Humor is subjective

I know this is obvious, but I look at the people around me - the ones who get me and the ones that don't. I always wonder about the ones that don't. Do they not get the joke, or do they want me to just go away?

My boss is one I wonder about. When she is in a good mood she responds well to my humor. When she is in a sketchy mood or a bad mood, I try to avoid humor, as it only results in her making the "who farted?" face at me.

I used to get in trouble a lot over my sense of humor. Mostly at work, and pretty exclusively with those who worked for me. And while I could literally write a book about that experience (which I won't do because it'll just make me cranky) the thing that really bugged me is how much self-effacing humor I used. I tried using humor to lighten the mood, or to try to make the best out of bad situation. My humor was rarely directed at other people in front of them (sure, behind their backs, but only with people I trusted. I never said I was a saint. No, I didn't. Just because you read my blog doesn't mean that you can put ideas in my head - and I never said that! Get. Out. Of. My. Head!).

It never worked. Oh sure, some people got it, and got me, and I like those people and I stay in contact with them - because to me they are good people. No, they aren't good people because they like me, they are good people in general, and in addition to that, they understand my humor, and often appreciate it. The rest of them? I swear if Big Foot came stumbling out of the woods, grabbed a mic, and told them a universally funny joke they would make the "who farted?" face. At which point Mr. Foot would be completely within his rights to feed them to the Loch Ness Monster, thank you very much.

I hear over and over that I am too sarcastic. Really, how much sarcasm is too much sarcasm? Can you measure it? Is that metric or US units? How many cups are in a quart?

See, some of you just laughed and said, "that crazy Sara" and some of you made the face and said, "Sarcasm is an intangible, not a solid or liquid and therefore cannot be measured in that way. I thought you were smarter than that."

I am. It was funny. F-u-n-n-y.

Even worse than that are the ones who went, "See, there she goes again, saying these things that are clearly insulting to us. She is insulting us!"

Shut your hole. Seriously. Go somewhere, stick your head in the sand and shut the hell up. You suck.

See, the thing is that I didn't start out to insult you, but now that you've shown what amazing schmucks you are I can't help myself.

You suck hard.

That's not sarcasm, by the way.

The humor I appreciate is very much like my own humor. I assume we all do. Of course, I have no idea what the schmucks find funny. Maybe nothing. How sad for them. I guess it would explain a helluva lot.

As you contemplate the humorful and the humorless of the world, think about where you actually fit in. Are you one of us or one of them?

When next we meet, just remember one of my favorite quotes:

If you can't say anything good about someone, sit right here by me.
--Alice Roosevelt Longworth

And decide carefully whether or not you can properly fill that seat next to me.

Ask Sarcastica

In light of the holiday weekend, I'm posting the Dear Sarcastica a day early. Happy 4th!

Dear Sarcastica,
My parents want me to go to college, but I want to be an artist. What should I do?
Signed,
Andy W.

Dear Dime-a-dozen,
First, listen to your parents. You will have more fun in college than you ever dreamed possible.

Second, I can tell that you have absolutely no talent, so art is not really for you.

Dear Sarcastica,
What do you recommend to deal with PMS?
Signed,
Bloated and Cranky

Dear Hormonal,
Chocolate, ice cream, something salty, and a 12-gauge. The first three will make you less cranky and the fourth will keep people from bothering you.

Dear Sarcastica,
How much wood would a wood-chuck chuck if a wood-chuck could chuck wood?
Signed,
Curious

Dear Crackhead,
Get a job and stop getting high.

Dear Sarcastica,
I think you are really mean! You should be ashamed of yourself!
Signed,
Nice person

Dear Nancy-boy,
Seriously, it's called a spine. You should look into that.


Dear Sarcastica,
I'm planning on hiking through the Mohave. Any advice?
Signed,
Avid Hiker

Dear Rabid,
Yeah. Don't.

Dear Sarcastica,
My boyfriend wants me to 'give him head' - what does that mean?
Signed,
Confused Teen

Dear Innocent,
Go to a voodoo shop and get him a shrunken head in a jar. When you give it to him, ask him if there are any other body parts he would like. I suspect he will not make this request again.

