hey girl, you’ve got a problem

I have a full-time job – Monday through Friday, 8:30 am to 5:00 pm. I have a part-time non-paying job editing books when I get home. Right now I have a 60,000 word historical romance novel I need to line edit by Thursday. THIS Thursday. I also have submissions from members of my writer’s group that I have to read and critique. Then there is the book for my book club that I have to finish reading. Not to mention the book that I am supposed to be writing.  And I also try to carve out a few moments to write on this here blog for fun. But I need to read and comment on blogs that I follow as well because they are all so awesome.

Busy, right?
So, what do I do?
I start a new tumblr blog.
Because I am a lunatic.

See, last Friday, for some reason, I  was thinking about that “Hey girl, Ryan Gosling” meme that’s going around. If you aren’t familiar, it’s superimposed text over a photo of hot young actor Ryan Gosling that says ridiculously romantic things like, “Hey girl, I love how you look in sweatpants.” Or, “Hey girl, I can record the game, let’s go to the farmer’s market instead.” Sappy stuff like that.

Then my brain led me down a twisted thought path and I started musing about everyone’s favorite crossbow wielding redneck, Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead, and what a very un-romantic character he is. He doesn’t have time for niceties or making a girl feel good about herself. He’s got squirrels to kill and zombie ears to collect and crossbow bolts to carve from tree branches, dammit!

And then I started cracking myself up (as I am wont to do) by the images I created in my head. But not satisfied with just my thoughts, I decided to bring them to life.

I understand that if you aren’t a fan of the show, all this will make little to no sense to you and for that, I apologize.

And then, because I am an attention whore, I created a tumblr blog where I can post this insanity for the whole internet to see.  What’s even worse? It’s actually kinda popular. I started this on Friday night and as of Monday afternoon the blog already has 53 followers. For some perspective, I started my Retro Fun tumblr over seven months ago and it only has 22 followers. The last thing I need is for other people to think this stuff is entertaining! Now I’ll want to keep doing it! When I should be doing something else!

I think I have raised procrastination to an art-form.
I have a problem.

And now I gotta go Google some more pictures of Daryl to caption.
Excuse me . . .

target demographic, i am not

In keeping with the awesome guest posts from Dan and Doug, I’m going to talk about advertising.
Yeah, I gotta work on my segues, I know.

My mother-in-law was subscribed to Elle magazine without her knowledge.  They’ve been coming to the house (our house, the one we share with her) for months.  She doesn’t read this type of periodical, so she’s been leaving them for me to look at.  I have no interest in high-fashion or bulimia, so I normally just toss them in the recycle bin, but yesterday I picked one up and thumbed through it.

Holy trip down the rabbit hole, Batman! Is this a fashion magazine or Psychotropic Monthly? And why haven’t I been reading this earlier? It appears I may need to expand my boundaries beyond goofing on mid-century advertising. The 21st century has so much material to work with. I got all this from just one issue:

That last one won’t make any sense unless you are a fan of The Walking Dead.  Which you should be because the show rocks and has zombies and Norman Reedus playing a cross-bow wielding bad ass who is allergic to sleeves.  (I love you Daryl!)

 

 

on the first day of christmas

Daryl walked to the edge of the clearing and stopped so suddenly I almost stumbled into him.
“What is it?” I asked in a half whisper.
He squinted his blue eyes and pointed ahead, then raised his crossbow and took aim.
“What are you looking at?”
“In the tree across the way,” he said
“Is that a partridge in the pear tree?” 
“Yep,” he said. “Now, hush.” Daryl steadied himself then pulled the trigger on the crossbow. There was a rustle within the tree then a soft thump as his quarry landed in the tall grass. He turned to me, displaying a satisfied smirk. “We got dinner.” He shouldered the crossbow and walked to the tree.
“What would I do without you?” I asked, following him.
He snapped off a piece of dry field grass and placed it between his teeth. “Starve, I reckon.”

~*~

So, not only is this the second post in one day (shocking, I know), but this little drabble seems to have something to do with a certain Christmas song.  What is this craziness, you may ask?  Well, I have accepted the challenge of Blogdramedy and am participating in her BlogFestivus.  I’ll let her snazzy little graphic explain the premise for me.

Yep.  It’s the 12 Days of Christmas.  Bloggy-style.  We have to use the “gifts” in the song somewhere in a 144 word story (12×12, get it?).  So, this one was “partridge in a pear tree,” obviously.  Tomorrow, there will be a story with “two turtle doves” featured, then “three french hens” and on and on.  The best thing about this challenge is that the stories don’t have to have anything to do with Christmas whatsoever if we don’t want.  I like that.  Christmas and me aren’t exactly best buds.

For today’s story, I managed to sneak in a little zombie love.  Don’t see it?  Well, that’s Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead shooting dinner with his crossbow like a boss.  I like Daryl.  He’s dreamy.  And wears zombie ear necklaces.

So, tune in tomorrow to see what I do to those poor turtle doves.

And, be sure to check out the rest of the gang who are participating in BlogFestivus.

Blogdramedy (writing challenge instigator)
Shouts from the Abyss
Stevil
All My Answers
Tori Nelson
A Few Clowns Short
Grouchy Mom
Rewind Revise
The Original Bean
My life: a constant work in progress
Becoming Bitter
PamBamBam
Clan of the Cave Hair
Words that Rhyme with Purple
Mad Hatters
A Daft Scots Lass
Random Says
Susan Forte PR
Slightly Whimsical

 

I can quit any time, I swear

My family is a bunch of enablers. 

