The Write Transition

From One Life Chapter To The Next

Archive for the month “February, 2012”

28 Feb 2012
55 Comments

Scaring Your Doctor From A To Z

Yes, this is another post devoted to a blog award. No, it will not be typical. But you probably already guessed that.

The masterful Jennifer M. Eaton, whose “writing rants” I always enjoy, recently nominated me for the Awesome Blog Content Award. Rather than ask why, I prefer to know what she slips into her tea. Maybe she’ll share.

So thank you, Jennifer! I happily and humbly accept. But in order to do so, I must describe myself using every letter of the alphabet and pass the award onto at least six other bloggers. Ironic, no? Because in order to continue the ruse of posting “Awesome Blog Content”, listing 26 more things about myself reeks of counter-productiveness.

So toss me a longer leash to explore…

We all know doctors’ appointments are notorious for endless waits, often spent shivering in a nipple-puckering gown, followed by a flash encounter with a harried provider. Suggestions to fix this problem would require an in-depth exploration of the healthcare system by a sophisticated blogger. Of course, you will find neither here.

But don’t worry. You will not leave my site empty-headed. (Unless you entered that way.) Instead, given my background in health care, I will share 26 ways to gain more time with your doctor. When that white-coat shove hurtles you into the hallway before you’ve received your due, just blurt out one of the following symptoms or diseases. Then ripple in delight at the provider’s alarm and watch your time expand.*

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art

From A to Z, conditions that will lengthen your visit (and increase your medical knowledge—my gift to you) include:

Anal leakage (Need I say more?)

Borborygmus (The rumbly sound in your tummy. Probably won’t net you any extra time with the doc, but it will make your few moments embarrassing.)

Cotard Delusion (Belief that you are dead, decaying, or have missing body parts. The latter is not the same as penis envy.)

Discharge. From anywhere.

Exploding Head Syndrome (Not as exciting as it sounds—sufferers hear loud, explosion-type noises in their heads. Sorry to disappoint.)

Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva (Muscles and connective tissue are gradually replaced by bone. Is really quite sad, so am not sure why I’m including it, other than I needed an F, and flatulence seemed too obvious.)

Galactorrhea (Abnormal milk production, men or women. May come in handy if you are a barista.)

Hematochezia (Bloody stools. Hello, Black Snake of Colonoscopy Land.)

Icky pus. From anywhere.

Jock itch (Self-explanatory, but you will need an anti-fungal to cure it. And please, do so before your girlfriend comes over.)

Kala-azar (This is visceral leishmaniasis, a disease spread by sandflies. And good luck finding a Western doctor who will consider this diagnosis for your night sweats and skin ulcers.)

Liquid poop (Not a medical term per se, but surely a condition you don’t want. But watch out, it might reintroduce the Black Snake.)

Myokymia (Well, actually eyelid twitching is not a big deal, but I thought you might like to know the medical term for those rapid-fire eyelid fits. You’re welcome.)

No urine output for 48 hours (Check out your doc’s expression after hearing that one.)

Orthostasis (Drop in blood pressure when standing up. Just make sure your provider can catch you.)

Priapism (You know, that erection you’ve had for the last six hours?)

Q-tip ruptured ear drum (It happens. A lot. You are not mining for gold. Best to keep the thing confined to the outer ear.)

Rhinorrhea (Okay, a runny nose won’t buy you any extra time with the doc, but if you unabashedly sneeze out the contents, you will share your illness.)

Sexsomnia (Sufferer engages in sexual activity while asleep. And this is a bad thing?)

Trimethylaminuria (Breath, sweat, or urine that smells like fish. Or in other words, your ex.)

Urethral burning (Which begs the question: Just what have you been up to?)

Vanishing testis syndrome (Self-explanatory. And concerning if you’re past puberty.)

Werewolf syndrome (Excessive body hair. Actually, is more politically correct to use the term hypertrichosis, but the H was already taken by bloody poo.)

X-ray of Mountain Dew bottle nestled in your rectum (I guarantee, if you bring this exhibit to your doctor’s appointment, you will not leave anytime soon.)

Yellow skin and eyes (Jaundice should get your doc hopping.)

Zero for a pulse, a blood pressure, or a respiratory rate (If you have any of these, well, you will get all the time you want. An eternity, actually.)

See? Who says I can’t educate and inspire?

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art

Now, for the bloggers I will bug, er, I mean, honor with the ABC Award:

Although always hard to choose, here are seven awesome-blog-content bloggers to whom I pass on this award. I will spread the love around to avoid getting slapped with online restraining orders from those I’ve previously nominated, but know that there are many other blogs I follow and enjoy. Next time, I guess. (Yes, I realize that’s a little presumptuous. I’m not an idiot, you know. Oh, wait…)

All Write

Just Outside the Box Cartoon

Gemini Girl in a Random World

Sweet Mother

Perfecting motherhood

Joy in the Moments

Promethean Times

As always, I look forward to your comments. Any startle-producing medical complaints you’d like to add?

