This One's For You*

I can't lie, internets--the last several weeks have been the hardest your ol' pal Peg have ever endured. But I've been regrettably absent too long; it's time for another bout of blog therapy.

Mid-February, my blood sister passed away very suddenly and unexpectedly. We did not grow up together, but we grew into who we wanted to be together. I was her "sister in all but blood" until she drew on her Native American heritage and went to the local council to find out how to make me her sister, period. No qualifiers.

Because many of you didn't have the pleasure of knowing her, this collection of anecdotes will have to suffice (though if you know me, you have seen, felt, and heard her influence).

When I first met Jacky, I was 19 years old. I performed at Scarborough Faire with the Omni madrigals in 1988, and was instantly hooked. I wanted to be a part all things Scarborough ASAP, so I joined the performing company for the Christmas fundraiser, Dickensfest, later that year.

A mutual friend took pity on the clueless creature I was and took me under her wing. Shortly thereafter she introduced me to Jacky, who of course hated me from the get-go. It wasn’t my fault, though. I had to belch, you see, and it was right about the time that—unbeknownst to me—Ann was saying, “… and this is Peg.”

I belched loudly and proudly right as Jacky turned to greet me.

She accused me of belching in her face but I maintain that I didn’t belch on her; she walked into the wake of it. It was her own damn fault! Fortunately, she eventually began to warm up to me, and, as they say, a beautiful friendship was born.

One of the biggest compliments I can think of is that our faire friends commonly referred to us as The Twins. Apparently we were, for all intents and purposes, interchangeable. Cast members would regularly come up to me and say, “Hi Jacky! Blah blah blah, Jacky — oh, and by the way, when you see Peg would you tell her blah blah blah?”

Of course, the same thing happened to her. "Hey Peg! Blah blah, blah—oh, and Peg? Let Jacky know yadda yadda yadda." They never realized their mistake, so we just carried on and relayed information between us as needed.

Twins, clearly.

The funniest part for us, of course, was watching new people come in and get told, oh yeah, they’re twins. Soon enough they would nod knowingly, seeing past the difference in appearance, recognizing only the bond between us. That alone makes me the luckiest girl alive, I think.

Because I know really talented people... and greedily want some swag...

I am so excited about The Blood Keeper... I told my friend Tessa (the author) that I had a crush on her first book, and that's not even hyperbole. So when Miss Natalie put out this contest to get ARCs (Advanced Reader Copies), well... had to jump on it. I mean, there's blood. And magic. What's not to love? *le swoon*

And THEN I saw the cover:

F*@kin' Perfect

Once upon a time, there was a girl who thought she needed to be perfect. Her father was quite the perfectionist, you see, and she adored him so clearly she should attempt to be perfect, too.

While she grew up to be smart and have a few talents, she also worked very hard to Make Everything Right. She did so not only because she wanted to make her father happy, but because she thought that if she was clever enough to see around corners, thinking everything through thoroughly, then she could troubleshoot where things go wrong and head them off at the pass. And if she never made any mistakes, then she'd never have to hurt.

As you can imagine, things did not go as planned.

Years later, in a moment of pique and pain, she poured her guts out in an online journal format. A girl she sort of knew saw this post, and said something like this:

"Wow! You always seemed so together, and you totally intimidated me. Now I see you're more like me than I ever imagined. I can totally relate to you now that I know you're not perfect!"

And thus, a wonderful friendship was born.

Good Thing*

I firmly believe that as our predominant thoughts and attitudes go, so go our lives—or at least our perception of our lives. And since we’re the ones living them, our perceptions about them are what count, right? I mean, you can’t choose what you feel, but you can absolutely control what you do about what you feel. That’s why I frequently make myself stop and take stock of what in my life is good (though, internets, I confess that it’s sometimes more of a List of Things That Don’t Suck than a List of Happy Making Things because while the contents are the same, my state of mind can only encompass non-suckage instead of embracing what is good).

