I’m Still Alive

No disasters have struck.  I have not broken anything.  My medication seems to be working.  Wonderbutt is still annoying but adorable.

I am not posting here regularly right now for two reasons:

1.) because my teaching blog has suddenly taken off, and that has led to some other writing opportunities – some of which I am actually being paid for

and

b.) because Wonderbutt’s antics have been unblogworthy lately.

I know all of my readers have been on the edge of your seats, wondering if you need to call 911 or check the obituaries.  Don’t worry.  It’s not time to plan my flash-mob funeral, yet.

I’m The Only Person Who Actually LOSES Money By Writing a Blog

I was deeply engrossed in typing a thought-provoking post for my teaching blog yesterday with my faithful bulldog, Wonderbutt, happily chewing on one of his many bones a few feet away from me.  After about 30 minutes of peace, my daughter walked into the room, and screeched.  I jumped and reluctantly dragged myself away from a passionate sentence I was in the middle of writing.  When I followed the direction of Dimples’ horrified gaze, I saw Wonderbutt exactly where he had been the entire time.  His leg was covered in blood and there was a sea of red on the floor surrounding him.

I leapt out of the chair, and ran to him, horrified at the pain he must be in (as well as the thought of more veterinary bills) – only to discover that he was chewing on the cap of a red marker.  The marker, itself, had apparently already been ingested.  It was evident from the appearance of Wonderbutt’s leg and the carpeting, though, that none of the ink actually made it into his stomach.

I didn’t yell at him.  I was too mad at myself for being oblivious while he painstakingly set about destroying yet another square yard of our carpeting 3 feet from where I was sitting.

I got my revenge, however, when I dragged out our portable carpet cleaner, and hit the button for it to do its automated scrubbing. Wonderbutt was confused by the noisy interloper, and slowly approached the menace.  Just as he got close, the SpotBot finished its cycle, and started beeping, nearly creating a bulldog pancake on our popcorn ceiling.

Note to self:  when cleaning the carpet with a loud, unpredictable machine, remove Wonderbutt from the vicinity.  A frightened Wonderbutt tends to create even more spots on the carpet.

Momma Didn’t Raise No Pencil Pusher

We were home about 5 minutes tonight when I heard the unmistakable sound of Wonderbutt chewing on something that was splintering way too fast.  I grabbed my phone and caught him in the act.

 

So, what do you think he was trying to tell me with this act of rebellion?

A.  How is this different from my dog food? They both taste like sawdust.

2.  I hate people who spend time writing their blog instead of paying attention to me.

III.  I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box but that doesn’t really matter now, does it?

Four.  I’m going to make this #2 live up to its name.

Wonderbutt Gets Ready for Halloween

What does it mean if you promise yourself to blog regularly to hone your writing skills, and then you skip the writing part of the process?  It means Wonderbutt kindly presented some blurry photos right when your week hit its busy peak…

Dimples gives Wonderbutt instructions on choosing decorations from our Halloween storage box.

 

Wonderbutt “chooses” an appropriate holiday adornment for the family room. Of course, he is planning for it to adorn his stomach…

 

Wonderbutt decides that the selection process is much easier if he gets in the box himself.

 

Then Dimples tried to put a Halloween headband on him, and that was the end of Wonderbutt pretending to be helpful.

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe Your Husband Just Needs a Good Plunge

I must admit when I started blogging that I never would have predicted the paths that would lead to my site…

Well, I might have predicted the “rubber room” one…

 

 

I Know EXACTLY How Miley Cyrus Feels

So, you know how you’re looking for your wedding rings in your dog’s poop pen, and you’re thinking, “Gosh, I hope I find them!”  But then you’re also thinking, “Gosh, I hope I don’t.”  Not only because of the grossness factor, but also because finding them in there means that you were dumb enough to set them down somewhere that your bulldog, Wonderbutt, would eat them, which means you are losing it even more than usual, and also because of the medical implications it might have for Wonderbutt after ingesting a solitaire cut diamond ring which could technically etch glass so probably did not slide through his intestines without causing some kind of damage that would require you to finance the yacht your veterinarian has had his eye on ever since you brought Wonderbutt in for his first checkup.

