Nopocalypse Now!

Cue Marlon Brando, hissing in the shadows: The horror! The horror!

Not.

I don't know about you, but the whole Rapture non-event was more like the Napture. Think the Universe's lackey hit the snooze button. And I was really hoping to see fireworks of epic proportions because, as you know, my life is in serious need of roman candles, whistling snakes, and bottle rockets; and damn if the most exciting thing I did all weekend was shave my legs.

Oh wait, no, I did not shave my legs. Not really a need...

My friend George thinks we need t-shirts that say, "I survived the Nopocalypse of 2011" so I'm having some made up.

Who knows. Maybe we'll have really bad better luck in December, 2012. I'm totally not even buying Christmas presents next year, just in case some nut job is actually right about the Earth losing its shorts because of the big fat cookie jar of sins we've accumulated as a society for the last several thousand years. (And you thought it was just because of those modern hedonistic liberals.) I'd venture that a full century of random fornicating in the back seats of parked cars has been the most blatantly egregious of sins, along with the second coming of gladiator porn and Twilight worship, and likely the entire cause of the planetary F.U. to all us beings with so-called advanced brains.

Oh well. I'm giving this year's Napture a thumbs down for apocalyptic failure. In case you were wondering.
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I Need Direct Guidance

Most of you know I'm a big proponent of the Law of Attraction, which says that whatever you're putting out into the Universe, you're attracting back to you—the good and the bad. So far, no sign of a silver-tipped Brad Pitt but, hey, maybe I'm too askeered of Angie to allow him to enter my space. (Or am I? . . . Come to me, Brad.)

Anyhoo, the steps are Ask, Believe, and Receive. And it's the Receiving part that's tricky. See, it's up to me to recognize the gifts and opportunities when they arrive—for instance, potential dates—and to act on them. Which is the whole problem: it's up to me. Cuz what if these gifts and opportunities aren't so clear cut? How do I know if I'm missing something good, or glomming onto something awful that only seems awesome? I totally did that once with a cheesecake. I mean, how do I really know for sure?

I think what I need is Universal GPS, some guy speaking with authority on behalf of the Universe who guides me with a British accent to my glorious bounty. He can sit on my shoulder and instruct me.

Like when I meet a guy who's not good for me, my UGPS would say: "Depart now. Travel straight ahead for 5 miles. Don't stop to second-guess. I said don't stop!"

When Mr. Goodtime is near, UGPS would say: "Turn left in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . Right there! Pinch his ass! Not that one. THAT one!"

When I've missed an opportunity, but there's still hope, UGPS would say: "Turn around when possible. Use your power for good:  flash your boobs."

To avoid that guy I broke up with via text, UGPS would say: "Turn left, then right, then left, then right, then duck into a Baskin-Robbins. What? Where was I? Oh, looky there! Pralines and Cream!"

When I only have a first impression to make something happen, UGPS would say: "In ten seconds, hold in your stomach, stand like a 'ho, and suck on your middle finger." (Heh, like I would ever be so gauche. Again.)

When I'm supposed to notice someone, my UGPS would say: "Hel-l-o-o-o, girl, are you not paying attention to that fine specimen?" (Okay, he's British and flamin'.)

Or when my Forever Man is right in front of me, UGPS would say: "You have arrived at your destination. Don't fuck it up."

See, I need direct guidance. Cuz otherwise, how will I know for sure?
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Blogger! Seriously? You dumped a bunch of my comments! And just when my homies and I were makin' a whole lotta noise! You OWE me, Blogger!
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Three Fabulous Things

Let's just recap my weekend, shall we? Wherein three fabulous things happened...

#1 Fabulous Thing:
Praise the Universe, I finally got my laptop back with a shiny new hard drive and lots of space to cram all sorts of grey matter I want to preserve for posterity. Yay, and huggy thanks to Waynerdawg for making it happen. You da king.

#2 Fabulous Thing:
I made my performance on the "Listen to Your Mother" Show. What a blast! I think I only flubbed one line, but it wasn't the tongue-twister I had feared, so I probably drifted somewhere else when that happened—like to the OMG-I'm-speaking-to-300-people place. Or maybe I was still freaked out at being the person to follow the lovely and incomparable Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess). It was like, Really? I have to follow her? That's the equivalent of Jan Brady on the kitten heels of Marsha Marsha Marsha. Wait, who's Jan again, and why is she stuttering like Porky Pig? Uh, be-a-be-a-be—uh, that's all she wrote, folks.

