The Backstory Makes This Nasty Letter Even Funnier

So, I just paid a few bills we got in December. The one from the kind folks who pick up our garbage showed a one-week credit of $4.55 which just about covered the tax charges on that bill. I thought, "Hmmm...I wonder why they gave us a credit?" The holidays, and the fact that I had, as they say, slept since then, caused me to forget one of my most awesome "D'oh!" moments of the past few years.

See, back in November, we had some trouble getting our trash picked up. I had called the customer "service" number, but after sitting on hold a little bit longer than it takes to cook regular oatmeal (which is as long as my patience will allow on my best day), I decided to send them a friendly, grammatically-adequate e-mail instead.

Here's what it said:

To Whom It May Concern:

Our trash usually gets picked up on Fridays. I left town this past Wednesday for Thanksgiving and left our trash can at the curb so it would be there for Friday's pick up. It was windy that morning, and since I knew the container would be sitting there for two days, I put a couple of rocks on top of the lid to keep it from blowing open and to keep animals out. I came home that Friday evening only to see that everyone else's trash had been picked up, including that of our neighbor right next to us whose trash can was maybe three feet away from ours.

Apparently, your pick-up crew thinks that rocks on top of a lid means "We want to keep our trash. Don't pick it up!" If this is what that means, let me know and next time I will post a sign with an explanatory drawing that makes it clear that we would indeed like to have our trash picked up.

Anyway, my husband called your office on Monday and someone told him the trash would be picked up the following day (which was this past Tuesday). It is now Thursday, and still no one has picked it up and, bonus for us, animals did get into it.

I left a voicemail with your office this morning. I assume that now that pick up day is rolling back around for tomorrow, you won't bother to come get it all until then. That is fine, but we are not going to pay for last week. Please adjust our bill to reflect that we will not be charged for that week.

We switched to your company because the other service in our neighborhood did such a crappy job. We have been extremely satisfied with your service for a long time, and I hope that this was just one unfortunate incident. Please respond to this message, or you can call me at [...].

So, after I hit the "send" button, I got a call in response to my voicemail. No one had read my friendly e-mail yet. The most helpful Bangladeshi girl (probably calling herself "Courtney") proceeded to inform me, quite politely, that the reason our trash was not picked up had something to do with the fact that I had neglected to pay our bill. I immediately checked the prior month's elaborate accounting spreadsheet (in my case "spreadsheet" literally means "sheets (of paper such as bills) spread about my desk in no particular order.") Sure enough, she was right. I paid the bill by credit card over the phone immediately as I tried to dream up a good story to tell my husband when he asked what they said after I gave them a piece of my mind.

I wanted to retract the nasty e-mail and follow it up with one called "My Bad," but never got around to it. How embarrassing to think that my sarcastic lecture is probably posted on their break room bulletin board with a handwritten Post-It note that says: "This one didn't pay her bill. Stupid bitch!"

BUT the joke was on them, apparently. Because we got our discount anyway. That $4.55 credit really took the sting out of any remorse I may have been carrying.

The moral to this story is: If you want to write a nasty letter, be sure your account isn't delinquent. But if it is, the perceived incompetence you complain about may indeed become a self-fulfilling prophecy and you may yet get that discount after all.

The 10th Annual Boring Mitchell Holiday Letter--Special Aluminum Anniversary Edition

To those who have been blessed with the misfortune of receiving one of these letters every year since 2001, welcome to the beginning of the end of the most delightful decade of holiday seasons you’ve ever endured. For the rest of you who joined this elite group at any time after the initial insult, back issues are available for a nominal fee. As a gift to our longsuffering friends, family, supporters, and stalkers, plans are in the works for a director’s cut unrated version commemorative box set including ten years’ worth of bonus features with outtakes, bloopers, and options to enjoy it subtitled and dubbed in broken French, Texican, pig Latin, and/or braille. Look for it on Amazon soon. Use coupon code “sucker” for free shipping.