I’m far from a Pollyanna personality, internets, and I’ve already shared my thoughts on dealing with the Bad Stuff That Befalls Us (known as the The Only Way Through It Is Through It axiom). There is often value, though, in forcibly stopping The Wallowing (or its less intense cousin The Whinging) and actively seeking out Things That Are Good Right Now.

I’m not in particularly dark state of mind at present—and hooray for that!—but in the spirit of preparedness, I’m putting together my list so I can save myself some effort later. (After all, in dark times it makes sense to conserve one’s energy, am I right?) And if anyone out there needs inspiration to undertake just such an exercise for themselves… well, I’m a giver. May you soon find yourself out of the Smelly Gym Socks funk and back in the George Clinton and Parliament funk soonest.

With that, here's today's list:

• A faire patron recently told me I reminded her of comedic actress Kathy Najimy. While this is cool, just being able to make someone laugh is a wonderful, powerfully healing thing for all involved.
• Got a text today from Paleo Jo saying she was looking up “awesome” in the dictionary and there I was. What a great way to start out a day (especially when the compliment is from someone you love/respect a lot).

• I am fortunate enough to have many friends who randomly send love my way, whether I need it or not. I believe that to have a good friend you must first be a good friend. Apparently I don’t suck at this, because I am awash in kind, loving, and incredibly wacky people.

• While Spring in Texas only lasts about 2 weeks before we start the descent from Oh-My-Heavens-It’s-a-Tad-Warmish into I’m-About-to-Burst-Into-Flames-Why-Oh-Why-Lord-Won’t-You-Smite-Me-With-an-Iceberg, it’s quite lovely. Fields of bluebonnets never fail to bliss me out, and lunches and/or happy hours on the patio provide many of life’s simple pleasures – food, drink, friends, balmy temperatures and slight breezes – all in one. This is somewhat mitigated by the constant threat of tornados, but that just adds a soupçon of danger to the mix – delicious danger.
• Spotify. I love it. I never quite got around to setting up stations on Pandora so I can’t say Spotify is better or worse than, but I enjoy the ability to peruse friends’ playlists or find other tracks from artists to see if I like their repertoire or if it’s just that one song. For MBLF’s, there’s little better than this. I’m currently grooving on the Hipster International playlist. I don’t know the person who built it, but I’m glad they did. It’s keeping me energized and motivated without distracting me from tasks at hand.
• Hooray for cheese. So grateful I’m not lactose intolerant. From the bitiest bleu to the smokiest gouda, from asiago to manchego to extra-sharp cheddar… cheese is good food. You’d think I was from Wisconsin and not a Michigander. Lordy be, I loves me some cheese. (Yes, it really is about the simple pleasures some days, internets.)
• I have three wonderful mothers. There’s the Mom Who Made Me, the Mom Who Raised Me, and my Mom Away from Mom. It’s the Mom trifecta. I win!
• While I have some issues with my body, it’s still pretty great. It lets me see, feel, taste, and hear things. It has put up with neglect from me and continued to function. It lets me experience the world.

I could go on, but this smattering is enough to remind me of the embarrassing wealth of good things in my world. Of course, some days it’s all about where you set the bar, so when life is in Supreme Suckage mode you may have to start with “I’m not actually on fire right now,” but 1) that’s a very good thing; and B) it gives you a solid base on which to build.

So, internets, what’s on your list?

* Yes, internets, it's a two-fer title that is both a description of the post's contents and a hit single from Fine Young Cannibals' 1988 album "The Raw and the Cooked." And really, I only had to Google it to double-check the year...

Post a la Thoughtbyte

OK, internets, you caught me. While I know it doesn't seem like a lot of planning goes into my random, rambly posts, it actually takes me a bit of effort to decide what to commit to... er, pixels and share with you all.

Today, I confess, I am bumfuzzled. I have no theme in mind. I have... thoughtbytes. So today's post will be a list of items that are worth mentioning, even if they don't necessary deserve to devolve into their own dedicated posts (and I'm not just saying that because I've already missed my self-imposed blog posting deadline for this week).

