Buh bye, 2017...

Okeedokee, 2017. I'd like to say I'm going to miss you when you're gone, but then I'd be a liar. You sucked. Big time. But the bright note is that you're almost over. The bright note is, barring any horrifying event ending in my demise, I get a bright shiny new year to start with tomorrow. Last year, I expected you to be horrible and way-too-challenging, and you were, 2017. You could have proved me wrong but you didn't. Thanks bunches for that, you jerk. So tonight, as the ball drops and I stand hand in hand with my beautiful mate, niece and nephew, I am going to kick you to the Philly curb and welcome 2018 with open arms.

Yes, 2018!! The year of wonder. The year of renewed discipline. The year of returned creativity. The year of kindness for kindness' sake. The year of refilled spirituality. The year of mended hearts and souls.

Believe me, 2017, I know better than most that it's okay to not be people's favorite. I know that the best lessons are often learned through the harshest means. I honor you for the taskmaster you've been. 

But...I'll be overjoyed when 2018 arrives. My expectations for 2018 look wildly, and most pleasantly, different. You've got a lot to live up to, 2018, that's true. But I'm not worried. I believe in you.

May everyone have a safe last day of crappy 2017 and the most glorious day one of the year of living and loving magically! Welcome, 2018, my newest best friend!

Until next time...

A super moon?

On this full moon, after spending time with people I thought were intimate with me, I realized that they are intimate with each other--these women, and I no longer belong with them.

I am a woman without a tribe.

It's a weird and scary feeling to be that alone.

On this full moon, I'm not sure what to do other than to release what I knew myself within the context of this group and keep faith that Divine will bring me to my new tribe.

But in the meantime, I mourn.

The thing about ideas...

Sometimes they are gifted.
Most times they are stolen.
Be careful though.
The latter teaches brutally painful lessons.

Oy.

When it comes to all things Gerard Butler, Pamela Swain, aka GFW, et al, wins the cuckoo crazypants contest.

Hopefully tomorrow I have the time to tell you why.

Stay tuned...

It was a gator...

Sometimes, when you sign up to do something, it seems like the greatest, smartest thing you could possibly do.

Then when it comes to the follow through, you realize your folly-filled thinking. Well, I was signed up for the half, but going to try to bust out a quarter marathon anyway...on a broken toe (hope they don't have to remove it)...up 25 pounds from my last one...bloated and out-of-shape from all of life's amazing, middle-aged stressors.

*shrugs

When I die, at least they've say, "She's got spunk!"

That, or "What an idiot!"

Potayto. Potahto.

Score one for Love...

It's been a while, hasn't it?

Well, I've been busy...a relatively recent family death...dealing with odd psychic experiences with a celebrity drama along with dealing with that celebrity's WEIRD fan base...aging parent issues...but those are blogs for another time (stay tuned). Maybe you're asking what could possibly get me writing again after a year and a half hiatus? What news could be THAT mootivating?

Seriously important stuff. Joyously life-changing. Let me explain...

Just (what seems like) a short while ago, my very best friend Patty​ (you remember her? MY Patty?) and I sat talking about marriage...how she could never let herself think about what that would look like because we didn't live in a world where she could even imagine being married to her longtime partner, Pat. That the people of this country would never let that happen, at least not in her lifetime.

I remembered feeling violently angry on her behalf...on the behalf of every wonderful person I knew that loved someone with whom they "knew" they could never allow themselves to imagine "till death do us part" legally. People who loved a lifetime, but at end of life were locked out of hospital rooms and funeral parlors and probate meetings...who were told marriage had conditions and that Love had nothing to do with any of it. It was so wrong my anger was visceral.

I was furious with the folks who played some <enter in whatever bullshit justification you think gives you a right to treat others with an unfair, heinous disrespect> card to oppress those who love differently than they do. I never understood the argument that someone else's relationship had any bearing on mine, so in my mind this "if gay people are allowed to get married, that minimizes my marriage" bit really says that person's marriage is shit anyway. Seriously, if a total stranger's marriage (same-sex or straight) can minimize yours, perhaps you need to rethink your relationship. But, I digress. (You remember my rants now, don't you?)

Me. Patty. Chatting. I vaguely remember telling her I believed that things could change, that there were more of us straight folks out there who believed in true equality and LOVE, that ever-elusive experience that we should embrace however it shows up on our doorstep. I told her I had faith that someday in the not so distant future, I would call Pat her "wife". I explained that my son, Eric, told me that things were changing because his generation thought differently...that his "aunts" Pat and Patty shouldn't lose hope.

Last June, the most remarkable thing happened. After a hard-won fight by some very brave people, Wisconsin made same-sex marriage legal. Other states were passing similar laws, but not without legal battles won by fearless vanguards. Eric was proving that his argument, that equality being closer than farther off, was right. Thing was, the woman who used to sing the Black Sock song to him and his older sister couldn't allow herself to be fully happy for herself because she still had friends imprisoned by backwards laws in other states who weren't allowed to imagine being married yet. She was crushed that there were those who were trapped in states that still said, "Liberty and Justice for ALL...well, except you."

That brings us to today. I sit here typing at my desk...weeping. Happy tears, yes, but relieved tears, too. Relieved that the SCOTUS got it right. Many thanks to all the brave folks who refused to be told they were less than citizens simply because of how Love looked when it knocked on their door. You are true heroes. I honor your fearlessness in fighting for what is right.

And my bestie, Patty? She and Pat were married last June. I attended the most gorgeous reception ever for them last December.

But, my dearest Patricia, it's today that I truly congratulate you both. Today you're married anywhere you go in this country. Finally. Today we all celebrate. I love you, guys.

Until next time, kiddies...

MEMO

 http://www.clickorlando.com/news/deadly-spiders-found-in-uk-bananas/-/1637132/22809980/-/ylk0shz/-/index.html

MEMO

To: All Arachnids far and wide, but mostly the super-venomous ones that live in Brazil

From: The world’s most dedicated arachnophobe EVER

Subject: Get the fuck out of my banana

CC: God and everyone

It has come to my attention that you have decided to take up residence in people’s bananas.  What the hell is wrong with you?  Wasn’t it enough that you hide out in closets, under beds, in shoes, in basements and in every other damn “jump out and scare us (or worse, bite us)” place?