The incredibly talented LTYM cast, post-show 
(minus Jenny and Kristin).
I'm the short shit in the middle.

Actually, LTYM was huge fun for me, and ham that I am (isn't that what Moses said? Ham that I am? Or maybe it was Dr. Seuss, who sounds a lot like Blythe Jewell, by the way—though Blythe is much prettier, with a lollipop in her hair and potty words in her mouth—this would all be clear to you if you'd been at the show!), I've decided I need a new career in public speaking. If only I had some real wisdom to impart that people would pay to hear while refraining from throwing things. I would so dig it.

I want to publicly thank Wendi Aarons and Jennifer Sutton for the awesome job they did in producing this show and for their incredible contributions on stage. They are two smart, funny, wonderful women. And I'd also like to thank my sisters in writing, all the multi-talented and lovely LTYM cast members. How about we take this show on the road, girls?

More to follow on LTYM later, including links and pics and stuff.

#3 Fabulous Thing:
After the show, I was totally allowed to eat carbs again. Woot-woot! My ingestion this weekend, post LTYM, consisted of chips and queso and salsa, chips and queso and salsa, and, I admit, chips and queso and salsa—and a waffle. Two of the best food groups ever.
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The Reason for This Post is ESTP, I Think

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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Plenty of Fish in the Sea?

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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What the?

__________________________________________

If you're not already following me on Twitter or Blogger 

(Google Friend Connect), why not do it now? You know you wanna!

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Reality Check

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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Alone and Naked with Yanni. Stop it.

I'm beginning to think that not only am I predisposed to wanderlust, but my brain likes to loiter in the places I've been and so takes its sweet time catching up. What I mean is, my feet are on the ground here in Austin, but my head is still flighty. And I have to figure out what's next, which I would totally do if I could just land the plane.

Fortunately, I'm in a good place. Which brings me to the meat of my post. I'm no longer Alone and Naked with Yanni.

There, I said it. You pervy people who keep coming here looking for that? That ship has sailed. You normal people who keep up with me, you know that my running-around-the-house-naked love affair with Yanni happened last summer; and quite sadly I've now entered into territory where Yanni is the equivalent of Lord Voldemort, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And really, what self-respecting rabid fan would subject her musical sex-symbol-of-yesteryear to the anathema of Generations X and Next? No, not me. The young'uns can have their beat boys and that Fitty Cent guy.

The aforementioned post was one in which I lamented that living alone is not remotely part of my true calling. Now that I'm living temporarily with my daughter and two nanaboys, I'm reminded of the axiom, "Be careful what you wish for," cuz these days I'm never EVER alone. That is, unless I go into the bathroom and lock the door, and even then the family Boxer feels the need to accompany me. And may I point out that the walls are so thin in apartments, I'm not sure I'm ever really alone. You hear what I'm saying? I can't croon in the shower for fear my vocals will end up on WikiLeaks. Damn you, Julian Assange!

Plus, and this is the most egregious news of all, my pastime of running around gloriously naked has been severely, um, destroyed. I know. The tragedy that befalls my life is never-ending. I'm now subject to wearing clothes ALL THE TIME, not to mention humming "The Flower Duet" in private to myself. Yeesh, one's children can be so cruel.

But back to last summer's most-highly-sought-after post, Alone and Naked with Yanni. I've gotten thousands of hits from this one post and only 57 measly comments. Pervy people, if you stop in to see me (or me naked with Yanni), please leave a nice note. That just shows you have manners.

The next closest post, I Didn't Shave My Legs for Sex, has less than a quarter of the hits. That tells my scientifically analytical mind that Naked trumps Sex. Or that Yanni trumps Sex. No, no, Yanni IS Sex—figuratively speaking. But never Alone and Naked trumps Yanni, which is obviously blaspheme and cause for a trip to Confession.

Anyway, I've moved on, you obsessed lovers of Alone and Naked with Yanni. So stop it.

UPDATE: Twice as many hits today on "Alone and Naked with Yanni" as this post here with essentially same title. C.R.A.Z.Y.
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Buzzed for 2011

Happy New Year! I brought in 2011 in Austin with my daughter Coco and her family and some very special friends.

Early in the eve, Ruby arrived.

Coco had the honor of shearing Ruby's hair.

Note:  Cancer can suck it!

And chemo is rude.

Post-buzz, Ruby's fiancé Chris got a solidarity buzz.

Sweetest couple around.

Coco and me at midnight.

She is so gorgeous and full of life.

