365 Nights: A Memoir Of Everything But Intimacy

Theres a comment question of the day today, so slow your scroll.

I just got done reading a really shitty book so I made a video review about it. But the video is 13 minutes long, so below it I have done a paraphrased text review because I really want you to know how bad this book is before you make the same mistake I did and actually read it, even though I know that not everyone can/will sit through a 13 minute video.

PS. the video is dirtier than the book ever was or ever will be, so do not watch if you are offended by the following words:

• finger babies
• hand job
  
• pooper
• sex

plus random swears, etc.

rating:
bookshelves:	read
status:	Read in February, 2009
review:	Okay. So I understand how a promise to have sex for 365 days straight can kind of turn into other stories, and I understand that a "memoir of intimacy" does not mean a memoir OF the sex. However... The first thing that bothered me was that as she mentioned to her husband that they needed to define what "sex" was, they never clearly defined it! This is because the author shies away from actually ever mentioning sex, and in one part even mentions somet...more Okay. So I understand how a promise to have sex for 365 days straight can kind of turn into other stories, and I understand that a "memoir of intimacy" does not mean a memoir OF the sex. However... The first thing that bothered me was that as she mentioned to her husband that they needed to define what "sex" was, they never clearly defined it! This is because the author shies away from actually ever mentioning sex, and in one part even mentions something about if her family is reading this then "disregard that last part, it never happened," *casual whistling* Ultimately, it's a story about how batshit crazy narcissistic this woman is because even as she's giving her husband The Gift, she obviously loathes every minute of it and often makes mention that her husband complained that she wasnt "into it," in other words she was just lying there. What is so intimate about THAT I wonder? Because that is basically plain old "Just Sex," and there is nothing intimate about that. But the author proudly proclaims in her final chapter (which she entitled "Independence Day",) where she is now "free of the gift" that she did it, she made intimacy happen between them. No. She made sex happen between them. This was neither a memoir of intimacy nor was it a memoir of sex for a year. It was just a bunch of crap ramblings about getting old and so what if she doesn't look like a Victoria's Secret model because none of those models are having sex with their husband every night of the year so HA! This book's title was misleading, and the sex for a year was played up to be much more than it was in this book. Had it been called anything else, I'd of never read it, and I'm actually quite upset that I wasted my time on it. Really disappointing.

So comment question of the day is what do you define as sex?

As mentioned in the video, David thinks it's everything but especially if it is mutual, I think it's anything that you can get a disease from, which includes cornholing (pooper) but excludes the HJ.

My friend Steppy says that only intercourse is sex, and wouldn't even consider the smaller stuff as cheating. Then again I think he's probably just sniffing around for an HJ.

He's always after me lucky charms.

What I Love

According to Korean folklore the water that comes out of Bay Tree Springs is holy water. I'm not sure what the Koreans are talking about but the water is absolutely spectacular, I've never had better water in my life. It's a bit of a drive, it's almost to Idyllwild. Either way you have to take Highway 243, now known as the Esperanza Firefighters Memorial Highway.

That fire was back in 2006 and the curly twisted branches of the native bushes are still all blackened.

That year we had a bunch of fires here in the pass, all arson. Raymond Lee Oyler's defense attorney says it wasn't him that was setting them, they've got the wrong man, and the real arsonist is still at large...but then why did the fires stop once they arrested him?

Driving up that mountain is hell on my senses. Not only are there numerous tight curves but the road its self is all uneven so you wobble to and fro on these turns so much that you start to get carsick.

I used to live on this mountain when I was a kid, and I got carsick every day because we had to go to school down in Banning. 15 years later I still want to puke my guts out.

But that's only on the first part of the drive. Once you get up to Twin Pines the road evens out and stops corkscrewing around the boulders and jagged dynamite blasted slopes.

It's getting to be night time and the fog is rolling in. The clouds are moving so fast that you can see their movement even though we're driving 50 miles per hour through dark hallows of trees. Stuff is still scorched. There's a house missing where I remember one being. It's starting to get dark when we pass Poppet Flats road, which is basically just a downhill slope that leads down into the little bowl between the foothills of Mt. San Jacinto which we are driving through. Poppet Flats is just a dirt road community of houses and a camp ground where retirees take up permanent residence. Oak trees and dry brush...I mean it's no question why it burns so easily. We drive past Poppet Flats and we see Diamond Zen Road, where there is a neat little Zen Buddhist center. That wasn't there when I lived there but looking down the steep road you can see this big wooden picnic table shaped symbol made of wood archway that you drive through, and it makes me wonder if I could ever actually unplug and go live there for a month. It's $700 a month to live there, which is cheaper than my rent is. But I could never be a Buddhist. Nor could I see myself subscribing to live by someone else's rules, let alone paying to do that. Maybe for a day trip but living it is not for me.

But the spring is still a few miles up the highway, and now the fog is really getting thick. Suddenly you hit a point where the trees get taller and there are more evergreens. This high up you don't see any black, but you do see snow on the sides of the road. At first you just see it all brown and full of debris in what you know are just shady spots, but driving into denser fog you start to see the snow on all sides of you. I can never remember how high up it is so we just keep driving, and where the road dips you literally go under the cloud of fog and the view in front of you is clear until you go back up again and hit back into the puff of thick white. I think there are guardrails, pretty sure. In most spots there are. But I do know that there are mountain lions. I've had a few run ins.

I'm up there and we're looking for the spot. We have a big water cooler sized jug in the trunk and we are going to go fetch the holy water to make beer. The water I will drink, but the beer I will not. There is nothing about beer that I like, it's foul and horrible.

This is how we got our drinking water in Poppet Flats. The tap was a little off for our tastes so we drank from the spring, which would require a trip every few weeks to go fill up again. Sometimes there were so many cars parked around this holy water spring that you'd have to go wait in a turn out for a few minutes and hope that some cars had left by the time you decided to turn back around. Everyone loves this water. Everyone knows this water. And when I finally recognize the right curve I say, "There it is!"

Familiar with the man made rock walls and little tree stump bench, but now all wrapped with yellow caution tape and guarded by wooden signs painted white and orange, but nobody bothered to hook the flashing yellow lights up to them.

The sign says that the water is contaminated with some bacteria that I cant spell nor pronounce, and that the US Forest Service is working on trying to fix the problem.

Holy water. That will kill you.

So that was a bust, and the water for the beer will just have to be from our kitchen sink. Coming back down the mountain it's dark now and we look down into the little Poppet Flats bowl and see a handful of porch lights. It's black in the dark and the fog is setting over the bowl like whipped cream floating on a mug of hot chocolate. I know I'm going to be sick, but looking down at the rows and clusters of lights that make up Banning and Beaumont and I remember the time that Adam, the boy with only one leg, snapped off all of the toes on his prosthetic leg and chucked them out the bus window on the way down to school one morning. Adam's plastic rubber toes probably melted in the fire.

And I hate driving on that road. But I love this view.

Someone's Knockin' At The Door

I think I kind of proved how weirdly paranoid I am last night when I was talking to Liz in Seattle (five stars bitch! Holla!) on the phone and someone knocked at my door.

I cant remember my exact words, but it was somewhere along the lines of "Oh shit, someone's at the door, fuck...shit..." and I remember ducking and hiding a little bit behind my sink.

I always hear the neighbor's door squeak open through the walls followed by the clicking of high heels when it's Sally.

Steppy just doesn't even knock anymore. He wants to catch me naked, which I never am with the door unlocked. I always lock up before I strip. And when the door is locked he uses the cop knock to gain access. Go watch an episode of COPS and you'll know what I mean by cop knock if you've never heard one in your own lovely home.

My door was unlocked, and actually, it was even a tad bit not closed because I need to have them redo my knob because I dont think the doohickey is catching in the thing because we always have to slam it if we want it to close right. Either way, the maintenance guy promised me the other day he would resurface our countertops if we promised to switch bedrooms with the kids. He said, "I understand that they're kids but the lady they share a wall with hears them jumping around and stuff..."

What? My kids? Never.

We're switching rooms...which sucks because I just painted the rooms. Mother fuck. More painting. But the kids are keeping that green in our bedroom, which I will probably duplicate in our new room or something close to it. Bright blue will drive me insane.

Anyway, so I'm cowering behind the sink, and I hear footsteps running back down stairs. I was relieved, because there's a thing, like a reason why I'm paranoid. There have been a few break ins reported in this area that began with door to door salesmen. Or people posing as door to door salesmen, as it were, because they're not really that, they're bad guys. They push their way through the door and then tie you up and take your stuff. I want no part of that.

We get a door to door salesman about once a month or sometimes more, and as it's usually those kids selling magazine subscriptions (total scam) other times it's older dudes and I dont know what the hell they want which is why I won't answer the door. I'm 99% positive that there is nothing you can sell me on my doorstep, unless it's a stripper. And even then it's like, I didn't order this stripper, so what's the deal here mister? I mean I dont want to look a gift horse in the mouth but random stripper = suspicious.

You can never be too careful these days.

The scary thing is their new tactic. They use your own peep hole against you! That's right! What they do is they look at the light through the peep hole, and when they see it go dark they know that there's a person standing there, so they wave at you and say "hello!" Yes, very cute NO! That is terrifying! It is not friendly, it is disturbing. Nobody just goes around using my peephole without permission and these fucks do just that. I will have no part of it!

A while back, like two years ago or something, this dude knocked on my door at like 8:00 at night (why are these people never working during business hours?) and I said "Who is it?" and he says "Jerome" and he tries the knob.

Okay, I was not about to open the door just to slap a bitch, but my friends at the BPD loves slappin' them some bitches, so I called them and they took care of it. They didn't slap a bitch though, they just told a bitch to leave.

Tried the knob. Shit me sideways.

PS the knock at the door was just the mailman leaving me a ukulele, so now David has one/we now have two so we can start teaching Ty.

Anyways though, could you imagine how much of a wreck I would have been if David HAD gotten into CHP and went to academy for six months? (Which could still happen since POST isn't an option at this time and if Sheriff's isn't hiring, he could go crawling back to them in two years.) But do you realize how many "investigate the noise" calls I would have made?

That in of its self is dangerous. When I see a uniformed officer I just kinda want to grab them by the shirt collar and just start MMMMMMMMMMAKIN' OUT!

Not that I would ever do that. In actuality I stare at the ground and shuffle my feet and I cant talk right all the sudden like. Probably because I'm thinking about making out with them.

Except for the tall drink of water who came to take my stolen car report. I kind of wanted to ask for a quarter and hop up for a piggy back ride. Is that so wrong?

I have daddy issues.

I am willing to admit that.

Dont you judge me.

Oh and dont none of you bitches try to mess with my brain by knocking on my door or whatever. I have a cop at my beck and call who can be here in like two minutes any time day or night...even though he lives five minutes away. Now you're thinking with portals! Either way I wouldn't mess with it, so just dont.

Hardcore Ukulele Volume I: Astronaut by Amanda Palmer

Photo courtesy of Johanna Bocher on Flickr

The whole reason behind the ukulele was that Amanda Palmer started playing it, and I'm on board with pretty much anything that Amanda Palmer does. Amanda Palmer, aka one half of the indy punk cabaret group The Dresden Dolls.

Amanda and I are a lot alike, except that she's doing the music thing and I'm doing the paperback writer thing, but she writes incredible lyrics and I still have a soft spot for making music.

Amanda is out to change the norm, and she doesn't really care if her following isn't that big.

I use a very wry and unconventional style in my writing and I know I'll never be on the bestseller list but I adore my small but loyal cult like following.

Amanda understands the awesomeness of being able to step away from something that you're good at (usually she plays piano) and having a go at something that you're particularly not. Like how I write books that are getting a handful of five star reviews but instead of working on my manuscript last night I played my ukulele.

It's fun.

And mostly, Amanda believes in playing from your fucking heart, and I wont do anything if my heart isn't into it.

I'm not very good at a lot of things, but I still do them. And I write about them in my journal because writing IS something that I am good at, and if I don't keep doing things then I'll run out of stuff to write about.

I've been playing ukulele for two weeks, and though I did not intend to debut my Hardcore Ukulele series with this particular song, I sing this one better than the other one that I was learning according to my number one uke fan Steppy. Now, fair warning, singing and playing an instrument is the musical equivalent to rubbing your head and patting your tummy.

Or is it the other way around?

Either way, you can really only do one thing at a time very good, or both things at once at a kind of mediocre level.

