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Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Unemployment Diary: Welcome to Anxiety Central


My initial reaction was "Shut up, Michael Bloomberg!"

His offense?  Part of what he said this morning on Morning Joe (transcript 01:09:41):  "You wonder why jobs are going overseas?  There a are a lot unemployed people in America. There are a lot of jobs available. The skill sets don't match."

But it's not just Michael Bloomberg, as Paul Krugman points out:
Who are these wise heads I’m talking about? The most widely quoted figure is Narayana Kocherlakota, the president of the Federal Reserve Bank of Minneapolis, who has attracted a lot of attention by insisting that dealing with high unemployment isn’t a Fed responsibility: “Firms have jobs, but can’t find appropriate workers. The workers want to work, but can’t find appropriate jobs,” he asserts, concluding that “It is hard to see how the Fed can do much to cure this problem.”

Now, the Minneapolis Fed is known for its conservative outlook, and claims that unemployment is mainly structural do tend to come from the right of the political spectrum. But some people on the other side of the aisle say similar things. For example, former President Bill Clinton recently told an interviewer that unemployment remained high because “people don’t have the job skills for the jobs that are open.”
No matter what the Bloombergs and Clintons say, jobs have been outsourced because people in other countries will work for less than what Americans expect to earn for the same job.  Add to that the fact that the countries receiving our outsourced jobs have fewer worker protections and you've got a pretty simple reason for why jobs are leaving the U.S.  There's more profit to be made!

I'm going out on a limb here, but here's my example of why this is just more nonsense promulgated and promoted by those who think that corporations share no blame in our unemployment crisis.

Last week, I applied for a position with a company I once worked for.  The position is one that I could do, have done.  When I worked for this company, I started as a secretary (back when we still used that word).  By the time I left (in good standing), I'd risen to the position of assistant state rep for one of the larger states in the U.S.  During my five years with this company, I consistently received evaluations of Exceeded Standards.  I'm still sorry I left that job for what turned out to be really stupid reasons (another opportunity that turned out to be a nightmare), but I know this organization rehires people.  Or, at least, they used to.

I still haven't heard from them.  While I'll admit that it's been thirteen years since I left quit my last job with them, I think it's fair to say that I still understand the mission of the organization and its basic structures.  My skill set has improved and expanded in the thirteen years since I left.

This should be a cake walk, no?  So what's the problem, Michael Bloomberg?

I've gotta tell you, I've applied for so many jobs, it's ridiculous.  In the old days, half of them would have been slam dunks.  The other half I never would have applied for in the first place because they are entry level or clearly not at the level at which I've worked for the last ten plus years.

And yet my phone does not ring.  I've had exactly one interview since December 2009.  One.

So I ask myself - is it my age?  My old salary level? The simple fact that I'm unemployed?  Am I expecting too much too soon?

You reach a point where you start to wonder if you really did all those things on your resume.  Was I really capable of running an organization once upon a time?  How did I become unemployable?

I guess I should ask the bigger question - just exactly what skill set is it that Americans need?  What's the secret, Misters Bloomberg and Clinton?  Because I haven't changed.  The job descriptions for the jobs to which I'm applying haven't changed.  The salaries seem to have been shaved and the duties expanded, but they are very much all the stuff I've done before.  I can still create an agenda, develop a database, write memos, make phone calls, read contracts, sit in meetings and worry about budgets.

If you're going to indict Americans for this unemployment crisis without questioning the corporations, then you'd better come up with specifics because more of us are slipping over the edge and if November turns out to be the political disaster we've heard it's going to be, the already straining safety nets are likely going to be shredded.

Meanwhile, I set aside the utter freak out about ever finding a job again and try to focus on writing.  Some days I can do it, other days I can't.  Those are the days when the house gets really clean and the cats cower under the bed afraid they'll get swept away in the frenzy.

Okay, I'm done whining.  I know have readers in NYC.  Will one of you go over to the Mayor's office and give him a punch in his nutsack for being such a dope?  Thanks.

Until next time.....

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Getting Figgy With It


He has singlehandedly resurrected the phrase like hubba hubba.
He's been my blog buddy since the very first days of PoliTits.
He and his significant other Sparky share my adoration of British TV.
He's working on a graphic novel titled Hip Deep, Mountain High.  Go see!
And he makes Fig Bomb preserves that are so good you wanna eat the whole jar, diet be damned.

Thank you, Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein, for the wonderful package of treats!


Stupid Sting and his lute.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Black Magpie Theory: Do As We Say, Not As We Do


I'm at Black Magpie Theory today where I'm writing about my crazy bohemian lifestyle circa 1995.  Big hair is only the beginning.

Will be back here soon.

Friday, September 24, 2010

There's a Little Less of Me to Love

I used to sneak-eat my mom's Ayds candies.  Explains a lot.

My Weighty Battles Continue

I broke down and went back to taking the appetite suppressant Phentermine aka the "mean pill" under the supervision of my real doctor.  Not a weight loss clinics.  The upside is that it's a slightly higher dosage meaning Boy, does it work!  and it's mostly covered by insurance because it's considered prevention for that dreaded word obesity.  The downside is Boy, does it work!  Let me 'splain.

The medication makes me not hungry.  Not just not hungry, but not cravey.  As in I'm not sitting around plotting my next hit of sugar. I'm not hiding pints of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food behind a stack of frozen vegetable bags.  I'm not stowing plain M&Ms in my underwear drawer like a deranged, chocolate-craving squirrel nor am I hoarding baguettes and croissants like tomorrow all the wheat in the world will disappear forever.

For someone toting around way too many pounds, this is a good thing this not being hungry or craving junk.  I promised my self this time that I would do this the right way.  That means I must train my taste buds to appreciate or at least not be repulsed by the things that are good for me.  So far, it's working.  Mostly. I'm eating more of what I should be eating, less of what I shouldn't. And I'm exercising.  With regularity.

The result is a loss of 15 pounds so far. I weigh less than I have in four years.  I'm wearing clothes I haven't worn in three years.  I'm not sure how that math works, but I guess my body shape has changed.  Or maybe I looked like a stuffed sausage three years ago as I crammed my body into the clothes that now fit me nicely. I'm too afraid to look at my flickr account to confirm this.

