That Elf Got Axed

The other day, I checked in on this here blog and realized that sketchy little elf I hired to write it hadn't been doing her job.

I fired her.
You're stuck with me again.

I also noticed that, history shows, I'm more than a skosh absent in the month of May. Since I'm all for the boring and mundane - but not that mundane, I figured I'd mix it up and take most of June off, too.

How was it for you?

That jest isn't too far from the truth though. When I started blogging, I made only three commitments to myself. One: Always tell the truth as best you know it in the moment of writing. (True for all writers, I'll point out). Two: Always be a wordsmith: if you cannot write it well, don't write it (for now) at all. (Here's to hoping you've found that to - er, mostly - be the case). And three: Never make it an obligation. You'll just stop writing it altogether.

Which lands us near July with me typing this to tell you it's not that you don't matter - it's that you mattered too much (there's #1) to leave you stuck with frantic drivel leftover from the battering ram called my life (#2), never mind how much that drivel would have been contrived from just another "must do" rather than "want to".

But what a May and (almost) June it's been! I'm the mom of a now 6th and 3rd grader. Judd starts preschool in the fall. I finished another semester of teaching with only two fails. Hey, you no come, you no pass. Craig and I got some great butt workouts sitting through an array of piano recitals, soccer matches, award ceremonies, and even a graduation. (Parents of school-aged kiddos - Cheeks Unite!) I'm a year older, and I'm four pounds lighter. Of pounds, that is. Not brain cells. But, then again, that may be debatable as I daily fail to recall the simplest bits of data once so readily recalled. Perhaps I should fire that little runner who lives inside my brain, darting through its alleyways to retrieve any given request.

Nah.
He's probably related to that sketchy elf.

And anyways...One axe a month is enough, methinks.

Cowboys, Shame Fests, and Neon Monikers

I'm copyediting four manuscripts. Right now. Which means I'm stuck at a computer screen, dividing my time into the categories of "Must Get Done" and "Must Take Break". I like the work, but it's tedious with a dose of mind-scrambling. Which means my thoughts are random.

A new and disturbing trend?

Nevertheless, we're now on the subject (nicely done, me). Why not cast a few query logs onto the fire?

 Pandora, how do you go wrong? So...so...SO wrong?

Are you attempting to Captain Obvious me into a tortured state by emphasizing what the likely entire world already knows - British people shouldn't rap? I'm quite serious and borderline rabid when I ask you, "Where did you find that song? And how did it make my playlist?" 

What is the next drop in the descent toward total humiliation? Losing a Words With Friends match by more than 130 points to our friend, Steve. I take comfort in knowing the herculean portion of self-restraint he showed in gloating next to nothing cost him considerably. Or else he's storing it for some equally herculean future shame-fest. One can never be sure.

Why, Senior Editor, do you pay me to tell you how your writers break the rules only to argue with me in email the merit of the rule? It is not my fault your authors can't actually, you know...write. It's not like I even brought up that little piece of damning evidence. It's a restrictive clause, I tell you! Commas are not optional. And "French fries" are not actually from France, you realize. Perhaps it's also time to shed your belief that the monarchy possesses a King Burger or that McDonald's is a name of Scottish high-birth. Want me to note that on your invoice?

 How is it that, despite its complete insincerity and obvious attempt to manipulate, vaguebooking still exists? I need a neon, blinking Dislike button for that, Mr. Zuckerberg. Yesterday. Sigh. I'm having such a hard time.

Is anyone else baffled as to how Cowboys and Aliens defied La-La-Like odds by containing the two most diametrically opposed lines in a one-hour segment? Let me spare you the other 1:24 and tell you. They're "What kind of man blows up another's man's cattle?" and "God don't care who you were, only who you are."

Did you know I'm the kept woman of a married man? But I'm cool with that. I mean, the married man is my husband, so reprehensibly immoral it is not. Course, if you're of the 2-x persuasion and married, you're a kept woman, too. Just so you know. Seems the "Mrs" moniker was first derived from mistress. Irony noted.

An Utterly Irrelevant But Predicatable Sense of Humor

Random. If you caught the title (how'd you miss it? It's bold. And at the top.), then you already read Urban Dictionary's definition of it.

But did you know that it is I who has made random famous? That's right. It's my art form. Or art malformed. Whichever.

I'm known for the tendency to rabbit-trail to parts equally impertinent and ridiculous, winding in some erratic and (kind of?) neurotic circle that changes from a spherical to ovular to elliptical before becoming a full-on egg of nothingness but drivel... Wait. What was I talking about?

My friend, Steve, paid me one of my finest compliments regarding just this subject. In truth, he was probably cutting my smarts and deriding my "get-it"s. Paying me a compliment makes me feel better. So there it is. While observing a confused listener try to muddle through the mess of my storytelling, he calmly tilted aside and whispered cuttingly encouragingly, "Just stay with her. She'll eventually bring you back 'round." An optimist, that Steve.

Today was a day of random. Probably because I'm exhausted. Like, 23rd mile of the marathon, exhausted. (Never run a marathon). As in 13k feet of the climb, tapped. (Never scaled a 14er.) Tired makes me testy. And, as it turns out, random.

Why won't my car seat conform to my every ridge and contour the moment I sit in it after The Man drives? Why can't I ever get it to be the same way it was? Car makers claim they do it in their finest models, but forward and up just aren't enough directional help. How about the tilts and the pedals and the whole bootie-contour factor? Where's that? I believe I can revolutionize the driving world with my plan. I possess absolutely no engineering abilities. I know nothing of tabs or buttons or levers or memory chips. I can't even draw a decent stick man. Still, my plan could revolutionize the driving world...if it weren't for all of that, I mean.

I passed by the nail salon in Wal-Mart (WM. Ugh.) where I noticed the clients were all old ladies. Watching a soap opera. All that was missing was a red rocking chair and a neon sign flashing "Cliche" above it.

Crystal Light has added two new flavors to their faux-drink repertoire: Appletini and Margarita. The first is as noxious as its leaded cousin. The second is not half bad. Mocking may commence in 5. 4. 3. 2...

The elderly are far more dangerous on the roads than the teenagers. Better arrogant than completely unaware. Maybe. Probably?

I can never remember if the road's called Woodmen. Or Woodman. Is it a name? Or one guy? More than one guy? This plagues me when Google or Mapquest requests that I clarify. That's just cruel of them.

Those blasted plastic cups are shoved to the back of the shelf again. Who is doing this?! I've interrogated inquired of The Other Four, but all claim innocence. Mayhap there be naughty elves who creep into our homes come the witching hour to inject menace into our everyday lives. Perhaps it is they who nudge that table leg just-so to the left, ensuring your toe will stub or your shin will bang. Not before they steal socks, move keys, or shove those glasses to the back of that shelf I can't reach, mind you. But likely after they've shifted my car seat.

Just to poke fun at me.

But that's only because naughty elves have utterly irrelevant but predictable senses of humor.
Random.

Brevity Is Its Soul

 Found this today on Pinterest.

Keeping it light today. 

And STILL laughing at the wit.

I love wit.

"Brevity is the soul of wit."
William Shakespeare