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
“Show me on the doll where Yoga touched you in a bad way…”
Here…and here….and over there….oh yeah, and that place too.
In the early afternoon hours of this past Saturday, I traveled up to the city of San Francisco to take what promised to be a really wonderful yoga class. Entitled “Yoga for Writers” it was taught by a gentleman who is both a well known local columnist and avid Yoga practitioner.
I like his writing style and the price was right, so I signed up. I arrived in time for class with my brand new yoga mat firmly in hand and a lot of hope.
This class promised that through Yoga, through getting out of your head and into your body and tapping into your inner self, you might be able to write more smoothly, easily, and with lots of verve. (ok, I made up the verve part, but it sounds good).
While I’ve been doing a good job keep up with my blog, mostly, the fiction side of my writing life is suffering in a big way.
I have a confession to make. I have a scant 3,500 words on my goal of 50,000 for the month of November.
Um. There are only nine days left? Right? I’m utterly failing. I stare at the screen and I got nuthin’ to write. It’s very bad.
My writer’s block has become immense. Intense. It depresses me. So I really did rather hope that the yoga class would help free up the ol’ Muse and get her dancing.
I was in a TERRIBLE mood after having a god awful week at work, and so I was actually scared and nervous going into this thing. Would the class be chock full of hipsters? Would it be chock full of tiny yoga girls in tiny yoga pants?
Answer was yes on both counts.
I entered the yoga room and immediately wanted to pass out. Why is it so *hot* in there? Ok, yeah, I know, they keep yoga rooms warm, even if you aren’t doing the kind of yoga (Bikram) where you sweat your holymarymotherofgod off while you stretch.
Sitting there on my little mat waiting for class to start, I was already pitted out.
*sigh*
The class description said “not for absolute yoga beginners. Assumes moderate level of physical ability and yoga experience.”
Ok. That’s me. I’ve done quite a bit of yoga in my life, though not recently. I know my Tree of Life from my Warrior pose. I walk three to four miles a day.
I’m not an athlete but I certainly have a moderate level of physical ability.
My lard ass was actually NOT prepared for what lay ahead.
I thought this would be a writing class interspersed with yoga. This was instead a hardcore not-for-sissies yoga class with an occasional writing exercise.
In the three hour class there were three 15 minute writing exercises and one 15 minute stint of sharing some of what we wrote.
The other two hours were intense, almost brutal yoga.
Yoga never hurt me before. Why, overly large statue of Shiva in the front of the room, WHY?!?!?!
My god. This isn’t peace, love and butterflies. It’s agony served up on a rubber mat!
I hurt. I can hardly use the restroom because while sitting down goes ok, I can’t get back up off the toilet. I can’t be still for more than a few minutes at a time or I yelp in pain when I move again.
Look. I’m a writer! We’re notoriously pasty and out of shape!
When did yoga start hurting people?
I found this article titled When Yoga Hurts from several years ago (2007) with concerns that Yoga was being taken a wee bit too seriously (i.e. competitively) in the local health clubs.
I’ll say!
Ow.
(To be fair, the instructor was actually really good, just incredibly hard core. He’s that kind of guy who can balance a handstand on one pinky at the rocky tip of a mountain and hold it for an hour while thinking pure and spiritual thoughts. Whatevs. I’ll meditate on a bag of chips and feel just fine.)
Image from Icanhascheeseburger
Ok, today’s Theme Thursday word is: gourd
Seems topical, right? Seasonal? A good theme for the beginning of November.
However, I think we’re all struggling with this one. I know I sure am.
So when I’m stuck, it’s time to do a brainstorming session (what the marketing folks call blue-skying).
Here we go… This is random association. Just say the first thing that comes to mind.
Gourd.
Gourds.
Gourdish.
Gourdy.
Barry Gordy
Barry Gordy, Jr.’s son Rockwell.
“I always feeeeel like, somebody’s watchiiing meeeee.”
Paranoia.
Backing vocals by Michael Jackson
That Michael Jackson doctor guy was found guilty.
That whole thing is really weird.
Ok, this is a dead end (wow oh wow….pun TOTALLY not intended).
Back up to “I always feeeeel like, somebody’s watchiiing meeeee.”
Watching.
Lately I’ve been watching that TV show Pan Am
It’s a pretty good show.
Airlines.
Flying.
When did people get so unclassy when they fly? I mean, people will roll their over heavy roller bag (that they can’t possibly lift into the overhead bin) over your foot just to grab at a tiny bag of peanuts.
It wears me out.
Ok, this is going nowhere.
Back it up to gourd.
Gourds.
Cornucopia.
Pilgrims.
Thanksgiving.
Masssssshhhhed poooootatoes…..: droooool :
Ok. Now I’m just hungry.
And I’ve made no progress on the whole gourd issue.
So I’ll leave you with this: A website dedicated to gourds.
And now, at the end of this rambling, shambling blog post dedicated to gourds, on the day after I wrote a whole post about floors, I can only say…..
I must be totally out of my gourd.
Photo by W.P. Armstrong, Copyright 2007, and found on The World of Gourds website.