What I mean to say is don't judge me, I'm still new at this, and it's not like I'm going to pursue a career with this, I'm just having fun.

Also this is my first time ever singing publicly.

Also it's hard to sing in key when the chords aren't always hit right.

That being said, this is my slightly choppy and probably-will-be-remade-someday version of Astronaut by Amanda Palmer on the ukulele.

Super Hero

My friend the Marine calls me last night and says, "Guess what?"

He says, "I'm volunteering to go to Afghanistan."

But I thought he was so miserable in the military.

"I need the money."

He tells me that he could get $23,000 if he goes for a 10 month deployment.

He says that the different areas of Afghanistan are color coded like a traffic light. Green areas are very safe, you can go. Yellow areas are areas in which you should use caution. Red areas, obviously there is danger. But then there are black areas. What do you think black means?

Death?

You guessed correctly.

He's going into a red/black area.

And, "I love you."

And..."I probably shouldn't have said that."

I blink twice.

"I'm kinda drunk right now."

So ignoring that last part I say "$23,000 is a lot of money, I hope you make it back okay."

"No! Don't talk like that damnit! I can never die, okay? I'm a super hero. I got blown up in Iraq, and I came back okay, so I'll go there and do the same thing."

"You did not come back okay, Pico."

"But I'm alive, and this is why I joined the military, to fight for our...well...not to fight for our country because I dont even really understand what we were doing in Iraq."

It just shows to go you, Bush's war was so fucked that even the kids dying for it dont even understand their purpose.

I tell him that Afghanistan makes a lot more sense than Iraq as far as "mission accomplished" goes. And he tells me that no, seriously, he really loves me. And he doesn't want to die.

Just before he got blown up, this pesky kid got in front of their vehicle. The kid started making fun of them and mocking them by pretending to hold a walkie talkie and talk into it with a shitty ass smirk on his face. So they were telling the kid to fuck off. The kid was mocking their every move, so they started flipping the kid off, and it was hilarious when he was doing it back. They got the kid to do all kinds of obscene and funny things, and just as they had gotten him to do the jack off motion, there was a loud noise off to the right and a big cloud of sand and he doesn't remember what happened until he saw his gunner shooting in the direction of the blast. After that it just goes blank. He walked away with a terrible drinking problem and a couple thousand dollars extra for his troubles.

How many stitches do you think it takes to fix a cut that bad?

Last time we talked he told me he was getting out in June and that he was going to smoke a bunch of pot and eat a bunch of shrooms. I went off on his skinny little ass. "Dude, you're 22 and you're already an alcoholic. You went through your Iraq money in TWO NIGHTS at a strip club in New York. You are a complete and total wreck, and I wont let you ruin yourself by smoking pot. Do you realize how that looks on job applications? Do you realize that you beat the whole peer pressure thing in high school, you've made it this far and then all of the sudden you're going to ruin your reputation just because you feel like you're missing out? When are you going to realize that destroying your body is not a functional way to cope in society? You're fucked up and you need to get some help for your drinking problem. And I swear to god, I will not answer this phone if I find out that you did something stupid, okay?"

And now he loves me.

These thing happen.

See also: Steppy.

No, you're right. I'm not that pretty. I'm an 8 at best on my good days, which are few and far between. But I'm very likable and I have gigantic knockers. David says it's pheromones and that yes I am totally hot which is why he dry humps me on the cereal aisle when we shop together. But pheromones dont work on the phone, and Pico's in North Carolina.

David again thinks he's the alpha male strutting around in front of the beta wolves like "ha ha ha-ha HA!" I just smile and change the subject.

I think Pico's scared and possibly suicidal but too afraid to pull the trigger himself, is what I think. And if he makes it back alive, when will the cycle end? When will he stop putting himself into dangerous situations just to risk loss for gain of very little?

Okay, so $23,000 is a lot of money if it's used wisely, which I'm pretty sure it wont be. Pico's never lived in the "real world," he doesn't get how it works. All he's ever known was life with his parents and military. He was on board with messing himself up on drugs until I bitch slapped him and told him that it has way more negative affects than positive ones. You get a temporary high but a lifetime of marking Yes next to a few of those drug names on job applications.

Oh he's a marine, he fought for our country, he can have a little fun if he wants.

No, he cant. That is bullshit and you know it. It's unnecessary.

"I do seriously love you though."

David's words coming out of Steppy's mouth out of Pico's mouth.

Quadrangle.

First string third fret, down down up up down.

Sally's words coming out of my mouth: "Is cute but still is boy."

Victor and his cyanide anti-freeze margarita that night.

Nobody deserves to die, but you were awful adamant that if I didn't love you then you had just one alternative, and I may be romantic and I may risk my life for it but I ain't gonna die for you, you know I ain't no Juliet.

I'm not going to watch you while you burn yourself out baby, no I'm not going to stop you because I'm not the one that's crazy.

Sour Grapes

(PS the last post has been updated with an answers video)

David went disk golfing with Dana this morning at Yucaipa Regional Park. Dana, as you might remember, was once believed to be imaginary because one time he simply vanished for like four months, and I had come up with this conspiracy that he was David's Tyler Durden in that the name Dana is an anagram for the word "nada" as in zilch, zero, none, and his last name is an anagram for the word "anagram."

But Dana is real, and he is a bum who has a house, he recycles for beer money and one day he drunkenly yelled at me in the parking lot about the ethics of snuff films in front of my children.

I don't really like Dana. I don't really like Dana being David's friend. He's one of those dudes who uses rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism, a he-man woman hater, and he calls cops fags. I'm not on board with that. But David sees something in him, and David also has a high tolerance for douchebaggery.

I guess if it were anyone else I would have been more excited for him to be having a guy's day out, but I cant fucking stand Dana. He's a twat. And so I was in a pissy mood the entire time he was gone. I mean there are a lot of people who I think are twats who are a lot worse for him to be hanging out with.

Plus the kids know that it's Monday and Daddy's home on Monday and Daddy no longer "works for the cops" as they put it whenever he would go on ride alongs, so Wade was pitching a fucking nightmare of a fit, and I know there's something wrong with my ear drums because they throb hard whenever he cries with his high pitched squeals. Sometimes I cant even stand to hear him speak. Is that normal? Ty's voice doesn't do it, but Wade's little baby voice just makes my ear drums throb.

So I wasn't such a happy camper.

He took extra long coming back because he went to a store that sells beer making supplies because yeah, he's going to brew his own beer. I wish I could be more excited, I really do, because this seems like it's going to be cool, I mean, beer making? That's fucking sweet. But I'm in such a pissy mood...

I was going to walk to Starbucks to go work on my book, in fact I packed up my stuff and wrapped my long green scarf around my neck because it looks cold out but it's really almost 70, but then I got all indecisive about it and as it was it took me 20 minutes to debate whether I should go or not.

What if there were no tables by outlets?

What if it started raining?

What if someone mugged me and took my laptop?

I don't usually worry about these things, but this was one of my bad days.

I bought myself a necklace at Target last week and still hadn't put it on yet. It's a wooden peace sign hanging from a leather cord and on the same clasp is a string of colorful plastic beads. I realize that hippies in the 60's probably weren't buying their peace sign necklaces from Target for $11 but it's still neat. I also have a fishing lure squid necklace that usually ends up attracting strange men in elevators who then strike up a conversation about it. I had to remove my sapphire journey necklace first, which was a total bitch because my fingertips are all covered in new calluses from playing the ukulele so I have lost all feeling in them, and putting the new necklace on was no walk in the park either. It took me like 10 minutes to switch necklaces. David was in the next room, I could have asked for his help but I was sulking and you know how you don't want to be all "hey honey can you help me with these clasps? They're the devil." when you're sulking.

It made me feel mildly better. Surprisingly.

David's got these buckets and these hydrometers and bottle caps and hops on the table and he's asking if I'd like to go out tonight.

I do but I don't.

There has to be some kind of happy medium, and I should probably just get out and do something with him. I need the right motivation.

What's for dinner?

I don't know, what do you want?

I don't know, what do YOU want?

It's like teenagers at the makeout point. "So what do you want to do?"

"I dunno, what do YOU want to do?"

"Anything's cool, I guess, if you want to do something."

"We should do something, like...something, I don't know, I guess. I'm willing to do anything right now."

"Me too. So what do you want to do?"

"I dunno, what do YOU want to do?"

And so on. And it's not like they don't know, because they do know. I know exactly what I want to do. I want to go out and I want to be in a better mood, and I want for people to stare at my groovy necklace.

He wants me to help him make beer, like he wants me in on this project with him like a couples thing. He asked me to design the label. Except that I don't even like beer! It's like, if we were making brownies I'd be on board, but I don't even get to taste the final result here. It's kind of a suck situation.

Finally he dragged my ass out to Mongolian BBQ and bowling with the kids, which was suck mostly. Ty enjoyed it but they both kept getting too excited and running out onto the lane and falling on their asses. They're still not quite old enough to really have fun with yet. But it changed my mood quite a bit, and so everything is right again...mostly.

It's ukulele time!

It's impossible to be sad during ukulele time!

Ask Me Anything #2 *updated with answers

I did $25 worth of laundry tonight. This is because I stopped doing it for a few weeks because it is cold and the laundry room is a two minute walk across the way and when I open the door and it is cold outside I say fuck that.

Thus, tonight since it's warm, I am doing $25 worth of laundry.

The washer is a buck fifty to run and the dryer is a buck ten, so you can do the math there, right?

I'm still waiting for three dryers to finish.

And because it is 9:00 at night and David just now finished up a rousing game of Battleship with Ty and is now reading Zack Files to him, I am going to most likely be folding $25 worth of laundry.

So we're doing one of these Q and A posts again, where you ask any question you want in the world, and I will answer them via video on the morrow, plus I will provide a real entry so you don't get stuck with two cop-out posts in a row.

You can ask me anything. Your questions will not offend or upset me, and I promise not to give bullshit answers. The more prying the better.

Bring it on. What do you want to know?

*PS here are the answers.

Hardwood Floors *updated

There's blood, and she's not screaming.

"Do it faster so it rips all out!" she says.

I'm between her legs waxing her muff with one of those home waxing kits.

"Why do you make me do these things?" I ask in desperation.

"Who else I have to do it? Now PULL!"

I am astonished. I cant do this. I did four strips and I told her I had to leave. I'm really sorry to have left a friend in a predicament like that, lying on a towel on the kitchen table pulling strips of wax and paper so hard that the sound of all of the hairs being ripped from her skin at once just sounds like a stadium of velcro applause.

Masochist.

I'm sick to my stomach and all I can think about is torn scalps and how my hair band is way too tight and how it's pulling on my hair like how I was pulling on her hair.

"No man is worth the amount of pain and disgusting beautification rituals that you are putting yourself through! No man!" I yell from the door without turning around to look at her. I've snapped off the rubber gloves and just thrown them on the floor, I don't care.

"I do this not for man," she says. "I do this for me."

I stop at the open door and think about what she said for just a second before I walk out.

I barely even shave my legs when it's pants weather. And I keep low pile carpet thanks to some clever trimming tactics, but to go full on hardwood floors...

Hardcore.

Masochist.

I have very nice eyebrows that I am accused of plucking, which I don't. My pits are always bare, and back in high school I shaved my arms for some reason, but the hair is blonde so I don't really care much nowadays. But as for ground zero, dude, I figure that there's reasons for it growing there, kind of like how we have hairs in our nose to keep out bacteria, that stuff down there probably works the same way. I'm 25 and I've never had any kind of wacky infections, with the exception of a wickedly horrible case of razor burn and crazy ingrown hairs when I did try to maintain hardwood floors.

You know why people throw shag carpet over hardwood floors in old houses? Because hardwood floors are a fucking bitch to take care of.

I color my hair when I remember to. I don't wear makeup. And I don't wax my pubes, because I think it's just fucking wrong and painful and wrong and unnecessary and wrong.

The sound.

Schtkkkpkpkpkpkpt.

Each hair ripped out, thousands at once but still one at a time.

Rough like a cat's tongue.

"Pull harder!"

Masochist.

I call Steppy.

"Heya friend, I have a really great idea for you that I think will please your missus."

"Okay..."

"Go to Wal Mart..."

"Okay..."

"And buy one of those home waxing kits..."

"...Okay..."

"Then go wax your pubes. It's so much fun."

"Isn't that for girls though?"