Dear Sarcastica,
What should I be when I grow up?
Signed,
Almost there

Dear Peter Pan,
If at all possible, don't. It's better to spend all day at recess than going to work.

Dear Sarcastica,
I want to marry someone rich and famous. How can I meet eligible stars?
Signed,
Ultimate Fan

Dear Fanwanker,
I hear stalking works really well. Also, if you don't meet your match, you get free room and board in a lovely minimum security facility.

Why you aren't getting Warren Buffett's Money

We all have get-rich-quick dreams and schemes. For some it is the lottery, for others it is pulling an Anna Nicole, or an invention, or the long-lost-unknown-relative who leaves you everything.

You are dreaming.

My dad has been buying lottery tickets faithfully for years - no serious winnings yet. I had a great idea (I thought) for a business, then some friends went into business and they seemed miserable. I decided to let someone else pay me and handle the payroll taxes.

Anna Nicole? Yuck. Please don't. If you do, please don't tell anyone.

If you don't know the relative? He doesn't know you. No inheritance for you!

But now that Mr. Buffett has announced his plans to give away the bulk of his 44 Billion (yes, BILLION, with a B - imagine how many zeros that is) dollar estate to charity, I bet you all had one thought: that guy who sings Margaritaville is giving away money?

No.

Warren Edward Buffett is an American investor and businessman. Nicknamed the "Oracle of Omaha" or the "Sage of Omaha" - 2nd richest person in the world behind Bill Gates. (wikipedia)

James William Buffett singer, songwriter, and recently a film producer best known for his "island escapism" lifestyle and music including hits such as "Margaritaville" (wikipedia)

Now that you've got margaritaville spinning in your head go ahead and hum along while you accept that neither billions nor margaritas are coming your way for the moment.

No.

His money is going to charity. No, you are not a charity. Even if you were a charity, you'd have to be a Bill and Melinda Gates approved charity. Why? Because Buffett is using their philanthropic organization to channel the money.

But I always wanted to start a charity.

But you didn't start a charity.

So even if you could talk to Warren, it wouldn't do any good. You need to talk to Bill and Melinda. And Bill and Melinda have very specific agenda items: 1. Public health. 2. American education. It's hard to argue with either of those - given how desperately they are needed. So even if you could talk to Bill and Melinda, it would be useless unless you represented a legitimate, established charity that addresses #1 or #2 above.

Sure, I spent a few minutes wondering what I would say and what (I dream) they would say, and how I would spend the money. But we all need to face facts - none of us will directly see a cent - the money is going to charity.

Now, if we could all take all that day-dreaming time and effort and spend it on a second job flipping burgers or stocking shelves, we'd have something to show for it. It's that kind of industrial behavior that made Warren the man he is today.

That and inheriting a good sense about the stock trade from his father.

At least he didn't pull an Anna Nicole.

Now excuse me while I go invent my chairty and work on my sales pitch...

Readers' Choice

Okay readers, here's the setup:

I've got 3 topics I am working on and I can't decide which is really worthy of fleshing out. I'm going to give you the three topics, and assuming I get a majority of comments in agreement by midnight EST on 6/27 on the topic, I'll blog the topic of your choosing.

Here are your choices:

1. Driving while cellular
2. Why you won't get Warren Buffett's money
3. The crazy things criminals do

That's it. You vote. I write.

Ask Sarcastica

Every Friday we're going to do a little something new... the Dear Sarcastica advice column. Feel free to send in your questions to get some thoughtful advice!

Dear Sarcastica,
I’m having problems printing. Have any ideas?
Signed,
Inkless

Dear Dinkless,
Printing as in hand-writing or printing with a computer printer? I ask because…I DON’T CARE! First, phrase questions clearly as to ensure that people know what you are asking and second, call friggin tech support.


Dear Sarcastica,
My boss is a jerk. What should I do?
Signed,
Tormented

Dear Twinkie,
Everyone’s boss is a jerk. No matter how cool your boss may be on one thing or another, your boss is a jerk on something.

