Go Back to the Bah!

Or, bar, as they say pretty much everywhere outside of the Boston metro area.

But this post has nothing to do with scuzzy, seedy, or even swanky locals that ply you with watered down booze and terribly loud music all in the hopes that you show up again and again despite how you end up feeling the next morning.

Nope. This is all about our bar. Or, rather, the pantry cabinet, dry bar area of our kitchen remodel.

I got the last of this project completed a couple days ago. FINALLY! And I’m not gonna lie. I freaking love the way this turned out.

Despite my tears (I blame menopause), bruises (both to my ego and back of my hand which is still tingly), and curse words I didn’t even know I knew, in the end I’m fully in love with the overall result!

Much like the pool project (if you haven’t read about how Matt convinced me to replace our “bad water full of dissolved solids” and power wash our pool, you can catch up on that gem here), the photos of the bar project give a much better overall view so I’ll let their captions do the talking.

Design concept, stain/spray paint application, and install of every last piece were mine.

The only things Matt helped with: pre-drilling the holes for the flange anchors, and adjusting a couple of the flanges to level out the shelves. I didn’t know how to do the leveling before, but now I do, so in the future I could do 100% of this project myself.

Thankfully, there won’t be a next time because she’s done, son! (Sorry, been watching a lot of Psych re-runs lately.)

Here’s the bah, er, bar, coming together before your very eyes. For me it took just over two weekends to complete.

Materials on hand other than the wall covering.

Almost immediately after snapping this pic I went to grab the level.
Apparently I have zero sense of depth perception these days.
Hit the bottom of it with my fingers, it rolled over and
smashed down onto the back of my hand.
It hurt worse than most construction injuries I've ever had.
Still tingly nerve damage in some spots but it's mostly healed now.

Does something seem, off to you?

Anchors away!

Yeah, off by an inch. Which I actually measured twice.
I was so tired at this point it doesn't surprise me I made the mistake.
Guess she'll be done next weekend...

Like it never even happened.

Oh yeah, Matt also cut my shelves for me,
because I'm still not comfy with power tools that can cut off my fingers.
Dry fit perfection on the first try!

So I had this genius idea to spray paint the pipe caps
to match the glass hardware we have in most of the kitchen.
They don't exactly line up straight on but I still love it.
Also, the pine has a vinegar stain and dead flat varnish top coat.

No, I didn't want to mess with faux on a laminate surface.
Yes, this is heavy weight vinyl paper printed to look like wood.
The bulk of my invented curse words came during this phase.
Note to self, don't pull the backing off before lining up.
Eventually I got the hang of it and it went much smoother.

Under-side shelf clamps installed to hold everything in place.
I literally had to lie on my back on the countertop
to do this part of the install. Thankfully,
the somewhat fragile tops didn't crack under my weight!

And she's done!
Thanks to my friend JC for the daffodils, they
made for a beautiful accent to the finished project!
I'll eventually place my shot glass collection on
the top shelf but need to unpack them all first.

And now it’s back to writing because I’m just getting too damn old to be up and down a ladder all day long.

Then again, I do still need a kitchen backsplash and that doesn’t even involve a ladder so…

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Womanly Woes

Right off the bat, in case the title didn’t give it away, I need to warn all of you that this is going to be one of those posts. An honest and frank, Bridget Jones esque ranting about all things girlie. So stay and read or feel free to leave because shit is getting real.

Right now.

From the time I was in 8^th grade until about 8 or 9 years ago I weighed 110 pounds. Don’t hate, that’s just who I was, and because I had a raging metabolism I could eat whatever I wanted without much consequence. Look, like I said, don’t hate.

Despite my (total lack of) effort to think myself into that body type and shape forever, close to a decade ago I started developing weight in the wrong places. I know, shocker right?

Thing is, I was never really a fan of sweets (even as a kid) so candy, cakes, soda? I’d go for it sometimes but generally it didn’t hold much appeal. Also, I’m a grazer by nature meaning I eat small bits of stuff throughout the day, not three huge meals. And since I don’t go for sweets I almost always skip dessert.

What I do like is French fries, chips, salty stuff. And exercising is so boring to me. Plus I work on average 10 hour days every day so I decided it would be easier to be lazy than to try to find time for working out.

When I say weight in the wrong places, I’m talking about all the places many women pad to make them look more full. I can’t do that, it just never felt comfortable. Anything push-up is always uncomfortable to me.

I used to wear a 34B bra size. Predictable. Easy. Right off the shelf. I loved my tiny chest. Nothing to sag, bounce, hurt my back. Men didn’t generally fall all over themselves gawking at the nothing that was there and that was fine with me. Plus, I could go without a bra and not end up on the worst dressed list.

I also used to be a size 4. Oh the good old days.

As a human I get the fact that certain parts will change as years go on. Spread, shift, etc. Even a small chest will start to sag eventually because, hello, gravity works on bricks and feathers in the exact same way.

But now I want to smack myself for letting it all grow before it started to sag.

The day I knew things changed was the day I went into my old place of employment to grab a new bra. When they measured me I discovered perhaps the most disturbing fact of all.