"No no, don't ask OMG to do that, it's actually unhealthy for women because we need the hair there to keep away infections and stuff. It's like a briar patch protecting some...whatever grows in briar patches. Anyhoo, you should do it. It will make your peen look bigger."

"Really."

"Really! And without all the yucky hair there she might be more willing to go down on it."

"Waxing?"

"Yeah."

"Doesn't that hurt?"

"Not at all! It's just a little pinch."

"I'll have to think about it."

"Well don't wait too long or you'll lose your nerve. By the way, did you know that there are secret illegal underground ukulele clubs that meet in liquor store basements all over the city every night of the week?"

"Did you make up that waxing thing though?" he asks.

"Oh Steppy," I sigh. "Kay, goodnight, I gotta go, the roast is burning, kay, bye."

There was no roast. I haven't made roast in like a year.

So now he's either reading this with a half waxed bush, pissed because yes it did hurt which is why it's only half done, or he's reading this and wagging his finger at the screen.

You know I should prooooooobably not mess with the guy who always wears a Glock. I'm only asking for trouble.

PS. Check out this Post Secret that was posted tonight after I published this entry, it goes along well no?

Needs To Get Up.

I have this whole list of songs that I want to learn on my ukulele here. I recorded the dress rehearsal of the first song that I'm going to play for you via video and it went fairly well, so I'm hoping to do like "Ukulele Wednesdays" or something here on the blog...but I probably wont keep the day consistent because then everyone would avoid my blog on Wednesdays. And I'll have to give the blog posts clever titles like "Oh My God I Cant Believe I Had Sex With Him!" and "Sally's Leaked Sex Video" and "Strap On Surprises" otherwise people will avoid them in the Readers.

David plays songs like "No Woman No Cry" and is picking at various Beatles tunes, but I think that Beatles on ukulele is pretty predictable, is it not? Except for their hard core shit like Helter Skelter, I mean they make a ton of books and websites dedicated to Beatles on ukulele, and I admit that someday I might bust out some Oh! Darlin, I'm interested in doing less mainstream stuff.

I'm nothing if not unconventional.

Too Drunk To Fuck comes to mind, The Guns of Brixton. It doesn't all have to be punk, in fact Steppy threw in his request...my god...he wanted me to play something very overproduced like Bohemian Rhapsody where it's just out of the water too grandiose and yet brimming with camp value. He wants me to play St. Elmo's Fire (Man In Motion.) Why? Because he heard it on the radio and decided that it should be ukulized.

"You're the only girl I know who can rock a ukulele. And who would take an odd request like St. Elmo's Fire."

It's on my to do list. I have a pretty big to do list.

I'm actually a little bit concerned that as I haven't put on any weight in the past two years, I haven't lost any either. I'm at pre-Wade weight. Pre-Ty weight would be another 20 pounds. I'm not going to go nuts but I do need more exercise. All of my hobbies are sit down hobbies, and this is probably going to affect me later in life, so I should probably give myself some wiggle room.

Plus I figure I'm always so ambitious when it comes to shit, it's like "I want to write books" and I do, and "I want to knit 25 scarves in 2009" and I'm on #4, "I want to play the ukulele" and in a week I have nearly mastered two songs including the vocals. I should probably be the same way with my weight, and I used to be but the gym is way too far to drive and I have no time for it anyway really. I used to spend three hours in the pool four days a week. That's not really an option at this point in time.

And so I have obtained a jumprope.

Also, some hand weights.

My neighborhood has nice sidewalks, so I should probably start using them. Plus if I let Wade take his bike it will make him more tired at bed time. That is the theory anyway.

I looked at all these exercise balls and resistance bands at Target, and I just don't really get them. I don't see myself using them. Mostly because I don't know how to use them. I know there are videos but there's just something weird about it.

I thought about yoga and palates, I don't think they're really my style.

I miss belly dancing with the neighbor, if not for the cardio workout but for the laughs that ensued.

So somewhere between my knitting time, my cleaning time, my writing time, my ukulele time, my David time, my oot and aboot time, I need to start moving my ass before it gets all big and flubblie. I'm doing us all a favor, see. The trick to not gaining anything even though I have a rather low impact life is eating healthy, which I do. But I'm going to have to start burning off some calories while I'm at it. Doing something while I'm doing nothing.

The fucker of it is that sure I can put my mind to things, like "I will have this completed by such and such date" or whatever, but if I try to go with a goal of losing however many pounds, it's just hard because there's no like trick to losing weight. I think maybe if I just pledge to be active for a certain amount of time every day, or however I go about this, it will help somewhat.

Then again, I always seem to accomplish the majority of my goals by sitting down.

Then again, I used to do the whole marching band thing and the whole swimming for hours on end thing.

I just need to get the hell up and be in motion before my ass sticks to all these things I'm sitting on I think.

Drunkenly Dialed

I can't say who this is for professional reasons.
;)

I Am Oscar's Doll

Here I am, nerdy and fucked to the gills with depression or guilt or a rancid case of the inappropriate giggles and I'm arguing with a local music store via email about the quality of ukuleles being serious fucking business.

Strum first string third fret, down down up up down.

Look, we wanted to buy the other uke from a local music store as opposed to the internet because that's just the kind of people we are. When we returned to Sliger's they informed us that they had just sold the last one that morning, plus the guy wasn't the same nice guy who knew David's family, it was some cocky bastard who rolled his eyes because we were yet another one of these cheeky fucks who come in going "I wanna play the ukulele!"

Fourth string first fret and third and first strings second fret, down down up up down.

Listen son, ukulele is serious fucking business and I am willing to shell out the $30-$40 to have a second one so that David will stop trying to slap fight me for the one that we have, so don't be rolling your beedie little baboon fucking eyes at me!

So we go to the other store across town and they're all "ukulele? Sure son, right here," and they sell us this fucking piece of shit one with a plastic fret board and plastic fret bars. You wouldn't think that would matter but what they sold us is a god damned toy and it sounds like you're just picking at the teeth of a plastic comb and calling it music. So I take it back and I'm all "It sounds like crap, we were looking for something of higher quality, like maybe a maple fret board and metal fretbars," and they're all "bawww that gets expensive bawwww" and I said yeah for the same price as your toy one that you sold me I got one with a nice maple fret board with metal fret bars off the god damned internets" and they're all "show me" so I did. I emailed them and went "Linkage, friend."

First string first fret fourth string second fret, down down up up down.

They email me back today and go "Thanks but the reason why we don't carry wooden ones is because they're not very durable."

Durable? I says, "Durability vs quality though, I mean the plastic ones are great for people who are just messing around but for anyone who wants to be a serious ukulele-ist (if there even is such a thing) would understand that these things break! I mean a clarinet isn't very durable either, what with them being wood and the dangers of them being played in the rain and all because of that reason. Not harping, just being helpful. I would actually like to buy something from a local business rather than off the internet if I can help it, so let me know what your prices would be for a decent one with a wooden fret board and metal fret bars. Oh and FYI Sliger's carries wooden ones but they're kind of weird over there customer service wise and one guy actually rolled his eyes at us for asking for such a comical instrument I guess, so we're on board with making Nick Rail our music shop so long as you guys can carry the right goods."

First and third string first fret and fourth string second fret, up up up up, pause, up.

They sold us a method book, the same kind that I had to read from when I first learned trombone. They also tried to sell us a "Fun with the Ukulele" book but it was full of crap songs like "Aloha-Oy" and "White Sandy Beaches," and I'm all like "No man, where do you keep uke versions of The Cure and Amanda Fucking Palmer? Where's your hardcore heavy metal Dragonforce shit for ukulele?"

They were puzzled.

Fine, I'll do it meself. Down down up up down.

David tells me, "I just put in an application with Trash Truck Inc." (name fake for the usual reasons.)

"Why? You already work at a trash pile, and shouldn't you be trying to get a badge or something? I seem to recall some kind of lifelong dream about a badge or something. Was that you?"

He tells me it's for dispatch, an office job. $12 an hour and he wont have to be in the heat and getting bum pee mixed with flat beer spilled on him.

Again, I tell him, he's supposed to be moving away from the trash piles, not diving into more of them. And I'm scared of change and I'm scared of what happened with Stater's being all fucking bitchy and doing the you know what to him in his ass upon leaving and then it's all "Yeah you worked here for two and a half years without incident but because your last supervisor decided to be a prick we're going to fuck over your chances with CHP. Loves you, buh bye."

Kiss kiss. Down down up up down, middle finger.

Liz in Seattle (who I mention by name because she says she'll rate any post five stars if it has her name in it) says that I should just let David have his space for six weeks. For the next six weeks I can watch him dodge his feelings and be all "I'm still a man even though they sliced off my testicles, those son's a bitches." He can have his Sunday beers and drink them too, and he can play his Enter Sandman on his ukulele, and he doesn't have to think about applying to any law enforcement agency for six whole weeks.

Kay, but what do I do when he's trying to apply to another fucking trash pile in the mean time?

I trust his judgement...kinda.

It's just that last time he left a super stable job (Stater's) to get a new one (The Cans) he got effed in the a by those b-i-t-c-h-e-s. (I don't want to offend my readers who may be sensitive to swear words.) So what can I say, I'm weirded out, and particularly even more weirded out that he's just jumping trash piles now. Oscar the mother fucking Grouch.

I suppose it's because I imagine him doing something relatively productive, because the way I work is "So that didn't work out? I've got to move on then and just deal with my grief in the process of finding something new." I don't have time for these things you humanoids call "feelings." David is taking this like "No CHP for me? Oh look, a new trash pile."

Fucking trash piles. I am so sick of these trash piles.

Then Steppy comes over on his lunch in his fucking uniform (I hate it when he does this) and is all "Don't look at it as another trash pile, look at it as Saturdays off so he can do POST."

Sweet baby Jesus.

POST.

Not the kind that you follow up with the words "Raisn Bran" or "Partum Depression" or "Traumatic Stress Disorder," but the kind that you follow up with the words "I swear to protect and serve," or whatever they make cops say. The real deal, I mean. The whole jumping off the trash pile and landing in a squad car.

Oh.

And Steppy says, "It's not that I'm ignoring you either. I've been working a lot and my kid's got the flu."

Little boy blue and the man on the moon.

"By the way," he adds, and he adds this because he reads my blog now and even watches the 20 minute long videos, "He was troubled and there is no excuse for how he treated you, but I think we both know that his heart was in the right place, which is how I know why you stayed even when I offered you an out back in 10th grade."

His heart was in the right place.

Sort of how Arlene said that he "had a good heart."

Yeah, except that it gave out on him and caused him to die about 50 years too early. Other than that. But I didn't say that.

He said he had to go back to work, and asked if we were on for the spa tonight. I said meh. He said at the very least he'll listen to me jam on my uke. Perhaps I'll punch myself in the face a little or snort some rock salt so I get a bloody nose so I'll look all tough when I play it.

Maybe that's how I need to walk in to these music stores. Blood and snot running down my face. My hair all pulled over my eye at a 45 degree angle, 'sept that it has to be over my bad eye or else I wont be able to drive. "WOODEN FRET BOARDS!"

Dude, if my next post is from jail you'll know why. They might not let me use a computer in jail so you had better follow me on Twitter instead.

PS. Dragonforce on the ukulele (not my video, obvi)

This Is Your Wake Up Call

It's long video time, so if you're prepared to sit and watch me tell a very important story to you for 20 minutes, then by all means let's have a sit, huh? And I say that this is important because I am making it because of a few people who I know are in rough relationship situations at the moment and I feel like I need to tell them my tale, because it's like being in the middle of a lake, where you cant see the edges, but if you stand on the shore you can see the middle of the lake. Something like that. Just watch it. And if you're not down with that, I was interviewed about Bombshell and my writing in general over here, and even if you do watch the video you should click the link as well because it's a great interview.

But without further adieu,

I Am Human And I Need To Be Loved

I got very little done of what I was supposed to do today. Instead of handling a pressing matter with my eyesight and the folks at the DMV I spent the day with my ex-almost-mother-in-law, if you could call her that. She and her friend Mary are two of my biggest fans so I wanted to go give them some copies of Bombshell. I stayed for a long time and we talked about a lot of things. I talked to his brothers a little bit, they're 17 and anti social and the blond one just says hi then goes back to the basement.