You can’t just drop in our pieholes while we’re mouth-agape sleeping??  You have to hide out in our bananas now?  What?  You got bored with the typical angle for spider attacks?  And aren’t there enough animals in Brazil to take down?  You have to resort to traveling to foreign countries to git ‘er done, you obnoxious overachievers??

You need to get the fuck out of my banana, mmmkay?  And by getting the fuck out, what I mean to say is…don’t get the fuck in it in the first place, not get the fuck out by hatching your brood all over my kitchen table.

No hurt feelings, okay?  I don’t hate you or anything like that.  Just…stay in Brazil…where I never have to visit.  Thanks.

MEMO

To: All people far and wide, but mostly the people who buy Brazilian bananas

From: A crabby crabberton

Subject: The importance of buying local

CC: Anyone who will listen, Brazilian wandering spiders

Buy local and this shit will only happen to people who are already familiar with dealing with super-venomous spiders that live in Brazil...AKA: Brazilians.  I'm just glad I don’t live in the UK.

The end.

PS. If you’re Brazilian and a wandering spider, remember what Dorothy said?  If you ever go looking for your heart's desire again, don’t look any further than your own backyard; because if it isn't there, you should, respectfully, stay the fuck out of foreigners’ bananas…well, or something like that...

Zombies, Zombies Everywhere and Not a Toe to Eat…

This morning I woke up from nightmares riddled with zombies and poorly organized 5K races.  Now for those who know, the more terrifying dream contains the disorganized 5K business, but that’s for another time.  The zombie bit, however, was understandably disturbing and somewhat sleep depriving.

Ever since I was young, I’ve had a deep love-hate relationship with horror.  Love it; can’t watch it. Watch it anyway; toss and turn all night with my mind rewriting an REM storyline much scarier than the original.  Because let’s be real, the predictability of horror these days kind of takes the punch out of it for some, and by some, I mean me.  Only even if I knew where the story was going while I watched, I still get punched with the unknown.  All night long.

Back to this morning…upon waking, I began ferreting out the reason my brain went wonky with my own personal sucker punches.  Lucky for me being almost intelligent, it only took a few seconds to figure out why my brain was so disturbed while simultaneously realizing a small victory of a fight almost forgotten: you actually can break zombie rules and have that breach work for you.

Here’s an offending clip similar to what I saw right before heading to beddie-bye:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3uBuKvxeLoQ

These aren’t your ordinary zombies.  These are fast moving zombies.  Zombies don’t move quickly.  They don’t.  Ever.  Mostly because fast moving zombies are a major violation of zombie rules. 

You can be surprised by a zombie arm bashing through a window and pulling you through it.  They can have that sense of surprise and strength.

You can be tricked into thinking your relative, now zombified, is still in there, but find out you’re wrong because they bite a chunk out of your shoulder.

You can outrun a zombie…wait.  Not so in this new film.  This fact would have old school critics up in arms, believe me.  (If you don’t, read some of the commentary.)  Zombie rules are serious business.

Back, moons ago, I blogged the raging debate I had with my youthful, creative writing cohorts over zombie rules because another student had written a short story liberally busting up zombie codes of conduct.  I felt it was a particularly well-written story, and rule breakage actually made the story more believable, or at the very least, more entertaining.  I was basically told at that time that maybe I was too old to get it (fuck you, too, creatively-caged babies) and that “everyone knows you can’t break zombie rules.”  “It’s just not done.”  “It’s the poorest of form.”  “People have expectations”…yada yada yada.  *eye roll*

Back to speedy zombies you can’t seem to outrun and who can, en masse, overtake a city bus.  Breaking the rules makes this story scarier.  Or apparently it did for my brain.

It’s the element of surprise, people.  The unexpected.  Humans, in general, don’t like that whole unforeseen, total loss of control business.  It’s why movies like Halloween and Jaws scared the bejesus out of most people. 

I also suspect that’s why all we see now are copied themes and remakes of old stories that originally made money.  It’s an attempt to engage new blood to these classic horror techniques, except the shock factor is done and dusty.  Expected.  We know that as the sweet music is playing towards the roll of credits, the arm will reach up from the grave and grab the woman's arm placing flowers there.  We know when the person finally kills the monster that plummets over the cliff/balcony/stairwell that the body will be long gone by the time the protagonist leans over to take a look-see.  Those rehashed stories are certainly safe money makers, but BOOORINGGGZZZZzzzzzz. 

Perhaps people like the security conventional tactics provide?  We sure seem to like to know, and control, the outcome of things.  Fast moving zombies put us out of our element.  They make us more scared because we can’t determine where we’ll end up, or if we’ll survive.  Heroes of our own life, we’re not sure we have the smarts, strength, and speed to move faster and with more endurance than the most adept, threatening zombie in our world. 

Broken rules make us feel…unsafe.  Still, a broken rule is anything but boring.  Breaking the rules shakes people up a bit.  Makes stories scarier.  Or funnier.  Or sadder.  But infinitely more interesting.  That goes for the stories of our lives, too.

We’re forced to grow, to think more creatively with more cunning, compassion, and character.  Trained to follow the rules, we have to be courageous enough to step outside of the box while dealing with our own bus-dumping, fast moving, flesh eating “monsters” that’d sooner suck us into their daily catatonic abyss of blah than allow us to wrench ourselves free and become something far more intriguing to ourselves and the rest of the world.

I may or may not need to see World War Z in the theater, though if not, I suspect I’ll watch it on video at some point (best when my mate doesn’t have to get up early since he’ll be dealing with my catastrophizing dreamscape).  I’ll watch because I have a sincere appreciation for the disregarding of rules…especially of the zombie variety. 

And finally, to that guy from my English 415 class, wherever he is now, we were right, dude.  Screw the zombie rules!  Rule breakers unite!!!

