Thursday, January 29, 2009

Geek love

Daily Stats:
Words: chip chop chip
Caffeine: morning cuppa
Evil Calories: these crazy cookie bar thingys that I made, they have chocolate chunks and currants, which seems weird but tastes like joy
Reality TV: ANTM reruns

I am a geek. It's something I don't even bother trying to hide. Yes, I could feign being normal, throw away my X-Files hat and vow to only wear my Han Solo t-shirt around the house, but I believe in living out loud, dammit. If it helps, I'm never the same kind of geek. I'm a fluctuating vat of gooberness, so I may be a little weird but I'll always keep you on your toes.

The following is my geek list, in no particular order:

Star Wars - this comes as a shock to you? Yes, Episode 1-3 sucked donkey nads, but that changes nothing

X-Files - my sister and I actually attended an X-Files Convention. I think Skinner was there, but we never actually saw him. (or was it The Lone Gunmen?)

Halo - I actually finished this game before my husband did, and my biggest moment of joy was when I advised the mail room guys at work how to finish the last level because none of them could figure it out.

Grand Theft Auto - Vice City was my absolute favorite. Yes, you can car jack people and run over prostitutes. So what?

Coffee - An espresso shot should pull for 18 seconds, to achieve this you must have a fine grind, humidity in the air effects the grind, so you must check it every half hour and if you get in front of me at Starbucks and order a triple vente nonfat decaf sugar-free orange-mint-pineapple-chocolate mocha latte, I will hunt you down and cram sugar packets down your throat

Firefly - I've already discussed this...let's not revisit the pain

Law & Order - The show officially jumped the shark when they killed off assistant DA Borgia and now the writing is downright horrid. The older episodes are better.

Mafia movies - I can recite Goodfellas from start to finish (but I only do it when no one else is around because that could be very annoying)

Elvis - and I don't mean the young, svelte Elvis. I mean the fat, farting, peanut butter and banana sandwich Vegas Elvis. If you don't understand this, you've never been to the right parts of Vegas, baby!

Okay, that's enough. I don't want to slip too far into the dork forest. But now it's your turn. What do you geek out about?

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Smelly monsters and Hall & Oats

Daily Stats:
Words: 3.4987602
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: cheese, cheese and more cheese
Reality TV: me

I've decided that I can live without being published. The absolute worst thing for me is when I lose my story. Or, more accurately, when my story gives me the finger, packs up its designer diamond and chocolate studded luggage and hops the next magic carpet to Toledo (I don't know, it's a story, it can do whatever it wants, right?). I realize the two are closely connected, especially when the little pesky monster in my head is constantly waving them in my face. You're not published because your stories suck. Duh! Simple concept, dumbass. He has hairy knuckles and smells like tangy underpants. I wish he'd go away.

We were getting along so well, my story and I, buying each other ice cream, painting each other's toenails, brushing each other's hair. But you know how it is when you start to lose faith in something. Your story starts staying out late, sleeping in until noon, eating your favorite cereal without apology. Soon you can't be in the same room together, and when you are, the moments are filled with snide remarks and dirty looks. It's inevitable at that point. If you listen close enough, you can hear the slamming of closet doors, the slap of clothes hitting the bottom of the suitcase, angry feet on the stairs, down the hall, keys, coat, door. Silence. Then it's just you and the cursor. Blinking on the quarter second, because now you have plenty of time to do ridiculous things like shuffle through the junk drawer in the kitchen for an hour, find the digital timer, swap out the battery in the DVD remote just so you can time the one thing that is forcing you to hear a Hall & Oats song in your head. Blink, she's gone, blink, oh why, blink, what went wrong?, blink*. Then you wonder how you'd look with a handful of pencils jammed in your eye.

Will I still finish my book? Yes. It'll sound like a big bag of wank, reminiscent of something you'd find in an episode of the Telletubbies. But I can't just sit around and wait. I have handfuls of other stories screaming for my attention, and I must tend to them before they get annoyed with me too.

