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!

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))}.

I rarely find motive in bird vomit.

Have you ever been standing in an acquaintance's home while they're on vacation, with a vampiric cockatiel hanging off your neck, and thought Gee, I need more turtlenecks? Of course you haven't, and undoubtedly I have--recently. And so I present to you Tales in Poor Judgement: The Case of the Rabid Fowl.

Dom volunteered us to pet sit for a coworker last week. Not a difficult job, just feeding the menagerie over at their house every day and making sure to replace any dead fish before they get home. It's been going well, aside from the attack from birdzilla.

This green, feathered monster is a master at manipulation. He was cute and cooing at the door to be let out. And in my naive, misdirected brain, I pictured him perched on my shoulder while cartoon squirrels and deer surrounded us for a karaoke night. Instead, hopped on my husband's hand and nearly bit his thumb off.

Since I grew up with parakeets for pets, I assumed that these were just "love nibbles" and that Dom was being a wimp. So I swooped in to let the bird perch on my fingers and chew on me for a while. That's when this avian Dracula decided I was good eatin' and charged toward me.

I think he was headed for my jugular, but missed. Because he's a bird and not a doctor. However, he did manage to attach himself to my neck skin and stretch it out as far as he could go without bleeding.

The shrieking and flapping (of ME) finally got him to flutter off back into the cage. And do you know what happened the very next time I came to feed the boogers? I got pulled over by a sherrif, in the driveway. I took too long digging for my registration, so he let me off with a frustrated, verbal warning.

Today's subject line quote is Dr. Jack Hodgins, "Bones" (2005) {The Girl in the Mask (#4.22)}.

Limited range forward vision is available should you require it.

When I was a kid, my mom told me that Elton John didn't need glasses at first but still wore them as an accessory to enhance his already outrageous ensembles. Later, I saw an interview where he boasted a walk-in closet full of custom frames for any occasion. So when I found out I needed glasses 3 years ago, I was ecstatic! But when I found out my insurance only paid for lenses and not frames, I wondered if they could put them into a pair made out of duct tape.

This time, I bought some cute frames at Icing for $10 before I even made my appointment. They're black with a pink backing to accent around the sides, which are a diamond shape attaching to the earpieces. I was going in prepared! My hope was that my current prescription wouldn't have changed enough that I could keep my ridiculously expensive, yet fabulous pair of brown frames and just add these to my collection. Perhaps I would match Sir John's stature of eccentricism by the year 3056? (And yeah, I am about 96% sure that I just made that word up.)

But you know how the Chance cards in Monopoly sometimes make you go back 3 spaces? I don't need glasses, not even the ones I already own have been using since my senior year of college. At least not according to Dr. Sassypants, doctor of opthamology and douchebaggery.

After waiting in his office for half an hour after being hit up by the chattiest nurse, who managed to make a 5 part questionnaire last 15 minutes, Dr. Sassypants strides in and asks, "So what are we doing here?" in a Don't you realize it's Friday? tone.

What was I supposed to say, I'm here for a bikini wax? I'm getting my eyes checked, dumbass. It's pretty much your sole job there at the OPTOMETRY clinic. And yet, he still made me feel like an idiot for coming. In fact, when he asked where I was getting my headaches, I replied "at home" instead of indicating where on my head I was getting them.

Two hours after arriving, I'm showing up to my hair appointment 20 minutes late and with dilated pupils that make me look like an anime character because he forgot about me while letting the drops "take effect." By the end of the exam, he was silently scribbling in my chart so I asked, "What now?" Know what he said? "You tell me." I'm sorry, did he mistake me for his ex? Did I give him the cold shoulder one day at Winn-Dixie?

In the end, I get to do things the same way Elton John did. Make my fortune while wearing glasses I don't need, and wearing frames just because they're cool. Or I could sell them on craigslist for a dollar.

Today's subject line quote is Zen, "Blake's 7" (1978) {The Web (#1.5)}.

