Writer's Block

Here are what the last few pages that I've worked on for the "book" look like:


So...









That was page 1.


The...









That was page 2.



One time...







Page 3.


It goes on, but I won't. How do any of you writers get out of a funk? How do you bring yourself to write under pressure? Even if the pressure is self induced? I don't understand my brain. I can sit and write for hours on my blog, but when it comes to something that I think might have a chance at publication, I freeze. It's just out there forever, bound, on shelves, and for sale. Is my writing worth $11.99? I picture myself as an actress while I'm asking myself these rhetorical questions. What is my motivation?

Is it money? For sure. Is it a shot at being known as something else than a mom? Of course. But, really, why is it that writers want to write? I don't think fame is necessarily a huge motivator because I saw how many people showed up for the Furiously Happy tour and, quite frankly, I don't think I could do it. Reading my words out loud to crowds of people who are happy you are a person and can recite your own words back to you is a little overwhelming. So, why do we do it? Therapy?

Leave a comment with your thoughts and follow me on Facebook.

Empathy For Humans

I guess I used to sort of pride myself with being apathetic toward life. I didn't care much about anything, except for myself and my problems, for a very long time. I've hurt a lot of people. I've disappointed a lot of others. I have hurt and disappointed myself.

But then, there is a turning point, when "I" isn't as important as "WE," or "THEM," or "US," anymore. There are still struggles, daily, with trying to get away from "I." Our lives transform over the years into something bigger than we can control, and sometimes bigger than what we can handle, or accept, but suddenly, one day, we realize that "I" am not the center of it all, and empathy starts to overcome apathy.

My kids have helped in this transformation of completely selfish to a little more selfless. Empathy is easier when you care about something bigger, and better, and brighter than "I." My husband has taught me more about love and life in the last five years than I thought my heart was capable of feeling. And, over time, my apathy has diminished and has morphed into more than "I," and what affects "ME." The choice to put others in front of our own wants and needs is not easy, but over the course of the years I have found that caring for and about others is more satisfying than satisfying my own selfish desires. Still, sometimes, the "I" in "ME," gets the better of "ME," and I slip up and do something stupid that could have easily been avoided if I just focused and mindfully thought for a moment about how "MY" actions affect "OTHERS."

A lot of this is just stepping up and taking personal responsibility for our words, actions, even our thoughts. A lot of it is just common decency. I have seen a lot of people making very disparaging comments about other religions, other points of view, other feelings and thoughts, in the aftermath of yet another senseless act in Paris this week.  Is it worth it to alienate even an acquaintance in order to be heard on an issue that we were not physically present for, or even have the capability of comprehending at the moment?  The things that motivate one person may devalue another, strip another of their dignity, of their basic human rights. How do we deal with this? How do we react? Do we cry out in outrage? Do we retaliate? Can we put ourselves in another person's shoes, even if that person has been motivated by hate, to try and understand why something that seems so senseless to some seems imperative to others? I feel that asking certain people to try and look beyond their view point is frowned upon and offense is taken almost immediately because to do so would conflict with their personal beliefs or values. And, it is hard to see what could make another person feel so much hatred, with so much intensity, that they would not only take the lives of complete strangers, but also their own. It's hard to put yourself in the place of a mother that just lost a child, or a child who just lost a father, or a friend who is now without someone they knew since childhood. It's hard because it hurts to think of losing that in our own lives, and sometimes it's easier to ignore that this exists and is real for someone else because our focus is solely on "I."

I'm not trying to get all Breakfast Club on everyone here. I am not a bleeding heart, I'm not a conservative, I'm not a liberal, I'm not a Christian, I'm not a Muslim. I'm not a Jew. I'm a human being. And, as a human, my heart hurts for humanity. It hurts for all of the senseless deaths that can not be understood right now. In Paris, and in my current personal day to day life. MY heart hurts for all of US as HUMANS. This post is not a cry for sympathy on anyone's behalf except for all of us as a whole. People are so eager to separate themselves from others, defining themselves by class, race, religion, or ideals, when we could all be making a bigger effort to connect on a human level, even in some small way. Paris is a drop in the bucket, and as so many people have pointed out in the last few days, there are so many deaths that we have not heard a single reported peep about because some people feel that those deaths are justified, or necessary retaliation to prove a point or stand our ground. I can't say for sure what the right or appropriate actions or answers are in this, or any one of the thousands of situations that have occurred over the course of recorded history, but it hurts to know people want to hurt others, for any reason. And, over the years, I've realized that not only is apathy a sickness, a highly contagious collective disease, but it is easily cured if our focus can remain trained on a wider focus than "I."

