Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Is it just me, or did the world just get blurry?

Since my absence, I've had several requests to revive the blog. Unfortunately, even though I've been feeling better physically, I just haven't necessary gusto to provide a decent entry...or decent thought... It's been a classic "life gets in the way" scenario.  Sharing my body with another person, even if she's only a 4 pound fetus currently, just makes it difficult to be myself.

But I'm now 34 weeks along in the pregnancy, and I am beginning to realize that I need to write to thrive. Also, I only have about a month before my entire existence is thwarted by a newborn and I'll never have the time or brain power to blog again.  Between sleep deprivation and being constantly covered in baby, bodily fluids, I'll be lucky to turn on the computer, much less type out a brilliant and hilarious entry for the masses.

So where do I begin--again? This blog rebirth has taken so long, I have literally tens of stories to relay. Dom and I finally took our European vacation, I may (or may not) have run over a pedestrian here in Slidouche, we hosted a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party for our now 3-year old, and am now blackmailing said child into brushing his teeth and not crapping his pants with the infamous Santa Claus fable. Today, however, I think I'll just fill you in on a few thoughts regarding the holidays.

I have finished my Christmas shopping in record time this year because we drew names out of a hat for both Dom's and my family. Since I don't have to waste all my precious brain cells coming up for with approximately 20 billion horrible gift ideas, it just happened that I purchased my last holiday obligation this morning.  Now if I can manage to avoid any public venues until January, I can rest easy knowing that I have successfully dodged the Christmas spirit being shoved in my ears and left to mix around my brain until it's a cheery, puree of holiday gray matter.

Want a fun fact?  I don't go out between the months of November through January without a charged iPod at the ready to drown out the ridiculous and incessant carols.  Nowhere is safe!  I can't get a sandwich at McAlister's Deli without hearing some tune about a fat man who's creepily watching me sleep--and probably pee.  So I just crank up my playlist and pretend the archaic language of these songs isn't being blasted around me on a P.A. system that's probably more than a decade old.  Because lets face it, gaily decking someone's halls sounds more like a hate crime than decorating a mantle with fake, evergreen leaves.

Today's subject line quote is from Dom, disembarking the plane in Ramstein, Germany (September 2010).

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Find your own funny quote, I'm too lazy.

I halfheartedly apologize for neglecting this site for the past few months.  With the joy of a little one on the way, I have become an Olympic caliber athlete in the categories of toilet hugging and bitching.

But since the first trimester is coming to a close, I find myself slowly moving out of the worst of the pregnancy.  Now instead of doing the technicolor yawn every forty-five minutes, I've simply joined the ranks of the walking comatose.  Seems I'm unable to function by 2 p.m. these days.  I have to hope I sitting down by mid afternoon and not falling asleep during my 78th trip to the bathroom.

There are women who adore being knocked up; they're the ones who never get morning sickness, back aches, and sneeze out their kids in a 4 hour, natural labor.  I never got my invitation to the super-awesome-at-being-pregnant club!  I have to slave and toil, from the ralph-o-rama to 46 hours of labor.  Even then the kid had to be surgically removed from my uterus because I utterly fail at being a preggo.

So to all of you who had it easy and think I should embrace the "miracle of life", kiss my ever-growing ass.  My babies are smarter than yours.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Will you please shut up. You're grossing out my baby.

As a mommy blogger, I really do try hard not to dominate this site with kidisms. Even if they are REALLY funny, nobody wants to be bombarded with stories ending in my 2 1/2 year old yelling "penis" or the adventures in poop. Except today--today you literally get a shitty blog.

Michael is potty training. That loosely translates to "Michael often takes a dump wherever he feels like it while not wearing a diaper." He's been making tremendous success lately with the number ones; but I'd seriously take mopping up a pee spot any day over the fecal fest I had to clean up yesterday.