• As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I am fortunate enough to have a lot of awesome friends. I mean several brazillion. Problem is that there aren't enough hours in the day for me to tell/show them how awesome I think they are. Plus, I don't get to spend nearly enough time basking in our mutual awesomeness. That's a crime, I tell ya. I should find a way to be a Professional Good Friend. That would solve lots of issues (except the one where I love people—a lot [not to be confused with ALOT]—but need corresponding amounts of alone time in my own brain to recharge from all the social butterflying).

• Even my acquaintances are awesome. Saw once such person at faire this weekend. I offhandedly mentioned my lack of drink aloud, more as a note-to-self thing than out of any expectation for anyone to do anything about my dry mug... when voilá! she gifts me with a wee bottle of Crown Royal. Some days, it really doesn't suck to be me.

• It's no secret (and no surprise) that I love shows like Supernatural, The Vampire Diaries, and Buffy/Angel. I've always had a thing for supernatural characters/ storylines, and the whole bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold trope did it for me before I knew what "it" was (helloooooo Han Solo)! But when tasty edgy, dark-yet-undeniably-good characters start to go down irreparably dark paths, I find them even more hot. I have ISSUES. And don't get me started on Tim Curry in Legend... WOOF! (We'll just file this under Not Exactly News, But Thanks for Sharing...)

•  I think I like chocolate chip cookie dough more than chocolate chip cookies—unless they're fresh-from-the oven; that trumps everything. Doubletree cookies are the exception. I like the cookie form better, but ONLY when they're still warm from the oven. (Several brazillion years ago, I used to work there and one of the cooks had a crush on me, so I got notified when there were "extra" fresh cookies I could swipe. Only the head chef was a cranky sort who threw pots & pans at hapless desk clerks, so it was a risk/reward decision every time...)
  
  This week I had the urge to make chocolate chip cookies, but I'm not overly interested in eating them. I know, I know... raw dough, unhealthy, salmonella... blah, blah, blah. It's still DELICIOUS! (The possibility of death only heightens the tastiness.) Also, thanks to my friend KC-C we know that a tube of frozen chocolate chunk cookie dough is a hangover remedy. I'm not even kidding, internets.

• Easter is way more entertaining when you have little ones about. (Not having my own little ones, I had guessed this but didn't have actual proof until last weekend.) Helping play Easter Bunny to a couple of adorable blond girls was definitely a highlight of the weekend. It's also dangerous for my budget. I already abuse the But It's So CUTE! defense way too much as it is (both for myself and those I love).

• I sometimes get held prisoner by my personal space bubble; I occasionally get dumb and forget that I can reach out and touch/hug people I love, and don't have to wait for them to initiate physical affection. Having kiddos around means that I can ask for hugs with impunity and not only will I get them, but said kiddos will run full tilt to deliver the hug. Seriously—watching them fling their entire tiny bodies into the act of getting to the hug as soon as possible is amazing, humbling, and inspiring. It's a flavor of wonderful I plan to indulge in for as long as I'm allowed.

So there you have it... a random grab bag o' things that occurred to me this week, presented in a sort of blog post mash-up form. And having typed the words "mash-up," I now really want mashed potatoes. Apparently I'm highly suggestible...

Being Fictional Is Hard Work

Oh beloved internets, I have fallen victim to the age old Having Too Much Life issue. My apologies for letting it keep me from you! Though I find that my busy brain is nearly always full of idle chatter and many thinky-thoughts, when it comes to choosing ones to commit to the pixelated page I'm often blocked. *le sigh*

And while I love springtime in Texas (despite the trees having sex in my nose, making breathing a somewhat more difficult proposition—stupid allergies!), it is far and away the busiest, craziest time of the year in my world (making ideating and blogging said ideas harder, too). The local Renaissance festival opens this weekend, you see, and the a cappella ensemble I sing with performs there. Yes, internets; I am in my early 40s and I still play dress up. Don't hate. (Seriously, it's all about the music for me. There is no better therapy than making music with some of the people most dear to me, and getting to act silly before and after the harmonizing. Trust me on this.)