Note her beautiful locks.

Me and the nanaboys.

They like to cut up.
Where do they get it?

(No idea who the drunken reveler is in the background, but he is admirably passionate.)

Uh-oh.

It's 1 a.m.
Do you know where your hair is?

Yikes! That's a lotta locks on the floor.

And they belong to . . .

. . . Coco who gets the solidarity buzz.

Showing support for her best bud Ruby.

Aren't they both beautiful?

It's a family affair.

The boys show their support of their mom's best friend and get buzzed too.

Today, many of Ruby's friends and family buzzed their heads to show her their support.

Good friends enrich our lives so much. I'm so proud of my daughter for being there for Ruby in this special way.

That's the way to kick off 2011, isn't it?

And, oh yeah, I got buzzed in a totally different way . . .
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Holidays and Hammock Sex

I'm still Christmasing in Austin where the weather's chilly and rainy. I've enjoyed the family and meet-ups with old friends, as well as lazing around with a glass of Bailey's and a remote in my hands (my version of a yuletide two-fer). I've hardly even cracked open the laptop except to peek at my erotica novella, which has me all blocked up at Chapter Two. I peek, I sigh, I get distracted. What can I say, I'm a virgin at this genre.

But people, I have a chapter to deliver before January 1 and, well, I've got a headache. Please, no cock-block jokes. It hurts my feelings on the same scale as vacuuming up tinsel—an exercise in futility if ever there was one. I once uncovered tinsel in my carpet ten years after I last threw it on a tree. Instead of dragging out the vacuum for the thousandth time, I curled into fetal position.

So today I figured if I got out of the house, some inspiration might hit. I stole away to the local B&N, sipped on a house brew, and reread the first line of Chapter Two where my horny characters discover a secluded hammock in the woods.

"So here we are, just you and me and nature."

Yes, I know. Lame. But it was merely a jumping-off point for the next time I opened the doc. Plus I think ten words in 30 days is real progress, don't you? Actually, my protag wrote it. That bitch was leading me down the path to outdoor nookie. Erotica, remember? It's serious shit that's supposed to make you all hot and bothery. Thing is, after your character discovers a hammock in the woods, the scene devolves into comedy.

A story so often writes itself, you see, and while I've resisted this turn of events, my character is insisting on a roll in the hammock. Probably a roll that reminds her it's not the fall that kills you, but the sudden stop. Peeps, I can't seem to stay away from the slap-schtick. Anybody who knows me will not question this. Is that bad? Perhaps humorous erotica is its own subgenre. Whatever. Hammock sex it is. Once I quit fighting it, I wrangled out another 500 words that renewed my faith in my compositional abilities, filled me with optimism about 2011, and gave me a good giggle (as erotica often does, even without a hammock).

I'm now back at my daughter's house, and here's my one and only Christmas pic, which is me actually keying in this blog post. Booyah! I really am a writer! I'd raise a glass of Bailey's to your happy, safe, and peaceful New Year, but they hid the bottle from me. Still, I send strong vibes that mean the same thing.

Don't forget your black-eyed peas, y'all!
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Christmas Vacation and Some Bull

So remember when I said this would be the first Christmas ever that I didn't spend with at least one of my kids? Well, the Merry Christmas gods have reconsidered and shined their ever-lovin' redeeming pity grace upon me. I will be like shiny tinsel for the next two weeks, hanging on the evergreen boughs of my Austin family. I'll be flying high on Sunday, so please all you crazy people stay out of the airport.

Woot-woot! Texas, here I come!


In other news:
I'm happy to introduce my bro-in-law, The Bull, over at Udder Hysteria. It's his first foray into Bloggyville, and he's infusing a little testosterone into the herd (in an oratorial kind of way). Please, y'all, check him out and welcome him with a little comment luv.

Back next week!



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Cappin' Off the Christmas Spirit

Wow. The spirit of the season is incredible, like sparkling snowflakes falling all over my head! Ho! Ho! Ho! See, yesterday morning I filled up with gas and went to work. Eight hours later . . .

I'm driving down 17th Street and pull into the left turn lane. I am six cars back from the red light, when what to my wondering eyes should appear? A blue minivan loaded with a mom and her passel of kids, my dear.

She stops beside me and points to my gas tank, mouthing: YOUR GAS CAP IS OFF!

I glance into my side mirror with Jingle Bells in my head. Sure enough, my gas cap is dangling and the tank door is wide open. See what I mean? The joyful holiday spirit even courses through the hustling, bustling air of traffic. It fills me like hot chocolate.