I've become obnoxious about the weight loss.  Thank goodness I don't have any friends around here.  They'd be shunning me by now and saying ugly things about me behind my back in Facebook chats.  Lucky MathMan gets the pleasure of my company and is treated to my hourly fitness updates.  That's why he gets paid the big bucks.

I wake up in the morning and run my hand over my tummy.  "Dude!  Feel this.  There's less there!"

He reaches over to feel because 1. He's a nice guy who is encouraging me all the way on this new lifestyle and 2. If he gets his hand on my tummy, it might just make its way to the neighbors up north or the neighbor down south.

I squirm away just as his hand makes contact because I'm ticklish.  "Wait!  I'll show you!"  I jump out of bed and give him the full frontal.  Juggle my shrinking boobs and then make a muscle to show how my batwings are toning up.

I turn around.  Do a Vanna White hand sweep along my less dimpled thighs.  "Does my butt look smaller?  And how about this?" I squeeze my shrinking love handles.  "And look!  If I put on a bra, you can't see so much back fat!"  I point over my shoulder showing where the dreaded back fat would be.

"That's great, honey," he yawns and puts on his glasses.

I dash away to the bathroom to go wee and do my morning weigh in before anything, not even a drop of water, passes my lips. I glanced at myself in the mirror. I still flinch when I see myself wearing nothing but panties, but I'm happy to note that my waist now goes in instead of out.  For every muffin I've given up, my muffin top has shrunk by one tenth of one centimeter.

It's a definite improvement.

I track my meals and exercise in Sparkpeople so I am aware of how many calories are going in and out.  I'm paying attention to fiber, protein, fat, and carb counts.  I repeat meals because I get tired of putting the foods into the database system.  So what if I eat steel cut oats every morning?

I still have moments when I want something made mostly of refined sugar.  It's not the all consuming madness it used to be, but there are moments of sweets weakness.  I give in if there's something available.  However, a handful of M&Ms results in way fewer cellulite dimples than a giant bag of M&Ms does.  Sometimes when I feel the need to indulge in some emotional eating, I try to use positive reinforcement to redirect my thoughts.  I look in the mirror to see if my excess chinnery is shrinking or I'll take a peak at my thighs and marvel at how they've gotten less onerous.

It's a journey.  I have to remind myself.  As much as I want to be sipping green tea in Skinnyville right now, I'm pleased to at least be on the right road.  Now I need the birds to come along and snap up the breadcrumbs that lead back to Fat and Bad Habitsburg. I don't want to go back there.  As much as I want to blame heredity, I have to admit that nurture plays a large part, too.  People, you do not grow up with parents who put sugar and milk on top of Jello, and swan out into the world with healthy eating habits.

Exercise is another positive change.  I've been working out off and on for a while, but seeing few results.  Now I've ramped up my intensity to the point where I'm feeling it the next day.  I'm a litany of aches and pains.  I've even stepped out of my comfort zone.  Yesterday as MathMan and I entered the gym where I planned to do a few minutes on the elliptical before working my upper body with free weights, the trainer popper her head out of the classroom and suggested in a manner that meant no would not be an option, that I join the step aerobics class that was just getting under way.  I shot MathMan a pleading look and he just shrugged, the sadist.  Turns out, I really like step aerobics.

Like so many things in life, it's about balance.  Or rather about tipping the balance in favor of what's good for you and away from destructive behaviors.  As I sat in the doctor's office today and soaked in the praise for my progress during my first month on the plan, I realized that even though yesterday ended up being kind of a food FAIL, the Mounds bar and cup of black coffee I had for supper were not the end of the world.  Nor would they be my excuse for swinging by the grocery store for cat food and a box of Krispy Kremes like I might have done a month ago.

I came home, teased the cats by putting their food in the cabinet in slow motion then made myself some steel cut oats.

So what are you doing for yourself these days?



Thursday, September 23, 2010

Buy-Her: My First Music Review


Long time readers know that I am a huge fan of music.  All kinds of music.  I've had an opportunity to combine my love of music with my love of writing and so I'm doing music and book reviews at Buy-Her.com.

My first foray is right here.  You know me, though, it's hardly a straight up review.  I couldn't do thinky and high-minded if I tried.  So I don't.  But I don't think you'll be disappointed.   While you're there, please click around and read the other varied reviews of all kinds of things.

Now I have to go get busy with my work in progress before it totally breaks up with me.  It's been one of "those" weeks.  How's your week?  Did you get mooned last night?

I'll be back here tomorrow.  I'm going to update you on my Odyssey Away From Obesity.  Riveting stuff indeed.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Adventures in Real Parenting: In The Driver's Seat



MathMan and Nate are out of school this week for something called Fall Break.

I know, right?  Fall Break?  Lots of schools have just gotten started.  What can I say? It's Georgia.  We like to be ahead of the curve on things.  Starting school, voter suppression, French kissing the Confederate flag.....


So here these guys are, underfoot and messing with my routine.  This is where I say "I love them, but....."  because goodness knows I do. But I also love my routine.  Everything is off kilter right now, though, so I can't really blame them. I don't know what it is - the change in season, the shortening of the days, the lack of alcohol in my system, the general ennui and bad news burnout that seems to grabbed a lot of us by the lapels and made us swear off cable "news."

And then Twitter went all fercockta this morning.  That sounds way more fun than it is.  I mean, how am I supposed to know anything without Twitter?

Aren't modern day complaints hilarious?  Wah! I can't make the xBox work right!  Wah! That store's ATM machine is on the fritz!  Wah!  My cable is out!  Wah!  The internet is moving slowly.  Again!!!!

People, none of us would have survived the crossing of the oceans.  We would have been fish food or, on a particularly rough day, tomorrow's lunch special.  For those of you not living in the U.S., pick a World War to not have survived because....yeah.

But before I wonder too far into the land of low blood sugar and this ache in my neck, let me wrangle my thoughts back to what I thought I might tell you today.


When it became clear that I wouldn't be getting much writing/revising done yesterday, I acquiesced to Nathan's begging to go for a driving lesson.  He's got ants in his baseball pants about learning how to drive a stick shift.  See, we only have manual transmission cars.  He doesn't master driving one, he doesn't drive.

