Jaded Jennifer

In 2002, I loved the singer Pink. I particularly loved her song Don’t Let Me Get Me, which was the anthem for girls with poor self-esteem. The chorus goes like this:

Don’t let me get me

I’m my own worst enemy

It’s bad when you annoy yourself

So irritating

 Don’t wanna be my friend no more

I wanna be somebody else

I’ve never had good self-esteem. Add to that the fact that that was the year my husband of 10 years cheated on me and we split up, and I was desperately trying to find myself, or change the person that I was, and this song was most definitely my anthem.

Today, driving down the road with Mikaela, this song came on the radio. I hadn’t heard it in a long time, so I turned it up and sang along. And I realized, it’s just not me anymore. 9 years ago, I spent so much time focusing on my faults and trying to figure out ways to change them. The few times that I’d recognize a positive trait in myself, I’d immediately counter it with something negative that annoyed me. I had days when I hated myself so much that I could hardly stand to look in the mirror.

Today, I’m a totally different person. Oh, I still have those “negative” traits. I’m still as annoying as ever. Possibly even more so now. But you know what? I’ve totally embraced those traits in me. I talk way too much. Yeah? So what? Deal with it. Buy some ear plugs or tell me to shut up. I over-analyze things. Is that really so bad? Isn’t that better than being oblivious to the world? I like being a “thinker” a lot more than I’d like being a dumbass.  I get completely obsessed with things to the point that it’s all I can think about or talk about. This trait is probably the most annoying one for my family and close friends, but I’ve learned to embrace my obsessions. Because they never last long and then I move on to another obsession. In many ways, this can benefit the people around me. I became obsessed with drawing and a lot of people got drawings of themselves out of it. I became obsessed with painting and, well, I know quite a few people who now have a Jennifer Original hanging in their house. Right now my obsession is Lalaloopsy dolls. Not just buying them but making dollhouses and clothing and customizing them. And trust me, my girls are totally benefiting from this. My wallet? Not so much. But eventually it will pass and the girls will have some really cool toys out of the deal. I’m sure that Wren is secretly hoping my next obsession will be something that benefits him. Like D&D or collecting swords and knives. *Keep dreaming, Wren.*

But really, this obsessive quality of mine goes beyond hobbies. I become obsessed with foods too. And people. I meet someone new and I spend every second that I can talking to them, or hanging out with them, or thinking about them. It can be a bit overwhelming for people who don’t know me and I’m fairly certain that I’ve given many, many guys the wrong impression. (No, I’m not in love with you. I’m just obsessed with getting to know you.) Unfortunately, as with all of my obsessions, I eventually move on to someone else and I’m sure I’ve also hurt a lot of people’s feelings or made them question their own self-worth.

But that’s another way I’ve changed A LOT. I no longer take responsibility for the way other people feel. I’m not in charge of their emotions, they are. I don’t play games with people. I’m honest and upfront about how I feel about things, and what my intentions are. If people read things into what I say, that’s really on them. Eventually it all seems to work out.

There are a lot of other qualities that I possess that I used to see as a negative but that I’ve now learned to embrace. And it surprises me sometimes to realize that I actually *gasp* LIKE myself now. I know. It’s shocking, right? I don’t have an over-inflated ego or anything. But I’ve always said that I can see the negative traits in other people and like them in spite of (or maybe because of) those traits. It’s nice to know that I’ve finally been able to do that with myself.

So this is my formal apology to Pink. (Or is it P!nk now?)  While I still think you’re a great singer and Don’t Let Me Get Me is a good song, it’s no longer my anthem. I’ll pass that torch on to some other girl and hope that in time, she learns how to love herself as I have.

All of my life, people have told me I’m cute. Cute. I’ve grown to hate it.

Cute is what you call a little girl with her hair in pigtails. Cute is what you call a backpack covered in Hello Kitty stickers. Cute is what you call those wrinkles next to George Clooney’s eyes when he smiles. Mmmm……George Clooney…..