Basically, he was sitting in the office desk chair and decided that he was too engrossed in sesamestreet.com to be bothered with NOT taking a crap where he was sitting. So I scramble to get him scraped off and disinfect the office while still managing not to catch anything on fire while cooking a new meatball recipe. Then he crapped his underwear approximately 45 minutes later.

And all I could manage to think was, I'm going to have ANOTHER potential Diarrhea Monster?


Yep. That's the real content of this post. I found out last Friday and I wanted to keep it on the DL, family only. But thanks to Facebook and my relative's inability to be discreet about pretty much anything, I'm fending off congrats from obscure-non-blood-connections all over my wall. I might as well get some satisfaction in telling people myself. Spoiled secrets aside, we're thrilled!

So, I've pretty much got 8 more months to figure out where I'm going to put the thing. Really it boils down to which I want more...an office or a baby. Right now I have part of each.


Today's subject line quote is Quinn "Glee" (2010) {The Power of Madonna}.



Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Bees or monkeys, yes. Sociopaths, no.

Did I ever tell you about the time I got squirted in the face with crab-leg saliva at the Golden China Buffet? I never really thought of it as a mind-blowing story that I could spend a whole blog on, but it was an awkward Cassidy moment at it's finest.

We're sitting in a booth at the local Chinese buffet down the street from our house and Michael's being a holy terror. Imagine a monkey, like a small Capuchin or another species that is small and agile enough to leap across a six foot gap from tree to tree, jumping on the seat and climbing up Dom's shoulders to sit on his head. That's what we had, only we had a blonde monkey-child who also has two volumes of mute and earbleedingly loud. Guess which one he busted out for this occasion?

That's when the nostalgic, middle-aged, empty nester decided to come over and do us the favor of sitting behind our table and "entertaining" Michael. Zoos have cages for a reason, lady. They don't ask random onlookers to come and play ball with the apes every time one starts to throw poop and fondle it's junk...I think I can handle my own child at the buffet. And, of course, he just gets more rowdy from all the extra attention.

So in the rare moments when I was actually eating and not running to the potty for an emergency toddler poop break, I found myself in a bit of a cross mood. That's when I noticeably started wiping my forehead and looking around rather perturbed to see why the ceiling was dripping on me.

That's when I made eye contact with the man at the booth next to us who was about the same shade of red as the pair of crab legs he was digging into. He was nearly crying out of embarrassment and I'm trying to redeem myself from making it a "big deal" from my exaggerated facial expressions and hand gestures I had done not 30 seconds previously.

The worst part is that this couple had been really quiet and not making a big whoop over our son being released into the wild. They were minding their own business and just pretending he wasn't there. The least I could do is let him shoot me in the eye with crab-juice spit, right?

Today's subject line quote is "House, M.D." (2007) {Act your Age}.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Two small paragraphs where I whine about not having a real post

I know it's Thursday and I haven't posted yet this week. I've got plenty to say, but I just don't have the ability to do a full post right now. I promise I'll get you something good soon...

But seeing as I'm on prescription meds that make me feel more messed up than a drunk hobo on meth and just ordered Jehovah's Witnesses to chase after my escapee Beagle, I believe I need some time to get myself together enough to even write about how my life is ruled by chaos.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Fantastic! Look at you. Powerless. The great space dust bin! How does it feel?

My junior year of high school, my drama class did a section on costuming and makeup. My coach wanted to do a quick demonstration, and I volunteered to get my face drawn on in hopes that I would look like Cleopatra. Turns out that the former Miss Arkansas runner up wasn't very good at doing an elegant, Egyptian look and decided to make me a troll instead.

Drama was my first period class. Now I got to start my day looking hideous and, undoubtedly, like a total sociotard. But did I wash it off? Nope. I hadn't brought any regular makeup with me and I was terrified of being seen bare-faced. I told everyone that it was stage makeup and didn't remove easily without a cleanser--which was mostly true.

But the real truth? I was so afraid of being seen without any makeup, that I was willing to endure any teasing or gawking. If I was going to be ugly, it was on my own terms. I had given myself the illusion that I was in control.

