For my brother...

...whose birthday is next week. He had a fantastic collection of Transformers when he was a kid.

Happy Birthday, Tim.

Review

I recommend going back and reading through every single one of your blog posts sometime. I guarantee, it will be enlightening.

Going back through mine (I'll save you the time, don't worry), I found out that I have been "working" on a book for two years. Two years! And no nearer to publication. That's just unacceptable.

My idea to get us out of debt through online publishing has been in the works for over one year. There has been some progress with this, and I plan on doing more. I just have to make a little money to get things rolling with that. So that's good. Actual progress, there.

I can't believe how cranky I was two years ago. I can't believe my husband is still with me. I was really unpleasant. Things are better, now. I'm not as cranky.

I also can't believe how much I was working. I still work a lot, but I will never do three jobs at once like I was before. Self-employed at three jobs? Maybe. Employed elsewhere at three jobs? No.

The coffee tastes really good this morning. I'm still hopeful. This year is going to be a busy one for soap, but it will be good. If I'm in at the third market I applied to, we will be full-time soapers this summer. If DH can help me, then we'll be fine.

Summer is decidedly not here yet, as evidenced by the SNOW outside. I hope this is the last wintry hurrah, but I'm not as desperate about the cold as I was in the winter. We've had a few warm days, and I let the warmth sink into my bones, so I'm okay with this, for now.

I think I'll go make some scones. Happy weekend, everyone.

What can I do to protect my hip?

I was perusing a web site, and saw an ad with that headline. "What can I do to protect my hip?" There was a photo of an attractive woman with grey hair and a mild expression on her face.

I failed to read the rest of the ad, I found the question so appealing.

How To Protect Your Hip

1. Wear iron pants.
2. Hire an entourage of bodyguards to walk with you wherever you go, on your weak hip's side.
3. Wear those padded shorts for linebackers.
4. Massage it lovingly.
5. Get one of your attractive bodyguards to massage it for you.
6. Oh, yeah, that's the stuff.
7. Move to an area with no hills.
8. Avoid dancefloors.
9. Wear a low-slung, spiked leather belt.
10. Never get out of your comfy chair. (No! Not the comfy chair!)
    

Biscuits, Fairies, and Scientology

The Adventures of Ann and Amy


The Musical

The title of this post started a while ago, when I shared with friend Steve that I was having a morning of fun with our mutual friend Ann. We were planning on having breakfast at Lucile's, and then going to the metaphysical faire. When Steve signed off from his instant message, he said, "Enjoy your biscuits and fairies." So there you have it.

The day started with Ann buying a Starbucks coffee, while I got some cash. I asked her why she was buying a Starbucks, when the breakfast place had good coffee. She replied that she wanted, "Sugary, syrupy goodness," and would have nothing less. I have to support that.

Being a former restaurant server, I worried that her coffee would get cold in the car, as I knew that restaurants did not allow outside food and beverages. When we got there, she brought in her coffee, like there was no issue at all. I didn't notice this until we sat at our patio table, when our server said, "I'm going to ignore the Starbucks coffee. Would you like some beignets? A half-order, perhaps?" Ann readily agreed.

I had never had beignets, so I went along for the ride, and as you can imagine, it was a good ride. Yummah! Our farmer's eggs and Hank's eggs were delicious, and the portions were very large, so we couldn't finish them. I did finish my biscuit, though. I know my priorities in life.

Afterward, we turned the corner, hitting the curb, and went on our way to the metaphysical faire. I had been to it several times, but Ann had never been there. I had never attended so early in the day, so I didn't know if there would be a line.

There was. But it wasn't long.

When we first entered the building, still in line, we were greeted with songs about medicine eagle feather woman, sung in a lovely fashion by two older women in prom gowns. That was how the faire started.

We made the circuit around the whole thing. Around the edges of both rooms we found the readers--psychic readers, palm readers, tarot readers, etc. There were also massage therapists, reflexologists, and Chanty McGee. We chose not to visit him this time.