Anyway, where was I?  Ah yes, the cute issue. My Eternal Optimist tells me “At least people aren’t saying you’re NOT cute.” Thank you, Eternal Optimist. I knew I could count on you to find the positive side to this. He finds the positive side to EVERYTHING. Even if I’d just been run over, repeatedly, by a semi and then had a seagull crap on my remains, I’m sure he’d say something like “Hey, at least you died a relatively quick death. It could have been worse.” Because that’s what my Eternal Optimist does. He’s like a Magic Eight Ball for optimism. Complain about some horrible situation in your life (like people always calling you cute), shake him up, and see what optimistic platitude he spouts off. This is why I love him.

Over time, I’ve come to accept being called cute. Alright, sure. Whatever. I’m cute. Cute like a kitten. Or, you know, cute like a panther that wants to eat your face.

But, you know, maybe that’s what people REALLY mean when they tell me I’m cute. Maybe what they’re really saying is “You’re cute. Please don’t eat my face.” In that case, I guess it’s not so bad being called cute. I’d ask them to clarify for me, but I’m afraid they’d laugh and say “You? Eat my face? Yeah, right. You’re cute like a kitten, of course.” And then I’d have to eat their face. Which is kinda gross. And I’d probably go to jail. For eating people’s faces.

Wait. What am I talking about? I’m too cute to be arrested.

*And as a side note: Right before I started writing this blog post, Wren (who had no idea I was about to write this blog post) turned and looked at me and said “You’re so cute.” And then I ate his face.

*Another side note: I may not have actually eaten his face. But that’s only because I just ate tomato soup and grilled cheese and Kelcie got her driver’s license today so we bought her a chocolate cake and if I had eaten his face, I wouldn’t have room for cake. But otherwise, I definitely would have eaten his face. He’s lucky we have chocolate cake.

*Last side note, I swear: If you comment on this and tell me that I’m cute, I will come to your house and eat your face. Unless you have chocolate cake.

*Ha ha, I lied: If you DO have chocolate cake…..send me some?

I always imagined my life so much different. I never thought I’d be this mother of 6 children, struggling to find ways to pay the power bill. I mean, who wishes for that? When I grow up, I wanna be a low-income single parent with an unemployed live-in boyfriend!!!!

And so I daydream.

I imagine I’m a trophy wife. I’ve got a workaholic husband who makes a 6-figure salary so the only worry I have each day is whether to go get a manicure or a massage. I make my husband breakfast each morning, pack him a lunch to take to work, get the kids off to school, then spend my day watching soap operas and doing some light cleaning. In the afternoon, I run my kids to their after-school activities, then rush home in time to get a nice, hot dinner on the table before my husband arrives home from work.

But then I see that the workaholic husband would have very little time for me or his children and a life of leisure really becomes boring and unfulfilling over time. I’d much rather have my Wren who, while he has his moments where he gets overly addicted to video games, is loving and caring and would drop anything he’s doing to be there for me. Even if all I need is a foot rub. You know, the guy who stopped playing his game yesterday and went to the grocery store (without me asking him to) then came back with everything he needed to make me a banana cream pie. Then made it. And served it to me after the yummy dinner that he made. And you just know that neglectful hubby wouldn’t be the slightest bit supportive of my art or my writing. And he probably wouldn’t even touch the delicious eggs and bacon that I set in front of him in the morning. No, instead he’d choose to sip on a cup of coffee while he reads the morning paper, then rush out the door and forget to grab the lunch that I made him.

I imagine I’m a high-powered business woman living in some high-rise in New York city. I wear suits to work and my subordinates have given me a cool, albeit scary, nickname. Like The Viper. I bring work home with me each evening and I go out to business dinners a couple of times a week. I live for my job and even dream about ways to get further in my chosen career.

But that life would get lonely after awhile. Sure, work is fulfilling in some ways but it could never fulfill that need for companionship. Not to mention, I couldn’t imagine my life without my kids. While they may drive me nuts sometimes, they also make me proud and I laugh with them every day.