Not only had my boobs apparently decided to finally come in at about age 35, but their rate of growth was, um, off. My chesticals were two different sizes.

Sigh.

It isn’t a huge difference but that difference makes it impossible to wear an off-the-rack bra. Well, at least the styles I was comfortable wearing. And forget about anything with a wire or other form of support. Even from a specialty store like my old workplace.

Fabric is fabric and to fit the larger side means things are too loose on the smaller side. Or vice versa of course. Which meant I was going to have to make a choice:

Get off the sofa and try to move my body so the collected fat melts off and I can fit in something more standard, or, accept the fact that I’d be sporting the one long boob look in a wireless shelf bra for the rest of my life.

A friend of mine calls this effect boob log. She’s so right.

A shelf bra will keep them upwards (to a point) but there’s no separation. Just one continuous boob. Nope, that won’t look at all like I’ve given up. Sooo sexy I think they should sell a stick along with the bra so I can beat back all the dudes trying to get up in there. Please guys, I’m a married woman.

Yeah, that will happen.

For a long time, boob log was the lot I allowed myself in life. Always knowing I had two bumps under there but looking at a horizontal tree trunk every time I looked in the mirror. I had to adjust the kind, cut and style of clothing I wore to accommodate the shoulder strap width, too. A thickness akin to a bungee cord, and with just as much elastic.

The problem with that, and honestly the main reason I won’t go bungee jumping, is that elastic wears out eventually. Especially here in the dry desert. Not to mention the water here is so hard it may not actually be water but a liquefied calcium, magnesium, chlorine blend.

So, after washing for just a couple years now, my admission-of-middle-age bra is starting to act elderly.

Sagging has started. The fabric is stretched out and causing folds so large that even Botox couldn’t lift that shit.

The time has come to replace the one bra in my drawer that I’ve sunk to owning. But, as you can probably surmise from all that flabby, saggy, lopsided talk up there, that task is the very last thing I want to do. Ever.

The last time I tried to buy one all that happened was me trying on 10 different types of bras in an array of size choices and going home with nothing more than frustration.

I made the fatal mistake of trying on something other than the boob log bra. Shame on me for wanting to feel like a girl again. For wanting to wear a tank top that doesn’t show my six-foot-wide bra strap at the shoulder. For wanting to have something on my oddly assembled body be a standard size. Like the good old days.

But, as they say, the good old days are gone. Which means the power is in my hands to turn this thing around.

I have actually started working out, walking every day. Why? Simply because I hate shopping. I never realized when I had the off-the-rack boobs not to take that fact for granted. That someday shopping to protect those blobs was going to be the most annoying, time consuming, mentally evil activity I’d take part in.

So my goal is to remove the negativity from my life.

Working out doesn’t change the fact that I still need to go and buy a new bra right now, of course. But maybe, if I’m really lucky (and super dedicated), this will be my last log.

The day I fit back into a bra I actually like I’m using said log to start my fire pit. In my less political,1960’s bra-burning throwback, I’m inviting all the ladies who have gone through bra fit issues in their lives to join me.

In other words, every lady I know.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Getting Soft in our Old Age?

Take a moment to read the above article. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.

Okay, now that we’ve got the words in our heads I’m here to tell you the entire article is a bunch of crap.

Allow me to explain.

As a child of the eighties I’ll be the first one to say I can’t for one second imagine how hard it would be to raise a child in this day and age. The internet age of constant connection, communication, everything you could ever want right at your fingertips. All the time. Anytime.

It absolutely breeds a sense of blithe ambition. Nobody has to work to learn. It’s all right there. Easy breezy.

But it also helps to add a sense of entitlement that everything should be just that easy to get.

Because it is.

However, here’s where I sat and took a long hard look back at my own childhood and the pop culture influences I had. The fictional heroes we all looked up to, tried to emulate. And though the good Doctor who wrote that article makes some good points, I think they forgot about quite a few god-awful examples.

Now, I’m not saying I didn’t thoroughly enjoy a good chunk of the shows and movies I’m about to list (some are still favorites) or that there weren’t some gems about tolerance, respect or loyalty (because there were), but let’s not get it twisted and try to glorify how awesome and perfect it was back then because there was plenty for our parents to complain about too.

Right off the top of my head here’s a few I remember:

Porky’s (1981) – misogyny is the name of the game from the moment you see the movie poster. We taught a whole generation of boys it’s okay to spy on high school girls in the shower without their knowledge or consent. Classy.

Moonlighting (1985-1989) – where to begin? The basic premise of the show is that female bosses are shrews when they insist their male employees actually work for their paychecks. Not to mention, no matter how much of a screw up he is, how many times he threatens their livelihood with his antics he still gets the girl in the end. Uh-huh.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) – I’ve mentioned this movie before and basically in the same vein as this post. Suffice to say we all learned it’s okay to skip school, trash property and disrespect everyone as long as you don’t get caught and let your friends take the fall. How big of you.

The Breakfast Club (1985) – five teens, during a full day of detention, smoke weed in the school library, among other pursuits, while the sole authority figure fumbles around like a bumbling idiot.

