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Actually, We Don’t Read Any Books for Our “Book Club” Either

Our bulldog, Wonderbutt, seemed a bit miffed last night when I squeezed out the front door without him on my way to my monthly Book Club meeting.  My suspicions were confirmed when he texted me in the middle of my dinner.

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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

November’s Dead Rubber Post

“Dead Rubber”, according to one of my marathon googling sessions, means “boring”.  My “Dead Rubber Posts” are my monthly blog cop outs.  I give myself permission once a month to publish a post that isn’t up to my usual stellar standards.  Some of you might not recognize any difference between these and my other posts (which is a sad commentary on the hours I usually take to polish them before hitting the “Publish” button); nevertheless, I feel I should be up front when I’ve spent less time composing a post than I did addressing an envelope to my mortgage company.  

I was trying to postpone my Dead Rubber post until later in the month, but I went to see David Sedaris tonight and it’s a “school night”.  He did recommend to an aspiring writer in the audience to “write every day”, neglecting to say how much.  I am pretty sure he meant more than the “Great job!” I scribed on my student’s papers this afternoon.

I have decided to start gathering unusual obituary statements.  I did not set out to collect these.  But they keep appearing to me.  It’s not that I even usually read the obituaries.    Every once in awhile, I run out of Sunday paper to read during the week.  And, as I gulp down my breakfast at 5:30 a.m. I must read something.  So I skim the obituaries.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the prominently displayed obituary headline, “She was skilled at Bunco.”  I’m not sure about you, but to me that seemed an odd way to immortalize someone.  But certainly not the oddest.

Today, I chanced upon an even stranger sentence buried deep within an obituary of a woman who “supported live music, the arts community, and hula-hooping.”  In addition to these worthy pursuits, this woman “held a great appreciation for port-a-potties.”

Please don’t let someone put that in my obituary.  Because I don’t.  And never will.  Ever.  Appreciate. Port-a-Potties.  I don’t care if I just drank two gallons of Diet Coke and I’m in the middle of a treeless, building-less prairie being filmed on a reality show and it rains for two days straight.

Now that we’ve got that cleared up, does anyone else but me wonder what her coffin looked like?

Nope. You can't change my mind.

This is Becoming a Pain in the Butt

I did something truly frightening and scheduled a colonoscopy for myself on Halloween.  In retrospect, that wasn’t my best plan ever.  But Fate saved me from myself once again, and my doctor’s office called to reschedule because, apparently, the doctor’s husband is having surgery on that date.

I am not going to go into the details of the domino effect of this schedule change.  Being a teacher of gifted students at two different schools, I had to personally notify at least 500 people when I cancelled class for next Monday.  My students thought I was taking a day off for Halloween.  I didn’t take off for my own birthday, but I’m going to relax at home on Halloween?  If I was going to let that day effect my teaching schedule, I would go for the day after Halloween – when the kids are so sugared up from all of the candy they ate, and so exhausted from trick or treating that they are extra diligent about misbehaving, and drop their heads on the desk as soon as you ask them to expend some energy on anything that requires thought.

Anyway, my doctors’s office decided to reschedule me for next Wednesday.  After I dutifully marked that on my calendar and hung up, I contemplated the nightmare I had just agreed to.

I had just finished emailing all of the teachers about next week’s schedule change, and let Transportation know so they could get a different driver because the current bus driver has already scheduled his life around me once and refuses to do it again.  Now I was going to have to tell everyone that I was just jerking their chains. I really meant to cancel class next Wednesday.

And, let’s be logical about this.  If the doctor’s husband is having surgery on Monday, and something goes wrong, is my doctor going to be in any shape to be doing the sensitive things they do during such procedures?  What if the husband stops breathing during his mystery operation and everyone panics and the nurse drops a scalpel, and someone steps on it and slips, hitting the anesthesia guy in the crotch and then all Hell breaks loose?  Do I really want the doctor to be working on me a mere two days after this traumatic experience?  I think not.

Of course, rescheduling would mean I would have to call the office back again.  So, I need to weigh the likelihood of my doctor going off the deep end due to her husband’s brush with death against the likelihood of me talking to a real live person who can help me before I stab myself with the butter knife after being forced to listen to scratchy elevator music for fifteen minutes. This is not Dr. Jimmy’s office where humans pick up the phone after one ring and magically pull convenient-for-my-calendar appointments out of their uncolonoscopied rears.

Then I looked at my calendar more closely.  What?  OK – hide the butter knives.  Time to call the doctor’s office.  I could handle re-notifying 500 people rather than calling back to re-re-schedule,  but there was another event on the calendar that I could not cancel and I sure as heck didn’t plan to attend loopy on anesthesia with an aching butt.

David Sedaris is coming to town.  That man’s writings – and his readings of his writings – makes life worth living, and I am not going to miss his humor injection for a dang colonoscopy that will probably result in my doctor officially declaring me a hypochondriac once and for all.

So, I called the office again.  And, you have rightly deduced that I did not stab myself.  The colonoscopy is rescheduled.  I will be able to enjoy David Sedaris with my full faculties intact.  At least the ones that are usually present.

I haven’t told the 500 people yet.  I’m thinking of keeping things quiet.  After all, it might not be so bad to have the day off on Halloween.

Not sure if this is the best place for me to display this message, but thanks for the pic cafepress.com!

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