I imagine I’m a starving artist living in a crappy studio apartment in Seattle or Portland. My floor is covered with a paint-splattered tarp, buckets of paint and brushes, and huge canvases, both blank and painted. There’s little room for furniture but it doesn’t matter because when I’m not standing there throwing paint on a canvas, I’m sitting in the coffee shop below my apartment working on angsty poems that will never be published in any respectable literary journal.

But you know, canvases are actually VERY expensive, and so is paint. And really, I like food too much to starve myself for art. I already feel underappreciated enough at times, I’d hate to live my life that way. I’d rather have my Wren and my kids who, while I’m in my Mom Cave elbow deep in some painting or drawing or story that I’m writing, they peek in the door and ask me if I’ve eaten today. Then they make me food. And bring it to me.

I imagine I’m a celebrity living in a mansion in L.A. My house is so big that it takes a full week to walk from one side to the other. I have a staff of maids, cooks and butlers and a personal assistant who waits on me hand and foot while I lie outside in the sun next to my Olympic-sized pool sipping mimosas and spreading caviar on crackers.

Except….I don’t really like champagne and I REALLY don’t think I’d like fish eggs. And while lying outside in the sun sounds nice and all, I’d hate having to make sure my hair and makeup were impeccable and that my tan was perfectly golden and even. You know, for all of the paparazzi that would be hiding in my bushes just DYING to get a shot of me accidentally dropping caviar into my cleavage. Plus, I really like my privacy. I like being able to lounge around in sweats or quickly brush my hair back into a ponytail and run to the store for some ranch dip and chips. And all of those evenings when I just want to curl up with my Snuggie and a book, instead I’d have to get all glammed up to go to some movie premiere or award show.

I imagine I’m some mountain-woman, in a log cabin surrounded by woods, living off of the land. I have a couple of goats that I milk, and I churn my own butter, then collect eggs from the hen-house. There’s no electricity in my cabin, and the only water comes from a well. I bathe in the mountain spring and fish in the creek that runs behind my cabin. I own the land outright so I have no actual bills except the basics. You know, flour, cornmeal, sugar, and food for my animals, of course. But once a month I ride my horse into town and set up a booth by the feed store where I sell the crafts that I’ve made out of twigs and rocks. I spend my evenings outside rocking in my porch swing, listening to the crickets and owls and enjoying the unlimited stars in the sky. No sounds of traffic rushing by, no music blasting from a neighbor’s house, no televisions, no cell phones, no computers….

Yeah, you already see the flaw in that one, right? Like I could EVER live without my electronics. Or Twinkies. And I bet it would be nearly impossible to get a separate well filled with Mountain Dew. Yeah. It’s a nice thought. For a minute.

They say the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. The reason for this is that from a distance, you can’t see all of the clover and dandelions, or the little patches of dirt and mushrooms. Luckily, I’ve become pretty good at noticing details like that. So while my own grass could definitely use some Weed and Feed, I choose to focus on the patches of lush, vibrant grass and give it the love it will need so it can spread.

I’m sitting in my bedroom writing today. I’ve been happy because I’m actually accomplishing something. Normally, when I’m writing, Wren stays downstairs and keeps the kids out of my hair, and will occasionally show up with a hot cup of coffee for me, made just the way I like it with hazelnut and caramel creamers and lots of sugar.

Today, though, he started watching the Amazing Race on his computer and I guess coffee didn’t cross his mind. I sent him text messages….that he never even saw because he was so into the show he didn’t hear his creepy phone talking to him. As far as I know, he STILL hadn’t seen them. But here they are, for all of YOU to see:

4:31pm - Coffee?

4:41pm - So is that a no on the coffee?

5:03pm - I want sex. Come and do me now.

5:11pm - So is that a no on the sex too?

5:26pm - You suck

5:30pm - I offer you sex in exchange for coffee and you ignore it. How rude.