*the author of this blog is not responsible for the emotional or physical damage resulting from getting the above mentioned Hall & Oats song stuck in your head. Though she strongly recommends slamming your head in the fridge door a few times. That sometimes makes it go away.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

You know you're getting old when...

Daily Stats:
Words: don't ask
Caffeine: morning cappuccino
Evil Calories: strawberry shortcake for dessert last night
Reality TV: bad things on VH1're flipping through channels, stop on a movie with the girl who played Clare from the original 90210, note that she looks way better with long hair, then allow yourself to get totally sucked into the movie, and finally notice after calling your spouse in to show him the cool coloring technique and editing style that it's a Lifetime movie.

And then you continue to wade through all the Fancy Feast and Estroven commercials to watch the rest of it.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


Daily Stats:
Words: uh
Caffeine: uhbwumuh
Evil Calories: umphhum
Reality TV: kjf;daiuhen;fadwsdd&&&&&&&&&&&

Has anyone seen my brain? Check the bottom of your shoe, you may have stepped in it the last time you were here. Anyone? No?

See, the reason I ask is because I sat down at my computer today to work on chapter 16 and...nothing. Again. Yes, again, as in going on the third day in a row I've sat down to work on it and ...nothing...crickets. This is how the words in my head sound:

I like write. Write is good and smart. I write pretty and shiny things. Oooh, a peanut. It's round. Sort of.

Usually the words in my head flow like buttery ribbons of joy. I'm reverting to zombie cave-woman. Help. Please, take a moment to look around for my brain. Check under your seat or in your pocket. It could be confused for belly button fuzz, so check there too. And if you find it, please return it. I really need it. I'm cute, but I'm not that cute. I need my brain.

Monday, January 19, 2009


Daily Stats:
Words: oy
Caffeine: yes
Evil Calories: none that I will admit to
Reality TV: bad things on VH1

My writery friend Tamara sent me this - it's an interview Poets & Writers did with four young literary agents. It's very interesting...lots of insight. Plus, they seem to get a little tipsy as the interview goes on. But, in reading it, I kind of wanted to close my computer, throw it in the garbage and curl into a little ball on the laundry room floor. Specifically when they talk about their ideal client. A gifted writer who is really well connected. One even jokes that their ideal is
"the author who's so well connected that he's sleeping with a producer at ABC News...".

Ummm...yeah, okay, let's see...I know the staff at the Starbucks down the street, the guy that collects the shopping carts at my grocery store, a couple handfuls of people I used to work with in advertising, and many, many, many years back, I worked at a coffee cart in downtown Seattle and, on occasion, made drinks for a few key members of Pearl Jam. They knew me as "coffee lady". That, my friends, is my dizzying array of connections.

I know authors handle most of their own marketing and PR, often on their own dime. If I were being published, I would do everything to self-promote, just short of sinking myself into heaps of debt (little mounds of debt are okay, but not heaps. Heaps are scary). But it seems that having connections is just as important as having talent. And, to take it one step further, would an agent actually decide against rep'ing a writer who was talented but had little to no connections?

Friday, January 16, 2009

Friday (sort of but not really) funny

Daily Stats:
Words: some
Caffeine: blegh
Evil Calories: blegh
Reality TV: blegh

Darling son passed the plague on me. It's fun dividing your time between sleeping and feeling like you're going to die. It has put a serious damper on my tryst with the treadmill. I'm hoping she'll be understanding. She gets ugly when she's angry.

So, with my brain set on gravy, I've not much to say, so I though I'd take this opportunity to tell my joke. Yes, my joke. Everyone needs a joke. If you don't have one, get one (but don't steal mine or I'll send the plague after you).

Bobby, a spry young man with taste for fast cars and even faster women, set his sights on Marie, a shy girl from quiet little part of town. Bobby finally asked Marie out, and Marie accepted. Like so many star-crossed lovers before them, they had their first date at the county fair. As they made their way through the sea of overalls and pleather, Bobby asked Marie what she wanted to do first.

