This is the person I became.

The other morning as I was primping for the day, I had a small revelation.

This is who I grew into. This person in the mirror is the adult me.

It was a sobering moment in time because in my head I still feel like a child. I still stare wide-eyed at the surrounding world and wonder where exactly I fit.

And I still wonder who I'll be in ten years. Twenty years. Who my kids will be. And so on.

A part of me will always be a curious five year old, daydreaming of being a long-legged adult in the big city, wearing red mini dresses and red heels to my corporate gig (okay, so I was 5 in the 80s, give me a break). Wardrobe aside, I'm not too far off from my projected self.

I may have shorter hair than I thought. My boyfriend doesn't ride a motorcycle to his job as (whatever a Ken doll did). And I don't have a swimming pool full of Cherry 7-Up.

But I'm happy. This is the woman I became, and I like her.

It's the Sun's Fault. Part 5

THE STORY SO FAR IS LOCATED HERE.


"What most don't seem to realize," the exhausted Sun said into the phone, "is that my job never stops. When I'm rising in your east, I'm also setting in someone else's west. Simultaneously, I'm burning my brightest at noon somewhere in the middle."

"I understand ..."

"So when am I supposed to find the time to deal with all of this?"

Bruce Greyson, Esq., sighed into the phone. "You're going to have to make the time. Take a day ..."

"Bruce, I'm the Sun. I can't take a day off. The planet will freeze. An hour here, an hour there, no problem. But one whole day without sunlight and ..."

The lawyer interrupted his client. "There's more, Sun."

The line went quiet for a moment then, "More what?"

Greyson had been wanting to break the news more gently, but empathy isn't something lawyers are great with. So he just said it. "More plaintiffs. More attorneys. More everything. The lawsuit is now class action."

The sky over the Eastern United States flared white for a moment making the usually cool nine AM feel more like one PM in the dead of a Texas summer. Wherever it was high noon, a few birds began smoking mid-flight.

"These people are so set on proving some crazy point that they're willing to destroy the planet," the Sun lamented to himself.

Greyson thought. "Well, given the nature of your, er, you, we can't really have you in a court building for an extended time anyway. There's not a powerful enough sunscreen. So perhaps you can attend via satellite?"

The two spoke for another five minutes before the Sun had to leave so he could work.

As he traveled west across the sky, he noticed a little girl staring up at him. Her mouth appeared to be moving.

"Are you addressing me?" he asked the child.

"My mommy says you're in trouble," she shouted upwards in a teeny little child's voice.

As he had been doing more and more often, the Sun traveled down in his human form, leaving his fiery chariot up in the sky without a driver. He approached the wide-eyed child. She was sitting in the grass amongst dolls and other human toys.

"Some people aren't happy with me right now."

"Why?" she innocently asked.

"Because I can make their skin red. And their eyes hurt."

"Oh." The child looked down at the grass as it leaned towards the Sun, craving his light.

"I'm not mad at you. You tell me when to eat breakfast and when to eat dinner." She looked up. "I'm Chloe."

The Sun smiled. "Thank you, Chloe. It's good to have someone on my side." He waved to her and rose back into the sky. He took his place in his fiery chariot.

From far away, he heard a small, angelic little voice, "Besides, all of those mean people are dumb asses. That's what my daddy says."

The internet makes photos better.

Once upon a time, looking through someone's vacation photos was right in line with having your eyeballs filed by rough sandpaper.

Now with the addition of social networking websites, photos of your little getaway offer a mental break for those in the corporate world.

I'll look at photos of your tubby husband shoeing a horse all damn day long. Because I don't want to write an email to my boss.

So you went to the Grand Canyon? Fantastic. Let's see yet another fuzzy pic of some old rock next to some other old rocks. Just keep me away from filing those reports from yesterday.

Oh, your sister's husband's twin's wife had an ugly baby? (Granted, not vacation photos) I'll keep flipping through each and every seemingly identical photo since the file network is taking forever today.


Yes, social networking has given us yet another way to shirk our corporate responsibilities. And I for one am grateful. But perhaps I should quit typing this and do something a little more productive.

Paris is now a little less awesome (since I left it).

Dear Texas,

You are nothing at all like Paris, France.

Love,
the Queen

I am in France. Part 3

While in Paris, the Queen is typing in her native language, American English, translating that into French via some website, and then translating that French back into English.

Go to l'hell, clock. You condemn to the most unhappy kingdom of l'existence.

I hope that you upwards finish snivelling for your pathetic heart with the feet of the great man of the goats. Since you return me very tired very.

Paris is seven hours exhausting in front of my small house. This n' is not a thing easy to adjust on. Though I thought I stays to make good, I now start to doubt my capacity of to adapt. They say that takes one day for each hour of difference in time. If I am in Paris during seven days and, I am here during seven days, whereas that takes one week to me to be normal. Thus once I am normal I will be of return to the house and owe to adjust once again.

