Strawberry Fields or Why I Am Awesomer in Stupid Pants

Hey, Vivi...isn't this blog supposed to be about WRITING?

Yes.

So, why do you keep talking about other things, like the zombie apocalypse and people who follow you on Twitter?  

Because I'm an enormous geek that gets excited about the little things in life and I'm also thinking ahead to the inevitable. 

Right, but, the last we heard, you were in a state of total and complete "meh" when it came to your writing.  Is that still the case?

Are you drunk?

Yes.

Awesome.  Fine.  If you must know....I am working on something.  That has chapters.  And, ya know....one of those plot things. 

WOW!  Wait, does that mean you've started a new book?

Okay, you're annoying me.  Here, have a Twinkie.

Oh, hey, thanks. 

(That's a big Twinkie.)

Yes, that's right. Apparently, I hate myself more than I thought, because I am officially working on..something.  New-ish.  But, I don't want to talk about it.  Seriously, stop smothering me.  Geez.

Anyhoo, I'm really here to talk about strawberries.  Because that makes total sense right?

You see, I'm not the green thumb type.  My thumbs are usually too busy shopping or texting or holding my googley-eyed owl coffee mug.  But, despite my non-green thumbness, I am excited to say that we actually have strawberries GROWING in our back yard:

Okay, I totally nicked that picture from some organic garden website.  Here's what OURS look like:

I can tell you're impressed.  

Now, I know you're wondering HOW I did this.  Well pay attention, because I am about to explain the intricacies of growing strawberries.

Step One:

Walk around in your backyard in your dancing olive pants, just to let all the vegetation within a ten foot radius know your completely mental.

Next, completely mock your husband when your sister-in-law gives him a handful of strawberry plants from her garden.  Make sure you sound like a big, fat know-it-all crabby pants when you inform him that they will NEVER survive the rodent empire that resides in the back yard.  Also, rolling your eyes while he's putting the plants in the ground is also helpful.

And that's pretty much it.  If you follow those two steps, VOILA...you will have your very own strawberries*.

And now, here's some baby drool.

*this is assuming that your husband becomes so hell bent on proving you wrong that he builds a fence around the strawberry plants so the rodent armies can't invade and decimate the crop.  This is an important detail.  You must ANNOY him enough that you push him to a fence building state of mind.  If you don't successfully annoy him, you will have no strawberries and you'll be stuck eating the ones from the grocery store.  Which, probably taste exactly the same.  But, whatever. 

I'm cooler than you (probably)

Just in case any of you were unaware of my level of coolness...THIS is how cool I am:

Yep.  That's right.  Norman Reedus, aka Daryl Dixon, aka Murphy MacManus, aka guy made completely of awesome, is following me on Twitter. 

Are you following me on Twitter?  You really should be.  Norman would tell you that.  

Why is he following me?  Please refer to the title of this post for that answer. 

Now, I'm not a super duper over the top devoted fangirl.  I'm just a fangirl who likes what I like, sometimes more in some moments than in others.  I get excited about things/people, but I also get distracted easily by shiny objects, so my attention and commitment tend to wane.  I've never joined a fan club or stood in line for hours to meet someone at a comic con.  I like what I like A LOT, but I like it from afar.  Mostly from my couch with a bowl of ice cream.  

So, given my level of laziness when it comes to LUFFing something, the fact that Norman is following me on Twitter is pretty much the coolest thing ever. 

Now, some of you may be saying, "So, it doesn't mean you're BFFs all of a sudden" and to that, I say, YES IT DOES AND YOU SHUTTY!

So, to recap, I'm cooler than you, Norman's my new BFF and I eat ice cream on my couch. 

Weird-o-Rama

I'm a weird mom.  It's okay, I'm used to it by now.  (No one else is, but who cares.)  

For a while, I tried to not be a weird mom, but I think I actually came off more weird than I did when I was just being my normal weird self.  I mean, c'mon, there's really nothing more wack-a-do than a weird person trying to act normal.  It's just awkward for everyone involved.  

The cool thing is that I have my kids totally snowed.  They have no clue that I'm weird.  For instance, we often have dance-offs in the kitchen while I'm cooking.  I convince them they're dancing for their food, and if they don't bust out some floor moves, they'll have to eat cat food for dinner.  Or, instead of cartoons, we often watch things like The Top 100 Heavy Metal Songs on VH1.  It usually goes something like this:

Child: "Mommy, what's a Dokken?"

Me: "Well, honey, once upon a time there was this place called The 80's.  It was magical and full of men like Mr. Dokken, with big hair and way too much eyeliner and mommy wanted to marry ALL of them!"

Child: "Oh.  Okay."

And then I usually teach him the proper way to jump over a microphone stand and, more times than not, we end up getting way too creative and then this happens:

Sometimes if you stand perfectly still in our house and listen, you can actually hear the sound of their cute little brains being warped.  

But then, the boychild does something like this, and it makes me realize that he is epically full of awesome, and the dance offs and the head banging and the goth gloves can only add to the well of awesome:

That's right.  It's effing Iron Man.

...and LOKI!  

...and Thor.  In a metal bikini.  

See, for most people, this would be "oh, whatevs, he drew comic book characters".  But for me, being a ginormous geek...it's full on freakin', frackin' bat-shit AWESOME.  

So, for those who think I'm weird and think my kids are weird, I say, "Yep.  Pretty much."  

And then I give them the devil horns and do the splits in the air. 

Still don't have my muchness

I really should start writing again.  

But unfortunately, this is all I really have to say:

Yeah, not a whole lot.  It's like someone stuck something into the back of my head and drained all of my ideas, while simultaneously jabbing something in my back and draining all of my drive and passion.  I'm left with...."meh".  You can't write a book about "meh".  "Meh" isn't all that interesting, and would most likely cause plot holes and flat characters.  

See, watch:

One day there was a girl who was all "meh" and everything was boring and nothing interesting happened because no one cared, bla, bla, bla, blabbity, bla, bla.  The end.  

See, I've come to a little realization.  Just because you have (or had, before someone jabbed you in the back) passion for something, it doesn't mean you're good at it.  You know what I feel like right now?  I feel like one of those poor bastards on the American Idol auditions.  They actually think they can sing.  Like, fully believe 100% that they can sing.  And then they sing and they suck the moose.  That's how I feel right now.  Only with writing.  And without Steven Tyler zoning out in the corner and making comments that only make sense to crack addicted raccoons.  

So, if you need me, I'll be over here.  Meh, meh, meh.  Meh.