Aziz Ansari And I Are Basically The Same Person

 Maybe the title of this post is taking things a bit too far. Aziz Ansari and I are not long lost twins, I am not his clone, my skin is as white as the driven snow, I don't possess a penis, and I can only be funny on paper (for the most part), but still, I get him. He is hilarious in everything I have seen him in and I feel like he asks the same questions on his new show that I ask myself internally every single day.

I don't know how many of you have had the opportunity to watch Aziz Ansari's new show Master Of None, but I know how many of you should rush to your Netflix watching devices and immediately binge watch every episode. Every. Single. One. Of. You.

This is Dev. He is my hero.

I was super excited to see that he titled his show Master Of None and told my husband, "Look! His show name and my blog name are similar!!" And, my husband had to point out that they were actually the exact opposite because technically he would be a jack of all trades, and I do not have a single trade to claim.

WHATEVER, WE COULD BE BEST FRIENDS IN REAL LIFE, OK???! 

Anyway, this isn't going to be some long, poignant post about my life skills (or lack thereof), or passionate opinions, or hilarious life observations. I'm just giving a shout out to Aziz for being himself and making a living at it. And, seriously, if you haven't seen the show, do it NOW.

Here is an article for you to read about the series!

It's Either The Flu Or The Oversized Quesadilla I Ate For Dunch

Brunch is an amazing concept. I have also heard of "linner," but I like all of my midday meals to rhyme so I'm going with "dunch." Also, when you say all of the names of mealtimes in a row it sounds like a children's song. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, dunch, dinner, midnight snack... See? There's a definite ring to it and I can almost sing it in tune with The Sound Of Music soundtrack.

Anyway, it's flu season. Two nights ago one of my children exploded. This is not an exaggeration. There was puke literally on every surface within a ten foot radius of this child. I used this bout with the flu as a learning experience. I learned that I am not nurturing. In fact, I'm pretty sure using every expletive humanly imaginable while bleaching every surface in your home is the exact opposite of nurturing. My poor kid is puking her guts out and I'm in the hallway shrieking, "Oh, fuck... It got on my arm!!! Babe!!! Where is the Emergen-C?? I'm going to die!! How in the hell does puke get on the ceiling??? This place is a vomitorium!!!" It took me a minute to realize that I was being a brat so I went and apologized to my ashen face sickie and made her as comfortable as I could by handing her things to comfort her with a ten foot long pole.


Yesterday, the smell of bleach still thick in the air, she started to feel better and I realized I hadn't eaten breakfast, brunch, or lunch, but it wasn't quite dinner time. So, I made a quesadilla for dunch. It was delicious. It was also super cheesy. Mmmmm... quesadillas... And, I ate in two seconds.


Flash forward to work six hours later, and that over sized quesadilla was making the rounds in my lower intestines. I started panicking. I felt flush and I was positive I caught the flu. I was the only person who had contact with the flu juices that spewed from my child's once adorable face. She is now, in the famous words of comedian/actor Nick Kroll, forever unclean.

My skin made direct contact with her undigested after school snack. I started obsessively feeling my forehead and excused myself to the bathroom. Surely, that quesadilla was going to make a second appearance. I sat in the bathroom stall for a few minutes, and nothin'. I didn't want to leave the other waitress to do all of the work around the place so I pulled myself together, washed my hands, and started filling salt shakers and sweeping. Then, the other waitress asked me if I was ok. Big mistake, other waitress.

"I don't know. I feel sick. Do I look sick? Am I pale? Feel my forehead! Don't get near me! I need to leave!!"

