My parents have been divorced for over 20 years.

Of those 20 years, my mom has been with her husband for at least 18. My dad has had a few partners, but his current partner has been around for a decade.

They just got engaged.

And for some reason, it weirds me out.

It seriously weirds me out.

Mom getting married didn’t bother me one bit. It felt like the thing to do. It felt normal. Her husband already felt like a dad to me.

But Dad getting married?

Maybe it’s because I’m older now. Maybe it’s because I’m married myself. Maybe it’s just because I found out about the engagement after everyone else.

Yeah, that has to be it. I feel left out. Not included. Cast aside.

Unimportant. 

One carries keys. One carries people. Guess which is worth more.

This is the value of my car according to Kelly Blue Book.

This is the value of a fucking purse.

Can someone tell me why a purse is worth $3,634.99 MORE than a car? A FUCKIN PURSE! Just for the record, they're the same color. So that's not the reason. I mean, does the purse have a power seat and a rear defroster? I didn't think so. Or an MP3 player? Or fucking wheels?

To quote an internet meme:

I don't want to live on this planet anymore.

"Don't screw it up."

My old boss knew how to motivate me.

Right after every assignment he'd give me, he'd always say, "Don't fuck it up," or "Don't screw this one up," as I walked out the door.

He'd always deliver the line in the most jovial way, too. And it never failed to make me smile and, most importantly, give a shit.

Because I always wanted to hear him say, "Thanks for not fucking this up." Or even, "Nice job."

And you know what? Most of the time, I did.

You have to find out how to work with others, and discover how to make them work. It's key for your success, their success, and overall contentment in the workplace.

I respond well to a) being told directly what to do with b) a smirk and c) cursing.

My boss knew that.

And to this day, no matter who I'm working for at the moment, before I ever type a single word, I always tell myself, "Don't fuck this up."

And I don't.

Takeover ads suck balls.

Study after study shows that people are very impatient when they're using the Internet.

We click the first link we see. We leave a page if it takes more than three seconds to load. And we have no tolerance for ads that cover up the stuff we're looking for.

As a person who works in advertising, I love a good ad. And if it's awesome enough, I might not mind it taking up a valuable fives seconds of my day. The problem is most ads are terrible, boring, and don't reward me for my patience.

Like this piece of shit, which unveils itself without my permission.

This yogurt ad takes up my entire freaking window. In fact, I had to expand my window to find the close button, which is tiny and slammed as far into the top right corner as it could possibly be. Piece of shit ad is right justified, too, making it even harder to click.

Urgh.

Then it plays a boring ass commercial. BORING BORING BORING. I know it's yogurt, but yogurt can be fun. If only the marketing directors at Yoplait has let the ad agency do something fun. Like throw yogurt on the page. Or put yogurt mustaches on every photo. Or something that would have made me smile and given me a positive experience, instead of pissing me off and making me want to eat cereal.

At least the sound was off. Otherwise, my laptop might have ended up on the floor.

iMiss Steve Jobs, even though iNever met him.

iAm not a brand-loyal person.
iBuy a different toothpaste every time.
iCould care less about who made my TV.
iCouldn't tell you what company produced the shoes on my feet.

But my way of keeping in touch with the whole world? iCan tell you exactly who's responsible that.

Today, iFeel sadness for a man I've never met, but who has aided my creativity and career for so many years.

Thank you, Steve, for bringing us all into the future.

Designers can be real dicks.

I'm an advertising copywriter, which means I work with tons of designers and art directors.

And they all have their quirks. Most of them have very unique qualities. Many of them fall into stereotypes.

And many of them are assholes about other designers.

Being a freelancer, I oftentimes will work with several designers on the same account. And I'll never understand why they'll view a piece I've worked on, and then knock it in front of me. But in particular, the designer that worked on it.

"Ugh. That looks like shit. That tiny little spec right there. I would have magicked that out and used Pantone whatever. That color right there is so cliche. Any why is it on paper? I would have used leather."

I always want to scream at them.

"Dude, that's my fucking work, too!"

"Hey, asshole, I didn't ask for your opinion."

"You should see what this guy said about your piece!"

There are many times when I see shitty writing, and although I bitch about it a lot, I probably only express my opinion half of the time. Because I know how bogged-down-depressing being a professional creative can be at times—always having your work under an electron microscope by people that constantly profess "I know I'm not creative, but ..."

