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. 

So that happened

Last month, I almost became an agented writer. 

I'm going to seriously "nutshell" it, because I've tried to write it many times, and I always end up with my knickers all in a twist.  And that's not comfy.  Literally and figuratively.

There was an agent who was interested in representing me.  And then that agent decided not to be an agent any more. 

Of course, there are knicker twisting details that I'm leaving out, but really, when I just stuff it into a nutshell, it doesn't sound so bad. 

Okay, it does still sound like total "DOH!".  But what can I do?  Such is life.  Have I spent the last few weeks moping around and feeling like a gigantic loser?  Ummm, yeah.  Have I seriously considered flushing my computer down the toilet and taking up something much less tumultuous, like stamp collecting or river dancing?  Yep.  Have I felt like I've lost every single shred of creativity and get a serious case of the icks every time I even consider trying to write something new?  Yes and yes. 

But it just wasn't meant to be.  And that's okay.  I have to believe it happened for a reason.  Don't get me wrong, the whole thing feels kinda mean spirited, karmically speaking.  Almost like the universe hates me just a teeny bit.  But I don't really want to believe that.  So I won't.  I'll assume the universe was looking out for me. 

Or the universe is trying to tell me that I shouldn't quit my day job.  

But, being a glass half full kind of girl, I'm going to go with option A.

So, it's all good. 

You know what else is good?  My zombie apocalypse dream team!  Please join us.  We need more.  And I've also decided that I really hope Emeril becomes a zombie and tries to eat me, so I can stab him in the brain with my looted Emeril knife set and say "Bam!  Bam!  Bam!".  Because that would just be downright poetic. 

Know what else is good?  IN 9 DAYS, I WILL BE IN VEGAS, BABY!!!!

So, the zombie apocalypse has to wait until AFTER I come back.

And if I hit it big, and you're part of the zombie apocalypse dream team, I'll just buy us the Millennium Falcon and we can just bust ass off this rock when the undead try and chew our limbs off.  Deal? 

My Zombie Apocalypse Survival Guide...plus cake

First and foremost, you should know that I am super bummed out right now.  I don't want to talk about it.  Soon, maybe.  But right now I'm still going through the post-"life handed you a pile of crap" rituals. Yes, rituals.  I totally believe in them.  Like, cake for instance.  You didn't get the job you really wanted?  Someone break into your car and steal your Night Ranger CD? Well, sweetie pie, then you get cake.  For a whole week.  And you get to watch really stupid TV and you don't have feel bad about it.  Because you've EARNED it.

I've totally earned my cake.  I can say that without any hesitation.

But, anyway, what I really want to talk about is the zombie apocalypse.  Yes, yes, I've been watching way too much The Walking Dead.  I can't help it.  I'm not saying it's the bestest show in the history of forever, but it's got zombies.  And this guy:

Enough said.

But, funny thing about The Walking Dead.  Despite it taking place in a very post apocalyptic world, highlights and precisions cuts seem to still be readily available.  And J. Crew still delivers.  But I won't fool myself into thinking we'd be THAT lucky.  No, I'm quite sure if the zombie-shit hit the fan, my hairdresser* and UPS man would be the first to try and eat my face off.

So now I'm totally freaked out.  Not just because of the shambling hoards of the undead outside my front door, but now I'm worried I'm going to look like a total hag while I'm stabbing them in the brain with the Emeril Lagasse knife set I looted from the Home Goods up the street because I can't find the ax in the garage (note to hubby: we should clean the garage sometime this century.  Ya know, just in case).

This brought me to the realization that I really need to have a zombie apocalypse plan of action.  First on the list, find the ax.  Second, find my tweezers.  This will lessen the risk of hag-ification.  I may not be able to have my highlights and lowlights, but I can at least have manicured, non prehistoric eyebrows.  Third, find this guy:

Ah, yes, there he is again.  This time with dead squirrels.  Aside from the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, I'd say Daryl Dixon is my only chance at survival in a zombie apocalypse.  Plus, he's a total MILWASICMHSCT (Man I'd Like to Write About So I Can Make Him Say Clever Things).  And he carries a crossbow.  I'd look super cool next to him with my ax (if I can find it) and Emeril knife set.  I'd tell him jokes and he'd find me charming.  Or I'd annoy the crap out of him and he'd put an arrow in my head.  Which would totally mess up my non-highlighted hair.