We found the person who would give Ann her reading, signed up, then walked off to find the folks from the Inner Connection Institute, who do free aura cleansings and chakra balancing. We had this done, and it was awesome. Those are great folks, and they offer this service for free. It was very refreshing. I felt happy afterward.

This may explain the insane giggling fits later.

Anyway, after the aura cleansing, we went for our readings. Ann to hers, and mine to a new guy. He taped the session, so I could listen to it again, which was very cool. Instead of a regular tarot reading, he led me through a guided meditation, in which I could find the answers to the questions I had, by myself.

We found ourselves wandering around the vendors after that. Prayer flags, ugly jewelry, some cool jewelry, some cool art pieces, and t-shirts that "felt hempy."

"Hmm. These t-shirts feel hempy. They are hempy!" Ann exclaimed, after looking at the tag.

"Hempy?" I asked.

"It says it right there."

We walked on, perusing things that will clear your personal environment of bad energy, lots of cool rocks and mineral thingys, and came upon the Grand Court Jester of the faire.

Dressed in a colorful jester's hat, colorful clothes, and perched precariously upon a high stool, she chanted, "Chakra photos! Get your chakra photos here! Chakras!" and such.

I shit you not.

We walked on toward some books and tarot cards, distracted by the belly dancers in full costume, who were walking around freely. We saw a dude playing a didgeridoo, only the end of it was placed RIGHT AT some dude's head. Ann and I both agreed that would freak us out.

Of course, a visit to the metaphysical faire isn't complete without being accosted by scientologists. Even though it is clearly posted at the entrance, "No proselytizing," they set up shop selling Dianetics books. Apparently this is okay, but pushing scientology is not. So anyway, we were accosted by them, asking us if we wanted a free "stress test." Um, sure.

So we sat down. Dude handed me what looked like two skinny soup cans with no labels, attached to which were roach clips and wires, leading to this electronic thing with a dial and a meter. He asked me to, "Think about different situations in your life." I found this bizarre, but did as asked. At one point, the needle on the meter moved.

"Mmmmm," dude said, nodding and giving me a knowing look. What he knew was a mystery to me, but it appeared that he pitied me somehow. "What were you thinking about, just then when the needle moved?"

"I have no idea," I said, truthfully. I was shocked by the bizarre nature of this "stress test."

"What about your relationships?" he pressed. I thought about it. The needle didn't move.

"They're fine, " I said.

"Hmm," he said, "Lemme try something, " and turned the dial on the machine.

"He's trying to make the needle move by adjusting the machine. This is total bullshit," I thought, but stayed there to fuck with him.

He then asked, "Are you married?"

"Yes." No needle movement.

"Do you have children?" he asked, and the needle moved.

"Mmmmmmm," he said, with that look of, "Man, are you fucked up," on his face.

"I imagine most mothers carry some stress about their children. She doesn't stress me out," I said. At this point I saw Ann, standing in the thoroughfare. I placed the soup cans on the table. "I'm leaving now," I said with a smile.

"But wait, let me show you this book," he said, rather quickly.

"No, thanks," I said. It was Dianetics.

"Have you heard of it?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Have you read it?" he asked, with a glimmer of hope in his scientologist eyeballs.

"No, I haven't. And I'm not going to. Goodbye," I said, and joined Ann.

She told me that the woman who was giving her the stress test tried to tell her that Dianetics wasn't about scientology.

"What?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah. She was showing me the book, and on the back it has a quote from John Travolta. And then I saw another quote from Tom Cruise, and then I said, 'This is scientology!' and she said, 'noitisn't!' just like that. And I said, 'yes it is!' and she said, 'no it isn't. It's about a way to manage the stress in your life' but then I cut her off and said, 'yes, it is scientology!' and walked off."

At this point we were away from the stress testers, and I suggested we go back to them, and see if they ask us for a stress test again, and we would sit down, and when they asked us if we had stress, I would say, "Yeah, amnesia stresses me out."

And then the giggling started.

Then Ann suggested we sit down again, and when he asked me about what stresses me out, she could lean over, right in my face, and say, "I think it's time to go! Aren't you done yet???" and I could answer, "My friends," to the guy.