What this means in practical terms is that I don't have a day off until June (though I'd be fibbing, internets, if I led you to believe that I didn't have a stockpile of vacation days waiting for that inevitable mid-season ye-gods-I-need-to-sleep-in-past-6-or-I-may-kick-a-kitten moment). And while I'm no longer part of the cast—which means 8 weekends of all-day rehearsals before an 8 weekend run—there's still quite a bit of prep work to be done.

See, we don't just sing. We are have characters. There's a story line behind our group, and the characters drive the banter between the songs. We are the village Tart Sellers, you see. Only the owner (the director's IRL mother) doesn't know that when we deliver tarts, we deliver tarts (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more). But no worries—our shows are kid-friendly; we describe ourselves as "Disney porn." We're so silly and fluffy there's no way we could be offensive. See?

The fluffy look, though, requires some effort... and a lot of luggage. I wish I were kidding, internets. That high-maintenance fictional Tart practically needs her own valet. It's ridiculous.

As proof I present Exhibit A—packed for a visit to the Texas Renaissance Festival:

(The red bag doesn't count - it's just pillows that make hotels more bearable.)

My stuff? In the duffel bag on the right; note that it also contains toiletries. The twice-as-large rolling suitcase on the right? Merely costume for a person that isn't real. (We share the silver makeup case, though admittedly most of the outrageous color palette inside it was bought with her in mind.)

My father once said that I work harder at my hobbies than most people do at their jobs. I don't know if that's true, but I wouldn't be surprised. As much as I enjoy what I do during the season, I'm kind of looking forward to the first week of June.

I know how much energy and effort goes into this labor of love, you see; I took the week post-festival off. When my co-workers asked, "What are you going to do?" I answered in all honesty (and with a small sigh of relief), "Not a damn thing."

So here's to my 8th season with some of my favorite people, doing what I love best. Maybe I'll find a valet this year...

I Love a Parade

St. Paddy's Day in Dallas is quite the event, internets, and this humble blogger is proud to announce that she survived the celebration unscathed. That marathon of a day took no small amount of planning (and liberal, regular applications of bar food) to successfully achieve, however. Totally tactical—that's me!

My sister was able to join the festivities, experiencing the Greenville Avenue St. Patrick's Day Parade for the first time (thank you, Mark Cuban!). It was a special treat for your truly, as her erstwhile work schedule meant we never had the same weekends off. Her new, regular-weekends-off job means more opportunities for malfeasance good, clean fun (hi, Mom!).

 (Here's we are bright and early - the "Before" shot, if you will. No "Afters" were taken. Stop asking.)

As with all the fun drinking holidays, you don't have to be the appropriate nationality to celebrate, but those of us who are get to feel a little smug so there's that. (As my birth mother helpfully pointed out, I'm a mutt... but being Cajun, German, and Black Irish means I have rights to all the best drinking holidays: Mardi Gras, Oktoberfest, and St. Paddy's!)

We started off with the aforementioned parade, getting there ridiculously early to ensure a parking space and prime parade viewing. However, I erred in thinking that the new crackdowns would disallow camp chairs. That would have made the 2 1/2 hour wait a lot easier to take. Hindsight and all that. Meh. But there was some excellent people watching.

A few observations:

• For an Irish holiday, Irish beer was not the norm. I saw way too many illicit cans of Bud and/or Miller light pass by. (The natural follow up, then, becomes, "How the hell do these amateurs get that pasted on light beer?!?") Guinness was in short supply. Come on, Dallas. Is image really that important? Chance the calories. Live a little.
• While I appreciate folks that get into the spirit of celebration, the guy in the lederhosen had me bumfuzzled. Beer-based holidays (and the corresponding nationalities) are not interchangeable, mein herr!
• Being a follower apparently means that when your drunk-ass friend decides to climb a tree for a better view, your equally-drunk-ass self is required to do it, too. Those of us too smart to look up and watch the shenanigans will still, however, end up with bits of bark in our eyes (not that I'm still bitter).
• For special occasions, a theme song frequently surfaces. Such things cannot be coerced, though; they occur naturally. This parade was sexy and it knew it. At least a dozen times.
• In a crowd of 100,000 spread over almost 3 miles of city streets, I will still manage to see someone I know.
• This isn't news, but I'm not a nice person. I'm a good person; these are not the same thing. The crowds made me 1) a little hostile antsy; and 2) regret my lack of Guinness. Once we found the Friendly Drunk, though, and moved away from the Party Rock Crew, I was much happier (even when he nearly got shanked for loudly admonishing all the damned Irish to go the Hell home, making himself poster child for People Unclear on the Whole Point of Things).
• Onion rings make everything better. Lee Harvey's has great onion rings (but it's all about the chipotle aioli to go with).
• I never learn. Why I thought I could eat a fried egg sammich and not end up with yolk-covered boobs is beyond me. They're food magnets. (The end-of-day "When did I eat THAT?!?" moment will never not be disconcerting.) 
• My crazy friends + an afternoon of beers + the elevator at Reunion Tower = rampant, unapologetic silliness.

 (And the Tower even got into the spirit of the holiday! Don't take pics while driving, kids.)

So there you have it, internetsl—another great day with folks I adore. No arrests, no hangovers, and no regrets (except maybe wearing flip flops in a crowd of 100,000; surely there are better ways to show off my green pedicure).

And unlike the last parade in which I was involved, I didn't find Jell-o shots in my purse the following Monday at work. Not sure if that's a success story or a sad anecdote, actually...

Laissez les Bon Temps Rouler

I have performed at Renaissance festivals off and on for more than 20 years, internets, and I tell you this so that you will appreciate how much experience this gives me in the parade department. (If you've never been to a RenFest—which is what regulars call it—there's always a big midday death march parade so that all the characters and shoppe owners (the extra letters give it authenticity, don'tcha know) can show off their wares and exercise their patron harassment improvisation skills.)

All this is to say that know a thing or two about parades and the doing of them.

After this weekend, I can honestly say this is a Schroedinger's Statement—both true and untrue at the same time.

The Bishop Arts District in Dallas' Oak Cliff neighborhood is a fun, funky area. My dear friend is the owner/producer/director of Delish Films and got me and several friends to krewe the parade entry in the 3rd annual Bishop Arts Mardi Gras parade. (She has a long and illustrious history of getting me to do wacky things; sordid details to come in subsequent blogs. Probably. By which I mean not really.)

This parade experience differed from my RenFest experience in several key ways in that I was not:
1) walking;
2) wearing 25 extra lbs. of clothing (including a corset);
3) overheating due to 100°+ heat index;
4) entirely sober.

These things made it alternately easier and harder in equal measure. The not having to walk 35 acres (or the Dallas street equivalent) was better, as was the ability to wear a t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. Also, it was a balmy 60° so hooray for all of that!

But when you have hordes (and I think over 11,000 attendees qualifies as "hordes") of people screaming for beads, and you've theoretically had half-a-dozen Jell-o shots, a couple beers, and a giant to-go coffee cup of Jack Daniels (Hi, Mom! You realize blogging sometimes involves fiction, right?!? And remember LE Bean's Exaggeray?), untangling strands of cheap beads and flinging them with impunity can be... interesting (in the Wash sense of things).

On a related note, people will go nuts over cheap trinkets as rewards. I've seen it in my career in corporate training—seriously, a room full of grown bankers competing for a sticker?!—and the parade hype is no different.

It was kind of a heady, powerful feeling, internets. They wanted my beads, and I made 'em work for it! I demanded that they holler and make noise; my minions the crowd did just that. (Except I was a sucker for cute little kids. There was one beautiful little girl in a tutu that looked like peacock feathers and I lost. my. damned. MIND. I'm not proud, internets; it happens.) I wanted them to jump? They jumped. Dance, monkeys, DANCE! Muahahahahaha!





*ahem*

I learned lots of other things, though, besides this rather disturbing tendency of mine that should have probably been forced to remain latent for everyone's safety and well being.

