Melissa's Christmas Movie Guide, Part One (You're welcome)

Sweet, holy goldfish, it's nearly December. That means precisely one thing: Christmas movies have been on air for a month, and I've missed so freaking many.  I've been busy with the two jobs, so I've had to prioritize in my terrible Christmas movie watching, cutting out many fine Hallmark Channel features staring 90s television superstars. It's been difficult, I won't lie. I mean, I've seen most of them before but that's not the point.

There are a few I absolutely will not miss, year after year, the first being the seminal made-for-television "Smoky Mountain Christmas" starring the one and only Dolly Parton. It's so good. So good.

Let me share the joy with you: First of all, this classic originated in 1986. So it's the 1980s in all it's wonderful, teased up hair glory (not that Dolly is all that different today; side note, I adore her). It opens with a musical number, of course, a synthesized, peppy number that 1, does not match either the words or melody of the song, and 2, makes me realize that fashion in 1986 and 2012 are spot-on similar. (All I'm saying is there are a lot of high-waisted skinny jeans tucked into boots and big sunglasses.) Whatever, Dolly is doing a music video (remember those? No? Sad).

Dolly is playing country superstar "Lorna Davis" who desperately needs a break from L.A. and the papprazzi following her. So she asks an old friend for a cabin in the Smoky Mountains and heads out, but not before a paparazzo breaks in, snaps some pictures of her house and intended destination, and makes a mess of her gloriously pink Versailles-style boudoir.

Lorna's agent immediately believes she's kidnapped. As you do.

And of course, the paparazzo is also headed to the mountains to spy on her for his front page story.

Think you know the plot? Convinced it's about a superstar who yearns for the simple joys of home? Well you didn't count on the greatest plot decive known to man, the Plot Moppet. And this movie has not one, BUT SEVEN. Yes, that's right, on Lorna's first night in the cabin seven precocious runaway orphans wake her from a sound sleep assuming she's an angel!

I know it just keeps getting better.

But wait, I forgot something! Oh my god, there's a backwoods witch too. I swear to you, on Lorna's way up to the cabin she gets stopped by a local smarmy sheriff who just happens to have a nasty ex-girlfriend who is a witch, who immediately wants to put a curse on her. Wait, proof:

 

Yeah, that just happened.

 

Okay, back to the wonderfulness. Lorna, instead of, oh, I don't know, calling the Department of Family and Child Services, decides that she and orphans can bunk together through Christmas. The orphans have secrets, just like Lorna, so it's all okay. They live in terror of "Mountain Dan," who is, get this, LEE FREAKING MAJORS, who roams through the mountains on horseback looking like, well, Lee Majors.

 

Shiver a little, it's okay. Television in the 80s was a gift that just keeps on giving, you know?

 

Things are going well. Lorna and the Plot Moppets are bonding. They love her. She loves them. Their bowl haircut, overall-wearing ring-leader even agrees that she isn't so bad. But there's trouble! That witch is still in play, and she nearly lores Lorna to her death. Mountain Dan to the rescue! Mountain Dan has apparently been keeping an eye on the kids. He too, apparently, does not believe in calling the authority on children living alone in the wilderness. I guess the 80s really were a simpler time.

 

But, as is inevitable, their comfy coze in the cabin must come to an end. It begins when Lorna takes one of the little moppets to town to treat a fever. And since the witch is unhappy, and the smarmy sheriff is under her thumb, Lorna is followed back to the cabin by the local fuzz where the kids are taken into custody.

 

Except, Oh NO! Six of Seven end up in kiddie jail, watched over by two mean old ladies who do not believe in Christmas. All hope is not lost, though, as Lorna, Mountain Dan and the Paparazzo who has been wondering around the mountains for the last 80 minutes concoct a daring rescue plan involving them being dressed as Santa and his elf. 

 

Although, as you might expect, things do not go totally smoothly and they all get hauled before Judge Jack Tripper to explain their actions (seriously, it's John Ritter). Judge Jack Tripper wants to get home for Christmas, and so, in no time at all, Lorna is granted custody of the orphans, and it all ends happily.

