Tag Archives: writing

I Wish I Was in Tijuana, Eating Barbequed Iguana in the Sauna

22 Apr

Hey, kids! It’s National Poetry Month!

Wait – don’t go, come back! Poetry is cool!  I swear this will be fun! And mostly painless!

Mostly.

Here’s a short collection of some of my best poetry fails. See, I made sure this was short. So you can enjoy them. Or not. My guess is you won’t unless you’re drunk.

Do Iguanas Smoke Marijuana in the Sauna?

Dude....I am like....sooooo baked right now.

Dude….I am like….sooooo baked right now.

There once was a girl from Maine
Who’s musical taste was urbane.

She jammed to Nirvana
On the streets of Botswana

Hold up — that makes no sense…
but what else rhymes with Nirvana?

OK, sure sauna…maybe iguana…

But I’m not entirely convinced
I can make a connection there.

And urbane doesn’t describe Nirvana,
hmm…maybe I should look up
the definition again
just to be sure…

Annnnd now my rhythm is off,
Dammit!

(Writing poetry is like, super-duper hard.)
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Highway to Hell

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one everyone else did,
And now I’m stuck in traffic behind an 18 Wheeler
filled with three farms worth of cow manure,
diesel seeping into my pulmonary veins,
my bladder bursting with jumbo-sized Mocha Lattes,
while my kids play “Stinky Feet” and “Who Can Fart the Loudest?”
and the deejay announces they’re kicking off a three hour block
of  Justin Bieber.

Slide1
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Please, Be It Far From Me to Tell You How to Sleep. Or Die.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
God forbid that were to ever happen,
because then I’d get some f***ing rest.
So please! By all means, rage, rage against the dying of the TV’s light!

and blissfully snore like a wild boar that’s being slowly castrated while trapped inside a cavernous abyss of hell where every snort vibrates with the power of a million jackhammers and I think the wall is going to cave in and crush us both to death, I pray.

Rage, rage….that’s it. That’s all I got. Just rage.

C'mon....a little wider....just a little wider...and I can cram my pillow in there...

C’mon….a little wider….just a little wider…and I can cram my pillow in there, you air-sucking bastard.

____________________________________________________________

Happy Poetry Month!

Feel free to leave a good poetry fail in your comments.

Like this? Want more? click on these gems:

Ode to My Old Man

She’s a Maineiac Greeting Cards

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On Blogging

28 Feb
Writing

Writing (Photo credit: Wikipedia) You’re right. Clearly, this is not me. Otherwise, I’d need some serious Nair, and I have no clue what it is that Robin Williams is holding but I think it’s some sort of writing tool…?

Look! I’ve written another post on writing! Wahoo!

Maybe it’s this long winter, maybe it’s because I’m bored and tired of putting together 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzles of lighthouses, but I want to ask you guys some questions.

This post is mainly directed toward the other bloggers out there.  My questions might be for research purposes (still waiting for Psychology Today to return my calls), but mainly for my own amusement.

Beats shoveling the driveway. And besides, there’s nothing on TV anyway.

Oh, and because I adore you so much, I want to pick your WordPress brains.

These questions are about blogging in general, but more about you. Your life, your personality.  Your reason for blogging, if any (hell, I only do it for the carpal tunnel syndrome), and more specifically, about your burning desire to write.

Fine, lukewarm desire.

  1. Why in the hell do you blog? I mean, really.  We all know that “for the endless amounts of cold hard cash” will never be an answer. What do you get out of it? The main thing that compels you to crank out yet another post. Is it to quiet the voices? You can’t afford a diary? Looking for a big book deal? To connect with others? Your therapist suggested it? Tell me. Be honest. (It’s to quiet the voices, isn’t it?)
  2. How did you discover blogging? What was your initial impression? I thought it was just an online journal no one would ever read or a fun way to let perfect strangers know embarrassing and intimate details of your life. Guess I wasn’t too far off with that guess.
  3. Were you shy and withdrawn as a child or gregarious?
  4. What does gregarious mean?
  5. How close is your ‘blogging’ persona to the real you? Any differences, similarities? If you’re really a Chinese robot, etc? Is your writing ‘voice’ the true you? Are you more guarded with your writing or more confident?
  6. How has blogging changed you or your life? It hasn’t? Aw, c’mon! Fess up. It’s made my ass much fatter.
  7. Do you consider yourself to be a ‘writer’? Explain why or why not.
  8. Do you prefer to write, then edit, edit, edit or just throw up on a page and be done with it?
  9. How confident are you after you hit that dreaded ‘publish’ button? Does it strike fear in your heart? Or do you not even care? If you don’t care at all, I’d like to have what you’re having. Also what Meg Ryan was having in When Harry Met Sally, but that’s another story for another time.
  10. Have you ever regretted something you’ve written? (like what I just wrote about Meg Ryan) If so, what was it and why, and can you give me a link to it?
  11. Have you ever been 100% satisfied with something you’ve written?
    Not one of my finest stories, I'll admit.

    Not one of my finest stories, I’ll admit.