For example, internets, did you know that it's possible to make a giant king cake out of a foam egg crate mattress, some satiny fabric, a lot of glitter and enough spray-on glue to get the 1996 starting line up of the Dallas Cowboys wasted? True story.

 (This is the work in progress, but it's still pretty awesome for all its lack of glitter.)

I also learned that once you start gluing sequins to your face, everyone will want to join in (though, sadly, I didn't have time to give everyone an awesome YouTube-inspired makeup Mardi Gras mask like mine).

 (Me and my BFF Buffalo Gal)

But really, it was an incredible day spent with some incredibly talented, creative people and I am already looking forward to next year.

My liver, however, is dubious.

Birthdays Are Like Reese's...

Yes, internets, the rumors are true; today is my birthday.

(Give yourself [random amount] of bonus points for every song cue this sparked in your grey matter. Not sure what you can use those bonus points for, mind, but best you have them just in case. Also not sure what kind of emergency or event precipitates the need for such a thing, but since they're fictitious and therefore don't require storage space, may as well hoard them, eh?)

So here's the thing: I don't mind getting older. Or not much, anyway (especially when you consider the alternative). This is even more of a factor since the whole Boobonic Plague^TM thing in 2009. Now I celebrate everything. Life is hard enough, really, so when things don't suck—or even just suck a little less—it's worth making the most of it.

Except...

I hate to sound ungrateful, internets, but I do have birthday issues. It wasn't easy growing up with a birthday the day before Valentine's day. Know anyone with a birthday in December? If so, you know they're probably hypersensitive to that here's-your-Birthmas-present syndrome, wherein the giver combines the birthday and Christmas gifts into one. Well, I'm the same way, only it's regarding Birthentine Cake.

Yep, I had one too many heart-shaped cakes with obnoxious pink squashy babies festooning it. I know my mom loves me and she's a good baker, but there were frequently shortcuts in the birthday cake department—time no doubt spent buying presents!—and apparently it's impossible to find baked goods without all that obnoxious Valentine fluff at any bakery within 20 miles.

*grump*

Is it too much to ask for my birthday to just BE MY DAMNED BIRTHDAY?

Not that I have anything against Valentine's Day, mind you. It's too commercial, of course, and sheeple tend to focus more on the outer trappings than substance, but I firmly believe a holiday is what you put into it. Any day that encourages expressions of love and kindness? I'm for it. Gotta start somewhere, right?

Just keep that Valentine crap outta my birthday! Sheesh!

Yes, if you're dating me then it sucks to be you; I want two prezzies. They don't have to be big or showy—my jewelry tastes run more towards silver and garnets, and I'd probably be happier with books or CDs anyway—but one gift must come wrapped very distinctly sans hearts, squashy babies, doilies, or other such nonsense. I'm fine with such things on a Valentine present, but NOT for my birthday, thankyewverymuch!

It doesn't have to be a traditional birthday, for that matter... just so long as it's not all VALENTINEY. I can prove it. See, my 40th birthday fell on a Friday the 13th. My solution? Slasher/Serial Killer theme party!

It was rad. Several friends came dressed for the occasion: Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, Jack the Ripper, and Hannibal and Clarice. I even had a famous victim—the Black Dahlia. B came in her pin-up finery sporting a tray of goodies and a "Bait" name tag. And since many of my friends are active in the haunt community, there were some gruesome, realistic wounds—like Lys' fantastic bullet hole in the center of her forehead—on various and sundry anonymous victims.

Morbid? Yes. But equally as awesome. (As I'm sure I have mentioned before, my friends are amazing and wonderful people.) Besides, it gave me an excuse to shop for my not-so-exclusively-inner Goth girlie. Skulls and tombstones and blood—oh my! (I even found gummi candy in test tubes... complete with eyeballs suspended in the goo!)

My friend SIKO showed up as a ninja, since they are in essence part serial killer, part slasher. (I already love him because he uses the word "beer" as a verb—i.e., "I'm going to beer you now. I'm going to beer you hard."—and ninja-ing my birthday only made my heart bigger so I could feel more love.)

