wanna hear something scary?

The rejections are coming in low and fast, people! Yesterday I got one from the one-act festival in Montana and today I had my Halloween short story rejected. I wasn't counting on the Halloween story, though. I just submitted it to fill my submission quota for the month. Naughty, naughty writer monkey!

Today at work everyone was dressed up and I felt about as included as a nun at a wet tee shirt contest. So, in the spirit of not being a complete bitch, I dressed up as Amy Winehouse. My costume was fierce, I say! Although I didn't have the bloodstained ballet slippers (you know, from where I inject heroin between my toes), I had the nappy beehive and winged out eyeliner and I even got drunk. How's that for authenticity? That's where this blog finds me, ladies and gentlecreatures. Too lazy to remove this heavy ass wig and too drunk to care. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna wake up with a hangover and subsequently be late for work. My husband suggested that instead of calling in sick, I should call in Winehouse, but I said no, no, no.

I don't think I'm going to write tomorrow. I'll probably blog, but not write. Methinks I need a break. Oh, yeah. I got my hair cut today. It looks wondermous. I love my stylist!!!! She's not at all like that retardo numb shit that fucked me up a couple of months ago. Janet, you rock.

contest rankings

Today the rankings were posted for the Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition. I won 9th place and the other three entries of mine ranked 12th, 21st and 25th respectively. Top 25 on all four! I'm pretty stoked about my placements. Now, if I could just stop stressing over Massachusetts, life would be gravy. Chosen plays for the Massachusetts playwrighting festival will be announced the day after tomorrow. Yes, I'm fully aware that I keep writing the same shit over and over again, but this is what has consumed me. When you're this close to your dream, it's hard not to go a little crazy. At any rate, I'll keep you posted.

musketeer C

For those of you who don't know, I've been 1/3 of a group for some time now: the Writing Musketeers. There was Musketeer A, Musketeer B and yours truly. Although we are all presently on this path toward literary "success" (as defined by our own individual standards), fate brought us together at some point and for the past several years, we've been traveling on this writer's road together.
Musketeer A was an incredibly talented writer. I could read one hundred books on creating the perfect character; her characters just sprang forth fully matured like Tribbles. Entire novel-sized manuscripts were full of not only real, rounded characters, but believable situations. We even attended a writer's conference together. I was enrapt at how this girl could work a room. While she was steadily impressing authors and agents alike, I was busy entertaining conventioners with my impression of woman completely unable to talk to strangers. To this day, I believe Musketeer A will land the agent and the "big break" before either me or Musketeer B. Why? Because she has equal parts talent and drive.
Which brings me to Musketeer B. Ah, my Musketeer B! Ever fond of calling herself a writer, but rarely wrote. In fact, the last time she wrote an original piece, the words Bobby Brown and crack pipe weren't even synonymous yet. However, she had a gift for self-promotion. She was able to walk into a room and every man, woman and houseplant prostrated in her wake. She would attend massive nationwide conferences and have the most jaded of agents eating out of her hand. The problem was, when the smoke cleared and said agent requested that all-important manuscript, it simply didn't exist.
Then there's me. Not quite as talented as A, certainly not as balls-out as B, but I have determination. But even with all that determination, I think that, after making that first sale, I'll be looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to expose me for the talent-deficient hack that I sometimes believe myself to be.
On another note, I spent a lot of time brainstorming "Potty Mouth" today and reading more one-act plays. I'm fully convinced that the right time and theatre are just around the bend for my play(s). Which brings me to my next question.
Am I a screenwriter or a playwright? To tell the truth, I'm comfortable in both conventions. Am I being unnecessarily prideful? Or am I a multi-hypenate literary juggernaut poised to take over the world?
I'll figure it out in the morning.

BBC 1

Forgot to tell you- I mailed that "award winning script" to the BBC yesterday. Wish me luck!

potty mouth

So, last night was very productive for me. I started a new play called "Potty Mouth". I got the idea about a week ago and jotted down some notes at work, but last night was the first time I actually put it down in play form. These women are like no other women I've ever written about. They're in their 40s, overweight, church-going and huge Barry Manilow fans. I won't tell you what the play is about, though. Hopefully you'll see it on stage one day. Besides, it's bad luck, isn't it? Kinda like disclosing a pregnancy before the third month. Anyway, suffice it to say I think it's funny. This play gives me a chance to step outside my snark box and talk dirty. You know, "pound my cookie with your giant cock", "cum between my tits" kind of stuff. Maybe not production material for your average middle American black box (theatre, that is. Not a euphamism), but somebody might enjoy it.