    Do you view your writing as good, bad, so-so, or ‘eh, you really don’t care’? Do you ever look back at a post and cringe? And thought, good lord! that was pure crap on a stick!? Just me? Nevermind.

  12. When you write, do you have a certain audience in mind, or do you just go with your gut and let the words spew forth without a care who would like it or not? In other words, do you censor yourself at all?
  13. What will you never, ever, ever, like totally ever write about and why not?
  14. Can you write a post for me? Yeah, I’m fresh outta ideas at the moment as you can see…

Thank you. That is all.

Feel free to answer any and all questions below. Or in your own post. Or answer none. Right. Like that’ll happen. You’re a blogger. You’re a writer. We love to string words together and babble and drone on and on and on, it’s what we do best, am I right, huh, well am I, hmm?

Okay, that was a bad example.

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Einstein and the Theory of Slurpees (Part 2)

26 Oct

THE BIG EVERYTHING

After the man in white whisked me away from the Past Lives Viewing Theater (he never did tell me his name, so I decided to call him Mike), I noticed an odd sound. It was a buzzing of sorts, pulsing in waves.

Buzzzzzz…..buzzzzz….buzzzzz….

Or maybe it was more of a whumm….whummmmm….whummmm….

I imagined a giant generator floating off in the distance, plugged into a monstrous power strip. I knew it. The universe is powered by Home Depot! I chuckled to myself, stopping to hover in the sky right above the gardens while John Lennon sang on the stage below, “There are places I’ll remember….”

“We must move quickly now. The Light is waiting for us,” said Mike.

“But first, tell me this, does John imagine there’s a heaven now?”

“Ha. Ha. Yes. Good one. We have to go. Right now.”

“Wait…is He or She, I mean… the God and/or Goddess of Everything, giving off that loud buzzing sound?”

“Sort of.”

“You should really try to be more vague.”

I never realized a spirit was capable of eye-rolling with his entire body until that moment. Tiny specks of bright red flared up like sparks, rippling in waves across his energy cloud.

I sensed he was growing tired of my jokes.

“Hey!” I yelled as I felt a zap of heat where my wrist used to be. Suddenly, Mike and I were zooming straight up into darkness, closer to the big generator in the sky.

Although the spirit dimension is just above the living, the place The Light resides is well, light-years away, straight up in an immense oval-shaped black space surrounded by blindingly bright stars. Kind of like a giant football stadium.

“Well, here we are. I will leave you now. Oh, and good luck, although I’m certain you won’t need it,” Mike snickered. At least I thought he’d snickered. Another thing you’ll learn up here–even spirits in a perfect world can be a bit snarky.

“Wait! What? You’re leaving?”

“Yes. Piece of advice…” Bursts of pale red streaked through Mike’s aura as he leaned in to whisper. “Do not ask if they serve chili dogs. Do not ask for a beer. Do not ask if Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix will be the halftime show. This may very well be the place of The Big Everything, but you need to warm up to God a little before you start with the one-liners, okay? Got it?”

Man, this Mike sure is a buzz-kill! I thought.

“I can heeeear you, remember? And my name’s not Miiiiiiiike….” Mike said, his voice trailing away as he dropped straight down through the clouds below.

So I waited.  I floated.  The Big Everything, huh? I thought, glancing around. Sounded  promising. Huh. So far it looks like The Big Fat Nothing.  I tapped my vapor cloud foot and hummed the theme to Greatest American Hero. “Believe it or not…I’m walking on air…I never thought I could feel so freeee….” I looked around some more.  Hmm.  Still nothing but stars and that infernal buzzing.  I checked my watch. Dang it. No watch. Or wrist. I sighed. Is God coming? Is He held up somewhere? Did He have an emergency? I thought He was everywhere all at once. If so, why isn’t He here now? 

Right on cue, the buzzing changed.  Now it sounded musical, like a gentle harp was playing, along with some violins and a little new-age synthesizer mixed in. Soon I heard a haunting angelic voice singing. Not bad, not bad. Very soothing.  Had a nice beat. I wondered if this was the waiting room.  Or the pre-waiting waiting room? In any case, the music was quite nice….

YOU LIKE ENYA?

A swoosh of heat and light blazed overhead like an enormous fireball, only to disappear on the other side of the star stadium, sparkles of white light dancing in its wake.

Now that’s the way to make an entrance! I let out a snort. Then I started to giggle. I couldn’t help it.

Get a grip. I need to maintain. Maintain! Be cool.

“Uh…God….? Is that You? Was that You?” I asked the darkness.

Nothing.  I glanced around and noticed the stars changing colors from purple to gold to deep blue, all twinkling in time to the music, which was now growing louder. “Who can say where the road goes….where the day goes…only time….” Enya continued to sing. Her voice was pretty dang calming, I had to admit.

“Sure! Sure, I like Enya. Love it! Yeah! Good stuff!” my voice cracked as I started to panic. When The Light had blown past, I’d felt the most incredible sense of peace envelope my entire soul. Peace that was so strong, so all-encompassing, it made me like Enya.

I FIND HER MUSIC TO BE QUITE RELAXING. REALLY HELPS TAKE THE EDGE OFF.

