Category: Unimportant Crap

A Message From the Tagline Fairy.

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Like the Tooth Fairy, but, instead, I’m creeping into your house whilst you sleep and stealing your taglines.

Half the time I click “Follow” just from reading the name of your blog or your tagline. (Says the girl with a blog named “Erin Lyon.” It’s genius! Copyright that shit!) But hopefully my tagline is mildly amusing (which is the phrase that may end up carved into my tombstone). Anyway – here’s my nickel’s worth of free advice: hook them with your name or your tagline. And, if at all possible, be as clever as these people.

The Yam: Eerily similar. Legally distinct.

They are a self-proclaimed rip-off of The Onion. As a lawyer, that made me laugh out loud. And then die a little inside when I gave it a moment of serious legal analysis.

Karen Carpenter Died For Your Sins: I guess I can always go through life sideways.

It was the name of the blog itself that got me on this one. Honestly. Who can find a blog called “Karen Carpenter Died For Your Sins” and not follow? Not this girl.

CupCaketheGreat: Non stick my ass.

Non stick my ass? I didn’t care what she had to say beyond that…I was in.

The Bloggess: Like Mother Teresa, Only Better.

And so began my love affair with Jenny Lawson.

Single Mama’s Guide to CTFD: Lessons in Learning to Let Go.

Hm, not sure you love it? CTFD stands for “calm the fuck down.” How ’bout now? That’s what I thought. Cause once I figured out her mystery acronym stood for calm the fuck down, I nearly sprained my finger hitting the ‘follow’ button. You know my sneaky infatuation with profanity.

Truth Shall Set You Free So Don’t Be a Crybaby: A dash of wit, A sprinkle of snark, A pinch of sarcastic humor all baked in at 450 degrees!

Sarcasm and cooking instructions?

Full-Frontal Nerdity: Adventures in Love and Storytelling.

Full-frontal nerdity. Digest that a moment. Cause it’s awesome. As is her profile pic which lives up to the name.

There are so many more, but I don’t remember all the blogs now that won a hard-earned chuckle from me (“hard-earned” my ass – I laugh at everything). Now, go forth and be funny, my friends.

It Puts the Lotion On Its Skin Or Else It Gets the Hose Again.

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Sucker. This post has nothing to do with The Silence of the Lambs. (Well, beyond the fact that that fantastic line popped into my head yesterday and the only way to purge it was apparently to use it for the title of a post.)

I read a lot of blogs. WordPress has replaced Facebook for me as my no. 1 time-sucker. I have this to report back: a lot of people a) apologize for not having posted in a while, and b) say not to worry that they’ll be away…because they promise to post while away.

This is a mystery to me. I feel more inclined to apologize when I do post. And I am going on vacation next week, and I probably will post while away…and I’m sorry for that as well.

Herein lies the mystery. It would never occur to me that anyone, anywhere would actually notice my absence. Here. Not at home (I’d like to think that if I didn’t show up at home for four or five days, my husband would get curious). But here? I write nothing of importance and I’m not even consistently funny. Spoiler alert: neither are you. (Except perhaps the handful of bloggers I listed here.) But, what do I know. Perhaps you do get love-letters from your followers pleading with you to grace them with your literary spoils. Maybe you do get chirped at from the baby birds wanting to be fed. Implausible, but okay.

Most of the time I feel a little whorish posting my links on Facebook in a shameless shameful attempt to get more people to read my crap. And I’m grateful when people give it the time of day. I never feel apologetic for not bombarding you with even more mediocre shit.

There is no actual reason for this post other than the fact that by the time I scanned across the third blogger within an hour with this mysterious sense of self-importance, my huge green rage monster emerged and wanted to write about it. Sometimes, if it wasn’t for being a bitch, I’d have no personality at all.

A Serious Post About F#!*ing Profanity.

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Okay, people. We need to talk about this.

Totally kidding. I love profanity. A little too much. When I go skulking about, blog-stalking, it’s a little disturbing how fast I hit the “follow” button when someone uses the “F” word in their intro paragraph. You rebel, you, with your devil-may-care attitude, you just made me smile with your bold irreverence.

