE.
So I grabbed some feminine hygiene products also, because why else would a woman my age stop at a pharmacy at 10pm on a Saturday night?
Of COURSE the cashier was a boy. Sigh. And of COURSE he started a discussion with me about how funny it is when women send their husbands in for tampons. We laughed at the oddities of pharmacy cashiering (my first actual job was doing just that) and how weird it is when someone buys a box of condoms and a box of enemas. Because if I'm going to be embarrassed about something, I like to take it ALL the way. He totally knew I was only there to poop.
All plans today have been cancelled in favor of staying home and taking Imodium. And cheesecake. Oddly enough, the chapter Jenny read on Friday was the one about...ahem...foolishly taking too many laxatives. It's hilariously gross and even better when she read it out loud (now I have to re-read the book so I have her voice narrating in my head...because I'm like that). Today I'm pretty fucking sure that particular choice in readings was some sort of warning from the universe of my own impending doom.
Still. Awesome.
Thursday, August 09, 2012
Pays nothing...may Traumatize Christmas Baby Dragons.
Today I spent quite a bit of time screwing off (in a non-sexual, work-appropriate way). As has been my usual MO for the past week or two...because projects have been delayed by forces not in my control (I SWEAR I didn't wave that wand toward work!!).
Therefore, I spend much of my afternoon fucking around on Craigslist. Since that phrase could mean quite a few different inappropriate behaviors, oh DO let me share the best DOD: Distractions of the Day.
Witness: Kiss Car. Note it's for sale to only the ULTIMATE fan of Gene Simmons. I sort of expect to see it tooling around St. Paul soon, since KISS is playing the MN state fair this year. Apparently bloody demon music is excellent family entertainment. (Wait Kiss Army! I've been to a few Kiss concerts and my husband's a huge fan. I think they're fucking fabulous. It's called sarcasm...stop threatening me and for fuck's sake PUT YOUR TONGUES AWAY.)
In other news, I firmly believe this is the BEST CAR AD EVER. I mean, it made me want to grow a beard AND drive a '95 goddam...erm...grand am. Plus, any ad that uses "Jesus Tap Dancing Christ" is a fucking winner in my book: told Husband he can't sell my truck until he comes up with an equally entertaining ad.
I also seriously considered quitting my job as a business analyst for a health-care-company in favor of becoming a dragonslayer, except that brought up the Dilemma of DragonSlaying. It sparked a whole ethical dilemma in today's email session:
Me: Being a fucking weirdo, my first thought was "but what if the red and green dragons are husband and wife dragons? I'm not killing someone's spouse. For FREE. WTF dude?"
C: what if they have little baby Christmas themed dragon-ites? That's not cool man.Also if it's green there's a solid chance that it's Puff the Magic Dragon and, dude, that is nothing but good news. Seriously.
Z: Do I get to keep a trophy of this dragon? Because I would mount it's wings on my car, that would look so fucking cool. Husband and Wife or Brother and Sister, either way I'm not risking encoring the lifetime wrath of a Dragon for no pay. The only way this would work is if the Dragon gave me half his heart and was actually Sean Connery. Although I still wouldn't kill it then.
Yup. That was my day today.
JESUS TAP DANCING CHRIST! I MEET JENNY LAWSON TOMORROW!!
Therefore, I spend much of my afternoon fucking around on Craigslist. Since that phrase could mean quite a few different inappropriate behaviors, oh DO let me share the best DOD: Distractions of the Day.
Witness: Kiss Car. Note it's for sale to only the ULTIMATE fan of Gene Simmons. I sort of expect to see it tooling around St. Paul soon, since KISS is playing the MN state fair this year. Apparently bloody demon music is excellent family entertainment. (Wait Kiss Army! I've been to a few Kiss concerts and my husband's a huge fan. I think they're fucking fabulous. It's called sarcasm...stop threatening me and for fuck's sake PUT YOUR TONGUES AWAY.)