Here are your choices:

1. Stop whining
2. Whine to someone who cares
3. Become self-employed
4. Get promoted and torture others

Dear Sarcastica,
How casual is work-casual?
Signed,
Khaki

Dear Cracky,
It’s all about context. Do you work on a beach? Do you work for a CEO? I mean seriously, look at the other people you work with and find a happy medium.


Dear Sarcastica,
I’m trying to lose weight. What do you recommend?
Signed,
Full-figured gal

Dear Fabulous,
Don’t lose weight. Skinny people are miserable. Sure, you won’t live as long, but how great is your life right now? Remember food = good, skinny = cranky.


Dear Sarcastica,
I think my boyfriend is cheating on me. Help.
Signed,
Girlfriend

Dear STD catcher,
He is.

Tune in next week when our own Sarcastica answers your questions!

Charity

Is it still a charitable contribution if it was extracted by force?

At the beginning of May the Puppy Patrol called me. They wanted a donation to support their outreach program. I gave them some money.

The Puppy Patrol is a group of Police dogs and their handlers, going to schools and trying to influence kids in a good way. Now, I have several reasons that I felt compelled to give: 1. I love dogs, 2. I love to see Police dogs employed away from guns and bombs and the like, and 3. I used to do this.

Not this exactly. When I was in high school I worked with Project D.A.R.E. going to grade schools and talking to kids about saying no (it was the 80s) and answering their questions about jr. high and high school.

So, I have a soft spot for the outreach thing. I think it is great for all involved. I didn’t hesitate when he asked for a $45 pledge.

Now, less than 6 weeks later, they’ve called again. But not for Puppy Patrol.

The group doing the pledges for Puppy Patrol is the same one doing this new drive. And, I’d love to help, but I can’t give them money every 4 – 6 weeks.

And I listened to the spiel, and I agreed it was a good cause, and if I hadn’t just given I would have gladly said yes.

And I tried explaining that. Call me back in 3 months, I said. In 3 months I’ll be ready to pledge again. Not now.

So he started bargaining with me, if you can’t do $45 now, will you do $25?

In 3 months. Not now.

If you can’t do $25, can you do $12.50?

In 3 months. Not now.

If you can’t…

And here’s where I may have seemed belligerent. I don’t know another way to say this. Right now I don’t have a dime to pledge. Call me back in 3 months. That is the soonest I will pledge again.

Grumble. Sigh. Snort. Click.

So the thing is, this charity is more serious than Puppy Patrol, and I felt hugely guilty on the phone saying no. But the other thing is? I can’t give out money every time someone deserving asks for it.

And I’m not stingy. In any given year I make donations to the Humane Society, ASPCA, Breast Cancer, Cancer, Parkinson’s, Diabetes, Vietnam Veterans, and now the Puppy Patrol. I’m the person in line ahead of you that sees the change jar for the little girl on crutches and gives all her spare change. I don’t know her, but you know, life looks harder for her than it is for me.

I’m no Angelina Jolie (who states she gives 1/3 of her income to charity – which is awesome) - in more ways than one – but I give what I can, when I can wherever I see a worthwhile charity.

So right now this guy probably thinks I am some uber liberal who will support puppies but not a human charity.

But the thing is, if you get hounded to give, and it isn’t coming from the heart and is a strain on your wallet – is it really charity or emotional blackmail?

For me, wanting to give is a critical part of the equation. I don't give to causes I don't believe in. I don't give if it means bills go unpaid or we go without groceries.

So, pledge guy, wherever you are, just remember that just because I had money to give 4 weeks ago doesn't mean I have it now.

Why don't you hit up Angie? I hear she's got money to burn.

Personal Truth

Somewhere in the wasteland between honest self-reflection and total narcissistic absorption you’ll run into truth you cannot deny.

It might be that maybe you are too naïve, or spoiled, or ill-mannered. For me, the truth that I heard throughout my childhood and sometimes into my adulthood for whatever reason hit me tonight as truth. I am a difficult person to get along with.

People frustrate me. I’ve never denied it. I usually shout it from the rooftops. People see that. They see my impatience. They see my frustration. They see that at that moment I do not like them for whatever reason.

The thing is, I am not intentionally rude or mean to people. But I hear it all the time. I’m mean. I’m sarcastic. I’m insensitive to others.

Am I?