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art

*For the sarcastic-deficient and good-hearted folks who stumbled upon my blog in search of medical advice: Yes, this post is a joke. No, you should not make up symptoms. Not only is it unethical, but you will invite a buttload of costly tests. Some of which will be in that very location.

Some of the above diseases I found on Life Support, The Blog

Cartoon stethoscope from Microsoft Clip Art

Posted in Musings, Writing and tagged , , , , , , ,
26 Feb 2012
35 Comments

And The Oscar Goes To…

Casting Stones by G.M. Barlean

As promised, today I announce the winner of G.M. Barlean’s signed copy of the wonderful “Casting Stones”. Remember Gina? She’s the author I hogtied and interrogated down in my basement a few days back.

Be assured she has recovered beautifully—no residual scars. Well, no physical ones, anyway.

I mentioned the winner would be the commenter equal to the number of times I consumed chocolate in the last month, and if we did not reach that number, then the winner would be the commenter equal to the number of times I choked down spinach. Sadly, we did not reach the number 30, which is how many times I savored chocolate. And yes, I am embarrassed to admit that.

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art, image by Royalty-Free/Corbis

However, seeing as how I cannot precisely remember the number of times I “enjoyed” spinach—maybe in a salad here, maybe as a sandwich accompaniment there—I chose the fairest method: randomization. Using Random.org, a website suggested by Miss Gina herself, the number selected from the 18 lovely participating commenters was number six (which is eerily the number I estimated as my spinach consumption. Really!)

This lucky winner is tristenhohn.com. Yeah, Tris!

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art

Sorry, Mom, you didn’t win. And sorry, Harper Faulkner, you also did not win despite a really awesome attempt at bribery and flattery. But as much as an old gal needs that, I had to be honest. My nose is already big enough. And besides, I just plugged your site. That should count for something.

So, Tris, congratulations! I will be contacting you by email, if indeed you supplied your real address. (And who could blame you if you didn’t?)

Thanks so much to all who commented and participated. I value your visits and thoroughly enjoy our “verbal” tag, which, thanks to WordPress, is now even easier!

Posted in Reading and tagged , , , , ,
24 Feb 2012
55 Comments

Caramel Copyright And Creative Commons Trail Mix

It is difficult to talk about copyrighting one’s blog without sounding a bit hoity-toity. Well, let me rephrase that. It is difficult to talk about copyrighting my blog without sounding hoity-toity.

Before reading the next paragraph, pop over to the linguistics center of your brain, and conjure a sophisticated Dame Judy Dench or Dr. Frasier Crane accent. Now use this accent to read the following:

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the author, including, but not limited to, placenta fun, bouncy ball catastrophes, crotch-licking cats, dorks writing on treadmills, diaper-crapping man babies, KY Jelly sandwiches, sunburned privates, and conversations with Mr. Nasty Pants, is strictly prohibited.

If your mental voice shifted to Larry the Cable Guy, don’t feel bad. I’m sure you are not alone.

Larry the Cable Guy (photo credit: Ticketmaster.com)

And if you noticed the numerous personal plugs inserted into that paragraph, I hope you will revel in your astuteness and keep it to yourself. No need to gossip about my insecure narcissism.

But my point is, do I need to copyright my blog? The thought of anyone burglarizing my written dung seems laughable. In fact, just like a professional athlete, I’m more than happy to spread my seed around. If a copyright symbol took up vigil on my site, would those lovely reblogs be possible? I don’t know about you, but I rather enjoy blog-pollination.

Okay. I hear you. What if my content appears but not the credit, someone masking the material as his or her own? Once past the question of “why the hell would they?”, I  need to ask myself, “Would I sue if they did?”

From what I’ve read, litigation is what it comes down to. If you don’t plan to sue, then probably no need for the C in the circle tattoo.

Credit: copyrightauthority.com

But wait. There’s more.

During my research, nicely accompanied by Caramel Cashew Trail Mix, one tasty morsel per mouse click, I also discovered something called Creative Commons. This is not a place in the Student Union where liberal arts students get naked and recite poetry—I know, I was surprised, too. Rather Creative Commons is a sort of middle ground in the Internet age, a sliding scale of protection, if you will, where some materials may be used without permission of the creator, while others require a “Please, Sir or Madam, can I post your drivel on my blog?”

I found a lovely comparison in an apropos blog post entitled Copyright Vs. Creative Commons. And as a side note, to these and other bloggers who offer helpful advice, thereby creating a more understandable online world, I sincerely thank you.

I, on the other hand, will continue to pollute and debase the medium.

