Be Prepared to Wait

I’m always in the longest lines.

All the time, everywhere I go. It’s almost comical, like a played out comedy sketch where the punch line never changes. I have to force myself to laugh because it doesn’t matter which lane or line I choose, the one I pick will inevitably be the longest or have some issue with it. Ask Mrs. Whatever—she’ll tell you. Or better yet, ask Batman about our trip to Disney last year when there was an issue with the person before us EVERY WHERE we went.

(Just a few examples)

Getting into the park, a lady handed over the wrong tickets and spent five minutes searching her backpack for the right ones. Did the dude ask her to get out of line while she looked for them? Nope. Batman and I (and everyone else behind us) had to wait. Or, how about when we reached the front of the Rocking Rollercoaster at MGM, and the family in front of us decided to have a commotion because their six year old didn’t want to get on the ride and a staff member had to come over and settle the TEN minute dispute that really wasn’t necessary. And then, after waiting patiently for twenty minutes at the President’s Hall eatery when the out of towners in front of us wanted a run-down of what a port-o-bell-o was and if that wasn’t enough, asked for descriptions of half the other super obvious American items. (Dude, they have pictures). I turned to Batman and he just shook his head because he knew—like I did—that it’s my fault.

I’m the bad luck.

Now, when I say bad luck, I mean this particular slice of the could-be craptastic life that involves anything going to shit. No one’s falling into pot holes around me or breaking devices or losing things (that I know of) so I thank my lucky star for that, but, if you’re with me—anywhere—be prepared to wait a while.

At a friend’s wedding in 2011, when Batman and the groom drove from the groom’s apartment to the hotel where all the bachelorette’s were recovering, I was quoted a drive time of five minutes. Ten tops. Of course the second I got into the car (along with the other gals) it skyrocketed to about a forty-five minute commute. Batman kept muttering, “it’s because you’re in the car.” God bless him for not leaving me when everything is slowed down to a point of utter screamage. It even happens when we’re shopping. Registers break when we get to them or they run out of paper or ink, or it’s time for that someone’s break. It’s fast and smooth for everyone else but when I approach, everything seems to slow to a halt.

So, why am I telling you all this?

Because I believe in a balance. A great, grand balance that keeps all things in check. I believe my bad luck isn’t bad luck at all, but a reminder to slow down.

I go too fast. With everything. Sure, the four cups of coffee pumping through my system don’t help, but it’s my nature to move quickly. It always has been. I speak fast because one idea sparks another and another and I start out talking about why I never clean my car and end up whining that Batman would leave me in the Zombie apocalypse. In a span of TWO minutes. People just look at me, trying to make a bridge of how I started at point A and ended up all the way over here in what-the-fuck town. I just go quickly. And I’ve always been drawn to activities that let me do this.

Batman will roll his eyes when I tell you I was the Speed champion in my eighth grade homeroom class (the card came, not the drug) because it had to deal with how fast you can put the cards down. I’m like the freaking lightning queen *flips hair proudly* and same with the Rubics cube. I can do a side in thirty seconds (not the whole thing – don’t get excited) because it’s easier to move through it automatically then to stop and think what to do next. People wonder how I’m so witty? I say the first thing that comes to mind, which is always there the second before someone stops speaking. That’s just how things are for me.

But ask me to slow and you might as well see a long line of drool at the corner of my mouth, because nothing makes sense if it’s not going in fast motion. I can’t explain it. It’s just how I work. So it’s only fitting that while I’m running on Tasmanian speed, I should be made to wait. To slow down. To take a breath every now and again. Believe me, it took a long time to figure this out. I just couldn’t understand why I was always made to wait when it was easier for everyone else. But I understand now.

It’s not bad luck. It’s a balance—a balance I need.

Sure, it’s still frustrating when I’m trying to get into the damn Disney Park, but I take it as a reminder to slow down and breathe. Just breathe. Batman understands this, but I still think he wants me out of his car when he’s driving to pick up food.

Men are so much grouchier when they’re hungry.

Being a Writer is Tough

Today was rough.

