New! Safety wrapped! Convenient! Eliminates breakage when shipping your Christmas Kitteh!
Packaged rawr!
Photo Copyright 2011, Karen Fayeth and taken with my iPhone 4s and using the Camera+ app. Subject to the Creative Commons license in the far right column of this page.
So there I am this morning, sitting in the harsh florescent light of the hospital white doctors office, with a paper not-really-functional garment wrapped around my mostly nekkid body waiting for the dr to show up.
I won’t go into too many details, suffice to say, this appointment was what I like to call the Lube, Oil and Filter change variety. The kind only girls have to attend. Is that descriptive enough?
So as I sat there a’waiting the inevitable prodding from a stranger, I tried to remain calm. A few deep breaths were at hand. Maybe some humming.
Then as I relaxed, my eyes began to wander to the décor of the room. I mean, there’s nothing else to do, right?
There on one wall was a BMI chart and a flyer about flu shots. Over there, a startlingly graphic chart of the female reproductive system. That’s always worth a few minutes of “well that’s just…weird….”
And then my eyes traveled to another wall and landed on this little piece of art:
My paper gown crinkled loudly as I shrunk back in horror.
Oh. My. God.
Ok, ok, look. I realize I’ve not had the opportunity to give birth in this little life of mine, but I am over 40 and fairly familiar with how all the parts work. I’m not naïve about the female body…….
But let me tell you this: that little candy mold looking thing is NOT encouraging any desire for birthin’ no babies inside of me at all.
That circle in the lower left corner? That thing is as big as a bread plate. I don’t want no watermelon coming though my bread plate! Hell, I don’t even want something in that part of my body to become as big as a bread plate!
And you know that the progression from the top left all the way to the right then down and back to the bottom left is going to hurt. You can’t take an orifice the size of dime and make it a bread plate without some massive amount of pain.
Personally, I think that when each little girl reaches that milestone in her life where she “becomes a woman” that she should be issued one of these little silicone baking dishes.
Just pin that to your wall, sweetheart, and take a gooooood look. If yer feeling frisky around those boys, just remember: BREAD PLATE!
I wonder if I can order two for my goddaughters? There’s still time to get ahead of this thing.
Meanwhile……
I appreciate that it is December and no where near Mom’s Day, but I’m just saying, if you still have a mom that walks this earth, take a moment to thank that nice lady for pushing your huge cabeza through her bread plate. That’s an act of love if there ever was one.
Note to my own dear, sweet Mom: I was your third watermelon. Whatever were you thinking? Both me and my huge pumpkin head thank you.
I am the ape man. I am the walrus.
Ku-ku-kachu.
I am neither of those things. I am the fail whale.
Yes. That is me, sad tighty whiteys and all.
Fail a’ Fail-a-rino.
Today is November 30th. The last day of the festivities that are National Novel Writing Month.
This is the annual event where writers challenge themselves to write 50,000 words in 30 days.
2011 marks the sixth time I have had a go at NaNoWriMo.
My first shot was in 2004. I struggled, but made it the first time out of the gate. There have been years since then when I have skipped participation. But every one of the five years I have tried my hand at NaNoWriMo, I have succeeded in passing the finish line by the 30th of the month.
One year, I finished in 21 days. Yeah, that rocked.
This year, however. Well.
50,000 words are the goal. As of this moment, I have 14,239.
See. I didn’t just fail a little. I failed a lot.
A big round blobby smelly unctuous fail.
That’s me. Mz Failsalot.
I was going to simply try to hide this away. Pretend it didn’t happen. Not say a word. Not mention it to anybody unless they asked.
Then I decided that confession is good for the soul.
Own it! Sing it! Love it!
Yes, yes…I’m one of those perfectionist kinda gals. It makes me happy to complete what I start. Completing a project matters.
Also, I’m excessively proud of my ability to produce words. Not just any words, but halfway decent words written at a rapid clip. Paragraphs with a good foundation that some powerful editing can improve and shape into literary magic.
But this year, way too many hours at work (a project is failing and I’m paddling as fast as I can to keep it a’float), a prolonged bout of writers block (see Monday’s post), and an extraordinary amount of hubris (I had the audacity to TALK ABOUT my story idea…..that is certain death to creativity) came together in the perfect storm that smashed my tiny seafaring vessel to the rocks.
Oh, the drama! The anxiety! The shaaaaaaame.
Yep. I blew it. I firmly believe that owning it, giving my failure both light and air, and speaking of it publicly……Well, all of that takes the sting out of it. Draws out the venom.
Helps me be ok with it. And learn from it.
So today, I sing a song of failure. It starts off sad, like an Irish lament, but ends up peppy like a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.
Fffffffffffffffffffffffailure where the agony comes sweeping down The Muse!
Whew. Now I just need to do an act of contrition, and the Universe will grant me absolution.