Yes and no. Like anyone I have my good days and bad days. I used to have many more bad days than good (if you don’t believe me, head over to the Cosmic Gypsy Tea Room and ask my mother why she gave me two nicknames growing up: Mope and Bitch Woman). I didn’t know how my moods impacted other people, at home, at work, out in the world. And I was truly moody.

There’s a temper issue too. I do not have an even temperament. I get angry too easily. I want to yell. I used to yell, snark, scowl, insult, demean – you name it – at one point I did it.

Two things changed me. One, I had a great boss who actually sat me down and told me. He wasn’t accusatory, he wasn’t mean, he was trying to help me – and I could totally see that. It made a difference. I started to change.

The second thing was my relationship with Scott. Our friendship and inevitable romantic involvement gave me wisdom that I could never have attained through normal means. He taught me patience (it’s a work in progress), he taught me calmness (ditto), and he taught me that fighting is futile. It accomplishes nothing. He taught me that if you want to solve the problem, you have to work together towards a solution. No one wins if someone loses.

If we ever face the ultimate judgment – will it be based on our worst day? The day on which we were cruel, self-absorbed, thoughtless? Will it be based on our best day? The day that shows the potential of who we could be? Or will it be based on the journey – the progress we make along the way, to right our wrongs, to learn and grow?

No cosmic force started me down this path. No life-changing event. No haunting encounter. I was thinking about an assignment for work: my career goals. The form wants to know what I want to be when I grow up. I have no idea, so I took an assessment online. It said I get bored easily. I like frequent change. I like new things. None of this was news to me.

What do I want to be when I grow up? A good person. What do I want to do for a living? Something fun. Something challenging. Something that makes me a better person.

Sadly, that job is not listed in the drop-down menu.

I wish it was. That would be a goal worth attaining.

Second Viewing

Some time ago, I went on an ordinary girl's night out, had dinner, and went to the movies. We saw a movie none of us really had any interest in seeing, but it had just won in several Oscar categories. The awards were well-deserved.

Today, I was flipping through the channels to have something on for noise while I ate lunch and cleaned. It was just starting. I sat down. I never cleaned.

I knew every scene that was coming. I knew the character development. The relationship development. The plot development. Still, I was riveted.

It took me ¾ of the way through the movie to realize I hadn't made my lunch. I stood there making my lunch and staring out at tv. Riveted.

The story of a 30-ish woman from a bad background with a meaningless job and a dream. A dream that no one thinks she can pursue.

She does, she finds success. She tries to take care of her family. They shun her.

Her mentor, a man with an estranged daughter that won't speak to him, becomes her surrogate father. The crusty old man pushed her away at first. Then, they bond. Then he gives her the nickname, My heart, My beloved, My blood in Gaelic without telling her what it means.

They give and take. Their personalities are so different. The commonalities seem limited, a wounded heart, a fighter's spirit. Somehow, they form a family.

She, his surrogate daughter. He, her surrogate father. Both standing in for those who can't, or won't.

On the surface it might seem formulaic, however, the movie is anything but. Rewatching it today only made me want to watch it again immediately after it ended. I've already decided to add it to my Christmas wish list.

If you haven't seen Million Dollar Baby because you don't like boxing, sports, sweat, Clint Eastwood, Hillary Swank, or Morgan Freeman, then you are missing out. Rent it, give it a try. If you don't like it after 30 minutes, turn it off. My guess is that you'll forget to breathe and even blink at times.

And when you've made it through the movie, and you feel this haunting presence like a mist about you, remember why you love good movies. They do more than just fill a few hours, they reach inside you and tear at your heart and your gut.

Phone Manners

Having a new home address phone numbers mean lots of new people calling me. They call me to make me great offers. Lawn care. Dog walkers. Filtered water. Home security. Pest control. Newspaper delivery. Driveway paving. A year of de-linting my belly button.

I always try to be polite and gracious, but efficient. I understand you are at work. You need to understand that I am at home. We’re not both on the clock here – you are, in essence, invading my private time, so be considerate.

This isn’t a rant on telemarketing. I could rant on that, but let’s just assume for now that telemarketing is going to be in our lives for a while, so we need to make the experience less unpleasant.