Naughty-good (!) Archer Farms Caramel Cashew Trail Mix (image from Amazon.com)

So which trail mix goodie do you choose?

The rigid copyright cashew? The sweeter Creative Commons M&M? Or, like me thus far, the risky and sticky, no-protection, rot-your-teeth, chocolate-covered caramel ball?

But remember, as with every taste-bud pleaser, preferences are subject to change. Indeed, if I start dropping teeth faster than a caveman with an animal hide full of snuff, I may need a little more protection.

How do the rest of you feel? Have you copyrighted your blog? Use Creative Commons? If you share your thoughts with me, I’ll share my trail mix with you.

Oops. Sorry. It’s gone.

Cartoon images from Microsoft Clip Art

*     *     *

Other helpful resources I found during my high-calorie research:

Is Creative Commons Right for Your Blog

Should You Register Your Blog with the U.S. Copyright Office

Copyright vs. Creative Commons: How Creative Commons licenses compromise your rights

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Posted in Decisions, Writing and tagged , , , , , , ,
22 Feb 2012
69 Comments

The Piggy Who Hogtied The Author

A few months ago, SAS code, multiple regression, and epidemiologic computations colored my world, though admittedly, the hue was a little gray. Shuffle forward five rainbow-paletted months, and here I am interviewing an author on my blog, a concept as foreign to me then as non-parametric testing may be to you now.

Sure, I’m still a lost little piggy. But at least I’m a peaceful little piggy, snorting and stomping my way through the mud.

And with that analogy, can you imagine G. M. Barlean (a.k.a. Gina), a lovely woman, supportive of my blog from the start, dared venture anywhere near my drivel-filled trough? But here she is! Just ignore the ropes dangling from my laptop. I had to tie the woman up. Oh, come on, you didn’t think she’d come willingly, did you?

And now that I have both your and Gina’s attention (What’s that, Gina? The binding is too tight? Oh, toughen up.), I want to tell you about her recently published book, the wonderful “Casting Stones”. This will be followed by a few questions, which I assure you, will be of the utmost literary quality.

Gina has also agreed to mail a signed copy of her book to a lucky recipient. The winner will be the nth commenter equal to the number of times I’ve eaten chocolate in the past month. If the comments fall below that, not only will I be sad, but I will change the winner to the nth commenter equal to the number of times I’ve eaten spinach in the past month (I will announce the winner in a post update on 2/26/12 and notify him or her by email).

Clear as an acne-prone teenager’s complexion? Good.

"Casting Stones" gmbarlean.com

“Casting Stones” is a dramatic story, set in rural Nebraska and Missouri in the 1920s through the 1940s. It is “a story about struggle and survival, retribution and redemption”, where a split-second error sends farmer James Raven’s life into a spiral of heartache, cruelty, and despair. Central to this good man’s pain and that of his child is the harshly raised, bitter and vengeful Esther Barton, a wicked woman who might very well be an ancestor of my own Mr. Nasty Pants. With each page, the reader sinks deeper into the story, anticipating the blood shed most certainly to come.

Oh, hang on a second.

What did you say, Gina? Oh, your wrist binds are just fine. Blue is a healthy color for hands.

So where was I? Oh, for more detail of “Casting Stones”and a chance to meet the main characters in a creative, short story prelude, you will want to visit Gina’s website.

Now, before I untie Gina, allow me a brief interrogation.

Me: Gina, welcome to my blog. I am very pleased to host you! You’re comfortable, yes?

Gina: Certainly. Sitting on a cold cement floor in a dark room whilst bound with twine is always such a joy. So very delighted you decided to remove the gag from my     mouth.      

Me: Well, I’m a softie at heart. So, first of all, I notice you reside in Nebraska. Growing up in North Dakota, I experienced many misconceptions about the state. For example, “Do you have swimming pools there?” Any misconceptions about Nebraska? Or have you been too hidden in the cornfields to notice?

Gina: Once upon a time, I left the cornfield long enough to work as the director of my community’s Chamber of Commerce. A new business came to town from the metropolis of Omaha (all the New Yorkers are laughing at that designation for Omaha), and the young woman representing the business seemed proud of me for having a copy machine. She said, “Hey, good job!” I thought that was pretty funny. I remember thinking, That’s just what I needed today – office machine confirmation from a 28-year old who can barely stop texting long enough to ask me if there was some way to make copies in “this” town. Yes. We have all of the basic modern conveniences.

Another misconception is that there isn’t anything to see when driving through the state on I-80. That’s not true. I challenge you to drive through Kansas and then get back to me. By comparison, we’re quite colorful.

Blog moderator’s note: Sorry, Kansans.

Me: As described above, Esther Barton is quite the baddie. In fact, she brings to mind another classy dame, Miss Good Old Hobbling Annie Wilkes from Stephen King’s “Misery”. So I’m curious. Esther and Annie enter a ring. Who comes out?