I was hugged, I was treated like a friend. I was invited to girls night out, some karaoke thing and gambling and drinking in the parking lot of the casino because the drinks are too damned expensive once you get inside. I said I wanted to go, and her and Mary really wanted to take me, but I think there was dramaz, the same kind of dramaz that I dealt with and were part of the reason why she's my ex-almost-mother-in-law.

You know what I like about Arlene? She's never been shitty to me, ever. Which is why I'm more likely to call her than my real in laws, who yeah, have been shitty to me.

I hold grudges occasionally. I'm not perfect. I am who I am and if you don't like it, you can skedaddle.

But I've been invited to go next week if they end up going, which I'm looking forward to because I think I need to go. Go somewhere. With someone. Someone other than Steppy.

It was brought to my attention last night by Liz in Seattle that I sound a little upset when I talk about Steppy reconciling with his wife...if that's what they're even doing. Now let's get this straight, I'm the one helping them here so it's not like I'm not happy for them, but she said I sounded upset, and I was a little bit hesitant to speak of the situation because...I don't know why, just probably because he's not here as much, and though it's for a good reason perhaps I'm still down about losing our hang out time. Also OMG has been weird, kind of evasive on the phone, so I'm either being left out of it now or she's just plain hiding shit in the name of counterproduction toward their goal. It is possible that she just doesn't want to be happy, but things were going so well there. I thought for sure...

I don't want to sound selfish, but I am. I want my cake, which is exactly what Steppy was doing because he wanted his cake but he wanted to eat me too. EAT IT, EAT IT! Oh shit that sounded dirty...but it's probably true just the same.

I think I'm just feeling generally lonely, and I'm still kind of fucked up from the funeral. It has come to my attention that the bride took my ex-almost-MIL outside to say "there's a rumor floating around that you're going to let Jessie speak no matter what." Rumors at a funeral? What the hell is that about? (Nothing, because there was no rumor. I was told I wouldn't speak the night before and I accepted that and didn't try to fight it.)

I want to see the real Bombshell, but I drove to her house last night and the lights were all off. The neighbor is working again and she's stopped emailing me her nude pictures. David's sitting next to me playing ukulele from a method book, and I think we're doing Chili's carside take out shit for dinner.

What Mary and Arlene told me was they like to go out because they're not just moms, they're people. For once people aren't asking about their kids or their husbands, they're just talking to them because they're people. That's kind of why I don't talk about my kids much on my blog these days, because there's way more to me than just them. I don't subscribe to mommyblogs, and by that I mean the kind where every entry is about their damn kids. I like to remind you that I have them, and when they're awake I am all about doing everything for them and caring for them, but once they're asleep or entertaining themselves I'm thinking about other things.

Me and David, we were supposed to have a separate weekend. Not because we're fighting but because I need to get out of this damn house and away from those damn kids for a few hours. David has his hobbies, he got his tattoo last weekend and I've gone ahead and agreed to the beermaking thing, he has no friends though which is sad because I have friends. He should be at a strip club or something.

I long to do things. Perhaps I am a little bit sad. Happy as hell that Steppy's going and doing the repair work so he can be happy and stop trying to hump me. That part I don't miss at all...mostly because he still does it when I see him. It's not a complete evening unless he half-jokingly propositions me for sex. But maybe I'm just a little lonely and starved for friendship, which is why I'm giving up on trying to find someone to hang out with tonight. David is here and we are ordering Chili's. We have another ukulele now so we'll play some songs together.

Don't get me wrong, I love hanging out with David more than anyone, obviously. But what I think I'm craving is some outside of marriage companionship, some time outside of these yellow walls even if it's just in the spa. I don't want time alone, that's the last thing I need right now.

Or maybe it's the world telling me that yes, it IS time for alone time so I can write, which I haven't been doing lately because I stopped hearing the narration in my brain back in December.

But what the fuck good does that do when there's kids whining in the other room and David's picking that damn ukulele?

Even Starbucks sounds unappealing at the moment. I think I'm just in a mood.

Problem is that I've been in this mood for a few months now.

Implications

For the record, I was asked if I will ever legally change my name, as I mentioned that "on paper" I'm still Stuart. What I mean by that is my ID is under Stuart, my Social Security card still says Stuart, and the only time this ever comes up is tax time. I actually never write Stuart on anything, in fact I've owned vehicles registered under both Stuart and Terwilliger, I think the Mazda might be Stuart though because David never knows what to put. It's confusing, but it's such an insignificant thing that I just never bother with it because it never comes up. At the school and on the medical records and such I'm Terwilliger, I use the name way more frequently than Stuart, and I call myself Terwilliger. I get pulled over, however, and I'm back to Stuart, but I never get pulled over.

Now, on to the next thing. This is interesting. I was going to put this on my quotes blog but I wanted it to get more attention.

A black man came to recycle at David's work, and I mention his skin color because it's important to this story. The man, who David says is a psychologist (I guess because he's a regular customer and all and they've talked before) asks David, "So are you going to watch the big game tonight?"

David says, "What big game?" and the man informed him that it was a basketball game.

"Oh, well I don't really follow basketball," he replied. David's not really a sports fan.

But the guy, he goes "Oh I bet if I'd of said NASCAR you'd of been all over that!"

David didn't respond. And he said the guy was quiet the rest of the time.

This fascinates me.

Now as a white person, I am not offended when someone uses the word "cracker." I think it's actually kind of funny. I'm not racist, not any more than the average person I suppose, but I did grow up in a fairly racist town. We had like one black kid at our school, and we had a lot of cowboys who would lasso the trash cans, but they were also neo-Nazi skinhead cowboys. That pretty much explains a lot of Yucaipa right there. I've never been made fun of for being white, ever, because that's a stupid thing to be made fun of in this area. I'm sorry but it's true just the same, and it's not like I can help the demographics or anything, it is what it is.

David says that he was not offended by what the man said, and he actually thinks that the guy didn't mean it "like that." Perhaps it was one of those jokes that came out really really wrong, and regardless, how do you respond to that anyway?

I told him that whenever someone asks if he's going to watch something to just rub in their face that you don't watch television and that you got rid of yours over a year ago and haven't looked back. It makes you look pretentious AND smarter than them. Don't say you don't have a TV because then you look like poor white trash, simply "I don't watch television." I say it and it stops sheeple in their brainwashed by the media tracks.

What do you think about that statement though? Was it racist? How would you have reacted?

My Gift Is My Song And This One's For You

My mouth filled with the taste of semen while I was driving today for some strange reason. I don't know what the hell that was about, but sometimes the same thing happens with toothpaste.

Today is Saturday February 14th aka Valentines day. A few weeks ago I had a dream that a cop brought me roses and then made out with me on Valentines day. Why Valentines day? Why not Tuesday or just like whenever?

Valentines...David and I aren't really that into it, it seems like we just got done with our birthdays and anniversary, so it's basically an excuse for steak...which we eat whenever we want anyway pretty much.

You know what my sister does? She walks around Wal Mart, picks up something expensive and says to her husband "Look dear, I bought this for you." And then she puts it back on the shelf. Done.

We're not to that point, but I knew that he wouldn't come home with roses or anything and it doesn't bother me in the slightest. He's nice to me all the time, he doesn't need an excuse to try to buy my affections. Plus we're getting dueling ukulele's. That's hella-romantic.

"What is uking lulie?" the neighbor asks. She made her apartment look exactly like the Valentines section at Wal Mart last year with the balloons and the confetti and the giant teddy bears, and even went so far as to put a bunch of talking stuffed animals in the car that made kissing noises and said "I love you!" Which is kind of creepy, not so much romantic.

"It's a tiny guitar like they play in Hawaii. David and I used to be musicians, it's how we reconnect."

"Yah okay and you did to buy sex outfit yes?"

Outfit?

"Oh wait, no I saw what was in your box, nasty lady."

What?

The other day she signed for a package for me and it just so happened to be from that sex toy company that sends me products to review, one of my fun little side writing gigs that I like better than the reporter gruntwork I've been doing, and she asks me what's in the box. "Sex toy," I say nonchalantly. "It's for work."

"Okay I don't need your life story, sick."

Then she comes back and knocks again.

"On second thought I want to see what's in that box."

I'd tell you what was in the box but you really don't want to know.

But today felt like a writing day, so after doing some family friendly fun activities with the kids I cleaned up the kitchen really nice and sat down at the table to work on the rewrite of A Powdery Tattoo, which is my young adult novel. I pulled the two inch thick file from my filing cabinet, lit some scented candles, and set up my little poppets. I don't know, they help me draw creativity I guess. They're interesting to look at. My rule is that I will only buy poppets when they represent some event or some person. There are four new to the crew, a green and bronze "steampunk" poppet that represents Graham Green/the release of Bombshell, a fun little purple poppet that represents my sister, the dead one with the arrow through the heart which represents my dead boyfriend, and my favorite, Officer Poppet who naturally represents David. Me, I'm the brown one on the end because that's cafe poppet and I like to hang out in cafes, and also I got him upon completion of NaNoWriMo.

I'm not crazy. They are adorable.

And you might notice that the David poppet is always threatening the Victor poppet with his night stick.

I fucking love that he has a night stick.

Somebody knocked and I knew it was Steppy, and for that I was scared because of my dream. But looking through the peep hole I saw that he wasn't in uniform, so I opened the door. He did not bring me roses, but he did bring me a cupcake. A pink cupcake. He said that OMG was home waiting for him but he just wanted to stop by and give me a cupcake. It was nice and boxed and from the bakery and everything. I puffy pink heart that guy sometimes. He didn't make out with me, but I did dare him to go to Wal Mart and buy an enormous flower arrangement and some chocolates and a really huge bear and some KY and see what the cashier says. For added effect, buy some bourbon and some electrical tape as well. Better yet, all that stuff except Crisco instead of KY.

I invited him in and said "Here, I have a gift for you too." That's when I busted out the fucking ukulele and was all "I'm hard core now, so you should pretty much appreciate this." And I played the song I've been working on, even singing along which is hard because it's not in my vocal range. I have to sing it in an alto range when I'm really more of a tenor, so it was out of key in some places, but I did it, and when it is perfect I'll do it on video.

I said sorry.

He said don't be sorry because when did I pick this thing up? Like two days ago? That's pretty good for only playing for two days. Well, two days minus all that other stuff I do all day. Steppy was impressed and I showed him how the little felt pick I bought is already all bent on the edge because I'm so hard core that I fucked its shit up.

He didn't hit on me or say anything inappropriate.

So perhaps he's not the cop from that dream I had.

But then David came home early with a Wal Mart bag containing white zinfandel and cooking spray.

Cooking spray? For the biscuits or for...

I don't know what he has planned, but I'm down with it.

Stays With You

I haven't walked into Sliger's music store since I was a kid buying slide oil and thumbing through their music looking for fun little gems to play on the trombone. I had some Enya going the fuck on for a while, Avril Lavigne and Matchbox 20 and whatever else was popular back at the turn of the millennium...including the song "Millennium" by Robbie Williams. Victor promising to buy me this adorable Pikachu purse at the comic book store down the street if I could learn how to play the William Tell Overture backwards.

I almost did it. I got pretty good at it, but he bought me the purse anyway. There was a point where he was a nice person.

State Street in Redlands is all posh with expensive restaurants and salons and tux shops and places to buy $1,900 prom dresses and antique stores and jewelry stores and punk ass skater kid clothing stores and Sliger's Music. The sidewalks are paved with brick and on Thursday nights they have a market night but I don't go anymore because there are only two vegetable and flower stands and the rest are all just people selling Avon and crappy purses and rocks and Mona Vie and gym memberships and balloon animals (fucking clowns) and popcorn and god. Also there's a gang problem, so yeah.

The comic book store is still there, it always will be. I used to go back and forth between the music store to thumb through music and the comic store to thumb through the dirty comics they kept behind the counter while Victor played Magic or whatever the fuck he was into with those cards. I watched him get into a slap fight one time with his friend over something they both wanted, some geeky assed thing, I don't even remember. But today when I was driving on State Street to go to the music store I saw some creepy kid I graduated with slithering his way into the comic book store, and as I was going to laugh I realized that I was no better.

Here I am at 25 going back to the vice that made me a nerd in high school anyway except that it's even weirder because instead of a trombone it's a ukulele. Not even a cool instrument like a guitar or the drums. A ukulele. Have I learned nothing? Obviously I haven't.