Recently, I can't pinpoint the exact moment I felt like I had lost all control over my life; but I'm pretty sure the minute I decided that I wanted it back was when I was in the bathroom. I was taking care of my business when my son walked in demanding that I change his poopy underwear. At that precise second, Mother Nature decided I need that monthly gift and I was left trying to clean up after both of us.

It's hard being the nurturer of a whole family. There are always moments like that where my needs are an afterthought. With Dom being in the navy, my schedule, career (if I so choose to ever have one), and plans for the future are all subject to the needs of the military. And over the past 2 months, I had even let bacteria take over my lungs and overall health.

My life felt like total chaos and I needed to take control. My readers have been blogless the last week or so because I've been devoted to taking back my power. It's not been easy either. Not like I could break out the metaphorical rape whistle any time I felt like my life was ripping me a new one.

Some measures have been taken and I am feeling less like my world is going to spin off and out of the universe now. I've found my missing doctor's office and am now on the mend from bronchitis and sinusitis. I'm on the road to taking back my body, but getting my mind back in order is considerably more difficult.

I actually cut my own hair (to give myself bangs) in an effort to not feel completely impaired. But even then I ended up with with a nice feathered look occasionally. After many negotiations, we agreed that I would not continuously pin them up if they behaved during the day and could be as unruly as they wanted after 8 p.m. until I showered the next morning.

Since this blog is already three times the size I intended, I won't divulge all the details of getting my shit together. But I will say that I've learned to say "no" more (especially to my toddler), reclaimed my house from the wreckage of last week, and talked a salesman down a little over $1,000 off Dominic's new motorcycle.

Not too shabby for someone for someone who feels like a recluse and extreme introvert 90% of the time.

Today's subject line quote is "Doctor Who" (2005) {"Dalek"}.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

He's also a good snorer with amazing long-range reverberations.

This post is to tell everyone lucky enough to read this amazing blog that my husband is the shiznitt. Bomb diggity? Are these terms even viable anymore? Somebody needs a trip to urban dictionary! (It's me.)

Okay, just spent the last 15 minutes on that website and still have nothing to describe awesomeness of the hubs in terms that teenagers will understand. I'm hitting the big 2-6 this year, does that mean I have to watch programs on the CW or something to up my colloquial vocabulary?

By now you've probably gotten my meaning, but here's the missing 'how come?' Saturday morning I woke up to this on my laptop screen:

Dear Cassidy, I have taken your son. Do not attempt to contact me. Just follow the instructions below. Good Luck!

1. "Frankie Goes to Hollywood" and you should do what he says.

2. Thirty minutes before the sun reaches it's zenith, mother and child will reunite at the place of the third clue.
3.
+ -


First off, kudos for being so adorably Dom about this whole "morning off" thing. I didn't know what to do with myself. But eventually I celebrated by taking a shower with the door closed and going shopping at the mall. It was great to try things on without chasing after anyone or constantly removing goods from tiny hands before setting of any alarms.

Dom ended up taking Mikey to work with him because he had oodles of work to do and didn't to impose any of it on me. He also had to work overnight Sunday, but instead of coming home and sleeping on Monday, he took us to Gulfport to run errands and stop by the outlet mall! He ended up being up from about 8:30 a.m. Sunday morning until 10 p.m. on Monday. Never complained.

So, bomb-diggity-shizznit right?

Today's subject line quote is Darrin Stephens, "Bewitched" (1964) {Illegal Separation (#1.32)}.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

I love riding in a car full of hamburgers and french fries. I had a dream I did it once and I woke up really happy.

One of the recent posts for a blog I follow was a simple listing of four things that make the creators happy. Blog only knows, I've been pretty down lately. So I thought perhaps I should rip off that idea and list a few things that cheer me up and see if it helps get me ditch my case of the gloomies.