5:39pm - What do I have to do for a cup of coffee around here? Offer you a strip tease?

5:40pm - A foot rub?

5:43pm - A blow job?

5:47pm - A threesome?

5:55pm - Seriously. What does a girl have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?

5:59pm - I’d offer to floss your cat but I don’t think that would do it for you.

6:06pm - Fine. I give up. I didn’t want coffee anyway. Jerkface.

Isn’t it fun to have a text message conversation with yourself? Hey, at least I lasted an hour and a half before I resorted to name calling.

Oh, and in other news, a killer whale killed somebody yesterday. Shocking.

Ok, back to writing.

I swear if I keep watching the Food Network, I’m gonna weigh 900 pounds. The problem is, I have a 5 year old who is absolutely obsessed with watching it. She turns every tv in the house to Food Network, even the one in my bedroom. So I sit here and watch Semi-Homemade with her and then we both end up hungry and I have to go rustle up some grub for us to eat. Unfortunately, nothing I make tastes as good as the stuff on Food Network looks.

So I made us some rice. It’s broccoli and cheese rice and it’s not bad. Nothing special. But eating it with chopsticks always makes it FEEL special and it’s really fun to watch Boogie learning how to use them.

And now my favorite is on…Throwdown with Bobby Flay. (How come every time I type his name, I want to call him Booby?)

I am absolutely in love with Bobby Flay, which is funny because I really didn’t like him for the longest time. Then this show came out and it showed more of his playful personality, and how sweet he really is, while still having a great sense of humor. And, come on, that boy CAN COOK! I totally admit that they key to my heart is a man cooking me good food and serving it to me.

Bobby just challenged a couple of guys to a bread pudding throwdown. Or did he? Because what REALLY happened is, these two guys wrote a blog and said they thought Bobby Flay was going to end up challenging them to a throwdown. Some execs at Food Network saw that blog and sent Bobby to challenge them.

Really? I mean, really? Is that all it takes to get Bobby Flay to show up?

Fine, here’s my challenge then. Bobby, come to MY house. I challenge you to a….sitting on your ass while someone else serves you food throwdown!

No? Hmmmm….

Ok then, I challenge you to a typing throwdown! Because I just bet I can type faster than you.

That doesn’t sound like much fun, huh? Well, come on, I’ve been sitting here for a whole two minutes trying to think of something I could challenge him with. It certainly wouldn’t involve cooking. I’m not a BAD cook. But I’m no Bobby Flay and I really don’t have a special recipe that I cook better than anybody….

I’ve got it!!!

Bobby Flay, I am challenging you to come to my house and teach me a recipe that my WHOLE family will love!

Sure, that sounds easy. You haven’t met my kids. Trust me. In 17 years I’ve only managed to find one or two meals that all 6 of them like and will eat. I think this challenge would be the hardest one yet. Especially if you add in the fact that while you’re cooking this meal, you have to break up fights, get kids to do their homework and try not to trip over the cat and dog that think they have to check on you every five minutes. AND the meal has to be relatively easy, cheap and quick to prepare, keeping in mind that nobody in this house will TOUCH seafood. lol

I think that sounds like an awesome challenge. So what’s the deal, Bobby? You on your way yet?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a pervert. My favorite subject has always been sex. I enjoy talking about it with other people, and I’ve often been known to give WAY more details than some people want to hear. Part of that is because I don’t mind hearing details from other people so sometimes it doesn’t cross my mind that they might have an issue with it. Sometimes I really LOVE hearing the details of other people’s sex lives, to the point that I once considered being a sexologist. Yes, it’s a real profession. Go look it up.

I was never all talk either. I loved having sex, more than I loved almost anything. At some point in my relationship with Mark, though, I stopped wanting to have sex. It wasn’t that I lost interest in sex really, because I still loved talking about it and thinking about it. But it started to feel like such a hassle, like an obligation. I think this was when I really learned how easy it was to get myself off by masturbating and after that, my sex life was done for. After all, why go through the long hassle of foreplay and sex when I could get myself off in 2 minutes and then drift off to sleep in non-cuddling bliss?