... but lick my ass.

So I would think that designers, knowing damn well what other designers go through, would be a little nicer. At least to my face seeing as I know the guy they're insulting and I probably like that guy, too.

Although, most of the time, it's the inferior designer bitching about the better designer. At least in my opinion. I mean, I'm not a designer, but ...

Burts Bees lip balm is no joke.

After my usual morning makeup routine, I opted for the honey-scented/flavored Burt's Bees lip balm instead of whatever it is I normally use.

There's no reason why I chose honey over mint. Except maybe to attract bees. Because that's what the freaking lip balm did.

Not fifteen minutes later, I was pumping gas into my car when I noticed a bee buzzing around. Usually, I don't bug out when there's a flying insect because my Daddy Lou always told me that bees won't bother you if you don't bother them.

This bee, however, was different. This bee kept coming right at me.

As I slowly backed away, the bee circled and came closer, then further, then closer, then further. By this time, others at the gas station had noticed my strange behavior, but I'm confident they couldn't see the bee.

I must've looked like I was about to have a seizure.

I backed away from the pump and the bee. It seemed to work. The bee took off and was out of site.

Then, it swooped in from behind me, darting between my calves and bumping one as it circled me again.

I didn't swat at it, but I might have jumped and spun in a circle. And I might have said, "Fuck." I always say, "Fuck."

A this point, it was obvious people were watching me now. What wasn't obvious was why I was stiff-armed, moving in a serpentine pattern, and spewing four-letter words.

That's when the bee decided to go for my face. He got so close, my eyes crossed.

It hit me then ... an idea, not the bee. That bee can smell my lip balm.

I quickly tucked my lips in and covered my mouth with my hand. After four seconds, the bee flew away. (After about thirty seconds, my face started sweating it's over 105 degrees here today.)

My crazy idea had worked. Sure, I looked nuts covering my face while pumping gas. But at least I wasn't dancing around screeching, as I was two minutes prior.

I'm doing it myself.

So now that the King of Awesome and I are homeowners, we're tackling a few projects without the (direct) help of experts.

Because I'm cheap and able.

Hopefully able.

Regardless, while we're taping corners and drilling holes and unscrewing pipes, we keep noticing little spots where previous workers just said, "Fuck it." Like with the paint on the inset windows. The beautiful wall retexturing that's been done throughout the entire house is shoddy at best in the parts of the window you don't see unless you're leaning against the wall and uncomfortably looking back at it.

Yeah, exactly. You have to get in strange, Twister positions to even notice. But still, there's evidence of someone else who was probably an exhausted five-hours in just saying, "Fuck it."

And I feel their pain, because I feel like saying, "Fuck it," when I'm in the same spots. Like the itsy bitsy spots of paint that were missed. Sure, we say we'll get them later, but will we really?

Fuck it.

Or the switch plates that are an ugly color so we painted them and stuck them up temporarily. At least we painted them. But will we really replace them?

Fuck it.

Or that teeny bit of blue paint that's now on the ceiling in the corner that you can't see unless you're standing on the toilet. Are we going to fix that? Hopefully, but in reality? Fuck it.

At least we're doing the quirks ourselves, though, instead of paying some other folks hourly to say, "Fuck it," when we're not looking.

9946 Parkford Dr. in Dallas, Texas, has black mold.

9946 Parkford Dr. Dallas, TX

That's the house my husband and I were days away from owning when our lender told us to get a mold inspection.

That's the house that ended up having black mold in the walls.

That's the house owned by the out-of-country people who kept saying they couldn't afford to keep it and tried to get us to pay their mortgage when the closing was delayed.

That's the house that they kept telling us would go into foreclosure.

And it's also the house which I saw is back on the market.

I don't like to post things like addresses here. Or bad mouth anyone specific. Or ruin stuff for others. Or put up such blatant real-word stuff from my life.

But I have a feeling that whoever is in charge of 9946 Parkford Dr. in Dallas, Texas, won't disclose that the house has black mold.

So all I can do is post the address, 9946 Parkford Dr. in Dallas, Texas, enough to make the house climb in the Google searches. And then hope someone searches for the address. And then save that person thousands and thousands of dollars and heartache.