Unfortunately (depending on your perspective), I limit myself to the kiddie-table of swear words here. Why? Not entirely sure. Oh wait – my parents would not approve. I think that may be about 92% of it (an overly high percentage for a 41-year-old). And they don’t even read my blog. Sigh.

But, I am (more or less) of the don’t-say-fuck-unless-they-say-fuck-first philosophy. (And, yes, I realize I just said it.) But my parents don’t say the F word, so I don’t say the F word around them. And I don’t say it around my teenagers. And they don’t say it around me. So I talk like a sailor around my husband and friends…and my girls talk like sailors around their friends…and we all live in a penthouse suite in downtown Denial-ville. And we’re happy there.

My parents actually live there, too. My mother is my best reader and absolutely loves my latest novel. It’s first-person and the main girl talks a lot like me (shocking, I know). Well, everyone in the book swears. Top-shelf swear words, too. No kiddie-table crap. However, mom didn’t really have any issue with the swearing unless it was my main girl doing the deed. Really? Yes, really. Denial, party of one, your table is ready.

So, I like using it, but pretend I don’t say it for my parents’ sake, pretend I don’t know it for my daughters’ sake, and thankfully have never accidentally used it in front of the judge. Winning.

I Have Done Nothing to Earn This Memorial Day Beer.

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Happy Memorial Day. I occurs to me that I may be the single-most undeserving person of a day off today. I’ve never served in the military. Nor have my siblings. Even my father got passed up for Vietnam through a series of events that clearly meant he was not supposed to go. I’ve never had a single person I know die in service. Or even get injured. I know people who know people…but that starts to feel like playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon – Memorial Day Edition – and I suck at that game.

Point being, I sit here on this Memorial Day completely unscathed by war and military service. But, from the bottom of my unworthy heart, my nebulous and non-specific gratitude is sincere as I send it out into the ether.

Ode to a Hot Mess.

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ImageI love a “hot mess.” The phrase. (I love the people hot messes in my life, too, but that is a post for another day.)

I think we should give a medal to whoever came up with this saying. It’s that awesome. Cause anyone can be a mess. He’s a mess. She’s a mess. Your room’s a mess. But a hot mess? Well, that sort of kicks it up a notch, doesn’t it.

And a hot mess conjures up all sorts of delightful imagery. She’s a hot mess. Ooh. A hot mess. Is she sticky? Sexy? Feverish? Melty? Yeah, probably melty. As in: post-meltdown. (Which would explain the myriad of Miley, Lindsay, Britney, and my favorite new addition to the Celebrity-Rich-Girl-Crazy-Pants Club, Amanda Bynes photos that you get when you Google “hot mess.”)

So thank you, whoever you are, who has allowed us to reach new heights of dysfunction while retaining a touch of glamour.

When ‘Looking Good’ Becomes ‘Looking Good For Your Age.’

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Let me preface this by saying, my age has never bothered me. No, really. Thirty? Psh. Forty? Bring it on.

I am now 41. No biggie. I’m holding up well (sort of). I have no problem telling anyone how old I am, whether they ask or not (which sometimes confuses the checker at the grocery store). But, a week ago, I picked up the local business journal and it had the annual “40 Under 40 to Watch” article. And it occurred to me…even if I was rocking it in my profession, I no longer qualify. Why this was news to me, I have no idea, but it was an unpleasant realization (probably compounded by the fact that I’m a 41-year-old who is only TWO years into her profession and by the time I’m rocking anything, it’ll be time to retire).

Then, last weekend, my husband cruelly reminded me that he was only 40 and that I would turn 42 before he even turned 41. (We’ve been married almost 17 years and he has actually always been more than a year younger than me so, again, this should not have been news to me.) 

Well, I have the sneaking suspicion that I’m actually starting to look 41. I find that my age-related-zen may have relied a little on the fact that everyone thought I was younger than I am. And were continuously shocked that I have a 19-year-old daughter. Alas, the shock is fading.