And then you think how you can blame your husband for the loss of such rings by saying, “Well, this wouldn’t have happened if you would hire a maid like I asked – or at least invest in a water softener.”  Because you wouldn’t have to take off your rings so often if you didn’t have to spend all of your time cleaning the toilet with Lime Away.  And then you remember that you’ve been meaning to Google Lime Away to see if it damages rings or just makes them look cleaner, too.

While in the midst of the Lime Away Google, you get somewhat sidetracked, and learn that Miley Cyrus recently suffered from a bad case of twerking, which, of course, compels you to learn what twerking is in case you need to add it to one of your Pathophobic Pinterest boards and then you wonder how you have gone this long without noticing that twerking is a thing, but it is not a disease or even a symptom of one.  And, speaking of being oblivious about stuff,  you wonder how long it would take your husband to notice you aren’t wearing the rings because it’s already been three days and he hasn’t said anything.  And you resolve to make this into a psychological experiment as well as a metaphor for your marriage.  But then you blurt it out during dinner that you can’t find them because you suck at keeping secrets and, besides, your husband is the Finder in the family – as long as the thing you are trying to find is not a place on a map.

And he gets worried, and you remind him of all of the other things you’ve lost that eventually turned up and even the things other people have lost that eventually turned up – like the wedding band that was wrapped around a carrot.  And that does not really comfort him for some reason.  Mostly because he has been trying to grow carrots in your backyard ever since you moved into this house, and the squirrels keep eating them.

And because your husband is not really full of sympathy, you seek comfort in typing your frustrations into a blog post on your computer, and you glance down at the floor when you can’t think of anythingelse2say.

And. You. See. Your. Rings.

And you pick them up and do the best twerking exhibition ever – with only Wonderbutt there to appreciate your rhythmic perfection.

And he doesn’t.

 

You’re Either Part of the Problem or All of the Problem or You Could Be the Solution. Or a Chemical Mixture. I Never Really Understood Science. Or Math.

So, it’s finally come to this – a bittersweet day on which I have decided to make a confession of a deep, dark secret that I’ve been hiding for months.

I decided to “come out” finally as a service to my readers who may be experiencing this same issue.  It helps to know that you’re not alone. At least, it helps if you’re selfish like me and are comforted by the fact that others are suffering along with you.  And if there are no readers experiencing this same issue, then I guess I am alone.  And that kind of bites, but oh well.  I’m sure you have your own ways of suffering.

So, here’s the thing.  I now have over 1000 subscribers.  Woohoo.  I mean, awesome, right?  

But less people read my blog per day now than they did a month after I started.  Two years ago.  A lot less.

Basically, let’s say I used to have 30 or 40 daily readers out of every 50 subscribers.  

Now I still have about 30 or 40 readers.

Okay, so, somehow I managed to miss having to take Statistics in college, but I’m pretty sure that a graph of my numbers would look equivalent to one reflecting the success of Lindsay Lohan’s career over the last decade.

And I have way more fun and talent than Lindsay Lohan, so that hardly seems like a fair comparison.

Upon reflection, I’ve decided that the reason for this preposterous report of my readership could have one of the following causes:

Uno.)  99% of my blog subscribers are spammers who don’t actually read anyone’s blog, but apparently make tons of money off of pretending they do.

B.)  Jon Stewart is screwing up my blog stats on purpose so I will spend less time blogging and more time stalking writing love letters to him.

III.) WordPress hates me.

Four.)  People read one post, and think that I am fabulous, then realize that my writing sucks and stop reading.  But they are too lazy to unsubscribe.  

Quintuplets.)  The only people who are able to stumble across my blog are the ones who search for it by typing in, “my pants won the spelling bee?”  And, let’s face it, usually the shoes win the spelling bee, not the pants.

Obviously it’s B.

Now I have to think of a solution.  Certainly, I cannot allow Jon Stewart to completely change my life – unless there is some kind of financial profit involved on my part.  In the meantime, I must keep blogging, if only to prove that I can persevere through these difficult and trying times of unsatisfactory blog statistics.