Gina: Oh. I always bow to Mr. King. His mind is creepily delicious. BUT…in Esther’s defense, I think she would be a hair puller and a biter. Annie would rely more on tools to do her dirty work. Annie is the bigger of the two, but Esther’s wiry, and she’s used to taking a beating both mentally and physically.

Here is what the two have in common: they are both painfully unaware they are a few inches off plumb. They have this peculiar confidence in their own insanity. Esther isn’t as smart as Annie, though. Esther’s anger – in her mind – is justified by the belief system pounded into her brainwashed gray matter. Her brand of faith doesn’t bless her with God’s approval, of course.

I think Annie and Esther would fight long and hard. The ring would be strewn with snatches of hair and bits of torn clothing. They’d certainly both be bloody and bruised, and I believe Esther would probably lose a few teeth in the process of biting Annie’s tough hide. If Esther won, it would only be because Annie got all sentimental about a story or something. Esther has no time for weaknesses like that. So I’d think we could totally run bets on this fight and make serious ching. In the end, I believe they’d both crawl from the arena like crocodiles slithering up onto the land. They’d turn and salute, deeming each other a worthy opponent.

Blog moderator’s note: If you would like more of this mental image, watch some “Women in Prison” films.

Misery's Annie Wilkes (credit: TheFilmExperience.net)

Me: In the inevitable movie version of ‘Casting Stones’, what actor would play James?

Gina: Jeff Bridges. I just love that guy. I mean, how do you not love The Big Lebowski?! But, what I really like about him is how he can change his look and the way he plays a character to be just what the role requires. I loved him in the new version of True Grit. Bawled like a baby when they had to kill the poor horse. He’d have to dye his hair dark though. James has dark brown hair. I don’t know how we’d make Jeff young. The story starts with James young and ends with him as a middle-aged man. I originally thought Joaquin Phoenix for the part. He’d be a good choice, too.

Me: In the novel I’m working on now—or rather, not working on now seeing as how I have you captive in my lair—the surname of one of my characters is Barton, just like your villainous Esther. Do you think we telepathically communicated?

Gina: That has to be it. I mean…coincidence? Pshaw. I hardly doubt it! Probably a Midwestern thing we got goin’ on.

Me: Or maybe we’re both just weirdos. Anyway, Esther’s crankiness got me thinking. Spanx weren’t around in her time, and I believe petticoats were passé. So why is she so darn tight-assed and mean?

Gina: Yeah. That would be the years of manipulation and abuse at her father’s hands. It takes the wind right out of a gal’s sails. She never learned how to cope and she’s always judging others…but ultimately, like most judgmental people, they’re really avoiding facing their own failings.

Well, these certainly look comfy. (credit: Nordstroms.com)

Me: Do you think a little action would’ve improved her mood?

Oh, don’t shrug your hogtied arms and wave those gangrenous fingers at me; you know exactly what I’m implying.

Me: Okay, okay, I’ll retract that last question. But before I release Miss Gina, er, I mean, say good-bye, I’d like to allow her the opportunity to add any other details about her book which might interest the readers. You know, in a more dignified manner. See, I’m no heartless Esther.

Gina: Readers tell me they find the book to be an emotional roller coaster, a quick read, and hard to put down. I warn you, it is a sad story. I think the end resolves issues in a way I hope will make the reader think about when wrong is right and when sin is justified. Mostly, I hope the reader catches the underlying idea of judgment being, not only, something that can tear others down, but also, erodes your own potential as well.

I think the reader can obviously see how ugly judgment looks on Esther and Jonas, but will the reader see who makes the final and ultimate judgment? Blood is spilt and the ultimate sin doesn’t come from Esther or Joe. We all judge each other, although none of us have the right to do so. Why is Esther’s casting of stones so much less tolerable? I’d be interested to hear readers opinions.

Ouch. That gave me a headache. Or…my restraints are too tight and I don’t have enough oxygen flowing to my brain.

Wah, wah; go cry to Momma.

So there you have it, dear bloggees. “Casting Stones” by G. M. Barlean. Despite my horrible (or, if you will, innovative) interviewing skills, I recommend this page-turning read, dramatic and emotional, disturbing yet uplifting. And by uplifting, I mean you will embrace your family and rejoice in the clan you’ve been given.

And please don’t forget to leave a comment for a chance to win an autographed copy of the novel. I truly love and appreciate hearing from you. In fact, why don’t you share with us your favorite female villain!

Good-bye Gina. You are free to go. Hey, don’t give me that look! You knew perfectly well what you were getting into!

My thanks to Gina for being such a good sport! :)

Cartoon credits: Microsoft Clip Art

Posted in Marketing, Publishing, Writing and tagged , , , , , , ,
19 Feb 2012
31 Comments

The Parnell Pick-Me-Up

Are you feeling a bit like this?