In other news, I firmly believe this is the BEST CAR AD EVER. I mean, it made me want to grow a beard AND drive a '95 goddam...erm...grand am. Plus, any ad that uses "Jesus Tap Dancing Christ" is a fucking winner in my book: told Husband he can't sell my truck until he comes up with an equally entertaining ad.
I also seriously considered quitting my job as a business analyst for a health-care-company in favor of becoming a dragonslayer, except that brought up the Dilemma of DragonSlaying. It sparked a whole ethical dilemma in today's email session:
Me: Being a fucking weirdo, my first thought was "but what if the red and green dragons are husband and wife dragons? I'm not killing someone's spouse. For FREE. WTF dude?"
C: what if they have little baby Christmas themed dragon-ites? That's not cool man.Also if it's green there's a solid chance that it's Puff the Magic Dragon and, dude, that is nothing but good news. Seriously.
Z: Do I get to keep a trophy of this dragon? Because I would mount it's wings on my car, that would look so fucking cool. Husband and Wife or Brother and Sister, either way I'm not risking encoring the lifetime wrath of a Dragon for no pay. The only way this would work is if the Dragon gave me half his heart and was actually Sean Connery. Although I still wouldn't kill it then.
Yup. That was my day today.
JESUS TAP DANCING CHRIST! I MEET JENNY LAWSON TOMORROW!!
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
Cake: Above Hair Doodies, Below Sex on the Birthday Scale
So my birthday is coming up soon, hence the title. This is not a plea for birthday shenanigans, presents, or anything else. It's just a silly post (well, most of them are).
Normally, I get all anxious and depressed around my birthday and obsess about all the things I haven't done yet. For example: I foolishly thought I'd have a whole series of books under my belt (written, not read, duh) by the time I turned 35, but now that day is fast approaching (ACK it's this fucking WEEK) and I'm still in the middle of book 1 with the outline for two other series waiting impatiently on my desk. Not two other books: two other series of books. My brain is getting blocked up, people.
The characters for those series' appear regularly in dreams, knock politely during meetings at work, move furniture in my head while I'm making dinner, and scream in my ear while I choreograph for dance class. Sigh. They're insistent and relentless, and I think I'm finally ready to set aside book 1 for a while in favor of giving them some attention. It's a big decision I've been agonizing over for a few months: feels quite like I'm abandoning my first kid in favor of another. I really like the general idea for my first series, but I'm 30k words in and, well, to be brutally honest I'm boring MYSELF...therefore something is fatally wrong. It's not violent enough, too violent, not sexy enough, not complicated enough, too complicated...I've been trying to figure out what the issues are so I can fix them and move on, but after two years of work I don't think there's any fix right now. I think it's time to say buh-bye for a while and focus on something else.
Like the other four couples banging around in my head trying desperately to get out on paper.
And clearly I've not yet had enough coffee, since I'm rambling on about writing when this is SUPPOSED to be a birthday post. Fail on my part: sorry.
Every year I'm required by my family (parents, sisters, husband) make a list of shit I haven't bought for myself already so they can get presents I actually want. The list is generally books (because I'm a fucking addict and NEVER buy all the books I really want), movies/tv shows, and random other fun shit.
Since I was about twelve, all birthday/Christmas lists have included three inexpensive staples that I can always use and offer a cheap alternative to the hardcovers on my list: candles, bath stuff, and hair doodies.
Yes. Hair doodies. I'm a writer and former English major who makes up words. My husband gave me shit about that word for nearly a full day via text, because he's a buttface who enjoys my mentalness. I told him he doesn't have to buy me any: they're a go-to-inexpensive-girly gift: the equivalent of stocking stuffers for me. *shrug* And on the scale of importance for birthday celebrations, they're not terribly high. I mean, my title is pretty clear about my priorities, right?