If Jon Stewart is deliberately tanking your statistics, too, then I suggest you look to me as a role model and follow my lead in this.  Don’t stop blogging.  And don’t devote any more time than usual to stalking sending him communications of an admiring yet somewhat admonishing-him-for-not-paying-any-attention-to-you nature.  Trust me; it doesn’t work.  

As Dory from Finding Nemo says, “Just keep blogging and stop looking at your stupid blog stats because either Jon Stewart, the NSA, or terrorists are screwing them up.” 

Or something like that.

 

 

I’m Like the Hugh Jackman of the Blogging World

So, my daughter graduates from 5th grade this week.  I won’t go into my opinion of the ridiculous lengths some schools and parents put into making the exit from elementary school (which is, after all, compulsory, so I am not sure how it qualifies as a major achievement) an event that would rival the Academy Awards.

I’m not going to talk about that because I have my own awards to acknowledge, and since I won them by working my butt off on stuff that isn’t required, (mostly because no one cares enough to require it) I figure they are far more legitimate than the congratulatory certificate my daughter will receive for completing the first phase of her mandatory education.

I should probably apologize to some of you because I think some awards may have fallen by the wayside during the last 6 months.  When my medication was not working, I had a tendency to be dismissive of awards because I thought that I didn’t really deserve to live, much less to receive an award. But now that I am back to my old self again, I realize that, of course, I deserve all accolades that are heaped upon me – and even the ones that aren’t.

According to my somewhat incredibly vivid memory, I believe Alexandra microrrelatososhortstories gave me a couple of awards awhile back:

I like these because they are pretty and aren’t on my Awards Shelf yet.  It’s nice to have a bit of variety on the Shelf.  Plus, the awarder, Alexandra, is internationally acclaimed (she started her blog in Mexico City), so I’m pretty sure I can safely claim now that my blog has gone Global.

And, a bit more recently, Monica at A Day in the Life awarded me the very interesting “Interesting” Award.  Another award that had not graced my shelf until now.  What’s even more significant about this award is that Monica is a Blogger Blogger, not a WordPress Blogger.  Which is like giving an Oscar to The Wheel of Fortune.  So now I just need to get an award from a TypePad Blogger and I’ll have a Blogging Triple Crown…

Monica’s award comes with a bunch of terms and conditions.  Usually I ignore this part of blogging awards.  I mean, does the Academy require Clint Eastwood to agree to stand on his head for twenty minutes while juggling fish with his feet and then pass his trophy on to someone else?  I think not.  But Monica is one of my number one commenters (plus, she lives in my town, so we might run into each other one day), so how can I refuse to at least answer some of her very creative questions?

• Have you ever had a hernia?  Just a his-nia.
• Scorpion bite or brown recluse bite?  Are you asking me if I had either or are you asking me which I would rather have?  Or, are you asking me what is the best way to kill the neighbor down the street who has been driving me crazy by coming home at 2:17 a.m. every night and standing outside talking loudly on his cell phone making my dog bark frantically at the person who dares to encroach upon his territory which apparently includes anywhere within hearing distance even though it’s not on our property deed?
• Scorpion song or Justin Bieber song?  Um, same answer as above?  Or can I just use the scorpion to kill Justin Bieber?  Not that I would do that…
• If you could put two pop star singers together to make a hit record (that, frankly, just frightens everyone), who would it be?  Well, since you mentioned him in your post, I must say that Barry Manilow would be Pop Star #1.  #2 would be Ozzy Osbourne.  Even though I don’t think he actually qualifies as a pop star.
• If you don’t know the answers to any of the above, what do you know?  Well, obviously, I know all.

So, thank you to Alexandra and to Monica for recognizing my awesome talent and having the sense to wait until my new medication started working to declare their admiration of my amazing blog.  Right back at ya, ladies 🙂

The Internet – Where Everybody Knows Your Name Unless You Completely Made It Up

Okay.  Don’t take this the right way.  But I’m a bit worried about some of my recent subscribers.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m thrilled to have more than 20 people following my blog.  But I’m not 100% certain you’re all people.

For example, “thebiggestonlinestorenamedafterarainforest”* does not seem to be a person’s name.  But, as there is no blog or profile to accompany this moniker, I can’t really verify that.