Good deed accomplished, the mama and her passel drive on up to the red light. Then another car drives up and stops beside me.

YOUR GAS TANK, the guy mouths, pointing frantically toward my rear quarter panel.

I wassail in the key of candy canes and mistletoe. "Yes, I kno-o-o-ow, I kno-o-o-ow."

The driver moves forward to get in line at the red light. And then comes Car #3. The gangsta inside mouths: BEEOTCH, ROLL DOWN YO WINDOW! With his eyebrows pinched, I'm thinking he's cranky. Or he thinks I'm a dumbass.

"Yeah, no," I say, my holiday cheer gleaming like a silver tree bulb that's just cracked.

YOUR GAS CAP IS OFF THE HOOK! The gangsta is like Kanye. His mouth is moving, but all I'm getting is a steaming pile of reindeer pooh.

"Thanks for telling me what I already know!" I give him two thumbs up as he drives off but think, Did somebody put out an APB? Now you're just making me look bad, people!

Once again, another car stops beside me. It's a guy and his wife, both about 110. The geezer jabs at the air with big-knuckled, crooked fingers. His unnatural fish lips seem to gulp air as he mouths: YOUR GAS CAP! CHRIST-A-MIGHTY, HOW DID YOU EVEN GET A LICENSE?!

"Joy to the world, old people! Okay?"

Finally the light changes to green, and I follow the six cars in front of me through the intersection. I speed past everybody for about two miles. One car tries to pass me, and I look straight ahead when he honks three times.

Jingle Bells, Santa smells, Rudolph ran away.

I stop at another red light to make a left turn into Wally World, and a ponytailed 20-elfin-something stops beside me, even though she has a bright Christmasy green light. She rolls down her window and shouts, "Your gas cap!"

I can't believe the world is paying this much attention to me, and I shake my head at the absurdity. It's like I'm driving naked.

"Yes it is!" Elfin yells. "It's off!" She curls her lip, a gift that indicates I truly am a classic dumbass.

Bah, humbug.

Elfin hits the gas, just as the light turns red.

And then, surprise. A Jeep pulls up beside me. The driver turns his head toward me, and I scream, "I KNOW my gas cap is off! I GET IT already! O holy-fucking-night!"

The guy looks aghast. I realize it's because he hasn't noticed my gas cap at all. He stares at me like I'm Scrooge's Grim Reaper. Which I am. That, and a dumbass. I have just killed Christmas.

Schwetty Balls
Schwetty Balls
It's Christmas ti-i-i-ime to get petty.
Ring-a-ling . . .

Yeah, the spirit is glopping all over my head, like cold turkey gravy. How's yours going?
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Fraiku Monday

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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A Stranger in My Shower

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?

Click to enlarge.

No, I haven't lost my marbles; there's a face in my shower marble! It's a chick with big Princess Leia Cinnabon hair!

At first, I heard Darth Vader sucking air in and out, and he said gravely, "Liar, she is your sister."

Then my profound thoughts were interrupted with Yoda's throaty falsetto: "Stupid you are."

But now I've accepted it.

I guess if you can't see her, it's because The Force is not strong with you. Or you have to be there. So I'll help you. I've sketched her in below.

Click to enlarge.

See her now? I think here she's saying, "Help me, Obi-Wan." Because obviously she'd rather not be preserved for eternity in the equivalent of shower-stall carbonite, listening to me croon "Party in the USA" with a can of Flirty Mango Skintimate as a microphone.

Nodding my head like yeah, moving my hips like yeah. Yeah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah! It's a party in the USA!

Okay, if you can't see her now, you have a black hole of imagination. I'm telling you, it's Princess Leia, and she showers with me. Every. Single. Time.

Or wait. Could it be? Jesus? Nah.
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Let Me Motivate You

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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Tweet Talkin' Woman

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?

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When Good Women Get Pissy

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.

Woot-woot! Hillary gifted me with this!

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Boy Watching

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.

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Use Me If You Must, Eye-talians

Did you hear about the town of Castellammare di Stabia in southern Italy? They're banning "very scanty clothing". Their definition of very scanty includes mini-skirts, low-slung jeans, and plunging necklines. This is to guard against anti-social behavior.

WHA-A-A-T?