“I think I want to get weighed,” she replied.

So, they went to the “guess your weight within a pound and win a crappy Dokken poster” booth. The toothless man guessed Marie’s weight dead on (112 lbs) and they walked away empty handed. After blowing an hour at the ring toss game, again Bobby asked Marie what she wanted to do.

“I really want to get weighed,” she replied.

So, back they went to the toothless guy, who guessed correctly again, and happily took another five dollars from Bobby. Totally annoyed and finding Marie boring as hell, Bobby cut the date short and took her home.

"How was your date?" asked Marie's dad when she walked in.

“Eh...It was wousy,” she replied.

Monday, January 12, 2009

the big 10

Daily Stats:
Words: yep
Caffeine: yep
Evil Calories: yep
Reality TV: yep

So, it appears, after standing for months with 9 followers, my blog has finally hit the big 1-0. Oh yes, a whole 10 people who openly admit they like the cut of my jib (whatever that means). However, the 10th person is one of those shaded silhouette people so I can't see who it is. I'm convinced it's Clive Owen. Or my pseudo-cousin Brad Pitt. Or both. They hang out on the weekends and read my blog. They fight over me...which is weird because Brad is my pseudo-cousin and even in an alternate universe that would be frowned upon.

And in other news, you may have read on girlworks blog that the lovely and talented Amy Ellis and I are participating in a muffin top throwdown. I'm convinced that my muffin top will reign supreme, since I'm doing both morning and evening workouts (except for today because my time has been taken up by a hurling toddler. Please read that carefully. I'm not hurling my toddler, that would be very mean. My toddler is hurling. Like, everywhere. I feel so bad for him. But he's handling it well. When he's done, he says, "no problem, mommy, I done frowing up")

So, in closing, Clive Owen is following me, my muffin top rules, and I don't throw my children.

Friday, January 9, 2009

hurty ick

Daily Stats:
Words: many choice ones
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: none...feel like utter poo
Reality TV: whatever happens to be on

When I was little, this was my favorite book:

Blossom Culp had me at hello. I can honestly say I still haven't read a first person narrative that has grabbed me as much as she did. Although, maybe we just can't get grabbed like we did when we were young. We're all old and bitter and unimpressed by everything. But I remember so well sitting in the library of my elementary school watching some show on PBS where a guy read a story and, at the same time, drew a scene from the story, and when I realized he was reading Ghosts I Have Been, I freaked. No one else in my class seemed to connect with this book, and I just didn't get it. For the early 80's, it was very edgy, especially for a YA book. All I'd been exposed to were books like Beezus and Ramona and Charlie & The Chocolate Factory.

I mention this because I woke up feeling like utter poo this morning. The kind of utter poo that makes you wonder if you accidentally slept on train tracks the night before. Everything hurt. Even my eyelashes. So, I spent the ENTIRE day in bed, which sucked because it was my one "mommy" day off. But, halfway through the day, I suddenly wanted this book. It's like I was seven years old and home sick from school (real sick, not fake sick) and just wanted my favorite things. So, with lots of moaning I dragged myself to the spare room, because I swear I bought it many years ago just to have in my collection. But it wasn't there. I was sad. Tomorrow I'll probably wake up feeling better and suddenly I'll be all grown up again and the urge to read it will fade.

oh, well...

What was one of your favorite childhood books?

Thursday, January 8, 2009

How many Pitts we got on this ship, anyway?

Daily Stats:
Words: 30+800+1+9+44+65+234
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: have cleansed kitchen of all fat-ass inducing treats in preparation for upcoming weight loss challenge
Reality TV: Top Chef

I believe, in an alternate universe, Brad Pitt is my cousin. I'm not saying this because I find him dreamy. The contrary, actually. Though I love him in the Oceans movies and find him to be an okay dude (thought I'm still on the fence about him leaving Jen), he doesn't do it for me in the least. He's way too pretty. But, I keep having dreams about him. Dreams, where he's my cousin.