When you call my home, have the courtesy to:

• Get the name right. I know my husband’s surname can also be a first name, but you ought to know which one is the first name before you ask for Mr. Stewart, if the name on your list is James Stewart or Stewart James makes a difference to the person you are calling. After all, it is his name.
• When you are asked to leave a message, do not do the following:
• Hang up
• Say, “I’ll call back later” without identifying yourself and your reason for calling
• Sigh
• Act like this is a huge inconvenience for you. No one is under any obligation to be home to take an unsolicited call.
• When you are asked what this is in regards to, that means I am asking who you are and why you are calling. If I ask what this is in regards to and you ask again to speak to him or when a better time would be to contact him, know that he is already determined not to use your service. I can’t speak for other households, but we discuss all financial decisions before we make them. Dealing only with him may seem like a good tactic, but he deals with me when you aren’t around – which is all the freaking time.
• When you make me a great offer and I say I would like to see it in writing, do not attempt to strong-arm me. It’ll just make me say no. Time and again Scott has had the amusement of listening to me ask for it in writing, explain to the telemarketer that if I can’t review it I can’t take the offer, and then tell them I distrust any organization that refuses to put offers in writing. Understand that your potential customers want to read the deal. Have a way to provide it and time to digest it. If you don’t, you’ll never see a dime from me.
• Speaking of great offers, my general response to “limited-time, once in a lifetime offers,” is to say, “Shucks, I guess I am going to miss out on this one. I am sure I will kick myself later.”
• Do not call during the following hours:
  
  • Before 9 AM M - F, 10 AM on Saturday and Sunday. We’re talking local time. I once got some amazingly mathematically challenged dofus who called me in Tucson at 6 AM, It’s 9 AM here… die.
  
  
  • During normal dinner hours. This is family time. I’m sorry that you are working this shift, I know it sucks. Certainly you can pester someone outside of the dinner time range in another time zone or do your administrative tasks during this time.
  
  
  • After 9 PM, 7 days a week. I don’t have kids, but if I did they would be in bed by 9. Regardless, this is around the time that family calls come in when they come, and I want to be available for my family. If you call during these hours? You lose my business. It’s that simple.
• Do not eat, drink, chew, burp or make any oral noises besides speaking while you are on the phone with me. I don’t want to hear it or imagine what is happening to you.
• Speak slowly and clearly. You have no idea how good my hearing is. You have no idea how much of HelloMrs.XMynameisSylviaandIamcallingfromtheAcmecompany my brain will catch and digest. Go too fast and I’ll make you do the whole damn thing over again.
• Same thing when you try to get the whole offer out before I can even finish saying hello. If you talk that fast, I didn’t catch more than every third or fourth word. So, when I hear an offer like Acme Toilet Reduction – how am I to know that what you said was, We here at Acme Plumbing and Supplies are having a store-wide sale on all Toilets and Vanities – it’s a huge reduction in cost of our entire inventory. I mean, Acme Toilet Reduction? Sounds totally unappealing.

Now here’s the real rub. I almost never agree to anything over the phone. Unless I was about to call you (like when I had setting up Pest Control on my to-do list and you called me) then I am probably not interested in your product. I don’t care how inexpensive it is. I don’t care how cool it is. I don’t care how good the offer is. I don’t care how shiny it is. In the internet age I know that if I want it, I can find it. Sure, I’ll have to pay for shipping, but it’s worth it to see it, read about it, and decide.

But I am guessing there must be some business incentive to have telemarketers. Otherwise, I can’t fathom why these people would be employed.

I know you will call. When you do, be polite, have the kind of manners that would make your grandmother proud. Maybe your great-grandmother, for some of you up-and-coming telemarketers.

Know that I will say no as politely and quickly as I can. I will ask you to put me on your do-not-call list. As much as it pains you to do so, simply say, I will. Thank you for your time.

See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?

Stop doing that

Really. Stop doing that please.

You, in the public restroom, the one who uses a seat protector and then leaves it on the seat? Why would anyone else want to touch that? And don’t flush it either, you just gum up the works.