 

So let's recap: Beautiful woman, hated by a witch, runs away to remote cabin with seven dwarves...er, orphans, who immediately love her. And you thought "Once Upon a Time" was so freaking clever.

 

Anyhow, just when you think this movie could not possibly get better, you learn that it was directed by Henry Winkler, Fonzie himself.  I think of that fact as the one that just cements the deal of this being one of the greatest bad Christmas movies of all time.

 

Smoky Mountain Christmas has repeated airings this time of year. I would hightly recommend you watch it if you ever hope to be my friend.

Well, that was a bust...

I'm obiviously a terrible blogger. I think it's my aversion to the word "blog" at all. It's like meatloaf, it might be yummy but as a language choice - yick.

So obviously this blog is not going to be about stuff I made and want to show off, because, uhm.... I haven't made much lately. A few batches of cupcakes don't really count, and beyond that...

Sigh, back to the drawing board.

Maybe I'll just have to showcase my awesome wit and utter disregard for humanity. One or the other.

 

Oh Joey McIntyre from New Kids on the Block you're totally right. I guess that's why you'll always have a little corner of my heart, even though you didn't marry me and take me to live in a castle in France as I planned when I was eleven.

 

Oh don't pretend like you didn't know. Because you were all....

And I didn't know any better and so I made plans for us. Pardon me if you're a real person who grew up and had a life including a wife and some adorable babies. I was busy being awesome so it doesn't even matter.

I know, I'm hysterical. Let's not dwell on it for too long.

 

Okay, I mean, we can dwell on it a little. Whatever Joey McIntyre. What. Ever.

 

 

Maybe a little. I could have done so much with a castle.



I'm Thinking About Some Stuff

I'm having the kind of day where I think I should try to be witty and engaging, but the truth is, I'm so tired all I want to do is take a nap. So this what's on my mind today, in short.

Did you know baby seals are dying from bird flu, a sign that the virus has mutated and may reach other mammal populations? I'm fascinated by the science of viruses. I'm not sure why. I think I've read too many books set during the Black Plague, and I'm not unconvinced that a world-wide pandemic will happen during my lifetime. I'm not much of a conspiracy theorist, but that's one that holds on.

And then there's other things, like, the mountain of unfinished projects I've got going. Books I'm writing. Sewing and home improvement projects. Stuff I'm avoiding thinking about, because starting and never finishing projects isn't a trait I like about myself.

And I have several evenings free this week, and it would be a good time to adress them, but really, this whole Kristen Stewart cheating scandal is much more interesting. I don't think much of her acting ability, not because I've seen many of her movies, but because she seems to lack poise in interviews. Pretty, yes, but all that running her fingers through her hair and slouching and biting her lip looks ridiculous. So it's not so much her that holds my interest, it's the rabid fan reactions to the story. Like that girl posting a video of herself crying on camera, and the ones tweeting that their whole life is a lie because of something that happened to two people they don't know, and likely never will. Strangly fascinating.

Also, did you know that half of India was without electricity today? I guess you could say that's another  thing that I'm wondering when it'll happen here. India, of course, has a host of infastructure issues, and has had these problems before, but I can't help but be fascinated by the idea of hundreds of millions of people without power. That and and a world-wide pandemic, and suddenly we're living in the pages of Stephen King's The Stand. And then I woudn't have to go to work, and could actually take a nap.

I'm mean, sure, it would be a sign of the Apocolypse, but whatever.

Some Recipes and Some Excuses

I'm not avoiding-avoiding, just mildly not posting. It sort of comes down to two factors - 1. I've been taking pictures with my cell phone, and 2. I'm not taking enough pictures to walk you through the whole process. Eventually I'll get the hang of it, but for now, well, take Sunday dinner for example.

I know, I love Sunday dinners too, there's just something nice about ending the week with a sit-down meal. Anyhow, this past Sunday, I had friends B & B over for dinner. The menu was as follows:

Chicken Satay skewers
Steak skewers
Sauted veggies (including those mini corn that I've never really liked)
Brown rice

Somewhat healthy, somewhat not. Also, only somewhat home-made.