So to sum up: birthdays good. Hooray for successful superannuation! Valentine's Day? Don't hate it. Even when I'm unattached, there's no lack of love in my world.

Just don't get my birthday chocolate in your Valentine's peanut butter* and everything will be fine, y'all.









* OK, maybe that's a poor analogy after all. I really love me some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (one of my favorite candies, in fact). So, yeah...

The Dog Ate My Blog

Writing is hard.

This is not news to anyone who has ever labored over a term paper (and isn't it big of me to assume that all of my followers—all 13 of you!*—have at least an 8th grade education?), but it's no less true for all that.

I suppose, however, that it's more accurate to say that coming up with ideas about which to write are hard. Me, I'm relatively good at beginnings. My brain gets pelted with ideas like a surly C&W crowd hurls bottles of long neck beer when the singer forgets the words to a Hank Williams tune (at least that's how it happens in my head, internets; I'm not much for the honky or the tonk, myself—though I will admit to harboring big love in my heart for cheap Shiner Bock).

So... yeah. Ideas.

I'm not much of a closer. Here's what happens in my brain, only with less science and more whimsy:

My degree is actually in English, and SMU (my alma mater) offers a fiction writing specialty. I loved the classes but ye gods and little fishes... I sucked at outlines. I didn't know where the story was going to go! I had An Idea! My Muse could not be so tamed or restricted (or some such rot). I don't know if it was laziness or if my brain truly doesn't work that way, but I almost never knew where the story was going to go, which meant that it could never get anywhere. Pacing, structure... these things elude me still. (Wow, if that's not an allegory for my life, I don't know what is!)

ANYhoo... when I do get ideas, they're never convenient. (I'm pretty sure my long-neglected Muse is having an aneurysm right about now.) I get 90% of my viable ideas when I'm in the shower. Really? I guess because I'm pondering last night's dream while simultaneously mapping out my day? Something about that combination puts my brain into overdrive, but it's utterly unfair because I can't write down ideas, nor can I bring a voice recorder into the shower. Well, I could, but it would only end in tears. Namely mine. So.. no.

And of course by the time I'm done drying, moisturizing, toning, lotioning, and powdering all the appropriate bits, then engaging in the usual Hair Product Inequity^TM ritual, ideas have fled, and I am (to quote my Grandfather) left and bereft.

Of course, the other time my brain is rife with ideas? When I'm driving. Because clearly, hurtling 80MPH down the interstate is a grand time to pause and jot down some notes. Sure, I'll just reach for the handy dandy recorder instead. Clearly, that's a safer option (in a not kind of way).

So instead, I'm left with trying to reconstruct pieces of these ideas when I can give them the time and attention they deserve, only it's rather like waking and knowing you just had the most awesome dream! It was so vivid! So real! Something about... ponies... or rainbows... and there was this guy. He, um, said some... stuff.

Yeah, internets. It's like that.

But hey, that's why I'm engaging in this whole blogging exercise, innit? To give myself some structure, and to write something other than the training courses that my Real Job pays me to write. CONFESSION: I haven't been using my degree much since I started writing for a living—how sad is that? But it feels too much like... well, work. But that's the WHOLE POINT! It is work, and the you get better by working at it.

I know this is true. I am friends with awesome writers like these and many more inspiring talents who fill me with awe (and some small amount of shame) at the amount of critical thought they're able to apply to their craft.

This is because, internets, there are days like today where you blog about not having ideas, which is the blogging equivalent of a show about nothing, or the dog eating your blog post.

Apparently, the difficulty lies not in lacking something to say, but in saying something in a meaningful way.

My bad.





*To reinforce my Nerdy Grrl cred, I quote Felicia Day: "I have dozens of fans. Baker's dozens. They come in thirteens."

Phobias and Chocolate

My friends are wonderful, amazing people. They're witty, funny, smart, and caring. (According to them, we have these things in common, so it works out well for all concerned.) They also know of my paranoid phobias little personality quirks like my fear of Evil Cartilage Fish^TM (which the rest of the world calls simply "sharks").