Credit: openwalls.com

But would really prefer this?

Credit: Ajorbahman’s Collection

That happens to be my husband and me (hey, I never claimed we were attractive—or non-hirsute) after watching “Signing in the Waldenbooks”, a song about the woes of book signings, created and performed by author Parnell Hall several years ago.

I linked to the YouTube video above rather than embedding it, given my simian neurons are still not clear on the legality of such mischief. However, if your cerebral pathways represent a higher evolutionary structure, and you have nothing better to do (which takes us back to that first sad monkey image now, doesn’t it?), here is some information from HubPages: “Embedded YouTube Videos – Copyright Infringement?”

See, I can impart useful bits of info when I want to. I just don’t usually want to.

So enjoy this video. You do not have to be a writer to appreciate its wit. Who hasn’t lived such awkwardness? My husband laughed so hard I thought he might tangle a testicle, and the only writing he’s ever done is to Santa for a less Type-A wife. (Or was it Johnnie Walker?)

And given little brings me more pleasure than watching my ball and chain laugh, I burst into a red-faced buffoon myself.

Unfortunately, my teenager, laggering in to see whether 911 was in order (see, there’s hope yet), took one look at his hunched-over, ab-gripping parents, and assumed an expression like this:

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art

Maybe you’ve already seen this delightful video. Early adopter of innovation, I am not. If so, enjoy it again or just toss me a look like my son did. In fact, you can even add a few gestures. I’ll never know.

Posted in Marketing, Writing and tagged , , , , , ,
16 Feb 2012
96 Comments

The Writer Who Wasn’t

I have a tough question for any aspiring and emerging writers. What’s that? You don’t like deep probing? Well, who besides a proctologist does?

Don’t worry; this question has nothing to do with your nether regions, though it might feel just as dark and dirty.

So, sit up. Clear your mind. Take a sip of your chosen potion. Now, let’s get started.

When do you call yourself a writer?

Who me? Credit: greylining.com

Do I sense head shaking and eye rolling at my built-up suspense? Not a hard question at all? Well, maybe I’m a wuss; no secret there. But if the act is so easy, I propose a challenge. The next time you are out in public, and somebody inquires as to your occupation, instead of merely responding “teacher” or “accountant” or—oh, what the heck—“fluffer”,* add “and writer” to your personal description. Not easy, is it? Not without sounding pretentious.

Of course, I’m not referring to those of you consistently published and making a literary living. (And yes, I am deluding myself you are reading this post. Various tinctures and concoctions see to that.) Rather, I’m referring to those of us dipping our first timid toe into the stream.

I always thought I would boast the title of writer once published.

Then again, I also used to think I’d marry Parker Stevenson.

Parker Stevenson, from: Totally Awesome Teen Pinups And Magazines

So here I am, contract in hand, leap made, day job a mere rearview dot, yet the word writer, at least as a self-described moniker, has not once graced my mumbling lips. Heck, it hasn’t even entered my psyche.

But guess what has? You got it. That petulant nemesis, good old self-doubt. A juicy role played by none other than my personality fiend, the ominous Mr. Nasty Pants.

Our verbal tag goes something like this:

Me: “Oh, wow, I did it! I took the leap, left my job, and am now writing full-time! Does that mean I can finally call myself, well, you know,” my voice dropping to a whisper, “a writer?”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Ha! A writer! That’s a good one! Spitting out words on a blog doesn’t make you a writer. Seriously? You quit graduate school and whittled your job to mere hours? What kind of idiot are you?”

Me, clearing my throat: “Well, I am getting my first book published.”

Mr. Nasty Pants, face pinched, voice a vicious mock: “Well, I am getting my first book published. Yeah, who cares? You didn’t land a New York big house, did ya? Just some little publisher. You haven’t even heard from your assigned editor, and yet your book is supposed to come out in September? Dream on, Little Lady!”

Me, scratching my hiving neck: “But I have a contra—”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Yeah, well I got a functioning crap detector. And it’s telling me your little book stinks.”

Me: “Well, it is true I could do better. I wrote it several years ago. I’ve had more practice now.”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Please. Don’t kid yourself, Sweet Cheeks. You’ll always suck. Doesn’t matter, anyway. No one will buy your book. Well, not on purpose, though I suppose an unintended mouse click is always possible.”

Me, looking down at the floor, kicking a Cheerio under the fridge: “I’m okay with that. I just wanted to pass the threshold, you know? Step into the life and perfect my craft. To be, well, a writer.”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Well, fat chance of that! Stephen King is a writer. Margaret Atwood is a writer. John Irving is a writer. You, my dear, are not a writer. At best, you’re a blogger. And that’s being generous.”

