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Posts Tagged ‘humor’

Today I launch my Three Damn Things list for the Type-A personality. TDT is designed for the Type-A person trapped in a Type-B body. Or, put another way, the right-brained person trapped in a left-brained head.

You want to create, but you can’t with so much internal noise, the frustration of letting things go unchecked. If only the voices would stop yelling at you to fix this, call on that, sew this, trim that. The voice is shrill and always will be to the creative Type-A type.

This isn’t about basic life things that need accomplished. I’m talking about the things we can put off for later. And later never comes. If your car is due for an oil change, what’s another thousand miles going to hurt? If you haven’t balanced your checkbook in seventeen months, what’s another month going to hurt? You’ve been meaning to fight that erroneous medical charge, but fighting anything is unpleasant. Put it off. Besides, it’s extra. Extra as in I don’t have to do it and nobody will ever know.

We pretend we don’t care about the clutter that is growing like mold on a shower curtain. We pretend we don’t see the actual mold on the shower curtain. “The new me,” you say (the one who is pretending to be someone they’re not) “is blind to all that. I don’t care. I’m going to finish this novel if it kills me.”

And killing you, it is. BECAUSE YOU CAN’T LIVE LIKE THAT.  It isn’t you. That lifestyle doesn’t fit your personality type. Trust me; I know. You will remain preoccupied with whatever it is you are neglecting. The bigger the neglect (only Type-A would consider something like not color-coding her closet as neglect), the more apt you are to writer’s block. And neglecting your writing to take care of the internal nag doesn’t work either because now it’s your writing that’s nagging at you. It’s a vicious, never-ending cycle, and you need to do something about it, damnit.

When I hear about writers landing an agent eight months after they started the novel, I die a little inside. They are clearly Type B and right-brained all the way. They can write like there’s nothing else to do (I bet their CDs and DVDs aren’t even in alphabetical order). And the Type-A, right-brained can only write when there is nothing else to do.

Don’t take it anymore! Damn it.

Why “damn”? Because I’m fed up, damnit. Writing a to-do list is all fine and great and everything but most of what I put on mine are really just reminders of stuff I have to do and therefore unlikely to put off: scoop litter box, empty dishwasher, pay bills, etc. It’s the extra stuff that put me at my breaking point—damnit—and it’s messing with my creative flow. When I have too much stuff piling on, I can’t think around all the clutter. I can’t write. I can’t blog. I can’t move forward. I’m stuck in the quicksand of life, damnit.

Today. And every day from this one, I will do three things on my backlog. I have to be strategic. Photo albums will take all day so I will list it with two very small things like pull the six-foot-tall weed and find my glasses that I misplaced months ago. I use dime-store reading glasses as a replacement, but these are prescription, and I paid good money for them, damnit (I am fully aware that by searching for my glasses I will find many other neglected piles in my house. I don’t care. I’m ready, with my pen and pad to add those to my list too, damnit).

I can’t wait to wear all my clothes that needed ironed or needed a button. I can’t wait to see my hallway lined with my kids’ school pics from pre-k to current. I can’t wait to make that recipe that’s been glaring at me from a fridge magnet for, I kid you not, fifteen months. But just knowing I’m back in control will silence the internal nagging so I can focus more on my writing. Damnit.

What personality type do you think you are? Do you have any damn things nagging at you?

 

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I figure you’ve thought I’ve fallen off the face of the earth by now, that I’ve given up blogging and didn’t tell anyone, that maybe something bad has happened to me considering my November post about my October. But none of the above is the reason for my absence. Silly you for letting your imagination run away with you. No. The real reason is I was abducted by aliens and I have been rejected returned.

Well, how else do you explain an unexplained absence? I wake up every day and say, “Where have I been and what have I been doing?”

There is evidence I’ve been gone. Just today I opened the fridge and noticed stuff. Bad stuff. I popped open lids to hairy, unidentifiable things. The only thing remotely familiar was the sweet potato dish leftover from Christmas. Or was it Thanksgiving? (At least my Christmas stuff is put away. Yes, I’m talking to you my next door neighbors who still have their Halloween décor in their yard. [maybe they were abducted by aliens, too]}.

My paper stacks are piled higher. My house is in disarray, as with my hair, my yard is unkempt, as with my hair, and my bills are unpaid.  See?