This year, however, all celebrations may be trumped by one massively exciting event. I get to meet The Bloggess ON MY BIRTHDAY. That's right, one of my all time favorite writers will be in my town on my bday. This is a pretty fucking banner happening (actually more than when I met Mercedes Lackey at Convergence a few years ago) and I'm so fucking excited I'm getting anxious today...it's Tuesday.
She's here on Friday.
I'm hoping turning 35 will give me just enough adult-ness to NOT make a total fangirl ass of myself. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid...see where I'm going with this?
Yeah yeah...I know. Me + "adult behavior" = fail. I'm gonna give it my damndest though...because I'd prefer NOT to freak her out.
Normally, I get all anxious and depressed around my birthday and obsess about all the things I haven't done yet. For example: I foolishly thought I'd have a whole series of books under my belt (written, not read, duh) by the time I turned 35, but now that day is fast approaching (ACK it's this fucking WEEK) and I'm still in the middle of book 1 with the outline for two other series waiting impatiently on my desk. Not two other books: two other series of books. My brain is getting blocked up, people.
The characters for those series' appear regularly in dreams, knock politely during meetings at work, move furniture in my head while I'm making dinner, and scream in my ear while I choreograph for dance class. Sigh. They're insistent and relentless, and I think I'm finally ready to set aside book 1 for a while in favor of giving them some attention. It's a big decision I've been agonizing over for a few months: feels quite like I'm abandoning my first kid in favor of another. I really like the general idea for my first series, but I'm 30k words in and, well, to be brutally honest I'm boring MYSELF...therefore something is fatally wrong. It's not violent enough, too violent, not sexy enough, not complicated enough, too complicated...I've been trying to figure out what the issues are so I can fix them and move on, but after two years of work I don't think there's any fix right now. I think it's time to say buh-bye for a while and focus on something else.
Like the other four couples banging around in my head trying desperately to get out on paper.
And clearly I've not yet had enough coffee, since I'm rambling on about writing when this is SUPPOSED to be a birthday post. Fail on my part: sorry.
Every year I'm required by my family (parents, sisters, husband) make a list of shit I haven't bought for myself already so they can get presents I actually want. The list is generally books (because I'm a fucking addict and NEVER buy all the books I really want), movies/tv shows, and random other fun shit.
Since I was about twelve, all birthday/Christmas lists have included three inexpensive staples that I can always use and offer a cheap alternative to the hardcovers on my list: candles, bath stuff, and hair doodies.
Yes. Hair doodies. I'm a writer and former English major who makes up words. My husband gave me shit about that word for nearly a full day via text, because he's a buttface who enjoys my mentalness. I told him he doesn't have to buy me any: they're a go-to-inexpensive-girly gift: the equivalent of stocking stuffers for me. *shrug* And on the scale of importance for birthday celebrations, they're not terribly high. I mean, my title is pretty clear about my priorities, right?
This year, however, all celebrations may be trumped by one massively exciting event. I get to meet The Bloggess ON MY BIRTHDAY. That's right, one of my all time favorite writers will be in my town on my bday. This is a pretty fucking banner happening (actually more than when I met Mercedes Lackey at Convergence a few years ago) and I'm so fucking excited I'm getting anxious today...it's Tuesday.
She's here on Friday.
I'm hoping turning 35 will give me just enough adult-ness to NOT make a total fangirl ass of myself. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid. I will NOT bring her wine (even though I want to) or squeak or do anything too monumentally stupid...see where I'm going with this?
Yeah yeah...I know. Me + "adult behavior" = fail. I'm gonna give it my damndest though...because I'd prefer NOT to freak her out.
Monday, August 06, 2012
WTF Weekend
Friday afternoon I stopped at The Company Which Must Not Be Named (ps: I'm not allowed to talk about them per my disgustingly paltry severance agreement when I got laid off last fall). The office is on my way home, and I still have fabulous friends working there...I stopped after 4:30 on a Friday to drop off a little present for one of them, because I think random presents are neat even when they're silly penguin notebooks. And I'm babbling...moving on.
