Especially grateful all week long here for the people I love who are still with us, and I remember those who already passed but whose light remains strong and ever-present in my heart.
Seven-year-old, mega-talented Rhema Marvanne, who lost her mother to ovarian cancer, brings it all home for me. Her mama's light burns brightly. You'll be grateful if you have good speakers for this one. I promise.
Want more Rhema Marvanne? Click here.
It will come as a surprise, I'm sure, that I don't follow rules very well--unless I make them, and in that case, if I make them, I can break them. See how that works? Anyway, I'm homesick today, so I'm dragging out the Haiku of my starlit nights on the lake.
It's important to understand that my Haiku is all kinds of bastardized. I mean, since it will never realize its true parentage, I've named it Fraiku. Naturally, it's pretty deep stuff--a soothing salve for your blue Monday.
Watch out
ducks paddle to the docks
to poop.
May on LBJ
the hills have eyes and
binoculars.
Moonlight and tipsy,
Walking the plank with Heinies.
Whoa-o-o-oa!
Fan overhead
circulates the air and
the bullshit.
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People, someone has been watching me while I take a shower. I didn't even know it at first, and then one day, I stopped with the shower karaoke long enough to see that I had a captive audience. I couldn't believe it. She was right there in front of me! While I was naked!
To be honest, I kind of like knowing she's there. Still, I wanted to expose her for the interloper she is, so I snapped a picture for you. See her?
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| Click to enlarge. |
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Peeps, in this, the most glorious month of the year for crazy writers (NaNoWriMo), I am reminded of the motto I live by. I throw it down to you now, with deepest love and affection:
DARE TO SUCK!
Yes. Glorious indeed, eh? Simple and to the point, but so incredibly, excruciatingly deep in meaning. If you need real motivation, people, this is it.
I like to keep this little nugget on my desk to remind me that I don’t have to write perfectly, that it’s more important to get my imagination on the page, one sentence, one paragraph, one provocative sex scene at a time. THEN, I can go back to leisurely edit and rewrite — again and again, ad nauseum — only better. NaNoWriMo is built on this foundation.
But these words don't apply only to writers. Trust me when I say that giving yourself permission to do anything badly is liberating. I'm, like, a pro at it. Your apexual (Suck it, Colbert!) expectations drop way down and your skillz amp way up when you loosen the iron chains of perfection that bind you — reminiscent of the way a stool softener can set you free. When you dare to suck, you bravely spit in the eye of self-doubt. You cast aside all fear of your peers snickering, jeering, and flipping you the bird.
Seriously, do not let them see you cry. Press onward! Think of the poster child for The Ultimate Suck. Babe Ruth had far more strike-outs than he did home runs. He dared to swing away! Who's laughing at the Babe now? Hmmm?
You want to be a better driver? Dare to suck at it. You want to be a better parent? Dare to suck, mamasan. You want to be a better football team? Do like the Cowboys. They're sucking bigtime so next season they'll figure out they've got to do more than just look baffled on the field without Romo. [D'oh! They finally fingered it out on Sunday! But I'm pretty sure they have elevated The Ultimate Suck to new levels. Sorry, TG.]
Yes, dare to do something sucky enough for long enough, and you eventually learn not to do it quite like that again. Why, I'm sucking right now at composing this post. But I'm committed to teaching you stuff, so my motives for motivating you to be a better person are nestled in the spirit of demonstrating precisely how to suck at something. Plus, the joy I take in that is just, well, I can't describe it.
So what are you waiting for? Go on, whatever you want to be good at, I dare you first to suck!
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Y'all, I tweeted.
Wow, saying I tweeted is like admitting I farted. I always want to say, "Oops." Although, in real life, if I fart, I point to other people and say, "Dude!" It's a gift.
But this is not a post about flatulence (itself a ridiculous word). Rather, it's an announcement that the Invasion of the Tweeter Snatchers has occurred, and I am now a bona fide member of the most insidious time-sucking machine since Earth was invented. Yes, I realize that when I say Tweeter Snatcher, it sounds like my virginity was totally stripped from my body. Y'all, it was.
So I'm in it now, and already the learning curve for my Twitter notoriety is steeped in uncertainty. I don't understand such concepts as the @[Twitter User], the hashtag (#), mentions, the RT (retweets), and the "D". But I'm determined to figure it all out.
Because Suzy Soro told me to, I downloaded a primo Tweet Deck to keep all this networking stuff straight. So big thanks to Suzy at Hollywood: Where Hot Comes to Die and also Christine at That Gal Kiki (Christine McDonald) for getting me off to a good start by announcing to Tweeterville that Fragrant Liar has arrived.
TWEET!
If you are on Twitter, tweet me right and follow me! My handle is @FragrantLiar Since it's Follow Friday in Tweeterville (#FF), it's perfect timing. Or, click on my red Twitter birdie in the right-hand column to get me all a-twitter, eh?