One I had many months ago where I drove to my Aunt's house for Christmas, and we got stuck in a huge snow storm, and when we finally got to her house, Brad and Angelina Jolie were there, and Brad and I talked about running, and he informed me that he ran 52 miles a day, and Angelina Jolie (who never spoke a word) kept autographing all these random things - sticky notes, gum wrappers, napkins - and handing them to me, all smug like she was on the red carpet. Then Brad asked me if I still had our Grandma's tractor beam (to which I said, "no, no, Amy got the tractor beam"), and then he asked if any of us wanted to go to dinner at Perkins.

So, then last night, I had a dream that I was out walking and I happened on a bunch of really posh luxury condos. I walked up to get a closer look and Brad was standing there. He told me he was there because he was thinking of buying all of them. I was like, "Dude, no, don't you have enough on your plate with your compound in France and your five children? You're going to break out in hives again" (seriously, I said this. Apparently in the parallel universe, he has a hive problem). Then he said he wanted to buy it and have me manage it, but first he needed me to take a conflict resolution class, because there were rumors of a dog fighting ring. Then suddenly there were ninjas handing out pamphlets on organic gardening.

See a theme here? (Aside from my dreams always taking a header into obscurity toward the end.)

In other news, you've probably noticed my new bad-ass header, thanks to my bad-ass husband who has mad skillz with Photoshop. I just thought my blog needed a little color. It was looking mighty gloomy.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Yo Mama

Daily Stats:
Words: many, many, many
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: chocolate cake that most certainly added to my girth but me no care
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns

First, I would like to share my very favorite Yo Mama joke of all time (and if this joke happens to offend anyone, allow me to say in advance, "I don't care!")


Yo Mama so fat, when she plays hopscotch, it goes like this: New York, Chicago, Detroit, Miami, Los Angeles.

heehee...I challenge you to google Yo Mama jokes and NOT laugh your ass off. G'head. Go. I dare ya!

And now, a list of reasons why I will not be making Mother of the Year (aside from posting distasteful Yo Mama jokes on my blog):

1. Whilst watching Vh1's top 100 Rock Songs, I taught my son to scream "Back in Black" and make the devil horns with his hands.

2. I'm a teeny bit late for his three year check up, because check-ups = hysterical shit-fit and he always manages to somehow pee all over me in the throws of said hysterical shit-fit.

3. Today, while lost in thought over my current WIP, I accidentally let him eat 12 cookies.

4. I let him pick out scratch tickets from the little machines at grocery store.

4. I've convinced him that Paula Dean is his grandmother. (This isn't bad now, but I have a feeling this may confuse him later.)

Now, see, this all may seem shifty now, but I'm convinced it will just make him that much more interesting when he's older.

Sunday, January 4, 2009


Daily Stats:
Words: yes
Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: pancakes for breakfast (but they were oatmeal pancakes. That's not so bad.)
Reality TV: something vile on Vh1

I would just like to take this opportunity to announce that I am still a huge Firefly geek, the geekiness being roused last night with the Sci-Fi channel's airing of Serenity. And as with all viewings of anything Firefly related, I feel a bubbling sense of rage that people will sit and watch wadded, festering piles of crap like Heroes, while a brilliant, intelligent, well written show like Firefly gets canned. Me no get it. And I also hate the fact that Nathan Fillion hasn't had a decent job since that show. In fact, no one but Summer Glau seemed to bounce back. And I love Joss Whedon with all my heart, but he went and killed off Wash and Shepherd in the movie, so even if all us fans threw in twenty bucks to bring the show back, it wouldn't be the same.

Okay, sorry, enough of the geekiness. On to writing...

If all goes well, and nothing catastrophic happens, like my head falling off or the planet colliding with the sun, I will be finished with my book by the end of the month. Possibly before. I'm at the point where I can sort of, kind of, almost catch a glimmer of the finish line in the headlights. That's much better than seeing nothing but roadblocks and giant, hairy, soul-eating yetis.