Pinch you!! That’s MINE…

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/05/23/pop-tart-theft-inspires-n_n_3328113.html?utm_hp_ref=email_share

*blink*

*blink*

To be honest, when I read the headline, I thought maybe this woman was making an example of her 13 year old son.  You know, the whole tough love bit?  The “you’re always taking stuff that isn’t yours so now I’m toasting your tart” parenting gem in an attempt to adjust the child’s offending ways?  I could get behind that.

Reading on, however, we find out maybe Tash isn’t going to win this year’s award for Sparkling Role Model nor Mother of the Year.  But what she might win is even better: the almost always coveted Ms. Most Crazy Food Obsession 2013.

Her intense love for the Tart may seem odd to some, I suppose, but not to me, although my wheat sensitivities and diligent calorie counting keep me away from the perfectly frosted, faux-fruit confection.  And while Tarts are crossed from my list, don’t you worry!  I have a whole collection of “speed dial 911 on your thieving ass” foods because I am a super-huge fan of eating. 

Anyway, here’s a few of mine that will get you tossed in the clink for such thievery:

1. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.  Chocolate and peanut butter.  Seriously simplistic, yet a delicately blended balance of sweet and salty.  Sneak a cup, and I’ll be visiting you at the hoosegow.  Two, and I might just let you rot there…forever…

2. Chester Cheetah Puffy Cheetos.  Most perfect snack ever created.  Ever.  Puffies, due to their melt in your mouth quality, are far superior to the crunchy variety.  Healthy?  Of course!  Puffies have dietary fiber, protein, Vitamin A, and iron, too.  Just be sure to lick the cheesy goodness off your busted-by-those-blaze-orange fingers before you dial that one phone call.  You don’t know who’s dialed out before you, and you sure don’t want to waste any deliciousness…

3. Bacon.  Yes, I’ll admit bacon is an unusual food to find on a vegetarian’s send-you-up-the-river-for-stealing-my-grub list, but bacon is how we know that God exists, and sometimes we have to honor our connection to our Maker.  Besides it’s the “gateway” meat; everyone who’s anyone knows that.  It’s flawlessness in a greasy strip. If you’re lucky, the coppers will let you off for good behavior, and by that I mean you’ve fried up another pound.  Crispy, please…

4. Red wine.  Wine is too a food.  It’s fruit that’s been left in a cup to overly ripen.  According to the new food pyramid, one should consume at least two daily servings.  Steal my vino, and I’ll make sure you do hard time. It’s a matter of health after all…

5. Coffee.  Made from the coffee bean.  *smirk*  One needs to understand the clear and present danger regarding my devotion to my pot of black gold.  I won’t turn you in to the police for swiping my joe, but they won’t ever find your body either…

See, Ms. Love?  There are those of us out there who get your impeccably sound rationale for squealing your son out to the boys in blue.  This is how children learn where their boundaries are.  They learn what doesn’t belong to them, doesn't belong to them.  They learn that Mom is always right. And, well, they learn that batshit crazy folks aren’t always living on the next block but often sleep under the same roof.  No worries, honey.  My kids turned out just fine.  Your son will, too.

Hmm, I guess there’s going to be a real competition for the title this year, eh?  At least I look stellar in a sash and tiara… 

I am woman. Here me mooo...

You gotta love a chick with a mind of her own.  You gotta love her even more when she’s got a kickass killer body and more self esteem than a lot of women three times her 18 years have.

http://sports.yahoo.com/news/olympics--british-female-weightlifter-fires-back-at-twitter-bullies.html

Zoe Smith, you’re my hero.  Seriously.

You see, I can relate to Zoe Zo Zo.  I’ve never felt limited to the lacy, sweet, stay-at-home-barefoot-and-preggers, serve-my-man type of feminine mystique.  Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been a bit intimidating to a lot of men (or so I’m told anyway).  I will tell you what I think.  I’m not afraid to be someone’s wingman in a fist fight.  I push a lot of weight in the gym myself, even at the ripe age of 46.  Course, I also embrace my inner sex kitten.  (Oh, and in the event you’re worried that I might end up a dried up, old spinster, quite early on I found myself a fearless man whose mad confidence equaled my own, and everyday we share new adventures.)

In our society post-bra burning era, all went well for a while. But what has been becoming glaringly apparent in the past few years is that we’re seeing a strange re-emergence of “anti-feminism”, a good deal of which is being perpetuated by females in particular.  If you aren’t in a slightly cleavage-bearing, knee-length dress, tasteful stilettos, a ring of Joan Cleaver pearls around your neck, hair perfectly coifed and nails all frenched out while being demure and subservient to your man, you’re somehow “unfeminine”.  That’s a mighty limited view of what it is to be a woman, that’s for sure. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I like having my nails done.  I’m not opposed to flashing some flesh.  And Lord knows of my love for a wicked set of heels.  I even let my man have the upper hand without a fight sometimes.  But it’d better be my choice to create that image of myself, not because that’s the prescribed notion of what makes me “beautifully feminine”. 

Perhaps this shifting of our concept of womanhood is what needs to be at the core of today’s neo-feminist movement.  An understanding that by the sheer nature of having a vagina (holy shit, there’s that word again!), a woman can’t help but be feminine.

True feminism should be about expanding our choices as women, accepting every fluid aspect of feminine, thus widening our perceptions about what is appropriate for us as women both collectively and, even more importantly, individually. 

It’s about empowering ourselves with all the different ways that “feminine” can look, but then even more crucially, not judging one another for those very personal choices. 

It’s about not allowing some men (and I say “some” because I know plenty of men excited about women expanding their options and positive self-defining behaviors)—and their limited, often stereotypical notions of feminine—determine how women are allowed to view ourselves. 

It’s about affording ourselves a myriad of choices that increases our self confidence and self worth, that in turn, brings our whole society up a notch.

Look, I have a wide variety of female friends.  I have those that are “June Cleavers”.  They are completely and wonderfully fulfilled in their choice to behave in the traditional role of feminine.  I support and respect that.  I also have friends whose burnt bras came from Sports Authority rather than Victoria’s Secret.  These women are every bit as magically and perfectly feminine in their choice of expressing themselves as women.  I support and respect that, too.  Then there are my family and friends who fit into every nook and cranny in between.  The empowerment of feminine self definition is a deeply personal preference that deserves to be supported and respected by everybody.