Maybe that sounds weird. I mean, women are supposed to like romance and foreplay and long, slow sex and pillow talk and cuddling. But that just wasn’t me. Oh, sometimes it was, sure. But most of the time all of that felt like WORK when all I really wanted was the orgasm.

When me and Mark split up, I became insatiable. To the point that I realized recently any guy who has been with me laughs at the idea of me going for a week or more without sex. I admit, it kind of offended me. I started feeling like guys look at me like I’m a nympho or something, which I’m really not.

So maybe it’s my determination to not be what other people think I am. I know I have that stubborn, strong-willed streak that often refuses to conform to the ideas people have about me. All I know is that lately, I’ve become absolutely sexless. Not just that I don’t HAVE sex lately, although that much is true too. But I don’t even masturbate. And I don’t think about sex. Or talk about sex. Or drop sexual innuendos like they just sprout off of my tongue.

Maybe worse than not being sexual is the fact that I’m no longer even sensual. I hide my body in baggy pants and t-shirts. When I change my clothes, I do it as quickly as possible, and I don’t dare stand anywhere near a mirror where I might actually see myself. I no longer walk with the swagger of a woman who believes she’s beautiful and sexy (not that I ever TRULY believed it but a part of me could have been convinced). No, I walk with my hands in the pockets of my baggy hoodie, head down, shoulders hunched, not looking people in the eye.

I remember being this girl once upon a time. I didn’t like her. And you know what? I still don’t like her. I just wish I knew how to get rid of her for good, but she’s like good old Aunt Flo; she just keeps coming back. All it takes for me is a lack of guys (or guy, I suppose) showing me attention and flirting with me and letting me know that they find me sexy, and then BOOM! There’s shy, self-conscious Jennifer peeking her head around the corner.

Someday, maybe, I’ll find a way to get rid of her on my own and not have to rely on men. Because, really, we all know how unreliable they can be.

Time for a bathtub book review. Been awhile since I’ve done one of those. Last week I spent $160 on books at Borders so I’ve been doing a lot of reading. Yesterday I started reading Wake by Lisa McMann. It’s a YA book about a girl named Janie who is a dream catcher.

I spent all day yesterday in bed, and in the bathtub (yes, I took 2 baths yesterday since I was feeling like crap), and I finished Wake. Then I read the second book, Fade. Finished that one last night and started reading the third, Gone. I woke up this morning and continued reading it and just finished.

I have quite a few thoughts about this trilogy. It’s hard for me to separate the “editor” side of my brain when I’m reading sometimes. The disjointed, incomplete sentences in this series really drove me insane a lot of the time. Let me give a couple of examples:

She stops writing and stares at the last two words.

Throws the pen at the wall. Slams her fists on the desk. Shoves the chair back so hard it flips over. Stands in the middle of the room and screams at the ceiling.

That’s one example of the incomplete sentences. Here’s another:

Lies back down on the couch, full of cake.

Thinks about what happens next.

Knows that soon she’ll say good-bye to Cabe forever.

And that?

Despite the benefits,

Will be the hardest thing she’s ever done.

Ok, so I understand people having their own voice and writing style. I totally get it. But there were times when it drove me absolutely nuts and I wondered why somebody would write a series of books like this. In a way, it makes the author look like she doesn’t really know how to write.

But really, that’s the editor in me who cringes at the use of words like “skillz” in a novel. (Yes, that word was actually in this book.) But when I separate that side of me, and just look at it from a writer/reader perspective, I really did love these books. The concept itself was wonderful; so fresh and different. The characters were certainly likable, even if there were times when I wondered why Janie freaked out about something Cabel said. I found myself wishing for more, wanting to read another book (or four) and to find out what happens with the rest of her life.