And there you have it. A glimpse of what I have to put up with. A glimpse I timidly proffer, because, after all, sharing my journey from one life to another is the very mission of this blog. Well, that and to be a ranting imbecile.

But surely, some of this must sound familiar. I cannot be the only one with acres of self-doubt.

So, for those of you who write, do you call yourself a writer? Not just to yourself or to your imaginary friend or in a hushed whisper to your naked bedmate (who may also be pure imagination), but for real, in true life, to actual people, for the whole world to hear, loud and proud, and with complete unabashed proclamation?

Credit: Microsoft Clip Art

If so, I respectfully request you let me in on your secret.

*My apologies to those who had to look up the word “fluffer”. I doubt you were pleased with your findings.

All cartoon images from, you guessed it, Microsoft Clip Art

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Posted in Self-doubt, Writing and tagged , , ,
13 Feb 2012
43 Comments

The Liebster Who Inspiringly Straddled The Sunshine

I worry that upon learning this post is about blogger awards, you will auto-eject from your chair. But please don’t. I promise I will try to make it worth your while. And no poetry like last time. See, you are a winner already.

Although one could probably be a red-assed baboon tapping random bits of prose and still win a blogging award, that is not the point.

Photo credit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Papio

The point is, it is nice to be recognized and even nicer to pass that recognition onto someone else, especially someone new to the “business”.

What’s that you say? You’re too cool to play the game? Well, luckily for you, I am not.

Although I have always wanted to hang with the cool kids:

Photo credit: wallpaper-blue.blogspot.com

I usually end up with this bunch instead:

Photo credit: The AU Review

But that’s okay. As I always say: The geeks of today are the heroes of tomorrow. And even though the hero part does not apply to me, it’s still a pretty nifty quote if you would like to borrow it.

So once again I find myself straddled between the cool kids and the geeks. Participate in the awards or not? Make some readers roll their eyes and retch or make others pop elastic bands off their braces in excitement?

For the sake of protecting my crotch, which is overheated from straddling the sunshine (refer back to the title if you are confused or stoned), I’ve chosen the latter. But hopefully you cool cats will stick around just the same.

The Sunshine and Very Inspiring Blogger Awards came my way via JM McDowell, a writer and archeologist who often drops her towel. Oops, I meant trowel. And the Liebster Award came from Janet at Postcard Fiction, a woman who finds joy in tequila. Oh, maybe she’s the one dropping her towel.

So, to both of you, a big thank you. In all seriousness, I really do appreciate the nod and have reveled in the words of your blogs, both of which dwarf mine in sophistication and class.

I. Liebster Award

In addition to recognizing my nominator (that’s the smashed, naked lady named Janet, remember?), I must share six things that bring me joy and pass the award onto five other bloggers. Technically, a blogger should have under 200 followers to win, but since I was nominated during my fleeting 15 minutes, I’m gonna snatch that baby right up.

Six things that bring me joy:

1)      Chocolate. Duh!

2)      Traveling.

3)      The smell of a baby’s head.

4)      Diet Mountain Dew. Even if it can dissolve a rat.

5)      The Black Keys. Well, their music anyway. I think that other ship has sailed.

6)      And, okay, okay, my family. Happy now?!

Five blogs I wish to knight with this award:

1)      A Rich, Full Life In Spite of It

2)      fitnessGETZeasy

3)      Girl Friday Makes Good

4)      chanceofsun

5)      Jasper writes

II. Sunshine Award

In addition to thanking JM McDowell, my dirty, I mean dirt-digging, writing pal, I must answer the following questions without putting you to sleep, and then pass the award on to ten other bloggers. (But I’ll stick to five for all three awards. No need to beat a dead, smelly skunk.)

  • Favorite color: Anything but Pepto-Bismol pink or vomit green.
  • Favorite animal: The dead, smelly skunk I just beat.
  • Favorite number: 23. It always seems to show up on lottery tickets. It’s the other five numbers I can’t get right.
  • Favorite non-alcoholic drink: I already mentioned that in the things-that-bring-me-joy list. Try to keep up, will you?
  • Facebook or Twitter: I don’t grace the Face, so that leaves Twitter by default.
  • My passion: Getting through this list. Yours too, I’m sure.
  • Getting or giving presents: Giving. I don’t need any more stuff.
  • Favorite pattern: She gets mad; he gets mad. She pouts; he gives in. Apology accepted. Oh, wait, was this question about something else?
  • Favorite day of the week: I’ll let you know when I get there.
  • Favorite flowers: Who gives a crap? They all die in my care, anyway.

Five Sunshine recipients:

1)      Moments of Clarity—G M Barlean

2)      Sally Panayiotou’s digital bookshelf

3)      tales of a charm city chick

4)      For the Love of Food

5)      butimbeautiful

III. Very Inspiring Blogger Award

And finally, the Very Inspiring Blogger Award, which I suspect you find highly questionable at this point. In addition to again thanking quick-trowel McDowell, I must share seven things about myself and pass the award onto 14 more vict— I mean, bloggers. Again, I will stop at five. You’re welcome.