And then the giggling was laughter. Very loud laughter. A passserby remarked that she wanted some of what I was drinking. I assured her it was just Coke.

We decided later that we could sit down with the scientologists, and when they asked us what stresses us out, we could say, "People who lie about shit not being scientology when IT CLEARLY IS YOU IDIOTS IN THE DIANETICS SHIRTS! WHAT KIND OF FREAKS ARE YOU??" Insane laughter again.

By this time we were sitting down, waiting for Ann's massage appointment. We saw the woman before here, sitting in the massage chair, and you know how they have that cut out in the face pillow, so your face is open to the air? The dude put a hairnet over the face pillow, and Ann remarked, "My face is going to have net lines."

I said to her, "You've got more important things to worry about. Heed my words, you'd better not open your eyes while you're there. Because if you do, this is what you're gonna see," and I stuck my face right in her face, threatening to squat in front of the massage chair, waiting to pounce.

Insane laughter.

It was a great, great day. The joke now would be for Ann to say, "No it wasn't!"

"Yes, it was!"

"No it wasn't!"

The Reality of Married Life

Husband: What is the true meaning of this song, to you? (while listening to some sappy-ass song on a Thomas the Train video)

Wife: You need to leave me alone. You're full of shit today, and I just can't take it.

Husband: *bursts out giggling*

Pure joy.

I am not the biggest sports fan, but I was raised in rural Iowa, where there wasn't much to do. Participating in sports kept us all fit, and my father liked to watch Iowa Hawkeye football and basketball on the weekends, so I did, sometimes, too.

To brighten your day, I found this video of the Miami of Ohio team celebrating (.6 seconds prematurely, it turned out) their win over Akron. What I love about the video is the reaction of the team, the cheerleaders, the coaches, everyone, right after Doug Penno makes his shot. It is absolutely wonderful to watch.

It's just so instant. Instant joy. Just add sweat.

Best. Sick. Day. Evah.

Okay, it's the best because I'm not the sick one. My husband is. And I guess it's not really the best, because the best sick day is when it's 70 degrees out and I take a sick day to take my kid to the zoo.

So today is the second best.

But this thing I found might make it closer to the best. This is hilarious! I love it. I love that I found it on a Monday morning.

Tell your friends.

Weekly blogger.

Yep, that's me.

It's been a rough winter. We're not out of winter for three more weeks, but the effects of so much snow and cold are coming through. Our whole household has been ill in some manner: daughter got the stomach flu and a cough; papa got some sort of illness (probably a rough cold); I have had a cough for about three weeks, now. Had an asthma attack the other night. Made for a rough day at work.

When things like this happen, it's hard for me to keep up the pace that I'm used to, with the soap and other endeavors. I made soap last night, though, which was a good thing, because it helped to propel me out of the rut. I felt good about it. Action always combats complacency for me.

I wonder, what with spring coming, how others have their perceptions change. Does the sun and warm weather cause a reaction in all of us to act? Or is it just my turn in life?

Things seem very revolutionary for me, right now. Inside my head.


I'll keep you posted.

I've won my first Oscar!

My presumptuous headline aside (really...should we assume that I will win another? The answer is yes), I was honored with an Academy Award this evening!

It came via the lovely Sherry Lansing's acceptance speech for the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award. In her speech she shared her Oscar with teachers, who are, "the ones who truly never give up on kids."

I'm paraphrasing. I wish I could find the text of her speech. If I can find it in the following few days, I'll post her exact words.

Until, then, thanks so much, Sherry. I accept! Sorry I didn't dress up. My loungy-jammies will certainly land me on the fug list. I promise to do better next time. I was caught unawares!

It's 2.5 hours before..

...the 79th Annual Academy Awards, and the red carpet is already happening. People are already arriving, in their finery, walking ever so slowly, with bright red smirks on their faces, while flashbulbs illuminate their perfect porcelain skin.

Well, some skin is orangey-Mystic-tan, but still smooth and glowing.

They arrive this early to take the red carpet slowly, I guess. To get the most exposure possible.