The year wasn’t as great for us as it was for the team that beat the Texas Rangers, but at least it didn’t treat us like a Charlie Sheen escort. Aside from my heroic performance in a highway emergency, Katy’s (unrelated) ambulance ride, Mike’s meal with a football legend, and Luke’s canoeing face plant, our 2010 was relatively uneventful, so let go of any unreasonable entertainment expectations right now. While the world dealt with earthquakes, volcanoes, tornadoes, floods, inept terrorists, illegal immigrants, the BP oil spill, a depressed economy, vuvuzela noise, WikiLeaks, Sarah Palin’s kid on Dancing with the Stars, and the embarrassment that is Lindsay Lohan, the Mitchell family went about the business of living the model upper-middle-class life which has become the envy of even the most casual observer.

Katy won the family contest for the year’s highest health care expense. In addition to her allergies and a weak gag reflex that put me on a first-name basis with the school nurse, our daughter’s other cries for attention kept us busy. In June, after I humored her with an eye doctor visit to quell the relentless “everything is blurry” melodrama, she spited us with a legitimate need for glasses. The first pair was lost within a week, but was found just as the replacement emerged in pieces from the dryer. In July, she jumped into a river and managed to sustain a brutal to-the-bone gash across her leg. She lost a lot of blood, but proved how tough she was when I arrived on the scene. With an IV in her arm and a bloody bandage around her leg, she yelled, “Mom, are you okay?” In October, she had her braces taken off and was entrusted with two hot pink retainers which have already seen more of a car’s back seat than any respectable orthodontic hardware ever should. She turned 11 last month and has tackled 5th grade handily with little help from her parents. In the spring, due to a ballot tabulation error or bribery, her basketball team voted her “Most Christlike.” No doubt fueled by this honor, she took it upon herself to join the church worship team and became its youngest singer. She later exhibited more Christlikeness when, upon seeing a news story about Mel Gibson, noted, “He’s a douche.” In the summer, she attended as many camps as the calendar and the bank account would allow, and spent the rest of the year perfecting her singing and acting skills with drama classes. In her spare time, she enjoys reading, drawing, and not cleaning her room. In other news, she reportedly passed a piece of gum she swallowed when she was three.

Luke turned 14 and is surprisingly much less awkward than his appearance would suggest. Despite inheriting my disorganizational skills, he has maintained straight A’s and perfect attendance in 8th grade so far. And in October, he was named school district student of the month. We’re also proud to say that he’s only missed the afternoon bus twice, and only once did he mistakenly wear my jeans to school. He spent the summer with scout camp, basketball camp, and two church youth group trips: one an urban clean-up mission, the other, apparently, a vacation with naps perfectly-timed for Bible study. The summer also marked Luke’s triumphant breaking of last year’s record for time spent not touching a toothbrush. This fall, he helped his track team win district, sold a disappointing amount of Boy Scout popcorn, and then banged up his entire face riding some rapids on the wrong side of a canoe. He bagged his first buck opening weekend, and during the butchering process, Mike identified all the deer innards for Katy and their cousins. They thoroughly enjoyed the anatomy lesson, especially when Luke tossed the deer’s junk into the woods and its testicles got hung up in a tree. What a special memory for the kids to cherish. Luke is a good inch-and-a-half taller than I am and wears the same size shoe as his dad, so I’m taking suggestions for safe and effective growth-stunting techniques. The kids are still in a race to hit puberty, and I hope that explains Katy’s appetite for peanut butter and pickle sandwiches and Luke’s newfound rebellious attitude. In a recent act of defiance, he took over the car stereo to interrupt my Eminem with his iPod’s Beethoven. This year brought a joyous milestone we’d all been eagerly anticipating. We can finally leave the kids home alone without fear of child protective services or law enforcement intervention. We’ve been richly rewarded for all the years spent training them not to put silverware in the microwave, only to order pre-authorized movies-on-demand, and not to call 911 unless it’s a real emergency. With the luxury of legal child neglect, the babysitter money savings has allowed for later nights and better wine.

Our family suffered a great loss one hot June afternoon when, after 15 years of loyal service, the beer fridge in our garage peacefully passed away. Casualties included three pizzas and a bag of fish sticks. Fortunately, the local Home Depot came through with a replacement before any beverages were harmed. In holiday news, we celebrated July 4th by eating tamales while sporting American flag T-shirts with tags that say “Hecho en Guatemala.” Katy’s quote of the year came in on October 31. She lamented, “Halloween is the only time that I can really express myself.” I wanted to go as Lady Gaga, but our dog ate my meat dress before I could squeeze into it. We had planned to go to the local Baptist church fall festival that night, but after taking another look at Katy, I decided we might not be welcome.