Maybe that’s the big point Ms. Smith is trying to make then?  When we open our minds to the possibility that things can look differently (yet still appropriately) from what we currently perceive as “the way to do things”, we widen our own pool of choices as women (and men, for that matter).  Those additional options redefine societal norms of “feminine”.  Diversity means more shades of normal.  Now, how in the world can having more normalcy be wrong?

On the other hand, Zoe Smith may simply have been saying, “I like lifting heavy shit.  You don’t like it?  Cram it, fucko.  Because there are plenty of open-minded folks that do.”  And that’s simply the kind of attitude that makes me love her more.

Yeah, this feminist will be watching the Olympics this year, but not just for the gymnastics, swim and track events.  I’ll be watching to cheer on my new hero.  You go, Zoe!  Lift that heavy shift for me, for women, and for more ways to embrace femininity!  You rock!

Till we mooooo again…

The Vagina Mooalogues

Apparently we are no longer allowed to speak of our body parts in medical terms in Michigan.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/jun/15/michigan-politician-banned-using-word-vagina 

I’m going to do it here, though, at least before Wisconsin manages to outlaw it (which given our current, rich white-guy, misogynistic, majority legislature is only steps away from happening).  Ready???

Vagina.

Vagina, vagina, vagina. 

VAAAAAGGGGIIIIIINNNNNAAAA!!!!!

There.  I said it.  Multiple times ‘cause that’s just the kind of risk-taker I am.  Guess what?  No thunderous lightning bolts.  No supernova.  No Earth standing still on its axis.  The moon’s still waxing and waning.  Nothing’s turned topsy-turvy.  I did not go straight to Hell without collecting $200 (although when I get there eventually, I’m going to be in charge anyway so I hardly think that’s much of a threat).  The only thing that happened were that a few tight-assed crazies, who have hang ups with body parts that are sometimes used for coitus being mentioned at all, just had a cow.

So, in honor of their newborn calf—delivered via vagina, mind you—I shall moooo on this subject.

Saying the word “vagina”, the appropriate medical term for what is often affectionately referred to as a: twat, box, vajayjay, bajingo, bearded clam, bush, cha cha, coochie, cooter, hair pie, hoo-ha, love canal, meow-meow, muff, nanner, poonanie, poontang, privates, pussy, snatch, vag, and the ever-popular Elizabeth Regina—is apparently outlawed in the Michigan legislature because…huh.  Got me as to why. 

Maybe they have a problem with the beav?  Maybe someone is thinking Notorious G.O.D. takes issue with people speaking of their body parts utilizing solid medical terminology?  Better not say “breast” then.  Or “tibia” either. (Oooo…tiiiibiaaaaa, that sounds downright dirty naughty, doesn’t it??  *winkity wink*)

I’m guessing we don’t have to worry about God dropping the bomb for saying the word “vagina” because…well, She created vaginas.  And the inspiration to call them “vaginas”. And the inspiration to call them all the other sassy little nicknames we have for them.  You don’t bother creating something as perfect and wondrous as a vagina (right down to its little name), and then outlaw it from being discussed.  Lauded.  Celebrated even.  The idea of such insanity is just stupid.  And God isn’t stupid. 

Wanna know who is stupid?  The idiots in the Michigan legislature who decided to ban the female representative from speaking because of her audacious utterance of the totally magical word “vagina” in the middle of session.  Bad, bad representative!  How dare she use appropriate medical terminology in a discussion regarding the glorious kooka in the company of asshats with power.  *eye roll*

Representative Lisa Brown is a mighty smart cookie though.  I think she has it dead nuts (or perhaps more appropriately:  “dead testicles”).  If you aren’t allowed to say “vagina” in session, you shouldn’t be allowed to legislate anything to do with it.  Period.  *snickers*

Hey, and as long as we’re on the topic of appropriate labeling of random body parts…peeeenis.  Penis and vagina.  Vagina and penis.  There.  They’ve been said.  In the same blog.  In the same paragraph!  Twice!  Guess what, Michigan House of Representatives?  Not one damned thing happened.  Wanna know why?  'Cause God really doesn’t give two chunks of fecal matter about such things.  Only you nutjob dumbanuses in the majority making laws in Michigan care.

Well, I’m off to the gym to work my gluteus off.  Still missing me, Karyn?  I’m baaaack.

Until next moooo…

Just Call Me Nike...

They say that goals are best met when shared with others.  Maybe that’s why we do the whole New Year’s resolution bit?  I don’t know.  Personally, telling people what I planned to do hasn’t really been working for me the past ten years or so.

SO…

…in an effort to start living in a space of greater integrity and authenticity, and to try to figure out something that will actually work better for me, here is my list of Non-Resolutions for the Year 2012:

I won’t tell you that this is the year I finally start drinking less booze, exercising more, and treating my body to the right foods.  I won’t say I will do yoga daily or get myself back into training for the sports I enjoy.  That this year I will lose that last 30 pounds or that sometime this year I will make peace with the fishies and stop eating them, too…nope, that’s not coming out of my mouth.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I plan to reconnect, strengthen and enjoy the relationships with people I most respect and enjoy.  I won’t additionally state that I plan to forge new friendships with people who have common interests.

I won’t tell you that this is the year I will try to be more positive and happy, even if I’m not entirely feeling it.  I’m not going to say that I’ll try to look for the best in situations and people instead of finding flaws.  Glass half full not half empty.

I won’t tell you that this is the year I’m going to brush off the dust of my usable Spanish and strengthen my ASL.  That I will take Swedish (because I’ve always wanted to learn it).  I am surely not going to say that I plan to create a bigger and better English vocabulary by reading and by studying words more often.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I write my first novel, my first non-fiction work, and/or a series of short stories.  I won’t add that I will actively try to find a place willing to publish my works and if no one will, that I will do it myself.  That I will engage my creative side by re-engaging long lost musical talent and newly found artistic tendencies.  That I will blog more regularly.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I begin some volunteer work with an agency that helps animals and/or the environment.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I plan to clear out the clutter in my house, my work, my relationships, and my life in general.  That I will only keep what truly works for me.