9946 Parkford Dr. in Dallas, Texas, has black mold. And I have the extremely expensive reports to prove it. It also has a slow water leak which caused the mold and is destroying the structural integrity of the kitchen. That's not the only leaky thing, also.

We were planning on putting a lot of money into that house to get it up to par. But the discovery of black mold made us realize we were going to spend way more than we anticipated. That and the bank wouldn't give us the money after discovering the 9946 Parkford's little, spore-spreading skeleton.

If you're interested in that house and you found this blog, I'll be honest and forthcoming about the Parkford house's history. I'll tell you everything, including how it broke my heart.

Let me sleep.

The writer had finally fallen asleep after no less than two hours of twisting the sheets between her ankles and adjusting the pillow multiple times. Her eyelids finally stopped fighting gravity and her mind finally quit racing through the following weeks.

It was sometime around four in the morning. Really too late to be getting to sleep. And far too early to be waking up.

But the gentle hand on her shoulder brought her back up through the dream levels, undoing all of the great effort that it took to get her to sleep in the first place.

She opened her eyes. Slowly. She wasn't sure if she was awake.

"Now?" she asked. So quietly.

"Yes," the Muse gently answered as she brushed hair from the writer's face.

"But I'm so tired," the writer nearly cried. "I don't want to get up."

"But you must," the Muse cooed as she raised a delicate arm in the direction of the computer.

The writer rolled onto her back to look at the ceiling, which she had been staring at before finally sleeping.

"I'd rather rest." But her mind began racing again. And the ideas were popping like kernels of corn inside of her head.

"It's your decision. But I'm here if you need me." The Muse rose from her spot beside the bed, walked over to the writer's chair at the desk, and delicately sat down.

The writer sat up, turned, and placed her feet upon the cold floor. She groggily made her way to the computer and began to write.

And then she woke up.

She had never left the bed, choosing (perhaps not deliberately) to sleep instead of creating.

And the Muse had left her nothing.

The writer prepared for another daytime of searching for ideas, fearing that they would again show up in the night.

"It's just a house."

Cooter Brown and I were in the process of buying a house.

A really cool, funky house surrounded by trees and nice people and gentle hills.

The house needed a lot of love, and we were willing to give that love.

But fate, or whatever it is, intervened and we lost our little house. Days before it was officially ours.

And it feels like a death. It's crushing, really, how badly losing a home feels.

A home that, like I just said, wasn't even ours yet.

I pride myself on not being super materialistic. If my apartment burned down, I'd miss my shoes and my jeans and my computer, but I'd live.

I'd mourn for my iPhone, sure, and I'd be sad having to replace my "[Name of High School] Class of '01" coffee mug with something generic from Target. But I'd live.

And I'll live after losing this house. But this hurts so impossibly much.

I'm no stranger to mental pain. I lost a job when the economy was shit, while I was unmarried and living with a guy. And I was frightful that he'd leave me if he had to support me. I've lost family members and friends, and nearly lost my mind at the same time. I even faced being crippled when my surgery went all wrong and had to deal with the fear that I might not walk right, get in and out of cars easily, or run ever again (I still have a slight limp today, but only a few have noticed).

But losing this house hurt in a new way. It was a failure. I failed. I failed that little house and the future we would share. And now it will sit there and continue to rot away and die.

We dodged a bullet, everyone is saying.

It happened for a reason, we keep hearing.

It wasn't meant to be, people have repeated ad infinitum.

Blessing in disguise? Maybe. Divine intervention? Arrogant to think that my life is that important, but whatever. Fucked up coincidence that happened in the nick of time? Most likely, although that blows, too.

Anyway, I'll just keep on keeping on. And eventually I'll get off of this sad little roller coaster and onto the platform of another home. Hopefully a better home.

Those aren't words.

In the book "Who Censored Roger Rabbit?" by Gary Wolf (which is where the idea for the movie "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" came from), comic characters speak in word bubbles.

Some of the more famous characters, however, suppress their word bubbles and actually speak. Jessica Rabbit is one of these characters.

During one part, she is so distraught and borderline incoherent that garbled mess appears on busted word bubbles over her head. And her speech is unclear and full of blips and bobs and nonsense.

She's mixing the two together and unable to express her feelings.

I feel like that right now. Just thought I'd share.

I want a work proposal.