Well, good thing our county is loaded with aborted subdivisions.  The roads are paved and there's no traffic on the back streets where the developers didn't build before the bottom fell out of the real estate market.  That's where we go for driving practice.

And the truth is, he did pretty well.  This was his first outing with me, but he's been out with Chloe and with MathMan.  So he's getting it.  Sure the car stalls sometimes and his shifting still requires some finesse, but, for the most part, he definitely gets the concept.  This is a good thing because this is the same kid who videotaped himself just a year and a half ago doing stupid things with a wagon.


For those of you who haven't been around very long, Nathan used to be referred to as The Actor.  Not Good Actor, just The Actor.

So how about you?  Are you feeling weird today or is it just me?  What's stuck in your craw?  Or are you stuck in second gear?

Monday, September 20, 2010

Black Magpie Theory: A Poetry Break


I'm over at Black Magpie Theory insulting the memories of Tolkien, Lewis, Perrault and Carroll.

See you back here tomorrow, my little happy endings.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

I Get Around



Yes, I realize this is not news.

I've been cheating on you guys, my long time lovers.  While I still haunt the places I've been visiting since about 1912, I've added some new places to my feed reader.  Like that stray kitten you should have never made eye contact with, I follow these new, shiny interests home.  It's not my fault that they feed me, is it?

The thing is, these new places mesh well with my Tried and Trues.  I may have met them while trolling the literary agent and editors sites or goofing around on Twitter, but many of them share my world view, skewed as it may be.  What they have in common with my old pals is humor.  It may be dark, it may be slapstick, it may be dry like a nice red wine, but humor and excellent writing ties all you lovers - old and new -  together.  It's what keeps me coming back.

Let me introduce you to Bethany.  She tagged me with a meme the other day.  Bethany is an ex-pat living in Quebec.  Long time readers will guess that I'm just a wee bit envious that she's up there where le Francais est parled. (you've gotta say it with a mash-up Midwestern flat/Deep South Country twangy accent)  Le Francais est parled.  Nevermind.

So it's Sunday morning and I'm going to do this meme because I am wiped out.  Yesterday, I did more things than I typically do in six months. Socialist things, I mean.  Wait - no, not socialist.  Social.  As in go out and interact with people.  Socialist is like when I go to the library.

I had coffee with Wendy of Wendy and Jason's Excellent Adventure!  I've been reading Wendy's blog for close to three years.  Zeke was a baby, I know that. Back then, she was living in Hawaii, a relatively new mom, writing about surfing, life with an Aussie husband and making me long for the days when Nate was a cute little guy.  Now Wendy and Jason have two kids, live in Colorado and recently closed on a house.  This wasn't like meeting for the first time.  It was like catching up. And Wendy?  I wish she lived next door. She's the chick I wish I was.  Smart, successful, funny, supremely grounded in reality. If she did live next door, I can assure you I would never have gotten so embarrassingly out of shape.  Look at her killer body.  I would have starved myself and learned to run with a brick in my pants due to peer pressure alone.  Or I would have been slipping her fat-laden stuff, lying that it was a special, fat free recipe and borrowing her workout equipment and never returning it.  You never know with me.

Thank you, Wendy, for the coffee and the great morning. I hope we'll see each other again!  Have a safe trip home.


After coffee, I returned to a clean house.  "Okay, what do you guys want?"  Because a house cleaned by Nate and Sophia is a Tell.  Like clearing your throat after telling a lie, a clear indication that favors are about to be requested.

Thankfully, they were reasonable requests.  Nate needed a lift somewhere and then somewhere else.  Sophia needed unmentionables that I'm mentioning here.  On the blog.  They're used to it.

We even had a visit with Chloe's boyfrand while we were out.  Can I tell you that a young man who stands at six foot seven draws some stares?  He's delightful, though, (even if he does introduce Nate to things like this and Nate, in turn, introduces them to me, except that song is way, way, way tame compared to the others Nate likes to "shock" me with.) and I really appreciate the fact that Boyfrand was willing to pick up a few things and deliver them to Chloe on the other side of Georgia.

Oh, and I'd like to state for the record that Sophia is grateful for the donations.  She didn't have to wait another two weeks for new underwear that don't give her distracting wedgies during class nor suffer the indignity of being dragged through Goodwill looking for used undies.  So thank you.  Not only did your dollars keep the lights on and pay the water bill (yay showers!), but you can also pat yourself on the back because my sixth grader isn't going to school commando this week.

Okay - that meme.

If you could have one superpower what would it be?
This is really hard for me even after all these years.  Every morning, I wake up and think "Hm....the ability to see through walls or invisibility?  Elasticity or speed?  Supersonic hearing or the ability to lift a freight train and set it back up on the tracks?"

And then I get out of bed, knowing that there will be dirty clothes, unmade beds, random effluvium, a pile of cat barf and a scattering of pens, markers, crayons and papers behind those walls.  With lightening speed (because I have just injected myself with caffeine and I have things I WANT to do), I'll employ my elasticity, bending, stretching, squeezing into tiny places, eradicating the clutter and filth.  In the old days, I would even pick up the train and put it back on the wooden tracks running through the living room.  I do all of this while remaining invisible because, as I asked the other day, if a woman cleans a toilet and no one is there to smell the bleach, did it really happen?

And at the end of the day, I use my supersonic hearing to make sure I've closed the porn and wiped the history set out the Organic, Hormone-Free Skim Milk and cookies before the school bus comes barreling around the bend of the subdivision.

Who is your style icon?
Oh, I dunno.  Carol Burnett as the Cleaning Woman?  Pam Dawber as Mindy?  Jackie O. when she sneaked out as her alterego Kelly Green?  Drew Barrymore when she thinks there aren't any paparazzi around or is too hungover to care? Lady Gaga when she's not wearing meat?  Who sits around in torn shorts and wife beaters?  Because that's kind of it right now.

What is your favorite quote?
Right now it's this by Mark Twain.

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."