Festival Updates: so the one-act play festival in Massachusetts announces its winners on 1 November (this Thursday! Yikes!). I don't know when the one-act play festival in Montana announces their winners, but their website says auditions are being held for the chosen plays on 18 November. Either way, I should know something pretty soon, right? Granted, this whole situation has the potential to become another Pittsburgh (reference seething "Pittsburgh, Never" blog from September), but I can't help but become excited. I couldn't imagine a full production of my play! Wouldn't that just beat all??? In the name of research, I even read a couple of produced one-act plays and lemme tell ya, they're not much better than mine. My husband says it may be my subject matter and I'm inclined to agree. After all, who among us remembers disco club raids and who wants to see a serial killer play with optional laugh track?

my night with Adam Levine

Last night, I had the strangest dream. I was in an alternate universe that was about to implode because of the wicked ways of its inhabitants. Well, yours truly had been marked to create the next race of superheroes. Except it wasn't that easy. See, these next superheroes had to be half-Jewish. So, I wandered the countryside until I ended up in what looked like Whole Foods Store where I ran into Adam Levine, the cutey-cute-cute lead singer from Maroon 5. Anyway, over the organic broccoli display, I informed him of my plight. I told him that, in order the save the world, I must beget the next race of Jewish superheroes and, since he was Jewish, I would need to sleep with him (several times over, natch). He told me that their Jewishness would be suspect because their mother (i.e, me) woudn't be Jewish (apparently it's passed through the matriarch). But that didn't mean anything because the next minute, we were naked and writhing on satin sheets- creating baby Jews to save the world.

I have no idea where this twisted shit sprang from. I do know that creating a race of super- Jews to save our planet is just a good a reason as any to sleep with Adam Levine. Maybe.

it ain't over till it's over

Back when I was a Gitano jean-rocking whippersnapper, Lenny Kravitz had a song called "It Ain't Over Till It's Over" (that was before he lost his negro mind and started wearing wings and fringe). Anyway, I got to thinking about Kravitz and his ditty tonight as I updated my submission log and publications list. See, I was bummed around August because it was the second half of the year and, in the publishing and entertainment world, nothing of note happens in the second half of the year (or so I've read). That meant I had zero chance of getting anything done! But, as evidenced by not only my submissions log, but publication list, there's been mondo activity in this second half of the year.

I guess it's like my broker always says. Just because the market is bad, doesn't mean the market is impossible. It just takes a little more diligence and elbow grease.

My broker also says that if you call yourself a part-time anything, you should spend at least two hours a day doing that thing (putting you at 10 hours a week if you take weekends off). Friends, if that's the case, then I am about as full time as you can get. Sure, I don't spend eight hours a day writing, but I spend at least four a day- EVERY day-either writing or engaging in some kind of writing activity (researching markets, editing, blogging, etc).

Having said that, I have to get back to my writing activity for the day. I'm going to fire off my agent queries for "Luke". I'm going to go out on a limb and send that award-winning sitcom (yes, it feels good to be able to say that!) to the BBC Writer's Room. My other sitcom was rejected by them, but for good reason. The shit wasn't funny. But this time'll be different. Why? Cuz it ain't over till it's over!

thou shalt not scat on that

Dude, it was curtains for me after last night's blog. I didn't do a damned thing but stuff the manicotti and go to sleep.. And, no, that's not double entendre. I literally stuffed pasta shells for tonight's dinner, watched three episodes of "Cavemen" and went beddy-by. However, I did wake this morning with renewed vigor. I added minutes to the Bat Phone, checked voicemail and placed my bi-weekly Victoria's Secret order. God help me, I'm becoming a lingerie junkie!

I shouldn't hate Angelina Jolie. I'm gonna stop calling her a liver-lipped, homewrecking slut. After all, I don't even know her. Just a thought.