I turned fortysomething in April, and Katy gently suggested that I might now be too old to use the expression “Dude.” I came to the conclusion that the older I get, the more grateful I am for my awesome personality. I spent most of the year at work, on my way to or from work, thinking about work, or wishing I could throw a flight attendant temper tantrum and pull an escape chute from work. Business took me to Phoenix, Seattle, and DC as well as Dallas and a little hot spot known as Waco. I also went to Austin to do a webcast for the State Bar. After watching the video of it, I realized that the camera didn’t add ten pounds. On me, it added ten years. In July, I drove the RV by myself for the first time. During rush-hour traffic, as if it were a Toyota, the vehicle’s brakes suddenly stopped working. I kept my cool and skillfully maneuvered the speeding beast between countless defenseless cars to a safe stop. For the first time since driver’s ed, I felt the exhilaration of having cheated death. Sort of like those Chilean miners, or maybe Bret Michaels. Katy and her friend loved riding in the monster tow truck while I scraped the bottom of my purse for a tranquilizer. We ended up camping in a mechanic’s parking lot on I-35 in Pflugerville that night. Bonus RV decorating tip: Generally speaking, a dust ruffle is not worth the trouble. Finally, I’m thrilled to announce that I have now twice been able to find my car in the Target parking lot without resorting to the alarm’s panic button.

Mike’s year included trips to Tucson, Reno, and Angel Fire, New Mexico, as well as another Confederate Air Force airshow always conveniently scheduled at the coast during spring break. When he went to Green Bay for another Lambeau Field flyover, he had breakfast with Bart Starr, who, we had to explain to the kids, was kind of a big deal. Mike discovered Ancestry.com and was able to trace his roots back to Alamo heroes, Scottish royalty, and some caveman named Thrond. So far, my notable ancestors include only Danish peasants and Wild West outlaws. We are pleased to report that our family trees don’t overlap until at least five generations back. Now that he works four days a week, he spends a lot of his Mondays going on Harley rides or shopping online for investment property that we can’t afford. We took a trip to Las Vegas where he employed his Rainman-style card-counting techniques while I disregarded his warnings about the slots and found gambling to be a profitable investment strategy. In October, we celebrated our 19th anniversary and thanked each other for sharing three or four of the best years of our lives. He decided not to question why I need 23 pairs of black shoes and I feigned excitement about the new gun safe that has taken over a good quarter of my available closet space. He also purchased a big box trailer for hauling all of our motorized toys, so I countered with a new washing machine. After discovering he couldn’t keep up with Luke on his old mountain bike, he bought himself a new one in hopes that it would improve his speed. No luck yet. He’ll turn thirty-seventeen later this month, and shows no signs of testosterone loss except when I catch him watching a movie on the Hallmark channel or drinking flavored coffee.

For 2011, Katy looks forward to joining the school band so she can play her instrument of choice, the cymbals. Luke will be working with his dad restoring the vintage truck he’s getting for Christmas while I train the kids to go the extra mile and turn the dryer on after putting wet clothes in it. I hope to understand why we have a universal remote when we still need three others, purge my closet of accumulated wire hangers, finish my book, and maybe see Avatar. In addition to spending more time with his guitar, Mike will continue trying in vain to teach me how to drive. If you’ll be flying over the holidays, we wish you safe travels and gentle, non-invasive TSA molestations. Thanks for being such a gracious audience over the past ten years. The more time passes, the more valuable it becomes. May you spend what’s left of yours only on things that matter.

Love, Jill, Mike, Luke, Katy & Buzz

Hallo-tween Whorrors

It's not even October 31, and I have already been terrified.

It takes a lot to shock me. On a scale of Amish to Pole Dancer, my imagination is Porn Star. In spite of my advanced education and professional ability, I struggle with the sense of humor of a 14-year-old boy. (I have also been told that I have the ass of a 14-year-old boy, but that’s another story.) I pride myself on being deftly able to cross the line between tacky and downright appalling. I was born without an internal censor chip. If a “so to speak” or “that’s what he/she said” opportunity arises, I’m on top of it, so to speak. I was born without the ability to bite my tongue, at least when given the chance to inject a good (or bad) joke or insult. I can make fighter pilots blush. I have been known to embarrass inanimate objects.