What is the best compliment you've ever received?
Best?  Yikes.  Bethany had such a lovely answer to this.  Mine seems so craven and shallow in comparison.  But when people tell me that I make them laugh or that they think I'm a good writer or that I'm a good mom.  All of those give me a buzz.

What playlist/cd is in your cd player/playing right now?
Right now, it's Nate's playlist on the computer.  'nuff said.

Are you a nightowl or a morning person?
I'm a morning person.  Sometimes that means I'm still up at 2a.m.

Do you prefer dogs or cats?
Cats. I love dogs, but I'm more suited to sharing space with cats.  They totally get that sometimes I really don't feel like being petted or picked up and carried around like a baby.  If I'm hiding under the bed or in the back of the closet, they are cool with that.  Unless, of course, it's their turn in that space.  Then they bite my toes until I vacate.

What is the meaning behind your blog name?
I haven't done this in ages, but there was a time when I used to finish blog posts with something like this:

Because I had a lot to say and this meme gave me the perfect opening, that's why.


Now comes the tagging part.  You know the drill - do this when you need a post, when you need a starting point.  Pick just one of the questions and explore if you want.

Merci, Bethany, for giving me some inspiration this morning....

Friday, September 17, 2010

Everyday Heroes Otherwise Known as Blog Readers

Today looks better.

Ask.

To just ask was one of the hardest things I've had to do in a while.  And you guys did not let me down.

Thank you.  Thank you for your donations, your comments, emails and suggestions. Thank you for showing up here to read my words, to follow the story, to play, to be part of this community.

It really does take a village. So many times I think I'm an island.  I'm bloody Ebetha!  Except, I'm really not.  And I don't want to be.

On behalf of the Goldens, thank you.

See - I'd scheduled our electric payment for the very last minute to make sure that my unemployment money would be there.  But I forgot a quarterly payment for my life insurance.  It came out of our bank account, leaving us short.  Which meant that the electric payment would bounce, triggering our disconnect the next day, a whole mess of reconnect fees, the bounced check fee at the bank....because when you're in the hole, you get punished and punished some more.  Not the good kind of punishment with the safe word, but the kind that makes you want to disappear, to just not exist anymore because how is it ever going to get better?

If you live on the edge, you know the feeling.  It's like panic with a side order of self-loathing.

"So the electricity won't be shut off?"  It was Sophie's first question as she dropped her backpack next to the sofa.  I'd had to prep her for the possibility in case she came home while I was out picking up Nate from baseball workouts.  I didn't want her to come home and freak out when the lights wouldn't come on.

"Yep, thanks to the blog readers, we got enough donations to pay the bill."

"Really?"

"Really."

She stared at me. "Wow.  That's amazing."

"They are amazing."

With gratitude,

The Goldens

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Rock Bottom

I could choke on this post because it's killing me to be in this position.  But here goes - if you've ever thought you might want to donate a little to this blog, now would be a really good time to do so.  Because those lights?  And the power making the refrigerator stay cold?  Yeah, they become wildly important when you don't have them any more.

This month has turned into a nightmare and the little minimum wage job I thought I had turned out not to be so.  The scheduling made it impossible.

Donations are being accepted via paypal on the sidebar.  If you'd like something in exchange for your generosity, just let me know.  And no, I'm not giving out sexual favors.  Unless expenses are paid, of course*.

Or you could purchase something from the ebay page I'm now populating with all kinds of MathMan and Lisa stuff.

Thank you, you guys.  I have to go throw up now.

And Having Failed That...

It occurred to me yesterday that the ongoing dialogue in my head - the story I tell myself as I fiddlefart through my days - my life narrative, if you will, is loaded with the phrase Having failed that I.......

You want to run right now, don't you?  Oh, blast it, Harold, she's about to write one of those pity party posts.

But really, I'm not.  Run if you must, or hang tight.  Sit. Let me get you some peanuts and sweet tea.  I'll even make sure it's cat hair free.

As I've trolled the jobs websites like a mouthbreather looking at porn (it's a guess), I realize that part of why I failed at association management was because I lacked passion for it.  Oh sure, I didn't get fired or quit, I got laid off due to economic factors in the construction business, but the reality is that I peaked at age 31.  Or so.  I held a job - not just a job, but a good job -  in the largest membership organization this side of the Catholic Church. 

And I quit.

The reasons are ridiculous and laborious and embarrassing now, but I thought that job was a career dead end. I couldn't have been more wrong, of course. A dead end at 31?  Now there's a chilling idea.  Sadly, I did not inherit my father's Get a Job And Stay There Forever Gene for if I had, I might have some security and a retirement plan.

Live and learn, people, live and learn.

But back to the passion.  I liked what I did well enough, but I was a cog, nothing more than a tool used to get a job done.  After leaving that giant association, I took jobs with professional associations that catered to this niche or that, doing the same thing for different people.  It didn't matter if they were the American Society of Plumbers Without Cracks or the Institute of Time Mismanagement - they needed governance help, conference planning and membership dues.  These things, while I was not passionate about them, I knew how to deliver.  But somewhere along the way, I lost my ability to fake it, I think.

Not so with writing.  Every day, I want to write.  Even if I don't stick it in front of your face and shout "Read! Read!"  I write. I have so much passion for writing I could hump its leg. So why did it take me so long to remember this?  How had those years working and raising kids and outrunning the law robbed me of my passion?

It's a like Novocaine, this real life stuff.  It numbs you to the point where you're happy to just get through the day without telling someone to kiss your ass, your kids survived your parenting well enough to kiss you goodnight and you can fall into bed with the remote in your hand until you remember that you've got wet towels in the washer and the trash pick up comes tomorrow and did you remember to send the car payment?

So if you've never been encouraged to stop and think what you might really want to do with your precious days here in this life, it's pretty easy to find yourself in a passionless career.  Public Service Announcement:  If you are ever in a position to guide a young person, be sure to ask them what it is they want to do, what are they good at?  What do they care about?  Those are some very important questions to explore before one invests time and money on a future.  I regret that no one asked me those things and I didn't have the brains to advocate for myself.

I've considered this as I've been working on this manuscript, wondering if I might have succeeded more, done more, reached a higher level of command (and salary) had I been just as passionate about something like Strategic Planning, as I am about writing, creating, entertaining.  The way my job search is going, it's kind of like what the guy says in the Tootsie Pop commercial, "The world may never know."

