Home of the Reluctant Midlifer. This is where I rant, rave, reflect, and ROFLMAO. Feel free to do the same. Let's be clear: I am irreverent, and I like me that way. Grab a libation, kick back, and share your thoughts -- and don't lie, cuz I'll know.
Yup, I was just looking around this week, waiting for word on my ailing laptop, and this is what I noticed:
Backup drives are as important as your last will and testament, especially when losing your hard drive makes you want to roll over and die.
Having to choose between transitive or intransitive lie, lay, laid, lain, lying, or laying makes my brain shrivel to the size of a raisin lying in the sun. Or is it laying in the sun? Kill me now...
My first sunburn of the year took 45 minutes: 15 to burn and 30 to realize the shade had moved.
Tween boys are like pop farts. Cute and gross at the same time.
Source Code is gripping and worth the ticket. Your Highness is ridiculous in a Monty Python sort of way, for which I offer two words and one unforgettable image: penis medallion.
You never really forget how to cook. It's like having sex. You turn up the heat, throw in the good stuff, and hope it tastes better than it looks.
I don't know how threatening to "rain a shitstorm down on you" got translated to "Nana's gonna poop a storm," but y'all need to quit telling on me. Your mother turned out okay . . .
Tickets are on sale now for my April 30 performance at the Listen to Your Mother Show in Austin, HERE. Come on out and see me!
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So often I feel like I have absolutely nothing to blog about. Yet the minute someone walks into the same room with me, I'm all "Hey, you look like you need to hear my opinion on something." Why, I wondered, is there such disparity?
Then I remembered that over the last 25 years, I've consistently tested out in Myers-Briggs as an ESTP, a class of personalities that make up only 4-10% of the population, including Ernest Hemingway, JFK, Madonna, and Doris Day. I figured maybe revisiting how my personality works might give me ideas for getting past my bloggy constipation. So let's see, being an ESTP means I'm:
E = Extroverted (vs Introverted) ESTPs are hands-on learners who often feel motivated by their interaction with people and enjoy a wide circle of acquaintances. They gain energy in social situations.
Truer words were never spoken (except for that time I called my ex a jerk-off). I practically bounce off the walls when I know I'm about to see friends. If I had a tail, it would wag all the time. I admit to having fetched in the past for no more than a buttery nipple shot.
S = Sensing (vs Intuition)
ESTPs tend to be more concrete than abstract and focus their attention on the details rather than the big picture.
Whatevs. I'm a problem solver. I prefer to have facts before diving into a big project, which apparently includes teeny-weeny blog posts. True this: if I don't know where I'll end up, I rarely devote energy to it. That makes me sound lazy, but (yawn, stretch) I'm totally not. Where is that remote?
T = Thinking (vs Feeling)
ESTPs tend to rely on objective criteria. When making decisions, ESTPs generally give more weight to logic, and they seem to enjoy arguments.
Just call me Spock. I'm good with cause-effect or if-then arguments and universal rules or truths. Raise your hand if you think the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one? I'm also particularly good with the concepts of attraction and gravity, especially when it concerns two people with saggy stuff. And that last descriptor about arguments? Totally open for debate.
P = Perceiving (vs Judging)
ESTPs tend to withhold judgment and delay important decisions, preferring to "keep their options open" should circumstances change.
Heh, sounds like my dating philosophy. I do like spontaneity, and I admit to a degree of fickleness. But I'm just being flexible (that's what HE said) and open to opportunities. Of course, this means I'm subject to working under pressure to meet deadlines. Like blog posts, if I had any deadlines, which I don't.
So basically, I'm a fickle, tail-wagging opportunist named Spock. But, again, that's open for debate, and I'm not sure this revisiting has helped. Whaddaya think?
Have you taken the Myers Briggs Type Indicator test? What's your personality type?
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Just because a guy says he wants to see you again doesn't mean he really does. He may have good intentions, but here's what I know: if a guy is really interested, he'll do what it takes to make it happen. He will not wait. Esta mujer no espera a nadie.