“Rentacar2020″* seems like an unusual, and completely unoriginal, handle, as well.  I mean, as a former BJ and the Bear fan, I’m all for living out your fantasies by changing your name in the virtual world, but I would go with “angeleyes” or “hot pants” (recommended to me by the Smokey and the Bandit CB Handle Generator; they know me so well), not a generic name like “rentacar”.  If you like automobiles so much, maybe you could try, “drivealamborghinibeforeyoudie” instead.  That’s a bit more exciting, at least.

I must admit that I was a little flattered when I saw that “macaulaysbrewpub”* had subscribed.  I thought, “How sweet!  An entire bar just committed to reading my blog.”  I pictured the cast from Cheers hanging out on their stools with iPads, and reading excerpts from my post out loud, inducing chuckles of delighted appreciation from Sam and Woody.  Carla would make some derisive comment about my farting bulldog, and Cliff would nod knowingly at my extremely astute observation that terrorists are poisoning our food and then proceed to diagnose all of my various ailments.

But then a torrent of company names began to flood my inbox, and it was a bit harder to picture “buyflourescentlightsathalfprice”* as an avid fan of my enviable writing skills, buying Norm another beer as the two shake their heads at my latest exploits with sheep eyeballs and wooden spoons.

I haven’t quite figured out the advantage that “buyflourescentlightsathalfprice”* and his cohorts gain from adding themselves to my lengthy roll of admirers, but I’m guessing that they are aliases for terror cells who want to keep track of how close I am to guessing their nefarious plans.

Or maybe I’ve got this all wrong, and the employees at Home Depot are a fan base I should really tap in to.  Wonderbutt could be a virtual saint to them for all I know.  We probably contribute at least half of the company’s annual profit with all of our trips to buy materials to fix things that darn bulldog has eaten.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, “Thanks for hitting the subscribe button, but if you aren’t a real person – or the fictional cast from Cheers – then I am perfectly fine with you latching on to someone else’s blog.  I don’t know what game you’re playing, but it’s giving me a complex that “geishasofjapan”* decided they needed to declare their love for me.  STOP FOLLOWING ME!”

Unless you’re real.  Unless you are a sane person who has excellent taste in writing and absolutely no desire to be a serial killer.  In that case, follow all you want.  But, for Pete’s sake, PICK A BETTER NAME!  Trust me, Pete will appreciate it.

*Names have been changed from the names they were changed to – mostly because I figure you shouldn’t get free publicity on my blog just for having a boring name.  Plus, I don’t want to get sued.

Norm raises his glass to me – Mrs. Cap’n Firepants – “The only woman I love more than Vera.”

This Is How People End Up On Nancy Grace

I was looking through some rough drafts I wrote last week and came across this gem that I wrote after my post on kitchen decor.  Clearly my medication had worn off at that point…

Crap. I just looked up The Four Manners of Death on the internet. Now I know someone near me is going to be murdered and I’m going to be implicated and my computer is going to be confiscated.

The detectives who hack my highly sophisticated security system (named Wonderbutt) to access my search history aren’t going to believe that I couldn’t remember that when you just die all on your own it’s called “Natural Causes” and I needed to know that so I could give the cause of death of my refrigerator.

Plus, I keep mentioning terrorists in my posts, which is sure to raise some red flags – even though I am warning you about them, not supporting them (at least not that I know of).

Oh. My. God.  I just did it again.  I was trying to find something to rhyme with “flag” because I wanted to put a little twist on that expression, and I found bag, and then I thought, “What are the bags they put dead bodies in called?”

And I SEARCHED for it.

Stupid because A. Duh, they’re called “body bags” and 2. NOW THERE IS MORE EVIDENCE AGAINST ME.

And III. I noticed some kind-of-interesting titles in the search results.  AND NOW I WANT TO GO BACK TO THAT PAGE.

So, basically, I’m going to end up on Death Row because I have a bad memory and an insatiable curiosity for weird things.

And I live in Texas, where everything is bigger – including the number of executions each year.

Would someone please take this keyboard away from me before I implicate myself into my own body bag?