Anyway, I was hanging out in the Support room with the cool kids and the Support Manager greeted me with "Jess, don't you want to come back? PLEASE? You can configure (system name here) for us again...I even have spot for you!" Because I adore said support manager I kindly said thanks-but-no, I like my new gig, and moved on to other topics. Little did I know the error of that decision to stay and chat.
I tried to avoid seeing any OTHER former co-workers, my old boss in particular, because...well...let's just say she and I didn't get along well and leave it at that, shall we?
Of COURSE she walked into the support room. Of COURSE she stopped dead and stared at me for a full awkward second or two. Seeing as she personally chose to lay me off (never mind less experienced BAs who made more $$ than me were kept on...the whole not-getting-along thing, you know), I was FUCKING FLOORED when she tried to give me a big hug (AWKWARD, particularly since I didn't move and definitely didn't return the hug), asked how I'm doing, and "don't you want to come back and configure for me?"
To my credit, I did NOT laugh in her face or say she couldn't possibly afford me (because there's no amount of money they could pay to get me towork for that woman go back to traveling). Instead I asked about her kids every time she tried to find out where I work now and if I like it, and tried to give her absolutely no info about me. The whole encounter was vindicating (haHA! You DID fuck up letting me go), amusing, and really really awkward.
So, followed up that experience with a trip to see Jeff Dunham (aka Jefa-fa dunHAM...dot COM) at Mystic Lake Casino. First, let's discuss the location of this venue. I THOUGHT the tickets were for the auditorium (inside the casino) when I bought them. Oh no, they were outside in the makeshift amphitheater. Which means there's no decent view to be had (and to be fair I was cheap and didn't buy the expensive tickets anyway). Mystic Lake, however, decided it'd be a GREAT idea to make concert-goers park about a mile away from the Amphitheater (not exaggerating here, folks) and force them to walk through the casino on the way to/from the show. Husband and I were so irritated at this (it was hot out that day, fuckers!) we didn't go back to play the Princess Bride slot machines, even though I really want to...what IS the Fezzik bonus??
We finally found our seats out on the grass. The portable stadium-style seats were pretty uncomfortable for us tall folk, and the one shortie with us couldn't reach her feet to the ground when she sat and had a hard time seeing through the crowd in front of us. But that's ok...it was too far to see Jeff and the puppets anyway (if you don't know, Jeff Dunham is a ventriloquist comedian whose Comedy Central specials are funny as hell). He started late (of course). I'll say this: there were a few times he made me laugh to tears. There were also quite a few totally bombed jokes: he tried out some new material that just didn't go well (don't know if it was the MN audience or just not funny). At one point I wondered if he realized that the reservation has its own police force...and thought they better have a good sense of humor or he might not get off the res...there were some pretty bad Indian jokes.
If that wasn't enough excitement, I took my sister up to my Grandma's for her baby shower, which consisted of a day sitting around the kitchen table mostly talking about poop bracketed by three hours in the car each way.
Yesterday I napped. I still haven't recovered...the introvert is screeching at me to hide in my office and write, away from actual live breathing people and accompanied only by the ones in my imagination. We'll see how much of that I can pull off this week.
Anyway, I was hanging out in the Support room with the cool kids and the Support Manager greeted me with "Jess, don't you want to come back? PLEASE? You can configure (system name here) for us again...I even have spot for you!" Because I adore said support manager I kindly said thanks-but-no, I like my new gig, and moved on to other topics. Little did I know the error of that decision to stay and chat.
I tried to avoid seeing any OTHER former co-workers, my old boss in particular, because...well...let's just say she and I didn't get along well and leave it at that, shall we?
Of COURSE she walked into the support room. Of COURSE she stopped dead and stared at me for a full awkward second or two. Seeing as she personally chose to lay me off (never mind less experienced BAs who made more $$ than me were kept on...the whole not-getting-along thing, you know), I was FUCKING FLOORED when she tried to give me a big hug (AWKWARD, particularly since I didn't move and definitely didn't return the hug), asked how I'm doing, and "don't you want to come back and configure for me?"