I've had a work husband. We shared a cube. Ate lunch together often. Bitched about our jobs together.

We were totally married. Just not for real.

And when we both left our jobs, we joked about our splitting up. How we were amicable. And to this day, we remain friends. Now, we call each other "ex work wife" and "ex work husband."

It works.

Having a work husband was great. So great that I would really like another one. But there's one problem ... no one has work proposed to me.

I mean, I have work crushes. There are some great candidates around my office for work husbands. Heck, there are great candidates for work wives, too. I'm not a work homophobe. You could even call me a work bisexual. I'll work marry anyone, really.

But I'm too shy to initiate any work dating.

Oh well. I guess I'll just fill my office with pictures of cats and become the work spinster.

I remember.

The terrorist is dead. And I'm watching the world celebrate on TV and on the Internet and in the streets.

And I remember the famous incident of the towers falling. And I remember watching parts of the world celebrate on TV and on the Internet and even in the streets.

Because parts of the world felt we were evil. And we deserved what we got.

But their celebrations made us even angrier. Their merriment hurt.

And I promised myself that if "justice" were ever served, I wouldn't celebrate. Because no matter how ignorant, how sinister, and how evil a man is, I can't praise his murder.

It's hypocritical.

So I watch my peers raise glasses, hold signs, and cheer for the death of a man who killed millions. Their celebrations no doubt making others angrier. And their merriment hurting.

I will not celebrate. Because I refuse to sink to the level of those who sunk so morally low at our pain.

And I will never publicly cheer the death of anyone. 

After all, "thou shalt not kill" is fairly straightforward.

I'm shamelessly self promoting.

I'm not anywhere near famous or popular, but I have a Facebook fan page (or whatever it's called now).

There's really no point to it, unless you want to know what I really look like. Anonymity is dead, anyways.

Like the Queen of Awesome on Facebook.

I've been reading Kurt Vonnegut Jr. again.

"Too Important"

The Very Important People in the very tall building didn't like taking the stairs. They said the stairs took too long. Their time was far too important to be wasted climbing stairs.

So the Very Important People came up with a plan. They decided to install two elevators into their very tall building. They installed them where the stairs used to be.

Now, they could get from the bottom to the top and from the top to the bottom very quickly. They could get to the very middle very quickly, too. Their very important time wouldn't be wasted on the stairs.

But sometimes, the elevators took a few moments to arrive, meaning the Very Important People had to wait. And they didn't like to wait because their time was far too important to be wasted waiting on elevators.

So the Very Important People came up with a plan. They decided to designate one elevator as UP and the other as DOWN.

The UP elevator could only go up, moving Very Important People higher into the very tall building. The DOWN elevator could only go down, moving Very Important People lower into the very tall building.

This system, according to the collective opinions of the Very Important People, would lesson their waiting time. Because Very Important People needing to go up wouldn't have to wait for an elevator that was too busy taking others down, and visa versa.

It was a brilliant plan. And for 45 seconds, it worked flawlessly.

After 45 seconds, the UP elevator reached the top of the very tall building. After that, it had no way to return to the bottom.

Thirty seconds after that, the DOWN elevator reached the bottom of the very tall building. It then had no way to return to the top.

So the Very Important People remained where they were. And they had no plan. For the elevators were immobile and the stairs were gone.

And all of their time was wasted. Being Very Important didn't seem so important anymore.

Make this piece of paper sing.

When you read something that's written well, it doesn't feel like reading.

It feels like thinking.

The message is so fluid, so casual, so friendly, reading it is as if your own brain were creating the words.

Good writing sings. No matter what the subject is.

Right now, I'm having to make several sheets of paper sing. I was given a mishmash of notes and asked to arrange them in a way that literally resonated.

My job isn't all snide jokes and quirky headlines.

Sometimes, I must orchestrate. Create a score. Refine the lyrics. And make a message do more than just hum.

It must sing.

What if I have to pee?

My husband and I are starting the hunt for houses.

Our realtor is great. She's likable, knowledgeable, and she mothers us just enough.

For example, she brings us water.

But what goes in the mouth hole must come out another hole. So the problem I run into is that I find myself in need of a restroom around house three or four.

And as I'm opening a stranger's closets and cabinets, seeing their shoes and lotion bottles while trying to get an idea of a home's storage capacity, I already feel creepy-close to whoever owns the house.

