Jeff Bridges: The New Voice of My Nightmares

I lost myself on a weird internet tangent while playing around on Facebook yesterday. I glanced over at the “trending” part of my home page and saw that actor Jeff Bridges had recently released an album designed to help people fall asleep (you might have seen his commercial about it during the Super Bowl). I thought to myself, “Hey, I like sleep and I like Jeff Bridges!” So I clicked on the link and checked it out.

I was expecting him to guide me through some gentle meditation exercise or perhaps play some soft music mixed with the sounds of nature.  It wasn’t like that.  AT ALL.  To me, it felt like somebody killed the real Jeff Bridges, buried him in Stephen King’s pet cemetery, and he was resurrected into some weird, creepy version of himself. Then that zombie made the executive decision to scare the crap out of people with insomnia. I listened to the tape with my ten-year old son, and after the first few tracks he looked at me and said, “Worst. Lullaby. Ever.”

I guess I should have been forewarned about the creepy nature of the tape by one of the pictures Jeff Bridges used to promote it. He looks like he wants to eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti…..

 

People taste extra yummy when they’re sleepy.

People taste extra yummy when they’re sleepy.

 

But if Mr. Lecter didn’t make you feel all snug and ready to sleep, you could scroll your way passed that and go directly to the other image on the album that he thought might lull you. The caption he put on the opposite page of this picture is “Sweet dreams, friend”. Yeah, not bloody likely…..

 

This guy might be the most awake person EVER.

This guy might be the most awake person EVER.

 

I’ll spare you the hour it takes to listen to the whole tape (and the resulting night terrors), and highlight my favorite parts for you.  You NEED to hear these tracks.  Seriously.  I can’t be the only one in the world who’s stuck with this weird stuff echoing around inside my brain.  After you click on the link below and scroll down to the album, I encourage you to read my brief synopsis of each track before you listen to it.

 

And now friends, you are about to enter another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but also of some really messed up shit.  Welcome to Jeff Bridges’ sleep tape twilight zone:  Sleep Tape Link

 

INTRODUCTION (GOOD EVENING):  I can only assume that some major drugs were smoked, injected, or snorted off a hooker’s ass before making the introduction to this tape.  Jeff talks about all the deep and profound implications behind words like “sleep” “sharing” and “tapes”.   I guess he was just covering his bases in case his audience didn’t happen to have the vocabulary of a five-year old.

 

SLEEP, DREAM, WAKE UP: If Edgar Allan Poe were to ever collaborate on a sleep tape, this track would be the resulting byproduct. Apparently, Jeff and Edgar want to destroy any hope you may have of ever getting another good night’s sleep.

 

HUMMMMMM: This track is exactly what it sounds like – he hums for you. Except this is not the Marvin Gaye, deep, melodic sort of hum. This is the guy on the subway wearing headphones, humming along to his iPod, and not realizing that he’s annoying the crap out of everyone else around him sort of hum.

 

SEE YOU AT THE DREAMING TREE: This track sounds like he recorded it at a playground. There’s a lot of chaotic background noise of kids playing and jabbering on. Jeff, I’m not sure you’re aware of this, but most parents barely tolerate the sounds of their own children, much less other people’s. I can think of nothing less soothing to fall asleep to…. except maybe your humming.

 

IKEA: On this track Jeff talks about death and the bizarre things he wants to have happen to his remains after he’s gone. By putting this information on a sleep tape, I can only assume that his mother was Morticia Addams and had some really fucked up notions about what constituted pre-bedtime chit chat.

 

FEELING GOOD: His heart was in the right place with this track. He simply wanted to list all the things about you that make you the wonderful person that you are. So he goes on to talk about your awesome ability to predict when the light is going to turn green, how well you order food at a restaurant, and how much the night janitors at your workplace love your clean desk. Ummm, thanks? But you could’ve just told me what pretty eyes I have.

 

After that peculiar peek into Jeff Bridges’ brain, I feel compelled to try and make up for dragging you along on that weird expedition by showing you a hysterical version of this sleep tape that was put out by a video blogger named VlogRay.  Laugh well, Friend…..

 

What Kind of Junk is Stuck to Your Trunk?

I’d like to think of myself as a pretty tolerant person, but sometimes when a pet peeve of mine is triggered, I momentarily lose my amiable nature, and become something akin to an R-rated version of Oscar the Grouch. I’ve had the same pet peeves for years, most of which are pretty standard. But recently I’ve felt a new one beginning to crop up. At first, it started out like one of those underground pimples – an annoyance that I tried to squelch before it came to a head. But now this sucker is red, ripe, and sitting right on the end of my nose, just begging to be popped.