I'm still praying to Philip Roth  that I won't have to some day say "....aaaaaand having failed at publishing anything, I ....."  

In the meantime, I'm working on my confidence.  I'm trying to convince myself that this is a When situation, not an If.  To that end, I want to concoct stories about how I wrote this little tale.  You know, little vignettes I can tell if I ever get to do a book signing.  Back in the Twilight series' first blush, we heard about the music Stephenie Meyer listened to while she wrote her novels.  Most of us have heard how J.K. Rowling went to a cafe to do her writing while she was a struggling single mum.

Not that I'm putting myself in that league, but if and when the time comes, am I really supposed to tell the four people who show up at Billy Bob's Fruit Stand and Used Books on Hwy 16 next to the Gun and Pawn Shop that while writing this thing, I was often inhaling the pungent aroma of the litter boxes?

What kind of discussion will that lead to?  The effects of ammonia on one's usage of the passive voice? Besides, that little tidbit, while true, hardly makes me unique.  I bet lots of writers have their desks dangerously close to a litterbox.

Or do I tell them that I edited this thing using Hart's wonderful plan, reading it aloud while sitting in a lawn chair in my bedroom?  I can tell them how I used my bed to spread all my stuff out so I could lose things in the shuffle over and over again. And, of course, again with the cats who, at some point or other, managed to sit, lie or wipe their butts on some of the pages.

I did not appreciate the butt wiping critique, but I was grateful no one horked up a hairball on my "masterpiece."

So here's your chance to help me out.  I've heard Hemingway wrote on the potty.  Some have said that Dorothy Parker wrote wearing only her pearls.  Rumor has it that Ray Bradbury uses only a Number Two Pencil.  I once heard that Danielle Steele won't write unless she's wearing full make up.  And did you know that while writing his memoirs, George W. Bush took writing breaks to watch The Housewives of New Orleans and reruns of Gilligan's Island on Hulu?

See how easy that was?  Your turn. What kind of stories would you tell about how you work?  Or invent some rumors for me, howboutit?  You'll have my undying gratitude and I'll even credit you when I'm out with the Hells Angels Book Club and Charitable Society. 

And having failed that, at least I'll have something with which to entertain myself  while I "rest" on the special floor of the hospital.  So thanks.  And hey, are you finished with those peanuts?

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

The Wisdom of MathMan


MathMan, bless his heart, was full of one liners this weekend.  Sadly, most of them revolved around my breasts.  I swear, it's like the pair of them are a third person in the relationship.  Thankfully, they don't ask for much.  Just an occasional tweezing of the rogue hair (WHAT is THAT all about?) and a good bra (alas, they are often denied).  Oh and they do appreciate being released by the bra, any bras, as soon as the clock strikes 8:00 p.m.

So this man of mine, this light of my life, this guy who helps me figure out percentages, he wakes up on Sunday morning and announces "I like sleeping with big naked boobs."

I blink awake.  "But I'm wearing pants," I yawn.

"You're even funnier without your shirt on," he said before getting up to go weigh himself and pee.  Actually, it's the other way around.  We're all about bragging about our weight loss to each other these days.  You can pretty much the determine the tone of the day by what happens first thing in the morning in the bathroom.  If there's a Woot! it's going to be a good day.  If there's a a "Damn it, I shouldn't have had that half a pizza before bed," it's going to be a tuna over greens day.  Those are not particularly happy days.

Same morning, a little while later, MathMan lay absentmindedly tweaking my nipple while I checked my email on my phone. I'd bet cash money he was using my body while he fantasized about the other woman, Calculus.  The tramp.

"Do you mind?" I skeezed out.   I can take only so much nipple tweaking before I'm compelled to ask the tweaker for an explanation.  "What are you doing?"

He continued to stare off into space.  "I'm communicating."

Family therapists, please take note.  Nipple tweaking is an effective means of "communicating."  I pinched his penis and said, "What I hear you saying is......"

We continued to lollygag about in the bed.  Sadly, that is not a euphemism.  We had other people's kids in the house, you see.  That will keep us locked in our room, looking for entertainment that doesn't make the springs squeak, I tell you what.

I rolled over and one of my ridiculously large breasts became uncovered.  MathMan was on the scene immediately.  "That's better," he smiled.  He put a hand on the exposed flesh and said, "Don't want to let this go to waste."

The rest of the morning went on in the same vein.  Me in need of coffee, but reluctant to leave the room unrestrained.  My breasts in need of some serious corralling.  MathMan waxing poetic about them while thinking about math concepts that are completely over my head.  Probably over my breasts' heads, too, but they'd never tell.  They're always putting on airs like that.

Finally, the Spokescat, who had been rattling our bedroom doorknob and begging for food for what seemed like hours got on my last nerve.  Even all the mammary chat couldn't distract me any longer. I threw the covers off and growled, "That's it, I'll put on a bra.  I can't go around scaring those other kids."

MathMan had a solution for that.  "And that is why we should always say no to letting the kids' friends sleepover.  I guess I better put on some pants, too."

And then he went back to thinking about Calculus.  I'm sure of it.

What's your favorite body part?  Are you a face person?  Do you look at a person's hands first?  A butt aficionado?  Or is it the eyes?  How about the spleen?  I'm rather fond of venting mine........okay, your turn to talk.  I'm shutting up now.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Black Magpie Theory: The Future So Bright


It's Monday.  That means I have a new post up at Black Magpie Theory. I'm blogging about pie.  Or wage suppression.  Same thing?  Depends on who made that crust.

Okay, now I have to go back to writing my J. Peterman inspired ebay descriptions and working on the manuscript which I finished going over for the first time this weekend. (yay!) and, as always, looking for the elusive job with the suppressed wages.

See you back here tomorrow, my handwoven, organic work-a-day thingamajigs.  Until then, be extraordinary.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Are You There, Philip Roth? It's Me, Lisa

Okay, so I've left the manuscript alone for a month and a half.  While I let it sit, I started to have second thoughts.  Who did I think I was trying to write a novel?  What nerve, what chutzpah.  It's crap.  A total waste of time.