It’s a series of books that were well worth the money I spent on them, and that will probably be read many times over the next few years, by me and my daughter, who has been waiting for me to finish them so she could read them. Yes, I’m 34 years old and I just finished (and loved) and YA trilogy. I suggest you go out and get your own copies and give them a read. If you put aside the editorial issues and get into the books, they’re definitely worth it.

For the last two days, I’ve been working on my next book. I had to write out my character sketches, and do a quick synopsis, then work on outlining my plot points, all before I could start the actual writing.

I didn’t used to do things this way. I was always the “fly by the seat of your pants” type of writer who just sat down and started writing. But I never finished a book that way. My focus with the story was never clear enough so I’d get half the book written, then give up on it. Now I’ve figured out a system that works well for me, with my 3×5 index cards and my notebooks full of outlines.

But see, this is how I work:

I sit on my bed surrounded by stuff. You know, my laptop, two or three notebooks, five or six ripped out pages of stuff that I need to copy over into a notebook, my pink and white box that holds all of my index cards, and of course, the cards themselves, spread out on the comforter around me.

It took me the last two days to get it all written down. Sadly, it’s not like I wrote a lot. A couple of pages in my notebook and one or two sentence plot points on about 30 index cards. But it took me awhile because I’m pretty easily distracted lately.

And now I’m writing. I moved to my chair to write, where I can put my laptop on my lap (where it’s apparently supposed to be as opposed to on the bed in front of me where I have to lean over it and kill my back), I can put my feet up on the bed, and I have all of my paraphernalia on the little wicker shelf next to me. You know, my writing essentials. My notebook, my index cards, my cell phone, my ashtray, my Mountain Dew and my cigarettes.

So I write about 50 words.

Then I get distracted by Must Love Dogs, which is playing on my DVD player and I spend the next 20 minutes or so watching it. I shake myself and get back to my laptop.

And I write about 25 more words.

Then I click on my Mozilla, which is open (with 9 separate tabs, mind you) and minimized. Up pops Facebook, which I refresh just to see what’s going on with people or if anyone has left me any comments. I spot a status that my niece posted saying she got a new chair for when her baby arrives. So I leave a comment asking her what kind of chair, and then I scroll through and read all of the other status updates since I last checked. Then I minimize my Mozilla again and go back to Word.

And I write another 50 or so words.

Then I’m distracted by Diane Lane having slept with Dermot Mulroney’s character even though he’s clearly a player and she should be with John Cusack’s character, who is a bit kooky but that’s no big deal. Kooky is fun sometimes. The excitement on the screen fades so I turn back to my computer.

And this time I had a writing burst….of 100 words.

Then I check to see if my niece responded to my comment because I’m really curious what kind of chair she got. Is it a rocking chair? Or is it a bouncy chair for the baby? Or maybe it’s some neat, new thing that makes parenting easier. You know, something that they didn’t bother coming out with when my kids were babies because I didn’t deserve to have my job made easier for me. I had to do things like bounce one kid in his bouncy seat with my foot while feeding another in the high chair and balancing the third on my head because he was learning to be an acrobat so he could run off and join the circus. But no, still no comment from my niece. So I quickly check my email (which is empty, by the way), then refresh my MySpace (which is completely dead because, duh, nobody uses MySpace anymore) and finally I go back to Word.

Where I write another 50 words.

But then I start to feel like I need something to munch on, even though I’ve already eaten half a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, two eggs and two pieces of toast, and a slice of banana cream pie with a fresh banana chopped up and sprinkled across it. So I look around and find the box of Fig Newtons that Wren bought for me earlier and I eat a couple of those. Then it’s back to work.

And the food has refreshed me. I manage a whole 200 words.

