Knowing It All Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry

I know it's hard to believe, and I hate to disappoint y'all, but the rumors are true. I'm not as smart as I seem. I hope you didn't just go into a tailspin on that illumination—like all my children—but the fact is smarty pants is the term that more accurately describes my I.Q. Mizz Smarty Pants if, as Miss Jackson says, you're nasty.

I'm sure you're asking right now: What sort of shenanigan is Fragrant Liar trying to pull? Everyone knows what a fountain of wisdom she is. Right?

It's just that I wonder when I will know everything there is to know so I can stop stumbling into walls, spinning around, and bouncing off the same walls again. If there's a date certain for this event, I'll ink it on my calendar and just keep hitting the snooze button till the day arrives. That way I can quit wearing the neon sign around my neck that reads, "I meant to do that."

See, if I knew everything, I could talk myself out of stuff and, therefore, never have to apologize. More importantly, people (you know who you are) would be compelled to speak these words to my face: "Yes, I was wrong and you were right." I'm giddy just thinking about that.

Lately I've considered that the roominess inside my noggin is akin to a three-car garage with a pink Barbie convertible in it, and nothing else. Of course, this makes my point that I'm absolutely NOT full of it. Cuz if my brain was truly chock full of wisdom and knowledge, I'd be my own personal Wiki. And I'm not—yet.

I confess. I rely on Wikis to fill in the gaps—pretty much a whole garage full of 'em. I'm talking about Wikipedia, Wiki.answers, Wikimedia, Wikibooks, Wiktionary, etc. Did you know you can create your own Wiki? Oh yeah! I could totally make my own Wiki. In fact, I aspire to it! I'd call it Wikishit. Or better yet, Fragrant-Wikishit. Imagine all the stuff I could put in there with the input of the masses. That's you, peeps. You are the masses and, together, we could feed the world our collective Fragrant-Wikishit. Images included.

People, now under construction: http://fragrant-wikishit.wikispaces.com/

Seriously. Check it out. www.wikispaces.com.
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I Didn't Shave My Legs for Sex

I shaved my legs this morning. Sadly no, I'm not getting ready to have sex. Actually, my rule is I shave no leg before its time. When my Neanderthal roots start sprouting, I know it's time. I break out the quad-steel blades and puffy mango cream and get busy. Sadly no, not that busy.

What I want to know is who made up the rule that we Western babes weren't acceptably beautiful if we didn't depilatorize? Especially where sex is involved, since sex is such a primal act. What other creature in the animal kingdom de-hairs itself before coitus? I mean, is this really what we're using our superior brains for?

Let me help you make sense of this, people. You know you want me to.

Seems the earliest shavers were flint razors, way back in 30,000 B.C. Flint dulled fast, and since no one had yet invented the Mach 3 Turbo, flint stones became the first disposables. You ask me, it should have been more important for those cavepeeps to blend in; flint may be responsible for a lot of premature cavepeep deaths. Hungry maneaters get a whiff of all those razor cuts, they'll lunge in for the mauling. The perfect example of how pretty can be perilous, people. I'm guessing the next big invention after the wheel was that little box we call a bathroom, sparking the onset of civilized society. Everything calms down when you lock yourself behind that bathroom door. Am I right?

Then, in like 54-68 A.D.—Rome, of course—Nero's wife Poppaea used cream as an alternative to razors. Poppaea and her counterparts used inventive ingredients like resin, ass's fat, she-goat's gall, bat's blood, and powdered viper. Those crazy Eye-talians will try anything once, I'm telling you. If my own ass's fat performed such miracles, you can bet I'd be harvesting and selling it for fun and profit. Plus I'd be flaunting the chiseled mini-butt of a five-year-old by now.

I think it's clear. We can blame our ancient ancestors for having to shave our legs. If they were here today, I'd do the only civilized thing. I'd withhold sex.

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Let's Get Reacquainted

I just finished my novel. Yay!

You'd think, right? But anybody who's ever written a novel in hopes of publication knows that I'm only at the halfway point. Kind of like laying an egg. Somebody still has to get it from nest to market, so you can buy it and get it on your breakfast plate. Yes, I just compared my writing to something I shoot out my ass. 

Bon appétit!

The writing of a novel is only the first part of the process—and I'm not sure it's even the hardest part, given the rigmarole yet to come my way, including agent hunting, contracts, publication, and marketing. Wait, what am I saying, of course writing is the hardest part! I birthed a romantic comedy, for god's sake, and the rewriting labor alone took three months with no numbing agents or mind-altering substances—though I do feel hung over and, frankly, I think I tore. 

The only cure is more hair of the dog, so while I'd like to celebrate my big finish, I have bigger eggs to fry. (Hey, poaching metaphors is my specialty.) I'll keep you posted on things. Meantime, let's get reacquainted. Leave me a comment and I'll pop by for a visit.

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Go Leave Some Footprints

Y'all, I am over at my good friend Julie's, where I get to talk about leaving footprints--those we leave on others and those who leave their footprints on us. Please go visit Midlife Jobhunter, and say hey.

I'm also over at Bernie's place, Old? Who? Me?, divulging all--okay plenty--okay some vital life stuff I've learned the hard way. Go say hey to Bernie too!

We're talking good people here.

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