And now for today's blast from the past, just because, the incomparable Electric Light Orchestra.
You know how you spend your whole adult life trying to be cool-headed and thoughtful and role-model-y for your kids? You might be all angelfishy in the tanky-poo, but then something royally hinky happens to screw up your day, like your lawyer forgets you exist and your case languishes in some dusty file room, and you feel landlocked cuz you wanna swim with the sharks, or better still, be the shark. Uh-oh.
Yeah, suddenly you're transformed. You spit the serenity prayer. You burst your spongy stress ball. You gnash on cheery rainbows. You roll up your sleeves and dare your foe to "Bring it." You huff and puff and lather yourself into a white-hot frenzy that can only be cured by excoriating your victim with a serrated-edged tongue, after which you must shove your overheated body into the freezer. Naked.
Family Safety Hint: During this time? Do not approach your supreme leader. She must cool down, and you cannot facilitate this process with tepid apologies. Plus, she wants to revel in her righteous indignation because it's liberating and empowering and all kinds of orgasmic to be the firing squad for a change. But because she's not normally a sprayer of evil, she is out of practice and you will likely get some on you. Run.
Losing it is not a moment that the kind-hearted, compassionate woman is going to feel proud about afterward. But she will damn-well feel sensational after clearing her head of the nice-girl clutter, the pretentious civility, and the ridiculosity of trying to look at asshattery from someone else's viewpoint. Allow her space. And ice cream. Amen.
You probably didn't know that storming and stomping around is healthy, but the pissy woman gets all aerobic in the venting process. Plus, she will get a blog post out of it. And if a man is involved, he may get take-it-out-on-you sex. Not making promises, but there's anecdotal evidence that it's happened at least once in recorded history. Google.
Thing is, I live alone. There are no witnesses to any gratifying tirades. So if nobody within 10,000 square feet hears me bitch, does that mean it didn't happen? Crap.
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| Woot-woot! Hillary gifted me with this! |
I need to get out more. I spend a good portion of my time on freelance gigs at la casa, tap-tap-tapping on my keyboard, encouraging my imagination to run away with me (stuff that embarrasses my children—oh wait, no, they're used to it), and the always entertaining naked sing-song and dance-pong when the mood strikes ('kay, they're not really used to that part). It's solitary time, y'all, so I have to make myself get out before I start imagining I'm Omega Woman and, holy hell, when are the flesh-eating mutants coming for me?
Uh-oh. Did you hear something? I swear I saw movement outside my window.
So today, my outing consisted of boy watching, my favorite pastime, right after boy kissing—a totally underrated activity. I went down to Retirement Central and watched the senior* guys play softball.
Now you younguns might picture old farts limping to the batter's box and, barely able to raise the bat past their man boobs and diabetes bellies, they'd bunt it two feet and hobble to first base where they'd be tagged out ten minutes before they actually arrived. Or, if it's like Kindergarten and everybody wins, the old farts get helpsies and do-overs. They'd make snail-mail rounds to home plate, all the while pushed by more old codgers, hunching, hacking, and hocking loogies that you just know you're going to step in. Right? Wrong. O-o-o-oh so wrong, people.
Wait. Did you hear that? In the attic? Sounded kinda scratchy?
Um, anyway. Y'all, these guys might be past their proverbial prime, but I'm telling you, they're in it to win it. I've seen it with my own eyes! For reals. Hardcore. Listen, this is how it goes: from the dugout, they bound into position on deck; crouch at the ready in the batter's box; swing it like it's hot—like athletes half their age; and blast it deep into the outfield or line-drive that sucker to the infield. And then? They sprint their aging asses around the bases. The fielders are in the same shape: beatin' feet to make spectacular catches and fire the ball infield for the out. Yeah, if you think Retirement Central is for frailies who need help wiping the dribble off their chins or their asses, think again. Of course, they still hock loogies and scratch their balls in public, but that is the prime directive of men, no?
Hhhhh! I know I heard something that time! There's no such thing as flesh-eating mutants, there's no such thing as flesh-eating mutants . . . Breathe. Okay. I'm okay. Really. It's nothing. I'm perfectly safe here. Alone . . .
Where was I? Believe it or not, some fine specimens of manhood are at play out there, albeit not the hotties of yesteryear. But I go for the love of the game. Plus, I love the smell of field chalk in the morning. Plus, the bleachers are primo, with shade and everything. Plus, I never saw a concession stand that served breakfast.
Retirement Central totally has their shit together. I'm getting in shape now, so when I retire, I can compete in softball. And for kicks, I'm installing a perimeter zap-o-meter for flesh-eating mutants. Just, you know, for kicks.
* Note, "senior" at Retirement Central begins at age 55.