Each tweet sent out to the universe is like a hand-scribbled note that says, "Will you be my friend? Check yes or no." I never wanted to go back to the school yard, yet that's what Twitter often feels like. Por favor, decir que sÃ.
Some of your best friends are the very ones you haven't heard from in awhile but who will surprise you and show up when you need them most; and it will be like no time has passed. Love for my good friends, dormant and present, springs eternal. Bienvenido de nuevo, amigas.
When you give someone the benefit of the doubt and go the extra mile to make them feel welcomed in your circle, yet you repeatedly get the stink eye, it's time to raise anchor. Some people carry chips on their shoulders, regardless of what you do. For me, once that ship has sailed, it never returns to port. Adios para siempre, muchacho.
Spartacus: Gods of the Arena (Starz) is my decadent new guilty pleasure. Without. Reservation. High tension. Slow-mo battles. Complex relationships. Explicit everything. As exciting, riveting, and titillating as TV gets. This is why Rome fell, and why I kinda wish I'd been there to partake of it. Meant to be enjoyed with good girlfriends and good wine. Men optional. Más! Más! Más!
Fun, sexy music makes everything mui fabuloso! Even in these shoes.
No le gusta caminar / No puede montar a caballo. Como se puede bailar? / Es un escandalo!
Y'all, I got super awe-fabu-wonder-credible news today! No, I didn't win an all-expense-paid 30-day vacation to the Caribbean on a pamper-the-hell-outta-me cruise that includes a scalpel-free full-body rejuvenation, complete with 50-year guarantee and an endless supply of Swedish massages with Sven the manscaped Viking, warm peanut butter crackies, and exotic, um, tingly sensation aromatherapy pleasuring oils. Oooooo, good guess though!
My peeps, I'm going to be one of 15 featured cast members on the Listen to Your Mother Show (Austin) on April 30, 2011. Waaaa-hoooo! LTYM is the brainchild of the lovely and amazing Ann Imig of Ann's Rants; and after last year's premier in Madison, Wisconsin, this year new shows are in Austin, L.A., Spokane, and Valparaiso.
You all know how timid and reserved I am, but I think I'll probably maybe perhaps be okay with the Hollywood lights shining down on me. [sigh] People may just have to escort me onto the stage. But I'm totally not letting anyone escort me off! Ahem, I mean, it should be fun.
Hope y'all can make it! I solemnly promise I won't be long-winded or gross or cussing like usual, and I solemnly promise to embarrass someone near and dear to me.
We'll be at the AT&T Conference Center in Austin. More later on tickets and such. Austin is great for a live show, but if you can't make it, they're taping it. Woot-woot! (I mean, gosh, I'm just doing my part) So you'll be able to see it online after the event.
Pretty cool, huh? Not as titillating as your excellent guess of an all-expense-paid 30-day vacation to the Caribbean on a pamper-the-hell-outta-me cruise that includes a scalpel-free full-body rejuvenation, complete with 50-year guarantee and an endless supply of Swedish massages with Sven the manscaped Viking, warm peanut butter crackies, and exotic tingly sensation aromatherapy pleasuring oils (you were totally so close!). But I'm nonetheless honored and thrilled to be part of such a cool new show and a very talented group of writers.
Says 7-year-old Miss America, upon visiting her first Japanese steakhouse, where the chef/cook performed amazing aerial tricks with the food he prepped in front of her:
"Wow, Mom! I didn't know eggs could do stunts!"
_________________
I'm all torn up about what's going on in Japan. I send my best, warmest wishes across the Pacific.
And many thanks to Hilary of the Smitten Image for bequeathing Miss America and I this Post of the Week award for our Wee Wisdom! We appreciate it!
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People, I signed up for Plenty of Fish again. I know, I am such a glutton for punishment! Why do I do this to myself? I'll tell you why. YOU! I hear it all the damn time, how people met their spouses or soul mates online. And I thought, hey, that could happen to me, right? Maybe I'll actually meet someone who won't send me running for a galaxy far, far away.
Alas, me? I'm the eternal optimist. And when I say optimist, I mean magical thinker. And when I say magical thinker, I mean ridiculously hopeful sap.