Strange things on the work front: a guy came into my office and- hold the phone -methinks he was flirting with me. Yes, I know. Weird. Anyway, he's yakkity-yakking on about how important he is and all the while I'm thinking: dude, I am not that complicated. If you want to impress me, bring me a bull whip and a Butterfinger. Really. A little nugat and rough sex and I'm putty in your sado-masochistic hands. That is, if your shoes weren't payless and you weren't fugly enough to stop time. Feel free to stop reading now, by the way. For it only gets worse...

My writer-friend told me what "scat" was this weekend. Wow! I won't tell you what it is here, but Google "scat" and see what foul depravity you unearth. She was even so kind as to explain the word origin to me. Lemme tell ya'll something: I don't care where the word comes from, but I DO know if a negro scats anywhere near my 600 thread count sheets, I'm a-whuppin somebody's ass! Water sports are doable in a designated area (i.e, nowhere near my sheets), but let a muhfukka piss on my new lingerie and see if I don't fuck him up.

very tired

I was exhausted today and hardly got anything done- at work or with writing. This evening I cooked two meals, which made me feel a little less like a slug. At work, I've been stuck on a party-planning committee and the women there were talking about food. What to serve, what colors go with what, what's a starch...I kept thinking over and over: why am I here? I don't even like food! All that talk about ham and green beans made me want to throw up.

I'm still exhausted, but I feel like I need to accomplish something. Beyond laying here and watching The Golden Girls (2nd season-the episode "The Actor" is too funny!), I don't know what else I can manage. I should go buy a replacement for the casserole dish I exploded a few months back. My eyes are drooping, so I'll write more later.

chefs and rockstars

"Mom, I was thinking about what I want to be when I grow up and I'm going to either be a rock star or a chef".

This is how my evening started out, with my seven year old pondering potential vocations. Vacillating. Stuck betwen a rock and a flake pastry. I can so relate, though. On the writing front, I'm in a holding pattern. As of this morning, I'm awaiting answers from three one-act festivals that I've submitted work to (New York, Montana and Massachussets) and their results should be announced/posted on the website any day now. There are also festivals in Kentucky and Wisconsin that I have entered, but their results won't be announced until the beginning of the new year.

This weekend, I finally finished the ten-minute, Disco-themed jobby. My writer-friend Elayne read it and gave valuable feedback. My husband also read it and picked the story bones clean like the critiquing vulture that he is. I say this with total love, however. Sometimes I get so caught up in the dialogue ("did I give the Senator enough lines"?), subtext ("What is the real nature of Chip's relationship with his mother?") and themes ("Is the Wizard of Oz too trite?") that I forget that the shit doesn't even make sense. I also submitted an essay I'd written about the neighborhood ice cream man to Critique Circle. And before you sigh, I'm not putting him on blast for selling bootleg Sponge Bob sicles, it's a heart-warming nostalgia piece.

The quest is on for more people to read the disco jobby. I don't know why, but this play is the play I have the least faith in. Perhaps because it's brand new and hasn't "proven" itself in any contest or festival. Maybe it's because the subject is too close to my heart and I'm afraid to share it. With feelings like these, I'm sure this will be the one that makes it to the stage first.

I'm telling my son to go ahead and be that rockstar.

the argentinian

We just got back from the D.C. United v/s Columbus Crew game (3-2 Columbus, by the way). D.C. United looked like a bunch of short bus rookies out there tonight, fumbling around like virgins on prom night. I guess that's what happens after you've made the playoffs and don't give a damn. Anyway, when D.C. United finally managed to shit out a goal, the stands went wild. My husband and I were sitting next to a young, cool couple and we had two crazy Argentinians behind us. The Argentinians smelled like they had been drinking since, oh, Tuesday and every third word out of their mouths was "puto", but I digress. So we score this goal and me and the female half of the cool couple get excited and we hug. Well, Mr. Drunk Argentinian decides to get in on the action and pulls us both into a bear hug. What's more, this fucker kissed me! He kissed me on my freaking mouth! I almost DIED. If there's anything I hate worse than death by hungry octopus, it's fluid sharing. I wanted to die, but I thought it would be rude.

Earlier, I sat an open house for a collegue of mine. It was a total bust, but I did get to finish watching "Attack of the Puppet People" and "Teenagers from Outer Space". Tomorow, I have another open house, so I'll finish up "Alligator People" and the awesome $1 Sci-Fi DVD I found at Wally Martinez.