It doesn’t help that women, in general, seem to look better. All this “40 is the new 30” crap? Absolutely true. So, if I had a time machine and could go back to 1987, I would be an amazing-looking 41-year-old. In 2014? Not so much. Case in point: my 20-year high school reunion. If movies teach us anything, it’s that you go to your HS reunion for the sole purpose of seeing the popular girls who were mean to you transformed into fat, frumpy, bitter divorcees. My classmates did not get the memo. Frankly, the lack of cellulite and wrinkles was disturbing.

So apparently they raised the bar when no one was looking. But, life’s little truths still remain…true. 1) age is just a number, 2) living well is the best revenge, 3) always wait 30 minutes after eating before going swimming, and 4) all you need is love.

Comments on the Comment Section.

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Some people are like slinkies...

If I’m feeling a little too relaxed, a little too happy-go-lucky, or if I ever start giving humanity a little too much credit, I just go to a news site, celebrity blog…anything really…and read the stupid shit people say in the comment section. I’m not talking about here. This little aspiring-writer universe we’ve got going and my kindly 64 blog followers who joke with me and do not call me out on stupid shit are excluded from this rant.

But beyond this universe? Oh my God. Blinding, white-hot rage. Examples:

  • People who callously or maliciously comment on tragic stories. My family had a personal tragedy several years ago and there was a news story online about it. Some asshole comments to the effect that “it was their own stupidity and I’m more sorry about the traffic jam it caused.” This story resulted in a toddler being in ICU for three months and passing away a few years later at the tender age of seven. But, by all means, dick, tell us what you think.

Many people are alive only because it's illegal to shoot them.

  • People who pontificate on an expert’s blog. Most recently I made the mistake of reading the comments on a literary agent’s blog. This was an agent who’s been in the business a long time and I’m guessing people read her blog to get her insight. This guy apparently thought readers were there for his insight. Yeah, I realize you work at Starbucks, but please, tell me more about your insight into becoming a New York Time’s best-selling author.  No, really.
  • People who comment on a celebrity’s blog just to tell them they hate them. Your mother was right. If you don’t have anything nice to say – go play in traffic.

So, yeah. I try to not read comments on blogs, articles, news sites…because Einstein was right.

Two-things-are-infinite-The-Universe-and-human-stupidity-and-Im-not-so-sure-about-the-universe

Comments?

The Bloggess Is Now Following Me on Twitter…and Other Signs That My Plan For World Domination Is Coming to Fruition.

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I don’t want to be an alarmist, but Jenny Lawson, aka The Bloggess, started following me on Twitter. (In case you aren’t familiar – find her, follow her.  She’s hilarious…and ever-so-slightly damaged in an entirely relatable way.)

I am now convinced that between my 49 Twitter followers and 51 blog followers (yeah…I picked up 15 more by shamelessly asking people to follow me.  Who knew that would work?), my massive sphere of influence is going to creep pervasively around the globe and seep into people’s consciousness like some nightmarish subliminal message.

Just kidding.

I’m just going to convince people that the fast lane is for passing, that it was a travesty that it took so long for Rush to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and that acting like an asshole should be a misdemeanor. Or at least an infraction carrying a hefty fine.

Why My Decision-Making Privileges Should Be Revoked (alternately titled: Why I’m Interesting at Parties)

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So, the connoisseur of poor decision-making thing.  People continually seem to get a chuckle out of that line.  But a connoisseur?  Really?  Since I’m a fan of dictionaries (and had to look it up anyway to see if I’d spelled it correctly), here you go:

con·nois·seur
ˌkänəˈsər,-ˈso͝or/
noun
: a person who knows a lot about something: an expert in a particular subject

I would say I qualify.  Clearly, since I am not dead or in prison, I can laugh about most of my poor decisions. And, because I enjoy humor at my own expense, here is a sampling, in no particular order:

  1. 1993 – At 20 years old, deciding to drive to Vegas to marry a guy I’d only known for 6 months…because it seemed like a good idea at the time. (Yes, I know that I said “in no particular order” and that sure as hell seems like it would be “Number One,” but let’s just say it seems to be the first one that comes to mind.)
  2. 2008 – Deciding to go to law school at 36. Point of fact, I love my job, but that is because of the people I work with and not the whole “being an attorney” thing. It’s not bad, but it will definitely not hold up to a cost-benefit analysis…or a return-on-investment analysis…or even a pro-con analysis. Oddly, this also seemed like a good idea at the time.
  3. 2008 – Taking off my diamond rings on a beach in Mexico to apply sunscreen.
  4. 2001 – Quitting Intel. But, who knows, if I’d stayed, perhaps not quitting Intel would be on the list. But if it were on the list, No. 2 would not be. Dizzying logic.
  5. 2008 – (2008 was apparently a busy year) IM’ing a co-worker to speculate as to whether our boss looked pregnant…without being certain I wasn’t accidentally IM’ing my boss instead. Thankfully she was, in fact, pregnant. And she didn’t fire me.
  6. 1991 – Quitting my job and moving to Utah.  Yes, Utah (where I had no family, friends or job). Still scratching my head over this one.
  7. 1988 – Bangs.  I had curly hair.  That was never going to end well.
  8. 2000 – Thinking ‘go big or go home’ applied to tattoos.
  9. 2002 – The series of events that led to me almost being arrested on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.
  10. 1991 – Jumping off that bridge over the river because, damn it, if my guy buddies could do it, so could I.  No, I don’t recall which bridge…but it was high enough that you had to hide if the cops drove by because, surprisingly, you weren’t supposed to jump from it. My (painful yet) superficial injuries from this brilliantly ill-conceived move did not require medical attention, but a kick in the ass may have been warranted.

Honorable mention goes to the dozens of times I have stuck my nose where it didn’t belong, overshared at parties, and failed to keep my mouth shut when wisdom, logic, or propriety called for it.

This is just a small sampling.  And no, I don’t obsessively catalogue and record all of my mistakes for future reflection. My OCD takes care of that for me.

Killing Off Your Beloved Main Character and Other Ways to Piss Me Off.

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I have a bone to pick with you, Veronica Roth. I just finished reading the Divergent trilogy in about four days. Clearly, I was riveted. Couldn’t put it down. So after investing hours and hours and approximately 1,500 pages (**Spoiler Alert**) you killed the heroine!  Now, I don’t use exclamation points lightly, so clearly I was caught off guard by your betrayal.

Okay, okay.  Was it meaningful and poignant?  Yes. Was it profound? For sure. Was it moving, yet devoid of any Nicholas-Sparksian (remind me to add that term to Urban Dictionary later) saccharine contrivance? Sigh. Definitely. Was I a 41-year-old woman feeling relieved that her husband and teenage daughter were not home to see her crying through the last 30 minutes of the book? You betcha. Do I understand, deep down, why you felt like you needed to kill her? Not so much.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t only read happy, little novels with endings that could be played by Meg Ryan. A Tale of Two Cities is my very favorite novel, I didn’t curse Edith Wharton’s name after House of Mirth left me a sobbing mess for an hour, and don’t even get me started on my love for Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Maybe, in this case, I had lulled myself into a false sense of security because these novels are considered “young adult” fiction and so I expected a kinder, gentler ending for your characters (which, I’ll admit, was fairly naïve given the overall brutality of the story).

Bottom line? It was sort of the literary equivalent of someone fighting long and hard to battle cancer, overcoming it, and then getting killed in a car accident (if the car accident was representative of sacrificing your life to save those you love and thousands more…so I guess it isn’t the same thing at all). Admittedly, Veronica, I loved the books, but I’m pissed at you for depriving me of my well-earned happy ending. Now go take a time out and think about what you’ve done, Missy (killing Tris, I mean, not the whole becoming-an-incredibly-successful-bestselling-author thing…I’m guessing you’ve already given that sufficient thought).