Yeah, I'm watching. This is where I get my fashion tips. *guffaws and spews root beer*

Shorts

Some people look stunning and lovely and even more fabulous than anyone thought they could, with little or no hair:






Some don't:

What you don't know.

I wonder how many posts I've started with that headline. I know it's at least one other.

What you don't know about public schools is probably a lot, if you don't work for one, or if you aren't closely connected otherwise. Teaching is a hard job, but one of the best things about teaching for me is that I have made a TON of friends. Schools aren't one room on the prairie, and as such, there are lots of opportunities to meet people and make friends.

The shitty part of all of it comes about this time of year, when the staff of a school sits down and looks at the budget. Of course, the budget is never increased, only decreased. This means that, most every year, "we" have to decide the cuts.

And that's what you don't know. People who work in schools make friends in a foxhole--it's a hard job, no matter what you are doing, and if you work there, you automatically share a special connection with everyone else there. We talk about our time in schools like military folk do: long-term teachers are invariably called "veterans."

So it's that time of year, and the cuts are in. And, of course, one of my best friends has had her job cut. Rather, her job is one of three that has been "redistributed," so she has to decide whether or not to interview for the two remaining positions.

For those who don't know, let me clue you in: THIS SUCKS.

It sucks for her, because she doesn't know if she wants to interview. If not, it means she has lost her job. If she does, she would be interviewing for a different job which she doesn't like. More than likely, I'm betting she chooses not to interview, which means I will have one less friend at work next year.

WHICH SUCKS!

We need as many allies as we can get, down here in this foxhole.

Finally.

I am looking out my front window, and see clouds, yes, but no snow. NO SNOW.

I would breathe a sigh of relief if I didn't think it would jinx the whole thing.

I can't see Pike's Peak today, but I can see the Sleeping Dragon. The foothills have snow on them, but the big mountains look black. I'm sure there is some snow up there, but they are just too far away. Even in this neighborhood, we've got a mountain view. Unreal.

The Olde Crone came off vacation this week, and the response was good. I had a sale to celebrate my return to the land of consumerism, and it is paying off. I've had about 5 orders in one week, which is a very good thing. I've sold a few books this week, as well, so that's a good thing, too. I love selling books. I only wrote it once!

Speaking of which, I should probably get started on my next one. Well, I've got two going right now. Jeez. Gotta focus my efforts.

At least it's not snowing. Depression doesn't help my writing, as I am not writing poetry.

Imagine that.

It's been about a week since I posted, and guess what?

IT IS SNOWING.

I'm going back to bed.

Not "ill" as such...

I am so positively SICK of snow.

And cold.

I'm moving to Paradise Island in the Bahamas. I swear I am.

Yes! Yes, the snow is pretty. And yes! It is peaceful when it snows, because of the sound-muffling quality of it.

I don't care anymore. I want it to be spring, with sunshine and crocus and daffodils and all that.

NOW!

Things are picking up.

Ever since I have started to begin each day with, "I am happy and grateful because..." my life, in all aspects, has taken a turn for the better.

I am not kidding.


I recommend this for everyone. Fill in after the 'because' with anything that you want out of your life. Say it as if it has already happened. That's the only way to make affirmations work.

And boy, do they work.

I am happy and grateful that my affirmations work!

I am either high on drugs...

...or a writer.


I just went to bed. All the way. Under the covers. Pillow just right. Snuggly.

And I got up to come to my blog because I had used a word incorrectly and needed to change it so I don't look like the world's most profound idiot on the internet.

Then, of course, after I had changed that, I had to delete a word.


This. THIS, is what it's like to be a writer. For those who don't know.

I'm going to bed "for the reals" now. I am. I don't care about typos anymore.

Any.


More.


p.s. after I wrote this post, I came back to edit it. I am seriously going to bed now.

Ambrosia--Nectar of My God

Scandalous headline, no?


Aaaanywaaaay.....

I went to the University of Iowa for my first degree. I was an English Education major. As an English major, I had the pleasure to take Fiction Writing class, as I think it is a requirement. I don't remember anything about it being required, except being terrified, so it must have been required, otherwise I wouldn't have done it.