To my credit, I did NOT laugh in her face or say she couldn't possibly afford me (because there's no amount of money they could pay to get me to
So, followed up that experience with a trip to see Jeff Dunham (aka Jefa-fa dunHAM...dot COM) at Mystic Lake Casino. First, let's discuss the location of this venue. I THOUGHT the tickets were for the auditorium (inside the casino) when I bought them. Oh no, they were outside in the makeshift amphitheater. Which means there's no decent view to be had (and to be fair I was cheap and didn't buy the expensive tickets anyway). Mystic Lake, however, decided it'd be a GREAT idea to make concert-goers park about a mile away from the Amphitheater (not exaggerating here, folks) and force them to walk through the casino on the way to/from the show. Husband and I were so irritated at this (it was hot out that day, fuckers!) we didn't go back to play the Princess Bride slot machines, even though I really want to...what IS the Fezzik bonus??
We finally found our seats out on the grass. The portable stadium-style seats were pretty uncomfortable for us tall folk, and the one shortie with us couldn't reach her feet to the ground when she sat and had a hard time seeing through the crowd in front of us. But that's ok...it was too far to see Jeff and the puppets anyway (if you don't know, Jeff Dunham is a ventriloquist comedian whose Comedy Central specials are funny as hell). He started late (of course). I'll say this: there were a few times he made me laugh to tears. There were also quite a few totally bombed jokes: he tried out some new material that just didn't go well (don't know if it was the MN audience or just not funny). At one point I wondered if he realized that the reservation has its own police force...and thought they better have a good sense of humor or he might not get off the res...there were some pretty bad Indian jokes.
If that wasn't enough excitement, I took my sister up to my Grandma's for her baby shower, which consisted of a day sitting around the kitchen table mostly talking about poop bracketed by three hours in the car each way.
Yesterday I napped. I still haven't recovered...the introvert is screeching at me to hide in my office and write, away from actual live breathing people and accompanied only by the ones in my imagination. We'll see how much of that I can pull off this week.
Thursday, August 02, 2012
It's true: I do not gargle donkey balls.
I'll explain that in a minute, promise.
I had a mental-out yesterday and a whiny bitch-fest, and instead of telling me to suck it up I got some fantabulous comments: thank you. You guys are more awesome than unicorns and glitter.
(I had a neat pic here and realized it's not MINE to share on a blog...must investigate).
I also got two violently positive drop-kicks to my impending depression. Knocked that fucker right back into his hole.
First, I discovered I'm on someone else's blogroll. So what, you say? Well, being fairly easily excitable, I often squee in delight when this blog gets more than 100 views in a day (so far it's happened twice, and Husband texts "yay" and probably rolls his eyes behind his phone but that's ok: I know it's silly). I think it's ridiculously neat that I have a few regular readers (other than me, I mean).
In this case, it means a fucking HILARIOUS blogger reads my shit and likes it. (Seriously, go read her NOW. I'll wait. Try not to snort whatever you're drinking through your nose. I dare you.)
Every comment (good and bad, despite my rant yesterday) and every reader/follower matters to me. To find out someone is entertained enough to put me on her reading list is pretty fucking awesome.
To find that out almost immediately after seriously considering whether I should be writing a blog? That's a killer sign to keep going, in my twisted brain. And for that I appreciate the moment.
And right after that, I received an email from one of my bestest peeps. You'll see WHY she's one of my best when you read said email below: (edited for squishiness, which I selfishly kept to myself in case I need a little "but you're fucking awesome and this is why" ego boost again):
Some people suck. And some people gargle donkey balls professionally. Like as their job. I know they're the worst and hard as shit to ignore (wow, this metaphor is falling apart fast) but just try to remember your better than them.
You don't suck.
You don't gargle donkey balls, neither professionally nor as a hobby. So far as I know.