So I can't help but wonder, since I'm already looking at their food, turning on their sink, exploring their garage, can I use one of their toilets? I mean, you might as well take the home on a test run, right?

Hey, that headline isn't right.

The headline reads, "Ugly women's Final Four court."

I believe what it's trying to say is that the court is ugly. Unfortunately, it's saying that the women are ugly.

The proper phrasing is, "Women's ugly Final Four court."

I could be wrong, and the original phrasing could be correct. After all, there's a chance that the entire team isn't very pretty.

But I doubt that.

That's great.

What phrase am I trending right now?

"That's great."

Which isn't great.

I find myself saying it after just about anything.


Friend: I painted my walls this bright color.
Me: That's great.

Friend: I ate dinner at this fancy restaurant and had the pie.
Me: That's great.

Friend: My boss gave me the afternoon off.
Me: That's great.


I'm starting to really annoy myself. Because even if those who hear me say "that's great" aren't aware of my habit, I am. And in my head, it sounds sarcastic.

I try to add other words, "that's really great" or "that's so great." Or substitute, "that's awesome" or "that's nice." But I always end up saying "that's great" in the end.

When did I become such a lukewarm conversationalist? Instead of doing the nice thing and asking a question in return (What inspired this color? Ooh, what other desserts did they have? What are you going to do on your free afternoon?), I simply drop a cinderblock onto the conversation.

Maybe I just need to sleep more. That would be so great.

Shit.

Disneyland makes me want to be a better person.

Why have I never ever ever ever been to Disneyland before now?

Why have I wasted the first 28 years of my life not going to Disneyland?

Why am I not extending my LA trip to go to Disneyland six more times?

If you haven't been to Disneyland, book a trip and go now. It's amazing. I can't even tell you how amazing it it.

It's ... awesome. It's the coolest, most well-thought-out, organized, funny, happy place I've ever been.

It's brilliant.

It's so brilliant that my telling you to go to Disneyland is now officially the most important thing I've ever done. In my life.

I think I need to eat some drugs.

All I'm saying is that Charlie Sheen may die on the back of a dragon in the near future.

But until then, he's coming up with some platinum-set gems. I would kill to have that way with words for ten seconds.

I'm not listening to anything.

I have a confession. Although I'm wearing my ear buds while typing on the computer, I'm not actually listening to anything (unless you count the almost inaudible white noise being pumped into my eardrums).

I'm a writer. And it's hard for me to write when my favorite songs are playing. It's too tempting to sing along.

It's also hard for me to write when people drop by my desk to chat. Or to "get my opinion" on something they wrote. Or to have me change one word in something I wrote two weeks ago.

So I don't wear my ear buds to bebop to my iTunes. I wear my ear buds so you think I'm bebopping to my iTunes.

So you'll leave me alone. And you'll email me instead. And I can do my job with minimal distractions and stay in my creative zone.

It really works. I wish I had thought of it sooner.

Medieval times wants me.

Some years ago when Cooter Brown turned 30, I thought it would be funny to host his birthday at Medieval Times. So I did some research and found that they do children's parties. But nothing was mentioned about adult birthdays.

So I did what anyone would do. I emailed them.

"The birthday boy will be turning 30," I typed. "What kind of group rate could we get for 10 - 15 guests, and do we still get cake?"

The response was lacking. Medieval Times, although promising a hilarious time, would be a bit too much money per guest, especially considering we'd end up at a bar afterwards. There's definitely a per-person dollar cap on humor when you make what I make.

Anyhoo, my actions landed me on their ECRM (that's electronic customer relationship marketing, for you non-industry folk) list. And I periodically get discount offers, merchandise information, and snow information.

But for some reason, as nerdy as it is to get email updates from Medieval times, I can't opt-out. I don't want to. Because I'll be thirty some day. And you bet I'll turn 30 from the Queen's throne, where I rightfully belong.

Or just at a bar.

Let’s wreck shop at Sweet Tomatoes.

To fully appreciate this post, you must be familiar with the song “Shots” by LMFAO. Play the song as you read.

———————-

My husband and I were enjoying dessert at Sweet Tomatoes when a fun 80s song played over the P.A.

My husband looks up and asks me, “What would happen if they played LMFAO’s ‘Shots’ here?”