God’s voice was coming from close behind me now, my entire energy-cloud body shivering and crackling in response. His voice wasn’t a mere voice. It was an entity all its own. It took hold of all my senses and seeped into my soul, radiating pure peace and love. If His voice is that big, I thought,  I can’t wait to see what this dude looks like.

I turned around.

“Whoa,” I said. “You are….I mean…wow. Just wow. You are incredible. Astounding even. I’m in awe. Pure awe. You are. Awesome. I really mean that.”

YEAH, I KNOW. I GET THAT A LOT.

I know you’re dying right now to know what I saw, what The Light looks like and all. But trust me, words will never be enough. I suppose if you can imagine a light so bright, so vivid and bursting with the biggest, most exquisite love ever felt on Earth, then multiple that by a gazillion, you still won’t even come close to what I saw and felt.

“So how…uh…how can I help You? Is there anything? A-anything at all?” I sputtered.  It was hard to talk to God without lapsing into a catatonic state of bliss. As you know, when I get spacey, I tend to ramble.

“Not that You need any help.  I mean, I’m sure You don’t need any help at all. You’re God. You’re perfect. You never make mistakes. Well, there’s the Honey Boo Boo show….but I’ll let that one slide…heh… I’m sure You had nothing to do with that….I mean…what I’m trying to say is…can I help You? Or is it may I help You? Does grammar exist up here? Please tell me it doesn’t!   Anyway….if I can help, in any way…just let me know…don’t be shy…” I gulped and continued to stare, transfixed with the gorgeous rays of gold light bursting out of what I could only assume was His head. Does He even have a head? The glaring light made it hard for me to make out any distinguishing features. If only I hadn’t left my sunglasses on the kitchen counter that morning!

I THINK YOU’RE VERY FUNNY. YOU MAKE ME LAUGH.

“Oh! Thank You! Thank you, er… Your Highness! Can I call you God? Or is it The Light?” I squinted up at Him. “Or….something…else….?” Once again I felt hopelessly mesmerized.

YOU CAN CALL ME WHATEVER YOU WISH.

God paused.

JUST DON’T CALL ME MIKE.

The Light let out a thunderous roar. Millions of rainbows shot out of the sky and stars were rearranged. It blew my mind across the universe and back again.

“Was that your laugh?”

YES. I LAUGH ALL THE TIME. I APPRECIATE HUMOR. DON’T LET OL’ PHIL GET TO YOU. HE’S NEVER BEEN THE SAME SINCE THE INCIDENT.

“Incident? Phil? Ha! I knew it! Phil!”

SO I NEED YOU TO DO A FEW THINGS…

“You’ve got it.”

As God moved closer to me, the warmth and love was so overwhelming, I started to cry.

“Sorry, “I sniffed. “You’re just so…so nice to hang out with.”

IT’S OKAY, REALLY. THERE, THERE.

God gave me a squeeze and in a flash, I suddenly knew everything there was to know about everything.

“Whoa,” I said.

OKAY—SO, WE GOOD? I NEED YOU TO HELP HIM. HE’S IN REAL DANGER.

God scooped me up and we zipped straight down to Earth within a millisecond of a nanosecond. He parted the clouds with a flick of his massive hand to reveal the glittering skyline of a city below: Portland, Maine.

“Maine? Really? Seriously? Not someplace warmer? Like Hawaii?” I asked. He chuckled, careful not to scare me again with a real laugh. He showed me a two story brick house at the end of a cul de sac dotted with the soft glow of lampposts. Floating high above, I watched as a dark minivan pulled into the driveway. A woman with a worn Red Sox baseball cap got out, sipping on a grande half-caf vanilla latte with skim milk from Starbucks. (I told you, I knew everything about everything now.) She slid the backseat car door open, juggling her coffee in one hand while hefting a chubby, curly-haired toddler onto one hip. As the woman walked to the front door, the baby turned to look up into the night sky, letting out a loud squeal that pierced the cool quiet air.

“Baba?” the baby asked, pointing directly at me with his little hand. I felt my aura prickle with electricity.

“Shhh….” his mom soothed into his ear.

Locking my gaze onto his hazel eyes, entire lifetimes spun, weaving circles around and around–death, birth, sadness, longing, pain, wisdom, hope and love. All of it there, meshed together in some bizarre cosmic tapestry, floating within the green and brown specks of his eyes. “Baba,” the baby giggled and plugged his thumb into his mouth, still watching me as they vanished inside the house.

I had finally found you again.

But this time around, in this lifetime, I knew I would have to make things right.

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*This is a fictional short story. It didn’t really happen. I swear.
You can read part 1: Einstein and the Theory of Slurpees, so that this part will make much more sense. Hopefully.

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Einstein and the Theory of Slurpees

13 Oct

It’s not easy being here. It takes time to adjust.

At first it was pretty cool. I loved zipping around, flying from place to place. After all, I had no body anymore, so there was that.

When I first arrived, everyone was there to greet me, kind of like a big high school reunion, but without the anxiety or bad ’80s music. It was great seeing my family and friends. But, holy shit! There were just so many of them! I was told I had already lived 52 lives back down on Earth. Fifty-two! You’d think with all that knowledge, some of it would have sunk in with my last life, but no. If only I had backed away from the bridge after the guy hitched me onto the bungee cord, I’d still be down there right now, eating Doritos and watching Roseanne reruns.