This blog is the kind of writing I do - directionless, off the cuff, goofy essays and hack short stories.

Negative self talk is super fun, right?

I picked up the work in progress and held it in my hands.  "Just how bad are you?"  I asked it.  It stared back at me, the black letters daring me to pick up the red pen. I lay it on my bed while I assembled the colored pens, highlighters, little sticky flags and notebook.

Stalling, stalling.

I put Stephen King's On Writing on top of the stack of papers and said a silent prayer to Philip Roth that some of King's wisdom would soak through osmosis into my story.  I reminded myself that this manuscript has already undergone a major rewrite after I took out a character and plot line.  I was in deeper than I really wanted to admit.

I put my hand on top of On Writing and applied just a little pressure.  "Please don't suck."  It's a simple wish.  Just don't suck.  I'm not asking for fabulous or Earth-shattering amazing.  I'm not hoping for a Twilight or a Harry Potter.  I just want to finish this novel and find an agent who doesn't have a horrible time selling this book.  Simple.

After employing another six billion and fifty-two procrastination techniques, I sat down and plunged in.  I read aloud and marked up changes for about an hour.  Okay, I could do this.  I am doing this.  More time went by.  Was it awful?

I thought about the nine thousand and twenty-two pieces of writing advice I've read over the last few months.

Kill the adverbs.  Choose the best adjectives.  Lose the dialogue tags.  Keep the dialogue tags.  Show, don't tell.  More detail, less detail.  Don't forget to let your own voice shine through. First person, second person, third?  Alternating perspectives?  Cut out the backstory. And don't forget to eradicate that word was as much as possible.  Is this piece lyrical? Literary?

And what about your query?  It doesn't matter how good your book is if you never put together a perfect query.

It was at about that point when my lawn chair that has now become a permanent fixture in our bedroom overturned and I crawled gasping from the room.  I think I tumbled down the stairs.  A cat or three stepped around me.  The bravest sniffed my face, signaled to the rest of them and they moved delicately away. They didn't even come back with their food bowls in their mouths demanding sustenance.

MathMan came home and found me in an empty bathtub with a half-consumed wine bottle and an Etch-a-Sketch.  I wore my wedding gown that no longer zips and a straw sunhat, my red pen held between my teeth like a rose.  The work in progress was stacked neatly on the edge of the tub.  I'd planted a lipstick kiss on the top page.

In his characteristically calm manner, he surveyed the scene and gave me a half smile.  "So you're making progress then?"

Something like that.
*******

I saw this at Rachelle Gardner's blog.  It's very apropos to what I'll be doing for the next couple of weeks.


You can bet I'll be paying close attention to the word click when I proofread. 
Because it's not that kind of a story.

Happy weekend.  While I'm staining my fingers with red ink, what will you be doing?

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Four Kinds of Pleasure In One Box


Prologue
He kissed her and rolled off onto his side of the bed.  "So?"
"So?"  She smiled at him.
"It felt just like any other to me."
"Me, too.  Although, for a second there, it got really warm in here."

***********

"Okay, so do you wanna go..."

"Yeah, let's go."

Chloe looked at us, her face expressionless.  "I'm going to go look for something on the other side of the store."

I followed MathMan down the aisle past the tampons and pads.  We stopped before the display of Trojans and Durexes.  Even the organic sheep prophylactics were representing.  They're made of sheep skin, not prophylactics for sheep.  I think.  I haven't researched this, so please don't quote me.

MathMan shrugged.  He grabbed a box with the word KYNG emblazoned across the front.  "What do you think?"

"Definitely appropriate."

He pointed at the box of SKYNs.  "Or maybe?"

We giggled.  Dear me, we're fourteen.  He put the KYNG box back and resumed his serious face.  This was serious business.  Preventing pregnancy and disease is not to be trifled with.  At least that's what we tell our kids.

"Did you see this?  The Pleasure Pack."  He pointed to the less screamingly obvious front of the Trojan box.  The deep purple color of it was nice, non-threatening, quite soothing.

I pulled a box from the shelf, the springy thingy that keeps the boxed items in order snapped into place, as if to draw attention to us.  I shushed it.  "Let's see what this says."  I turned over the package to read the descriptions of what constituted this Pleasure Pack.

I whispered, "Twisted Pleasure. Designed with deep spiral ribs to help stimulate both partners in their most sensitive areas.  Okay, so it's going to stimulate our egos?  That's some pretty powerful latex."

MathMan smirked.  He's a champion smirker, have I told you that?

Her Pleasure was more of the same, but the Trojan people had been broadminded enough to focus purely on the woman's pleasure.  Only, if they were being sincere about a woman's pleasure, they'd make sure it also vacuumed the house, made breakfast and loaded the dishwasher.  The right way.

Intense Ribbed had deep ribs and ultrasmooth lube.  Well now.  Who could argue with that? Shared Pleasure contained warming lubricant because everyone knows how chilly it gets in the vagina/penis areas.  I mean, if you're not careful, you could get frostbite messing around down there. All that talk about going blind?  Lies.  But frostbite? Just be careful.

MathMan continued to look at the vast array of options.  The last time we put this kind of thought into a purchase, we were buying a car that he could wreck sixteen times without totalling it.  "So?"

As with most things, we concluded that the only way to make the choice was by price.  Since there was no white box with black lettering with the simple word Rubbers on it, we decided to go with the Pleasure Pack.  It cost exactly the same as all the rest of the Durex and Trojans and had the same quantity of condoms in the box.  We congratulated ourselves on being such wise consumers.

I hid the box under something in the basket so that Chloe wouldn't be confronted with that aspect of her parents' lives right there in the middle of the store and we met up with her as she came down the main aisle.

"Ready?"

"Yep."  She didn't meet my eyes.

We stood in line and placed our items on the conveyor belt with a bit too much insouciance.  Chloe stood behind us holding a desk lamp she'd found on the clearance end cap.  "Go ahead and put that with our stuff,"  MathMan said. "We can get that for you."

Then we all tried to act like nothing.  We put our hands in our pockets, looked at the ceiling, whistled.