What?  I. Am. Not. Always. This. Way.  Not even a little bit. Well, maybe a little bit. Maybe a lot. Ok, damnit, I’ve been slipping. Ok?

And I’m not taking it anymore. Today, I’ve turned a new leaf. No more Missy nice gal. I’m doing something different and it’s called Three Damn Things. But not just any things. These are things things. Things that will change my life and make me a better person. But because I’m still recovering from scary refrigerator *things (*things that are bad and unmentionable and not to be confused with Three Damn Things), I will have to continue this post tomorrow. Let’s just hope aliens don’t abduct me before you learn important life lessons.

Until then …

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My parents find all the good signs. And then they send them to me to exploit on my blog. But I’ll leave this one to my readers. I don’t think I can do it justice.

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

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So there I was braless in my front yard minding my own business killing things—black widows—with my deadly saber weapon—broomstick—when all of a sudden a Mexican man in a pick-up truck pulled up and got out and approached me, braless me, and began waving his arms and speaking a mix of English and Spanish—Spanglish.

And this is what I saw/heard. You … pear … (hand mimes what looks like a round shape, not hourglass but round, I tell you) … no good … too big.

Perceptive as he may be regarding my body shape, insulting a woman holding a deadly weapon is not a bright person. I may have poked him with my sword (it’s a sword now) had I not been so busy pondering his reasons for needing to bring it to my attention. Possibly he thought I was blind and was doing me a favor. Ah, thanks. Good to know. I’ll get right on it. Or, he’s from PETS (people for ethical treatment of spiders) and was trying to dissuade me from further massacre. Or, simply a community service message.

Then, as I was about to bring down my iron hot poker upon his head, it occurred to me he was offering to trim my Bradford Pear tree. He cruised the neighborhoods looking for folks outside and would stop to offer his services. He almost died for trying.

You said I'm a what?

If this post has a familiar ring it’s because I kind of do this kind of thing a lot, you know, adding fantastical elements to a very dull happening, and way outside the realm of logic and reason. You’d think I’d learned my lesson since my last publicly-admitted blunder in Believable Characters  (notice I say “publicly admitted. Imagine what I keep private).

If I read the above scene in a book—sans the part where she comes to her senses—I’d say, “Bah.” So why, why, why, did I believe it could happen in real life? (because it’s happening to me, that’s why)

Moral of today’s story: Keep it real, baby. Keep it real. (unless you’re writing fantasy, then you can do that.)

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I know from my last post you might be a little concerned that a 30 “family” pack of Bud is in poor taste.

from my last post Photo: courtesy of my mom

And it is. See not everyone has a large family. Take mine for instance. Since my oldest moved out, it is just my husband, my little one, and me. There must have been many small families, like mine, who called in to voice their complaint. And they listened. Because now they have a 12 “family” pack for just $999.

Small Family Deal (photo: courtesy of my mom)

Yes, folks, you don’t need a second mortgage to afford a 12 pack. You see, $83.25 per beer is a lot more doable than $1999 for 30 beers (though, there is a cost savings with this number at $66.63 per beer). I know we have a growing child, but 30 beers is excessive. We don’t want to be show offs

While I applaud their efforts at customer satisfaction by offering less product for more money, I still think we small families get the shaft. But hey, the price of gas has gone down. Maybe it’s all connected.

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In tough financial times, we all need to shop strategically, scan the sale ads, and keep an eagle eye out for super deals. My mom has such an eagle eye, because here, at this place they got gas in Oklahoma, you can get a “family” pack of Bud for cheap. Now parents don’t have to hog all the booze themselves, not with the family pack deal. Heck, maybe next week they can get a family case of Marlboros.

Photo: courtesy of my mom

P.S. When I showed this pic to my husband, all that really caught his eye was the cheap price of gas. Men.

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I am not a techie IT girl. I have a cell phone made before last month (collective gasp). Actually I bought it about 10 years ago. I does nothing but make and receive calls (more gasping). The lid is broken and can’t be flipped to make a call but gingerly opened, nurturing that last hinge. It’s a pay as you go. And I can’t take a picture with it. The cell phone before that was called a car phone and was the size of a loaf of bread.

I still read books that have a cover and can be used as a lamp stand afterwards. I’ve seen those computer books from a distance, and I wonder what it’s like to finish and not put it up on the book shelf like a trophy.