But I wasn’t. So I made do.

The first thing I noticed about the other side– it’s not ‘over there’ or ‘up there’. It’s right here. Right where you still exist. We are all milling around just a few frequencies above the living. Not far at all. Sometimes one of you might catch a glimpse of us if the dimensions accidentally leak into one another. But we’re not up on some cloud playing harps with the angels. (The angels have more important things to do, trust me.) We have buildings. We have mountains and lakes. But no Walmarts or McDonalds. It’s just like Earth.

Only infinitely better.

So after I crossed over, my next stop was the Past Lives Viewing Theater. A few of my friends dragged me there that first day. I say ‘day’ but really, time doesn’t exist over here. I won’t go into specifics, but let’s just say even Einstein’s mind was blown after he crossed over.

After I arrived at the theater, I was led by a man dressed in white down a long white hall to a large white room with a white chair. One thing you’ll notice after you get here, everything seems to be bathed in white. A glowing, almost blinding white. “How do you not bump into anything?” I asked my friends and they all laughed.

I sat down to face this gigantic silver screen, better than any HDTV at Best Buy. You’re probably familiar with surround sound? Well, this sucker had the fourth dimension built in. Not only could I see any of my past lives in full technicolor, but I could interact with any moment in any of those lives firsthand, like I was reliving it with all my senses intact.

Next time you do something really stupid or embarrassing, just remember this–it’s being recorded.

Makes you think twice about dancing naked while singing songs from Glee into your hairbrush, huh.

Oh, and the refreshments were killer. I was only on the other side mere moments and already I started to miss food. I wanted a big bucket of popcorn with melted butter. Boom. It was there beside me. I wanted a jumbo-sized blue-raspberry Slurpee. Bam. It appeared out of nowhere.

“Don’t worry,” said the man in white. “There are no such things as calories here. Dig in.”

I was loving this place already.

A few things I discovered while at the movies: I was once a housewife living in a log cabin on the prairie with eleven children in the 1800s, I was once a chambermaid for a filthy rich English family in the late 1700s, and I was once eaten by a black bear in Siberia in the year 1502.

Explained my lifelong aversion to kids, bears and cleaning.

While the Viewing Theater was a riot, and a few mysteries were finally solved, I was already wondering what would happen next. I mean, what did people do up here all day long?

So I’m dead. Now what?

“I think it’s time you meet with the Light,” the man in white said.

“Huh? How did you read my thoughts?”

“Remember, that’s how we communicate up here. No need for spoken language.”

“So you know everything I’m thinking.”

“Yes.”

“Bummer.”

“It can be quite handy.”

“What am I thinking right now?”

“Doritos.”

“And now?”

“You’re singing that you like big butts and you can’t deny…can we proceed, please?”

“You are good.”

“I know.”

“So who’s this light person?”

“The Light. The Being. God. Y’know….the god/goddess of Everything…?”

“Sure. I’m game. Is he expecting me?”

“There is no ‘he’. Or ‘she’. The Light is both she and he. Or neither.”

“Right. Just like today is not today, tomorrow or yesterday?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, if you say so,” I downed another Slurpee, watched it disappear into the ether that used to be my stomach and laughed. Whoa–no brain freeze! Makes sense, I have no actual brain anymore. Chuckling to myself, I turned to float back down the hall. Which to me was ridiculous, as I probably could have zipped straight through the walls since they–like everything else here–seemed transparent and buzzing with a crackling energy. It was all too much. My head felt dizzy. Well, if I still had a head. Now my body was more like a murky ball of vapor with fuzzy outlines. For a second, I caught myself wondering where I would put my cell phone.

Getting used to being dead is a process.

“I’m ready,” I sighed. “Just one thing–does this shapeless, formless, swirling vapor cloud of energy make my butt look big?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

“Man! I am so relieved humor exists up here! And where is that music coming from? Is that John Lennon I hear singing?”

“Yes.  From time to time, you can hear him jamming with George Harrison down in the gardens.”

“I think I’m going to like it here.”

“You won’t be staying for long, I’m afraid.”

“Bummer.”

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2 Years of Blogging (and they said it wouldn’t last…)

20 Jul TAG CLOUD BLOG

Two years ago today, I started my blog. I had no idea what to write about or why anyone in their right mind would ever want to read it. I guess some things never change. My first post was about widgets and picking a theme. After I published it, I thought, Huh. Well…so now what? I guess that’s it…I’m done with the blogging thing…

I had no idea what blogging meant. I considered it a private diary of sorts that maybe my cousin in Florida would read for her own amusement. I didn’t realize anyone out there could just stumble upon it and read it–that it was public domain. Good thing or I probably would’ve censored myself more.

So I wrote mostly for myself. (And as luck would have it, I was the only one reading it.) I kept plugging away for months with my public diary no one read. If I got a ‘like’, I was ecstatic. One comment and I was over the moon. I honestly still feel that way today.  I never imagined I would take to blogging so quickly or become so addicted.