She was so sweet about it and told me to just go home. Well, she was either super sweet or just wanted me to get the hell away from her. Probably the latter. But then, in an instant, my guts started feeling normal and I stopped sweating and I realized it wasn't the flu and just an ungodly amount of cheese that was making me feel icky. And then, for whatever reason, I thought this would be a good blog idea. I am realizing now that no one probably needs to read about my intestines grumbling at work and the internal paranoia I face each and every time one of my kids has yakked all over my life. But, you're welcome anyway.

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Scarred For Life: The Saga Of My Tattoo Apprenticeship

So, this week, I signed up for nail tech school. Yet another thing to add to a long list of careers I have tried, and failed at. Hopefully, this time I will not fail. I actually really can't fail because I will be up to my ears in student loans and I have to not only pay those back, but survive and feed my gaggle of small humans.


When I announced on Facebook that I would be starting this school I also mentioned that hopefully I will not cry when I screw up someone's nails like I cried when I screwed up someone's tattoos when I was apprenticing. I mean, I was learning and all, and I fully warned every willing body that donated their flesh to a (at the time) good cause, but it was still taxing and horrible when I made a mistake. I will start this blog out on a positive note, though. Below is the picture of the last tattoo I completed on my husband's leg. It is a nautilus.

The only tattoo that I only cried about ten times over and didn't turn out to look like complete dog shit.

Is dog shit one word or two? Spell check says two.

Anyway, the beginning  of my tattoo apprenticeship was rough. That's kinda putting it nicely. I started out on pigskin, which, first of all, was really weird. Pigskin is as close to human skin as it gets for practicing and every time I would go into the butcher's shop they would ask if I was making chicharrones, because that, apparently is a thing.

Chicharrones is fried pig skin fat. Otherwise known as Pork Rinds.

I was not making pork rinds, though. I was going to mutilate the dead skin of a pig for artistic purposes. Here is just the initial set up.

Not very pleasing to the eye, huh? Believe me, it was less appealing to the nose...

So, after months of practicing on pigskin and on my poor husband, I started taking willing participants a.k.a. lifelong victims. Some tattoos turned out great, some... not so much...

My husband, for instance, is scarred for life. And, not in a good way. I am showing you what no man, woman, or child will probably ever see in person ever again... My husband's poor thighs.

 This was my first tattoo on human skin!! I cried for thirty minutes.

 Bigfoot, because you know, conspiracies.

 Some weird bird that I picked out of a children's' book and thought was the perfect thing to try and permanently mark my husband's leg with. Your guess is as good as mine.

 A picture off of the cover of a Kurt Vonnegut book. In theory, this would have been a kick ass tattoo.

And, of course, who can live their life properly without a narwhal tattoo?? I know I sure can't and maybe that's why things have gone so wrong. I'm making my appointment today.

So, I guess the whole point of this thing is that maybe nail tech school is safer than apprenticing to do tattoos. I mean, if I screw up a nail, I can remove it with acetone. If you screw up a tattoo, that shit lasts forever. And, believe me, acetone does not remove a tattoo... Even if you think really positive thoughts about it.

More tattoo fails for you to peruse at your leisure!! 

I Am A Pacifist But I'm Going To Beat The S*%t Out Of My Hot Water Heater

The hot water heater should be named something else. Like, "The Bane Of My Existence," or, "The Icy Tundra From Which No Hot Water Will Ever Be Known To Any Showering Man, Woman, Or Child," or, "I Am He Who Enjoys Torturing And Taunting A Household Full Of People Who Have Places To Fucking Be!!!!!"

Every morning for a month I have had a cold shower. I'm not sure if I should punch the hot water heater itself, or the pilot light in the face, but something is getting punched today. Hard. I do not condone violence. I have succumbed to violence in the past and it is no good. It will ruin your life unless you change your ways, but just this one last time, let's all band together and murder my hot water heater real quick. And then, we can all hold hands, sing Kumbaya, and eat juniper berries under the light of a full moon.

REDRUM.