Seven things about me:

1)      I am curvier than Sophia Vergara on “Modern Family”.

2)      I was once married to Daniel Craig.

3)      I swam across the English Channel. With Daniel Craig.

4)      I won the Powerball lottery twice.

5)      I have a Nobel Prize in literature.

6)      I am an idiot.

7)      Only one of the above is true.

Five bloggers much more inspiring than me:

1)      Postcard Fiction

2)      The Dissemination of Thought

3)      Some Summer Sunday

4)      The Girl in the Cat Frame Glasses

5)      French Leave

IV. Conclusion to the longest blog post ever (is there an award for that?)

See, you made it through. Maybe not unscathed, but at least you are still alive. I hope.

And for those of you I have nominated, I sincerely do enjoy your blogs and believe others will too. That is, after all, what these awards are about. But please do not feel badly if you choose not to participate. You will not hurt my big-girl feelings. I understand you may actually have a life, and I am fine with polite silence. That is much preferred to the alternative: “Quit nominating me, you creepy blogger stalker!” (I borrowed the term “blogger stalker” from that potty mouth over at A Rich, Full Life in Spite of It, whose very funny blog you will find above.)

So, thank you again to my lovely nominators! I do appreciate it despite what my sassy fingers produce. (And I hope I did not offend you with any of the dirty, naked, drinking jokes spun on your behalf—it was all in jest, I assure you!)

Cartoon image credits: Microsoft Clip Art

Posted in Writing and tagged , , , , , ,
11 Feb 2012
56 Comments

Post Freshly Pressed Blues

My visage post Freshly Pressed:

Post Freshly Pressed Me

My stats post Freshly Pressed:

My drug of choice post Freshly Pressed:

French vanilla, brownie, caramel, and fudge.

What would your drug of choice be? Please take the poll and let me know. And if you really don’t give a rat’s fat ass, at least help me try out this Polldaddy thing. You’ll have my worthless gratitude.

Update 2/12/2012, 5:33 pm:

So, based on the scientific poll results thus far, you are a bunch of boozed-up, over-sexed gorgers. Surprisingly, one of you does nude tai chi (va va voom!). But even more surprising? Only three of you think I’m a weenie and that this poll is stupid. You are either very nice people or very good liars…
Posted in Musings, Writing and tagged , , , , ,
08 Feb 2012
42 Comments

A Man Baby With Lincoln Logs

On an indecisive journey of whether or not to post this blog-ripe topic, I’ve traveled everywhere from the town of “Absolutely No” to the city of ”How Could You Not” and finally settled in the suburb of “Okay, But Nicely”. In order to justify my decision, I reminded myself the post’s victim chose to go on national television. I’m pretty sure Dr. Phil does not cow prod or brand to coerce upcoming guests. And if he does, well, thank you, Doc for this one. Please, may I have another?

I am talking about the Man Baby. Yes, you read that right. A man who prefers to function as an infant, performing everything from giant crib sleeping, pacie sucking, spoon feeding, footie wearing, to, you guessed it, diaper crapping.

“But how is this possible?” you ask, wide-eyed and open-mouthed (or at least you should be). Don’t worry. Super Diaper Baby is not alone. He has a girlfriend to tend his needs.

And what girl wouldn’t want a real-life doll that eats, sleeps, and poops? It just so happens this one comes equipped with an Adam’s apple and pubic hair. Semantics.

You can learn more about his lifestyle from the following Dr. Phil clip. If this disturbs you, I apologize. If it doesn’t, well, then I have a placenta post you might be interested in (yum yum!).

Uh, oh. I’m supposed to be in “Okay, But Nicely” town. Well, here comes the nice part. To each his own (pardon the cliché, but this is a blog post, not a Pulitzer). Where would this world be without the eccentric and bizarre? Where would writers find their inspiration? Where would Tweeters find their tweets? Where would satirists find their satire?

We need these unconventionals. Imagine if we were all Donald Trumps. We would have only egos and comb-over gels to discuss. Or, God forbid, what if we were all Ann Coulters? We’d be popping Xanax like pimples just to shut ourselves up. And what if we were all Halle Berrys? We’d never do more than mirror-gaze. How could you not with such beauty?

I, for one, am thrilled with these outliers. Especially since starting a blog. And who are we to judge? Find one person free of weird traits. Not me, that’s for sure. I shove a hand so far down my throat to swallow a pill, I’d practically need a colonoscopy to retrieve it. And what about my teenage son? Is it not odd to bend innocent car Gumbys into obscene postures every time I turn my eye?