My very first constant readers and commenters were Lenore of Lenore’s Thoughts Exactly, Charles of Mostly Bright Ideas, Susan of Coming East, and The Simple Life of a Country Man’s Wife.  Many times I was very close to giving up, but these guys would always leave me a kind comment here and there, and I’d be sucked back into the blogging world.

image: quickmeme

I felt like someone was out there listening. And through them I found other bloggers and started following them as well. So I would like to give a shout-out to them–thank you. I honestly wouldn’t still be blogging if it weren’t for you guys. (And now my husband has someone to blame.)

Here are some interesting factoids about my two years here at the place I’ve grown to love, WordPress:

137–total number of posts
8,512–total number of comments
8,000–number of comments where I replied with: “Ha!” “Haha!” or “Hahaha!”
1,333,561–number of spam comments stating:Your interesting article make great points. Very efficiently written. I encourage you to continue making brilliant ideas of this topic for future reference.
1,000–average number of words in my posts
500–average number of words in my posts my readers would prefer
10,000–average number of words per day I didn’t utter to my husband because I blogged them instead (he would like to personally thank WordPress for this statistic)
152–number of times I dreamt about blogging and other bloggers–like I wrote an embarrassing post and published it anyway or I was blogging in a public place in my underwear (one of those two things happened)
4–number of times I was Freshly Pressed
0–number of times my husband or anyone in my family gave a rat’s ass that I was Freshly Pressed
millions–number of times I checked my stats
countless–number of times I wished I could edit my comment the second I hit the reply button but instead sat there like an idiot, silently screaming NOOOOOOO! at the computer screen.
countless–number of times I’ve been in awe of a fellow blogger’s writing–their unfailing humor, intelligence, heart and soul. Also jealous. Very jealous. But I’ve learned to let it go.

I am grateful to WordPress for giving me the chance to have others read my stuff and, especially, for creating such a great creative space full of talented blogs and people. My life is richer for having ‘met’ you guys here.  I know this all sounds hokey, but it’s true. So there.

Thank you ALL for supporting me these past two years, and always being so positive, hilarious and respectful. I hope one day we can all meet up and have an epic blogger party at the beach. I’ll bring the lobstahs if you bring the bee-yah, deal?

Here’s a little stroll down memory lane of my past 2 years. Caution: you might have to adjust the volume a bit here and there as I switch from music to talking. Enjoy!

**Warning Kids! There is some profanity! Some of it warranted!**

*******Dagnabit! Can’t figure out why this video “is not available in your country.” The video was the best part of this post! I’m working on it….*****

 

If you thought this video was lame, you might also enjoy THIS ONE

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Don’t forget to come back next week for my first contest/giveaway–details in the next post! Which will be as soon as I buy some crap to give away!

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Top 11 Things About Blogging I’m Not Very Fond Of….

17 Jul blogging

(…because hate is such a strong word.)

11) If I don’t blog, I die a little inside. Then I curse myself for being addicted. And I die inside a little more. Then I write a post about blogging. Then I cry in my beer. Repeat ad nauseam. Then I look up the phrase ‘ad nauseam’ to make sure I’m using it correctly or if I spelled it wrong. Then I realize it’s probably spelt not spelled. Like whilst or learnt…? But isn’t spelt some kind of bread my mom eats that has the texture of cardboard? Then my head implodes.

10) When blogging cuts into my sleep time. Also my housework time. But never my eating time because, let’s face it, food is necessary to keep our energy up so we can blog some more.

9) When you leave a comment you think is clever and original, only to realize you just said the exact same thing as the person about 20 comments up. But yours is riddled with typos.

8) When you publish a post you’ve worked on for days and it gets tons of hits and comments–then after awhile you look back and realize you wrote their instead of they’re….you’re instead of your, spelled weird, wierd and left out the last paragraph.

7) No spell check on your comments. No ability to edit your comments. Or delete them entirely because you’ve realized when you typed it out the previous night, you were drunk and had apparently lost your ability to spell or form complete sentences or make any sense at all and so you ended up just rambling on and on and look like the world’s biggest idiot kinda like what I’m doing right now. [I'm not really drunk right now, the idiot thing comes naturally for me]

6) You want to leave a comment, but the pressure to be witty or sound halfway sane is too much, so you panic and type: Haha! Good post! i really loved the part where you said the funny thing and then the other part where you said the other thing! you so funny! I love you! But not in a stalkerish kinda way! I swear!

5) Whenever I hit the ‘publish’ button, a mixture of shiny quarters and Skittles doesn’t come cascading out of my computer monitor like a slot machine.

4) You spend hours crafting a post, writing several drafts. You think it’s the greatest thing since beer can hats. So you hold your breath and publish it–this deeply personal creation…this piece of writing you’ve slaved over with your blood, sweat and tears, putting your heart and soul out there–and no one reads it or comments on it. All you get are crickets. Sometimes even the crickets desert you. But the super short post you wrote while you were half asleep, sitting on the toilet? Yeah, that’s the one that gets the most hits. Because you used ‘Justin Bieber’ as a tag.