Gremlins (1984) – what better way to say Merry Christmas than seeing your entire town trashed by a bunch of aliens simply because a teenager couldn’t manage the responsibility of owning his first pet?

Fraggle Rock (1983-1987) – a bunch of entitled kids live for free underground, take advice from a heap of trash and constantly destroy the hard working Doozer’s construction projects just because they want a snack. And it’s cool that the only adult in the bunch spends all his time traveling and judging humans.

Top Gun (1986) – generally be a dickhead to everyone and sleep with your teacher. Just cry over your BFF’s death while staring at yourself in a mirror and come back later to teach the same class and everyone will forgive you.

Any show where a female was in charge and she wasn’t a bitch or in need of a man to come swooping in to save the day (19?? – today) – a seemingly novel concept in any generation from the dawn of entertainment. Anything which breaks this mold is considered “groundbreaking” even today. (And on a side note, entertainment where men aren’t allowed to cry/show emotions at all or are constantly “scolded” by their wives like they’re children make me want to scream just as much)

Anyway, I’ll stop there but suffice to say there are loads more examples I could use to further prove the point.

However, I think the thing that stands out to me the most from the article above is this:

Yes, the world might be different now than when I was a kid. But when I was a kid we were afraid of the wrath of our parents (even if we didn’t admit to it) and at ten most of us were barely allowed to use the telephone let alone have one of our own to stare at while in a doctor’s office waiting room.

So where does the real ownness lie?

Should it be on the so-called role models of the screen that kids can’t tear their eyes away from, or on the parents who have full authority to force them to put down the tech and just be kids for a change?

I don’t pretend to know the answer. Even if I had kids of my own I couldn’t tell you the answer. All I know is there needs to be some kind of dialogue about the difference between reality (your parents have the right to punish you when you mouth off to them) and fantasy (everything you see on a screen of any sort) so kids these days understand and respect the difference.

Article first read on Facebook here

• • • • • • • • • • • 
Like short fiction? Get a brand new story every month (one you won't see anywhere else!) when you sign up for my newsletter Facts & Fiction. Make 2016 better. Do it now.

It’s Time to face the Metamucil™

Lately I’ve been experiencing health stuff again. A few years ago I went through vertigo type symptoms, lightheaded, dizzy and wonky (which you can read about here if you like) but all of that stuff seemed to just go away on its own after about two years.

That didn’t make me sad but it did make me wonder just what the hell was wrong to begin with.

So I started questioning my habits and making changes. I walk about 3 miles just about every day now. All but eliminated refined sugar, bread carbs, dairy and alcohol from my diet. It does feel pretty good and I actually managed to drop a couple pounds, too.

But no good deed goes unpunished, right?

Back when I first went into the doctor I had a dull ache in my side. The left side at about mid-abdomen. But back during my see-every-doctor-under-the-sun phase they scanned me and there wasn’t anything there. I chalked it up to sitting all day for work. Muscular or stress related; where I hold my stress. I continued seeing a massage therapist to try to relax and it helps but that ache never seemed to go away.

So you can probably understand that since I’m up and moving around now, taking control of my health, it freaks me out to no end that the pain in my side is sticking around. Maybe even getting a bit more pronounced.

Of course it’s right about when I’m finally getting my shit back together that life decides to really bring the hammer down. Fucking Murphy and your stupid Law.

Which has made me start to question what really defines getting “old” anyway?

Does old mean frail, weak, some hunched over wrinkly faced Q-Tip who can barely walk? Or is it a state of mind? Because in my head I should be 27 forever. Spry and goofy. A total nutcase who laughs at and with life. The girl who wants to pull off on the side of the road and have sex in the backseat just because we can. The girl who stays up until 1AM dancing. The girl who doesn’t feel 42.

But lately that side of my personality has been getting tougher to hold onto.

I have grey hair, ailments and complain about the weather. My doctor is sending a referral for a colonoscopy as I type this post. Perimenopause has absolutely started kicking my jiggly ass (seriously, I experience about 25 of these 35 symptoms of perimenopause on a daily, weekly, monthly basis.)

And who goes through perimenopause except old dried up hags, right?

Uh, well, I’m not a dried up old hag so I guess, me.

So does that mean I’m officially “old” or does it just mean I somehow have to find a way to overcome it all when I have a day of hot flashes, preceded by only 3 hours of sleep the night before, followed by a migraine, dizziness, clumsiness, uncontrollable sobbing all day long and incomprehensibly flipping out on my husband for absolutely nothing?

Oh, and let’s not forget the itchy skin, bad breath, fatigue and fact I really need to take 3 showers a day so my pits don’t smell like a men’s locker room.

Yeah, that’s so sexy I can’t even understand why most women lose their sex drive at this time in their life. Really. I mean, who wouldn’t want to get with all that?

When men hit this age they just get a twenty-five year old blonde and a sports car. All better! Lucky fuckers. I wish they had to go through this even for one single day because it would become clear, mid-life crisis divorce has nothing to do with a lack of love. Those men are just afraid for their lives.