Right?
Fail whale image is by Ed Wheeler and found on deviantart.com. Follow him on Twitter @EduardoWheeler
Ooooh, it’s getting a bit raven-y outside my office door right now. You see, there have been recent changes in my organization. Some of our team moved to another location, and then some people left the company entirely and weren’t replaced.
The result is, for the past three months or so, we’ve had about four open hard wall offices along my row and about six open cubicles.
Now, if you’ve ever worked at any corporate entity, you know that office space is *always* a big deal. Especially hard wall offices.
For us, it’s been great, the open offices have been used as conference rooms in a pinch, and we have plenty of hotel cubes for when people are visiting. Also, when my UK Boss comes to the states for three months every quarter, he’s able to have space to work.
It was great to have a little open space around here. But I knew it wouldn’t last.
It couldn’t last.
At this very moment, there is a coven of crows Executive Admins outside my office squabbling over the space.
My Big Boss got dragged into the middle of this since technically he owns the empty space. It should be noted that Big Boss is only about 5 foot 5 inches tall on a good hair day.
Poor Big Boss, he never stood a chance. He listened patiently for a while then said, “Just let me know what you decide” and walked away (that he can pull that off is what makes him the Big Boss…just sayin’ )
He left much cawing in his wake:
“But I need two offices for my team!”
“No! I need all of the offices, I have all directors! They can’t sit in cubes!”
“What about my team? We can fit into that space which means they can all sit together!”
“But then you have to move everyone!”
“But you can have my old space!”
“Then my team doesn’t sit together!”
Lest anyone every think differently, the true power of this company lies right there in the center of that circle of post-menopausal women.
They are negotiators, leaders, deal makers and will claw your eye out for a hard wall office on the right floor in the right corner.
They own everything that happens around here and everyone in it.
Which means I’m hunkering down in my office. Except when they look in here to check out my space. Then I sit up quite tall and make my little room look VERY occupied.
I’m scared, mommy!
Photo by Justina Kochansky, and found on the Articulate Matter Flicker photostream.
Despite the yoga, the muscle pain, the ooooohming and the visualizing, I’m still massively creatively blocked when it comes to writing, especially of the fiction variety. This is the most painful and prolonged period of writer’s blockage I’ve ever experienced, and I can see why some of the greats like Hemingway would drink themselves into a stupor over a situation just such as this.
It’s brutal.
Amazingly, I’m still able to crank out blog posts. That’s probably because my blog posts are mostly whatever random weirdness happens to be on my mind on any given day. To me, writing a blog post is like I’m having a conversation with you, the reader.
I always was a good talker.
I imagine if you knew me in real life, you’d find I talk much like the way I write here on the ol’ blogarino. I’m quite grateful that I am able to keep these blog posts going. They are a lifeline. Proof that I’m not completely over, left with a life of envying somebody else’s art and not making any of my own.
As I often do when the ol’ noggin is backed up, I’m going to the random word generator to help boost me along today.
I clicked and it presented me with the word: Phoenix.
Should I get all literary and talk about the bird that bursts into flames then rises from the ashes?
Nah. Too metaphorical. And a cheap one at that.
Let’s talk about that wacky town, shall we? A place I tend to refer to as “The Surface of the Sun” when discussing it amongst friends.
Phoenix and I have a weird relationship. There are things about the town that I absolutely adore. Attending a Spring Training game at Scottsdale Stadium is chief among them.
Watching baseball on an 80 degree day while wearing shorts and knowing it is rainy and bone chilling cold back home in the Bay Area is something I truly, madly, and deeply love.
But then there are times like, oh say…August, when there is really very little to love about Phoenix. Now, I am a desert girl, but I come from high desert where when the sun goes down, the heat becomes tolerable. 100 degrees at midnight isn’t cute and it isn’t funny.
Sometimes when I visit Phoenix, I feel like I am in my groove.
Sometimes I visit Phoenix and I feel like I couldn’t be more out of place.
Phoenix confuses me. It’s an incredibly large conglomeration of mini-neighborhoods trying to be just like Los Angeles when it grows up. This makes me mad at Phoenix, because parts of that town have their own personality, and it’s a good personality.
But then I turn a corner and there is another adobe colored stucco’d strip mall gone up and I think “Really, Phoenix? You’re better than that.”
Or as my dad would say, be yourself fer chrissakes!
I’d bet that there are Phoenix denizens who would take umbrage to what I’ve just said. I’m not here to offend, just trying to understand why a town with so much going for it is so confusing sometimes too.
Well, I’ll love it for the good stuff like baseball, visiting my Mom, and the occasional visit to the Sugar Bowl. And I’ll leave the overly stucco’d strip malls for someone else to love.
That seems fair.
If you haven’t been to the Sugar Bowl, you are missing out.
Photo by Patricia Drury and found on Flickr.