Tag: writer

Inspiring, My Ass.

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I’d like to thank Heather for the nomination that comes with a homework assignment. Just kidding. Sort of.

I don’t know how inspiring I actually am when the only uplifting thing I’ve written had to do with my goal of emulating my dogs’ blasé attitude. But, what the hell. I’ll play along. (And thanks for thinking of me, Heather 🙂 )

So, I know nothing about this, but apparently I’m supposed to give 7 facts about me:

  1. I’m 5′ 10″ but was never coordinated enough to play any tall-girl sports.
  2. Until I was about 19, I made everyone refer to my hair color as “strawberry blonde” because I refused to be called a redhead (now I embrace all my gingery splendor).
  3. Halloween is my favorite holiday. (Binge on horror movies AND dress up like a super hero? Yes, please.)
  4. The theme song for the TV show, “Angel,” is the ringtone on my phone.
  5. I played a hooker in a less-than-B movie about 16 years ago.
  6. My favorite book is A Tale of Two Cities (despite hating it in high school when we were forced to read it…thank God I re-read it as an adult).
  7. I have a useless, irrational phobia of mosquito hawks. (But they’re harmless! They eat mosquitos! No shit, Sherlock. They are also creepy and terrifying…and I’m pretty sure they can smell my fear.)

Okay – and part deux – I pass along the homework assignment nomination to bloggers I find inspiring. Problem is, as a general rule, I don’t follow “inspiring” bloggers…I follow funny ones. So here is my list of bloggers inspiring me to keep up my attempts at humor:

Truth Shall Set You Free So Don’t Be a Crybaby. Just the name is glorious. But her posts are, too.

Gone Catawampus. Really genuinely funny stuff. She even has a funny post about death. That is talent.

Sparklebumpsthebookwhore. She’s inappropriate and hilarious. The perfect combination.

Jonas Lee’s Imaginarium. Okay…he’s nicer than the rest of us and the closest I have to “inspiring” (mostly because he lets me call him “Avocado”).

Laughing Coyote Productions. Just found Deb a couple of days ago and was dazzled by this post where she explains the importance of lying in your biography. And somehow God passes her a note from the window of his truck on a busy thoroughfare. Delightful.

Idiot-prufs. Start with this post about a rejection from a children’s book publisher. It’s hilarious.

Underachiver’s Blog. No, I didn’t misspell it – that’s the way she’s got it. And this post is inspiring…when she says something does taste better than skinny feels…and that in her world Prince Charming likes a woman with a good backside.

Yes, I’m think I’m supposed to list more, but those are the ones that come to mind right now. I am always on the lookout for hilarious bloggers that make me LOL in inappropriate situations, though, so if you know of more, share!

A Serious Post About F#!*ing Profanity.

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.

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.

I Want To Be My Dog When I Grow Up.

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Jack and Sawyer

These are my dogs, Jack and Sawyer (yes, just like in “Lost”). They are the loves of my life (but don’t tell my husband…Steve is holding out hope that it’s him). They are rescue dogs, meaning a little damaged, a little neurotic, and 110% devoted.

But to get to my point. If I ever do, in fact, grow up, I want to be just like them. Because dogs get it right.

Jack and Sawyer have no aspirations. They are utterly and completely satisfied with precisely where they are (unless they hear the leash jiggle…then they are utterly and completely satisfied if they are going for a walk).

Jack and Sawyer have zero ego. They don’t get embarrassed that they’ve put on a few extra pounds, shed incessantly or occasionally lick their behinds. They don’t get their feelings hurt when I tell them they have bad breath or that they need a bath.

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Jack making a spectacle of himself.

Jack and Sawyer don’t strive for success. They don’t compare themselves to other dogs and wonder if they are living up to their full canine potential. They don’t run three miles with me only to think to themselves, “we’ll run five next week, for sure.”

Jack and Sawyer live for today. Because dogs have no sense of time. But also because they don’t plan for tomorrow. They don’t let today pass them by because they think tomorrow might be better because I promised to take them in the car. No, they are going sprawl out on the floor like it’s spa day and they have the VIP package. To hell with tomorrow.

ImageJack and Sawyer find joy in the little things. That patch of sunshine on the deck. The sound of me coming through the door after work. A doorbell ringing in a TV show making them feel justified in barking as if a herd of cats and mailmen is trying to break in through the front door. The fact that, while typing this, I’m rubbing Jack’s belly with my foot, making him sigh contentedly.

Jack and Sawyer forgive. When Steve yells at them for getting into the cat’s litter box for an afternoon snack, or if I get annoyed because they tried to cuddle when I was leaving for court in a black suit, they let it go. Sure, it could be because they have a short attention span, but I choose to believe it’s because they just don’t have it in them to stay mad.

Although Sawyer does a decent job of holding a grudge after a bath. Obviously Jack does not.

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Sawyer giving me the silent treatment after a bath. Not Jack’s style, though.

So I’m going to not think about whether or not an agent will call me tomorrow…or that stupid ruling the judge made yesterday. I’m not going to wait to be happy till I get published, or make more money or lose 10 pounds. I’m going to enjoy the wine in my glass, the way Jack and Sawyer wag their tails whenever I smile at them, the way Steve winks at me when he catches me looking at him.

Hell with tomorrow.

Ode to a Hot Mess.

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.

Dear Lord, Make Me Funny.

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Although I would settle for you making everyone else less funny so that I seem funnier by comparison.

My husband is a big Joel Stein fan and just bought his book “Man Made.” He told me I had to read the intro. Just the intro. It’s hilarious. Well, turns out, Mr. Stein’s intro is funnier in four pages than I am in 41 years. I’m not certain of the conversion rate on those two units of measurement, but I’m pretty sure it makes me sad.

Because you can’t fake funny. Some people just are. I am not. I do have funny moments. When I’m drinking. Because alcohol makes me funnier makes me think I’m funnier. But the rest of the time? My cat is funnier than I am. (In my defense, though, she is hilarious.)

Although, according to my friends, I do excel at being unintentionally funny which is better than nothing. And probably puts me somewhere between Sponge Bob and Ruth Bader Ginsburg on the funny-meter.

Funny Meter

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

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.

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?

Stupid Lawyer of the Week.

Yes, I’m sure there is more than one, but this gentleman was brought to my attention. In the off chance that even one single misguided reader might think, “hey – this is the lawyer for me!” I’m refusing to post any links to his website. Or even use his name. For the greater good.

This line is included in his bio:

<He Who Shall Not Be Named> gives all his heart, sweat and often sheds his own blood in resolving cases…

It really says that. What does that even mean? Is he an emotional cutter? Does he participate in Fight Club on your behalf? Is he talking about paper cuts??  Sigh. Alas, we may never know.

His website, however, is full of details of his big-ticket court victories and a profile picture that looks like it was intended for e-Harmony. Or a Caesar’s Palace poster in Las Vegas lauding his magic act. And why did his name even come up? Because he is the first lawyer hired on in a high-profile, genuinely tragic case that will spawn an ocean of litigation. With this guy leading the charge. Hopefully bleeding all over the place.

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

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.