3) You get set to publish a post about something so specific and random, so incredibly bizarre, you know it’s original (like a story about eating Skittles while wearing a gorilla suit and rollerskating), only to see another blogger had just posted about the same subject hours before. And theirs was Freshly Pressed.

2) There will always be a blogger out there that’s smarter, funnier, and infinitely more popular. Sure, I have 700+ followers. And that makes me think my little blog is getting bigger (and I know, I know… I am very blessed to have them all because during my first six months of blogging I had exactly two followers. I am eternally grateful for every last one of you guys. Never leave me, ever!) But it took two solid years of cranking out crap to get to this point. And yesterday I was waiting in line at Walmart behind roughly the same amount of people. Also, Danny Bonaduce has 10,000 twitter followers. Kinda puts things in perspective.

I’m good enough, I’m smart enough…and doggone it…people like me. But not as much as they like you, Danny.

and the number one thing about blogging I’m not very fond of….

1) Whenever I corner a relative at a get-together because I want to tell them all about my blog, they politely hand me their drink, turn, then jump out a window.

What things about blogging do you hate (aren’t fond of)? Or is it all just unicorns and rainbows and Skittles with you? If so, can you throw some my way? Does my blog make my butt look big? What? Well, who asked you!

 

images: invisibleassistant, wikipedia

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The 7 Deadly Sins Writing Contest–Envy

26 May

Darling’s Cupcakes

When it comes right down to it, I guess I just didn’t want to come out. Who would? My mother never fails to tell my sisters how I howled as the doctor clamped down and yanked me from her uterus, a lifeless ragdoll. “You came out and lawd have mercy, you were bluer ‘n your Daddy’s eyes! We thought you were dead!” But I wasn’t. Not yet. Course, I always knew the real reason I didn’t want to enter this world–my older sisters.

But time marched on and I had to come out eventually. And for us Darling girls, timing was everything–it defined us for all eternity.  First out of my mom’s womb at 12:32 am was Stacy, flushed a rosy pink from her hearty cries. Then along came Tracy at 12:38, Stacy’s identical in every way with her perfectly round head, long feathery lashes and dewy soft skin. Me? I was the odd one from the start. And they always made sure I knew it.

My sisters were shining stars in our little town.  Boys always coming around, pacing on the front porch with flowers for one or the other. I sat in my room, watching from the window. “Tootle-loo, Lexy!” they’d sing.  I can still hear their fake laughs and the door slamming as they ran off to another party without me.

That all changed with my mom’s new cupcake business. If there was one thing she could do in life, it was bake a good cupcake. She started whipping up exotic flavors one afternoon, key lime pie with buttercream, red velvet with a dab of cream cheese in the middle and topped with dark chocolate fondant.

Soon my two sisters were standing by her side in the kitchen, the three of them wearing matching aprons dusted with flour, giggling and singing and making them damn cupcakes. They sold out the first few batches at the local flea market and not long after that Darling’s Cupcakes was born.

I let them have their cupcakes. I never liked to bake anyway. But the day I walked by the Royal River and caught a glimpse of Stacy on her tiptoes reaching up to kiss Jacob’s cheek my feelings about cupcakes changed.

Over dinner one night she told Mama that my sweet Jacob was going to marry her. She needed 200 vanilla buttercream cupcakes for the wedding guests. I offered to help. Mama was shocked and more than a little pleased with me. I spent hours melting that butter in the pot, stirring and stirring to get it just right for the frosting. Mama loved my idea of creating two extra special cupcakes for the bride and groom. I fixed them up real nice, added food coloring to make them pink and topped them with tiny hearts cut from raspberry fondant.

It was supposed to just scare her. Make her a little sick is all. I wanted to see her face as she threw up pink cupcake all over Jacob as they kissed.  I measured just the right amount into her cupcake, or so I thought at the time.  I served the happy couple my creations with the biggest grin I could manage. How was I to know how strong that rat poison would be?

By the time I noticed them feedin’ each other and the wrong cupcake crossing Jacob’s lips it was too late. I did my best to try and stop him. By the time I knocked the cupcake out of his hands he was choking and turning purple.

They say I’ll get a chance for parole in 12 years.

I’ll never have Jacob.

But neither will Stacy.

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k8edid is hosting another installment of her 7 Deadly Sins Writing Contest.
This one is all about ENVY. I had loads of fun with this one!
So pour some more coffee and go read all of the fine entries on her blog.
There is still time to enter. Just follow these simple rules and you’re good to go.
The deadline is next week, May 31st.
Get to writing!

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Much Ado About Nothing Monday

30 Apr

As you all know, I have two young kids that are basically blog fodder gold for me. Oh, yeah, and I love them dearly, etc. etc. That’s important to me, too. But back to my blog again. Now that my son is almost ten, he’s decided to limit our conversations to one word. I’ll ask him a question and he’ll either ignore me completely, or he’ll say, “Huh?” while looking off into the distance. So it’s getting harder for me to give you, dear blog readers, those fascinating gems that used to fly out of his mouth.  But he still manages to crack me up with a few choice words.