The man in the music store waved at me before I even walked inside, and I told him shyly that I need a ukulele pick, and asked if it's the same as a guitar pick or different. He informed me that ukulele picks are actually felt instead of hard plastic, and I was in luck because he had just one left and it was a buck and a quarter.

He then told me that ukulele's are hot right now and he cant keep them in the store. He showed me on the wall that he only had one left, and that the other two which were pretty and colorful had already sold, and there was in fact two little empty racks next to the one that looks just like mine. They also had an electric one. An electric ukulele.

He suggested lessons, and I said no because I used to play trombone so I've already got a pretty good grasp on basic music theory and I'm picking this thing up fairly quickly. He said yeah, and totally agreed that once you know one instrument it's easy to transfer what you know to picking up a new one. The only difference is that now I'm playing whole chords instead of one note at a time, but because I already have a pretty good knowledge of chords it's not really that alien to me, it's just that I'm not relying on anyone else to fill in the gaps. I am the chord. Also I picked up and learned piano a number of years ago, so again, ukulele is just a new medium. Same rules, just different ways to apply them.

I told him that I'm using tabs and watching videos on Youtube, which have been very useful because there are a number of folks out there who explain what chords they're using for songs, so I've already got one song down...well...I can play the four repeating chords of the song, but not fast enough for it to be a "song" yet. It takes me a few seconds to reposition my fingers. I'm used to putting my whole arm into the note, not fumbling around with my grubby little fingers.

I felt stupid running a buck and a quarter on the debit card but I didn't have any cash and I was prepared to pay more, but when he handed me back my card and my felt ukulele pick he said, "So let me ask you about your name."

My married name.

"Do you know Pastor Terwilliger?"

"That's my husband's grandfather."

He must not have heard the grand part because he says "You must be married to Garry because you're too young for Larry," and I says "No I'm married to Jerry's son" and he's like "Is Jerry the youngest" and I said "No that's Merry" and he asked about Sherry.

lol.

It's like a Dr Seuss book.

My name is Jessie Terwilliger and I play the ukulele and my husband broke his clavicle once and we have a Lorax in the back yard, and also I do NOT like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I Am!

My father in law asked me one time why I use Terwilliger as my pen name since I never actually legally changed it when I got married. On paper I'm Stuart. It's because Terwilliger is very comical and musical and it strikes up conversations with old men in music shops. All Stuart ever got me is "Oh you know Ken?"

Yes, he's my uncle. No, I do not know him.

It's not who you know, it's the history you create for yourself.

I told the man at the music store that I would be back because our Valentine's gifts to each other this year are ukuleles and David needs his. I've staked this one as mine, and the man asked me her name and in a dark brown voice I said "Lola." Oh yes, David and I are incredibly romantic still. You don't know how much having a ukulele means to me, I get to create music again and hurt my fingers trying to press down the little strings and give myself blisters. We're going to play duets, because there was a time when he would oompa oompa oompa on his tuba and I would be all wah wah wah on my trombone and it came out sounding like Christmasie polka. Gives me butterflies.

Last year he made me a heart shaped pizza and spelled out "I want anal" with sausages. Kinda romantic when you think about it. I didn't tell the music store guy that.

We're also having steak. The filet mignon was on sale for $7.99 a pound.

Okay, so I'm going to play some chords, and you try to guess which song I'm learning. I don't sing but my parakeets do. They go apeshit. They like my ukulele, they think it's talking to them.

So I Can Rock On

I will have you know that I've already learned the C and A cords, so harrumph! I do NOT suck. 'Sept that I have short little fingers so I'm having some difficulty, which is lulzy because it's a tiny instrument.

Curses to my mother for drinking while she was pregnant with me. Made my hands small. Too small even for the god damned ukulele. Also I think it gave me brain damageAMAGEAMAGE.

But I am determined. I never let anything hold me back.

I'm thinking an awesome ukulele cover of Helter Skelter or something totally epic like Enter Sandman.

I will learn and perform one song by my bloggiversary, which is May 1st. You have my word.
And my arrow.
And my sword.
And my ukulele.

I Think I'll Wait Another Year

My dead ex's step mom emails me last night and tells me that she loved Golden Dawn, that her friend Mary loved Golden Dawn (and left an Amazon review for it) and that she gave it to Victor's grandma and she is almost finished with it. She wanted to know when she could get Bombshell and she said she was proud of me.

This is why I was so torn on breaking up with him, because I guarantee that nobody in my family or even in David's family will even mention Bombshell to me. I tore their son's heart to pieces and they still love the crap out of me.

Though my mother in law has actually been butt hurt and bitter toward me ever since she read Golden Dawn, which is actually rather funny in a sense.

The story and the characters are fictional.

We're all friends here, except of course those of us who aren't.

It's exhausting to keep smiling when your toes are bleeding on the floor.

I did a TON of work today with promoting and such. I am not a spam bot, I leave hand written, never copy/pasted comments on people's Goodreads profiles that are personalized and nice and not just "hey buy my book do it now!"

I didn't quite get the day-one sales I was expecting, but I did get some, and that's cool. I'm pleased with the turnout.

Perhaps an EXTREME ADVERTISING campaign would work, like how Billy Mays does. HI BILLY MAYS HERE WITH BOMBSHELL! YOU'LL LOVE THE AWESOME CLEANING POWER OF BOMBSHELL! BUY IT NOW OR I'LL RIP YOUR DICK OFF!

Yee-no.

It's cool that the little old lady that David knows who lives at the senior citizen's community where I donated a few copies of Golden Dawn for their library says that the two copies are almost always checked out, and there are waiting lists to read them even though they're dog eared and the covers are curling from so many people reading them. I love seeing my books get abused. If anyone has spilled coffee on theirs let me see a picture. I think used books have personality.

I wonder if perhaps the world still isn't ready for the whole "online book buying" thing, even though we've been doing it for years. It still seems like I have way more success with people passing around the hard copies I give out than I do with ever hearing from the people who buy the books on the site ever again. They say it can take up to seven times of hearing about a book online before a person actually seriously considers buying it, which is why I've been out whoring around with my links. But I'm also going to really push for at least a signing at Barnes and Noble. I'm ambitious enough to try that, and I might sell four copies but con sarnit that's the average that any author who is not on the bestseller list will sell.

So it's kind of like, what now?

What now is I'm going to rewrite A Powdery Tattoo which is my young adult story, but I'm going to take my time with it. There's only nine months between Golden Dawn and Bombshell, they're Irish twins! I rushed the hell out of this book. You wont see another one from me till April if not later, and it's not that I'm being lazy about it, it's just that aside from working on that manuscript I'm going to be doing a lot more work for Bombshell over the next few months. It's not like I get to sit back and kick my feet up and watch the royalties roll in, that would only happen if I was with a big publishing company that handled all of my promotional stuff. I'm not, so I do it all with just a couple of cheerleaders patting me on the head and passing out bookmarks to their work friends.

I'm actually not really writing much right now, other than blogging. I need to manage my filing system STAT and just work with what I already have. I also need to read down my To Be Read pile. Yes I organized the hell out of it both in physical form and on Goodreads but then I went and ordered a few more that I feel I must have my hands on.

It's not that I'm going to read them right away, it's just that I want to have them. Scoop them into a pile with my arm and hunch over them and hiss at anyone who walks past me like a cat with a piece of meat.

But I haven't bought any yarn. :)

I need some cafe time, and some visit with people time. I need things to put into my file cabinet. There are people I need to go see and avoid getting hugs from if I can, and there are graves that I need to go sit on for a while. I'm going to spend some time in the mountains and I'm going to sit with Victor's grandma and start going over to the neighbor's again. I'm going to continue to work but at a medium pace instead of going all hard core like that. And I need to color my fucking hair.

Now that I know it can be done and how it has to be done, I can breathe a little and make my snide comments...well...I never stopped making snide comments and I never will. But I will stop wasting time with people who I don't think are doing me any bit of good, so I'm going to start flicking them away like boogers. No, none of you gents here, I mean...well, assholes in general that I know in the IRL.

Assholes.

I wonder if it will snow tonight.

Postcards from 2006: The Disturbing Cookie Trick And Other Cautionary Tales

Remember, there's a party on the internet tonight to celebrate Bombshell's release! It's sure to be a good time, in fact, I was going to advertise it on a big site, and they rejected me because they felt that my book was distasteful and it would offend their site visitors. Is this awesome? (y or n)

I looked back on some of my archives to bring you more of what inspired Bombshell. Yes, I have a friend who was a stripper and who is now on her way to becoming a deputy coroner. We know this. But what's that all about anyway? How could that become a whole book? It's just lapdances and nipple piercings, right?

Yeah, except that there's more.

Here are a few delicious morsels that I found in my archives where I discuss my friend's line of business when she was shaking her ass on stage for tips every night.

From May 17, 2006

I don't think I told you about the disturbing cookie trick.

Theres a girl out at Dream Girlz out where my friend is dancining now, which is a fully nude club (but my friend keeps her panties on for her own personal comfort.) Theres a girl there who does a disturbing trick with her cookie. Now, I am still to this day in waiting for the girl at Fantasy who can blow air out of hers and make the dollar do a flip, now that's worth it...but this chick out there....ok, so she sticks a match in it right? (I know!) Then she gets another match and lights it, and her customer has a cigarette in his mouth. She pulls his head in and lights the cig with her flaming pussy. Now is that not disturbing? So right there you've got a combination of cigarette smoke, burnt tuna and possibly even burnt hair.
Would you let a stripper light your cig with a burning cunt?

From March 29, 2006

I love when Ginger tells her stripper stories. Every time she comes over on Sunday, its always...

"Dude, Shasta got really drunk and told me she was her favorite and started making out with me. And then this other chick, Amber got really drunk and started grabbing strippers and beating the shit out of them, and she was completely naked at the time."

Theres an ugly stripper that they call Skeletor. I guess Skeletor got really drunk one night and fell during her dance and passed out on the stage for like two minutes. Everyone just sat there open mouthed, and she finally woke up and started walking around the pole. I have to go hang out at her club, their strippers get really drunk, and I have to see it. Like Shasta when she was drunk, she walked up to some guy and says "I'm drunk" And then she fell. I have to see this shit.

This is from May 14, 2006 when I went to actually visit her at her club:

And now the fun fun fun...

Not really. Unless you count sitting alone at a table, being stared at by a group of Mexicans who then begin to come closer and closer and then ask you "You come here all the time?" Is that a question? That's more like a statement, and "No, I do not. I am here with one of the dancers." Mexicans move away. Ginger comes out from the dressing room and sits with me, and buys me a Dr Pepper. The girl on stage has fake boobs and dances reeeeeeeeally slow. She's like 50. She wears a mans button up shirt, and its not sexy, but all night shes able to rope guys in for lap dances.
I'm sitting there talking to Ginger and what happens? The group of 20 something year old guys is apparently starring at my ass. Suddenly theres this arm around me.

"So baby, what are you waiting for?"

I turn and look and its one of the 20 something's.

"I'm not waiting for anything, I'm married."

"Oh...uh...ok um....nevermind then..."

Sadly he walks back to his buddies who he just got shot down in front of.

"Damnit Ginger you assured me I would not be hit on by strange men!"

"I'm sorry! I don't know why that happened."

Cant a girl come to a strip club to watch her friend take her top off, have a soda, and not talk to guys? Not a possibility? Oh, sorry, didn't realize that you had to be some easy lesbian who's waiting to be rescued by the right man to sit in a strip club. Its JUST a strip club, it aint a whore house. And its a bar, and its a hang out. And I'm not tipping anyone. Do I look like I even fit in here?

Truth is, my knockers are bigger than all of the fake ones up there put together.

Ginger gets called up on stage. I love her stage name, its perfect. They call her Ginger Snaps because she snaps her stripper shoes together or snaps them on the stage. It rocks. And her pole work rocks. She's so talented. She can climb the pole with her legs, I love it. And her floor show rocks too.

The club was pretty much empty, so I sat with her and we just chatted. There was a pervy Mexican guy who was looking at her so I told her she should go get a dance from him. Now, I say Mexican, and you may think I'm being a stereotypical bitch, but Mexican guys lick, and are possessive. That is how they act in strip clubs. Bare with me.

So she goes over, she does a handstand on his lap and puts her legs over his shoulders backwards. She dances, and I'm watching this guy, when she grinds him this guy is getting all horny from it. He's licking toward her, which sometimes she does get full on licked, but he just licked at her. She stood up and he pulled her back down, so she stood up again and started to walk away. He was mad at her. He wanted her to stay, they get possessive. Every time.