It started out with running late to work and oh yeah, I forgot to leave early to get gas. Okay, no big deal, I’ll get it on lunch. But then, that little light went on and, like always, I freaked out. I’m not going to make it! I’m going to break down! I’m going to have to push the car all the way to a nearby gas station! Visions of these terrible scenarios rushed through my head and I reasoned it wouldn’t be a huge deal to get into work a few minutes late if I filled up really quickly to prevent a possible break down. Besides, I want to relax and read on my lunch. So, following my gut—and, the terrifying lit gas symbol—I passed my work and headed for the next available gas station… which apparently doesn’t exist. Not on my side, at least. I must’ve passed about three on the opposite side of the street before deciding to just turn around, go to one of them, and head back to work.

So, that’s what I did.

Of course, the first one I pulled into had a rope around all the pumps. For real. It was out of commission and I’m pretty sure the ghost in my car did not appreciate the scream uttered when I drove around the useless lot and back out onto the street. Okay, another one was coming up just a ways. I still have time. It’s about three minutes until work has to start so I might only be a few minutes late tops. Not bad. But, as I drive into the 7-Elven, I find a line of cars waiting to gas-up.

Are. You. Shitting. Me.

I wait my turn and finally pull up to a pump. FINALLY. But as I punch all my information in and retrieve the nozzle…. uh…. Nothing comes out. As in, no gas. As in OH-MY-FUCKING-FUCK, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!

And that’s when I started crying.

I just need to go home and write, but instead, I have to go to work and type away doing something I’m—to be frank—not very good at just so I can like, continue to live in my tiny apartment. I know I’m sounding childish here, but it’s just not fair.

Being a writer is tough.

I can’t fill out an application and get my career going. I can’t go to school, take the required courses, get the required degree and boom, there’s the job waiting for me. It doesn’t work that way for us. Artists. There’s no guarantee. And that’s the worst thing. For other careers, there’s at least that end point. If I do this grad school/complete this internship/I’m able to get this job. I’m not saying it’s easy, but at least you have a manual, an end point of sorts. I get nothing is guaranteed in life, for anything or anybody, but, it’s really not guaranteed for us. I have no way of saying, if I keep at this, I’ll be there in six months, one year, five years. There is no obvious end point. If it even comes at all.

And that terrifies the SHIT out of me.

We all have dreams, so why do I only get to work on my craft for two hours a day? This is my passion. This is what I think about from the second I wake up, all day when I’m doing other things, and what I pray I remain passionate about tomorrow. So why can’t I do it all day long? Sometimes, like today, I just want to scream. It’s not FUCKING fair. But I know I’m whining and I have to, just like everyone else, suck it up, work hard and just do my best. It just gets tiresome after a while. And with this morning’s insane beginning, I wanted to give up, go home, cry it out with the bottle of Lindeman’s Batman picked out and just say fuck it.

I still went into work, got gas on my lunch break and made it through the day, thinking of course, of everything I could be doing if was able to stay at home and write. I spend my day job working for the right to work my night job so I can one day actually do what I want with my life. And I know it works this way for *tons* of people. I get that. I’ve gotten it for the past six years I’ve spent in a cubicle. Yeah. And even with all the wine I’ve been downing and Oreos I’ve been cramming into my mouth, it doesn’t get any easier.

It is TOUGH to be an artist. Maybe I should cut off a limb or something. Not an ear—it’s been done and I enjoy music too much—but perhaps a toe? Or maybe the skin on my elbow? Would that count? Would it fast track me into the hall of fame of artists so I can actually be a writer and not a (fill in day job here) for the rest of my life?


It was a hard day today, like it is every day. And I’m going back in tomorrow. One day though, I know I’m going to wake up and get to write all day long. I’m going to do what I’m meant to, what I honestly believe I was put here for- my purpose. If I focus on that, the hopelessness of each day won’t be so bad. I just have to focus on the end point. And believe it really exists.

Fear of Failure

I’m afraid of failure.

There, I’ve said it. Or typed it, I guess. Either way, the message is the same. I’m shaking in my boots, hiding under the bed, covering-my-face-with-a-pillow-terrified. Of failure. Something which is inevitably part of life. So… why am I so afraid of it? I’ve failed before. PLENTY of times. But I’ve dusted my knees off, gotten back up, and tried not to make the same mistake again. Or, tried to learn enough not to fall again. It happened of course, on numerous occasions, surrounding numerous things. But that’s okay. The world kept turning and I’m still here. So, again, why am I so afraid? And of something as common place as failure?

