Write Angry. Slash Tires. I’m An Experienced Woman.

 Until recently, I’ve been a no-means-no type of person.

Well, except when it comes to cake. Or wine. Or when it comes to trapping cats in laundry baskets because, c’mon, that shit’s just hilarious.

Admit it. You laughed.

But back to the no.

 Now, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression that BY GOD THESE PLANS MUST NOT BE RUINED. It’s just that I hate having plans. I’d rather wing my free days. I hate commitment. I hate wearing pants. I hate exhausting the energy to plan stuff…and move around in some sort of movement-thingy-motion. I’d rather lie on my office floor and let that cat lick my eyelids. That’s a lot more fun than picking out window treatments.

[side note: when you’re choosing blinds and  staring at window selections named “fudge truffle” and “tranquil tea” you’ll very soon want to strangle yourself with the pull-cord.]

I do like a set schedule. I like to come home during the week and do my thing. I like free weekends. And I realize I’m contradicting myself. But weekdays are for the ordinary and weekends are for me. That’s an apt summary. Now…this brings us to the writing bit. Sundays are my day to write. Try to ruin my carefully laid writing plans and I’ll cut you. This is one thing I stick to faithfully (not the cutting thing but the writing thing). I’ll cancel your birthday before I give up my writing day.

But not really. You have cake.

Okay, so now we get to the part where I become a better person or AKA: My point.

Lately, I’ve been trying to see things in a new light. If I have to do something or an opportunity creates itself, instead of moaning and whining, I’ll take it. For example, I’m not a fan of travelling for work. Sure, it’s fine. But I get homesick; I miss my husband and my cats and my writing schedule. But I can do it. And I do. When I’m there I rock it. 

Like this. I rock it like this.

I use my travel to write disgusting blog posts. Travel’s the best part about all of this. Absorbing the atmosphere, learning the language, meeting new people. Whenever I travel I look at it as sweet, delicious knowledge.

Yet life isn’t always about travelling and sweet, sweet blow up penises. I’m a brave person but sometimes situations or persons I’m not familiar with can sometimes make me uncomfortable. Such is life. Bad stuff has happened. It happens to everyone. For myself, being able to think about it, take a step back, and put it to good use, makes me feel better about it, makes me feel in control. I can turn it into something positive.

For example, last week, I was followed to my car in broad daylight by a possibly shady character. I got courage of the not-liquid-but-I’ll-kick-your-ass-variety and warded it off, whatever it could have been.  Nothing happened. But you know what they say about possibilities.

Anyway. The thing I took away from it was that I was angry. And that it scared me. Yet becasuse of that now I know a true physical and emotional reaction of a scary and hopefully isolated scenario.  Did I want it to happen? No. And sure, I could write about this scenario without experiencing it but it happened. I now have the memory in this synaptic-firing brain. So I use it. I’ll log it away. I’ll pimp the shit out of it when I need to write and relate.

Now I’m not saying go out and slash some tires and get your ass tossed in jail. Although, think of the stories…

We’ll laugh about this later.

I’m just saying, every new/different/odd/(even) bad situation has potential. Use reverse psychology of the writerly variety. We’re voyeurs. We have to observe.

Put together your writer’s toolkit. I truly believe in the write-what you DON’T know notion (because imagination is fucking bliss) BUT experiencing the different and the abnormal can be a good thing too.  The more experiences you have as a writer, the more authenticity you CAN give to your writing. You don’t have to. Hell, I wrote a story about a diver based on pure research and someone asked me if I dived in college. And yet the only diving experience I have is with bars.

My drinking motto lives on.

I never dived in my life. I’m a poser. I LIED. But it worked, suckers. Imagination is a truly wonderful thing.

But so is living.

Lucky you get to choose both.

My Problem with the Olympics or AKA: Why I’m Un-American

As I type this I’ve sequestered myself in my office, hiding from these things you people call the Olympics.

I am not a fan. Like Lady Gaga, I’ve never understood the phenomenon. Frankly put, I don’t care for them. In fact, I heartily dislike them.

And as of this last week I’m beginning to think I’m the only one who feels negatively. It’s like an atrocious crime I’m committing when I admit this. Hell, I’m practically Vietcong. The looks of disdain I get when asked about the Olympics and I tentatively step up with, “I’m not a fan…” should be reserved for serial killers or at the very that neighbor who mows the lawn at five in the morning. In fact, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been called a communist.

I actually lied to my eye doctor last week. LIED about something I could give two shits about.

This is how the conversation went:

Doctor: “Have you been watching the Olympics?”

Me: “Oh, well I—”

Doc: “My wife and I just love the Olympics. We’ve been glued to them every night. Every goddamn night.”

Stares at me. Judges.

Me: “Oh yes. Yes, I love the Olympics as well. Especially the…uh, twirly sports…”

Doc: “Very good then.”

In the interest of self-preservation, what do I really say? The truth? Say out loud, “I seriously detest the Olympics.”  Do you know what kind of pariah I’d be? To flat out tell a total stranger you dislike an all-American sport is mind boggling.

And I like boggle.

This isn’t a persuasive piece. I don’t mean to woo you to my side.  I just want to tell my side of the Olympics in the hopes there are others so that we may join a support group and eat cookies together.

On Why I Hate the Olympics

1.      They remind me how slothful and talentless I am.

All my sins are virtually NOT validated when I watch the Olympics. Sloth is frowned upon and gluttony definitely won’t cut it.

What the floor of my bedroom looks like on a daily basis.

I’m continually reminded of what I can’t do and what I shouldn’t  do and also probably, maybe, what I won’t do. My list of cant’s and wont’s grows by the day. Granted, I’m a sorry sack of shit when it comes to exercise so it should come as no surprise that I actually don’t want to watch someone else sweat for a living.