He’s been writing to his pen pal from another country in school for months now.  They both love Super Mario Brothers, Hot Wheels and pizza. I am as shocked as you are. The other day, the teacher set up a live video chat with everyone’s pen pals so they could finally meet in person. I was desperately trying to get information out of my son about the experience.

“Did you see your pen pal?”
“Huh?”
“Did you see him?”
“Yeah.”
“How was it?”
“Okay.”
“Did you talk with him?”
“Yeah.”
“Wasn’t it cool to see your friend from another country?”
“I guess.”
“What country is he from again?”
(shrugs) “Wisconsin?”

And the conversation ended. Along with my hopes of him ever becoming a geography teacher.

My son doesn’t come up to me as much anymore to strike up a conversation because he’s probably afraid I’ll sneak in one of my quick hugs and kisses and he’ll be forced to make a hasty retreat. So it was shocking when he came up to me and my husband on purpose to sit down and talk with us while we were watching TV.

“Mom, Dad, I want to tell you something.”
(mutes TV) “Yes! What is it?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking and….”
“Yes?”
“Don’t get mad but….I kinda wanna….”
“It’s okay. You can tell us! You can tell us anything at all! At any time!”
(leaning forward, on the edge of our seats)
“Well…Mom, Dad. I’ve decided to change my name.”
“Oh?”
“To Mario.”
Silence.
“Just thought I’d tell you guys to call me Mario from now on, ok?”
And he ran away.

I’m hoping by the time he’s in college, Mario will want to talk with me again.

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You might have heard about this craze called ‘photobombing’. Where someone sneaks into the corner or background of someone else’s picture and makes a face or something equally clever and obnoxious. Here is a video of my daughter, trying to sing the ABC’s “Country Style” (her preK teacher taught her this version which I find hilarious) My daughter had tried to do this video more than a few times and, as you can see by the end of the video, she had a hard time.

And here she is attempting a rousing rendition of Lady Gaga’s Born This Way.

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Fellow blogger extraordinaire k8edid is running a series of writing contests titled The Deadly Sins. This week it’s all about gluttony. You should have a character die or be in the process of dying and it should be no more than 600 words. She promises lots of prizes (this week it’s her world famous chocolate chip cookies and a $20 donation will be made, in their name, to the Food Bank or other hunger-fighting charitable organization of their choosing!) and besides, it’s fun to write, so go on over there and enter. Death, sins, charity and cookies. What more could you want, really?

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I’m Gonna Party Like It’s One Shy of 100

1 Apr

Go on! Fly away, little blog posts! I'll miss you all!

Today is a monumental day for me.

This is my 99th post.

I have been blogging almost 2 years. So I’ve achieved this milestone with the same speed as molasses running uphill in the dead of winter (or as myself running uphill in the dead of winter).  I guess I should try writing more? Or running? Eh.

Why am I celebrating 99? Why the hell not?  It’s a great number, has a solid history of being cool. Like:

The song from that freaky early 80s German band, 99 Luft Balloons
The song from that freaky little purple-clad dude, (can’t remember his name), 1999
The song 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall
Agent 99 on Get Smart

Ok, that’s all I’ve got.

This Big 99th Blog Post celebration was the icing on the cake of my very exciting weekend.

Saturday was my luckiest day. I woke up and was in disbelief that I did not win the mega-huge-gigantic jackpot of 500 million bucks.  If no one else won it either, I plan on actually buying a ticket next week.

But all was not lost, we took the kids bowling. I got three strikes.  Granted, the bumpers were up. And I used both of my hands to bowl. And I put the ball on the floor first, then rolled it. Then I stepped over the line and the freaky imaginary sensor thingy was activated and the buzzer went off so my points were worthless. But I  pushed that ball with every ounce of strength I could muster and knocked all the pins down after it slowly zigzagged from side to side and narrowly missed going into the gutter. It was my finest hour. There was lots of cheering (only from me) air high fives (only I participated) and at one point, I even moonwalked across three lanes in my clown-sized bowling shoes.

After riding that high all morning (all by myself–my kids and husband weren’t that impressed), I returned home after lunch and discovered I had won Peg-o-leg’s The Jacket writing contest. I was about as shocked as when the guy at the bowling alley walked over and told me to “please stop moonwalking, people are trying to bowl and there are young children present.” (My own son had filed the complaint with management.)

Thank you, readers, for any vote(s) you threw my way. Last I knew I was in third place in a very tight race, so I’m thinking Angie somehow figured out how to vote 50 times in one hour.  In honor of winning the prized green plaid jacket, I will videotape myself in it twirling a baton because I am just stupid enough or just don’t give a crap what anyone thinks of me anymore to do it.

Which reminds me. I am quitting blogging. Yeah, that’s right. It’s over. I am done. Finito. No more posts from this chick. I can’t keep up with all this writing and reading and then with all the constant commenting and the replying and replying to replies, blah blah blah, it just never ends. I am going to start doing wild-n-crazy things like being with my family. Talking to other people. Going outside. Letting the thoughts in my head stay in my head. Wish me luck.

So I want to thank you all, loyal readers and commenters and people who ‘liked’ my posts here and there. It’s been a great ride while it lasted.