Hmmmm...what kind of shoes do you wear when you have an arrow in your head?

Oooh, which leads me to....

Fourth, have edgy post apocalyptic wardrobe clean and ready at all times.  Something like this:

Just, minus the guns.  And the straps going through the legs.  They work on Milla.  Then again. ANYTHING works on Milla.  You could staple a foot to her face and she'd still be stunning.

And fifth, find this:

No, I won't share. Not even with Daryl.  Sorry.

What's your zombie apocalypse plan of action?

*Sorry, Melissa, you're awesome, but if you go all undead on me, I will totally jam a flat iron into your brain.

Okay, I just got word from Melissa that a) I should jam scissors into her brain instead of a flat iron, and b) she's not going to turn into a zombie anyway since she's totally armed with sharp objects at all times.  So, she's joining Team Daryl Dixon & Vivi with the ax (maybe) and Emeril knife set.  We'll fight hoards of undead and have awesome hair at the same time.  My worries are over.  Bring on the virus.  

This is me talking in more than 140 characters

Okay, peeps, so here's what's been going down in the world of ViviVanGo (this would be my roller derby name, btw.  See my last post for more details).  First and foremost, I am now a Twitter-er.  Yes, I drank the Kool-aid.  See, Twitter confused/paralyzed me before because there was SO much talking all the time, I just wanted to run and hide with my binky (bottle of wine) and my woobie (box of cookies).  But, my sister turned me on to a little thing called Tweet Deck, and now my paralyzing anxiety is kept in check with wondrous things called LISTS!  See, I don't have to listen to everyone Twittering away at once.  I'm saved!

And just as a side bar, I'm totally following (stalking) one of the exec producers for The Walking Dead (fangirl, fangirl, fangirl) and I asked him a question and he finally tweeted an answer back.  Yes, it only took three weeks and about four thousand questions, but still.  I feel special now.  Which, umm, is kinda sad.

Next item of business in ViviVanGo-land is that my darling little sweet pea of a daughter is INSANE.  She is into EVERYTHING.  She has no fear.  None.  And she's smart.  I'm pretty sure as I type this, she's plotting to take over the world.  Resistance will be futile.  Which leads me to...

In less than 45 days, I will be in Las Vegas with my sister, a vacation that I have effing EARNED, dammit.  Do you realize I did not sleep at all in 2010???  Not once.  I should contact Guinness.  Or, just have a Guinness. (Wait...2010?  I meant 2011.  See how sleep deprived I am?  I don't even know what effing year it is.)

And lastly, on the writing front.  Whoa, it's been a crazy few weeks.  Like, bananas.  B-A-N-A-N-A-S.  I can't really say much at this point.  I have no idea what will happen.  Maybe something.  Maybe nothing. If something happens, you'll hear about it.  And if nothing happens, you'll hear about it.  Vague enough for you?  When will then be now?  Soon!  Also, there is no spoon.

What's going on in your world?  (and feel free to leave your roller derby name.)

I don't care. Just an FYI.

Last week, I emailed my sister with my fears that I was hurling headfirst into an "almost 40" crisis because I have this overwhelming desire to put a streak of blue in my hair.  Just a streak.  (Remember Nancy from the first Nightmare on Elm Street movie?  Like that, except blue.  And preferably done in a salon and not as a reaction to being haunted by a crusty dude in horizontal stripes.)  Here was her response:

Here’s the thing about turning 40 (even though you’re not there yet).  40 isn’t the new 30.  40 is “I’m 40, so I can do whatever the hell I want, and I don’t care what you think.”  

I love this.  I'm going to put in on a t-shirt.  Tattoo it onto the inside of my hand.  Sneak out at night and spray paint it on freeway overpasses.  So, the following are a few things that I'm going to do.  And since I'm (almost) 40, I can do whatever the hell I want and I don't care what you think. (Unless you think its cool.  Then I’ll want to hug you and buy you ice cream.)


Put a streak of blue in my hair


Sing Total Eclipse of the Heart at a karaoke bar in Vegas (because every now and then I get a little bit terrified, but then I see the look in your eyes.) 