You're Jess. And that kicks ass.
I'm Cait and I approve this message. (trying desperately to make you laugh at this point.)
With friends who remind me that I'm not gargling donkey balls, how could I possibly stop writing?
PS: This morning's list of "shit that happened" will be held for a future post, because I'm still laughing and wiping the coffee that just shot out my nose off my goddamn keyboard.
I had a mental-out yesterday and a whiny bitch-fest, and instead of telling me to suck it up I got some fantabulous comments: thank you. You guys are more awesome than unicorns and glitter.
(I had a neat pic here and realized it's not MINE to share on a blog...must investigate).
I also got two violently positive drop-kicks to my impending depression. Knocked that fucker right back into his hole.
First, I discovered I'm on someone else's blogroll. So what, you say? Well, being fairly easily excitable, I often squee in delight when this blog gets more than 100 views in a day (so far it's happened twice, and Husband texts "yay" and probably rolls his eyes behind his phone but that's ok: I know it's silly). I think it's ridiculously neat that I have a few regular readers (other than me, I mean).
In this case, it means a fucking HILARIOUS blogger reads my shit and likes it. (Seriously, go read her NOW. I'll wait. Try not to snort whatever you're drinking through your nose. I dare you.)
Every comment (good and bad, despite my rant yesterday) and every reader/follower matters to me. To find out someone is entertained enough to put me on her reading list is pretty fucking awesome.
To find that out almost immediately after seriously considering whether I should be writing a blog? That's a killer sign to keep going, in my twisted brain. And for that I appreciate the moment.
And right after that, I received an email from one of my bestest peeps. You'll see WHY she's one of my best when you read said email below: (edited for squishiness, which I selfishly kept to myself in case I need a little "but you're fucking awesome and this is why" ego boost again):
Some people suck. And some people gargle donkey balls professionally. Like as their job. I know they're the worst and hard as shit to ignore (wow, this metaphor is falling apart fast) but just try to remember your better than them.
You don't suck.
You don't gargle donkey balls, neither professionally nor as a hobby. So far as I know.
You're Jess. And that kicks ass.
I'm Cait and I approve this message. (trying desperately to make you laugh at this point.)
With friends who remind me that I'm not gargling donkey balls, how could I possibly stop writing?
PS: This morning's list of "shit that happened" will be held for a future post, because I'm still laughing and wiping the coffee that just shot out my nose off my goddamn keyboard.
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
Thus I Learn Blogging Lessons From the Interwebz
I can tell my writing the past few posts has been shitty. To those who actually read the entire posts in question, I apologize for that.
Sometimes I have silly, irrational hopes that someday more than 25 people will actually look at my blog in a day. I know that should that ever happen I'll get snarky trolling comments, I mean this is a public forum and all. Honestly I'm sort of looking forward to them (usually they're funny as hell). I expect people not to get me or what I wrote on a particular day, and I expect nastiness because many people are meaner on the webz than they are in real life (ah, anonymity, you lovely sheltering bitch).
Today I hit a fabulously awful anxiety-and-insecurity wall about writing anywhere except my own damn diary which even my husband doesn't read. See, I didn't expect snarkiness to come from people I know personally, and I really didn't expect said snark to be so utterly out of touch with what I'd posted. Maybe if I'd written better, clearer posts things wouldn't have been missed or taken so totally out of context.
The worst part is reviewing what I'd originally written (because obviously I had something bad in there, right?) and realizing that even after proofreading and letting a post sit for a day or two before a final read-through I STILL might not have been clear enough. I thought it was.
Unpreparedness isn't an excuse, I know, but it still hit me. Yeah, I know: toughen up whiny bitch. I'm a fucking fool for letting a couple of things picked apart out of context bother me. I know it. I still cry a disappointed tear or three when I get a rejection from a magazine and stuff too, so this isn't terribly unusual. Hell, I cried when I got a good review of a story I'd written (much to my husband's amused bafflement). The question is: was it bad writing, or bad reading? I don't know, but I'm working on improving the writing because I have no control over whether someone fully reads something I wrote, or whether they get it.