Oh yeah, I got my certificates from Writer's Digest. It seems "Kelly's Haven", "Expiration Date" and "Cooking with Bixby and Kenzo" all received Honorable Mention in the TV/ Movie Script Category. That means they received anywhere from 11th to 100th place. I'll check the website and get back with you on the actual placements. I didn't think Bix and Kenz was gonna do anything of note; it was written well before I started learning in earnest about the television sitcom format. Oh well. Thank God for small victories, right? Barring any naughty Argentinians, tomorrow should be great, too.

bah-bra

Have I ever mentioned how much I love Barbra Streisand? I'm listening to her now as I procrastinate. See, I should be writing in "Mixtape", but in light of my recent personal triumphs, I'm gripped with the fear that whatever I write isn't going to measure up to whatever I've written before. Peaking is a very real fear of mine. But I've got to keep moving forward, right?

The song just changed. Have I told you how much I freaking love Manilow? Okay, now I'm just being silly. I'm gonna go write something.

second great day in a row

What a day! First, my clients finally settled on their home, putting them in over 2,000 square feet and $4,000 in my pocket. Then, I received and signed my first option agreement with Showbiz Shorts. Then, I went to WalMart and found "The Alligator People" for $5! My love for 1950s sci-fi and horror is almost to the point of fetish, so to find such high quality entertainment for mere pennies on the dollar makes me smile.

Usually at the end of each day, my inner bitch accuses me of wasting time. "What have you actually ACCOMPLISHED today?" she challenges. Well, today, for the first time in a long while, I'm able to shut her up without aid of medication or alcohol. As I write this from the chaos of my home office, I feel as if I've earned the right to rest on my laurels for a bit. Just a bit.

Want to hear something ironic? One of my friends commented on how angry I seem to be in my blog, so I told her that I would try to bleed out a more upbeat entry. Wouldn't you knonw I didn't even have to try? Ya'll, tomorrow is Friday, I've optioned a short screenplay, finally settled on this property and weigh 113 pounds. Can it get any better?

movin' on up to the east side

I got my first option today! Yay! This huge for a screenwriter. Somebody who shares neither my blood nor my bed thinks I rock. I'm dying to tell you how it happened, so the story unfolds below:

Last night I couldn't sleep because I took too many diet pills. So I ended up perusing the various "writer's wanted" websites. I queried one in search of short scripts- I'm talking 1-3 pages long with minimal sets. Anyway, I submitted my logline for "Suburban Psycho"- the gripping tale of a bored housewife who murders her neighbors for sport (it's a comedy). Ya'll, I didn't even expect an answer back. Well, wouldn't you know the Creative Director of the company emailed me this morning and said my logline sounded interesting and she wanted to see the script. So with prodding from my writer-friend Elayne (elaynehill.blogspot.com; see what a real blog looks like), I punched up my dialogue, tweaked my format and sent it in.

When I got home, there was another email from the Creative Director. I assumed it was rejection as I tend to attract those dastardly things. So, I opened it up and the first words I read were "Hi Kay! Your script is fabulous and we want to option it from you". Now, when a script is optioned, that means the company basically owns it for a year (or the length of the option). If they produce it within the year, I get paid ($50 for this one) and a DVD of the performance. If they don't produce it within a year, then the rights revert to me and I don't get paid. By the way, if it is produced, it will be shown on KXLA in Los Angeles.

Some say a free option is a bad idea but I see it like this: "Suburban Psycho" is, and probably forever will be, ten pages of a first and very rough draft. What I'm actually optioning is three pages of a ten page writing prompt. A free option on a piece of a half of a screenplay? Sure, why not?

Ladies and Gentlemen, it's difficult to describe just how happy I am right now! I couldn't be happier if Vin Diesel was naked in my kitchen making me toast and marmalade. This shit is totally George Jefferson! We're movin' on up, yo!

time in a bottle

There are very few things in life that are more comforting than warm butered toast and the musical stylings of Mr. Jim Croce.