I’ve asked myself this time and time again, as I’m sure several people do. My answer might be different from yours, but what I’ve come up with is this: disappointment. I’m afraid of disappointing. Disappointing me? You? Maybe both. It’s like, if I fail, then I’ve let everyone down. And for me, that’s the worst thing imaginable.

I’m many things. A writer, a comedian, a people person… and with all these traits, I want to make sure I’m meeting expectations, keeping up to everyone’s high hopes. It’s like the world will come crumbling down if it doesn’t work out the way I want it to.

I’ve wanted to be a writer since I can remember. It probably reaches back to the days of Barbie dolls and playing with the magnets on the fridge. But I’ve been told *countless* times that I should be a comedian. Even today. Today I was told I should make people laugh for a living. Which is an awesome thing to hear, don’t get me wrong. But what if I get up on that stage and freeze? Like I did in my acting class during my monologue? I’m telling you—if I’m ever put into Azkaban, the dementors would be sucking that memory out of me over and over again. It’s the worst. Freezing in front of people, yes, but failing them. I went up on that stage, knowing I could kick ass but then I didn’t. And it sucked. Hard core sucked. And I never want to feel like that again. But yet, here I sit. Typing away a blog that will be exposed to the internet universe for reading and review. And my book, Escape from Harrizel, is out there, up to be torn apart and critiqued. And that terrifies the shit out of me.

But other days I’m a ball of confidence. (Is that the right term? Ball of confidence? Sounds off…) I walk around like I see the paparazzi already and it’s on these days, my shoulders are back and held high. I guess we all have good, strong days where we believe in ourselves and other days where we just want to give up, because that seems the right thing to do. Not because we want to, but because it makes sense. I suck, so I should just give up. For me, it’s that fear of failure. If I don’t exceed, the world will end so maybe I should save myself the effort. And disappointment.

So believe me, I may look confident—and most times, I am—but the truth is, I’m desperately afraid of disappointing you.

And me.

Things I’ve Said This Week

As many of you know, I sometimes say very bizarre things. It’s just how the day goes. I hear myself speak, but don’t realize how strange it all sounds out of context. So, for the interest of exposing my awesomeness to you, I’ve decided to record these statements as a weekly log under a new category entitled “Things I’ve said this week.” If you’re interested in knowing the story, leave a comment and I’ll explain. 🙂

Week of 10/13

“And then the bananas took over.”

“You want my vagina to smell like a new car?”

“This tastes like unicorn semen.”

“You tried to kill me through my foot.”

The list is short this time because my genius idea struck me on Thursday. Next week’s list will be longer. Oh, and the second genius idea from yours truly? Ready for this?

Pop-up menus.

You’re welcome.

Seeking Fartswell

What to write about?

I made a list at lunch. Topics for my blog when I just don’t have the mind to write Fallon. It doesn’t happen often; in fact, I usually look forward to writing her all day long. But sometimes when I sit down, she doesn’t have much to say, which is fine. She needs a break and so do I. Those are usually the nights I write this blog. So, at least I get my writing fix in, even if it’s only me writing and not Fallon.

So, here’s my list of possible topics I wrote on my sticky pad at lunch:

My birthday celebration with drag queens.

My exciting layover in the DC airport.

The conversation the two flies had in my coffee mug the other day.

Bleak, isn’t it? This circulates in my brain. I mean, not just this. Plenty of thoughts travel through my head, but most of them have to do with when I can take my next bathroom break or when I’ll be able to hire my future butler, Fartswell, when EFH takes off. That, and of course, the ostrich races Batman and I will have on a weekly basis. Oh, there are plans already in place. You don’t even know. You think you might, but you don’t. And yes, you’re reading that write. His name will be Fartswell. He can be a Jim or Tom or Henry—I’m not picky—but part of his job will be answering to Fartswell. I’m still on the fence about him having a British accent and saying, “you rang sir/madam” every time we call him, but Batman thinks it’s a necessity. As already stated, I’m on the fence. I think I’ll just have to decide when I meet the man.