Condemn-thus clock to return it lasts to greet the sun the mornings. Oh well, I stays always more an owl of night in any event.

And now it is time for a croissant breakfast. Even if it takes place beyond time well to lunch.

I am in France. Part 2

While in Paris, the Queen is typing in her native language, American English, translating that into French via some website, and then translating that French back into English.

Hello, pope.

I see that you chose to visit Paris while I visit Paris.

After being little a devout catholic, I can' l' helps of T but is curious to see you. Although I must be here little honest, you' the face frighten a little. Would it wound you to smile? You' ; about the pope, after all.

I'm not really for large crowd or mass more. Perhaps should make us the lunch.

Love you sushi make?

Apparent there is a place of sushi in bottom of the street where I remain. The word on the streets is it is tasty and delicious. And if you bless the meal then us n' will obtain any kind of food poisening.

Thus if attracted rawness tries with you, the dear father, want to find me. I appear that your connections with the great type will enable you to find me.

I am in France. Part 1

While in Paris, the Queen is typing in her native language, American English, translating that into French via some website, and then translating that French back into English.

J' was now party during 24 hours. I am very tired but I should not go to sleep. The sleep now would ruin my internal clock for the remainder of my voyage.

To remain me far started to write this blog. That m' took for always writing even the d' cause; site of blog qu' it was in French. I guess which seem reasonable because I am in France.

Jusqu' here France is large. The bread is impossiblement delicious. And the wine is delicious good market. I cannot wait to dig in cheese my friend and j' obtained. L' correct hour to run a covering thus me do not pass outside. Goodbye.

What's worse than saying y'all?

I live in Texas.

In Texas, people say y'all. Even I allow a y'all to slip out every now and again. And I forgive my posh friends when a y'all lodges itself into their monologues.

We all know it's not a real word. We know it stands for "you all." Some of us even know why "you all" is an improper english phrase in and of itself.

But we say y'all. And we love y'all. And we'll continue to keep saying y'all because it's cute (unless of course you're using it while telling the kids to git back in tha gat dern trailer).

But if you're going to use y'all in the written word, for tha luv uv gahd, even if it's not a real word, spell it correctly.

I beg you.

Because a wronged y'all is no y'all at all.

Today, I saw "ya'll" and I wanted to whack someone with a rolled up magazine.

"What are you thinking!" I wanted to screech.

"Did you EVER go to elementary school?" my brain yelled.

"Do you even know what an apostrophe DOES!" the voice echoed.

As endearing as the yokel word y'all can be (and let's face it, it can be charming if coming from the right lips), when it's in print and flat out misspelled, that's just unforgivably dumb.

All it takes is one carelessly placed apostrophe to transform a J.R. Ewing or sweet, Southern Belle into a complete dumb dumb.

To the misspellers of y'all, all y'all are stupid.

Get a friggin dictionary. Y'all's in there for crying out loud. Look it up.

Just let me do what I do.

Those of us who are working for a living feel like we specialize in something specific. Our jobs usually have a pretty clear description and (hopefully) we're skilled enough to fulfill the needs of that position.

I write for a living. I'm a writer. I've been a writer since before I could pick up a pencil. It's who I am. It's what I do. I'm very good at it. I'm thoughtful. I'm deliberate. I care about my writing. I'm not going to write crap because I don't want to make crap.

So acknowledge that. Acknowledge that I might know a bit about this English language and how to use it most effectively on paper. I know how to make things sound kind and sincere, urgent and necessary, or even angry and scathing.

So stop trying to do my job for me. You non-writing asshole(s).

If I ever hear the words, "I'm not a writer, but I think it should be more like [some idiotic-assed, half-thought-out, grammatically-insulting, re-worded reference to what I've already written]" one more fucking time, I'm going to use my pencil as a dart. Asshole's forehead will be the target.

I've impeccable aim, mind you.

Whew. I feel better now. Back to, well, writing.

I leave for Paris in 7 days.

Sacre bleu! My Paris vacation is getting closer and closer meaning I've less and less time to prepare.

Not going to lie, I haven't learned as much French as I'd like to. Normal everyday survival kind of got in the way of my studies. But I can say, "I don't eat meat." I can order wine (a glass, not a bottle). And I can ask for directions. Although if someone replies to any of my inquiries, I'll have to go into mime mode.

Maybe I should learn to say, "Thank you for directing me towards the bar. Now if only I could get out of THIS BOX!" Then I'd pop my hands onto the invisible walls of my prison until the Frenchman either leaves or chucks a Euro at me.

I wonder if that phrase is in the next chapter of my cheap "Learn French" CD-Rom. I'm going to check tonight!