This is my Olympics 2012.

Do you think I want to come home after a long day at work and watch some 16 year old perfect a flip she’s been working on since she was crawling? No. I don’t. I’m sorry. I want to come home and drink my wine, and pretend like my gluteus maximus is the shit.

When I see someone accomplish their life goal at age 18, it reminds me that all I’ve perfected in my day-to-day routine is cleaning the cat box and ordering a pizza in less than 30 seconds flat.

2.      My husband bogarts the TV. The Olympics will cause our divorce.

This is another reason why I hate the Olympics. They hijack anything good that’s supposed to be on TV. I mean is it too much to ask that new episodes of Ancient Aliens air? Broadcast and Cable are so scared that the precious Olympics will steal viewers they refuse to air anything new.

But I ask you, History Channel, what about me?  WHATABOUTME?

This also leaves me and my husband in a disastrous fight to the death about who owns the remote control. Eventually, because I’m a woman and have weak combat skills, he’ll claim it and I’ll scurry upstairs to watch DVR’d episodes of Duck Dynasty while consoling myself with a bowl of whip cream and peanut butter.

3.      I am the least competitive person alive.

You want this medal? Take it. My firstborn child? I’ll wrap it up burrito-style and gift it to you.

Unless there is a piece of cake to fight over (and believe me I’ll claw your eyes out for that) why do I want to watch others try to win something in a sport I never even knew existed?

The Box Stacking Competition has gotten out of hand.

Also, I know everyone says that the Olympics are some feel-goodery where entire countries can come together in the sheer pleasure of the sport and band together in harmony but I call bullshit on that.

It’s a competition. It’s bound to foster deep seated feelings (AKA hatred) between countries. Just own it Olympics. Change the tagline to: “Our country will kick your country’s ass. And we’ll like it.”

4. The Commentators. OHDEARGOD.

Sports commentary makes me seize up and want to punch something. Something preferably with teeth and a microphone. I imagine this is how men feel when the View is on (hell, I feel that way). I cannot handle the inane commentary and banter between Ryan what-the-fuck Seacrest and Bob Costas and the Cookie Monster.

Everyone is special. Everyone has a wonderful, glorious story that you just must know about. And hear. Again. And again.

I like to train for the Olympics by searching trash cans for empty Coke cans and then punting them into the air. I’m special. Write a story about me.

So special.

Or there’s the whole obvious but unnecessary narration of monologue: “He [insert your choice of swimmer’s name] has a tattoo on the back of his neck. It’s in the shape of a seal. Some say it symbolizes his deep seated love of water. What a blessing this man is to the aquatic industry…”

Thanks guys. I’ll be sure to log that away for later reference.

Those are my reasons. Maybe not very valid but I stand by them. I don’t love the Olympics.

I love America. I love apple pie and Patrick Swayze and fireworks and peace and love and motherfucking love. After all, what more could you really want?

Cake.

Yes. Cake.

Musica Fantastica and Cake.

Ask me what I love.

If you said cake then you are correct and if you said Rob Lowe than you are correct as well, so let me rephrase the question. Ask me what I love outside of food and 1980s teen stars.

 

This is Rob Lowe’s I-Like-Cake face.

Wait for iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit: The wide world of music.

Tunes. Vibrations. Something with soul and grit.

 

Cosby Sweater agrees. “Herp, dur, derp…”

I am a big music lover. I’m not picky or exclusive in my music choices either. I can sing show tunes with the best of them. Yes, my iPod holds Spice Girls (ah, fond/embarrassing memories) and John Mayer (shudder) but it also holds Creedence Clearwater, Neko Case and Cold War Kids.

Music is my necessary survival skill. It’s a must have for everywhere I am.  Cooking? Cleaning? There’s music. Driving with the Mother? Woman, hold your tongue, MUSIC IS PLAYING. Co-workers, do you see these earbuds in my ears? They ain’t for decoration, bitches. I got music goin on.

The most important role music plays in my everyday, wine-drenched life is when it makes sweet, dangerous love to my writing. I am one who cannot write without music. I use it to fuel my mood and my stories.

 

This is how you create music, right? RIGHT?

 

When I write I need my music to be inspirational, but I’m not talking about Yanni or Mozart-inspired. Something with oaked-soaked words and languorous vocab.  Pumped, upbeat, expressive. For me, it’s all about damn good lyrics.  

Fiona Apple. fun. Janis Joplin. Jimi.  Alanis Morissette. Amanda Fucking Palmer. Feist. Fitz & the Tantrums. Sublime. Annie Lennox.  Coconut Records. Elvis Presley. The Doors. Rilo Kiley. Jenny Lewis. Loretta Lynn. The Velvet Underground. Garth Brooks. The Grateful Dead. Tom Waits. The Dresden Dolls. Regina Spektor…

The list could go on and on.

Kind of like Dog the Bounty Hunter, music also tracks my frame of mind and mood. Every month I start a new Playlist: February 2012, March 2012, April 2012…etc.

I like this.

Because when I write a specific story and I go back to the playlists I remember my mood. I remember the angst or the giddiness, the fist pumping or the writer’s block. A good or bad blast to the past I’ll take.

Sometimes I’ll find a two-year old playlist, listen, and be like WTF? Was I on the verge of slitting my wrists while downing Drano? Then I’ll remember what I wrote during that time frame and it all makes sense. It makes you remember. It’s a great growth curve.

 

Pains so good.

 

It makes me wonder how other writers use music. The authors who thank the musicians they’ve listened to in their acknowledgements for the inspiration.

Yeah. That’s me.

How about you?