Since I’ve started writing a novel, I feel like my mind is in a constant state of playing everything out. There’s a movie on loop playing in my head. I’m always thinking about what could happen, or what my characters are doing, and I’m pretty sure it’s driving me to the brink of insanity. Which sounds kind of thrilling, but it’s actually pretty terrifying when you can’t concentrate on anything else. It’s starting to seep into my dreams at night, too, and since my novel is a murder mystery/teen sleuth, this isn’t bringing along dreams of playful puppies tumbling down a field of wildflowers and kittens cuddling underneath a Skittles rainbow. My dreams are more in the realm of brutal slayings, the decapitation of pedophiles, and throwing a stabby porcupine at an unsuspecting stranger’s face. Anybody up for some free acupuncture? It’s an intense way to wake up every morning. Which leads me to a question Alex and I discussed at length yesterday:
If the person you love most in this world (spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/sister/best friend/whatever) killed a pedophile instead of reporting it to police, would you flee the country/hide with them or turn them in? The pedophile wasn’t attacking anyone, or doing anything at the time your person found out so it wasn’t self defense, they were just angry and wanted to end him for being a sick fuck. Are you turning them in because you want nothing to do with it? Or do you love them to the point you are willing to give up your life to protect them and live on the run? I’m curious what your answers are, because Alex and I had opposing ones. Dun dun dun…
Also, how do you not become so consumed by what you’re writing about? Is this normal? I’m assuming this is why most creative artists are the depressive type. Pretty soon I’m going to be shaving my head and chanting around a bonfire in my backyard wearing nothing but nipple tassels and a baby diaper. Okay, probably not, but you see where I’m going.
I like to think I’m a mature adult even though I’m 100% guilty of randomly losing my shit in laughter over things like farts and people falling down. What can I say? Sometimes it’s hard to keep your cool when farts sound like quacking ducks and when you get to witness first hand someone so engrossed in their phone that they trip over their own feet. I love to watch as their phone flies into a nearby puddle and everyone stops what they are doing and stares at them like they are their pathetic Aunt Judy who had too much to drink and wet herself on Thanksgiving last year. Everyone has a crazy family member like that. Judy never learns, does she? Damn it, Judy! For shame.
I’m the self-proclaimed queen of laughing at inappropriate times. It’s not immaturity, though, right? Maybe I just have a great sense of humor. That’s it. That’s what I’m going with.
In late June, Alex and I went on a road trip to Michigan to go to my cousin’s wedding. Honestly, I’m not close to my extended family. At all. We live far apart and I have more in common with my neighbor’s pet rabbit that eats it’s own poop than I have with the majority of them. They are nice people, though, and since we turned down the last two wedding invitations, we felt obligated to make an appearance this time. We crammed a lot of driving into a short period, and by the time the wedding ceremony rolled around… we were exhausted. I was well into the zone of being sorely overtired. When I get to that point- I have severe issues controlling myself. You know, when you’re so tired you would probably succumb to laughter even over something as lame as a popsicle-stick-joke. It’s tough for me. Really tough.
So, when the girl in the pew in front of us was audibly complaining to her mom about her tights making her underwear ride up her butt, I couldn’t help it. She was soon deep up there, digging a wedgie out for a solid minute. Fingers jammed up her butt as she danced around in place trying to get it free. I lost it. In the middle of a quiet church ceremony that was actually quite beautiful and romantic. The mood was ruined. Everyone turned and stared at me in abject horror. I could feel the death stares burning holes through my skin. It was awkward as hell. I grabbed my shit and got out of there while I still had a little self-respect left.
That was the day I came to the sad realization that I’m the Judy of my family. Not that I’ve wet myself on a holiday yet, but I’m only 29. There’s still time to accomplish that goal.
Silver lining – maybe I won’t be invited to any more weddings.
(Random note – 16 more days left until Fall! I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of it being so hot I can’t step outside without my nipples feeling like they are roasting off. Woo, hurry up, Fall!)
I recently stumbled upon a blogger who was reviewing a local restaurant right down the road from me. It made me pretty excited, so I posted a comment and tried to connect with her. I really had no intention of meeting this person, I just wanted to tell her how much I agreed with her good review and next time she should get the Bacon & Pimento Cheeseburger because it will give her a mouthgasm. (If you don’t know what Pimento cheese is, you’re not living life.)
Well… she never responded to me. I figured I might come across a bit crazy in my writing, so I thought reaching out to her in an email would clear my name and make her feel more at ease:
I commented on your post recently and I’m worried I came across weird and freaked you out. Don’t be scared. I didn’t want to meet up with you or anything like that. I know I come across a little crazy on my blog… but I assure you I’m more of a “I made my 8-year-old niece try a dog treat crazy” rather than a “I’m going to find your house and harvest your organs crazy.” Speaking of your house, the one on your Bio page is so cute. So is your dog. If you want to be friends, I’m just down the road.
Pretty sure I made it worse. You win some, you lose some right?
Lesson of the Day : If you want to make new friends off the internet, don’t mention living down the road from them and harvesting their organs in the same paragraph.
PS – I promise… I’m really not crazy! Well, not serial killer crazy at least.
(Photo Credit goes to sal0)
Today is Alex and my wedding anniversary. Can we give him a round of applause, please? Dealing with me on a daily basis is a whole roller-coaster of crazy. And not a fun one where you scream, throw your hands in the air, and make a plan with your friends to give a big thumbs-up and a cheesy grin to the camera as you zoom by on the rails. Keep your arms and legs inside the cart at all times, folks, or you might lose one.
Even though I’m a bit crazy, our marriage is quite the opposite. We have an easy, respectful and loving relationship, and I couldn’t possibly be more grateful. I thought it would be fun to share a poem I wrote for Alex this year. Now, let me forewarn you: an 8-year-old has better poetry skills than I do. (I probably haven’t written one since then, anyway) This poem was meant to be a silly joke, and that’s all.
“Oh Alex, I really love you
And the way that you love me
Your butt, your smile, your sense of humor,
Jesus, you make me so crazy.
You’re sexy when you’re cleaning
Take charge of that litter box!
Hurry up, now. I can’t stand it
Strip down into your socks!
Thank you for accepting me,
Farts, hairiness, and all
Even when I shed like crazy,
And leave it on the shower wall
I’ll love you ’til you’re old and wrinkly,
I’m honored to be your wife
You’re stuck with me forever, babe
I’m yo bitch fo’ life”
I know, I know. I won’t quit my day job.
For the love of God! I mean… Cats! For the love of cats!
I’ve been trying to stay on top of my Christmas shopping this year, and I’m happy to announce: I’ve been kicking some serious ass. I’m almost done. So, I’m pretty sure that warrants a pat on the back or something as it’s not even December yet. And a cookie. Maybe a brownie. Okay…both. I want both, damn it.
Who’s getting the most gifts from us this year? The cat. Yep, you read that right. Our pet cat. I’m not sure how or when this happened, but I’ve become one of those strange cat ladies. The kind that has conversations with a non-verbal cat more often than with other human beings. Sometimes we share pieces of cheese together and take turns licking the same ice cream cone. (Okay, I don’t actually do that. Have you ever smelled cat breath? Blech.) Sadly, I’m not even 30 yet. I didn’t think crazy-cat-lady syndrome could happen so early.
So far, she will have a new cat tree, water fountain, automatic feeder, litter box, bed, blanket, and a slew of toys under the tree. I can’t wait to see the look on her face on Christmas morning when she gets to open them all.
……. We really need to have kids or something. This is getting scary. Help