The checker who was getting ready to scan the items, shifted them around, trying to determine if it we were together.  I moved the condom box up to the front of the pile.  "Oh, heh heh, those are ours. Don't want to traumatize her."

The checker looked at Chloe who shrugged.  "Well, at least this isn't as bad as the time when the checker tried to insist that the KY Jelly that belonged to the woman in front of me must be mine."

********
So now you're just dying to try them, aren't you?  Go on, you can admit it.  KY will cost you extra.

See, the Germans are very serious about condoms, too. So stop that snickering right now.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The Sweet Scent of Friendship





 When I talk about you guys, and I do (it's all good! promise!), MathMan feigns interest enough to occasionally look up from his Calculus book although he might just be looking at my boobs.  The kids, on the other hand, feel compelled to qualify the relationship.  "So how do you know this person?"  Sometimes the word "know" gets air quotes.


You'd think they'd be so used to me blogging that it wouldn't matter, but for some reason it does.  I point out to them that even though I've never actually met this person or that person, having read them for a year, two, three even four in some cases, I probably know more about them than any of the friends I've made without the aid of a monitor and a motherboard.

It's an old debate for us, isn't it?  This idea of who's a real friend.  What constitutes real?  For me, what makes the friendship real is that they come to matter to me.  I care what happens to them.

Well, this weekend, I had the opportunity to add another of you to the column of people with whom I've actually visited.  For real.  I got to hang out with Fragrant Liar.   I even got to meet Miss America and Destructo and FL's daughter and son in law and the newest FL grandgirl.



FL is as funny and interesting and gorgeous as I expected her to be - even more so.  MathMan went with me because I'm still not allowed to cross the county line without supervision.  While he watched football and goofed around with FL's baby granddaughter, Fragrant Liar and I chatted mostly about....writing!  Quelle surprise.


It was so nice to talk to someone who understands the part-neurosis part-gift that is the need to write and more - the desire to be published.  We talked about current projects and future ones.  She's ahead of me in the process of finding an agent and getting published so it was really helpful for me to hear about how she'd done things.

This woman is going places.  I'm sure of it.  


This made me think that I really ought to make more of an effort to find a writers' group around here, but that would require me to put on a bra and interact with people.  Ah, there's the rub.....



Writing is a solitary thing, to be sure, but it's the human connection I find most interesting.  And each time I visit one of you, I find new things to think about, elements that could become part of story or the seed of an idea that might grow.  So thank you for that. 


And to Fragrant Liar, it was so good to meet you!  I hope we can do it again sometime soon.


Have you met online friends in the real world?  Was it what you expected? 


Tuesday, September 7, 2010

The Meaning of Talent


A short story inspired by this image sent to me by drydiggins who thought it would be fun for me to take requests.  Not a bad idea, actually.

She sat in the blond wood desk and wondered if she might have chosen a better skirt for the occasion. This one almost blended into the wood that seemed to mold around her body. When she'd dressed earlier in the day, it hadn't occurred to her that she might find herself ready to seduce her professor, but now? Well, it seemed her only option. She had to know.

She shifted in her seat and swung her right leg over her knee then quickly reversed motion and put both feet firmly on the floor. Her knees pressed together, she ran her tongue over her teeth.  As discreetly as she could, she placed her hand over her mouth and checked her breath. 

Dr. Hathaway paced the front of the drab classroom. The rake, he'd accentuated his brown jacket and tan pants with a teal tie. She smiled at this bit of whimsy and wondered if there weren't a wild man hoping to escape that staid interior.

The flash of blue reminded her of a tropical fish trapped in a muddy pond like the one where she used to skinny dip with her boyfriend, The Farmers Son. She always thought of him as that - The Farmer's Son. His real name was Troy, but that just seemed wrong. He should have been a Jeb or a Caleb or a Bo. A Troy didn't ride a tractor wearing just a baseball cap and his Levis with the Skoal circle imprinted into the back pocket, but a Caleb would.

Her eyes stayed on Dr. Hathaway, but now her mind had wandered to those late summer nights at the pond. The Farmer's Son stood in the moonlight, his tanned chest and abs rippled with muscle, his hand not quite hiding the black cloud from where his hardest part sprang. She started to cross her legs again and stopped. Tapped her pencil. Checked her watch.

"So what the writer is trying to do is...." His voice had a bit of that New England clip, just the faintest flat r sprinkled throughout his lectures. She pictured him in tennis whites, in khakis rolled up to show in sockless feet in faded blue Topsiders, in a Tuxedo, preparing to walk up the curved steps of a country club. She shook her head to clear it.

Dr. Hathaway stopped pacing and looked in her direction, his left eyebrow cocked just slightly above the right. His hazel eyes held her gaze for a second before he straightened his tie and resumed pacing.  He seemed to think better while in motion.

Finally, he leaned against the lectern and fiddled with his cuffs as he dismissed the class.  While she dawdled by looking through her pocketbook for nothing in particular, the room emptied.  She considered her options.  She had to know if his nearly-hyperbolic compliment about her written pieces was sincere or whether he was just like every other creep who just wanted a piece of her gorgeous ass and would use any means necessary to get her in bed.

A little frown formed on her lips as she thought about how her looks often got in the way of being taken seriously.  She didn't want to be ugly, but she would have liked to have been a little less.  A little less leggy and blond and well-proportioned and lovely of face.  It would feel so good to take a compliment without question, but she'd learned that was impossible, at least where males were concerned.

She would find out his intentions by coming on to him.  If he took the bait, she'd know that his statement that her writing was so good, it was unlike any he'd seen from his students before was just an attempt to lure her into bed through than appeal to her ego and her desire to become published some day.  If he didn't, then she felt confident that he'd meant what he said.

She closed the clasp on  her purse and hesitated.  What happened after?  If he was sincere and he refused her advances, what would she do?  How would she face him in class, on campus?  She glanced down at the notebook where she'd doodled some geometric shapes around the name Troy.  She thought about the hurt in his dark eyes when she told him how she'd mistakenly succumbed to the flattery of one of the college boys who attended a special writers' workshop at the community college.  She thought it was best to tell The Farmer's Son the truth and hoped he would understand.  He didn't.