Texas sucks

The one time I was truly proud of my older sister is when she got a job at Kmart. She worked at the jewelry counter, had her own apartment and was finally paying her bills with taxable income. Anyway, she lost that job because she cussed her manager out. It seems he wanted her to wear shoes to work. Well, this was unacceptable! My sister explained that she was on her feet all day behind the counter and $9.99 house shoes from aisle 6 were a suitable alternative to, say, loafers. Because of this, she lost her job. I don't think she's held steady employment since.

Who the fuck wears slippers to work? She's insane! And what's more insane is that this green eye contact, quick-weave-wearing plankton is raising two children that she is apparently "home schooling" in an unheated, no running water trailer. I can overlook the whole Jed Clampett trailer thing, but how is she home schooling these children? The chick has a GED and her man is CLINICALLY INSANE! In an effort to save the children, my younger, more sane sister and I ring Texas social services every month, but to no avail.

I wish I could be proud of her, but I can't. I wish I could take her children and give them a life they can be proud of, but I can't. So instead, I'll blog about it and call social services again in the morning. Texas, you suck.

no suspicious discharge

The word of the day was "suspicious discharge", but I failed to get anyone to say it. I even spoke with some former military types who I was certain would have a story about a "suspicious discharge", but no such luck. Where's an OB/GYN when you need her, huh? Oh well. There's always tomorrow. For tomorrow, the game's afoot!

I told myself that, productivity be damned, I was going to have a good time today. And, you know what? I did. I didn't stress over my upcoming settlement this Thursday; didn't even bring one real estate related thing with me to work. One of my friends called me this morning and set my mind at ease about a couple of things which was fan-freaking-tastic and my little potbelly is gone. Yes! Ladies and gentlemen, my six pack is now on on full display. Now if I could only get over that whole two-piece bathing suit phobia...

My local museum holds a concert series every now and then. A couple of days ago, I received a membership email from them stating that they were kicking around the idea of having a Beatlemania concert and did I think it was a good idea. Are you kidding me? Short of a KISS-mania concert, a celebration of Beatlemania is ALWAYS a good idea! Anyway, I wrote the chairlady back and told her that I thought it was the best idea since Tampax Pearl and I would be willing to help organize it. She didn't write me back, but I'm hoping she accepts my help. I would love to put a show like this together. Even if I'm enlisted to stand on the corner in an advertising sandwich board and shower cap. Fun is what I'm after these days and I think this fits the bill.

I took two pills this evening and consequently won't be able to sleep for quite a while. My husband's very much asleep now so I think I'll go downstairs and watch another episode of "It's Me or the Dog".

princess

Roaming the cobblestones of the Magic Kingdom, I noticed a lot of princesses. Too many fucking princesses. Everywhere I turned, there were little girls stumbling around in tiara and taffeta, asking completely uninterested strangers (i.e, me) if they thought she looked pretty. For the record, I told her no. I told her she looked the right prat and that Betty Freidan would rise from her grave on Halloween and kick her simple, six year old ass.

If I ran Nudey Judy into my boss' office, threw a 36B in his face and offered to suck his gnarled dick in exchange for a promotion, I couldn't do much more damage than Cinderella. Little girls of the world, listen up. Being a princess is not, nor ever will be, a valid occupation. Become a princess and you will invariably end up in the clutches of wicked witch or, worse, stuck with some brainless prince who thinks the most effective way to rescue you from a tower is to climb up your weave. Don't wait for Prince Charming to rescue you with his romantic gestures. Fuck romantic gestures. Buy you some "C" batteries and rescue your damned self.

fuck

I returned home from vacation today and haven't done anything of note. Scratch that. I ate a giant Slim Jim. Using productivity and multitasking as my benchmark, I haven't done a damned thing. All this thinking about productivity reminds me of my extreme Catholic upbringing. Sex in the church was viewed at as a necessary evil; something mommies and daddies who loved each other very much did in the dark (silently and with minimal nudity, natch). The end result was always, always children. Although I've since defected from the church, this sentiment has carried over into my adult life (not entirely, as I still enjoy a sweat-your-hair-out, spank-me-daddy fuckfest) in that I cannot engage in any activity if I don't feel it will ultimately result in a tangible finished product of some kind. Ladies and gentlemen, I've never learned how to have fun.