It's not that bad, but if you must know the secret to my cooking sucess, it's take the short-cuts where they they taste good. Also, I have an unhealthy fixation with Trader Joe's, as if their snack foods are somehow better for me then what I can buy at cheaper stores, because, you know, they wear Hawaiian shirts and hippies tend to shop there.

I know, I know, but if you've ever tasted their Maple Leaf cookies, you'd understand.

So, I was all about the snapping pictures with my cell phone through the first part of the prep. Slicing up the chicken, getting it into the sauce, prepping the skewers....

And then, not so much. I got caught up. I love to make dinner for other people, especially people like B & B, who always compliment my cooking. I'm kind of a praise-whore, so you know, they're good for my ego.  Anyway, the skewers are pretty simple. Here's the recipe I made up on the fly, because it sounded good to me.

Melissa's Somewhat Homemade Satay (With help from Trader Joe's)
3 Chicken breasts, sliced into roughly quarter inch strips, length-wise.
1 jar Trader Joe's Peanut Satay Sauce (YUM)
3 Tablespoons unsalted Peanut Butter
2 Tablespoons Olive oil
1 tsp minced garlic
Dash or two of salt
Bamboo Skewers, soaked in water for at least an hour first

Put the Satay sauce in a bowl with the PB, Olive oil, garlic and salt. Mix up until smooth, and a nice, much thicker texture then it comes straight from the jar.

Put the sliced chicken in a bowl, and cover with 2/3rds of the sauce. Let sit in the fridge for a few hours, then take out a half-an-hour beforehand to come to room temperature.

One by one, take the skewers from the water, and guide them through the raw chicken. Place them on a broiling pan, or, if short such a pan, do what I did, line a sheet pan with a foil, then place a baking rack, the kind used to cool cookies, in the pan. Ta-da, make-shift broiler pan.

Spoon (or smear, whatever works) some of the sauce you leave behind on the chicken.

Put the oven on broil and let it heat up. Place the pan on a low rack in the oven, not too close to the burner.

Cook about 10-15 minutes, turning once mid-way. For the last minute, move up closer to the heat.

Serve with the extra third of sauce left from step 2.

It's like a little visit to Yum City.

Okay, that was lame . Don't judge me, I'm hillarious most of the time but my game's a little off, that's all.

I'm having an epic idea, and I just discovered something maybe sort of awesome. The second part first. Did you know about this site, Fuck Yeah, Boston Terriers? So until my dog goes from imaginary to actuality, I will have a ready source of pictures to grab! Yeah for pretending a little longer.

Now for part the first: I think I figured out to do with my blog! Woo!

I've just used two exclaimation points in a row, so understand when I say this is big news. I try never to over-use punctuation, because it defiles the integrity of grammar, also, how would you know if I were genuinely excited if I ended all of my sentences with !!!!!!! like an eleven-year-old girl? You wouldn't.

Sorry, Age Appropriate Zac Effron, I know I'm stalling. And I'm sorry that I must refer to you as Age Approriate Zac Efron, but you know there are far too many of your Disney years pictures out there, and I sort of feel like an extra-creepy old lady when I accidentally look at them, so....

Okay, here it is: I'm going to blog about things I make, whatever that might be. Recipes I get from the internet. Crafty nonsense I do. Books of vampire porn I may or may not be writing in response to the fact that a girl with my name in one of those fly-over states is writing vampire porn.  Also, I will continue to feature these little conversations, becuase... I want too.

It's like this, there are eons worth of recipe and crafter blogs, but how many of them combined that with imaginary commentary from hot celebrities? None that I know of at present!

Whoops, there I go with the exclaimation points again. I've got to stop that.

Anyhow, I'll get started as soon as I find my camera.

Thank you, Age Appropriate Zac Efron, that means a lot.

So, somewhat faithful readers who are not totally made up versions of hot celebrites, stay tuned. Stuff is coming and it'll be epic-ish.

 My imaginary puppy and I are still sick.

Turns out, the mystery illness of the last few months is more than one illness, and neither one such a mystery, but both are still pretty miserable.  So I have to repair the lining of my stomach and get some physical therapy for my back, which is better than having some unknown cancer or life-long condition like IBS.

So go me, I'm only a little broken.