When people do the right thing I could just burst, blowing big wads of happy all over the onlookers. It's true, and such a simple concept too. I mean, it doesn't even have to be a turn yourself in for murder kind of thing. Yesterday, there was a woman in the Winn-Dixie parking lot parked right next to the cart return. And she still went around my car to place her empty cart in the parking space next to me instead of going the same distance to put the cart where it belongs. If she would have put it away, I probably would have hugged her. It's just another gesture that proves that most people just don't care about doing things right any more.

Don't people like having that feeling of accomplishment at doing something worth being proud of? I mean, I thrive for that. And again, I'm a simple gal and don't have much going on in the accomplishment department. But when I hold strong and make my toddler actually take a nap? Oh, or manage to pick up all the toys and vacuum before they get thrown back on the floor? That's a good feeling.

But I also like to be bought. Getting gifts is easily in my top fav things. Flowers, cards, candy, even comments on this blog, anything! I'm definitely one of those people that needs somewhat tangible love. Tell me that you think I'm awesome and then bake me some cookies. You might get some of that explody happy junk on you because attention is easily an addiction for me. If they had rehab for it, well it wouldn't help unless it was solitary confinement mixed with counselors ignoring me. And who in their right mind would pay for that?

I also like that feeling when I turn on the radio to the exact song I've been obsessing to hear. Dom and I joke that everyone has a super power and that happens to be mine. I think when I finally decide to fight crime with it, I'll go by "Musicious." I could save the masses from the insanity of wanting to hear a particular song when they can't find it! Oh wait, Apple already did that by introducing the iPod.

Whatever, I still might be Musicious for Halloween...

Today's subject line quote is Ruthie, "7th Heaven" (1996) {It Happened One Night (#3.15)}.

Monday, March 29, 2010

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah

I've been crunching the numbers--though I'm no good at math, just ask my husband. He did all of my homework from remedial through pre-calculus. At some point or another he'd just give up trying to teach me, do the problems to get me through the course, and send me to take the test with an encouraging "Try to make a D."

Nevertheless, number crunching is what I have been doing. And roughly one third of my day is dealing with pee.

My 9 year old beagle has taken the geriatric-retiree approach to life these days. And apparently, it's not worth her time to inform me that she has to make a tinkle. So I'm sucking up doggie whiz from various hot-spots on my carpet approximately 3 times a day.

I'm also potty training a 2 1/2 year old boy who thinks that crapping your underwear is always an option. So mopping up puddles, doing loads of laundry, and drawing baths are also a generous portion of my day. Not to mention that now if I don't stop moving immediately before I sneeze, I might have an accident myself.

So yesterday I was dressed for church in a beautiful sundress that I had just finished sewing the night before and trying to get Michael into some pants before we left...and I noticed that his room was smelling a bit yellow. One of the dogs had peed onto his plastic dresser that holds his toys. Like...would have had to hike a leg up and aim it right on that sucker to have the precision that this catastrophe had.

Now I'm dressed in my wedge heels and flowing skirt, scrubbing urine off plastic toys and running the carpet cleaner looking like Donna Reed minus the pearls. All the while praying that I didn't end up smelling like dog pee while I meet all the people at the church I've attended ONCE before. Nothing seals a first impression like spritz of Eau de Pet Bladder.

Today's subject line quote is Fergie, "Glamorous." You can't accuse one of the Peas of not being able to spell...that's for sure.

Friday, March 26, 2010

BPJ Revisited

As you might recall, last week's post was a review of Beloit Poetry Journal--based upon a reading I did of it four years ago. Tastes change. And let's face it, I don't always do a thorough job on...well...anything, much less my homework assignments. So it's only fair that I give BPJ a second chance.

The best way to approach this magazine is with an open mind about literature. This particular publication likes their poetry on the wild side. It's more about language and poetic presence than it is about plot lines and narration. To be more clear, it's far less prosey than most other journals.

Contemporary poetry has drifted toward a sort of story-tellers approach. It makes for clear, coherent works. And I like that, but I also like the idea of a poem being created just for the sake of language. Isn't it alright to write something just for the sake of it being written?