Thank God.

Last Thursday, my sister called me to ask if I could come over to her house for a few minutes after work.  A cryptic request, but I didn’t really think much of it.  I’m always up for seeing my sister.  We’re cool like that. 

I arrive at her house and she invites me out onto her front porch for an adult beverage.  All seems well and we chit-chat for a few minutes.  Then, a car pulls up into her driveway and out pops my sister’s best friend. 

Oh, this is just an impromptu girl’s get-together, I think to myself. 

I was wrong.  This evening had an agenda and, surprisingly enough, it was all about me. 

What’s the opposite of an intervention? 

Well, for me, it’s when my sister and her best friend invite me over for the sole purpose of giving me this:

They are fueling my zombie addiction, and I couldn’t be happier.  Seriously, my squeals of delight upon seeing this book rivaled those of a pre-teen gifted with tickets to a Justin Bieber concert.  (Or, whatever singing embryo is popular nowadays. Get off my lawn!)

Y’all remember that ubiquitous childhood staple, Pat the Bunny, don’t you?  Well, this book is a page-by-page spoof of that book only with zombies as the focus of the action.  I’d seen this book on-line a few weeks ago and even recommended it to a fellow zombie lovin’ blogger for her baby shower.  I never imagined that I would be the proud owner of what is destined to become a literary classic. 

This book grips you from the first page.

Then, we see our intrepid heroes, Paul and Judy.

They may only be kids, but they already have the thousand yard stare of seasoned zombie hunters.  You gotta grow up fast when Z Day comes around.

I don’t care if your dad wears a wife-beater, something inside you is going to snap when you see the flesh dripping from his rotting face.  Judy doesn’t turn away, though.  She steadies her gaze and offers one last loving touch to the undead form of the man she once called “daddy” before releasing him into the waiting arms of eternity.

Yes.  That is a scratch ‘n sniff sticker.  And, no.  I will not tell you what it smells like.  I’m a cruel bitch, I know.

The story ends as most tales of the apocalypse do, with hopelessness and lamentations echoing through the night.

I hope that each and every one of you, dear readers, has at least one person in your lives that understands you as fundamentally as my sister understands me.  Yes, this is just a silly present.  However, to me, it is one more line item in the ever growing list of ways my life would be empty if my sister weren’t there to fill in the blanks. 

I love you, Tracey. And, I promise, you will never have to put a bullet in my brain because I got bit by a zombie.

the one where I had an alien baby

I don’t know how it happened. I wasn’t a crew member of the Nostromo and if I had a facehugger, no one told me. If you are my friend, please know, I would want you to tell me if I have spinach in my teeth, my fly is down or if a facehugger has taken a shine to me. The short-term embarrassment is nothing compared to the long-term consequences. 

"You sure there isn't anything on my face?"

Well, anyway, I had an alien in me.  It was the only explanation.  I had sharp pains right below my sternum that weren’t going away.  Rather than wait around for my little chest-burster to make a surprise appearance, I went to the doctor to see if we could narrow down the due date.  As expected, I was sent to get an ultrasound. 

I told the ultrasound technician that I didn’t want to know the sex because all that mattered was that it was healthy and had two mouths.  She just murmured something about the gel being cold and went to work. I thought she would have been excited to do a scan of an actual incubating alien, but she was stone-faced.  I suppose after a few years in the biz, you’ve seen it all.

My doctor got the results of the ultrasound the next day and promptly sent me to a surgeon.  Apparently, my little guy was breach and wouldn’t be bursting out on his own, so they would go in after him.  Surgery was scheduled for the next morning. 

Around this point in my pain-induced haze, I noticed that they were referring to my alien as “gall bladder.”  I just figured this was for security reasons and to keep the media in the dark.  These doctors were savvy.

So, Friday morning I check into the hospital.  Thanks to my back surgery a couple months back, I knew what to expect: poking, prodding, millions of questions, leg squeezer things, “this will help you to relax,” “slide on over to this table,” oxygen mask being lowered, bye-bye juice pumped into my vein and the world going black.

When I wake up, my alien/gall bladder is gone.  I feel a pang of remorse that I didn’t get to say good-bye, but I knew how these things worked.  Some government black-suit whisked my alien away to a secret bunker in the desert where it will be sealed in a glowing green tube of liquid.  I can only hope that he’ll remember me when the mothership returns.

I had bigger problems to contend with, however.  The Percocet they gave me for pain made me feel like I was starring in a completely different movie.

"I think it was something I ate."

Before we called a young priest and an old priest, my husband called my doctor, who told me to, duh, stop taking the Percocet. I got some nausea medication and was down graded to Extra Strength Tylenol for pain.  That was Monday.  Last night I ate my first full meal – a sandwich. My stomach actually recognized it as food and digested it.  This morning, I finally feel like a human being again.

I go almost thirty six years without being treated for anything more serious than a sinus infection. Now, in the first few months of 2011, I’ve had back surgery and my “gall bladder” removed.  I feel like a ticking time-bomb.  I know better than to ask “what’s next?” so I’ll just hope that I can get a few months of peace before my next hospital visit.

"Nurse? Can I get more ice chips?"