Learn how to shoot a gun


Wear silly shirts, like this one, or this one


Take up roller derby*


Tell rude, inconsiderate people that they're being rude and inconsiderate**


Wear aforementioned blue streaked hair in braids and snap my bubble gum


Write a book based loosely on my experience with the douche knuckle who made my life hell in high school***


Get this tattooed on my back****



What?


You were thinking you'd see far more exciting things, like skydiving and bungee jumping?


No.  I'm a total wuss and am DEATHLY afraid of heights.  You will never see me jumping off anything higher than the footstool in my kitchen.  I'm fine with this.  You should be, too.



*I say this with the caveat that I've spent the last 38 years of my life realizing that I do not belong on wheels.  It's just one of those things.  Wheels + me = not awesome.  I tried to learn to rollerblade several years ago and I distinctly remember taking out my roommate.  Like, PLOWING into her in the middle of the street and sending her into the bushes.  But, since roller derby is about plowing into people, maybe it'll work out. 


**Okay, I already do tell rude, inconsiderate people that they're being rude and inconsiderate, but often times I don't come off as mature as I’d like.  My goal is to convey my disdain eloquently.  Perhaps whilst sipping tea and wearing a flowery hat. 


***This obviously isn't that controversial, but my "don't care" moment comes in when I hear people say things like, "Oh, the whole Y/A bully thing is so ten minutes ago".  I.  Don't.  Care.  It's a story I want to tell.  If writers only write what they think is on trend, we'd have nothing out there but poo. 


****I know, I know.  My homegirl Circe has issues.  And, yes, technically, she's poisoning the water.  But I've always loved this picture.  And I think it would be a very cool tattoo with all the blues. 

Just FYI...

Things I am currently addicted to:

Pinterest

Etsy (because they have things like this)

Sons of Anarchy

Books like this one

Mumford & Sons

Coffee (nothing new there)

Love

Dragon Rolls

My new boots (BOOTS.  That says BOOTS.  Not...you know...) 

Those effing chocolate and sea salt covered roasted almonds from Trader Joe's

Pretzels dipped in Nutella

Dancing in the kitchen with a spatula in my hand

Shopping for more boots to make my new boots feel jealous (cuz I love drama)

Things I am currently NOT addicted to:

cleaning

laundry

eating my vegetables

my treadmill (aka Lucifer)

cleaning up hacked up hairballs

Watching The Bachelor (which, by the way, instantly makes you 500 times stupider)

 Feel free to leave your current crutches in the comments.  Remember, the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem...

Obligatory New Year's Post

First, Happy (belated) Holidays.  December was a full on bat shit crazy month for me.  Not only was I working on revisions, but I also had to, you know, be a mom and play Santa and bake cookies until my eyes crossed and attend school functions and family gatherings and vacuum up pine needles and keep She Who Refuses To Sleep Like A Normal Human from climbing in the dishwasher.  It was only slightly daunting, to say the least.  But I survived.  And only had to slip myself in the night deposit box at the local mental institution once.  Woohoo.

And second...Happy New Year.  It's 2012.

That looks weird, doesn't it?  2012?  Remember when it was 1989, and the thought of 2012 sounded so space age and futuristic?  Like we'd all have robot maids and we'd race around town in hovercrafts.

Wait, can you race a hovercraft?  Or does it just...hover?

Whatever, my point is, it's 2012 and, aside from the pending apocalypse the Mayans have been good enough to schedule for us in December, I'm feeling like it's going to be a pretty good year.  My goals are fairly simple:

Write.  Write.  Write.  Eat sushi.  Hug my kids.  Write.  See a movie.  Write.  Get a tattoo.  Write.  Write.  Watch Big Bang Theory.  Write.  Write.  Have dinner with friends.  Write.  Write.  Write.  Drink beer.  Write.  Write.

So, there you have it.  I feel confident I can achieve every single one of those goals.  And many can be done at the same time (except for seeing a movie and getting a tattoo.  Probably a bad idea.  Plus, the other movie goers might find the buzzing irritating).

I'm also hoping the year brings me lots of warm fuzzies.  You can never have too many warm fuzzies, in my opinion.