She's sitting with me at our table, and a few minutes later, he whistles "to her." Like a waitress or when you call a dog. She said we should go outside. He was saying something in Spanish as we were leaving, but whatever, Ginger needed a smoke anyhow. I do not smoke at all, but I stood with her on the balcony. That's where I met Jim.

Jim believes in aliens. Jim thinks that his purpose in life is to go from strip club to strip club in San Bernardino and enlighten people about what earthquakes REALLY are, and he has to do it all from a distance of about 4 inches from your face. That whole 1 foot box of personal space? He totally violates it to talk to me about my purse.

We went back in and sat by some guys. It was the manager of some car dealership and his buddy. They would talk off and on to us, US, only because I was with her and of course, only kinky lesbians who are waiting to be rescued go to strip clubs. Ginger asked him if he wanted a dance and he said no thank you. She goes back up on stage and does another routine to techno. She likes dancing to techno. She's also the best dancer there. Of course he asks me if I'm doing anything "tomorrow" and I tell him that my husband is probably going to bring me mothers day flowers or something. Uh oh...married...with children. He turns around and talks to his friend for a while, then of course turns back to me and asks the question of the day,

"So what does your husband think about you being in a strip club?"

"My husband is fine with the fact that my best friend is a stripper. He's fine with me going to her place of work to watch her dance, and if he could be here, he would. He's also fine with me sitting here talking to you, or anyone, and not going home with them."

Never talked to me again. In chat rooms, this is the equal to 56/m/AL. Once they realize that they cant be the knight in shining armor to rescue me from my lesbianism, its a moot point.

I hung out and bullshitted with her, and the other strippers. We went on the balcony and I tried calling Sara. Sara never showed. I have no comment. Not because I'm not upset that she didn't come, I just don't think it would matter. It never does whenever I comment on it, so Ill just not comment on it. As the night moved on, people came into the club, and I watched some REAL lesbians get lap dances from Madison and Starry. I also saw one of those lesbians, who I called "Prom dress Barbie" go down into the parking lot and lift up her shirt and flash everyone on the balcony. She was so drunk. A few guys floated dollar bills down to her, and she was like "A dollar? That's IT?" Then the 3 bouncers came out, but not to bust anyone, but just to see the action. Her boobs were fake as hell too. Then she lifted her dress and showed us the ass. It had a kiss mark on it. That's a great idea. Get a tattoo like that and show it off to a bunch of guys at a strip club.

Then there was this other lady who wanted a dance from Ginger. She talked like this: "CanIpickthesongbecauseIonlylikesomemusic. LikeIlikeRobZombieandlikehardcore!" She was barefoot. She explained to us that hershoesmakeherpantslooklikehighwaters and that whenshewearsthemshelooksdumb. Lady, you're in a strip club...people are not looking at YOUR FEET. Bouncers of course told her to put them back on, she took them off, got yelled at again, dumb bitch. And of course she then couldn't find her money, but then found it for Asia. I would have found the money for Asia too, shes hot. Asia is 42, but she looks 30. That's impressive. She likes to dance to a song that says "me love you long time."

Bitch got thrown out of the club for taking off her shoes and then trying to dance WITH the dancer. You cant do that, you cant dance with the dancers. "Fuckyouyoufucks! Getfuckedyoufuckingsuck!"

The rest of the night I was bored. Ginger's boyfriend came. He irritates me. He was upset with her for not making enough money. He was upset with her that they came to California, it was a waste of time. He couldn't even let me take the freeway I wanted to take home.

"Take the 60, its faster."

"I cant drive the 60 at night, I have poor vision and I cant take the narrow parts of the badlands."

"The 60 is faster."

"I cant drive at night very well and I cant take the 60"

"Do you need me to drive for you?"

Um, you're drunk. I'm just blind.

He made comments to me all night that I looked uncomfortable. No, I just don't fit in. I got asked 3 times "what my husband thinks about me being there," and I'm not a lesbian in need of rescuing. And now I'm sitting here listening to you yell at my friend because nobody in the club wants any dances.

"With your friend as my witness, this weekend meant nothing. We shouldn't have come here."

I'm sorry asshole, but this weekend did mean something to me. And her. And I was comfortable until you got there and angered me. None of the girls were making money that night, because none of the guys HAD money. Ginger got to be with her friends and family this weekend, doesn't that mean anything to you? You got to see your mom too, does that mean anything to you? Nope. Just money. Just the $800 they would have made had they stayed in Arizona.

But I didn't say that. I was not in the mood to even begin to argue with this person. It was 2:30 in the morning and I know that to him, the other stuff wouldn't matter anyway. Ginger didn't even say that she had a good day either. If she wasn't going to say "Hey, I liked coming out here to be with my friends" then I sure as hell wouldn't. To each her own. She might have enjoyed it, but she wouldn't say otherwise.

Also, this warmed my cockles. I read this in my then best friend Sara's blog and copy/pasted it to mine, and now I'm copy/pasting it here again even though we're no longer friends.

From February 24, 2006

My dad was talking about her the other day and he was like, "you know, I like that Jessie friend of yours."

"Why dad?'

"Because she has one of those minds where she isn't afraid to take a chance, but she also knows when to cut her losses. She's gonna be a millionaire some day."

The Chain Smoking And The Racist Music And The God Damned Chuck E Cheese

Loook-ie THERE. *high pitched whistle that drops down in intonation gradually.* Now that man there is one de-voted daddy. Got his kids names tattooed right there on his arm. My name is that little postage stamp on his ring finger. That's right, I said it. David breaks the name rule because fuck you, that's why.

But of course you came to my blog because you wanted to hear a story, and you know that not even a trip to the grocery store goes without a story, so of course when David walked in the door after getting his new tats and he says "I think I have something for your blog," you know there's going to be a good story...because we can't just have something normal happen around here, no. Spooning becomes orgies, platypi are left in bathrooms as gifts. There always has to be some kind of ridiculousness or drama or lulz. And today, David went to go get a tattoo done by a guy whose wife is one of his customers at The Cans because she said he does 'em cheap and he does 'em real good at their home studio.

Cool beans, correctamundo?

Well, he shows up and it's this shitty apartment in Banning, and the guy's daughter is out walking their pit bull puppy. The man is large and balding and his beer belly indicates that he's 13 months pregnant with twins. He stomps out his cig on the sidewalk and he looks at David and says, "C'mon back."

The "studio" that the woman said was really clean and looked just like a dentist office was really just a sectioned off corner of their kitchen.

This is what I warned him about. I said, "If it looks like you're going to end up with an infection in your arm, run. Run far and never look back." The man, smoking another cigarette shows him a book of his work, and David is quite impressed with a tattoo that he'd done of a dead viking raping a pretty young woman in a sun dress. She was screaming and there was blood, it was pretty fucking sweet looking he says.

The guy, he has gloves and new boxes of needles. He has a new little cap to dip the ink in, and he says to David, "Ya married?"

"Yes sir."

"What color's your wife?" the man asks incredulously.

"...um...white?"

"Okay then, that's good. Now, I like to listen to racist music while I work, so is that okay with you?"

Not wanting to upset the big scary dude with the needle David says, "Sure, um...no problem."

The man is chain smoking while focusing on the thin and elegant letters of our children's names, and a skin head band is singing a song about a massacre at a zoo and everybody bathing in nigger blood. Then Alvin and the Chipmunks came on and sang a prayer for Christmas not to be late. David gave the guy $50 and then he was out of there. He came home and said to me, "I think I have something for your blog..."

Later on we went to hook up with Miss at the Chuck E Cheese in San Bernardino, but not the ghetto one, the nice one on Hospitality Lane. It was snowing as we were leaving the Beaumont, but once we got down to the lower valley out toward Redlands it was relatively dry. Fun ensued at the crappy pizza place where the kids can be some kids. Crappy pictures were taken due to low lighting.

Hey, you haven't seen Ty in a while!



Her fucking brat...

You might want to hover around Miss's blog and even pester her to post the video of Wade climbing onto the virtual reality machine like an unsupervised little red headed brat.

Chuck E Cheese is basically like a corral for children. My kid climbing on that machine wasn't as bad as the number of kids who begged David for tokens. Right, because did their parents ever not warn them about asking strange men for things? One of those little sadistic little nosepickers came right up to me and Miss and begged for tokens. Where's his mama? And speaking of sick sadistic little nosepickers...

The Convenience Of Cellular Telephones

So my idea was to take pictures with my cell phone camera because I thought it was a good challenge since it's a lower resolution camera, and unlike my Canon which does a lot of the work for me, it's a very basic no frills device. It started yesterday when I was at In and Out.

While I'm waiting in line for 1/2 hour to get my food (totally worth it) my buddy Greg calls me and says he wants to hang out that night. Greg is not Steppy, Greg is just Greg. We were friends in school from 7th grade on and we used to build computers together and take circuitry classes and he used to give me comic books about hamsters. Last night he brought me a stuffed platypus and we discussed anime tentacle monster porn and other various things. He was here till like 1:00 in the morning. That guy is such a fucking geek, I love it. And I love my platypus.

Then today I'm at World Market and I see a wine glass with chalkboard paint on it that says "snickle fritz..."

...and one of my internet friends named Gin sends me a picture message that I wont post here because it's icky, and I'm like "what the hell is this?" She informs me that they're burn marks on her back from falling asleep on the heating pad. Yeouch! I told her to get one with safety features that shut it off after 20 minutes, because I have one that does that. I mean that's serious business! She asked me to mention it to you because she wants to warn everyone that you can burn yourself if you sleep on a heating pad all night. Hard core.

So we go to Target because David needed pants and the kids need clothes kinda. We run into David's brother but at first we didn't recognize him because he cut like a foot and a half off of his hair, and he's going through some kind of "new girlfriend/forgotten teenage years crisis" so he's all covered in body jewelry and bleached hair and cool emo kid clothes. Then we're in the parking lot...

...And Lexie texts me to say that she wants me to tell the internet that she's depressed and away from her blog, teenage angst, etc. So consider that you're warning. Glad to have helped out.

We get back to Beaumont and head over to Chili's and have a surprisingly delicious meal and David got to try the beer from that local brewery I mentioned, Hangar 24.

The beer was delicious by the way. He tried the alt bier, next time he's going for the orange wheat. And while we're eating I get a call from Steppy.

"I just called to tell you that ♫I never meant to be so bad to you, one thing I said that I would never do♫"

"Steppy..."

"♫One look from you and I would fall from grace, and that would wipe this smile right from my face♫"

"Steppy..."

"♫Do you remember when we used to dance, and incidence arose from circumstance, one thing lead to another we were young...♫"

"Kay, yeah Steppy it was the--"

"♫It was the heat of the moment, telling me what your heart meant♫"

"Yeah. Kay--"

"♫Heat of the moment shone in your eyyyyyyyyyyyes♫"

"Kay is that all you wanted to tell me?"

"Yeah."

"Kay. Goodnight Step. See you some time this week."

"...bye."

I'd turn off my phone when David is home on the weekends but I think I'd miss out on a ton of blog fodder.

Busying Ourselves

Since turning 21 David has picked up a new hobby. Beer tasting.

Now, there is a distinct difference between just drinking beer and beer tasting. This is not buying a six pack of Bud and getting buzzed for the sake of getting buzzed. In fact, if you presented David with a Bud he would cringe at you and tell you that Bud isn't technically "beer" because it is made with rice, furthermore the mass marketed American ales are pumped full of chemicals that aren't really very good for you at all.

He's read a few books. He's an "enthusiast" now.

When David wants a beer it requires driving either to a liquor store where they let you buy singles or driving all the way down to Redlands to hit up BevMo and World Market. Why not just go to Stater's?

A. They don't carry a super large variety of Belgian and Trappist ales and wheat beers which is what he likes.

B. They don't let you buy just one beer, and if he's tasting something new he doesn't want to buy a whole six pack and have it end up being nasty, or even if it is good it's a waste to have five other beers because he could be tasting different ones.

In other words, he's not drinking beer just to drink beer. He's experiencing it and critiquing them.

But he does weird things too like dumping a can of Guinness in my chili. I say that's bullshit, but he says it's delicious. I think people who dump beer into things are just looking for things to dump beer into.

Delicious cake? Delicious BEER cake?