And rightfully so. Bitches losing their femaleness be crazy.

Ugh.

But see the issue isn’t all the stuff that’s happening to me. Not really. I mean I don’t like it but it’s bound to happen to some degree, I’m a girl after all. None of us escape it. The real issue is the fact that none of us experience the same thing at the same time so it’s kind of hard to pinpoint if everything going on is related to menopausal hoo-ha or not.

What makes me feel totally freaked out is the colonoscopy/CAT scan of my abdomen finding nothing wrong at all. Because then I pretty much know it’s a symptom of my dying ovaries.

Which means I might have to live with this shit for another ten plus years.

Buckle up, Matt. I’m gonna be so hot you won’t be able to keep your wrinkle-free hands off me.

Golden Opportunity

Today’s post comes with some visual aide. These pictures are of my dress, shoes and bag that I’ll be rocking at the end of the month when D and her fiancé fly out to Arizona to get married on the south rim of the Grand Canyon. And they’re doing it at sunset. It is sure to be spectacular.

The odyssey of finding just the right pair of shoes took me the better part of an entire shopping day to track down. Between the mall and a few other freestanding stores I must have scoured the racks in fifteen places. Of course I found them, and the bag, in the last store I intended to shop at that day. Oh well, at least I got them. And on sale to boot, score!

The real reason it was so complicated was because it’s a wedding so they needed to be somewhat dressy (especially considering the dress) but the wedding is taking place on top of rocks and dirt at the edge of the Grand Canyon so they had to be durable enough to withstand that. And I wanted at least a little shoe around my foot because in April the Canyon at sunset is going to be mighty chilly on my little piggies. It was fun explaining this to sales people all day and watching their faces read “um…yeah, good luck with that.”

I should probably confess that I haven’t stepped foot inside a shoe store (hello, Aldo my old friend) or even a mall for that matter in a very long time. After the Springfield debacle I’ve been like the Gestapo over our finances. You know, to ensure that we have some. But of late Matt and I have both been pawing through our respective wardrobes only to realize we haven’t updated them in close to a decade. And it’s really starting to show.

Really, it got so bad for a while there I actually considered rocking a jean jacket with jeans like 1992 hadn’t called for their very bad fashion choice back.

So every month for the past few months I’ve been slowly but surely turning over my wardrobe. But because I’ve also started working out again I didn’t want to go and pay Dillard’s prices for something that I know for a fact will be too big on me in six months to a year. That fact alone had me combing through the racks at all the local thrift shops for that perfect thing that will look good on my current body shape and show off my best assets while still staying budget friendly since it may end up replaced soon.

Don’t get me wrong, I love thrift shopping – the hunt, the thrill of the find, the dust bunnies rolling around a big warehouse sized building stuffed to the gills with items other people cast aside – but there’s that former retail worker side of me that still thinks

“I love the smell of commerce in the morning!”

So when the time came to start hunting down the right outfit for a Matron of Honor in a second wedding at a truly breathtaking but sketchy-footed destination, I knew the mall was the place I wanted to start. And here’s what I learned by shopping in the mall on a late morning mid-week:

*        No one shops in the mall during the late morning mid-week. Well, close to no one. The place was as inactive as the mall in Mallrats.

*        Directories seem to be a thing of the past. I saw two in the whole place and our mall is pretty big. I guess there’s probably an app for that.

*        Shoes have gotten bufugly. Seriously, can’t I buy SOMETHING other than 4” stripper heels or gladiator sandals? What happened to the slides? The mules? The kitten heels? Thankfully I didn’t see a single sneaker peep-toe pump which means that awful trend has phased out but what the fuck is up with this:

Or this?

Or most of all, this leg breaker?

I guess art-as-shoe, wood veneer, and whatever the hell that disc is under shoe 3 are technically something other than only-a-stripper-can-walk-in-them heels and gladiators-don’t-even-look-good-in-them sandals so I shouldn’t complain. But these aren’t haute couture, they’re on sale in multiple different sizes at DSW. Maybe I’m officially considered old now because I just don’t get it.

So when I found my adorable satin heels and the sparkly disco ball-esque clutch at DSW (after spending more time fascinated with the sculptural art in front of me than the actual wearability of the shoes in the store), I secretly thanked the other old ladies out there who understand that not everyone wants to be sky-high or wielding a lance.

Posted for April 2013 A to Z Blog Challenge G is for Golden Opportunity

Mallrats image from http://www.imdb.com/media/rm1228705280/tt0113749

All shoes can be found at DSW 

Getting Rid of Clutter and Other News

Yesterday I wrote a big long post over at my website about getting organized so I can start making money as a freelancer. The post is pretty complete and I’m not going to rehash all of the details I included over there because if you really want to know about it then you can go read that one. I’ll wait…

Now that I started the process I’m finding a LOT of stuff that has been taking up mental, emotional, and physical space in my online world that really has to go. Files I haven’t opened in years, documents with print screen shots from paying bills in 2009 (yeah, seriously), websites that aren’t even operable anymore clogging up my favorites – all things I’m working on deleting. And I hate to say it but many blog links are going to be deleted from my sidebar as well.