I'm going to see the Citizen Cane of Stripper Movies (which is not Showgirls, if you can believe it) for girls' night to feel better. Because how could this not make you feel better:



It's all the fun of going to see a strip show, without any of the shame, regret and creepy desperation of that going to a real one would bring.

I'm still having unexplainable symptoms of something, and it's driving me just a touch bat-shit-crazy.

Just a touch.

There is a very rational part of my brain that says things like "Melissa, you are not that sick. You need to eat better, get plenty of rest, and this will all go away. You do not have anything life threatening."

The problem is that the rational part of my brain, let's call her "Doris" because I think that's funny, is sort of a boring, matronly gal. The completely irrational part of my brain, we'll call her "Rita" because I also think that's funny, is a hypochondriac in a short skirt.

Doris and Rita are locked in eternal battle. Doris tells me that I need to get over myself and stop Googling my symptoms. Rita would have me believe I've got several forms of cancer. 

And since I've been going to see the doctor, and neither she or the emergency room staff can as of yet tell me what's wrong with me, I'm way past being freaked out. In other words: Rita is having a field day, imagining that I've got something very tragic and hard to detect.

Especially since I thought I was getting better, and today I am clearly not.

This what seems to be true:

 Sometimes I have a lot of pain, but with a few rare exceptions, it's at most like a six on the scale of 1 to "I want my mommy."

The pain feels like it moves to various places in my abdomen. First it felt like kidney and back pain, then, stomach, then it felt like my intestines were burning up, and now, it's just a sort of vagueish-middleish sore spot.

I haven't had a fever, although I may have one now.

I have a strong suspicion that this is connected to what I'm eating, but I haven't yet found a pattern.

The CT scan showed nothing, except a "pulmonary nodule." Don't Google that, you'll have lung cancer. True story.

Anyhow, I have an appointment to see a specialist on Thursday and I'm going to try to not psych myself out in the two days in between.

Oh Mr. Darcy, I don't even know. It hasn't been a good year, health-wise.

Other Mr. Darcy! Oh my. I was just explaining to the first Mr. Darcy that I just haven't been feeling well. Again. And I'm really tired of feeling icky. 

And the fact is, I'm not even sure what's wrong.

That's all I've got, I'm afraid. I thought it was a kidney stone, but apparently my symptoms are inconsistent. I'm in pain, but, only sometimes. It's weird I know. And I'm just tired and icky and.... I don't even know.

Thank you, Mr. Darcy. That means a lot.

I know Other Mr. Darcy, I know. I'll tell you what, I'll let you have a bitch-face face-off.  Go for it.

Nice.

Mr. Darcy?

Winner.

This week has been rough on me, so I did the sensible thing when things are going badly and read a lot of Jane Austen.

Shut up, Austen does make things better.

For example, sure, health-wise this has been an icky week, but I spent at least half a day reading Pride & Prejudice for the 20th time. And that gave me ample time to prefect my fake British accent by reading aloud, so there's that.

I should add that I have an awesome fake British accent. I mean it's horrible. Like worse than Renee Zellwegger in Bridget Jones bad, but I've been perfecting it's terribleness for several years.

Please don't tell me I need hobbies. That is my hobby. It's weird, sure. I don't deny that. I blame my family. They never really censured the weirdness. I'm not going to say they encouraged it, so much, as they just sort of laughed at me, rolled their eyes, and walked away without comment. I took this as their tacit acknowledgement that being weird was perfectly okay and normal was utterly and completely boring.

So blame them. In the meantime, I'm going to do a terribly practical thing and head to see a doctor. Because, while Austen can cure many things, from a broken heart to the crisis in the Middle East, turns out kidney trouble isn't her specialty.

I know, I don't understand it either, but it happens.

I've been feeling a little overwhelmed with... everything, lately. Which is a nice, suscinct way of saying I'm, as usual, kind of a mess. What can I say - at least I'm pretty.