I won’t tell you that this is the year that I’ll start making an effort to make my world and yours a better place for all of us to live.

I won’t.

I won’t because this is the year that I’m going to shut up and just do it.

Happy New Year everyone!  2012 is looking great so far…

The Problem with Potatoes

I know this will come as a big shocker *eye roll*, but I’ve been a bit of a slacker as of late.

I could blame my former trainer for being an incredibly unprofessional loser that I had to fire.  I could blame the attacks that I’ve been under as a public union worker and the overwhelming, subsequent stress that goes with that.  I could blame Canada.  Hell, I could blame a whole heavenly host of beings/issues/distractions for me being a lazy mofo, but it all comes down to this:

I slack because it requires zero planning.

Planning requires thought.  Planning requires time.  Planning requires effort.  Planning requires…planning.

You know what doesn’t require planning? 

Couch potato-ing!  Well, unless you’re one of those people who plans what they’re going to watch while being spudtastic, since, for the most part, having regular shows requires having a memory that recalls what day and time they’re on the boobtube.  But that eliminates the fun of channel surfing.  No planning it is!

Course the deal with mashing oneself into the sofa (or the Lazyboy) is that despite their deliciousness, potatoes are fattening.  Okay, not necessarily fattening until you add the butter, sour cream, and cheesy goodness, but what the hell would be the point of eating a dry potato?  Seriously.  Does anyone even DO that??

And the problem with fattening is that it does nothing to help one fit into any pair of pants that actually zip and/or button.  If I could be a professional TV watcher, sweatpants would actually be a plus.  (Comfort allows for full focus on Castle’s ass…I mean storyline.)  Alas, my full-time job requires that I wear appropriate attire (reads: not sweatpants).

In the process of running my first 5K in ages today, I had the epiphany that fattening equals bad.  No one should be this out of shape this early in life.  I needed a plan.  It wasn’t just that at 37:40 my grandmother (in her nineties) could roll her wheelchair faster than I was running.  No.  I’ve awakened to the fact that I don’t really like being a spud.  There’s more to me than that.  Or rather, I’d prefer there be less.

Oh sure, I can come up with every excuse in the book not to do it, but in the end, they are just that: excuses.  So, today I sent a message to one of my old trainers that actually got results (not the injuries that I’ve been plagued with since I stopped training with him) out of me.  Hope he responds. 

If not, I am not going to use that as an excuse to pile on more cheddar.  I am going to pull out my books on training and get myself busy following through on a plan. 

Because what’s that they say?  A rolling spud gathers no moss?  Hmm.  Yeah, I’m dusting the moss off my ass and hitting the pavement.  This girl with a plan is done with the couch…

The Procrastination Equation...uh huh.

As Queen of All Procrastinators everywhere, I have to say that I don’t really do well in the realm of “get things done expediently”.  These days I suck at it actually.  I don’t mean to suck at it, but there it is.  Technicolor me.  The woman that can find just about anything to keep herself from doing things (reads: writing--among other things) that will propel herself forward to completion on a project (i.e.: the 52 stories I’ve started).

So when one of my real writer friends, Kelly (http://clickerbug.wordpress.com/  in case you want to check out her work), suggested I read this book about the real reasons for procrastination, I was all for it.  I mean, I needed to do something.  Maybe if I understood my own tendencies better, I could fix those gone wrong, right? 

Naturally, I went to the bookstore that very day that she told me about it, but they didn’t have it in stock.  Yes.  Yes, I could have taken care of things right then and there when the nice lady behind the counter asked me if I wanted order it, but alas, that would have been logical.  Reasonable.  What the normal Joette does.  Not me.  Oh no.  I was going to wait because I wanted it to come straight to my house if it had to be ordered.  Besides, I had other books that I wanted whose titles I couldn’t remember (and whose subject material was a bit sketchier than what’d be comfortable to bring up with a total stranger) so I thought it better to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

When I finally got around to ordering the book, it didn’t come as fast as I’d figured.  So instead of trying to force myself forward on a few projects what I did was wait (and play on the internet, my new favorite wastetime).

And I waited.

And waited.

And waited…until eventually, my savior, aka The Procrastination Equation arrived. *the crowd cheers*

*raises right hand and places left on a squirming pile of playing puppies*

I swear I planned to start reading it the day it found its way to my front porch.  Right after I finished reading the last Harry Potter.  And one of those dragony tattooey books that I borrowed from the library and renewed…twice.  Course I haven’t finished either yet.  But it’s only because if I get my drawers cleaned out, I may have something for the Goodwill Sale at Boston Store.  Course then there’s the fact that I’ve been slacking on catching up on facebook.  Haven’t talked to a few family members in ages and should probably give a shout out.  And then there’s the garage that needs cleaning.  Yeah, there’s something to be said for a clean garage.  And a clean car.  Winter’s coming, you know.  Did anyone notice how unruly the hedges out back have become?  Hey, why the hell are you all looking at me like that?

There’s gotta be something seriously wrong with the person who puts off reading a book on procrastination.  That irony isn’t lost on me.

And yes, there must be something seriously wrong with me since I’m still procrastinating the reading of it almost two months after it was delivered to my doorstep.  Well, not exactly true.  I started reading it.  Made it through the whole first chapter two weeks after the book arrived.  Now, I am putting off reading the rest of it.  Not sure why.  It’s been good so far…

Perhaps I have a problem, you say?

The only one I can see is this:  if you’re going to be royalty, you should have some sort of castle in the middle of a vast and mighty kingdom.  Rest assured I have one.  Now all we have to do is finish the construction on it.  I mean, it’s only been 10 years since we began. 

On the other hand, I could just go back to researching housing in Florida.  I’m looking to move there...someday…

A New Sheriff in Town

Corporations are people, Mitt?  http://www.latimes.com/news/politics/la-pn-romney-state-fair-20110811,0,1863810.story  I’m not sure what disturbs me more…that you said it, or that the comment “earned [you] a sustained round of applause”.  Stupid is as stupid does?  Hmm.