The reason I hate to say it is because many of these blogs are written by friends. People I love, people who have become such an important part of my life that they are individually thanked in my acknowledgement page in Reckless Abandon for goodness sake. But our once blossoming blog exchange has fallen by the wayside for some people and it’s time for me to move on. Many of them already have so it’s time to face the truth.

There are friends who do update occasionally, I’ll see something new pop up a few times a year, and I want the 411 when they come back. But there are many friends who haven’t posted on their blog in six months (or more) and in an effort to reduce the overwhelming vibe in my brain I just can’t have those links floating out in space for no reason. I’ll completely understand if you all remove me from your linky-lists as well.

However, if you discover that you feel compelled to start blogging again someday please let me know! I always enjoyed reading your updates and would be very interested in continuing to do so. Otherwise we’ll probably just see each other on Facebook.

• • •

In other news I’m going through some freaky health shit right now. For a few months I’ve had this weird pain in my left abdomen which I wrote off as being part of my job because I sit all day and rarely exercised anymore. I started exercising and sometimes it would go away. We bought a new sofa and it seemed to improve.

But over the past month or so I’ve started to notice it again and then the past couple weeks I’ve been having issues with a somewhat weird form of lightheadedness. Well more like light body because I never feel like I’m going to pass out or get dizzy or anything.

That was the last straw though and I finally went to the doctor this week. Not a kidney stone (his first guess). Not central nervous system (his next guess). I’ve been eating okay, consistently, and drinking about 60 ounces of water a day (more if I work out). Working out is no issue, I don’t get weirdness. Standing or lying down is no issue. Mostly it comes and goes when I’m sitting.

He took blood and is supposed to get back to me in a few days. Last night I started obsessing over not knowing what is up with myself and I almost had a panic attack.

I’m wondering if its early onset menopause because I do get hot flashes and cold sweats sometimes. Insomnia started a year or so ago. I’ve always had social anxiety but it has increased in spades in recent months. I tend to cry at the thought of anything these days. In fact based on this list I have all but maybe four symptoms. I’m freaking out and it’s hard not to think about it. Saying that makes me think more. And then I get more anxious. And that depresses the crap out of me.

Guess I’ll find out soon. I really hope so because Dr. House isn’t real but if I’m being completely honest, I’m really afraid

.

Pretty Vacant…

Being a Writer, being a rock star…what’s the difference really? For me, I’m not sure there is much of a difference. We’re both out there workin’ it to try to sell some kind of image or piece of work that we poured a big chunk of our heart and soul into creating. The sweat, tears, frustrations, celebrations, nights out, nights in, flexing of that creative muscle all blend into one carefully crafted piece of artistic expression.

Ugh, even writing that last line kind of makes me want to gag it sounds so cheezy (though it’s true). Which makes me notice one very important fact.

This week I’m starting to feel like the hotel trashing, punk rock type.

I’ve got a deep desire to toss television sets off of tenth story balconies and its starting to boil. I have to do something with it before it blows. Before I go and throw something, anything, that is.

I’m at the part of my manuscript where I’m trying to break through the plastic wrap that’s stretched across the train tracks of word count. I’m pushing and pushing at what feels like full steam but it seems the wrap is too thick to break through. It’s like I’m fighting the man.

Facing that makes me want to do one of two things. Either give up entirely…or say fuck it, I will write that scene and to hell with you if you think I can’t. That’s right bitch. You heard me.

Don’t I sound all gangsta and shit?

Did I spell gangsta correctly?

It pretty much all comes down to this - even though I would personally never do what they’re about to do, I’m not my characters. They would do whatever it is. That’s the story that needs to be told. I can’t let my personal feelings interfere with their personalities. Not everyone is the same. My character in this most recent manuscript is similar to me in only the following four ways – she’s late thirties, married, is a writer, and lives in Phoenix.

But she’s like a rock star – up all night, globe-trotting, moving and shaking quick, quick, quick! Well she has to be (details on that later) and I have no choice but to tell exactly what she needs me to tell. This isn’t my memoir, mofos, if I’m going to tell someone else’s story then I can’t let my own infiltrate the pages.

But I’ve also come to learn that I’m also just like a punk rocker right now. Well…sort of.

