Ooooh...That's Right, I have a Blog

D'oh.

This is me two weeks ago...oh blahblah blibbidy blah, I have a blog for a reason and I should post more often...blibbidy blah...what a load. I mean, I'm sorry I was busy.

I. Was. Busy. I forgot. Okaaaaay, sheesh, I didn't forget. I thought about it, and then I winced, and then I went on with my day. Just like people do with all kinds of stuff they know they should do but don't.

So today I did the other things I'd been wincing about. Doctor appointments - the usual girly ones (you know the ones I mean - yes you do) and the brand new shiny one that I've never made before...drumroll please...the colonoscopy! Thunderous auplause, etc. etc. etc. blahblahblah. Here's the thing with a test like this - or any test: mammogram, pap smear, colonoscopy - people luuuurve to tell you their horror stories.

And then she tightened that machine down on my breast so hard...I thought I'd explode - I had bruises for a month. I pooped for two days...I couldn't leave the house.

You get my TMI idea, right? My friend from work, Laurie, says she'll send me something after I've had my colonoscopy - she says I wouldn't want to read it before. I think that's a good thing.

All of this reminds me of when I was pregnant close to my due date. I was in labor for forty days with no doctor, only a team of dentists...same sort of thing, don't ya think?

Why do we love to tell medical horror stories?

Indubit (bsphlll) ly--hahahahahahahahaha

I was lucky enough to become a 10 year old boy tonight. Not just any 10 year old boy, but the friend of my 10 year old boy.

We were watching Monday night RAW--wrestling, duh-uh. And we started announcing the matches in fake British accents and using as many farting noises as we could fit in when appropriate.

Hilarity.

The British stuff all started a few days ago when we went to the park--there were a few people playing basketball--parents and kids--Nathan wanted to play, so I said, "Ask them."

He said, "Couldn't you?"

I said, "What would I say?"

He said, (with feeling and a fake British accent) "This young lad would like to play some b-ball with you, would that be alright?"

So I almost cry, because I'm laughing. So. Hard. And I say, "Borgy, my step mom would have said 'young lad' but not with a British accent--and she would probably do something like that for you...but I'm not gonna--you have to ask."

So this goes on--we finally find a random basketball and start playing at the other end and then attract numerous other players--because everyone wants to play.

But my point is the fake accents started earlier in the week. Tonight we perfected them.

RAW had a "Many Men In The Ring Match To See Who Would Face (the scum that is) Randy Orton in the WWE blahdeblahblah match (I can't know everything) so my ADD (don't we all have that?) was kicking in and I said, "There's way too many guys in the ring--I can't concentrate."

Until Nathan started using his fake accent again and then I helped him:
Young lad, could you throw the Miz out--oh thank you.
I say, John Cena, get up off your arse and whoop some other arse.
Young lad, unhand him.
Oh my look at John Cena's jiggly arse.

Then we progressed to: Indubit(bsphllllph)ly --farting sounds became derigueur in addition to our accents--we added them to everything. Until only Triple H (whom we called the lad with three H's) and John Cena were left in the ring.

We did this until it was bedtime and we had completely irritated Dad. And I realised as I was laughing--snorting--with my 10 year old that it's fun to be 10. More people should try it. He said goodnight to Dad and I went to tuck him in--maybe read a little (it's late after RAW) but we kept on with the accents and farting noises--seriously you had to be there--here--it was hilarious--well, maybe you had to be here.

What are you surprised at liking? Have you ever acted like a 10 year old, when, in fact, you weren't a 10 year old?

The Thinker

My Dad graduated summa cum laude from the school of journalism at the University of Minnesota. He went on to a career in finance but he was still a writer. He never sent anything in to a publisher, but he was still a writer. I remember saying to him--Dad, why don't you send this in to someone, The New Yorker maybe? And he said--It's too personal, I don't want some stranger reading this stuff--it's none of their business. But, he was still a writer.

He had great stuff too, maybe I'm biased (of course I'm biased--it's written into the rules) but I know great stuff and this sir, was great stuff. Personal? Hell yes. But isn't all writing personal on some level? I didn't have the argument back then to convince him to send his stuff in, but if he were alive today I'd like to think I could cajole and maybe convince. Or bully him if necessary.



I read one of his poems at his funeral, 13 years ago--my sisters and I displayed some of his other pieces, some poems, some just ramblings, all art--he's probably still mad at us...except, no one there was a stranger, so maybe he's okay with the whole thing.

Don't know what got me thinking about my Dad--except I always think about him, but it's not a birthday or an anniversary. It is almost Father's Day, but I think what it really is, is baseball season, it was his favorite sport--a thinking man's game, what better sport for a poet. And I would give anything to have him be able to see another grandson play ball.

He'd kill me, or worse yet ground me, if I ended with one of his poems, but I will end with an Al Kennedy quote: "It's alright...well, it's not alright, but it's okay." This was him trying to make me feel better about him dying of cancer--what a mensch.

So I was thinking I should probably write about writing. I like to call myself a writer--I figure the more often I call myself that, the better the chances are that I'll actually believe it--and I started this blog with the intention of it helping my writing in a nebulous sort of way.

If I whine about it, it (the writing) will come.

That seemed valid.

So my work in progress, or WIP (or WHIP--as in it's thrashing my behind) was a bare bones rough draft--choppy and lacking in exposition, but the creeky skeleton of it was down on paper...until the fatal flaw was pointed out to me--twice, damnit. I bravely dissagreed, because, really, what do published authors know anyway?

Oh.

I read my rough draft again, and again, and again. Cue arrow shot--straight to my writerly heart.

I. Had. To. Start. Over.

Over. And not just, oh well I'll write a new fresh story, no. I love these people, and I had no idea what "You have to kill your darlings," could encompass. A turn of phrase here. A whole loverly scene there. M-o-t-i-v-a-t-i-o-n...killed--changed.

And then, to twist the knife, as I'm re-writing my darling, I realise there are things that need to be changed again {{{again}}} because I've decided something worked better here. And my whole being wants to go back to the beginning (because, it's a very good place to start--or so I've been told) and change the things that need changing so my story will make sense right now.

But I don't. Because I know--know--more things will change and then I'd have to change the first part that leads to the second part and the party of the--you know what I mean. So, I stop myself from going back and just move forward.

And I realised, tonight, that that is a cool analogy for life.

You can't go back and change the first part, just so this part makes better sense--you can only move forward. And make this part--this right now part--the best part it can be.

Mid-Year Resolution...Or Half-Time Gooooal!

I reallyreally wanted to write a blog, have a blog, be a blog. No, not that last one, but I do have a lot to say, just not a lot of people to say things to. I'm lying--I do have lots of people I can talk to, just not a lot of people who will let me soliliquize. Sure, I could sit on my back porch all by my lonesome and utter profound statements to the birds (and we know those statements would be for the birds) but all of us want other ears to hear us...Yes?

So, my point, and I do have one, is if I wanted this, why don't I use it?

Hmmm...good question.

I like writing (and by that, I mean I hate it) I like having a captive audience (spotlights, please) and I like to get things off my chest (because I have no chest to speak of, it can't hold much and it needs to get emptied frquently) so you see this whole blog thing is a perfect fit, unlike my bra.

So, my half-time goal is to blog at least three (3) times a week. See what happens...will I run out of things to talk about? Will I be boring? Will anyone even care?

Who knows?

All's I know is I feel better being able to vent, whether anyone's listening or not.

I don't really have a question for anyone...but feel free to vent.