A Public Service Announcement for Hamsters and Hypochondriacs

I was happily painting my toe-nails and reading my Oprah magazine when I realized that I need more testosterone.

(Ha.  That would be a very funny statement coming from a guy, wouldn’t it?)

I am not a guy.

As a self-diagnosed hypochondriac, I often discover that I need new treatment for my heretofore undiagnosed diseases that my lazy doctors are unable to cure.  So, it was with great delight that I read an article in Oprah that identified all of my current symptoms (plus or minus 3 or 4) and the underlying cause – low testosterone.

I informed my hair stylist of this revelation.  My hair stylist is suffering from the same exact symptoms.  He is a guy.  A gay guy.  He thinks I may be on to something.

My husband thinks that I am off of something – my rocker.

Here are the symptoms – just in case you are interested in diagnosing yourself:  depression, severe lack of energy, inability to focus, blah, blah, blah.  See?!!!!  You need more testosterone, too.

Wait a second.

I’m watching David Letterman, and he says I’m a hamster, and that’s why I’m depressed.

No, he’s a hamster.

No – hamsters that were exposed to late night television showed brain activity that resembles depression.

I wonder who the hamsters were watching.

See?!!!  Inability to focus.  Classic symptom of low testosterone levels.

If you are a hamster, and you are reading this – get thee to a testosterone testing technician immediately.  You need your energy for running on that wheel.

If you are a person, and you are reading this – get thee to a psychiatrist.

I’ll meet you there.

This hamster needs an intervention.
photo credit: http://www.thehipstermom.com

 

Do You Have a Bucket I Can Borrow?

Holy Sith!  I am 3 posts away from my big Blogiversary.  How did this happen?  How did time go by so suddenly?

How do I not have a Big Party planned?

I had every intention of doing something totally wild.  Completely different.  Now, here I am with no plans, no ideas, and no creativity left in my body after nearly one whole year of blogging every single day.

And, to top all of that off, I have completed absolutely nothing on my blogging bucket list.  I still don’t have buzzillion subscribers, no publisher or agent has offered me a contract, AND MY DOG STILL PEES IN THE HOUSE!  I have not made one ounce of progress in 362 days.  And I doubt things will change in the next 3.

On the other hand, I accomplished plenty of things that were not on my list.

• My professional blog, which I do not promote at all in the blogosphere, had more hits each day of last week than this one.  I did not post at all on my professional blog last week.  Not once.  And people still read it more than this one.  Yep.  That stings.
• My bulldog, Wonderbutt, has learned how to text.  It’s quite phenomenal, but David Letterman still has not invited either one of us to appear on “Stupid Pet Tricks”.  Big mistake, Letterman.  We’re talking goldmine, Baby.
• If I yell, “Cap’n Firepants!” in the house, my husband will know that I am talking to him.  And, come running.  Because he does not want to be negatively reflected on my blog.  I’m sure he is wishing now that we had drawn up a Pre-Nuptial Agreement that specifically forbade me to blog.  And denied me a driver’s license.  He hates my driving.  Worse than my blogging.  He would happily change the name on his driver’s license to Mr. Cap’n Firepants if I promised to never drive again.  Maybe.
• My daughter, Dimples, yells, “And you can’t put that on your blog,” immediately after she does anything that might be perceived as embarrassing.  I tell her, “That wasn’t in our Pre-Natal Agreement.”  She doesn’t know what the heck I’m talking about.  Which is actually not a new problem, unfortunately.
• I figured out where Malawi is, because I have exactly one reader there.  Moni, Amayi.  That is supposed to mean, “Hello, Madam” in Malawi.  I think.  If it means something crude, I apologize.
• I am mad at David Sedaris.  At a local appearance, he told an audience member who asked for advice on becoming a writer, “Write every day.”  I now realize that this does, indeed, make me a writer.  But NOT A PAID ONE.  I think that was implied in the question, Mr. Sedaris.  I mean, I know you’re probably sick of that question, and you don’t want to give away any major secrets, but I think you could give us a bit more direction than that.  Sheesh. That would be like someone asking me, “What should I do to become a teacher?”, and me saying, “Teach your dog how to text.”  No, that’s a bad analogy.  BECAUSE YOU WOULD MAKE MONEY IF YOU TAUGHT YOUR DOG TO TEXT!!!!

So, now that I have spent a year filling the wrong dang bucket, I guess I need to decide if I am going to dump it out and start over – or just look for a new bucket.  Or just put the bucket over my head and bang it against the wall.  Yeah, that sounds good.

My original bucket. Getting filled.
photo credit: Simczuk via photo pin cc

Oh, the Inanity!

I hate this. I had every intention of typing a typically inane blog full of sarcastic comments, and all that wants to come out on my keyboard are silly sentiments about courage and civil rights.

I just watched the movie, The Help, and now I’m watching Stephen Colbert (need to stop doing that while I’m actually trying to write) and he’s interviewing Gloria Steinem. I feel very small.

This internal conflict is putting me in a funk as I consider my non-heroic life, so I have switched to David Letterman, on which he is showing stupid human tricks, which makes me think about stupid pet tricks, leading me to wonder if my bulldog’s Stevie Wonder routine would qualify.

Before I could embark on this hopeful digression, though, my Help/Steinem inspired conscience kicks out the question of the political correctness of comparing my bulldog’s odd behavior to a blind, African-American singer.

I like to think I’m not racist or biased against people with special abilities, but what if I’m one of those people who has absolutely no self-awareness?

So I am watching my bulldog like a hawk, hoping that he will do something less fraught with controversy that I can post to prove that I am a very tolerant person. Being a bulldog, he is stubbornly refusing to perform a Lady Gaga routine, choosing instead to snore on the couch.

The golden retriever is no help either. She is much too mature to perform any stupid pet tricks, and barely tolerates the ones that the bulldog displays.

Apparently I am going about this whole blogging thing wrong, trying to watch T.V. as I write, and attempting to compose something meaningless right on the heels of watching something with meaning. I need to watch a Seinfeld episode and start over again.