I dropped my iPod in the toilet in Florida and I bought a new one this evening. Of course, the sonofabitch isn't working, so I'm sans tunes for tomorrow's run. I can accept the idiocy of dropping my iPod in the toilet and having to drop "earmarked for four inch patent leather pumps" coin for another. But for the new one not to work is not in the plan. When things don't go according to my plan, that's when I lose my mind. My husband and I have spent the better part of the evening trying to make it work, but to no avail. I'm wasting time and I don't like that.

This week, I'm going to learn to have fun. Fun for the sake of fun. There doesn't always have to be a reason. It's not always creating a product, reaching the goal or even coming. Sometimes it's just a fuck.

magic

It's been a couple of days and boy, are things going my way or what?! I'm writing this from the comfort of my Disneyworld resort bed. I'm wearing my newly-acquired Wildcats sweatshirt and generally feeling groovy. We're here celebrating my husband's birthday and, I've got to say, I've never ever seen him this happy. I love Disneyworld! When they say this place is magic, they aren't kidding. Case in point: we were watching the High School Musical celebration yesterday at MGM Studios and somebody's little rat spilled their popcorn. The kernels weren't on the ground for two seconds before two uniformed, insanely happy custodial types swooped down and neutralized the mess. Forget Fantasia. That shit was amazing. Still, it got me thinking about the dark underbelly of Disney. What happens behind the scenes that makes all this happiness possible? I bet there's a Disney super-pimp that puts the smack down on insolent employees. "Bitch betta have my Mickey!"

Anyway, today one of my best friends is getting married. I'm happy for him, but I also feel like I'm losing a part of him. I shouldn't be so possessive, right? I mean, what gives me the right to say "You must remain alone forever so you can be at my disposal anytime I want" when the same rules don't apply to me? He called me yesterday for advice about the wedding and I felt myself getting agitated. Here I am, about to board the Great Movie Ride and you're rubbing in my face that, in a few short hours, your chick is going to insert herself into our lives, rendering our friendship paralyzed, if not completely DOA? Ridiculously selfish, but hand-to-God, it's my truth.

A few years back, I traveled to Florida to meet my best friend from middle school again (the last time I saw her, I was a freshman in high school). Well, she was basically the same person, except she had another best friend, a husband and two kids. Don't get me wrong. It was wonderful to see her again, but I felt left out. I mean, I'm supposed to be her only best friend. And who gave her permission to grow up? These thoughts threatened to ruin my day before my good sense finally intervened.

This latest trip to Disneyworld has got me thinking: Why don't we believe in magic anymore? Why can't things just be what they are without hidden meanings or consequences? Who granted permission for any of us to grow up?

Gee, wally! Has it been 50 years already?

Hooray! Today marks the 50th anniversary of "Leave it to Beaver". In honor of the day, TV Land is running 24 hours of the Beav starting this morning. There's an episode that I'm itching to watch. It's called "Beaver and Chuy". It's the one where a (gasp!) Mexican family moves next door to the Cleavers. I was all set to watch, but that's when my civic duty called. See, it was my turn to teach Sunday School. Yes, I know. I'm a heathen myself, but that doesn't mean I'm not a deeply spiritual person with heathen ways. I've been trying to change, but everytime I think I've got it licked, it sucks me back in.

Can I just say that I can't stand pushy Realtors? I'm working with one now (I'm the buyer's agent in this particular transaction) and she wants to close in, by my calculations, twelve days. She really needs to stop smoking that cheap crack. Listen, there are several inspections that need to occur before a house is occupied. Not to mention the ratifying of the contract and all the other papers. Anyway, I totally agree with my clients in that they are not going to be bullied into anything. The seller's financial woes are none of my concern. If this Realtor calls me again (I've heard from her five times in the past 24 hours), I'm going to jack her up by her handlebar mustache.

Soccer began at 1:00 instead of 4:00. I'm supposed to be there now, but I need to call inspectors, pick up some paperwork and, most importantly, celebrate 50 years of good, clean and very, very white television.

monkey weave

I got to thinking today about being busy. See, my days are always full. My friends think I'm kidding when I say "Let me check my calendar". Anyway, am I busy or just in a hurry? There is a distinct difference in my mind. To me, busy equates to productivity. What am I producing? What am I doing/where am I going? Whereas in a hurry simply means moving quickly from one thing to another. But I could easily be flitting from one nothing to another nothing without actually accomplishing squat. That's my deep thought for the day. If my life has to be full, then I'd rather be "busy" than "hurried".