So I've been taking refuge in  movies, because I'm pretty sure I've watched every episode of "My Crazy Obsession," and there's only so much I can validate my life by judging strangers who collect stupid crap. I mean, the temporary high that comes with realizing how normal I am - genius - but in the end, I'm still the girl with a four foot stuffed giraffe in her room, so who am I to judge? (Long story. Short version: his name is Charley)

So anyway, movies. Specifically, I've watched things from the Nicolas Sparks cannon: A Walk to Remember, The Notebook and Dear John. Ehhh. I don't know why I do this to myself. I literally threw something at the TV screen watching Dear John. Honestly. There's a story there, and it's sweet, but.... ehhh. It just didn't come together in a satisfying way. Just like The Notebook. Just like A Walk to Remember. But just at the point where I'm tempted to turn them off and storm off ranting about unearned plot developments something always pulls me back in....

Usually this:

You're welcome.

Whatever. I'm shallow. I objectify pretty people. I won't apologize. I walked into my job at the bookstore today with my dress tucked into my underwear, and I think suffering that kind of embarrassment gives me some leeway.

Yeah, let's go with that.

To sum up, once more with feeling: I'm a mess. I had a very embarrassing wardrobe malfunction today. I have a stuffed giraffe. If this was you're life, wouldn't you take pleasure in the little things?

I think so.

Lately I've heard a lot of people saying they wish they could go back to being a child, because they didn't worry about anything and they were carefree and loved everything and the sunlight was always golden and the camera focus hazy....

Okay, maybe not that last bit, but, you get the point. I think there's this great myth out there that if your adulthood is tense, it's okay to remember your childhood as this time of bucolic bliss where you and the other neighborhood kids all played tag together and everyone love everyone else.

To this I say: Fuck it. That's not true.

Kids are mean to each other just like adults. And you were more than likely just a smaller, stupider version of yourself. 

I get it: being an adult can sucks ass. Yes, it would be nice to go back to being a kid, but really, only so I don't have to pay my freaking cable bill. If, say, a do-over presented it self, yeah, I'd go back to being a kid, provided I could somehow be the inventor of Toaster Strudel when I caught up to my 33-year-old self.

But other than that? Not so much.

Being a kid can be absolutely awful. I was anxious about the strangest things all the time. I was constantly worried when my family went somewhere that we were going the wrong direction. I would have panic attacks. I don't know why. I could probably invent a reason that has something to do with a TV movie my mom let me watch about a woman who fell asleep on a flight and ended up with no luggage in the Middle East, but that's literally all I remember about that particular movie, and also, it would be a total lie. I was just convinced we were headed the wrong way and we were all going to die in a ditch.

And that is just the beginning. I was a whole host of issues. Around the time we moved to Massachusetts when I was eight, I was obsessed with the idea that I was going to get kidnapped. Even as early as kindergarten I worried where I was going to sit when I ate lunch. So was I carefree? NOPE.

Yes, I got to play outside, and have my summer's off, but there was no running through fields of daisies with a posse of similarly happy ruffians. When I ran through a field I fell, sprained my ankle and got covered in bug bits.

Before I ramble too much longer, let me get to my point. No, I did not intend for my life to turn out this way. I don't have a pony or a gold medal in gymnastics or a real giraffe as a pet, but, if I'm  unhappy now, I'm perfectly capable of doing something about it. As a kid, there wasn't much I could do.

To me, that makes all the difference. That and disposable income.

Really, that's about all I can say so far about this week. It has not been pleasant. There has been a lot of yelling by people who have no business yelling, and especially no business yelling at me. My capacity for understanding and dealing with human folly is at an all-time low. One more person gets snippy with me over their own stupidity, and I'm pushing them in front of a bus.

Here's a not-so-shocking, not-so-secret secret: I am a horrible driver. I blame a complete and total lack of natural instinct for the task, plus, I learned to drive and have done most of my driving in Massachusetts. Which, if you're reading this from far-off wherever, please understand this just amplifies the problem. It is totally normal for me that other drivers wouldn't dream of letting me cut into a line of traffic or will cut me off all together, thereby forcing me to swerve into oncoming cars or a guardrail, or whatever. Par for the course.

That said, I took a jaunt up to the not-so-cold because summer decided to show up in March, not-so-great-white-North. Specifically, a friend borrowed a cabin in New Hampshire and I, being in need of vacation, drove up. At first I was ridiculously worried that I'd agreed to venture into the middle of nowhere, because that's where the GPS took me. Up and down a dark, foggy mountain, even though it turns out I could have just stayed on one road to get where I needed to be. Usual story: it was dark, there were no other cars on this road, I hate nature, etc.