But then I just have to go back to Facebook and see if my niece has responded yet and oh! Look! There’s one notification. My niece got a glider rocker with an ottoman for a really good price. So I have to leave her a comment warning about fingers or toes near it, which is probably pretty insensitive since she just shut her son’s finger in the door last night and I didn’t think about that when I wrote it so I added that I’m not a fan of rocking chairs or recliners ever since our kitten was killed in one, hoping that by mentioning the tragedy of our cat’s death about four years ago, she’ll disregard the fact that I had in essence pointed out her own guilt in smashing her son’s little finger. Once the comment is posted, I quickly go back to Word before I end up deciding that I should probably go delete it because I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

And I write another 25 words.

But really….I should go delete it, right? I love my niece and lord knows, I’ve done enough emotional and physical damage to my kids that I’ve actually felt guilty about. I’d hate somebody callously bringing up those moments and making me feel more guilty. So I go back to Facebook and delete the comment real quick, hoping that neither her or her sister (who had also commented on that post and would be notified of my comment) had read it yet. Breathing a sigh of relief that my stupid comment wasn’t there for the world to read anymore, I go back to Word.

And I write another 50 words.

But then I get distracted by Diane Lane finally realizing that John Cusack was the right man for her as they awkwardly kiss in the grocery store. And I wonder what kind of face cream Diane Lane uses because she really looks so good for her age. I mean, seriously, she doesn’t look a day over 25 if you disregard the slight bags under her eyes but those could just be because she was up all night sweating with some 18 year old hard body and had to be on the set bright and early in the morning.  Hmmmm…..maybe that’s what keeps her looking so young, huh? But yes, back to my book.

Another 50 words pop up on the page.

But then I realize the movie is over and it’s awful quiet in my bedroom and I just can’t write in a silent room, it’s too distracting so I have to get up and find another movie to put in, which could take me quite awhile except I had the foresight to bring TWO movies up to my bedroom when I got ready to start writing. So I throw Because I Said So in the DVD player and settle back in my chair for some Mandy Moore and Diane Keaton goodness and I smile at the slight coincidence of me choosing two movies that star ladies named Diane, before turning back to Word.

And I write another 75 words.

But the previews on the DVD are showing the movie Knocked Up and I remember that we had that movie at some point because I remember watching it, but I don’t remember seeing it since then and I don’t know what could have happened to it so I send Wren a quick text asking him and, of course, he has no idea but I’m thinking maybe it went to the pawn shop at some point and we never bothered to get it out and I should buy it sometime because it was really a pretty good movie. But, back to writing.

Another 25 words done.

But then the previews are over and I have to find the DVD remote to hit play on the movie and, you know, while I’m already distracted, I should quickly check my Facebook again and just make sure neither of my nieces read my comment before I deleted it, and I’m relieved to see that they didn’t unless their lack of responses is just because they both read it and they’re so appalled that I would say something so mean and they’re currently on the phone with each other wondering why they even bother calling me family since technically I haven’t been with their uncle in over 7 years now.

I shrug off the worry and check my empty email box again and then, while I’m already distracted from writing, I figure I should write a new blog all about my writing process so maybe other people who want to be authors can learn from my super-organized skills and I realize that in the last 2 hours I’ve managed to write about 700 words of my book but in the last 20 minutes I must have written about 1500 words on my blog and why is it so much easier to write a blog than work on  my book?

Hmmm…..you know, maybe none of you should try to learn from my writing techniques actually. Go buy a book about writing or something. Because that way at least you know the person you’re learning from managed to finish and publish at least one book, right?

Some days….like today, for example……I just wish I could sit around in my bedroom naked. Ever have those days? Where every place clothing touches your body hurts? Like, I’m pretty sure my ribs are currently being crushed by my bra and my pants are absolutely strangling my stomach right now. I kind of wonder why clothes were even invented and I really don’t get why they had to be made so restricting that they literally break bones. Ok, maybe not literally but it feels that way sometimes.

So why can’t I just sit around in my bedroom naked? Well, I could….I guess. I could always lock my door and lounge on my bed unclothed. Nobody would see me. Hey, if I owned a bathrobe, I could even just throw it on when somebody knocks on the door. Of course, I don’t actually own a bathrobe because every single time I’ve bought one I somehow lose the tie for it or it just disappears completely. But at least with the door locked, I wouldn’t risk somebody barging in and seeing me.