Yesterday, I read a couple of articles that were interesting. The first was about how five random acts of kindness can be good for the soul and boost one's moood. Me, being the quantitative pinhead that I am, immediately began a checklist. So far, there have been two receipients of my goodwill(and it's not even noon! Surely that counts for something). I don't know if I can squeeze in any more. After all, I'm a very busy person! :-)

The other article was about how married couples tend to take on each other's habits. This may be true. I have this habit of making up games and playing them throughout the day with unsuspecting strangers. My favorite is to pick an unusual compound word. Nut Sack, for instance. Then, I lure people into conversations where I try to get them to say the word "nut sack". It's hilarious! It's like playing charades when the other person has no idea that they're playing! The word for today, boys and girls, is "Monkey Weave". My husband used to think this was a silly game, until I caught him trying to play with me. Ha!

Now I've got to go and bait somebody into a conversation about primates who make baskets. Or do hair. Whichever.

friendship

Okay, so yesterday wasn't the best, but that night, I watched half of High School Musical 2 and just about learned the dance to "Work It Out", so the day was salvagable. Anyway, I called a friend yesterday afternoon and told him I was having a shit day and needed some encouraging words. Did I get them? Of course not. This bastard is what I call a "myfriend". Just like the "friends" we collected on myspace, they were buds in name only. When you're feeling like you can't take one more step for fear that the world will come crashing down around you, real friends step up (or step back-whatever the case may be). At any rate, real friends never do NOTHING.

But what did I expect? He never gave a rat's ass about anybody but himself. Lord knows this life philosophy has served him well over the years (insert sarcastic cackle), so why would he change? Who needs deep, meaningful friendships when you can get your dick sucked by any number of STD-riddled strangers?

Cannot just lay the blame at his studio apartment door, though. I'm a grown woman, right? At the first sign of adversity, I shouldn't run to my friends and expect them to hold me up. It's not their job. Or is it? If it's not, then I will gladly stop making late night phone calls and house calls to friends in need. Gladly.

I've always been a tad on the antisocial side, so forgive my ravings. I'm still trying to navigate this minefield called "friendship".

balanced

I'm finding it increasingly difficult to strike a balance these days between feeling completely switched on and the depths of pessimism. Today is a dismal day. I talked to my sister earlier and she told me I should be excited because of the contest. Granted, I should and I was-- last week. But this is a new week with new problems and new failures. Maybe my brain isn't producing dopamine like it should. Back in the day when I was a drug counselor, I learned that prolonged use of stimulants can create, over time, a reduced amount of dopamine in the brain. Quite simply, the reduced levels of dopamine make it harder and harder for a person to naturally "get happy". But it's not like I smoke crack or snort cocaine. I don't even drink coffee!

I did receive my Mark Ronson CD in the mail today. Highly recommended. There's a really funny version of Britney Spears' "Toxic" with ODB hollering in the background "Ooh, nigga, I'm burnin' up!" Instant classic for my money.

Speaking of money, today I had to pay my Realtor dues. Fucking $600.

invisi-girl!

It makes no nevermind if I've spackled on six pounds of Mary Kay or if my bra pushes my boobs up so high, it looks as though I've got nipples growing out of my chin. I have this amazing ability to remain essentially invisible to the hairier sex. Really. I don't attract the attention of men except my husband and, of course, your friendly neighborhood lecherous Wal-Mart janitor. However, the tide seems to be turning. In the past couple of weeks, men have taken to bestowing compliments on me that range from "classy" to "Excuse me, miss lady. I just had to say that you are WORKING that DRESS!"

Not that I'm complaining. After all, I don't know one red-blooded American woman that doesn't need to hear a compliment like that every now and then. Problem is, I never learned how to take compliments- from friends, family or superstore cleaning staff- graciously. When I look in the mirror, I always see the twelve year old with zits and a gherri curl (don't laugh. my shit was BANGIN'!) with the dead-on Pee Wee Herman impression. I don't know how to fix this or even if I should. Humility is good for the soul and my impressions were the bomb.

I kinda like being the "funny" one of the group. It carries lower expections.