 

I CAN’T STAND “Proud Parent of….” BUMPER STICKERS!!  Damn that felt good….

 

I’m aware of the fact that I probably just offended half of my readers, but it has to be said because parents have gone totally over the top with these stickers.  The back of some of these cars read like college applications. Since the dean of Harvard is unlikely to be driving behind you, why do you feel the need to advertise all of your child’s academic and athletic achievements to the world?

 

I get it, you’re proud. By all means, call Grandma and tell her all about the fact that little Sally made the honor roll, won a gold medal at her gymnastics tournament, and then rescued a baby whale during her Greenpeace excursion. She’s SUPER awesome!! But nobody but Grandma (and maybe you) cares.

 

You might argue that you’re just letting your child know that your pride for them is like these bumper stickers – permanent and unable to be removed without the use of a razor blade and/or blowtorch. But here’s a secret that your child might not be willing to share with you: they find these stickers just as obnoxious as the person driving behind you. And if your child is over the age of twelve, you can add a hefty dose of teenager embarrassment to that as well.

 

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Part of me gets why these bumper stickers are so popular. Besides people wanting to brag about their kids, they also promote a sense that the world is a perfect place to live in. A place where all children get smiley face stickers on the top of their math tests, and score the winning goal at their soccer game. It’s a lovely idea, but it’s also total crap. Parenting is a messy, complicated business, and rarely idyllic.

 

Which is why I’ve come up with a better way for proud parents to decorate their cars – I’m calling them “The Real Deal” bumper stickers.  Not only will EVERY parent find something they can relate to, but my bumper stickers also won’t make the person driving behind you want to smack the shit out of you.

 

1.  For some kids, getting on the honor roll is about as probable as Macaulay Culkin getting another big movie deal – but that’s OKAY!!  Getting straight A’s isn’t nearly as important as learning not to share your poop with the people you live with….

proud parent toilet

 

 

2.  As a parent, it’s important to not only pick your battles, but also take your victories where you can get them.  No matter how small they may seem….

math.homework.

 

 

3.  Let’s face it, sometimes sitting on the sidelines of your kid’s game is BOOORRRRRING!!  There’s just so much cheering you can do before you start to pray for death – beginning with the screaming parent next to you that just ruptured their spleen (and your eardrum) because their son missed the ball.  For those parents who want to show support but would honestly rather be somewhere else, this one’s for you….

soccer parent

 

 

4.  After the age of ten, most honor students are like those cars that drive themselves.  They really don’t need parents behind the wheel directing them where to go (or taking credit for getting them there).  I know this because my daughter is like one of those freaky self-driven Google cars.  So I made this version of the “proud parent” for her because we both know the truth….

Honor.student.

 

 

5.  Being a parent is hard.  Being a parent stuck inside a metal box with a toddler is HELL….

wheels.on.bus

 

 

6.  It’s not much easier when they get to be teenagers and discover dance music that makes you want to gouge out your eardrums with a set of car keys….

homicidal radio

 

 

7.  Sure, driving around with your kids can sometimes be annoying, but those little rugrats can be a real lifesaver to the other drivers on the road.  Especially for the ones who cut you off in traffic….

giving.the.finger.

 

 

8.  It’s been a decade since I had a baby, but I remember the trauma of sleep deprivation the way most soldiers remember the horrors of war.  For all you parents out there driving around like extras from The Walking Dead, I’m here to make sure you don’t get pulled over during your commute to work….

sleep deprived

 

 

9.  Along with sleep deprivation, babies can also make you forget that you have sexual organs, and that you once used those man/lady bits for something other than creating life.  Go ahead and post your problem on the back of your car so other new parents won’t feel like the only sexually castrated Ken/Barbie dolls on the block….

babies libidos

 

 

10.  Having a teenager brings with it a different set of hardships, most of them chock full of hormones and seething hatred.  While I may get a full night’s sleep now, I have to do it with one eye open….

road.rage

 

 

11.  Most kids will test your patience on occasion.  GOOD parents learn how to control the urge to strangle their offspring when their kid throws a temper tantrum.  GREAT parents go on to promote world peace despite being given a lot of shit at home….

ghandi

 

 

12.  Just once I’d like to see a “drive carefully” bumper sticker that wasn’t put on a car to protect someone’s baby or grandma.  Like a drug lord, for instance….

drive.carefully.