You, in the obviously Freudian sports car, stop driving like you own the road. You cannot turn left from a right turn only lane. Yes, I saw you do that. Yes, you are a doofus.

You, on the cell phone in a crowded elevator, loudly repeating the same line over and over again. It wasn’t funny the first time you said it, and it gets less charming each time you repeat it.

You, with the shopping cart turned diagonally taking up the entire aisle because you got a little flustered about whether you should get oatie-os or oatie-os-plus.

You, with the gaggle of friends who are walking in a tight space and who without reason stop, backing up all human traffic in any direction.

You, standing outside the public restroom to have a conversation. Step away from the door. I said, step away. Stop blocking the door. Move it, woman!

You, stop staring at me while I brush my teeth. Why am I the freak because I want to erase the signs of lunch from my mouth? Heard of oral hygiene? If you don’t know what a toothbrush is, then I have no idea why you are spending all that effort and money on the plastic surgery, ‘cause when your teeth fall out ain’t nobody gonna be kissing that face.

You, in the 10 items or less aisle with more than 10 items. Die. Die screaming.

You, with the dog in a purse? You suck. I wish I could put you in a purse and see how you like it.

You, tabloids, I don’t believe that alien babies are infiltrating the FBI using cleverly encrypted gizmos that come out of the bubble gum machine. Who buys this crap?

You, gossip rags, stop creating amalgams of celebrity names. We don’t call you and your significant other Joheather. These names sound like failed As Seen on TV products, or new germs.

You, news reporters, stop acting like everything is earth shattering. Give me the facts, without the hype. Did you ever watch the likes of Edward R. Murrow? Hell, watch Anderson Cooper. Stop spazzing at us.

You, technology developers, don’t start marketing me the 1.0 and the second I buy it release the 2.0 with incentive goodies. I want incentive goodies!

You, with the perfume, cologne, or whatever that scent is. A dab please. If I can’t get fresh air outside when you are within 50 feet of me? Honey, did you swim in it?

There are so many of you out there, doing so many unpleasant things.

Just stop.

Writing about writing

I’ve gotten a lot of wonderful feedback on the blog (thank you, thank you, muchas gracias and all that) and some encouragement to do this professionally (write, that is).

There are some things that hold me back from this: 1. I like a steady income, 2. I really have no idea how to get into the industry (I tried when I graduated from grad school), and 3. Writing takes discipline.

So let’s pretend that 1 & 2 cancel each other out (if I get into the industry, I can make a steady income – just play along), and just focus on #3: discipline.

I’ve read a lot from writers about how to write professionally, and I have yet to hear anyone say Just write when you get the spark, just write when you get the urge, just write whenever.

They all talk about discipline.

I’ve read that you should treat your writing like a normal job. Schedule working hours and write during that time. One of Scott’s favorite authors has a seasonal approach to writing (I'm paraphrasing here):

Phase 1: Winter
In Phase 1, he sits inside, by the fire, and writes by hand. No editing, just writing whatever he thinks would work in this story. This is every day.

Phase 2: Spring
He reviews it - looking for stuff that fits, as well as eliminating stuff that doesn’t or saving things that might make other good stories. Every day.

Phase 3: Summer
In the summer he goes out to his room in the barn every day, in the middle of the pasture and sits down at an old fashion typewriter and types the draft.

Phase 4: Fall
He reviews the draft then types the final edition. Every day.

Come winter again he starts all over.

I must say this system takes a hell of a lot of discipline. More than I could possibly muster.

I joke that I am ADD – show me a shiny object and… hey, look, a birdie!

I know I get distracted when I clean, at work, mid-conversation (regardless of who is talking), or at the grocery store. It happens non-stop.

And sometimes I am that way with my writing.

I sit down with a great idea and about half way through I am bored, or distracted, or, well, bored. I mean, I love to write, it is one of my passions, but sometimes I want to do something else. The worst part is when I return to the document, I no longer have the same passion. Sometimes I have no interest in the topic at all. Sometimes I look at it and go, “oh it would be better if I said this” and then I spend the time revamping it, often losing the original text in the process.

So, I get all ADD, I get distracted and then? I’m done. Honestly, I just walk away from the piece.

I’m not disciplined.