So I was not a little surprised when my visit to the local costume store found me in an angst-filled philosophical and emotional state the likes of which I have not experienced since the time I found myself drunk in a swimming pool, wearing Bubba-teeth, sitting on my husband's shoulders, cupping my wet wife-beater-clad tits, and competing in a chicken fight with my pastor. (I think I won, by the way.)

I have been a mother for almost 14 years. This means that my kids are now old enough to understand how immature I am. It also means that they have reached the ages at which they need their mother to provide a positive role model, guidance in proper social behavior, and clear instruction with regard to effective personal hygiene. I'm pretty good at reminding them to use deodorant and brush their teeth and cut their nails, but otherwise I suck at pretending to be a grown-up.

The other day at the costume store, in spite of myself and much to my dismay, I grew up a little bit. I took the kids there last year as well, and either it didn't register with me then, or something has changed drastically in the world of children's costumes. I blame the Chinese.

My daughter is 10 years old. She is about 4 foot 10 and weighs a good 100 pounds or so. Like her mother, she wears a women's size 8 shoe and a 36-inch bra. She is really too big to shop in the children's department, and when it comes to the juniors’ section, she may be big enough, but she's not necessarily old enough. She’s what they call a “tween.” She does not shave her legs yet, though she has tried. She certainly does not wear make-up yet. She has glasses and braces and a blissful, enviable lack of self-consciousness. She is not (nor is she supposed to be) sexy.

I assume most of these outfits are made in China. The sizes on the “tween” labels look like this: S/M (12-14), M/L (14/16). Keep in mind that the Chinese are generally very small people. A Chinese “Small/Medium” is equivalent to an American size 3T. (For those of you who have never dressed children, that's a toddler size.) A Chinese “Medium/Large” is equivalent to the size of an American supermodel. (Also known as a size zero, or perhaps a size 1 if she's premenstrual.) The sizes alone were not the problem. It was the fact that certain styles were actually made in such small sizes. Here are some examples from the tween collection: Devil Delight, Dark Angel, Falling Angel, Devil in da Hood, Mobsta Girl, Rebel Fairy, Punky Pirate, Gothic Witch, Convict Cutie, and Major Trouble. Cute names, right? Honestly, these could also be titles of the new releases on my adult pay-per-view channel. Here are a few pictures from the costume store’s website to help you understand what I'm going through. Bear in mind, these are labeled as “tween” costumes. Some of them also come in teen sizes, which, while also somewhat inappropriate, is at least understandable. I refuse to let my daughter dress like a tramp until she is old enough. I want my daughter to wait until college to become a slut. Just like I did. There's nothing better than the basic good girl/bad girl theme. Trick-or-treating tip #1: Bad girls get more candy.

Then there are the good old stand-by fairy-tale characters. I remember when Little Red Riding Hood was an innocent young girl.













Apparently, she has started her period.
How about Goldilocks? Yep, she's grown up juuussst riiight. Trick-or-treating tip #2: Dressing up as a little girl alone in the woods is always a good idea.


If your 10-year-old daughter doesn't want to go with one of the traditional themes, she has these adorable options. You may think there are no sex offenders living in your neighborhood, but that's all going to change after this Halloween. Trick-or-treating tip #3: Remember, it's "Trick or Treat" not "Turn a Trick."

Be sure your daughter gets a good bikini wax before wearing this costume. Oh wait ... she hasn't hit puberty yet. I am not kidding, people. This is labeled for "tweens."


Or perhaps you would like for your pre-teen daughter to show her support for the military. You don't have to ask for it, and she won't tell.
This one could not be found on their website. Lucky for you, I took a picture of it. Look at the label. This is a French maid costume. For tweens.

Trick-or-treating tip #4: Don't be surprised if you come home with a bag full of condoms and flavored massage oils.

As Katy and I searched for something she could wear without being arrested for public lewdness, Luke was on the other side of the store being mesmerized by the pornographic labels on the adult costumes. In the store's defense, they did have one warning sign posted near one of the most obscene.
















Speaking of bikini waxes, while the kids weren't looking, I took pictures of these two. Anita Waxin and her favorite gynecologist, Dr. Seymour Bush.
Seeing as how Luke became a man in the store that day, I thought it would be fitting to dress him in this "Supa Mac Daddy" pimp suit. But they didn't have one big enough for him.