 

 

13.  Trying to keep your child engaged in activities that challenge their mind and body is hard, especially when it’s Sunday afternoon and all you want to do is take a nap.  You wish they came with an auto-pilot button so you could just get a little bit of  “me” time.  And then you realize that they do…..

xbox.parent

 

 

14.  A subset problem of  the “Proud Parent” bumper stickers are these stick figure family decals.  Here’s why:  you know that creepy guy who lives in your neighborhood?  The one you checked out online to see if he was a registered sex offender or just gave you the willies for no reason?  Well, your decals just made his life a whole lot easier….

stick.figure

 

 

15.  Whether you choose to go back to work or stay at home after having kids, it’s easy to feel like the grass is always greener on the other side.  I chose the latter and after about a decade, having a misogynistic boss who doesn’t appreciate me has become a fantasy of mine….

stay at home mom

 

A Leprechaun Killed the Elf on the Shelf

As I was scrolling through my Facebook news feed last week, I saw all the frustrated Elf on the Shelf posts from my friends, and smiled to myself. It was the kind of smile a parent wears only a handful of times in their lives when they know they’ve made a brilliant parental decision. In this case, I made the choice years ago to never invite that creepy, borderline demonic, looking elf into my house.

I’m willing to do a lot of crazy stuff for my kids, but continuously fucking up my house for the 24 days leading up to Christmas isn’t one of them. This time of year is about maintaining my sanity, so I don’t accidentally strangle one of my loved ones with a strand of Christmas lights while visions of sugarplums dance in their heads. Well, that and all the merry, fa-la-la crap too, I guess. But it will never, EVER be about creating more work for myself during an already hectic time of year. There are innocent lives at stake.

 

 

Move along, nothing creepy to see here....

Move along, nothing creepy to see here….

 

 

I know what all you avid Elf-on-the-Shelfers are thinking right now – What a scrooge!! It’s FUN! The kids love it! Trust me, I’m not trying to give Ebenezer a run for his money. I can be just as holly and jolly as the rest of you at this time of year – though there’s usually some sort of booze involved. If you saw me years ago when my kids were little, you’d know that I wasn’t always against making a little mischief in order to entertain my children. That’s how I know these sorts of “fun” parental pranks can spiral out of control.

 

But it wasn’t the Elf on the Shelf wreaking havoc in my home – it was a little leprechaun named Shenanigan. It started out innocent enough. It was supposed to be a one-shot deal to amuse my (then) seven year old, fairy obsessed daughter and her friend who had come over for a play date. They had dubbed themselves the “fairy finders” and they were in active pursuit of the mysterious creatures when an idea occurred to me – I thought it would be fun for them to be able to interact with their fairies. But since it happened to be St. Patrick’s Day, I decided to make it a leprechaun instead. I blame my husband’s Irish ancestry and his ugly collection of Tom Clark gnomes – all of which looked far creepier than the Elf on the Shelf. Case and point:

Makes the Elf on the Shelf look positively adorable by comparison.

Makes the Elf on the Shelf look positively adorable by comparison.

 

The game began with me writing little notes for them to find around the house. When they came upon the first note (written in tiny, curlicue handwriting) they were absolutely giddy with excitement. They quickly started a written dialog with someone they believed was a fairy, but quickly discovered was a magical leprechaun visiting from Ireland. I swear I wasn’t drunk at the time. Looking back, I find that fact hard to believe because when you start seeing leprechauns, there’s almost always alcohol involved.

 

I’ll admit it, I was caught up in the excitement too. I got an adrenaline rush each time I had to write the note (in ridiculously complicated print) before they came back into the room. I had to be quick, quiet, and creative; or Shenanigan would live up to his fraudulent name and once again resume life as a dusty knick-knack on my shelf.

 

After about an hour, I couldn’t take the pressure anymore. My nerves were frayed and I had become more jittery than excited each time I escaped discovery. I ended the game by writing that Shenanigan had to go visit the houses of other good little Irish boys and girls before St. Patrick’s Day ended. While disappointed, they seemed to understand the reason for his hasty departure, which surprised me. They latched onto the weird idea of Ireland’s version of Santa Claus as a rational concept, the way only little kids and stoned adults can.