You see, I am not a fiction writer. I knew this when I was 20, and I still know it. I write nonfiction. It's what I do best. But for some reason, I took Fiction Writing class.

I do remember my instructor's name: Charlie D'Ambrosio. I thought he should go by "Carlos" personally, but whatever. Charlie was a good instructor. He was not a professor, but a Master's Degree student who was going through the University's world-renowned Writer's Workshop. I was introduced to this Workshop format in this class. For those who do not know what that means:

• Everybody was required to turn in two pieces of fiction per semester.
  
• The day the writing is due, the student turns it in to the instructor's mailbox.
• The next day, all students in the class are required to pick up one copy of all the fiction pieces submitted.
• All students then take these writings home, read them, and comment on them. RIGHT ON THE PAPER.
• The next class, everyone shows up, talks about the fiction RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF THE AUTHOR AND EVERYTHING, and then all the students give that piece of writing back to the author.
  

The author then leaves class and goes straight to The Deadwood. Or perhaps George's. I prefer George's. Or maybe Tuck's. The author would then sit there and read through all of these comments, and weep into her/his drink of choice. Sometimes, this would last for hours.

Brutal? Yes. Necessary? Perhaps. It did NOTHING to help me get over my fear of fiction writing, of course. It only enhanced my loathing for fiction, and I was terrified when it was my turn, because I DO NOT WRITE FICTION.

So I'm reading the pieces for "my" week, and this one guy has turned in 40 pages! The requirement was "a minimum of 5 pages." I, of course, chose to turn in the minimum. But this dude decided to ruin our lives with 40 pages of some slick, fast-moving story about a guy and a woman, and I remember it felt like a romance novel, only I thought it was bad. I couldn't put my finger on why, though, because it was so slick and fast-moving. However, it was somewhat polished, and I could tell that this guy really got off on writing fiction. I made my comments and moved on.

The day came when it was "my" turn in class. Rather, it was my turn to sit through the agony of having my fiction picked apart, not unlike a bunch of birds picking at the carrion that is my carcass, only I'm ALIVE AND SITTING RIGHT HERE, PEOPLE. I CAN FEEL THAT! Luckily, 40-Pager was up before me, and we all talked about it. "Slick." "Fast-moving." "I liked the sex." Etc.

Then came mine. "Slick," was not mentioned.

However. Carlos D'Ambrosio, the man I have never ceased to love from the bottom of my heart, saved fiction for me. After both pieces were discussed (I remember now...each week we had to read two pieces), he took over and asked the class, "What's in here?" pointing to the 40-pager. "What's in this? What does it mean? Where is it going?"

We couldn't answer, really. Turns out, Slick was writing fluff. That's why I can't remember the story--there wasn't one.

And C.D'A. didn't leave it at that. He, on his own, without provocation from the students or anything, picked up MY piece and said, "It's unpolished. It needs mechcanical work. Get over it, people. THERE IS SOMETHING HERE. There is a story here. You can see it for yourselves. You can't deny it." And nobody did.

I almost cried, I loved him so much. I wish I knew where he was right now.*

That said, I have gotten over my fear of fiction, and write the occasional story. Short story. Mostly erotica. Seems that's the kind of fiction I might be good at.

Aaaaaanywaaaay, if you want an example of what the comments on your fiction might be like, go here. I almost peed** my pants when I read this, because THE COMMENTS ARE VERY CLOSE TO THOSE ON MY PAPER.


*Oregon, apparently

**from laughing

Check out those archives

I just realized that, come February, I've been blogging for 3 years.

Jeez. What a loudmouth.

I hate resolutions.

Therefore, I will not make any. Instead of publicly resolving anything, this year will probably be the one where I take action, instead.

Because I am a cynical bastard, I hate all of the "end of the year" crap. Even so, I am a hypocritical bastard this year, because I am looking at the shelves in the kitchen thinking, "Yeah, today is the best day to de-clutter all of this." Thinking that, because it's the first of the year, that it will set a good precedent.

Well, I'm going to de-clutter the shelves, and I'm going to feel good about it, and I'm not resolving anything.


Except maybe to drink a little more. In general.