And suddenly, they were. I grabbed my husband’s bowl of chocolate soft serve and launched it across the restaurant. It stuck to a wall and slid down. He and I high-fived before leaping on top of the tables.

He jumped from booth to booth ripping the table tents apart and stomping on peoples’ salads. I climbed on top of the soda fountain in order to reach the large, hanging signs. Then I Tarzanned my way over to the salad bar.

By this time, Hubby had lifted one of the soup drums from the buffet line and was dousing an old man in Chicken Noodle. Lil John’s signature yeeeeeah blared over the speakers as a baked potato sailed through the air and smacked a six year old.

All while I danced down the salad bar. Lettuce, chopped onions, kidney beans were raining down like dolla’ dolla’ bills y’all.

“Everybody! Shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots!”

The cooks came stampeding out of the kitchen like bulls with rabies, armed with pasta sauce and various rolls. No one was safe as spoonfuls of macaroni and focaccia cheese toast splatted faces and were dumped down pants.

“I love you, baby,” my husband roared as he swirlied teenagers into the lemonade tank. I wasn’t around to hear, for I was stuffing muffins into the toilets causing an epic overflow.

And then, the song stopped. And everything returned to normal.

My husband finished off his soft serve, and I carefully folded two dollars to leave as a tip. Another successful Sunday dinner at Sweet Tomatoes had ended.

That costs what?

My first car was purchased for 1,000 dollars.

That car drove me all over the place. It took me to work and school. It took me to the store. It took me home.

It had an engine and a pretty reliable one at that. It had power windows. It had good breaks.

It was sturdy. And despite its lack of airbags, I felt safe.

It had a working radio. It had air conditioning. It even had a fun little moon roof.

The point is, it was a car. And it got me from A to B to C and back to A. And it cost 1,000 dollars.

My wedding photo album, on the other hand, is worth 1,700 dollars. At least that's what it was priced at.

It sits on my coffee table. And I can't even store it standing up because the pages might fall out of the binding.

This doesn't make sense to me. Why a book of photos, granted they're wedding photos, costs almost twice as much as a mode of transportation.

Am I fucking crazy?

Are you sure I wasn't good enough.

There's an ad agency, which shall remain nameless, that wouldn't hire me.

In fact, they wouldn't hire tons of writers, but that's not the point of this brief complaint.

They told me that I didn't have what it takes. That I wasn't polished enough. That I lacked discipline.

So could someone tell me why I spend so much time every single month fixing their inevitable fuck ups? As part of my job?

Seriously. Is that irony?

It's official. I can't eat anything anymore.

I took a bite of a brownie. And then decided to ask what was in it.

"Marshmallow fluff."

I spit the brownie out. I don't eat marshmallow fluff. I don't eat marshmallows. They contain gelatin. Which I also don't eat.

I was served a fluffy dessert. It was whipped cream with pineapples and coconut. It was delicious. I asked for the recipe.

The third ingredient. Gelatin. Which as I just said, I don't eat.

Granted, this was all days ago while on vacation. But I thought I was being so careful. I ate only chips at the Mexican restaurant. I brought snacks with me on day two on the mountain because on day one, I discovered the ski lodge only had hamburgers. On day one, I risked malnutrition instead of ingesting meat-based food.

But twice during the break, gelatin snuck into my mouth. And then my stomach. And then my body.

I am what I eat.

And accidentally, unintentionally, unknowingly, I ate hypocrisy.

Stop posting my salary, Yahoo!

Yahoo! often posts small articles about the best jobs for whatever year. Or jobs that let you eat brownies all day. Or jobs that are fun and pay well.

Yesterday, Yahoo! mentioned being a freelance writer. And then right there posted the projected annual salary.

I hate it when Yahoo! does this. Because I'm a freelance writer. And I know what I make. And I'm not going to say it's below what they posted. And I'm not going to say it's above what they posted.

But they posted something. And now many of the people whom I try to hide my salary from have a number in their head. And they can judge me for either being cheap because I'm poor or cheap because I'm cheap.

It's one thing if my friends get nosey and go to Talent Zoo and actively search for what I might make. But to have it right there on the very popular Yahoo! homepage sucks.

It also sucks when people have linked it on Facebook.

I should have opened up a bakery.