I believe what my training has taught me is this--yes, one can write anything ABOUT anything but it should also be a priority to maintain the integrity of a poem. All writing has potential; it's the poets job to make sure his or her work has reached it's fullest.

Which leads me to conclude that next Friday (or Saturday whenever I actually get around to posting) I will not be posting a review. Since I've already discovered two journals that I'm willing to send submissions to, I will take next week to prepare to do so. I will be posting whether or not I go through with it....

Because it's scary as all hell to me and I need the help of a blogging website to talk me into it.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Once we tried to make a cake entirely out of frosting, which turned out to be better in theory than in actual execution.

Is it just me, or are a lot of shoes trying too hard to be something they aren't these days? Not to say that I don't commend the fashion industry for creating bold designs. I, in fact, think the worlds need some more bizarre-chic icons to keep the looks fresh and ideas popping. However, I don't see the need for these hybrid, half-breed high heels I've been seeing so much of.

Three days ago, I nearly crashed my cart into a shelf of Garanimals at Wal-Mart because there was a display of pumps designed to look like moccasins. Fringey, hideously brown moccasins...only with a 4 inch stiletto attached to the heel.

It's as if some designer aspired to be a formal footwear creator, but grew up being told he'd never amount to anything more than a petty, slipper-shaper. Hate to say it, but Mommy and Daddy were right on this one. Give it up, dude. You can polish a turd all you want, it's still a turd...only shinier.

But on rare occasion, you can shine your turd into a pretty cake. Yeah, I just transitioned the hell out of that sentence! Seriously though, this cake could and should have turned out to be the biggest piece of crap pastry. I managed to salvage it.




I volunteered to make it for my meetup group's first anniversary. The plan was to just make some simple piping on a white buttercream icing. Unfortunately, that stuff smears easier than most celebrity reputations. So after a panic of blending, I realized that the blue-white swirling looked a lot like Starry Night.

For a while it just looked like Van Gogh threw up on it, but I think it turned out decently after taking a spoon and some toothpicks to it repeatedly.



Today's subject line quote is Rory Gilmore, "Gilmore Girls" (2000) {Happy Birthday, Baby (#3.18)}.

Friday, March 19, 2010

BPJ

Since my actual life has gotten in the way of the life I'd like to have, there's been no time for reading this week's "assignment." I was planning to review Beloit Poetry Journal for today's post, but instead I got the flu and made a cake that looks like Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night. Not simultaneously, of course. But you'll have to wait for Tuesday's post for that story.

Fortunately enough, I had reviewed Beloit's publications before for my publishing practicum back in 2006. From what I remember, it was an odd little magazine heavy on the more experimental poetry. It was full of work that appeared to be trying too hard to be poetry instead of being a good read. Funny enough, it's still considered a decent publication to be accepted by.

In short, some of my poems that came off "too abstract" might be a good fit. But do I really want that to be the case? Or would I rather have some pride in my work and keep revising those particular poems to make them a good fit in a regular journal? And as for those few gems I'm most proud of, are they publishable by Beloit?

I really hope not.

I'm willing to give the journal another chance since it's hardly fair to judge it based on the brief encounter I had with it nearly 4 years ago. I'll review the newer archives and reassess next week.

Monday, March 15, 2010

It appears I underestimated your stupidity.

This post may not be as sparklingly brilliant as some of my previous work because this week's blog is sponsored in part by the plague that I've been cursed with since Saturday night. And even though I've been waking up with a fever and dreams of Joss Whedon informing me that my destiny is to slay purses because they were sewn with evil thread...I haven't seen my doctor in over a year because she's a freaktard who moved her office and didn't leave a forwarding phone number. So that brings us to today's topic: people who are working jobs they really shouldn't.

I've had my share of experiences with these people of late. Saturday at The Times Grill I was supposed to be meeting some of my friends from the Mommy Meetup group. When I went to get our table, I simply informed the hostess that we would have 3 but a couple more might show up.