I’ll leave you with a very short-n-sweet poem (inspired by k8edid, the Queen of Poetry, who is infinitely better at this than I am. Well, better at writing good poems, not better at writing bad poems…)

A Very Bad Poem in 99 Words

Waiting for the answer

Will it be golden perfection?

Or scorched to black?

A wasted form of what could have been?

Waiting for an answer–

It pops up!

Silencing the beating of my heart.

Heaven is within reach!

Pulsing-hot, scorching metal against skin,

Be Careful! I might get burned!

Maybe use a knife, some tongs?

Electric shock is no concern for me,

Craving to taste the divine

Pools of butter spilling

Into rivers of sweet honey,

I sink my teeth

Into the warm and crunchy,

Lick my lips and sigh,

I can make some damn fine toast.

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(oh, and Happy April Fools’ Day, if you thought I was being serious about quitting, damn, you are so gullible! If you knew I was just kidding from the get-go, then sheesh, you see right through me)
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image: deviantARTS

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Blogger Blues: Part 1

13 Feb

Welcome to the dark world of a tortured blogger; a world where the bread and butter of a good post are ideas. Ideas that can make or break writing. Thoughts about life that sometimes marinate and simmer for the perfect amount of time; coming out of the oven all steamy and bubbly-good to be hungrily devoured by the masses. But what happens when the Tortured Blogger attempts to whip up something and throws open the fridge only to find a crusty bottle of ketchup, an already-opened Yoo-Hoo and a few slices of moldy cheese? Let’s listen in as our featured blogger,  The Maineiac, endures this soul-crushing, hair-ripping, head-banging process of attempting to cook up a delicious idea for a new blog post, shall we?

“Ohhhhh…” THUD. “Ohhhhhhhh….god….” THUD. “Kill me now…” THUD.

The sickening smack of forehead meeting kitchen table cuts through the heavy quiet. “Ohhhh…why…ohhhhh…why?” More thudding. More blinding pain as Blogger’s head attempts to shake a few coherent thoughts loose with every table slam.

“Whatcha doin’?” Blogger’s husband skips into the kitchen oozing with the serenity that only comes from being a Non-Blogger.

“I am dying,” Blogger moans. “Dying, I tell you!” she yells.

Hanging her head, she whispers,  ”It’s all over. I am finished. I have nothing left to give.” A tear slips out of the corner of her eye. ”Nothing!” she yells again as her husband jumps. She sniffs sadly and lowers her voice back to normal,  ”I am empty, I will never ever ever have another idea for a post again. It’s all gone. Forever. I have–”

Blogger hesitates to peer over at husband as he nonchalantly cracks open a ginger ale. He hops up onto the counter and swings his legs.

“Oh, really?” he remarks and gulps some soda, gazing off into the distance with all the concern of someone watching paint dry. Paint drying would get more of a reaction out of Non-Blogger. “Sounds bad,” he rubs his eyes and yawns.

“Sounds bad?”

“Uh oh, what did I say now?” his mouth drops open.

“You have no clue what it’s like to not be able to write. I have no ideas at all. Nothing. The well has run dry. The shopping cart has been emptied. The mine has been….uh…mined. It’s hopeless!” Blogger lays weary idea-less head down on top of her notebook, once overflowing with post ideas. The wire binder digs into her cheek as tears spill onto the paper, smudging the scrawled words at the top of the page: “NEW BLOG IDEAS!!”

“Well,” Non-Blogger walks over to peer at the notebook. “What’ve you got so far? Let’s see… ‘EW OG AS’ What’s that mean? I can’t read it. Ew Og… Ass? Honey, let’s start with not writing any more posts about asses in general. That might help you.”

Blogger raises her weary head, her matted hair spilling over her reddened eyes, the spiral binder imprint in cruel zigzags across her drool-stained cheek. She narrows her eyes at Non-Blogger. ”You’re not helping me.”

He sits down beside her and suddenly raises one finger in the air. “Ooh! I can help you! How hard can it be to come up with ideas, right? It’s easy!”

Blogger raises another finger in the air and smirks.

“Okay, I’ve got it!” he snaps his fingers. “How about…our kids! Write about them!”

“Ugh. No no no no no. Been there, done that. I need something fresh and new to write about.”

“Um–cooking?”

“I don’t cook, hello?”

“Food?”

“Bo-ring. Snore.”

“Pizza?” he grins.

“Huh?”

“Is there any left in the fridge? All this thinking is making me hungry.”

“Are you going to help me or what?” Blogger cries.

“Laundry?”

“Don’t even go there.”

“Politics?”

“Very funny.”

“Write about this!” he yells, slamming his hand down on the table.

“What? Are you high?”

“Last I checked, no.”

“Hmm…maybe I can write about this. But you have to know it’s a well-known secret in the blogging world that all of us have writer’s block from time to time so we are doomed to sometimes write about the fact that we can’t write. Other writers get it. They understand. They sympathize.  Except the Good Greatsby. He writes constantly. That guy is not from this earth.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

“So did I help you?”

“Yeah.”

“And we have some pizza left?”

“Get it yourself. I’ve got to go jot this crap down before I forget it.”

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