Should it surprise me that you and your cronies at Standard and Poor want to fuck with the world economy, too?  Nope, it doesn’t.  But here’s why you’re all heading south…FAAAAR south my friend.  You aren’t allowed to criticize someone else, or pretend like you are deserving of some self-served, sleazy patting of yourself on your own back for any credit rating that’s been issued by people you keep in your back pocket, asshat.  http://www.seasonalmagazine.com/2011/08/s-downgrade-of-us-debt-5-reasons-why-it.html  Can you say conflict of interest?  *eye roll*

Yes, dear reader, it’s times like these that I am SO happy that at the end of my days I am going to Hell…

First, all the really cool (albeit poor) kids are going.  It isn’t going to just be those hateful dumbasses like Michelle Bachmann, George W., Rummy, Walker, and Mitt.  (Rumor has it that Sarah’s petitioning for Heaven…course that’ll probably go as well as her previous vice-presidential bid.  No worries, I’ll save you a seat, Pretty Princess…NOT.  You’ll stand and sweat like a lipsticked pig in the heat like the rest of us and like it.)  

Truth is, in Moo Hell, I don’t even want them there…which is precisely why they’ll be there.  And why I’ll be there to irritate them in retaliation.  Talk about a hellacious symbiotic relationship!  (You can’t be condemned to Hell and not have it be…well…Hell.  It’s the whole point of the thing.  No red wine and stuck with Pretty Princess Palin.  It’s the crystal clear definition of it...probably for both of us.)

But I'm not even talking about the evil minions that actually belong there; some of us will probably end up there due to stupid shit done whilst under the influence at some point in our lives.  (I’ve got stories…damn, one that comes to mind involves two besties from back in the day—both of whom shall remain nameless to spare the quasi-innocent—an unknowing chaperone—also nameless—and a pair or two of pantyhose used for questionable means.  What do you want??  We were in our twenties, married, bombed and ready for trouble.  But I digress…)

So, cool kids + booze-soaked sin = Hell-bound?  Check.  It’s nice to know, that in part, I’ll be amongst close friends.

Reason number two:  it gives me an opportunity to demonstrate my leadership abilities (and the fact that I really can be mean as…well…Hell). When I arrive, I am planning to tell the guy dressed in red to get the fuck out of my chair.  “You’ve been mishandling Hell, Beelzebub, and I’m gonna show you how it’s done proper, pally.”  Mitt?  Is your seat warm enough?  No?  I’ll turn it up, honey.  Michelle?  Meet your new wife Sarah.  I figured you’d be happy because I hooked you up with someone with which you have something in common.  (You’re both homophobic, antifeminist, political freak wannabes.)

Finally…y’all gotta know that with my love for heat I’m gonna decide how hot it’s going to be.  And it’s gonna be scorching, kiddies.  Just how Mama Satana likes it.  Those of you riding on my rocket sled with the super-duper turbo-boosters should be sure to pack light because Hell’s gone clothing optional (which, when I think of it, could be everyone’s personal Hell in one way or another).

Yeah, Me + Hell = Good Times.  Oh, and if a Mr. G. Reaper shows up, knocking with a special ticket for you, don’t let the turbo-boostered toboggan disturb you.  Light speed is the best way to go.  Everyone knows the anticipation of the ride is the worst part anyway.  Besides, if you’re reading this, no worries for you anyway.  You’re probably already in good with the new sheriff in town…

And the winner is??

What.

The.

Fuck???

I’ve struggled with sleep lately, but there are moments when my inability to catch my winks at night has the potential to create future nightmares of epic proportions.  So it is when I get to channel surfing and see a massive disaster like Toddlers and Tiaras.

When is it ever okay to dress up a four year-old like a hooker (fake eyelashes and heavy eyeliner, low-cutting, short-skirted dresses, and big, crazy, 80’s slutty-girl hair) and send her out on stage to win a supposed “beauty pageant”?

Crazy stage moms (and dads)?  They are in ample supply here, folks.  Many of them not that attractive themselves, you can see they are trying to vicariously live out their own pageant dreams through their way too young to be told to “shake your butt, but not like a stripper” children. 

Seriously??  Should a four year-old even know what a stripper is let alone know how she should shake her booty just right so the kid won’t cross that invisible boundary of decorum and good taste??

Look.  I’m not completely against the whole pageant thing.  I did the Junior Miss thing back in the day.  Thing is I was a junior…in HIGH SCHOOL.  There were scholarships involved.  But the point is that I was old enough to apply my own fake lashes, and I actually had real boobies and nice gams to put in the dress I borrowed from my friend Jill.  Oh, and let’s not forget that it actually was the 1980’s, so my big ole poof hair was era appropriate.

My problem isn’t the pageant idea; it’s when you take a toddler and dress her like a hoochiemama and try to pretend that the whole sitch isn’t a very messed up train wreck.  Let her look like a kid and have her do kid things because, well, she IS one.

Alaska just finished her striptease routine where she rips her jacket off and swings it around her head, all the while spinning and shaking her booty, but, naturally NOT like a stripper—even though she technically is acting out that role, all in front of the many grown males in the audience.  My mouth is agape.  (Not sure if this is because of the striptease or the fact that her name is perfect for the stripper she is playing out at the moment.  *shakes head*  I’m at a loss here.)

Yeah, then I started thinking.  What are these little girls going to be like when they reach adulthood?  Will they ever believe that it’s okay to walk through their world without wearing make-up?  Will they figure that they have to use their looks/sex to get what they want in life?  Or worse, that what is important is how you look not who you are, particularly as a woman?  As a card carrying member of NOW, I find the whole thing most disturbing.

Well, I gotta flip channels again for my own sanity and safety.  Maybe comedy channel has something on that will make the disgust fade away, though I doubt it…

Brain cells? We don't need no stinkin' brain cells...

I lost brain cells last night, of this I am sure.

Okay, I should explain.  It wasn’t because I over-served myself (although in all honesty I did, in fact, drink a little wine—red, natch).  No. In my effort to transform into the ultimate corpulent, dumpy, slacker-loser, I have developed an addiction to watching inane television.  Why read a book and learn something when you can sit your ass all potato-style, drooling in front of the dummy box?  Make mine mashed oozing with sharp cheddar and butter (keep your damn healthy broccoli) these days.