So it was a relief to drive into the town I was staying and find not only civilization but outlet shopping! Yeah, lights, shoppers, discounted merchandise! I can handle anything if I can shop, even the country. So in my way I was then prepared for a weekend in a place not resembling anything like a city. But then it got very weird.

The other drivers on the road got out of my way. They let me out of parking spaces into long lines of traffic. They didn't ride my bumper going up the windy mountain roads. They gave the polite, friendly little wave after acts of driving kindness.

It was very strange. Nice, but strange. Needless to say I was totally out of my element, and I'm not totally convinced it wasn't just the Mass plates on my car that made the other cars keep their distance, although that's not my point. The point is that polite drivers plus shopping means New Hampshire has officially earned my Melanie Griffith in Working Girl seal of approval.

I know, I know, I'm the world's worst blogger. I have no discernible theme still, I'm not posting....  I've got a lot going on, Joseph. My life is.... Well, I'm not really in the mood to list all the things that have gone horribly by the wayside.

I KNOW. God, I swear if you weren't pretty I'd never let you have this imaginary conversation with me.

Alright, alright.  I promise, I'll focus. I will write more. For you. I'll do it for you.

Don't make me choose between you. I can't. I just can't.

I hate going to the doctor, but The Sickness demands attention. We're going on three weeks of symptoms, and I don't know about you, but I feel like that's about 20 days too many.

Insert your own jokes here: my newest symptom is trouble swallowing.

To make myself feel better, I have temporarily invented a relationship with a celebrity in my fever-ravaged brain. Here, let me play it out for you as the super-hot Henry Cavill nurses me back to health:

I know, Henry, that's pretty obvious. Sadly I'm not feeling well right now.

Aren't you sweet, thank you.

I don't know, it's a genetic gift, I suppose. You're pretty too.

Oh, Henry, I'll try.


Admittedly, I do feel a little better after that whirlwind romance.

I've reached that part of a nasty cold where my voice is raspy, and mucus has become something of a problem. I'm just putting that out there in case this post makes no sense. I'll throw cold medicine under the bus. I have no problem assigning blame there.

I've been feeling guilty over not posting, and not coming up with an idea to attract readers to this blog. I'm thinking it's possible I'll just have to stick to being mean and hilarious. Because a girl should play to her strengths. And we all know I'm hilarious. And mean.

True story.

Lately I've been thinking about the nature of being confident. I'm ridiculously confident. I believe I'm wonderful, and I'm fully prepared to tell anyone that. No, I'm not going to cure cancer and no one is ever going to accuse me of being a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize. My confidence comes from genuinely liking who I am. I have a wonderful, funny (sometimes even intentionally) family. I'm smart and while I may not win any beauty contests, I like my face.

But is my confidence keeping me single? I know my particular brand of shouting my awesomeness is off-putting for some people. Hell, sometimes it's even off-putting for me. I'll leave a party or an evening with friends and have to go through a mental checklist to determine if I was charmingly confident or if I just made an ass of myself. But that alone can't be it.

There's all sorts of conventional wisdom that says in order for anyone to love you, you've got to love yourself. Okay, check, so....

And then there's the nonsense that says smart women need to play dumb. I'm not fond of that. If I'm doing something really dumb, it's never calculated. It's accidental. The rest of the time, I'm much more fond of being the girl who knows the right answers. Ad nausea. I realized this point too is probably off-putting. If I could help it... I probably wouldn't.

How humans ever come together baffles me. Why is it that the funniest guys often end up with girls who don't laugh at their jokes? Why do Bridezillas exist? I mean, really why would anyone want to marry a girl who becomes a complete psychopath over what amounts to an expensive party? Why do ugly men with money get pretty girlfriends? Why do athletes fall for tiny blondes? How is it that the women among my friends and family came to love their spouses? While they may be generally wonderful people, in a lot of cases, I see personalities that would make me want to stab said spouse with the nearest available sharp object.