She stood and slipped her purse strap over her shoulder.  She had to know.  If Dr. Hathaway had meant what he said and he believed her to be so talented, she'd simply apologize and explain to him that she'd been tricked before.  She'd tell him how she'd come up with this silly scheme to find out the truth from him.  Surely, he'd understand.  Writers, artists are all a little crazy and impetuous anyway, aren't they?

She conjured her sunniest smile, smoothed her skirt and started toward the front of the room where Dr. Hathaway stood with one hand on the teal tie watching her.

********

Thursday, September 2, 2010

And It Wasn't Even On The List

This ad has nothing to do with this post. Or does it?

 We experienced a close call here the other day.

MathMan, who is working multiple jobs - teacher, department chair, and coach to girls' softball, the boys' JV basketball team and baseball (okay maybe that's 5 jobs) - is clocking long days that often run from 6:30 a.m. with the start of his long commute until he returns home at 9pm from some coaching job.  When he gets home, he's not done.  He still has work emails to answer and send, lesson planning, papers to grade  and whatever other random stuff comes up.  And two kids who sometimes need help in math.

The man is on overload.

He was at the end of his patience about some work related thing when he came into the bathroom and said, "I am doing everything I can and it's never enough."

What triggered his exasperation may have been work-related, but the impact of the words hit me square in the forehead I was exfoliating when he stormed into the bedroom to search for his calculus book appendage.

Old instincts kicked in.  We've lived this life before.  Early in our marriage, MathMan managed a Radio Shack and worked about eighty hours a week.  I worked regular hours and took care of the apartment.  I hated that dynamic so much that I once sat down and made a list of reasons why he should find another job. 

Now I'm not even working regular hours.  Am I not pulling my weight?  I'm looking for a job and writing a novel, but that doesn't look like work.  Writing is what I love to do.  Keeping house doesn't count for much because so much of it is invisible.  I'm alone much of the time so no one can see what I do.

If a woman cleans a toilet and no one is there to see her do it, did it really happen?

I blinked at MathMan  as I tried to think of a response.  The old fight or flight response poked its head up and sniffed around.

Down boy.

"What do you mean by that?"  I'd decided to ask for a clarification, for him to flesh out that thought, to tell me if I should be doing more.

Something in my face must have indicated that the old instinct was alert now.  He picked up his book and explained that his job frustrations were mounting and he was struggling to juggle all his roles.  He was clear - this wasn't a home issue.

The fight or flight instinct settle back into place and quieted.  I tried to be supportive, mostly by just listening.  He went back to his desk to finish one last work assignment before coming to bed.  While I finished getting ready for bed, I silently congratulated us for getting better at this.  In the old days, this would have escalated into ugly words before it become a tense, angry silence punctuated by only the most necessary of polite words through gritted teeth.

I also thought about what else I could be doing to ease his burden and to show how much I do appreciate all that he does.  My thoughts ranged from taking over the yard work to getting this novel published.  A wide range, I know, but I have been so lucky to have him support and encourage me every step of the way.  Even when I know he must be thinking it would be nice for me to have a regular, paying job again.

I pulled out my notebook and jotted down a few ideas.  I'd talk to him about it later.

The next morning, I asked him how he was feeling.

"Much better.  Venting helped."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah, I needed that.  Thanks."

I smiled at him and swung my legs over the side of the bed. 

He touched me on the back and laughed.  "The fact that you've taken to sleeping topless doesn't hurt either."

Gratuitous pic of my honey.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

The Pursuit of Happiness

"You smile a lot."

"Do I?"

"Yeah, it makes it hard to tell what you're really feeling."

Sometimes the way my fourteen year old son is able to just say things - astute things - blows me away.

"That's an interesting observation.  You know, I'm reading a book about women and happiness and the author goes into how Americans, especially American women, are programmed to be cheerful."

"I didn't say you were cheerful.  You just smile alot.  Like at that intersection.  You smiled at that guy and he smiled back."

"Did that bother you?"

"No.  I just realized you do that a lot. Doesn't matter if it's a man or woman driving the other car.  You just smile."

"So when I smile, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm happy."

"'zactly."

He's right.   My smile has no connection to what's going on inside.  I haven't shared this with you guys, but I'm back on the appetite suppressant, aka The Mean Pill.  When I'm taking it, it works.  I lose weight (8lbs gone!).  But I also become a bit of a powder keg with a short fuse.  My mean mouth, otherwise held back on oh so many occasions, is given free reign and instead of just letting things slide, I become hell-bent on pointing out all the petty grievances I have with my family. 

I become yelly. Chloe, who coined the phrase The Mean Pill, also had another way to describe my behavior when I'm taking this drug.  Raging around.  Lovely, right? There she goes, raging around like an angry elephant.  A pack of hyenas.  A wild-haired woman brandishing a jug of bleach and a toilet brush.

Then I hear myself and I stop.  Take a breath.  I come through with quick apologies. Remind myself that next time - filter, filter, filter!

After I've been on the meds for a bit, it smooths out, but in the transition, I become the pill.  I guess you could say that, even if you can't tell when I'm happy, you certainly won't have any trouble knowing when I'm angry.  I broadcast it loudly and colorfully.  My mother would die of shame if she could hear me.  Heck, I die a little of shame right before I apologize to the most recent victim of my verbal assaults. 

I suppose the best thing you can say about this is that at least I don't fake smile while I'm shredding my loved ones.  The remedy for now is for me to stay locked in the basement or to keep the duct tape over my mouth when everyone is around.  Because no matter how many times I do tell them what sends me over the edge, they still do and don't do the things that turn push that rage button.

"So what do you think, Nate?  Should I stop smiling when I'm not happy?"

"Nah.  I don't think it's a bad thing."

"But the book suggests that maybe it is.  It keeps us from being more aware of our emotions."

"Mom?  We're Americans.  We don't have emotions."

"That's what the book says!"

"Okay, now be quiet.  We've reached our talking limit.  Here listen to this."


So what about you?  Do you wear your emotions on your sleeve?  Cram it all down until it's an unrecognizable nugget?  Okay, who besides me are the phony smilers?  And are there any other rageaholics or is it just me?