Let me assure you, Castle o' mama de Stubble (whatever), people parading around in very scanty clothing are begging for PRO-social behavior. I should know. I'm very social, and I certainly do my share of begging. Besides, and let this be a lesson to you, nobody needs to get all anti-scanty cuz everybody knows that when you go anti-scanty you invite scanty right to your doorstep. Geez.

I totally know what I'm talking about.

Because I'm single, social clothing is part of my dating arsenal. Oh please, you can't get a date if you don't get noticed! Case in point, I once wore a mini-skirt to an Austin bar, and a guy who wanted to be all social jerked his head around to watch me walk by, when he ran smack into a support beam. I hurried over to help him up and see how big that knot on his head was gonna get. See? Totally social behavior. And altruistic, I might add.

Social Behavior Alert! Just FYI, plunging necklines can get a guy real social in a hurry. You just have to keep pointing out that you like eye contact from time to time, and you're good.

Of course, I'm not an advocate for revealing your butt crack in low-slung jeans to total strangers. I really must draw a line in the sand there. Though I'm totally anti-crack, expressing it to the universe just invites it to me, so I'm going with, "I'm totally pro-crack." See how that works? Anyway, showing your butt crack around the trailer park is okay, sure. But to the grocery store? How can I buy produce with a crevasse winking at me? That's a little too social. I do have morals. Obviously.

Disclaimer: Since I'm an Independent, I don't biologically have as many morals as the Republicans—but definitely way more than the Dems. What a bunch of debauchery sluts they are, eh?

The city council from Calemari de Stabya . . . ville (whatever) has determined that banning scanty clothing makes their city more civilized. I say that's blasphemous! But listen up, they are also banning blaspheming, sunbathing in public, and playing football in public areas.

WHA-A-A-T?

Okay, now that's absurd, right? Blaspheming and sunbathing in public are quite social behaviors, and you can even do both at the same time. This is how some people breed, and how social is that? But come on! No football in public areas? Is there anything more UNcivilized?

(Psst! Eye-talian football = soccer. Never forget, these people are primitive.)

So Cast a lamb in de Stables (whatever), I'm begging you to hire me to fix your anti-social problem. Since I'm currently unemployed and nearly destitute—and fractionally moral—I can fix your anti-social behavior problem. I am highly qualified in pro-social behavior. Why, I even write very social smut from time to time—and get paid for it! Though not lately. Still, you could use me. Because I'm so social, I'd let you.
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F U B P

My peeps, I screwed up. In a hurry to get to where I eventually did not even get close to (so, so sorry I missed you, Nanner! I was ready for those Buttery Nipple shots!), I swung into the BP station and did the unthinkable. Something absent-minded and assinine.

Totally. Screwed. Up.

My big campaign to boycott BP dissipated in the fumes I filled up my tank with. Ugh. I realized I screwed up while waiting at the pump for my receipt. I know. Completely filled myself up with disgust. Talk about feeling dirty. Should have sent myself through the car wash. So much for personal activism.

But I do have good intentions, y'all. I sleep this stuff. No, really. I do. Need proof? Here ya go. One of the lovely things to come out of my recent trips to New Orleans and Bourbon Street was this baby:

Had to have it, dontcha know, especially after the crazy fun I had in the piano bar. (Dude, I can't believe I had to actually sing YOU that song request! Brazen pianists all over the country, or on 6th Street, know that classic!)

Anyway, this keepsake is now a lovely sleepshirt that I hold near and dear to my heart and other stuff. It makes me happy to wear it. Too revealing to model though. Sorry. If I had me some 501 button-flies (raise your hand if you miss those, the best, sexiest jeans in the world) I might consider it. Only magical things happen when you're wearing 501s. Trust me on that.

So to make up for filling my tank with BP gas, I'm now giving back with a public photo of this dee-lightfully fun t-shirt. Hey, it's the least I can do so people never forget the heinous damage BP did.

F. U. B. P.

And, she's back! Who's going to the Rally to Restore Sanity, eh?

As an aside, I haven't eaten at Wendy's in five years. They still buy chickens from disreputable breeders who raise hens inhumanely by piling too many in a battery-cage the size of a breadbox and make them spend their whole lives that way. What would that be like, I wonder? Your WHOLE LIFE in an itty bitty cage you can hardly turn around in, not to mention everybody sees you laying eggs. What's wrong with a little humanity, freedom, and right to privacy? That's American, Wendy's. Quit buying from those jerks. So there, I'm back to actively giving you guys the finger. FU, Wendy's. And from the chickens, Cluck You.

I'm a little cranky. Did you notice? I'm going to go put on my shirt.
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