The problem is that I would still have to see me. And I’m not sure I’m ok with that. It’s one thing to see myself in the mirror when I’m standing up and able to suck in my stomach so that it gives the illusion of being flat. Unfortunately, I can’t really do that same thing when I’m sitting on my bed, criss-cross applesauce (that’s the PC version of Indian-style, in case you weren’t aware), leaning over my laptop typing. No, that’s when all of the flab scrunches up and the boobs flop down and all it takes is once glance away from the screen to see it. And I just ate dinner. And it was pretty good so I’d rather not lose it all over my keyboard. Especially since my warranty just expired on my laptop and I couldn’t clean the vomit out of the keys enough to get it to work again.

So I guess I’ll stay clothed. *sigh*  But maybe, just maybe, I could take my bra off and toss it in the closet. Maybe.

I have too much I want to blog about this morning. Sometimes, when I have so many things I want to talk about, they all get jumbled in my head and I can’t figure out how to yank those pieces out and put them back together. So here are a couple of things I managed to salvage out of the wreckage.

Life magazine did a wonderful piece on famous literary drunks and addicts that you should check out. That’s a link, by the way. Click on it. I promise it won’t bite.

It got me thinking….is it just normal for creative people to become addicted to things? I’ve always said that I have an addictive personality. Which, to me, means that I become addicted to things WAY too easily. It’s not just my cigarettes and Mountain Dew, really. I become addicted to foods all the time. Wren makes biscuits and gravy and suddenly I’m addicted, so that all I want to eat for the next two weeks is biscuits and gravy and so what if he’s sick of it after two days, I’M ADDICTED ASSHOLE SO GO MAKE ME MORE!!!! Phew, sorry. Lost it there for a moment. It’s not just foods either. I become addicted to everything. Like drawing, for example. I start drawing and I just can’t stop. I’ll draw constantly for weeks, and then suddenly I’m sick of it and I move onto another addiction.

Really, I sometimes feel like my life is just one addiction after another. What I eat, what I drink, what I do each day is all determined by what I happen to be addicted to at that moment. It’s really not fun. But maybe, just maybe, it’s normal, huh? Go check out that Life article and see how many of those photographs have somebody smoking in them.

Oh, and another thing I salvaged from my messy brain is this:

I completed one of my bucket list items last weekend, just like I said I was going to. I wanted to add some photos but for some reason WordPress hates me today and won’t let me add photos or properly edit any of my pages. So I guess that will have to wait. Seriously, the internet really is trying to ruin my life.

Aliens woke me up this morning. I’m not kidding. Or it could have been a ghost. I really wasn’t sure. I passed out down in the living room on the love seat last night around 10pm, which is WAY early for me. At 5:50 this morning, I was jarred from my peaceful slumber by a jingle and a woman’s voice. I was disoriented (from being downstairs and it being so dark, not to mention the music coming from Wren’s laptop when I always sleep to the television) but I KNEW the voice came from behind my head. I sat up quickly and kept looking around, trying to find this person who talked. There was nobody there. I contemplated the idea that we may have a ghost in our apartment, then I finally decided to get up and pee…ummmm….I mean, use the restroom, and as I was walking in there, I heard a very distinctive beep from the living room. I didn’t turn around and look because I was sure it was an alien spaceship about to beam me up and I figured it would be better if I emptied my bladder first.

I guess emptying the bladder also allowed my brain to start working because when I went and sat back down on the love seat, I realized that Wren’s phone was plugged in and sitting on the window right above my head. I reached for it and, sure enough, he had a new text message. So that explained the beeping. It was some stupid thing from MySpace, which I replied “STOP” to so that they’d quit sending it. I set the phone back on the windowsill and then JUMPED when that stupid voice said “new message” or some crap like that.

So now apparently cell phones are trying to ruin my life too. I should have gone back to bed when I had the chance.