Don't touch my fucking delicious cake.

I cant stand beer. I haven't met an alcoholic drink that I've liked, and when he drinks some of these beers that have chunks all on the bottom of them his breath smells like paste and bread dough. I wont make out with a man who smells like paste and bread dough. He only drinks it on Sunday nights after the kids go to bed and he'll only have two at the most.

This is what you'd call a hobby.

I'm cool with it. I hold the personal opinion that alcohol is unnecessary and I tend to look down upon those who drink it because I think that it's a waste of time to alter your state of consciousness for any reason. That's just my opinion, I could be wrong. I also don't nap because I think it's a waste of time. But I also see that David isn't doing it to get drunk or even buzzed, he's doing it because he's interested in beer. So much in fact that he wants to start brewing it here at home, and I'm really not on board with that because then my house will smell like paste and bread dough for all the wrong reasons. Plus I'm still mad that he ruined my chili.

I am happiest when I can draw comfort from predictability. When I cant predict how my awesome fucking chili will taste because he's ruined it with beer, I get upset.

There's a new local brewery though and he's all stoked to try their beer, so he wants us to go eat at Chili's. I don't particularly care for Chili's, but I guess a night out's a night out.

This is the equivalent to taking David with me to the yarn store. David knits and can do math in his head to figure out how many skeins I'll need for whatever project, and he likes me to knit things for him but he's not really into it. Like I'm sure I'll find SOMETHING to eat at Chili's, or at least choke down even though I'm not ecstatic about going, and perhaps I'll try to talk him into one of the other locations that we can get the beer from.

Without television you pick up hobbies. When he's here on his days off he wants something to do, and since he cant go chasing butterflies in fields all the time like he would like to do, beer tasting is kind of a cool hobby. It keeps him busy because there's the selection process and the tasting process, sometimes buying the correct glass for the beer, and then reading more about the beer online or in his beer book. It's not just drinking a beer.

I like being a bit of a Jack of all trades, which is why I have the photography and the knitting, and now I've turned my writing hobby into a career. I even felt a few months ago like I needed to "collect" something which is how I decided to start collecting Poppets. (Just ordered a few more, too.) Of course I loved making music in high school even though I was never that great at it, but I put all of my time into it and really enjoyed that hobby, and after busting out my bone the other night to show you how ridiculous that instrument choice was, I decided that I missed playing something so clownish and so I have decided to pick up a new instrument and learn at least one song on it.

Its small, its comical in a sense, and you can buy them for under $30 (though there are certainly ones that are in the $100+ range.)

See if you can guess what it is.

Sploded

In all their lives, my kids have each had two ear infections. Ty got his first one when he was three, and Wade got one when he was two, and they both ended up with them this week. That's pretty spectacular when I think back to all the sons of bitches who wagged their fingers at me for not breastfeeding, saying that I'd give them nothing but ear infections and low IQ scores with that awful formula I was giving them.

Funny that they've only gotten the few ear infections they had AFTER they stopped bottle feeding, and even more funny that Ty has an IQ of 132. Yeah, he's smarter than David and I both.

So I don't really know much about ear infections, and googling it just brings up a lot about warm compresses and rinsing the ear out with hydrogen peroxide, so that's how I treated it. Ty's been fine, but Wade was going in and out of being lethargic and whiny for the past few days.

Last night David wasn't scheduled to work at the Pizza Place for some unknown/retarded reason, and when he tried to call in the owner was there and of course he didn't want David working because it's just another mouth to pay. (The dude's a pretty cheap bastard.) Anyway, it was like he was meant to stay home, because when Wade woke up David went to go take care of him, for some reason by the slightest chance he happened to glance inside Wade's ear, like way inside his ear. He brings Wade over to me and tells me to look, and at first I just think it's all dark like you'd expect, but he said to look harder and that's when I realized that I was looking at dried blood.

Ears's aint supposed to be bleedin' that way. David took him to the ER.

Turns out, Wade's ear drum exploded.

Apparently what happens is the thing gets so full of pus and infection that it eventually ruptures. The kind of good thing about it is that the pressure is gone and therefore he isn't really in any pain, but the bad thing is that he's got a hole in his ear drum and he might need surgery.

He's on antibiotics and painkillers and sleepy time cold medicine, like the good shit that they don't sell OTC because it's the good shit (and also you can make drugs from it.) He sees the doctor Monday and they'll determine whether he needs surgery or not. I'm a little weary though because our doctor is kind of a quack. But we're scheduled at the Grand Terrace office so we might see one of his colleagues, I don't know. If anyone has any experience with sploded ear drums please educate me so I know what's right and what's wrong, because the Googles sometimes give misinformation, you know.

On a weird note, the background investigator called David today and he was really nice. Now this guy scares the Jesus out of ME even and I wasn't even being investigated. When he was here in December he asked David a question and when David didn't answer right away because he was busy filling out a form I tried to answer it, and the dude goes "Mr. Terwilliger you're going to have to ask your bride to stop talking to me, I cant go by her answers." He was the big scary serious business cop in a 5'3" package. Laughing about moonshine with the Romanian neighbor in one call, and then upset with me for answering David's cell phone. "This is HIS phone, why did YOU answer it?"

Uh...cuz...he left it on the counter and...sorry officer...I um...shouldn't have answered it I guess.

But today he said "Listen, can I give you some advice?" And he told David to make at least one minimum payment on each of the medical bills that are outstanding on his credit. He said that he just got his credit report back today and even though his credit had nothing to do with his disqualification he thought David should know that in the future it will be a major red flag to any agency, and that if he just makes one small payment on each claim he will have shown any investigator who looks into his background that he's at least made an effort. See, we thought because they were just medical and that he's never had a credit card or anything that makes him irresponsible, just poor and uninsured, we thought he could slide. The guy though, he was real nice, and he said work on getting that fixed before applying again, and David thanked him profusely. The guy sounded like just a guy, and not a scary jarhead cop.

It was like he was saying, "Dude, we got you on a totally bogus reason and I'm sorry but I had to follow procedure..."

It was like he was saying, "Dude, see you in two years, right?"

In two years if he hasn't been hired by anyone else, I'm sure he'll try again, but something appeared today. An option. Something he's thought about before, and is thinking about again.

Fish and Game.

Yes, they're cops.

Two reasons why this would be win. #1 David is a complete nature freak. He fishes, and if he had the equipment he would hunt (in other words he has nothing against it and he could plug ol' Bambi between the eyes if it meant delicious snacks for months to come.) #2 is he's got a guy. Like a guy who can be all, "Yeah, that kid who applied? Let him through. Thanks John." *dusts off hands.*

David wants to put the POST schooling option off. I still say he does POST because I think it's a waste of time to put all his eggs in one basket. He had all his eggs in one basket with CHP but then again he didn't waste any time because he couldn't apply for any agencies till he turned 21 anyway, which he's only been for two months. If anything the last year in the application process with CHP has been a lesson, and with the helpful advice of the investigator...

I still say he does POST because it's like applying with several agencies at once, and they're all for cities around here including Beaumont which he knows. You apply for county sheriff and it's going to put all your eggs in one basket. Fish and Game is eggs in one basket. POST is eggs in like 12 baskets, and at first you're like why do I have so many damn baskets for my eggs when they come in cartons but then you get hired on somewhere and you forget about all the other baskets.

He cant assume that knowing this guy will make him a shoe in, and PS this guy is like The Real Deal and like the ultimate connection since he was a federal agent and like way high up at the top before his tragic accident.

I think David is trying to be careful with his eggs instead of throwing them around town like a teenager bent on vandalism.

Now I'm just kind of hungry for eggs.

I don't know about this basket business, because all my baskets have yarn in them.

Guess that says a lot about me.

PS I was mentioned on a huge fucking website called American Chronicle.

Live Like A Hero, Die Like A Hero

SHAZAAAAAAAAM!

One of the Stater's kids has a brother who is a cop. I call this kid Princess Beauty because he looks like a girl with a shaved head. That's not to say that he's a pretty boy, pretty boys are still boys. This guy is a chick all around, like if I was a lesbian, I'd hit that shit...with my car.

Anyway, Princess Beauty used to run in the mornings with David once upon a time, and David kind of got sick of him because he just felt like he was hanging out with a 12 year old. Actually, Beauty is older than he is by almost a year, but David has a really hard time relating to people his own age. They'd be running and Beauty'd go, "So I really like this girl in my English class. Do you think I should ask her out to lunch?"

David responds, "Um...I don't know," because David doesn't relate to that. David was married at 16. He never dealt with awkward shit like asking girls out on lunch dates. He was with me, and we would be like "Yeah, let's go grab some lunch." It was never a thing. And it's not that he doesn't like Beauty, it's just that they have nothing in common besides both wanting to be cops. The difference is that if you slapped a badge on David tomorrow, he'd be ready for it. You slap a badge on Beauty, and he'd probably giggle a lot then go talk to his friends about some hot girl.

David will be at The Cans, and he'll look out and see that all of his trash barrels will be knocked over. He'll think, "What the hell?" and then Beauty will pop out from behind some corner in his Stater's green apron and his Stater's ugly brown striped tie giggling like a school girl.

"Tee hee! Now you have to pick them all up! Isn't that funny David?"

Remember that Beauty is 22.

The other day Beauty skips up to him with glee carrying a bullet proof vest that he got from his brother. "Put it on!" he tells David. David does. And then he punches David in the chest. Hard.

"Ow! What in the hell did you do that for?" David says.

"Did that hurt?"

"Yeah it did. So how's your hand? You just basically punched a metal wall, idiot."

"...It's fine," Beauty says, and holds back tears. His fist is in a ball still like he's clenching it to alleviate the pain of punching a fucking bullet proof vest.

I tell David that maybe he shouldn't be friends with Beauty, and he says he's not but it's hard to get away from him when they work in the same parking lot. I tell him to just call the damn cops if he shows up and tries to show you his brother's taser, because you KNOW that's what's coming next.

David is hoping to get picked up by a few cities when he does POST. He would love to work Beaumont because he kind of owns this town. Banning isn't very glorious but he'll bust some fucking hookers and drug dealers there. Still though, his top two picks would be Beaumont or Palm Springs. In Palm Springs he'll get to wrestle with drunken celebrities and go to all the nudist colonies and day spas. It's 120 in the summers but who cares? The cruiser has air conditioning! The only thing I worry about with Palm Springs is it's the AIDS capital of the world and if he gets the wrong person's blood on him out there...well...it's higher risk there, is what I mean. Serious business.

Someone suggested that David come up with a mantra, something to repeat to himself every morning in front of the mirror, or something to keep his mind on track when he's running or whatever. Sort of how I have the words "Create" and "Inspire" on my walls in my living room along with copies of my novels mounted on display. I'm asking you today to come up with some mantras for David. Something to help him focus on his goals and give him what he needs to keep going.

The only one I can think of is "Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down," but I think that's been used before.

Or maybe I could knit him some wristbands and he can put them together and go SHAZAAAAAAM!

Or maybe you can come up with some and leave them in the comments. If it has numbers in it that's even better because David is very left brained and remembers number sequences well.

Right now his mantra is just, "Honey, get in here."

"What?"

"Just come in here."

"Are you in the bathroom?"

"Yes."

"And you have your shirt off?"

"Yes."

"And you're going to show me your muscles like you do every day?"

"...Just come in here."

So can you come up with something better? Or are we not going to find much more awesome than THESE GUNS, sir.

Spit On Him Like A Gypsy!

David woke up in good spirits. I heard him being all happy toward the kids instead of groggy and such like usual, and then he came in to ask me how I was feeling (we all kind of have colds right now.) He knows that he got very very far in the process for someone with no college, no military, and basically being the youngest youngin around. He's fine. He was the weakest link. He's accepted it and he's moved on, because you've just got to get back on the horse, there's really nothing more to it.

Well...there is something more to it.

Looking around at the other applicants that were there, it was already clear to him that he would be cut loose. His recruiter warned him that they were looking for particular types of people, and those particular types of applicants were all there with happy grins.

I'm not going to come out in say it, BUT, let's just call this a Dutch boy fail and leave it at that. It is what it is, he had a discrepancy as well, and nobody is upset about it.

The neighbor however is pissed.