With a horrified look as if I had just asked her to do calculus on the back of a napkin, she asked me in a very cross tone "Ohhhkaaay, how many is a couple?" I really and truly tried to keep it in, but the snark must have been visibly coming out of my mouth before I realized it because the second hostess started snickering as I answered, quite honestly and harshly, "Two."

And this wasn't my first encounter with Hostess Von Smartenpants. The last time I came with a group she had the same demeanor--which was that of a Popsicle. I even complained about her on a survey. Well her and the server that thought the definition of "server" was to not serve us food and drinks and hang out in the back all night. Luckily, I got a handwritten apology by the owner of the grill and a $10 gift card.

The world needs to send me more of those, especially the woman in line at the Sav-a-Lot who needs to send me a card and a gift certificate for 30 minutes of my life back after trying to abuse the WIC system. Everything she had picked up in her cart was not WIC approved and instead starting over and actually shopping, she just had the cashier go find the RIGHT item. One loaf of freakin bread at a time.

All I wanted was some bananas and Diet Dr. Pepper. Instead I got half an hour of "Whatchu mean that ain't on it? Charles, get me a juicy juice!" and a step closer to a brain aneurysm.

Also, could EVERY babysitter on sittercity.com please send me a sorry I agreed to meet for an interview but then quit emailing you whenever we tried to actually schedule a time because I'm not really interested in working so I just put this profile up so that my husband would think I'm job hunting bouquet? K, thanks.

Today's subject line quote is Dr. Dick Solomon, "3rd Rock from the Sun" (1996) {See Dick Continue to Run: Part 1 (#2.1)}.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

American Poetry Journal and the Dancing Bear Reader

Turns out, homework is hard when you don't have an assignment. You know what I struggled with the most? Coming up with an actual title instead of throwing an obscure movie quote at it.

Anyway, I know the end goal of this project is to understand the journals I want to submit to, so I have a better chance of publication. But wtf does that actually mean I need to do?

Answer: read.

I started with American Poetry Journal. Editor J.P. Dancing Bear made my search for the unknown a bit easier with his personal website dedicated to his own poetry and a comprehensive page of poetry he's drawn to (The Dancing Bear Reader as he calls it). Mostly the typical, run-of-the-mill contemporary stuff by middle-aged white guys and female confessional poets and/or dead women.

So I don't exactly fit the demographic, but perhaps I can squeeze my way in. Considering some my greatest influences have been Sylvia Plath and Elizabeth Bishop, it's a distinct possibility that he'll recognize that. What doesn't work for me, is that my idol was nowhere to be found on the Dancing Bear Reader of the APJ archives. Dean Young, who I aspire to someday outwit with my own words, doesn't appear to be on J.P.'s radar. And though he may look like Barry Manilow's evil twin, he's a beautiful man with some serious verbiage under his belt.

Dancing Bear's own publications are heavy on Greco-Roman mythology. A few of mine might catch his attention with my allusions to classical music, mythologies, and such. Actually, I'm a bit psyched about some of my pieces because the major complaint in class was just that some people didn't catch the titles or works I was alluding to. Makes one wonder if it's an issue of clarity (my fault) or if the audience is just under informed (not my fault). I supposed it lies somewhere in between. I have to make the reference accessible from a general viewpoint.

The skinny on American Poetry Journal? I think it's doable. He wants a clear, easily navigable poem with strong themes. I believe the following have the greatest chance for publication here: Bjorkish, Dissonance, The History of Fashion.

Monday, March 8, 2010

In physics, twenty-five is Woodstock.

As many things that I fall fervidly in love with often do, a new magazine has made it's way into my house and I have no idea where it came from or if I will get another one.

I occasionally get mystery gifts and subscriptions, like my Woodhouse Spa gift card that ended up being from my father-in-law for Mother's Day. Or even my seemingly lifetime and free subscription to OK and US Weekly.