I’m thinking of putting an ad out: Seeking Fartswell. Would you respond to something like this? Only if the salary was good enough, right? But what would be an appropriate salary for a butler who has to answer to Fartswell and, among other duties, must stand in line while I’m busy shopping? I mean, I’ll get my own ice cream and all, but if I pick out a whole bunch of items from an Ikea or some fancy-expensive place I’d probably get kicked out of now, I don’t want to stand in line with the other coach passengers and wait my turn. I’ll have Fartswell do that for me while I get a drink in the bar next door. I think that’s pretty reasonable if I’m a wealthy sonofabitch, don’t you think? Hey, it’s my money. Don’t judge me.

Plus, I’m supporting America by employing people. Fartswell would just be the head butler. I’m not even sure who would tend the topiaries or clean up after the ostriches. Those are all things to be determined later once I’m able to write full time and have had enough books on the best sellers to afford to hire someone willing to be called Fartswell. But these are the dreams. Big dreams, I’d say. Ambitious, I know.

I just don’t want to be one of those people who come into money and not be able to handle it. That’s why I’m planning in advance—knowing exactly where it’s all going to go. And what happens if I remain poor? Well that’s fine too. I’ve gotten good at knowing how to handle very little money so… I’m covered. I’d just like the pendulum to swing the other way for a change. It’d be somewhat nice. Not that I mind being poor. Except, as a very wise pizza man once told me after I wasn’t able to give him a big tip:

You’re broke, not poor. Poor is a state of mind.

Yes, yes thank you wise pizza man. It sounds silly but I’ve sort of kept that with me. It’s like one of those sayings you get on a dove wrapper, like always be yourself or never forget to smile. But better. You’re broke, not poor. Poor is a state of mine. Wow. It was like my mind was blown… and then I got to eat my delicious pepperoni pizza. Pretty awesome night, actually. So, yeah… being poor, being wealthy… I think I could handle both. But since I’ve gotten really good at the one, I think it’s only fair to try the other. Plus, I’m looking forward to Fartswell.

I really hate standing in line.


(Just in case you’re interested…other duties for Fartswell:

Picking up all the cups I leave around the apartment (this really annoys Batman. It’s probably one of the things that he actually hates about living with me, but I remind him that if the aliens attack, we’ll be prepared.)

Collecting future castle-mansion house warming gifts. (That’s right—you will be required to bring a housewarming gift upon your first visit to the estate. Good presents go to Batman and me. Bad ones become part of Fartswell’s bonus.)

Taking care of the dog, Sir Fartswell.


The future looks good.)

Today is the Day

Today is the day.

I’m sweating bullets but you can’t see that. Good. There is a positive side to this whole communicating without physical presentation thing—a.k.a blogging. You might be wondering why I’m sweating bullets and it’s a good thing you ask. No, I didn’t just come from outside where this damn Florida heat can knock someone out with a just a walk to the mailbox. (Believe me, it has, and no amount of Mitchum can cover that up.) And no, the bullets are definitely not due to exercising. You can’t hear me, but I’m laughing at such a silly possibility. I mean, yes, I do exercise, but I find I’m much better at sitting in the recliner writing. We all have our talents.

The reason that today is the day and I’m sweating bullets, is because I am *finally* self-publishing my debut novel, Escape from Harrizel. Yikes! But a good yikes! I’m so excited that the last few years of work have come to fruition in this story that I hope you’ll love! But what if I want to go back and change something? Or I find a typo? Eeek! I have the ability to re-upload, yes, but I want it to be absolutely perfect and no, there’s no such thing. I realize this. I really should have a glass of wine. Or two. Or seven…

It’s a big thing—big to me, at least. I’ve wanted to be a writer since… wait, let me think about this… *scratches chin*… oh yeah. Forever. I’ve wanted this since forever. So, it’s been a pretty long time coming to see a dream finally realized. We have a local book event (not as awesome as it use to be) where actors would dress up as deceased authors, walk around, and have conversations as that person. I think I had the pleasure of meeting Mary Shelly one time. Even as a girl (I’m still female—just want to clear that up), I wanted someone to dress up as me in the future, sporting my 2000’s fashions. Ambitious, I know. But as Batman says, you’ve got to dream big. So I have. And I hope you like what I’ve come up with:


This is now available for you reading pleasure. Only $4.99

(Also available on Amazon, Kindle….)