I don't know if you read this epic Sally quote over on my quotes blog, but I emailed her and told her about what the Stater's guy wrote in his file and how that essentially got David dropped, and this is how she responded:

why the heck he wrote that?? what a stupid ass,,he ruined his chance for what? i hate people like this....i hope he will pay for it!!! and when that happens .. i hope he;ll knw what is that he;s paying for...oh man..i would go to him and spit on his ugly face. if he wouldve done that to me...after all the hopes and dreams ...or to my man,...i would go there in the middle of the store and make a fuul of himself.and spit on him like a gypsy..nothing to loose...

I swear to god that I lol'd for 10 minutes straight. That is going to be my new catchphrase, "spit on him like a gypsy." I don't know what that means, whether it be that gypsies spit or that Sally spit on gypsies back in Romania, but it makes me laugh hard. I love her rage and broken English. Nothing to lose.

I guess I can tell you this now, when the investigator called Sally because she was one of his references, there was lulz. Sally-type lulz. When he called he tried to pronounce her name, and of course Sally is not her real name, she has a pretty Romanian name, and after a few stumbles she says "Nevermind, you're not going to get it right, just tell me what you want."

So they're talking and he asks if David abuses alcohol.

"Let me tell you a story," she says. "You know what moonshine is?"

Trust me, this ends up as win.

"We make this moonshine back in Romania from plums called Ţuică, and I have some, lots of some in bottles. So I offer to David, and he says 'no because I is not old enough to drink with the alcohol,' and I try to get him just to taste, and he still not. Even with nobody who could tell on him because is just at my apartment, he did not drink. I thinking that is integrity, no?"

He asks her, "How old are you?"

She says, "What in the hell is the matter with you? You do not ask woman her age!"

"Oh...um..." nervously fumbles, "well um...are you...close to his age then?"

"Closer to his wife's age."

"Oh that's right, his wife is older than him. I don't have the paperwork on me at the moment but--"

"She's 25! She's a COUGAR!"

The cop lol'd. Hard. And they ended up exchanging email addresses. She offered to make things right by inviting the investigator over for moonshine, and I had to beg her not to call him, because she was downright serious about it.

My blog friends who I've talked to on the phone or have seen in real life have all said "That neighbor of yours is a trip." Yeah. She's a goddamn trip all right.

Today we are getting him enrolled in POST, and to go a little more into detail about this it's the Peace Officer Standard Training. There are three levels, level three is the first and it is the same class that an armed guard would take. It's about firearm safety and such. Then phase two is for sworn peace officers, and phase three is more intense than that, plus somewhere along the line you get to take "drivers ed" where they teach you to do 360's and fun shit like that. The whole thing, if nobody sponsors him, will cost $1500+. He may have to buy his own gun if an agency who wants him doesn't buy it for him, so that's where the + comes in.

The classes are mid week nights, plus alternating Saturdays. This of course means that there's a conflict with The Cans because he works Saturdays there. The thing is, they loves him over at The Cans and because he's been there so long there might be an option for hiring on a person to work the site two days a month. That person could very well be me, or it could be one of his bums, we'll see...if they even let him do that.

There is another course that is shorter but it's more expensive and basically he wont be able to work because it's full time.

And just to reiterate, I don't work because we don't have anyone to watch our kids, plus even if we could afford to pay for daycare we aren't comfortable with strangers handling our kids. We aren't even comfortable about most of our family handling our kids.

We don't know how we're going to do it, but we're going to do it. If he just so happens to get the financial aid, our savings can help supplement our income. Otherwise we are using what we have to pay for school. The more books I sell, the better, because this is going to be quite awkward for some time. We have a very narrow margin to work with income to cost of living ratio wise but we just have to do it. There's no way around it. We tried to go around it and that didn't work out, so this is our option.

He IS going to be a cop.

RIP CHP

So what fucking happened? Right? Because isn't David like the cleanest most dedicated 21 year old that you know? Wasn't he such a shoe in?

He cried in a Del Taco parking lot for a while, and then came home and explained it to me.

The part that you dont know, first of all, is that he spiked on his lie detector a few weeks ago. Now, these things aren't 100% accurate, because for example a few of the things that he spiked on were "have you ever driven under the influence of alcohol or narcotics." Of course he hasn't, and when he was asked the question again it went away. What they couldn't get to go away was "have you ever been disciplined at work," to which he answered no to multiple times and spiked every time. They couldn't clear it. We figured out later that, oh yeah, he was almost fired that day that the car was stolen with his work computer inside and realized that it must have been that, but he didn't say anything to his investigator.

So the background investigator looked into it.

What he found was that Stater's is very very good about keeping records on every bitty thing. So the investigator found several incidents where David didn't clean an aisle, or that he was asked twice to do something, etc. Plus the fact that he called off four times in the last month that he was employed there, which I distinctly remember him doing because it was when he first got the job at The Cans and Staters was scheduling him for conflicting times with that job. Which explains why it's reported that his supervisor said that he called off at Staters and saw him working out at The Cans (which is in the same parking lot as Staters.)

Lot of good putting two and a half years into a company does when the supervisor basically sets you up to have a bad report upon leaving the place.

Another discrepancy is that he once applied with Riverside Sheriff's and dropped out, but Riverside reports "he didn't inform us that he was dropping, he just dropped out."

That's not so much a discrepancy as it is twisting words around.

What it comes down to is the investigator said he was lying about his employment history. David didn't lie, he told the truth as he remembered it, but if his memories are false compared to what's on paper, then what is there to do?

There are three sides to every story: yours, mine, and the truth.

And so the investigator told him this was the end of the road. And off the record he told David, "You're 21. Wait a few years man, you're still so young."

Kay, except that David isn't 21, he's like 35 and he's got kids to raise.

I cant say that I disagree with his decision though. I mean, no it was not David's intention to withhold information because who is seriously stupid enough to try to lie to the goddamn cops? But, when they said thorough they meant thorough, and what David should have done is gone to Stater's headquarters and looked into what they had written about him. Then again, had he even thought that there was going to be a grey area he'd of done that, but of course woulda shoulda coulda...what it comes down to is that it's over and done with. It isn't funny and it isn't fair.

So now what?

Very simply he just goes to his next opportunity. We have the money to put him through the standard Peace Officer academy which is 18 months long, so that is what he is going to do. He isn't wasting any time, and he's already gotten the information on it. Thing is, it means an employment change which may ultimately mean that unless I can write us into having a substantial savings account I will be the one who is employed. Depending on whether or not I can get daycare from a family member who has sort of offered to provide it.

The thing is that CHP was the easiest way to get to where he wants to be because it's paid. Nearly every other agency makes you pay. There are some that do not, but it depends on whether or not they're hiring. Then again, CHP is so hard to get into because of this fact, and because it is literally the best of the best of the best. Remember, of 200+ sized classes, only 15 cadets graduate.

If he does the POST academy, the agencies will come find him and put their patches on him and take over paying for it. It's longer, but the good thing is that he will come home to sleep at night and he's only going to Riverside as opposed to Sac. Also there is a great possibility that he could be picked up by Beaumont because they're hiring and they really like to hire fresh little baby faced boys like him.

I still swear that there's a Logan's Run thing going on here with the cops, and they're all blown up into a ball of flames and sparks when they hit 30. There is no other explanation for how stunning and adorable they are on their little Segways. I graduated with four of them. Yeah. Four. Of them.

Perhaps you think it's too soon, since he only just today got rejected, but I've been dealing with hardcore rejection my whole life. I know what to do. Rejection can be one of the most perfect times in your life for self reflection because when you lose an opportunity or are faced with losing something that you wanted really badly, you can either cry in the parking lot of Del Taco all day or you can suck it the fuck up and try to get in with another agency. It's that simple. Maybe that's harsh, but he didn't lose anything here. Everything is the same, he still has his jobs, he still has me and the kids. The point is that sulking isn't going to get him his badge any faster, and he needs to continue to apply himself if he wants to get anywhere. He can either stop running and get all fat again or he can keep running and bulk up more.

I've been depressed for two months. Do I let it show? No, because I dont have time for that kind of bullshit.

Like Steppy said, "They lost YOU. You did not lose them. They lost YOU."

Of course they're making a big mistake but then again I dont blame the investigator for his decision. And now it's time to call up Stater's HQ and find out exactly what is in that file. Because seriously, if the only things that are in it are from the last month that he was there out of the two and a half years that he worked there, we will know that Gilbert the Meat Department Manager is a prick.

In fact, David tells me that that IS the case and so I am encouraging to confirm these bitches for brawl and get that shit stricken from his record there. How on earth can you suddenly, after two and a half years, become such a major retard when EVERY other employer you've had has nothing but excellent things to say about you? His supervisor at The Cans gave a teary eyed speech about how great he is. So could it be entirely possible that the liar here is Stater's?

But let's not dwell. Let's just move on and get it fixed.

California, rest in peace. But David lives on. He's going to be just fine. Tip your pizza guy and separate your aluminum from your plastic.

End Of The Road

David has been disqualified from CHP. Apparently Stater's gave him some write ups as he was leaving that he wasn't informed of and his background investigator found that out for him.

He can't reapply again for two years.

I'm actually not sure what to do today.

That is all.

Censorship In Books?

So Debi, who is quasi-related to me, asked if her 13 year old daughter could read Bombshell if she skips the sex scenes.

That is a hard question for me personally to answer.

On one hand, the book is about strippers, hookers, and cops. Even if you skip the "sex scenes," you'll still run into a lot of sex sprinkled throughout the book. On the whole it's like NC-17...if not R.

On the other hand, I dont believe that books should be censored. If you can read those words, then they're yours for the taking. And seeing the shit on television and in movies these days, you won't read much in a book that's worse than seeing a guy's face being blown off with a shotgun on live TV.

Did anyone else watch that chase? The one where the dude set his truck on fire with his dog inside? I was watching Pinky and the Brain when that came on. Ruined my damn day...and desensitized me to violence at a young age.

I'm reading Fight Club again for maybe the fifth time. It's my favorite book, and it's also the book that Victor's step mom was reading to him when he was in a coma. That's kind of how it found its way back into my To Be Read pile.

"It's brutal," she said. I think it's genius.

I read that brutal book for the first time back before it was a movie because Victor handed it to me and said "If you dont understand this book then you'll never amount to anything as a writer." The book changed my life.

And I used to read whatever sex books I could get my hands on. The Sleeping Beauty series by Anne Rice. I actually hate the second two books which I read as an adult, but I read book one in 10th grade and thought it was stunning. Not to mention Raptor Red, the book about the lesbian dinosaur sisters who totally do it on the beach. I couldn't believe that was in my school library. Awesome.

Nearly every song on the radio is about sex in some way. Or drugs.

Not that sex in books is the only thing that people try to censor. Look at Catcher in the Rye. Steal This Book. I mean I do admit that I would like to write something so controversial that it pisses someone the fuck off, which I think I accomplished with Golden Dawn which is best described as "cold and violent." Bombshell takes it to a more entertaining level and is a more comfortable read, but is it suitable for children?

This is my official answer, and your opinions may vary so please leave them in the comments section below.

I believe that a 13 year old who already knows about sex, knows about violence, and has watched cable television can read a book like Bombshell, and I say that with confidence because the book has a strong moral message. Marina is a hero, very strong willed and very much a good example because yes she is in this horrible situation but she strives to not only prevent it from getting any worse but she also tries to get herself out of it. The book is not raunchy for the sake of being raunchy, it's showing you the underbelly of a life none of us want to live. It's teaching you something that you may not know about.

The book is about prejudice and circumstance and it is a lesson.

Is that something that a 13 year old could read? Well, I still prefer that mom read it first to make the final decision, but my vote is a yes. There is a lot to pick up in this book than just hot naked cops with ginormous sausages.

I can also say with confidence that it is much less violent than the bible. By far.

I'm not interested in being well received or not well received. When you start thinking like that, you're finished. The only interesting question for me is whether I can convey certain things I'm trying to convey more effectively through the medium of fictional narrative than through trying to write stuff that is argumentative. A good story should make you laugh, and a moment later break your heart. Bombshell does this.

Or, you can just wait for my Young-Adult novel that is about school shootings and vampires...not like Edward Cullen vampires but kids who slice each other's wrists and lick the blood so they can call themselves "vampires" and give each other AIDS and shit. That book wont have any sex or cussing in it, but it will still appeal to the adult audiences as well. You'll see that one either in December or April, depending.

Now, I dont let my boys watch regular television, but I will let them read books with questionable content when they're old enough. What about you? What do you think about censorship in books?