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.