I write when I have something to say. I write when something happens that I can’t let go of. I write when I am feeling funny, or sad, or angry, or frustrated, or… you get the picture.

I don’t write when I am emotionless. My emotions drive my writing.

And therein lies the rub.

If my emotions drive my writing, and I need to be disciplined, I have to have a structure that enables me to be emotional and productive at the same time.

You try scheduling an emotion. Go ahead. How about sustaining it for 8 hours. I don’t want to be frustrated for 8 hours.

I know, not every writer is the same, and therefore what works for them may not (who am I kidding, will not) work for me.

I can sit down and write a 500 word blog like nobody’s business. Can I do a novel?

Well, you’ll be surprised to know that the answer is yes.

When I graduated and moved to Tucson I dedicated myself to writing my first novel. I say first, as if it was the beginning of the list. There has not been a second yet. But, I naively believe that someday I may sit down at the computer again and make another attempt.

My first novel was a detective story. It tried to do too much. Too many homages, too many far fetched ideas. It was great fun to write, and every so often I would ship a chapter off to my friend Evelyn back in Indiana who would edit it, make comments, be my sounding board, and send it back.

We must have spent a fortune in paper and postage.

It was great fun. And, when I thought it was suitable for a larger audience, I bought a book on how to become a published author, I sent a synopsis of my book to all appropriate publishers, and I waited for a response.

Most didn’t respond. Those that did ranged from pleasant (not right at this time) to obnoxious (I do not think that word means what you think it means).

Sure, it was disheartening. But, I kept trying. I went online and found lots more to contact. No responses. I almost got lured into vanity publishing, because I didn’t know what it was (and of course they don’t call themselves vanity publishers), and that was when I gave up.

I gave up. I accepted the fact that I would never be a professional writer.

Then, I got a job as a technical writer. Writing without passion and glamour. But I reveled in telling people that I was a professional writer. I was bored, but I was a writer.

Then, I became a technical editor. Less stimulating than technical writing.

Then, I managed writers. Far worse than editing.

Then, I switched jobs.

Professional writing isn’t glamorous – it’s thought, reflection, discipline. Also, you have to catch the ideas before your brain goes ADD and switches topics. I literally had another dozen topics that almost made it into the blog, but I wrote them in my head because I was doing something else, and then, when I had the time… they were gone.

I love to write. I’ve been so happy with my little blog, because it gets me flexing this muscle that has been in mothballs quietly screaming for use. But I have to be honest with myself: the chance of me ever doing this full-time is slim.

Maybe I’ll do a book of short stories and try the publishing route again. Maybe a book of satirical essays. Maybe.

In the meantime, I’m just a girl, sitting in front of a computer, asking you to love my blog.

Spelling Demons

My mother trumps the spell check, again.

Of all of the things I have inherited from my mother, her spelling wasn't one of them.

Solicited Advice

Across the internet you can find a plethora of advice columnists, from Ann Landers to Dear Prudence, Sars at Tomato Nation, or even the tried and true Miss Manners, if you have a quandary, someone has an opinion on how you should deal with it.

I read practically every one I come across. I love to see what problems people are facing and how different people suggest dealing with it. Some are totally mainstream (I love him, but he left me, for my sister) or totally left-field (My cat likes my partner better than me, should I poision the cat?). Regardless, they run the gamut from comic to tragic, and that is why I find them so addictive.

I have a lot of respect for good advice columnists, I know that I have no patience for the people that write in and would likely tell them to shut up and deal.

To that end, I’ve come up with what I call the real message the advisor is trying to tell you:

1. The “He/she is great in every way, except…”
If the except is something along the lines of:

• He/she is mean to me
• He/she hits me
• He/she is rude to people I like/love
• He/she is trying to isolate me from my friends and family

Then you should leave. Leave. Just leave. Go away. Stop being involved with this person. This person is not great in every way – this person is a jerk and the deeper into this relationship you get the more this person will be a jerk to you. You deserve better. Leave him/her.

2. The “My friend is great to me in private but in public he/she does horrible things…”

See #1. This person is not your friend. For whatever reason, your insecure idiotic friend thinks it is cool to mistreat you in front of others. Whether it is for his/her amusement, or out of embarrassment, or whatever else. This person is a jerk. This person is not your friend. Stop spending time with this butthead.

