Wednesday, July 20, 2011


I am going on vacation and although I am dedicated to posting here a bit more, I am leaving my laptop at home. GASP! I know, I am experiencing minor separation anxiety thinking about it too.

Related: Do family visits count as real vacations? I think yes, but at like a rate of 50% vacation-ness. Nothing against family, but if you are anything like me, traveling to 3 different states/places over the course of 2 weeks, all family related stuff is umm... exhausting. Good exhausting, but I will want to sleep after this for probably 15 days straight. Does this make me freakishly sensitive and weak or self-aware and everyone actually feels this way, but doesn't always post it to their blog? The blog that their parents sometimes read. Yeah.

Whatever. I will be back soon. In the meantime:

I might think this once or twice over the course of my vacation.

And I may do this when I get home for 2-4 days in a row.

But then again, family... Awwwww and totes worth it.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Pen to paper

You might think that I haven't been blogging at all this July and that June 28th was the last time I put together a blog post, but you'd be wrong. Yes, you do have empirical evidence on your side, but truth be told I have blogged pretty much every day, for hours at a time actually. Usually at night while I am in bed.

Except the trickstery thing is all the stories I am spinning and editing... are in my head. Seriously, I pretty much (much, pretty) only blog in my brain, late at night when sleep is too far off and the clutter in my brain needs sorting. And often the everything-up-there insists that I try to make it funny, maybe funnier than it really was? I say to myself, "funny brain, I am going to write this all down tomorrow on my blog! I am so glad we hashed out why I like baths so much, but not really for getting clean and how that isn't gross at all! We are such a crazy duo." This is followed by a mental friendly shoulder punch to... myself? Well, to my brain-self at least.

The next day I wake up and know, without a doubt I will not bother to type up and post my Very Important Musings About Bath Taking, at all. And then I get kinda bummed out, because, I really like to write. I love thinking about writing, I love editing (though you wouldn't know it what with all the typos in my prose) and I love reading good stories. The actual process of fingers to keys and ink to paper is beautiful to me.

So, I decided to make a change in how my late night thoughts get dealt with. In an attempt to capture them better and remind me of the joy of writing I started jotting down the ideas WITH A PEN AND A NOTEBOOK. It seriously felt sort of revolutionary. Like, when was the last time I just jotted down my ideas as not pertaining to work, things to get at the store or cuss words while on hold with my internet/phone/bank/medical/anything help-line related phone services?

It had been a while. I needed to be gentle with myself. But the moment I started to watch my silly ideas fill up a page with ink, I couldn't stop. I have at least 20 blog entries outlined in my B&W composition notebook that I keep by my bed. Really, I do. It is Cray-Zay, folks.

The trick is of course bridging the gap from ink on lined paper to typeset on a blogspot format.

This is all to say, that I am feeling the blog again and though it is slow going I hope to post all 20 of my handwritten (perhaps better described as handscribbled? My penwomanship [EQUALITY!] is fucking atrocious these days. Like, I seriously COULD NOT READ MY OWN NOTES a few days ago about something kind of important. It just looked like a drunk dyslexic had decided to make a few comments on sticky note, attach it to an important work document and then "dipsy doodle" on down to the Mayberry Courthouse to take a 24 hour nap and sober up. See picture below/Andy Griffith Show for reference.) notes and entries. (Did you hang in after that last parentheses? A doosy if I do say so myself.)

Besides this long and, well, rather boring diatribe I figured I owe it to you to a) post one of the short blog ideas I had and b) post a cool/weird/funny picture or two.



The other morning at about 4:30/5 am, when I often find myself awaking, but refusing to get up because 1) in no way is that enough sleep 2) I hate the mornings so very much and 3) I must have come out of a dream rather suddenly. Likely I was roused by a sound that I didn't totally register because I have taken to wearing earplugs every night. In great part the earplugs are due to the chihuahuas of THE FUCKING DEVIL that live next door and have owners that either are deaf or think incessant yapping at god awful hours is cute behavior for FUCKING RAT DOGS. I'm sorry, I even know a few chihuahuas that I really like, but these two? THESE TWO CAN FUCKING DIE I DON'T CARE ONE FUCKING BIT.

So. A noise? Maybe. The dream was severed rapidly and as I came back up for conscious air I found myself chuckling at a joke that had just been told by a stand up comedian in my dream. She was on a big stage with little adornment besides the mike stand, a stool with water bottles and the spotlight that followed her. Pretty regular stuff, right? When I opened my eyes I was so excited to replay the joke in my head because, shit, I WOKE UP LAUGHING. It must have been good. I went to write it down. This is how it goes, Word. For. Effing. Word.

"So this farmer is smoking a cigarette outside of his barn and looks down at his watch. He notices that there are fucking fish eggs in his watch and looks closer.

Then! He get ones of the eggs pregnant and I'm all, 'Dude, well you knoooow you gotta take that to the bank!"

The house erupts with riotous laughter and I fade into waking life, a giggle escaping my lips.

What. The. Hell. Is. That. Shit. That is not funny. It is creepy. Did the farmer jerk into his own watch? How did this inter-species love action happen? WHY IS IT A JOKE?

That day started with such promise while I was still too sleepy to understand the unfunny ramifications of such a bad joke, but upon reading it back to myself I understood. That day would be best spent in underwear and an oversized button-up shirt, eating food out of containers, not off plates in order to better settle into my mediocrity.

I recovered though. When I got sent home from work for not wearing pants and eating ice-cream soup out of a Haagen Daz container.

(This part did not happen, but I feel it is amusing.)


X effing O my ducklings.
(I sooo have an entry about affectionate terms bloggers use for their readers.)