I'm sure there are very dry answers among scientific studies. Fact: men like bitchy women. Fact: blonde hair is more ecumenically pleasing. But those kinds of answers are not what I mean when I lament my misunderstanding about love.  What I'd like to know is why people fall in love with the ones they do when they do. What creates that perfect storm of ready to be loved, being lovable, and finding someone to return that love? And how on earth would I avoid stabbing a potential mate with a butter knife when they annoy me? And how would said mate avoid doing the same to me when I correct his grammar? Because I'm going to do that, even when I'm wrong, because I always think I'm the smartest person in the room.

See how I brought it all back there?

I'm not bitter about being single. Far from it. I've just reached the point where I'd like to try not being single any more. Beyond that, however, I have no particular feeling about what I should do next. It's not a great tragedy for me to be single, because I'm happy with who I am. But again, I'd like to give being coupled up a chance. Just for kicks.

This all leads me back to the question of confidence. Is it getting in the way? I know I could be okay just as I am. Is that interfering with or defeating that desire to be love? I don't think so, but what the hell do I know? That's why I brave the incoherence brought on by cough syrup to write entries like one.

I've been thinking I need to do something with this blog. Successful blogs offer readers something - recipes, advice, hijacked celebrity cell phone photos (stupid, but we'll get to that later). Something besides the trivial minutia of their horribly uninteresting life. So I started to think of the things I'm good at and what I could offer the world.

And then I realized that those things aren't really going to work. For example, I know oodles about the publishing industry, but I can't offer any advice, as I have yet to join the elusive club of published authors. Therefore, I have absolutely no credibility.

Similarly, I'm a pretty damn good amateur. baker However, somehow the idea of sharing what I bake just seemed like a one way ticket to an even fatter ass. I don't want that. Also, I usually just steal my recipes from other baking bloggers anyway, so that idea is just no good all around.

But I must have something, right? I'm an intelligent woman. I have stuff to say and a decent way to say it. And then I realized - my greatest talent is being an insufferable know-it-all. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to use that talent to solve all the problems ever!* 

(Sometimes.I might get bored and forget. For now let's go with it.)

I've had this horribly bitter rant building about how terribly rude people are these days. Society at large is like sick, sad storm of rudeness. Bad dates who check a phone every three seconds like they're waiting for a kidney transplant. People who quote what celebrities wrote on Twitter as if it were an actual conversation they joined.** People who use Facebook to pout in cryptic and passive-aggressive fashion. Anyone who assumes that because they decided to pay attention, things must happen on-demand. I can't take it any more.

This is my multi-pronged solution:

Part One: The part where people learn manners.
Everyone gets a few basic lessons in manners. Phone etiquette. Table manners. How to politely disagree with someone. Why you shouldn't stop to have a conversation in the middle of the crowded hallway. And, most importantly, basic hygiene (it is rude to be smelly). Far too many adults have no idea how to act in this world.

Part Two: The part where we stop telling people they're special.
This is part personal philosophy, part practical, so let me just get it out of the way: You're not special. You may be a wonderful person. You may be warm and giving and have birds following you everywhere singing love songs, but you are just a person. You don't really matter that much when you consider the universe as a whole. Sure, I think it's really funny for me to tell people how special and important I am, but a good deal of the humor in that is simply because I know it isn't really true. I think the best anyone can do is to try and be warm and wonderful to the people around them and get on with their lives. Thinking you're special, that the rules don't apply to you is unbelievably rude.


Part Three: The part where if you are rude, you pay.
Any solution for fixing a problem has to come with consequences for those who don't follow the new rules.  Consequences must be such that they are worth avoiding. From what I can tell two things motivate people, sex and money. Therefore, I propose if you're rude, you're cut off.  Want to keep both? Stop acting like an entitled little bitch.


See, don't you feel better about the world now that there's a solution available? I know I do.

* Okay, not ALL the problems. I'm good, but come on.
** I admit, that may be more stupid than rude. Maybe I'll just say it's rude to be so stupid.

*

* Is it just me, or is there something really scary about this picture? Like her neck is at a weird angle and at any moment he's going to fall on her and there will be this wicked snap? I'm getting shivers just thinking about it. Obviously I need to try harder to find images. Or learn to take pictures. One of the two. I digress....