At the end of our educational field trip, we got Katy a standard adult-size full-length witch costume. Because of course Halloween for a kid is not about being sexy. For children, Halloween is really all about the joyous laughter and lighthearted fun they can find in the occult and paganism and witchcraft and communicating with evil spirits. And oh yeah, the candy.

What I Did This Summer

Apparently, my law practice has really started to take off, which is a good thing, but it has left me with very little in the way of large blocks of time to write. Not that I necessarily would if I could. Lately, when I get a large block of time, I waste it with sleep or devote it to the important business of watching one episode after another of Hoarders or Mystery Diagnosis on a Saturday afternoon. I complain that there is never enough time for all the things I want to do. I whine that there are just not enough hours in the day and that I need to learn how to get by on less than six hours of sleep each night.

Today, with about 73 things on my To Do list, I stayed home with a supposedly sick kid who, it turns out, is just fine except for maybe a touch of strep throat that has yet to make its presence fully known. This morning I thought, well, it’s good that I brought my laptop home from the office so I can get some work done. Did I? Not really. And when the cleaning people got here, well, we had to get out of the house, right? I capitulated. Threw up my hands and had to laugh at the thought of even scratching the surface of my Everest of obligations. What’s one more day of getting behind? Oh, and we have Labor Day coming up. Great. Another 24 hours I can’t spend working. I feel like I’m swallowing the ocean while trying to keep my head above water. And all I can do is talk myself down off the ledge every day and tell myself I can do this. Am I biting off more than I can chew? Wait, do I really have to chew? Can I truly fake it till I make it? So many people depend on me. So many clients have put their hope and faith in me, and I can’t let anyone down. Failure is not an option. Fear is not an option. I always say that fear is failure. I know I’m capable, but the idea of implosion is always brewing, especially when my ADD starts acting up. But I digress.

So, rather than deal with the cleaning people under my feet, I took Katy to Justice and bought her some new clothes, including bras and boots that are about my size. She’s 10. Oh and didn’t that make me feel better.

My point is, with all the ocean-swallowing and A&E watching, I get only occasional snippets of time to be creative and express myself. And, fortunately for all my Wastebook friends, I pop in fairly regularly, albeit for a few fleeting yet quite magical moments, to make my presence known in the form of delightful status updates, well-constructed and good-natured insults, and as many sexual innuendoes as I can scatter about like sparkling glitter confetti in my readers’ otherwise humdrum lives. So, because I have spent the whole summer not blogging, I thought I would reprint here all the things I did write. I’m all about recycling. And getting as much mileage out of my mediocre material as I can. So I apologize to my loyal Facebook friends who may feel a little déjà vu. Just consider it a free second helping of dessert.
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I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating: “God is great, beer is good, and people are crazy.” . . .

My dinner. Mt. Fuji roll at Sake Cafe. . . .





My friend Keith. Obnoxious Texan. Gotta love it. . . .






Saw a red Mercedes with personalized plates that say “RED BNZ.” Oh, I get it. Your car is a Mercedes Benz and it’s red. . . .

Just pigged out @ Hard 8 BBQ, Stephenville, TX. Good meat!






When you ask a 13-year-old boy to take the stuff from the washer and put it in the dryer, you might want to specify, “Then turn the dryer ON.” . . .

My new favorite shirt that I spent too much money on. . . .






My kids and I are wearing our American flag T-shirts from Wal-Mart with tags that say “Hecho en Guatemala.” God Bless America. . . .

This is what my computer looked like this morning when I tried to get busy working on a brief. Like I told the I.T. guy, I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue. But he fixed it remotely in very little time so I could get back to the business of saving our veterans from the evil V.A. Thanks again, Dwayne!! . . .

My 10-year-old daughter took it upon herself to borrow my razor and shave her legs for the first time. I told her, “You’ll be sorry. Now that you started shaving, you’ll have to keep doing it.” She said, “Why? You don’t.” . . .

One of the best American novels ever written. Even though some say Truman Capote actually wrote it, I love Harper Lee. Had to buy the anniversary copy because it made my heart pound when I saw it. (Yes, I’m still a geek English major.) The quote (by Charles Lamb) at the beginning says, “Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.” Atticus, Scout, and Boo Radley are my heroes. . . .