In the meantime I'll let you know a secret or three about me:
1) I'm not terribly funny. If you want a funny blog go read The Bloggess or Hyperbole And A Half. Sometimes weird shit happens to me, and I find some of it hilarious so I post it. I guarantee it won't be funny to everyone.
2) I'm not doing this blog for money (look Mom, no ads!) or publicity or even notoriety. Know what? I'm not a goddamn expert on writing, blog or otherwise. If I was I'd likely be writing for a living, not as what should be a fun hobby.
3) This blog is not about you unless I specifically mention your name in print (which I'd never do anyway since then you could probably sue me for the nonexistent profits of this shit I'm posting, or something...I'm not a lawyer). It's my blog, these are my thoughts, my mentalness, my anxiety, my writing: by default 99.99% of the posts are likely to be about me. Is that selfish and narcissistic (and likely boring as hell)? Yupper! Do you have to read it? NOPE! Should you take anything I say here seriously? Probably not.
4) Bonus tidbit: I'm not appropriate: I swear, I talk about sex, I have very little patience for stupid and mean.
I'm not as thick-skinned as I'd like to be. Yet.
Sometimes I have silly, irrational hopes that someday more than 25 people will actually look at my blog in a day. I know that should that ever happen I'll get snarky trolling comments, I mean this is a public forum and all. Honestly I'm sort of looking forward to them (usually they're funny as hell). I expect people not to get me or what I wrote on a particular day, and I expect nastiness because many people are meaner on the webz than they are in real life (ah, anonymity, you lovely sheltering bitch).
Today I hit a fabulously awful anxiety-and-insecurity wall about writing anywhere except my own damn diary which even my husband doesn't read. See, I didn't expect snarkiness to come from people I know personally, and I really didn't expect said snark to be so utterly out of touch with what I'd posted. Maybe if I'd written better, clearer posts things wouldn't have been missed or taken so totally out of context.
The worst part is reviewing what I'd originally written (because obviously I had something bad in there, right?) and realizing that even after proofreading and letting a post sit for a day or two before a final read-through I STILL might not have been clear enough. I thought it was.
Unpreparedness isn't an excuse, I know, but it still hit me. Yeah, I know: toughen up whiny bitch. I'm a fucking fool for letting a couple of things picked apart out of context bother me. I know it. I still cry a disappointed tear or three when I get a rejection from a magazine and stuff too, so this isn't terribly unusual. Hell, I cried when I got a good review of a story I'd written (much to my husband's amused bafflement). The question is: was it bad writing, or bad reading? I don't know, but I'm working on improving the writing because I have no control over whether someone fully reads something I wrote, or whether they get it.
In the meantime I'll let you know a secret or three about me:
1) I'm not terribly funny. If you want a funny blog go read The Bloggess or Hyperbole And A Half. Sometimes weird shit happens to me, and I find some of it hilarious so I post it. I guarantee it won't be funny to everyone.
2) I'm not doing this blog for money (look Mom, no ads!) or publicity or even notoriety. Know what? I'm not a goddamn expert on writing, blog or otherwise. If I was I'd likely be writing for a living, not as what should be a fun hobby.
3) This blog is not about you unless I specifically mention your name in print (which I'd never do anyway since then you could probably sue me for the nonexistent profits of this shit I'm posting, or something...I'm not a lawyer). It's my blog, these are my thoughts, my mentalness, my anxiety, my writing: by default 99.99% of the posts are likely to be about me. Is that selfish and narcissistic (and likely boring as hell)? Yupper! Do you have to read it? NOPE! Should you take anything I say here seriously? Probably not.
4) Bonus tidbit: I'm not appropriate: I swear, I talk about sex, I have very little patience for stupid and mean.
I'm not as thick-skinned as I'd like to be. Yet.
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