My latest greatest distraction from participating in the real world is my weekly dose of “The Bachelorette”.  I’m so irritatingly invested in this stupid show that I sometimes find myself actually screaming at Ashley on TV, which we all know is not even remotely helpful since she can’t hear me.  I’ve even coaxed my honey into watching with me.  And while, if I’m being honest, he probably plays along because he wants to spend time with me (reads: he wants to get laid when the show is over), he does get hooked into my mental measurements over Ashley’s very poor judgment, too.

So there we sit, pooled in spit, when the realization hits that not only am I invested in the psychology of what is going on, but I have to own up to having a fave guy, though all I know about him is that he makes wine (which I’m not sure says the right thing about me…or maybe says exactly the right thing about me, depending upon how you look at it).  Don’t even know the guys name.  Heh.  Maybe I’m not as devoted a fan as I previously thought.  Gee.  What a relief.

What a variety of guys; all with some level of hotness, some smoking, but all playing a game.  Ash, sweetheart, I don’t know if you know this or not because you’re only, like, twelve years old, but guys like to compete.  Especially with each other.  Super-duper especially when it’s against each other for a girl’s affections.  But here’s the rub, darlin’…I don’t know many guys that aren’t almost more into the chase than the catch.  

You’re all concerned, Ash sweetie, (and you should be if you’re taking this whole bit seriously) that these guys aren’t being honest about their intentions and that they’re playing a game, which they are.  Duh.  So how in the world can you truly think that one of these men is seriously into you? 

Yes, they all want to woo and win you, but I’m betting that it has more to do with beating each other out of the opportunity to be the winner winner chicken dinner than it has to do with banging you for the rest of their lives. 

Honey, just deal with the historical facts.  Oh, sure, maybe one of these guys is excited to become Mr. Ashley, but if we’re being realists here, there’s a better chance of getting hit by lightening. 

Twice. 

On a sunny day.

It.

Is.

A.

Game.  *smirks*

When you look at all of the bachelor/ette shows, have any actually worked out?  Maybe that one way in the beginning.  I say take your fifteen minutes of fame and go the way that others have gone: pretend that you can act or something.  You’re pretty enough to make it on Lifetime or SciFi channel, I guess, and why reinvent the wheel with trying to become the next reality star?  Oh, wait.  You did that already.  Nevermind.

And for God’s sake, ditch this whole Bentley idea.  You think there’s a connection??  Really?  (Why are the young ones so bloomin' dense?)  Yes, I know that I get to see all the details of his extensive douchebaggery that you were unaware of, and he’s definitely a master manipulator, but come on.  The man is plant food.  Go with the wine maker guy (what the hell is his name??  Now I’m going to have to go look that up).

You know folks, all of it still leaves me at a serious loss though.  Not because I’m concerned about which guy Ashley will end up with, because who gives a shit?  It’s not like she’ll stay with the guy for longer than it takes to start a new season anyway, but because I’ve developed the horrible habit of wasting two hours every week on this dumb show instead of doing something productive, like reading or writing or doing my laundry.

Right now I’m write-avoiding by watching “The Voice”, but only after watching “America’s Got Talent” (though I find the title of the latter show somewhat misleading).  Point is that I keep doing things that keep me from doing the things that I want to be doing…or rather say that I want to be doing.

This got me thinking, which outside of drooling in front of the boob-tube is something I seem to be doing a lot of lately.  Maybe I don’t really want to be doing what I say I want to be doing.  But then what?  I could go for becoming a professional wine drinker, on account of the fact that I like my red, but I’d really like to keep the liver I’ve got because I’m kind of attached to it.  Transplants can be so…sketchy, and dialysis doesn’t really seem to be the way to go.

Television critic?  Lord knows I distract myself with enough of it these days.  Internet surf queen?  I’m beyond pro in that department, too.  See?  Now this is requiring WAY too much thinking and the confusion is impeding my ability to enjoy “The Voice” so I’d better shut up shutting up and get back to it.   

I mean, I have far more pressing matters to consider than my future anyway.  Rumor has it Bentley (the guy with a name fit for the dog that he is) is coming back.  Wonder what will happen?  If she lets him back and I was the nameless wine maker, I’d ditch her and go looking for his true match—a married woman in Wisconsin (or at least that’s what I’ve heard). 

You hear me, Ash? 

Don’t fuck up your chance to be with one of the guys who is sincerely pretending like you’re “the one” for the guy that’s pretending like he’s “the one”, except anytime he’s in front of a camera. 

Besides, FREE WINE, girl.  How can you go wrong with anything that’s free?  The fact that it’s wine…mmm…

A word about writing...

Writer’s block sucks.

Okay, that’s probably not news for the writers out there, and there’re a lot worse things in the world, but it is—at the very least—a tremendous pain in the ass.  And while I am a fan of whining (clearly, and not to be confused with “wining”, which I am also quite fond of), I’d really not like to have to whine about not being able to write.  (Wow.  Two glasses of wine and I can barely understand that last sentence.  Apparently I became a lightweight when the block set in?  *grumble*)

Wouldn’t it be MUCH more fun to whine about not getting enough sex?  Or to bellyache about the cost of gas?  Or that I have gas?  (Ate soy today.  Sorry, honey.)

Needless to say, I’ve got nothing to say.  No.  That isn’t exactly true.  I have LOTS to say, but my words won’t come.  I have whole movies playing repeatedly in my head, and they’re truncated by my own ineptitude in expressing clear thoughts without reading them back to myself and thinking, “AUGH!!!!  Awful!”  I can’t make the English fit the mind-film, so to speak.

Perhaps I should write in Spanish?  Yes, it’s true that it’s helpful to be fluent in a language if you plan to create in it, and I’m not…exactly, but I was thinking maybe the extra challenge would take my mind off of how bad I suck at this art, and how the words sometimes don’t find their way to the page, and that’s frustrating.  Sigh.

Okay, back to writing fiction.  Maybe.  Or maybe I’ll just go play on facebook for a while instead, drinking the rest of this glass of vino, and then go to bed. 