Also, my poor husband, who is normally the pilot light lighter, is at work and has to deal with my incessant phone calls, needing him to walk me through every damn step of how to relight this stupid thing, and I'm sure the poor guy needs a break. Murder the hot water heater for my poor husband. Really, when you think about it, it's for charity. My husband doesn't like when I get frustrated about things like hot water heaters, modems, or cables that go to god knows where. It's just not fair to him. I am not a very mechanically/technically/technologically/life skills inclined person, and he has to suffer from the wrath that follows the pilot light deciding to blow itself out every day. 

 

Also, the shower is the only place to escape the fighting children in the morning. I DON'T CARE WHO EATS THE LAST OF THE LUCKY CHARMS. GO. TO. SCHOOL. ALREADY. So, on top of the constant fighting and bickering, I get a cold shower. It's like fighting with four deaf-mutes (because what incentive do the kids have to listen to me other than constant candy bribes and everything else their little hearts desire???) WHILE taking a butt-ass cold shower. 

So, unless you are a sadist, you will hammer this piece of crap to the ground with me. Who's on board??? 

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MmmmMmMM BbbBbrrRaAaaiiiNnnsSss... And Other Pinteresty Things

I love Pinterest. I also hate Pinterest. I mostly hate Pinterest.

Every time I decide to take a peek at things on this wondrous and seemingly endless website, full to the brim with bright ideas and picturesque baked goods, I think, "I could make that noooo problem!!!" Wrong. I will equate my cake baking abilities to someone who looks at an all you can eat buffet and thinks, "I can eat all of this!!" Wrong. You'll eat nine pieces of bacon, fourteen stuffed mushrooms, a two cup serving of mac and cheese, and you'll be full. My eyes are bigger than my stomach when it comes to Pinterest.

Awhile back I decided I was going to make a candy forest cake. I'm not sure where I even got the idea from, but it was probably that seductive little bitch Pinterest who put the idea in my head. The cake I had envisioned was supposed to be like a beautiful candy forest, full of fun twisty paths and intrigue. The cakes below are not exactly what I had in my head, but they are still better than what the end result was.

 Super cute!! Totally doable!!

Wow!! Love it!! This is what my cake will look like EXACTLY!!

Damn it.

Yup. That last one was mine. Behold it's jumbled glory!! I would post pictures of my other Pinterest fails, but I can't now because once you throw a cake at a wall out of sheer unadulterated white hot hate and defeat, snapping a pic for all of posterity is the last thing on your mind. The first thing on your mind should be anger management counseling. 

Now, this year for Halloween I decided to throw a party. A real party with balloons, and cake and dancing and a ton of kids. And, of course, all of my friends on Facebook are super awesome crafty people who post pictures of their amazing wares, and I thought to myself, "Psssh... I can totally make a Halloween cake!!!" Someone shared a Pinterest picture of the Brain Cake and I knew it had to be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine. 

This was the picture I saw. 

This was my final product. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself, considering the last cake looked like someone vomited lollipops all over a dead cat.

My husband only had to calm me down twice throughout the process and stop me from crying on the red velvet interior so everyone could actually enjoy eating it and not have to worry about my usual, personal secret saline and simple syrup recipe when things don't turn out the way I think they might. 

So, yay for me!! But, I have to share one friend's masterpiece baking adventures really quick before I go because I think they are more share worthy than a fondant brain. Amber Morgenstein from California made these with her bare hands!!! They are beautiful and as soon as I win the lottery I will force her to be my baking slave so I can eat cake in the shape of whatever I'm feeling like for the day. I still want that armadillo from Steel Magnolious some day...

 Cupcakes made with broken (candy) glass!!! 

 Broken glass cupcake tower!!

 I can't stop marveling at her broken glass candy... I might have a problem. And diabetes.

And, finally, this simple and beautiful Halloween cake!!! She is amazing and if any of you millionaires out there try to steal her as your own personal baker, this...means... WAR.

Hope everyone out there had an amazing Halloween and got to steal tons of their kids' candy!!! I know I jacked about seven Reeses Peanut Butter Pumpkins last night. 

OoooOoOooOohhHhhhhH... Scaaary...