• I am in dire need of copious gallons of certain substances just to keep going.
• I would, of course, be referring to coffee.
• There are days when I’m cool while other days I say fuck the man and skip my gig on purpose just to screw with the system.
• When the faucet’s off you’ll find me strung out on almonds and blueberries, sitting on my sofa all day long, watching the Lifetime Movie Network. This is no different from days where I’m inspired, of course. On those days I have a laptop in my lap so I click away for eight hours with granola and LMN.
• My co-workers have been known to kick things, break stuff, and/or punch people.
• Of course all my co-workers are located in my head so I can pretty much let them run amok without real things, stuff or people being kicked, broken or punched. But it’s still fun even when it’s not real.
• I go to bed and wake up at ungodly hours.
• Lately I’ve been known to fall asleep at 10PM and wake up before 6AM. Watch out, I’m crazy like that. I may even stay awake until eleven. Lock up anyone you’re close to…I’m obviously way out of control.
• Sometimes I go almost full days without eating and rely on drugs to get me through.
• Caffeine and nicotine kept me alive over the Christmas seasons in the early nineties while working at Victoria’s Secret , so its sure to be enough now too, right? Well, that and the granola.
• I portray the image of a crazy as hell fantasy world because I live it, yo.
• All day long I have to allow my mind to embrace an entirely different life so I can accurately express the story my characters are trying to tell. It’s like being an actor without a camera. That shit can be exhausting.
• I’ve been known to trash a room or two in my day.
• You should see how much dust there is on my entertainment center and seriously, there isn’t a single dish in the cabinet because they’re all either clean in the dishwasher or dirty beside the sink waiting for the dishwasher to be emptied and refilled. When I’m on a roll writing 3500+ words in a day there’s not a minute to spare to deal with real life. Pffft.

So maybe I am a little punk rock after all. At least in my own way.

Anyway, the writing in this case is actually going pretty well. I’m behind the CampNaNoWriMo goal by a little over a day’s word count, but I’m not all that nervous to be honest. Making it to 50k by the end of August isn’t my main objective. It would be cool, sure, but what I really want is the bones for a solid book concept not just 50,000 useless words I never end up doing anything with.

For those of you that aren’t writers (or have even a teeny bit of interest in hearing about the random day-to-day of one) I’ll apologize right now. Because over the course of the next month or so that’s all you’re likely to read about over here. If I write anything here at all. MS3 is in process and lit up like pyrotechnics on the big stage right now.

On second thought, forget that. No I’m not really sorry that’s all you’ll be reading about. I take it back, this is my blog and I’ll write about writing if I want to. So there.

Yeah! That’s right! Punk rock, bitch!

Because I Need to Post Something

So I’m doing a silly meme for the first time in a long time for a few reasons. First, I haven’t posted in 3 weeks and have been feeling like I want to but didn’t know what to write. Second, because I ran across it on the page of one of the writers on my blogroll and it seemed like a fine idea. Finally, just because. And all of that seems good enough for me so without any additional rambling you won’t already be privy to while sorting through the drivel below…enjoy.

1. Why did you sign up for writing your blog?
Because it seemed like a good thing to do that first winter after moving back to Massachusetts when I hadn’t yet started back to school and barely had any jobs painting. I kind of felt like at least I could find some people out there that I could force to read my stuff, even if those people were only family and friends to start.

2. Why did you choose your blog's name? What does it mean?
Um, well I think ‘Random Lunacy’ is mostly self-explanatory. My brain doesn’t seem to want to focus on just one thing and I’m certainly pretty mentally fucked so it seemed all encompassing.

3. Do you ever had another blog?
Yeah, I know this is the internet and sometimes there are lower standards and all that jazz but I’m correcting this question right now. Either “Have you ever had another blog” or “Do you have another blog”. Seriously people, grammar is something we all learned starting in the third grade or earlier. Embrace it. Use it. I beg you.

4. What do you do online when you're not on your blog?
The usual stuff – read the news, read blogs, read email, sell shit, watch stupid videos, tweet, waste time reading crap on Facebook, participate in my school forum discussions, write a couple other blogs…oh yeah, I was supposed to tell you I had those in the last question wasn’t I? Sorry, got all caught up whipping out my grammar police badge and kind of forgot.

5. How about when you're not on the computer?
If you’re asking what I do during that time…exercise, balance my checkbook, obsessively white out things in my day planner, apply Chapstick, dance in supermarket aisles, watch hockey, watch football, smoke cigarettes, read books, have sex, brush my teeth, drive to the doctor’s office, drive home, take pictures of empty beer glasses, point and laugh at people who pass me on single lane roads when they end up right in front of me at the next red light…honestly, there are far too many things to list them all.

6. What do you wish people who read your blog knew about you?
I’ve pretty much told all my stories already which I suppose is the main reason why I only write like once a month these days.

7. What is your favorite community in the blogosphere?
Hmm, don’t really belong to a community per se. Maybe I should get on that huh?

8. What is your philosophy on your blog layout?
Philosophy: noun; the rational investigation of the truths and principles of being, knowledge, or conduct
Clearly I couldn’t possibly have a philosophy due to that word ‘rational’ being plunked in there. See question # 2 as related to the name of my blog again.

9. Tell me about your picture you use to represent you on your blog.
It’s a self-portrait. Simply stunning isn’t it? And obviously I’m like a reincarnated Picasso with those sharpie marker skills.

10. Pick 3 random blogs from your blogroll and tell us about them.
Not doing this, it’s almost as bad as asking me to tag my friends in this piece of crap excuse for a blog post. If you want to know about them then get your ass over to their blogs and read for yourself, they're all pretty rad.