I'm a tumor, I'm a tumor. I'm a tumor. Oh-oh-oh, I'm a tumor.

I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions. That is to say, I know they exist--like ghosts. But we all know they are a smokin' pile of hookie that just make you feel like the total loser you are by, oh, February. Me? I decided to tell tradition to "suck it" this year by making some lifetime goals...lifetime goals I wish to attain by this December.

First, blog more. I want to blog daily again, but I'll even settle for weekly. And in the true spirit of everything embodying Cassidy, my first attempt didn't happen until February 9th. It's not that I haven't had a bloggable event since my last update three months ago (if you could call that segment of bitching a post, really). My life has actually been laden with so much social retardation and unfortunate happenstance that I'm waiting for big reveal with a hidden camera crew that's been behind the shenanigans. And since I always feel that I should share this chaos in chronological order, I just end up shelving it for a quarter year. Now it's being skipped altogether. Or perhaps I will make it a surprise debut at a later posting, just to keep all my readers intrigued? Hmm...

But back to my ridiculous goals and standards cleverly disguised to not seem like a New Year's Resolution fad...

I also want to organize and clean my house so that when these disasters keep popping up in my life, I don't have to panic about the condition my bedroom is in for people to either fix what broke in my bathroom this time, or come rescue me from whatever creature found its way inside.

There's this crazy thought in my head that, if I throw away all that crap I don't need AND have a place for all the things I do then maybe, MAYBE, for the love of BLOG my house might stay clean long enough for me to relax, or read a book at a pace that won't give me a brain tumor later.

Finally, I forgot all of my other goals. I think that tumor might have already settled in.

Today's subject line quote is Peter Griffin, "Family Guy" (1999)

Is it raining? Is it snowing? Is a hurricane a-blowing?

The universe, even it it's infinite vastness and equal measure of mystery, has offered me a clue to cracking it's existence. It's a bit of a Robert Langdon to the Da Vinci Code, if you will. So I will offer all of you my tidbit of wisdom, and it is this: my husband leaves on a trip and everything goes to shit.

Yes. Critters and toxic mold invade by the plague-ful, pets die, electricity evades, and my 2 year-old suddenly likes to expose my chest to the Dollar Tree cashier. And as if that isn't enough to make you want to strike a deal with Satan himself to never have to utter the words "Are you fucking kidding me??" again...

There is a hurricane headed straight for my front porch.

Today's subject line quote is Willy Wonka, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971).

This place is as empty as a graveyard on Halloween.

Wow, it's October 30th already! And guess what...I finished our costumes last week. Hells yeah, I did. Just in time to go to a "costume" party, realize nobody was dressed up, and go home to change.

Fail.

Yeah, it was a coworker's pumpkin carving party and the flyer said "Come in costume or come as you are." It also said that the party started at 3:30. We took it to heart and arrived on time, as Sookie Stackhouse, Dracula, and a bat.

That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke...Sookie, Dracula and a bat walk into a bar... But instead of a bar, it was party and instead of those characters it was us in dressed up at a non-costume-costume party. Everyone else we knew wasn't planning on A.) coming dressed up or B.) coming for another 2 hours.

So we had the options of sitting in the car at the end of the driveway until our friends showed up or getting out and mingling with these people (who probably assumed we were going as retards for halloween). We chose to peel out and go home. We came back an hour and a half later and in normal clothes. I saw a total of 5 costumes out of the 50 or so adults that came to the party.

Let me just say, that this was all after I freaked out about sewing Dom's cape in time to go to this party...to the point that he got me flowers and chocolates before I started sewing people to furniture.

But a Happy Halloween weekend to all! And just so you know, my office smells like rotten milk-feet-dog and I don't know why. So you all are very, very lucky that I made a post.

Today's subject line quote is Inspector Gadget, "Inspector Gadget" (1983) {The Capeman Cometh (#2.4)}.