All I know is writer’s block bites ass…

Where, oh, where has my discipline gone...

Remember when I was single-mindedly focused, disciplined and motivated??

Yeah, me neither.  Seems it’s been such a long-assed time since I saw my old friend Discipline that I’ve developed an inability to look down and see my own feet as of late.

Okay, maybe my newest friend, Eggs Agerator, has taken over here.  Or perhaps it's my other friend Miss Taken.  My food baby has grown plump, but I can still see my shoes…when they’re sitting on the steps across the room, and I’m not too far from the stairs (my eyesight’s failing a bit these days).  And I can still button my pants, albeit barely, though a belt is completely unnecessary at the moment.

You’d think that the ole workhorse Mo Tivator would step in to help me give birth to this food baby by forcing me to eat raw veggies and hit the workouts instead of munching down the little bowl of potato chips I’m thinking of refilling as we speak.  (Uh, isn’t it considered exercise to walk all the way to the kitchen to fill the bowl and then all the way back here to the recliner in the living room??  Hmph.)  “Put the chips down, and get on the damned exercise bike, you lazy cow!!”  That’s what Mo would say, if A. Pathy wasn’t pinning him down on the floor, helped out by Dee Pressed’s hand held tight over Mo’s mouth.

It’s not that I’m a lazy personality.  Or maybe, it’s not that I wasn’t a lazy personality…damn, those double negatives are nastiness.  What I mean to say is once upon a time, laziness would not have been a characteristic that one would have attached to the picture of me in a dictionary.  (In truth, my picture would be on the page where one finds the word “unphotogenic”, but I digress…)

Energetic.  That’s how I would have characterized myself back in the day.  Then life happened.  Again.  And again.  And again.  Yeah, life sure kicks the crap out of you, and the past ten years, give or take, I’ve been taking more than my share of beatings.  Not as many as some, but more than my energetic system can recover from.  (Shit.  Remember when I cared enough about written English that I didn’t end a sentence with a preposition?  *waxes nostalgic* Yeah, those were the days.)  Point is: perpetual emotional pain drains the life right out of you.

All I know is that, somehow, I’d better figure it out before I make it as Biggest Loser (on so very many levels) material.  With Jillian gone in the upcoming seasons, who would tell me that puking isn’t an excuse to get off the treadmill to go hide and feel all sorry for myself??  Nope.  I’m going to have to ride my own ass here, people.  Get up and get going, recliner potato!!  Tired?!?  So is everyone else on the planet, you big whiiiner!!

Well, chip bowl is empty.  It’s a war of wills.  Me against Myself and I.  Now to figure out which side says, “Fill the bowl!!”, and TAKE. IT. OUT…

…for sushi.  Sushi’s healthy, right?  *sighs, shaking head* Just pathetic…

Bed bugs, bed bugs, whatcha gonna do...whatcha gonna do when they come for you??

Remember the good ole days?  When you were admitted to the hospital and all you had to worry about was dying from some random, careless act of malpractice?  You know, a cotton gauze sewn into your gut during an emergency surgery that spirals into a fatal infection?  Or a flesh eating nosocomial one from someone neglecting to observe the “sterile environment” rules?  Or the newest antibiotic resistant disease?

Yeah.  Good ole days.  But no more, kiddies.  Now we have something even more insidious to deal with in our local hospitals…

http://bedbugger.com/2010/11/17/milwaukee-hospital-quarantines-suspected-bed-bug-victims-based-on-suspected-bite-marks-alone/

Itchy all of a sudden?  Me, too.  In fact, just typing the words makes me itchy-scratchy all over, and even though I probably wouldn’t die from them I am highly allergic to any buggies that bite me. *scratches arm*

If you’ve ever had the misfortune of dealing with these little bastards, you know that they will be here long after the roaches, rats and Keith Richards float off to the Big Party in the sky.  Oh yes.  Yes, they will.  They will be laughing at those stupid roaches.  Cause even though roaches are rather hardy, they can be squished.  Granted, you may have to use your car to do it (everything's bigger in Texas), at least they crunch. 

Ever try to squish a teeeeeny bed bug?  Impossible is the word that comes to mind.  And they’re the size that can sneak into and hide…well, everywhere.  *scratches leg*

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that the little buggars have found their way into hospitals.  I mean, if you travel at all, you put yourself at risk of bringing home a few “souveniers” that will keep the love giving and giving and giving.  But unless you’re getting a fantastic boob job, hospitals aren’t exactly the end all be all vacation, right?  All the same, you’re there, in an environment where many others convene so the risk factor is high.  *scratches knee*

However, when you leave the hospital, I think the only thing you should be bringing home with you is total health (and maybe a med or two).  What. The. Fuck?  *starts scratching all over*

I mean…YUCK.  Yuck, yuck, yuck.  Yuck.  Did I mention yuck?  *scratches buttcheek* 

What is it about bugs that make it worse than any other possible fatal disease?  Creepy crawliness?  Ugh.  Especially those really little ones.  *continues scratching furiously*

Well, I’d love to sit and chat about gross things like this, but perhaps I should go and investigate mattress cracks and crevasses.  (EEEEWWWW…)  I don’t live that far from hospitals.  Don’t work that far from one where those icky things were found.  Creepy-crawly days.  *blech*  Anyway, wish me luck.  *scratches at head*  Hopefully there isn’t anything to see here folks.  *tries to scratch back*  (Not finding bites so hopefully that’s a good sign.)  *scratches bottom of foot*

Shit.  It occurs to me that I’m traveling to my beloved NOLA soon.  Let’s hope that seriously drunken bed bugs get lost on their way to my clothes and suitcase so that they don’t find their way back to my home sweet home.  I’m willing to drink more to take home less.  “Souvs” of that variety?  Who needs those??  *scratches wildly*  I say the food and music alone should be enough for those nasties to stay right were they are.  But just in case, little bedbug, do you really want to party hardy all summer just to freeze come September?  (Yes, I know that the bitter cold doesn’t really come till a bit later, but shhhh…*whispers*  work with me here, people.)

Did I mention yuck?  *double shudder*