My poor debased car Gumbys

So, even if producing or changing a diaper full of adult-sized Lincoln Logs isn’t your thing, let’s not judge those for whom it is. As long as they leave me out of their fetish, I really don’t care. Unlike those men on the Paris Metro who introduced my naïve backside to frotteurism many years ago. (Look it up if you need to. But please don’t practice it.)

Therefore, I conclude this entry with a thank you. To Man Baby. For the perfect “formula” for this post. Well, let’s hope he’s drinking formula. Surely, breast is not best in this case.

To continue in my unimaginative manner, all images other than my Gumbys are from Microsoft Clip Art

Posted in Musings and tagged , , , , , ,
04 Feb 2012
64 Comments

Angst of a Type-A Freshly Pressed Blogger

I am going to begin this post in a way I never have and likely never will again: seriously.

To be chosen Freshly Pressed by the WordPress Lords was surprising, humbling, and, sit-up-straight exciting (sorry, not the jump up and down type). Now, don’t get me wrong. I know there are people without food. I know there are people mired in political strife. I know there are people footing the pavement for jobs. To the festering wound that is life, I am but an insignificant scab. But on February 2nd, after seeing my site stats climb from 19 to 350 to 900 to 2,850 (!), the sun beamed on me, and I absorbed its rays without guilt.

Talk about Big Skyscraper on the Prairie!

Image of my stats after one day of Freshly Pressed

But what really got this crusty old lady (my son’s loving moniker) heart-cinched was not the number, but rather the amazing people who took time away from relaxing, cooking, working, eating, peeing, fornicating, or whatever the case happened to be, to read my blog, click the like button, and/or comment. For someone enmeshed in her own little world, that is pretty freaking cool.

And the comments were so kind and supportive! Not a mean-spirited one in the bunch. As moderator, the only comment I had to delete was a very long—though I’m sure quite lovely—tale in a language unrecognizable to me. It looked something like this:

Etjlri ilrie;l lieinofj koie l ijeiosihsil lkemfl iheushfw,. Lfjidlnke hwienknld ekkk lwen Kle hkel lkel ljskejl mfmemel. Jkelklf hekklk;[el. Jkeklke khoel. Lep;’jl. Kalkehl. Ielklkt leklknrl jehegk lieorl jiheuhl lkel. kKe tlkj ekjleijn sehioiw fjiej woepepjtpmre hejlej peoptjlo ejijoe le;to;l eioweji. I eojlk eolmek isenfl ejkwle ieonienk euwiueir nosiejlkfe skoeml itoekml osienlnfk uerihje otkl eo lijeono  eoriejo jtioenrn hgeyryuw, keorj. RTeijrlek liu iorijt  eowijlm otlemk euiowj eik oee poepr lkeoirjoij eoirejorl peokle oek. Keowl wlekje kelwk. Erjlkj ekjrol ielrkrjl iwerklkluie ejrioewio lekrjkr lierlkmlek!

Which I roughly translated as: “You rock.”

But just in case I was wrong, I trashed it.

Now, I am a not a platitude gal. If I say something, I mean it. And with that knowledge, know that my thank you is truly heartfelt and sincere. I loved hearing from you. I loved discovering our similarities. I loved the laughs you provided. And once I catch my breath, I look forward to visiting more of your blogs.

But now I must apologize, as my tone is about to change. You didn’t think I’d remain warm and fuzzy, did you? Look back at my title, for goodness’ sake.

As always, the inevitable happened. My personality popped in like an uninvited Griswold. That Type-A fiend who refuses to stay out of my head, eager to disrupt my bliss. Our conversation went something like this:

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Well, you know you need to respond to all of these comments, don’t you?”

Me, putting a hand to my crepe-paper neck: “Surely that won’t be expected. I mean, that would take hours, wouldn’t it?”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Of course it will, you old fool. But you’ll do it anyway.”

Me, lifting my shoulders in defiance but managing a torn muscle instead: “How do you know?”

Mr. Nasty Pants: “Duh! One, because you and your soft Twinkie center will want to acknowledge all of these nice people; two, you can’t ever do anything half-assed—that is one of your posted quotes, after all; and three, because you are a flipping, tight-assed perfectionist.”

Ouch. That imp can be mean sometimes.

But he is right. I will continue to respond to all comments. Mostly out of sheer appreciation—they make my day, really. But also because, well, I have to. And for any Type A’s out there, I doubt I need to say more.

Finally, if you are still reading, and haven’t yet asked yourself why, I will close this post with one shame-faced regret:

Why, oh why, couldn’t this Freshly Pressed business coincide with my book release next fall? Yeah, I said it. And I’m sure you would be thinking the same.

Or at least I’ll pretend you would.

Cartoon images from Microsoft Clip Art

Posted in Writing and tagged , , , ,

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