11. What features do you think your blog should have that it doesn't currently?
Incredibly high paying sponsorship.

12. What do you consider the 10 most "telling" interests that we would infer from what you blog persona?
I’m going to spell this very slowly with spacers so maybe whoever wrote this can learn from the second example since they may not have noticed their error the first time – g r a m m a r – should I define it too?
What I think it’s asking of course is to reveal 10 things I like that people who are too lazy or busy to just read through my whole blog should know. Okay here goes: smoking, drinking, sports, sleep, relaxing, writing, music, Matt, family, friends. Not necessarily in that order.

13. Do you have any unique interests that you have never shared before? What are they?
Doubtful.

14. The best thing about blogging is all of the friends that you make, beside from those folks, do you think your blog has fans?
Aside from the fact that should read 'aside', not 'beside'...At night I go to sleep dreaming of the thousands of people that read my blog every day. Note the word “dreaming”.

15. What's your current obsession? What about it captures your imagination?
Tweeting. I’m a wordy bitch so trying to cram it all into that short a message is a challenge I can get behind. Well that and I pretty much just like to hear myself talk so it’s like the next best thing.

16. What are you glad you did but haven't really had a chance to post about?
Decided to give up my retail shop next year and solely focus on the only thing I actually want to do for a living which is to be a writer.

17. How many people that first became a blog friend, have you met face to face?
Hmm, guess I can’t count my mom since we met before the blogging part so I guess 4 so far but maybe another in January and I will get to Colorado next year to hopefully meet two more.

18. What don't you talk about here, either because it's too personal or because you don't have the energy?
Nothing that I’m going to start talking about just because you asked this question, duh.

19. What's a question that you'd love to answer?
“Do you want me to deposit this entire seven figure royalty check all at once or should we split it into a few separate checks?”

20. Have you ever lost a blogging friendship and regretted it?
Don’t think so. Writers & bloggers come and go. Friends, whether they blog anymore or not, are still friends.

21. Have you ever lost a blogging friendship and thought, “Was that overdue!”
Nope, not so much.

As thieved from Sunday Stealing

Honesty

I keep wondering at what age a person is supposed to give up on youth. I don’t mean that young at heart feeling. I also don’t mean that notion that you’re invincible. What I mean is simply, youth. I suppose more fairly, the trappings of youth.

There was a time when my hips were curvy, my butt was round, my boobs were small and my hair was brown. I loved that time. I loved wearing low cut jeans and tight tops and I dyed my hair for fun. When it was blonde, that was my favorite.

And I would go out dancing. And I didn’t care if I got drunk. And there were plenty more times that I didn’t than when I did. And I was a good dancer. And I could move well. And I was good at having sex. And sex was fun. And it was with someone different a lot of the time. And I was usually sober.

So when I look back on those times why do I see it all compartmentalized into this little box of memories that I feel some morbid obligation to let go of now that I am not in the youth anymore?

Now I have extra weight on my hips. Now I can’t get low rise jeans to look right under my muffin top. Now I have a saggy butt. Now my boobs are two cup sizes bigger. Now all my tops are tight by accident. Now I dye my hair to cover the gray.

I still love to dance. And drink. And I still dance pretty well. I think. I haven’t been to a club in about six years. Young people go to clubs. Or single people. Or hot people. I am none of those things. Not in youth. Cute perhaps, especially every six weeks after the dye job. Not single. And my husband hates to dance.

He can though. He just doesn’t like to do it. Because he has the same issue as me. He misses not caring. He misses youth. And we have sex. And it’s fun. But it isn’t new. It isn’t different people. Well maybe for him. I never know which personality might show up on any given day.

Sucks to be Matt.

And I am overly influenced by what I see and what I read and what I listen to and what I feel and what I experience.

And I’m okay with that but I feel tired and cranky a lot. And I really dislike being tired. Or cranky. I guess what I see and read and hear is exhausted and grouchy.

Sucks to be me.

And every six weeks when I dye my hair I sigh because it is such a bullshit waste of time. In six more weeks I have to do it again. And I do because I miss youth. I miss a wrinkle free face. I miss fresh clean slates. I miss perky bum cheeks and hands with smooth skin.

Mine and my husband’s. But he’s still cute. But youth has left us both. Replaced by experience. Replaced by some kind of wisdom. And nothing is surprising like you don’t like artichokes. And nothing is awful like subscribing to different religious philosophies.

So do I just give up on caring about the loss of youth and embrace the gray, the sag, the elastic waist jeans, simply because I’m too tired to give a crap different?

I like to look good. Would I look any less good with a full head of gray hair and boobs that point in different directions? Would the world notice or only me? Aren’t I the one who matters? My positive self image should be the important part of the equation. Right?

So I still get dinner out at restaurants. And I still work out. And I still have sex. And I still laugh at comedy. And cry at tragedy. Sometimes.

And kiss Matt before we go to sleep. And put on make up to go to the grocery store. And I still try on cute outfits. And they don’t fit over my hips. And they make my butt look funny.

But I’m not ready to wear elastic waist jeans. Yet.