My friend, Red, said I need more pictures in my blog. I agree with him, but I hope it wasn’t a hidden insult about the content not being awesome enough on its own. I mean *flips hair* how could the content not be amazing enough to hold your attention? But I guess it is true. As much as I loved reading Harry Potter, I did enjoy seeing the little sketches at the beginning of every chapter. That might not be the same thing, but it’s relatable. So, for your viewing pleasure, he’s a picture of a really pretty plant I saw on a walk I took around my office building today:

Pretty bush

And another one:

Up close pretty bush

Nice, huh? I thought so. I took a few more shots but these are the best. I also thought about taking a picture of the two flies that got caught in my coffee mug this afternoon, but that’s somewhat morbid, right? I mean, here they are—two buddies, I’m assuming—in their last hour of life. Would it be ethically right to snap a shot? Their tiny wings and skinny little legs kept flapping, trying to free themselves, but we all three knew it was futile. At least they were able to float in a delectable concoction of Folgers roast and French Vanilla creamer. It’s actually not a bad way to go. Until, of course, they took the slide down the sink drain when it came time to clean the mug.

I wonder what their final conversation consisted of. Maybe they discussed their crash landings, or how the world changed since their entrance 24 hours earlier, or maybe, they regretted not finishing everything on their little fly bucket list. And before they knew it, they were being tsunamied, never to get another chance at life.

If I ever find myself in a giant mug of hour-old coffee and the inevitable swim down the drain is upon me, at least I’ll know I did my best. I tried. There will be a check next to the “publish a book” box on my own bucket list.

And that’s good enough for me.

…God, I really hope one of them wasn’t Jeff Goldblum.

Little Fixes to Keep Me Satisfied

One of the good things about October is the return of 2 of my shows—The Walking Dead and American Horror Story.

I’ve been missing Hershel’s pointed eyebrows since last season. And Darryl and Carol—will they finally hook up? Or is that a mother-son thing going on there? I can’t figure it out. Whatever it is, let’s get this Oedipus thing rolling and finally address the tension! And this time, for American Horror story, they’re focusing on witches. Witches! Yes! First it was a haunted house and then it was the asylum… now we get to learn about voodoo witches. Really, I don’t mind what the storyline is, as long as Evan Peters is still in it. Him and Jessica Lange. The two of them together with their crazy eyes and intense scenes make it impossible to look away. And I love it.

I’m not a dramatic person by nature, so I need these little fixes to keep me satisfied. I could probably get them from other shows but I don’t really watch TV. I mean, I could, but there’s no time when I’m busy working as a starving artist. Every free minute is a writing minute! So, when my few shows do come on, I need to watch them. And they need to address all the drama I don’t get in my day to day life (which, for the record, I prefer). So, for your reading pleasure—and because you asked so nicely—here’s my list of shows enticing enough to actually put the laptop down… for an hour or so, at least:

Walking Dead

American Horror Story

Big Bang Theory (Bazinga!)

Game of Thrones

The Office (seasons 1-3. Certain episodes in the 4th and the engagement/wedding episode. Oh, and for those of you who don’t really know me, I’m in *love* with Jim Halpert. Like, I drink my morning coffee out of a mug with his face. Not in a creepy way, like I stalked John Krasinski. But it was an Office mug from my friend Ecuador for my birthday a few years ago. And yes, when I say love, I mean love. Jim Halpert is my future husband—sorry Pam. I know you’re thinking, “what does Batman say to this?” He understands competely. Besides, he will one day leave me for Emma Stone. It’s better to talk about these things early.)

Avatar, the Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra. (if you’ve never seen either of these shows, please stop what you’re doing right now and check them out. Seriously. You’re welcome. I walked in on Batman watching Airbender and actually mocked him for being a grown man that watches cartoons… and then I got sucked in and had to eat my words because now I’m such a fan that we actually discuss episodes in length. And… nerd alert… I have to be on my couch on Fridays at 7:00 to watch the newest episode of Korra, because that’s too important to me to miss. Yeah. Now you know.)