In my relentless effort to make myself more appealing, my “muffin-top” shall henceforth be known as a “cupcake-top.” . . .

The older I get, the more often I thank God for my awesome personality. . . .

At Cracker Barrel with my daughter and her friend. The girls order chocolate cake without the ice cream. Confused waitress: “It automatically comes with ice cream.” Katy’s friend: “Then can we get it on the side?” Challenged waitress: “Well...I guess so.” Me: “How ‘bout you just leave it in the kitchen?” It was a Cracker Barrel miracle. . . .

My daughter just hurt her leg really bad jumping into a river. I’m following an ambulance right now. . . . Thanks for being here, folks. I pity the fools who don’t have FB to be able to get info out to so many so fast, and get instant support, thoughts, prayers, and smiles. I’d have otherwise felt very alone. Katy’s on her way home with no broken bones and just a hellaciously ugly deep bloody gash across her leg. Can’t wait to see what kind of drama she milks out of this one. . . .



Trinity University’s cleverly-titled “Tiger Sculpture.”










Finally figured out how to tell the difference between Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez, then realized I didn’t care. . . .

Any SA friends want to go with me to see Mat Kearney on 8/15 @ White Rabbit? This song has one of the best lines ever: “I guess we’re all one phone call from our knees.” . . .






Walt Wilkins. One of the very best songwriters ever. If it weren’t for Walt Wilkins, there would be no Pat Green. My favorite line in this song is, “I crossed too many lines trying to crawl out of God’s hands.” Good stuff. . . .




Watched Clash of the Titans with the kids. When Perseus cut off Hades’ hands, Katy said, “Look, mom! No hands!!” I don’t know where she got that sick sense of humor. . . .

I’m not a big country music fan, but this video is so good. [Kenny Chesney’s The Boys of Fall]. See how many famous players and coaches you can name. Come on football season!

Yet another priceless photo of my son at his church youth group retreat. All that Bible learnin’ just got him plum tuckered out.










Today I heard two of the most mispronounced words in the English language. Take note, folks: “Mischievous” is NOT pronounced “miss-chee-vee-us.” It is simply “miss-chiv-us.” And “sherbet” has only ONE “R.” It is NOT “sher-bert.” Say it wrong to others, but if you talk to me, say it right, or you will get a mental “F” in English from me. . . .

I wish my office had an emergency chute and an intercom so I could make my temper tantrums more dramatic and share them with a wider audience. Good thing I’m not a flight attendant. Or for that matter, a nurse, waitress, child care worker, or postal clerk. The general public is much safer when I limit my human contact to drive-through windows and nail salons. . . .

My sister just lost her two-and-a-half-year-old dog to a heat stroke in a matter of hours. He had plenty of shade and cool water, but the heat (in Oklahoma) must have been too much for this big teddy bear. Pay extra attention to your dogs when they are outside and just know that it can happen without much warning. RIP, sweet Gringo. . . .

Today’s lesson: Do NOT utter or write the so-called word “irregardless” anywhere near me or I will unleash a fit of rage the likes you have not seen since The Exorcist. Webster’s says: “Its reputation has not risen over the years, and it is still a long way from general acceptance. Use ‘regardless’ instead.” Save yourself a syllable, and quite possibly our shaky friendship. . . . And while we are on my favorite subject, “Your” is a possessive pronoun and “You’re” means “You are.” And “Its” is the possessive form of the word “it.” Notice the lack of apostrophe. “It’s” is short for “It is.” Read it. Know it. Live it. Have intercourse with it. Eat it like a vitamin. It’s good for you. . . .

Heard “Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough” yesterday. I told the kids, “This is the good Michael Jackson music from before he was white.” Katy replied, “Oh, you mean when he was still a dude?” My heart swells with pride to see that I’ve instilled such cultural literacy in my children. . . .

Got my son a new Call of Duty Wii game, then noticed it had an M rating when his other CoD games were rated T. I asked him what was different. Katy said, “More blood.” Luke said, “Mom, it’s just animated blood; it doesn’t even look real.” Lesson: Real blood=Bad, Fake blood=Good. . . .

I guess it’s a little late now to get my kids into a so-called routine before school starts on Monday. Slacker moms, unite.