3. The “I saw my friend’s spouse making out with/fooling around with someone that is not their spouse”

What would you want someone to do if they saw your spouse cheating on you? Would you like them to pretend they knew nothing? Not me. I’d want a photo. Use your camera phone (puh-leaze, you have one), snap an incriminating picture or two. Drive to your friend’s house. Sit your friend down. Tell your friend you are sorry. Bring up the picture and hand it over. Hug your friend while he/she sobs. I know a lot of people say, “don’t get involved” but seriously, are you going to be able to sit on this? If you could, do you think you should?

4. The “My friend has this problem…”

Own the fact that you have a problem. Everything following this statement sounds like grown-ups in a Peanut’s cartoon (because we are all sitting here thinking, "oh honey we know it's you"). You know you have an embarrassing issue, but you don’t want anyone to know it is you, so you write to a columnist. Do you know how many people read those things? Better to go to a doctor, dentist, shrink, hair dresser, personal shopper or whatever you need to resolve it. They’ve seen and heard worse. And hey, I’d rather have a snotty hair dresser know that I’ve got something funky going on with my scalp than to write “Dear Abby, my friend has this problem… Signed, Dandruff-covered Dancer in Dallas.” Everyone who knows you, knows it is you. Everyone who doesn’t know you stopped caring long ago.

5. The legitimate “My friend has this (insert personal hygiene, dress, appearance, etc here) problem… should I tell him/her?”

Your friend picks his/her nose in public. Gross. Should you tell him/her? YES. For the love of all that is holy tell this clueless person that you don’t want to share a bag of popcorn at the movies after witnessing that. Hey, if nose-picking is your thing, maybe you should do that at home. Let’s face it, we all are a little clueless about something – better to hear it from our friends in a nice way than to have some child screaming “BOOGER EATER” at the top of her lungs in the grocery store. I’m just saying.

6. The "Why doesn't my friend want to be my friend anymore?"

Friendships come and go. As sad as it is, friendships have a shelf-life. When it's over, it's over. The same is true of break-ups. Let. It. Go. Mourn it, but say good-bye and don't beg this person to be in your life.

So, to wrap up:

1. Leave.
2. Leave.
3. Be honest.
4. Admit you have a problem, and seek help.
5. Help your friend see the problem that everyone else sees (nicely).
6. Let it go.

Fast Food Nonsense

For years I have tried to restrict my fast food intake, but honestly there are times when it is either the easiest or most affordable thing to do.

So back in Tucson my favorite Taco Bell thing was a tostada. In VA, none of the Taco Bells have tostadas. I find this incredibly peculiar because they have Mexi-pizzas and Crunch-wrap supremes which both use the tostada shell.

WTF? I want my damn tostadas!

Conversely, I've spent years weaning myself off of McDonald's. In College, the best hangover 'medicine' was to walk the 1/4 mile to the Mickey D's and get a Big Mac meal with a Biggie Coke. Dude, the Mac soaked up every ounce of liquor left in your system and the Coke got your energy up. It was bliss.

I still haven't seen Super Size Me, and I don't really need to. I know it's bad for me. I make Big Mac's a rarity, I don't upsize, and I drink Sprite ('cause I kicked caffeine long ago).

So tonight on our way home Scott is jonseing for a milkshake, and while he will not eat any Mickey D's food, he loves the shakes. So, we pull up and a sign says 24 Hour Drive through. Seriously? If I have a Big Mac attack at 3 AM I can drive 5 min from my house and get whatever hot junk I want? Oh God help me!

But wait, it gets worse. We pull into the drive-through and not only do they have the normal hot fudge sundaes, they have 4 additional sundaes. I couldn't resist. I got the hot fudge brownie sundae. And? It was fantastic. I gave Scott a bite of the brownie and he was in heaven.

24 hrs a day, Big Mac and a selection of sundaes? For the love of God, what will save me??

There must be some irony or karmic compensation for losing tostadas. Damn you, Taco Bell! Damn you, delicious selection of sundaes and ridiculous availability of junk food!