                           

My laptop is in worse health than my cell phone. To get it to work, you have to jimmy the cord until you get a connection then hold it there without moving or breathing until it feels a shift in the rotational orbit of the earth around the sun and then it dies right there. It must charge that way and then you have to unplug the cord and work on the dimly charged battery that lasts around 15 minutes.

I can’t afford a replacement and wouldn’t know how to buy a new one if I had the means. Technology moves too fast for me and laptops do things now that would require a PhD to master.

I write this from my desktop. A very old desktop.

It does things I know it to do. It also does things I don’t know it to do, which is more than I know, which is very little. So needless to say when I go on vacation these days, I am somewhat cut off from the world. No Blackberry, no lap top, nada, nothing, zilch.

I got back Tuesday evening and am still catching up.

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From the mouth of Ron White: “You can’t fix ugly.” No truer words were ever said.

Every day I wake up to a new invented hairstyle. Never a dull moment surrounding my head—inside as well, but that’s self-evident if you’ve been hanging around my blog for longer than, say, one post.

Sometimes I can get so discouraged with my hair that I take comfort in the sight of uglier people. It’s been a while since I’ve sunk so low as to visit uglypeople.com. I had no idea it turned into a porn sight. What a letdown. So I did what any self-disrespecting ugly-haired seeker of the unsightly would do. I sought consolation in viewing ugly animals.

I’m not as much of an animal lover as I previously thought. Because the winner of world’s ugliest dog contest is so ugly that if I came across it unexpectedly, I would probably kill it in a knee-jerk reaction.

2011 winner

I think it might be uglier than the three-time winner of the world’s ugliest dog—who, had it not died in 2005, would likely be a nine-time winner. I know this is all very mean for me to admit publicly, and I might regret it later, but for right now, I just had to get my feelings off my chest.

(Note: two hours have passed and I still do not regret ugly-dog bashing.)

I’ve got to ask: Could you love something that ugly? And does comparing your looks to that of an ugly dog count as esteem building?

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There’s a debate going on over at Fear of Writing on avatars and monikers. Of course I instigated. And of course I sang the post. Yes, there’s a sing-along. Never a dull moment. I’d love your comments over there. And here too. You can sing your comments, if you wish.  

Speaking of cats, there is a kitten that I need. NEED, I tell you. My life won’t be complete until I have it. Someone get it for me. http://healthypets.mercola.com/sites/healthypets/archive/2011/06/10/mini-kitten-pats-things.aspx

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I once read in a magazine a tip from an author on successful writing. All I remember of her tips is this: Dress for success. Dress like you care. 

I serious

She went on to say she had been writing in her sweats and jammies, not even brushing her hair, looking like something the cat dragged in (so?). Then a friend suggested she clean herself up and take her job seriously and it would reflect in her writing. She did and her writing improved along with her self-esteem.

Okay, I said to me, I’ll put it to the test. I took a shower, blow-dried my hair—styled it, even—painted my nails, wore slacks and a blouse—bra included—and a pair of low-heeled shoes.

I’ll be the first to attest that this “friend’s” advice is a load of BS. Not only did all that cut into my writing time, but I was extremely uncomfortable, hyper-focusing on my bra and shoes and not on writing. The wispy feather-strands of my hair were tickling my face, my arms were restricted in the long sleeves of my blouse, my slacks were digging into my gut, and the smell of nail lacquer was making me sick.

This friend was no friend, and this author was crazy. I mean, who does that???? (If you do, confess right here. I won’t bite. To each his/her own, right? Whatever works for you is cool with me. Nothing wrong with that. *OTHER THAN IT’S WRONG!! *the author of this post is kidding and is not passing judgment on your writing attire.)

So head on over to wordsxo, where you’ll find me, trendsetter that I am, exposed in my professional writing garb.  There, you’ll be treated to what not to wear when writing. Since she’ll be asking you what’s the most bizarre outfit you’ve ever written in, I’ll conclude by asking something more personal: What are you wearing right now? (sounds kinky)

Also, you’ll notice that Milli (check out her blog on pjs) refers to my old Twitter name of IQOkie. It is now under my regular name of Tricia_Sutton. She is aware of it but in denial. She loves the old name and followed me because of it. I side with Milli, but I took advice from a social media expert (much like the “friend” mentioned above) and changed it to my name. Tell me, should I change it back or keep my name?

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