Anyway, within an hour of signing on to POF, my inbox filled up. You might think that would be a good thing, but not so much. I like to say I'm discriminating, but really I'm just picky. For a lot of these guys, there's a reason they're still single that has nothing to do with being picky.
I promise you, I'm a serious fan of men and all their uncomplicated charm. But on a dating site, you have three chances to get attention. (1) Your profile. Your self-authored sales pitch. (2) Messages. They're your calling cards, so make them count. (3) Your best, real, recent photo. The real you—hopefully, you from the front, side, back, and shirtless. Heh, totally kidding. Not. (Have you seen Spartacus on Starz? Fan me down.)
So of all the messages in my inbox and all the profiles I reviewed, only two or three really caught my eye. The others . . . Well, you tell me:
1. Mr. I Sat Out Language Arts. Go ahead, call me elitist, but when your one chance to hook me in a profile looks like this:
ladies i dont know want to email pingpong forever just sea if weget along dont drag it out cuz mytime is valable you know it lol what about coffee or a beer instead and then?
. . . and then I'm gonna have to pass.
2. Mr. Socially Awkward. Those inbox messages I mentioned? Oy. Filled—FILLED—with single-line stuff like this:
Hey you and me match. I hope you want to meet me. Write me back.
I like your profile. Your special. But you have to have things in common I know.
I am an acquired taste. A mix of little boy, dominate male, artist, poet, intellectual, and mechanic with a dash of essentricistism thrown in.
Hi pretty lady, how's your evening going? Fine I hope.
What am I living for, if not for you?
Your pretty. LOL. But seriously.
Guys, I need meat. And when I say meat, I mean conversation. And when I say conversation, I mean big people words. How about an adult exchange? That stuff above? That makes me worry you have skinned knuckles and grunt a lot. Come on, what do you really need to know about me?
3. Mr. Love Me for What's Inside. Dude. That won't be a problem, IF I see merit in your profile and IF you show your photo, which is actually #1 in the whole "Pick me!" process. This is the guy who sends you a two-line email about how pretty he thinks you are, but lets a blank blue square be your window into his soul. Why so afraid to reveal yourself? Call me shallow, but I don't buy prime rib I can't see.
4. Mr. I'm Embarrassed about How I've Let Myself Go. Ancient photos of you do NOTHING to tell me who you are now. Same goes for a photo of you taken from across the Continental Divide, where I can't tell if you're a man or a mailbox.
5. Mr. Heavy Petter. Just as useless is the heavy-handed use of your dog(s) photos. I don't care how sweet and lovable your schnauzer is, I'm not going to date him, and he can't sway me to date you.
Plenty of fish in the sea? Depends on if we're counting all the ones ya gotta throw back. (sigh) Now are you feeling my pain? Ladies? It's all your fault.
P.S. I should mention, I'm not perfect either. I went all Chatty Cathy on a guy, which was outrageously out of character for me. Obviously.
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See me? I'm the one sitting on the couch (next to lady in red) checking out the book. Yeah, that's my head!
Besides laundering a hundred bath towels for people who wipe, wad, and wield them like toilet paper, I had a busy weekend. First I had lunch with good friends at Chez Zee, and then I went to my friend Bee Pedersen's book launch party at the W Hotel in downtown Austin. All proceeds went to CASA. Check Bee's site for a new murder-mystery.
After Bee's party, I hightailed it north to another party. A creativity party.
What the hell is a creativity party, right? Everybody, even your cranky/skanky Aunt Brunhilda, has something they're passionate about doing, like blogging, juice harping, naked-body painting, cherry stem tongue-tying, bearded-dragon juggling, and, of course, helium balloon sucking/rapping. The possibilities are endless. Hell, I know people who've elevated peeing and cursive writing (simultaneously) into art forms. Ditto for those who can burp haiku. Wait, did I say, I know them? No, no, no, I don't know them. Ga-ah.