Breaking Bad (we’re only on season three so no spoilers!)

True Blood

I’m sure there’re more but I can’t really think of them. Besides, like I said, I don’t watch too much television because I’m always glued to this laptop, writing something—editing the latest manuscript, working on the next one or typing up this blog. My fingers hurt. Like actually hurt. Is there any place to get a finger massage? Wow, that sounds dirty. But maybe that’s the thirteen year old boy in me. Wow… that sounds even worse.

I’m going to stop now.

So hurray for the return of The Walking Dead and American Horror Story! And Kathy Bates is in this season. How could it be bad with the unsinkable Molly Brown?

Good times ahead, my friends. Good times, ahead.

Squish and Sink

I haven’t blogged since Saturday, when Batman bamboozled me with a fake body of pillows. Since then, nothing much has happened, but I still feel an update is owed. And since I lead a very quiet, unimpressive social life, I suppose the only thing to do would be to focus on the big things:

My expensive pillow is losing feathers rapidly.

It was purchased on a gift card for my birthday last year (Batman says two years ago but I don’t know if I trust him anymore), and now it’s starting to flatten.  Normally, I spend a total of five dollars on my pillows from Walmart, but with someone else footing the bill, I decided to go big. THIRTY DOLLARS big. Oh yeah. I guess I expected something with a price tag of over five bucks to last forever, but now the ends of the feathers push themselves out every night, poking Batman and me in the face. And as soon as I lay my head down, it sinks straight to the mattress. This is not what I wanted. I get to look at all the cushion on either side of me but not get to enjoy it myself. So I squish it together and lay back. And ever so slowly, I sink. Squish and sink, squish and sink. This is my night routine.

I think Batman’s enjoying it. He’s had his eye on my pillow since I got it a year ago. When I get up to write in the morning, I know he steals it and dents it with his own head. That’s probably where all the deterioration comes from. Batman’s heavy head. I should’ve known. Doesn’t change the fact I spent thirty dollars a year ago and now I sleep against the mattress. I’m not one on pillow stats, but is this right? I’d steal Batman’s if his wasn’t so much more pathetic than mine. He needs two and they don’t even compete with my faltering, soon-to-be-featherless pillow. I guess I should just fork over another thirty bucks but I’m lazy and poor. More so the latter.

In happier—and possibly, more bizarre—news, I saw someone drinking out of a mug on my morning commute today. Like a regular keep-in-your-cabinet mug, not a traveler cup. Do people do that? Drink in non-travel containers? I took a look in the rearview mirror and there he was. Enjoying his beverage from a large white mug like he was reading the newspaper and oh yeah, operating a large, dangerous vehicle. So, here’s my question:  where does he place it when he’s driving? Are the cup-holders sized for extra large drinking mugs? Or does he just hold onto it the entire commute? I’m dying to know.

It reminds me of that person I saw brushing her teeth on a bike in Amsterdam. She just floated right by, minding her own business and cleaning those pearly whites like it was nothing. I wish I could do that. Except I had enough trouble trying to maneuver the bike on my own since I hadn’t ridden one since elementary school.  I guess some people are good at multitasking. Like navigating and drinking out of mugs or tending to one’s hygiene. I’m terrible at navigating in general—ask Batman—so adding anything else would just be death for us all. And no, it’s not because I’m a woman. It’s just because I’m that bad with directions. Actually, you should probably watch out for me on the road. I’m usually in the left lane and drive an extremely dirty Sportage. I should probably spend the ten dollars and take it through a wash but I just don’t care. Oh, and I’m also poor. Did I mention that?

So let’s see…what else is new besides depressing pillows and multitasking commuters? Oh yes… tomorrow. For a belated birthday gift, Mrs. Whatever is taking Batman and me out to a delightful little restaurant where our servers will be dressed as the opposite sex. That’s right—we’re getting served by drag queens! I cannot *begin* to tell you how excited I am about this. For one, food with friends is always a good time. And two, what’s better than being served by men in woman’s clothing? Nothing, I tell you! I might even go Sex and the City and have a martini. Yeah, it’s going to happen. I’m sure I’ll have something to report come this weekend, which is rapidly approaching dear friends.

Until then, it’s squish and sink for me.

Squish and sink.