A friend said I reminded him of this. That’s good, right? . . .








Need to clone myself to get some work done, but I’m afraid the other me would really get on my nerves. She’d always be one-upping me and insulting me in her clever yet caustic way. Plus she’d want to borrow my clothes, my kids would like her more because she’d play with them, and my husband would want to sleep with her. Bitch.
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So that was my boring summer. Glad it's over. Bet you are, too.

Blogged Down: There's a Method to my Sadness

When I spend too much time not writing, I get unbearably irritable. My head aches, my heart feels heavy, my mind races, my gut burns. And when I get that unbearably irritable, I want to curl up and try to sleep it off. That doesn't help, because if I do sleep, I wake up still having not written a word. And even more irritable. This is beyond writer's block. It's more like mental constipation. Too much stuff all backed up and trying to come out all at once, so it goes nowhere. Sorry if the gross analogy offends you. (If so, read no further.) And the fact that analogy has the word anal in it is pure coincidence. (Or is it?)

Never in my adult life have I gone so long without writing anything more creative than a grocery list. Sure, I've written some letters and memos and briefs at work over the past few months, and sometimes I do have to use some creative reasoning and wordplay there, but none of that satisfies my right hemisphere. Too many thoughts and words get crowded and commingled and just want out. But they don't like to exit fire-drill style in a single-file line. Much less in coherent sentences and paragraphs. I can see why so many writers ended up insane suicidal alcoholics. They didn't let themselves write enough. Then the self-destructive masochistic behavior feeds on itself and before you know it, you're filling your overcoat's pockets with stones and walking into a river.

Ernest Hemingway, one of the most famous suicidal alcoholic writers, said, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." As I shuffled through my folder stuffed with idea scraps in my lame effort to come up with something to write about, I found these poetic scribbles: "I will write until all my pens run out of blood;" and "Tears fall from my fingertips" (onto my keyboard of pathetic and endless despair, apparently). Oh the sad clown is wallowing in her imaginary sorrows. Setting up housekeeping in her corner unit of the persecution complex. My pens are all still full of blood, and my fingertips are figuratively shriveled from the tears that are aching to crash and splash against the keys.

Maybe I haven't written lately because I haven't felt strongly enough about anything. Too numb and apathetic for reasons unknown. I had a plan to write about how people can achieve a sort of creepy immortality through Facebook, and I intend to do that sometime. Just like I have been meaning to finish off my celebrity death trios of 2009. These are two incredibly serious writing projects. About dead people. Works that could quite possibly Change the World or at least Your Life as You Know it, but I'm just too underwhelmed to put enough effort into them. There are lots of things I've been gonna do. And the sad thing is, You, Dear Reader, must suffer in the vast wasteland that is the Blogosphere, without any good new crap from me. Because, oooh, the tormented and tortured artist is going through a slump. An extended bout of psychic indigestion and verbal intussusception. I guess you could say I'm irregular. In fact, the only thing regular about me is my period. But that's another bodily function (and punctuation mark) just crying out to be analogized, so I won't go there.

So why have I been absent? Why have I hoarded my words until they paralyzed me? Why haven't I followed my gut and stayed up all night to write it all out? Whatever IT is? Some people have to work it out or hug it out or cry it out. I just need to write it out of me. The IT was my creativity, my lighthearted nonsense, my good-natured insults, my boisterous laughter in the face of fear, my alchemistic skill at artfully blending vulgarity with obscenity, my uncanny ability to make poetry out of pure bullshit, my quiet humility. Somehow, at some point, IT all solidified into Angst. Don't the Germans capitalize their nouns? That one really deserves it. Why the Angst? I blame everyone and everything but myself because that's the way I roll.

Whatever the reason for this Angst, don't give up on me yet. I haven't. Too stubborn and spiteful to let it win. I'll be back soon with more stellar material the likes of which you have not seen since Dude, Where's My Car?

Hey, I think I have managed to write some of it out. (Isn't it ironic?) Not quite a primal scream catharsis, not even as relieving as one of those Fleet enemas they give you in preparation for childbirth or a colonoscopy, but at least as good as a cheap deep massage where they tell you to drink a lot of water afterward because it will help flush out the toxins. I'm tempted to describe my words as turds here, but that would be too scatological, even for me.