So at a creativity party, people bring their passion and present or perform it. It's an "everybody fails/nobody fails" kind of deal, and it's super fun. If you like being the center of attention—and even if you don't—it's a real kick. I performed my blog post, "Yap-Yippity-Doo-Da," because it was clean and we didn't have to send the children out, as we have in years past.
After the show-and-tell, I made a dreamcatcher. Showing you the actual photo of it takes real guts on my part. Let me just bow and say, "I failed!" But it was fun—mostly because I met the most lovely women around the table who were doing a far better job of weaving the twine than I. They were from the UK, and since my new novel takes place on the Isle of Wight, they'll be terrific beta readers for me. Oh yes, I totally conned them into it!
Ever heard of a Theremin? Think of the eerie soundtracks from the old—and I mean old—scary movies, like Spellbound (1945), The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), and The Thing (1951). A Theremin was even used in The Ten Commandments (1956). I guess trudging down a mountain with a bunch of I-am-that-I-am-engraved stone tablets or turning a staff into a snake that devours other snakes could warrant some eerie background music. I dunno. Anyway, we had a Theremin at the creativity party. Apparently you can buy a kit and make yourself one. One of the party-goers brought his, and I got a chance to experiment. It was fascinating, and I wanted to take it home. However, 20 amateurs hovering over it, one after the other, can make you want to stab your ear drums. If you're curious about what a Theremin sounds like, here's a cool sample of its modern use:
Speaking of creativity, my friend Carolyn, co-host of the creativity party, is a life and writing coach. She was recently interviewed about her very cool "book whispering" services:
"I coach people who have the desire to write… yet they are not writing. Some people have a novel, memoir, non-fiction book or even blog that’s been percolating in them for years, but they either haven’t started writing… or they start and stop and can’t get any traction. It becomes very frustrating because they really want to write, yet they’re stopped. I coach with them to discover what gets in their way and clear the path towards joyful, more effortless writing."
Carolyn offers her services by phone or email, so if you need to get that writing project off the ground, I highly recommend her! From personal experience, I can tell you she helps you sort through the brain clutter so you can make real progress with your book. Go check her out here, at Backyard Pearls.
Okay, off to fold and put away some more towels. Otherwise some peeps are going to have to drip dry and prance around naked after their showers tonight. I have seen naked butts running through the house more than once . . .
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I apologize for being MIA for so long. I have been utterly absorbed with my move, the day J.O.B., freelance clients/work, and The Bachelor. As a general rule, I refuse to watch so-called reality shows, but I admit, as soon as I got a glimpse of that bitch Michelle and her skanky, back-stabbing ways, I was hooked.
For you virgins, The Bachelor is the bloody gangland shoot-'em-up you can't veer your eyes from. I work my schedule around each week's broadcast with the zeal of Charlie Sheen toward his weekend two-fer: a coke dispenser and a porn star.
Not even ravenous kids could prevent me from plopping my ass in front of the boob tube with a cocktail. "Drink a glass of milk," I say, waving a dismissive hand over my head. "That'll hold you for two hours."
Then comes Brad, he with the bionic wedge of a torso, and his harem of potential wives. I didn't see him the first time he tried to find a wife. That year, he was internationally regarded as the Jesse James of Assholes after saying "I got your back -- NOT!" to his final two bride wannabes. But this year, to my mind, the guy's all right. Hell, he kicked Skanky Michelle off the show last Monday -- FINALLY -- and I couldn't help gyrating deliriously around the room with a bearded dragon on my chest (long story, and he already has a girlfriend who was "sunning" herself in the aquarium).
So Mr. I-Wanna-Say-I-Do has redeemed himself. Plus, he's in therapy, and I have the utmost respect for people willing to open a vein for the sake of becoming a better person. Plus plus, he's an Austinite. And this year, Brad might actually have found true love.
Swoon.
Okay, gotta go. Wipeout is on, and I need a good dose of reality.
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Backup drives are as important as your last will and testament, especially when losing your hard drive makes you want to roll over and die.
You never really forget how to cook. It's like having sex. You turn up the heat, throw in the good stuff, and hope it tastes better than it looks.