The magazine is called Ready Made, and it's all about how to be a new age hippie. There is a flow chart to help Bohemian up your pancake recipes! And of course, my personal favorite is a reoccurring article called "How'd You Get that F*#&ing Awesome Job?"

This issue featured a Q & A with Jason Addler, a potter and interior designer whose was recently asked to decorate a life-sized Barbie Dream House. So, how did you get that f*#&ing awesome job Jason Addler? His response? He's a terrible employee who got fired a lot and found himself playing with clay instead of working a lot.

And like any other beatnik publication, there are lots of recyclable project ideas like turning a light bulb into a flower pot and turning vintage sailor suits into a fashionable dress that only women with no boobs can wear. Because we all know that flower children didn't wear bras as a revolutionary movement, right? Riiiiighhht.

Aside from catering to tiny ta-tas, I think this magazine is a perfect fit.

Today's subject line quote is Leonard Hofstadter, "The Big Bang Theory" (2007) {The Cooper-Hofstadter Polarization (#1.9)}.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

And now for something completely different...

As many of you might know already, I hold a bachelor's degree in English. It's not even a boring, literature degree either. It's a special one with lots of words in it--English with a concentration in creative writing and an emphasis in poetry. Or what the real world likes to call, emphasis in unemployment. It also gives me a license to wear a beret and drink ungodly amounts of coffee.

Lately, I've decided to take up my quest for publication again. I haven't written any verse since graduating in 2007. But while reviewing my portfolio, I realized that some of it might actually be good enough for submission to a magazine. Toward the end of my classes, my adviser and supervisor during my internship at Crazyhorse was coming up with less criticism. In retrospect, I think she was obligated to push me to keep improving but wasn't sure if it needed much more. At the very least she wasn't sure what direction my work needed to go in.

So I've decided that it needs to go in the direction of the mail box, addressed to various literary journals. I'm composing a database of some of the magazines we studied in my publishing practicum and will be reviewing them over the next few months. I will be providing some insight to what I find their looking for, and post my perception of what they want to see of my work on this blog every Friday.

So tune in every week and see if I've done my homework! I will still be posting my usual content on Tuesdays. This is just a project I need to post in order to motivate myself into getting any work done. Thanks for the support, guys!

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

And they're not all make believe, toots. Toot toot.

My toddler has been constantly arguing with me and locking himself in his room like a teenager, and all the fiber from Weight Watchers has turned me into a fart machine. As you can probably tell, this week's blog theme is "Crap, it's Tuesday already."

As accommodating as I am to my already spoiled two-year-old, it's baffling how he's become so contrary in the past few days. "I want a sucker." Okay, I give him a sucker. "No! No sucker!" Okay, put the sucker away. "No, wait! My sucker!!" Only, replace sucker with every other noun and verb imaginable--that's been my week.

He also screamed "underwear" repeatedly at the mall because he decided to drown his toy cars in the stroller with Capri Sun, spilling some on the front of his pants. Did I mention that he barfed in the middle of Best Buy a few weeks ago? We've dropped a grand and a half there in the last month because technology hates us and both our computers broke in the same week. It's enough to make anyone throw up. I took him to the Wiggle Room yesterday and it seemed to get everything back to zen.

In other news, this diet is making my ass out to be Mt. Vesuvius. Weight Watchers is based on the principle, "poop until you loose weight." The points system is centered around no fat and lots of fiber. That means I've constantly got the walking farts and occasionally blow one out that upsets most of nature. I may have caused the earthquake in Haiti via the butterfly-butt hole effect.

And when folks at the checkout line are sniffing meat products to determine what's rotten, me and my cart filled with Fiber One-whole wheat-cardboard products duck away before it's obvious that it's not that pound of hamburger that went bad--it's my rancid colon.

Today's subject line quote is Lady Elaine Fairchilde, "MisteRogers' Neighborhood" (1968) {Games (#13.8))}.

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