Seriously, I'm Parched

You’ll notice I’m blogging more often these days. After doing the 30 photos in 30 days challenge for some reason I’ve just been feeling it. Don’t really know why, there isn’t much to tell all of you that isn’t the same old recycled madness. But it’s never when a lot of interesting stuff is going on that we have the time to share with each other the interesting stuff right? My boringness currently includes:

• We’re moving. In four weeks and 3 days. Holy crap that’s coming really fast now!
• I’m taking classes, and so ready for a nice summer break.
• Tornadoes are wreaking havoc on this country and I’m truly keeping everyone I know in the middle of the country fully embedded in my prayers right now.
• The Bruins are fighting for their lives to get to the Stanley Cup finals, sort of. Last night David Krejci got a hat trick. The first time a B’s player has done that in the post season since 1991 when Cam Neely pulled it off. Sadly though our goalie let just a couple more than 3 slide by him and we lost last night.
• Just learned last night it wasn’t all my imagination, according to the weatherman on channel 7 this has been the cloudiest May on record. Yes, ever.
• Still haven’t finished Lolita for Book Club and considering giving up, today will be my last try before I decide to throw in the towel.

Yeah that’s about it. So basically all of that stuff can be done with a drink in my hand right? Okay, maybe not the driving across the country but certainly everything else. Either a good, strong, dark beer, or maybe now that the sun has finally come out and the temperatures are supposed to shoot up into the 80’s (maybe even 90’s on the holiday yea!) perhaps my own made up creation -- the Summertini!

Only problem, I created this drink in the summer, beside a pool somewhere, many, many summers ago and must have had a few too many of them because I can barely remember the recipe.

I think there was vodka, maybe something having to do with watermelon, some lime and a little salt around the rim? There was definitely a sweet/salty thing going on. I can’t remember though.

Oh well, looks like I’ll just have to take one for the team and do some experimenting huh? The things I do in the name of research I tell ya…

Really enjoying For the Love of Blogs btw, some fun weekly and daily blog boosters like this Thirsty Thursday theme. If you'd like more traffic & to find some great new blogs I highly recommend these folks!

There is No Slurring Allowed in Scrabble

Quick, list all the words you know that include the letters q, c and d. Not easy right? Welcome to the dilemma of the moment: how do I use letters to my best advantage, maximizing points, and kicking the butt of anyone willing to take me on? I grew up with Scrabble; my grandparents, mom and various other family members were seemingly addicted to it. I would try to create interesting words with my second grade vocabulary and sometimes I would even do alright. As I grew up words began to have an even deeper meaning for the writer trapped inside but a tiny three letter word seemed to hold more weight than working towards becoming that writer: fun.

When I was twenty three years old it was common to find me in the clubs every Thursday, Friday and Saturday, as well as Sunday on some not so rare occasions. I paid my cover charge and extended an arm to receive the ink stamp that would take three days to scrub off. The motion was instinctual; I needed no prompting to remind me how it was done because I had done it a million times. As a club hopper many interesting, diverse and crazy people come in and out of your life because, at that moment, your worlds share so many common bonds: a love of being half deaf, drinking enough until everyone looks good with running mascara, cigarette burn holes in all your clothing and so much love for each other you have no other way of expressing it but to rub their back and hold their hair while they slump down beside the bathroom toilet, vomiting as they fall.

All those years in the club scene gave me some of my favorite Scrabble words; take, for example, excess. Land that one on a triple word score and you are sure to take the game. Not only are the letters worth fifteen points, it is an excellent word describing a state of mind. It is a word used to define what happens when drinks continue to flow down your throat regardless of the little voice that is attempting to scream 'knock it off you idiot or you are going to die from alcohol poisoning'. Instead of listening to the voice it is far easier to splash some whiskey in its face to shut it up and send it home crying. This is not a problem though, you won't remember having done it by the next morning and all you have to do is say sorry, that you will never do it again, and the little voice miraculously forgives you.

After so many nights of stale drinks, cigarettes and conversation, I reached my low when I woke up one morning to a person who I called a friend handing me a glass of water, two aspirin, a joint and the nose tube attached to an oxygen tank saying 'trust me, you are definitely going to need these'. I glanced around and realized I was in the bed of another friend who was nowhere to be found but the guy I was interested in was laying next to me fully clothed. I took it all and started to inhale, maybe a little too fast, and began to put together the pieces of what had happened the night before over a greasy breakfast of bacon, eggs, and a grilled bagel. Recalling even the smallest detail after my third Alabama Slammer is something I am still working on.

I learned my lesson after that night. That was the first and last time I have ever drank to an excess where I blacked out without cognizant memory of what happened. Scary. Not to say that I have not been drunk since then because there have been plenty of nights filled with Merlot or Cape Codders that should never be discussed but nights at the club are so few and far between these days that paying more than five dollars for a cover charge is shocking to me. Now I am much more likely to have a couple beers at home with Matt during a Friday night Scrabble game and call my sister to ask if she has a dictionary. I ask if she could please look up how to spell aqueduct because if I spelled it correctly I will have scored ninety points (forty for the placement and an additional fifty for using all seven letters, score!). I feel her rolling her eyes and shaking her head at me through the phone as she tells me it is spelled with an e and not an i, so I take my seven points for the simple word duct instead and go to bed with all memory of the eighty three points that could have been.