Hack Job

I just submitted the lamest essay in the history of humor writing contests to this competition. Every year I think, "I should enter that!" and every year I miss the deadline because I don't know how to use the alarm feature on my iCalendar.

This year my friend KC emailed to remind me about it in the nick of time. I couldn't just copy and paste an old blog post into the entry form (they don't accept stuff that's been previously published, even on a personal website), but neither could I restrain from giving it the old college try. So I chained myself to my laptop at the very last minute and tried to crank out some funny.

The funny was not forthcoming. I could barely string two words together. The kids were mouth breathing down my neck, my bra was digging into my armpit, and irritation oozed out of my every pore. Plus when I was putting the final touches on my stupid-ass entry, I was completely distracted by the sound of the P-Dawg trying to cough up a bezoar in the bathroom down the hall. It was the last straw vis-a-vis: my ability to produce humor, so I just spell-checked my pathetic essay and sent it off.

When the P-Dawg and I were lounging on the couch after dinner, I asked him what had happened earlier in the bathroom. "Because it was really hard for me to concentrate on my humor essay with you hocking loogies in there" I said.

"Oh, it was nothing" the P-Dawg answered. "I was just drinking some spice-infused coffee when I accidentally inhaled a clove. I tried to cough it up, but it got lodged in my nose."

"Oh, my God! Are you OK? DID YOU GET IT OUT?"

"No." the P-Dawg answered, "It's still in there."

And for a moment I was very upset with him, because an essay about one's husband getting a clove nubbin stuck in his nose would have been downright hilarious.

The Power of Lounge

It's January in Cleveland.

We have snow up to our eyeballs. (Figuratively speaking, of course, unless you're thirty inches tall.)

The rum balls and Christmas cookies have been eaten, the fat jeans have been reluctantly marshalled, and the fridge has been enthusiastically stocked full of lean meats, fruits, veggies, tofu, and Weight Watcher's yogurt.

The J-dog and V-meister are back in school (fingers crossed for no snow day tomorrow), the Christmas toys have blended into the periphery, and life begins again in ordinary time.

I've really enjoyed myself for these past two weeks I've been AWOL. Christmas was a little less hectic than it's been in past years - the P-Dawg took a week off work, we entertained, visited with family and friends we don't often get to see, and spent our mornings in pajamas playing with toys and tech gadgets.

There are many tidbits I could write about, but none of them seem to warrant an entire blog entry. Either that, or I don't have it in me to try and craft wry posts around the minutiae of our everyday lives just now. Strange, because I tend to get writer's block when I'm feeling low, not happy and content, as I've been.

I've been reading Eckhart Tolle's The Power of Now and Eckhart has given me permission to "just be." In my case this apparently does not involve writing blog entries. One thing Tolle writes about which really struck me is the idea that industriousness and creativity go in cycles and that it's perfectly normal to want - and need - to "rest."

And so I'm resting. Not for long, mind you. I find that whenever I write a post about being creatively blocked, the muse does not waste much time in popping in again, the little tease.


J-Dog knows all about the Power of Now.

Examining My Zipper

*Re-enters sheepishly and begins combing through spilled garbage. Takes swig from half-empty bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, tosses aside. Thinks twice, picks it up, and places in recycling bin instead. Unwraps piece of Nic0rette and begins chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, locates broom and sweeps aside dustballs, glass shards, delusions of grandeur. Finally, leaning upon broom handle, clears throat and begins to speak.*

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Sorry about the earlier melodrama, readers. I was having writer's block, stage fright, and an existential crisis. Also PMS.

I was annoyed at having typecast myself into a certain role here, and angry that I didn't have the guts to break out of it.

I concluded that having a "successful" blog was more about marketing than about writing, and I pouted. Because I am a terrible salesperson and I peddle funky wares.

I resented the fact that I'm not currently in a position to spend the time and energy it takes to write "seriously." Why, oh why, was I putzing around writing silly anecdotes here when I could be using my "free time" to work on something "real"?

And I tried - for about a half an hour - to write that real something. But I didn't have it in me. What I had, if you must know, were a series of cliches strung together awkwardly with little or no segue and sprinkled liberally with flashy five point words.

I came to a late realization that probably won't surprise you: it takes more than skill and perseverance to be a good writer. It also takes a certain amount of courage, and that is something I don't know if I'll ever be able to shore up - not so much because I'm wary of offending the masses, but because I fear exposing my true self to the people I love the most.

There were, in fact, a lot of things I could have written about while claiming to be "blocked." But they required a kind of raw self-exposure I'm not sure I'm ready to make. In this place, or anywhere else.

It was a hard pill to swallow, especially when I finally realized that there is not much difference between journal blogging honestly and writing creative non-fiction for publication. I always told myself that I'm only exposing the tip of the iceberg here to avoid exploiting or drawing undue attention to myself and my family. But it seems there's no avoiding it: If I ever hope to write, I'll have to drop my pants.

Still, I wonder and I fret. Can a person writing pantsless continue to entertain? How many friends will I lose once I've streaked across the football field in my honest altogether? In the end, is it worth it?

Until recently, I've been pretty happy wearing my pants up around my armpits here. And I'm not sure I want to lower them, but I may start loosening my virtual belt, just a little bit.

Feel free to look away.


P.S. How high, if I may ask, do you wear your pants?

Your Attention, Please

I have convinced myself that blogging - and this blog in particular - is stupid.

I also have a severe case of writer's block and cannot even stand the sight of my own stupid pink banner. "Rimarama." It's just plain stupid.

I'm going to remove myself from this whole sordid business for awhile. Oh, I'll be back soon enough. It would kill me not to blog, but right now, blogging is killing me.

(*Kicks a garbage can, exits stage right*)