Because my friends are, as mentioned, caring individuals, they look out for me. They tell me when it's Shark Week on Discovery Channel, knowing the flailing and hammering of my heart that will occur if I see a commercial for it. Jenn, being extra vigilant, even warned me off the Snickers commercial which prominently features ECFs. (Though I confess a shudder when I catch a frame or two as I'm forwarding my DVR... yeargh!)

My friend Shabby even went so far as to make me my own special copy of Finding Nemo sans Bruce. He set up two VCRs and whenever Bruce appeared, he pulled out the video cable so I could hear and keep up with the story, but wouldn't have to see an all-too-realistic cartoon shark; the great white variety bothers me most of all.

I cannot state this strongly enough—while I've worked to get better less bad about it, my BFF Buffalo Gal (that's where she's from, y'all—be nice!) can attest that it's no mean feat. She sat next to me in the darkened theater when the trailer for Deep Blue Sea tried to kill me. I am not even kidding when I say she had to shove my head between my knees and remind me to breathe. Not only were there ECFs in abundance, but some dumb ass human decided to MAKE THEM SMARTER!!! What fresh hell is this?!?!?

And before you get all helpful and Wiki-y on me, internets, I know the odds of a shark attack. Did you see the bit where I called it a phobia? That means it's developed well beyond "reasonable fear of a dangerous predator," careening around the corner of "they freak me out a little," landing me squarely in the county of "JeebusOMGthey'recomingtoKILLALLOFME" (a county where, clearly, I have voting rights if not outright residence privileges).

So... yeah. It's kind of a problem, and has been for all of my life.

Nope, I wasn't scarred by a screening of Jaws at a tender age (though that certainly couldn't have helped). I've just always been unduly terrified. I grew up in Michigan—the Sunrise Side, to be specific—and our house was just on the other side of U.S. 23 from Lake Huron. The beaches there are beautiful—sugar sand like in the Caribbean, with clear, cool waters. I don't remember ever not knowing how to swim. I'm surprised I don't have permanently pruny skin from all the time I spent in the water... and you can bet your bippy (if I even knew what a "bippy" was) that when the sun went behind the clouds, I hopped on my floatie and pulled all my limbs in... because you can't trust 'em, those ECFs. They might sneak up when I couldn't see them coming and *WHAM!* I'm shark bait (HOO! HaHa! Sorry—can't resist an opportunity to quote Finding Nemo).

I can't explain the Why of it; I just know that it Is and always has been in my world. I even tried to get over it. I couldn't have been more than 7 or 8 years old and I remember forcing myself to watch the shark parts of National Geographic to desensitize myself. (What kind of kid does that, internets?!?)

Later in life, I even tried video game therapy. In Animal Crossing, you have to catch fish to earn money/XP and imagine my surprise when in my little bay in my hamlet of Eeeville (yes, that's what I named my town!) I saw dreaded fins!

But no worries, internets. I stayed calm. I conquered those pixelated bastards.

My Mii even put them in a tank and TURNED HER BACK ON THEM. I felt mighty and empowered that I allowed that without losing my mind/lunch/contents of my bladder.

So... even with unfortunate candy commercials and movie trailers, I can keep my world as shark-free as I need it to be in order to function.

UNTIL NOW.

See, there's this exhibit in Dallas called Planet Shark and it's trying to murderize me. (Why else would they place billboards all over the D/FW Metroplex featuring the gaping maw of an ECF? Clearly, it's to make me have a stroke and wreck my car; there is precedent set for such chicanery in the animal kingdom, as my friend LE Bean can attest.)

No one warned me, either, internet. I don't know if I've seemed extra sane and together lately or what—STOP LAUGHING!—or folks just didn't have a cell phone handy—seriously, it's NOT FUNNY!—or what, but I wasn't given any warning, and it came a little too close to creating dire circumstances.

I wouldn't be surprised if the ECFs set it up. I mean, they're starting to hybridize now so who knows WHAT they'll get up to next?!

Quick—someone bring me a Snickers to distract me.