I'm having far too much trouble coming up with exactly what I want to say. It's sort of a jumble of thoughts about the romance novel I read yesterday that was a whole lot of "What the fuck was that?" and how I'm re-reading my way through a stack of books (both a digital stack and an actual stack), my inability to do laundry and how I like to have sets of things. It doesn't make much sense to me now that I list out everything I was trying to say, but somehow when I thought "Yeah, I should update that new blog I started," those are thoughts that came to me.

So, let's just go with the What The Fuckery: This book I read was part of series. There's something off-putting about romance series books when you haven't read them all and the author does a lot of "and course so and so is one of this group of dashing people," and you have to accept that it's both true and that said group is so fabulous after all. Usually if I've read the first one it doesn't bother me so much because book 1 lays the ground work, but when I haven't read it and it does, it's straight-up telling and an author should have to work harder than that to make me believe.

Whatever, there was so much wrong with this book, and that's a shame because the actual romantic-ness was very cute. But that does not excuse the blatant  Cinderella rip-off, or the inexplicable stupidity that acts as the premise, or the cross-dressing giantess who may or may not have some sort of mental issue but can rip a lemon tree in half.

Yeah, I'm not kidding.

Also: it has the oddest epiloge I have ever read. Usually in a romance novel, the last few pages show some sweet scene in which the couple cuddle their children or whatnot. Harmless. Cute. In this book, the author decided that the couple have a troupe of adopted children (which was fine, but there wasn't a lot of ground work for it), but also in the midst of all this family togetherness that they needed to lock themselves in a hidden room, have anal sex, and then go greet adopted baby number 8. Which was just a gross juxtaposition, of which I'm still not over. Oh, and the cross-dresser married and lived happily ever after.

I'm still dumbfounded. It's sort of got me thinking though about how hard it can be to take a simple concept like love and turn it into a fully fleshed out story. Because what the author did really well was the lovey-doveyness. I'm struggling with re-writes for a couple of projects (as in, I can't seem to get anything done), and so as much as I want to call this writer out and say "Yeah, that was so stinking weird" I can't be too hard on her. Cause she's done what I can't seem to: finish something and have it published. It may have left my right eyebrow permanently arched higher than normal, but it is a finished book.

But still: What the heck was that? I mean seriously, there was so much wrong. So, so much.

This may be the closest I get to having my own puppy this year, even though it's the one thing I want out of this year. Having to admit that, just over a week into the new year really sucks. Reality, however, is not lost of me and not much has changed in my life that I'd be able to adequately care for a dog. Even though I would be an awesome pet owner, never dressing the poor thing up like a reindeer at Christmas or throwing a tutu on her for spontaneous self-shot Facebook pictures.

As it happens, though, I work 2 jobs. I'm doing the whole lose weight, write a book, try to remember to call my friends-thing. A dog wouldn't jive so much with how my life works. My desire for a cute little bundle of unconditional puppy love will have to wait until I change something significant.

Insert heavy sigh here.

I'm attempting to get over it and look at things objectively. I live in a 500 square foot apartment. It's perfectly big enough for me but I firmly believe that an apartment isn't the best place for an active dog to live. They need space to run. An apartment with a 10 foot strip of grass outside that happens to run along a major state road is not ideal. I'll need a house with a yard and possibly a fence.

I'd also need to be home more than I am. I leave by about 8:15 in the morning. At least 2 nights a week I work until nearly 10, and for large portions of the weekend I'm out and about being awesome. Bringing a puppy into this kind of schedule would be like asking to give up my security deposit, not to mention really unkind to the puppy.

So where does this leave me?

Without a puppy.

But, that said, I'm pretty determined to change things so that I can work only 1 job, buy a house, and pay for a pet nanny to come in and walk her when I'm not home. To me that means: 1. Finish my book. 2. Sell my book. 3. Do everything in my earthly power to promote my book so that it sells to the general public. 4. In the event that doesn't work, take really drastic measures, like say, goat sacrifice (although I've got nothing against goats, per say). Something has to work, hopefully before innocent barn animals go missing.