 

I stupidly thought their one-time encounter with a leprechaun would become a fun childhood memory they would recount years from now. Until my bright-eyed little girl came up to me before bed that night and said, “I can’t wait for Shenanigan to come back next St. Patrick’s Day!!”

 

OH. SHIT.

 

I had a brief moment when I thought about coming clean, but how could I look into those eager little eyes and crap all over her magical moment? Answer – I couldn’t.  And so began Shenanigan’s annual trips to our house. I felt compelled to try and make each visit more magical and outlandish than the previous year; which ultimately resulted in making my house look like a bunch of drunken, Irish frat boys had visited us.

 

Shenanigan buying their loyalty with chocolates.

Shenanigan buying their loyalty with chocolates.

 

Every year, I bought loads of gaudy St. Patrick’s Day decorations from the party store, and used them to trash my house. There were streamers hanging in every room of the house with balloons to match, shamrock confetti on the floors, rainbows and Irish flags drawn on all the mirrors, green water in the toilets, and glitter scattered where ever Shenanigan had left a note for them to read.

 

This is just a small taste of the havoc that Shenanigan left in his wake…..

 

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I think this was the day my seething hatred of confetti began…..

 

 

SONY DSC

Tri-fold mirror or poor excuse for an Irish flag – you be the judge.

 

 

After several years of this self-defeating stupidity, it got to the point where I dreaded the approach of St. Patrick’s Day. While my friends and family members were having fun going to parades and getting drunk on green beer, I was making an inordinate amount of housework for myself. The glitter alone was enough to make weaker moms run in fear. Have you ever tried getting a piece of glitter off your hands? Almost impossible. Now times that chore by about A BILLION, and add in some confetti to make it extra obnoxious. Every time I threw the little foil shamrocks all over the floor, I wondered if this was the year they would kill one of my cats.

 

Taste the rainbow.

Barf the rainbow.

 

The clean-up craziness would go on for days afterward because every time I turned around, I would find more leprechaun residue on the floors or furniture. I finally decided that no sane person would willingly sign up for this bullshit. Shenanigan had to die – preferably a slow, painful death involving party favors. I won’t give you the details of how I basically killed all my children’s St. Patrick’s Day dreams – I already feel enough like Cruella DeVil without having my parental mistakes immortalized on the internet.  But suffice to say that it will give my kids something to chat about with their future therapist.

 

After this experience, it wasn’t hard for me to decide whether or not I wanted to participate in the Elf on the Shelf phenomenon. To me, it would be like inviting Shenanigan to spend a month with me. No offense to the little figment of my imagination, but he was kind of an asshole; and from all the stories I’ve heard about the creepy Christmas tattletale, so is the elf.

 

Looks like Shenanigan isn't the only one out to get the cats.

Looks like Shenanigan isn’t the only one out to get the cats.

 

The Evolution of Valentine’s Day

On Valentine’s Day you make a special effort to love and cherish all the people in your life who mean the most.  The longer you’re with someone, the more those displays of affection tend to evolve over time – especially with regards to this holiday.  I’ve been married to the same man for almost twenty years, and have noticed several Valentine’s Day changes that have happened for us during that time….

When presented with a heart-shaped box of chocolates:

At 20:  “Aw, that’s so sweet!!”  And then you spend the rest of the night feeding each other chocolate and making out like Johnny Depp and Juliette Binoche in the movie Chocolat.

At 40:  “Aw, just what I always wanted – a larger size pair of pants.”  And then you spend the rest of the night trying to force feed your kids chocolate so you minimize the inevitable caloric damage from your chocolate-fueled binge at 2am.

Mmmmm.... nothing tastes yummier than an extra hour at the gym.

Mmmmm…. nothing tastes yummier than an extra six hours at the gym.

When presented with flowers:

At 20: The sight of the large bouquet of roses makes you feel loved…. and a little horny.

At 40:  The sight of the large bouquet of roses makes you wish he had spent the $75 on a babysitter and booze instead.

bouquet-of-roses

Nothing says “I love you” like helping to fund your florist’s trip to Jamaica.

When looking for a Valentine’s Day card:

At 20:  There are too many to choose from – you spend several minutes trying to decide between the five cards you think best represents your unwavering love and devotion.

At 40:  You stare dumbfounded at the cards for 20 minutes because you can’t seem to find one that says, “There are some guys who fart in bed, and scratch their balls in public – I love you because you’re not one of them.”

There was nothing in the Hallmark store like this - I looked.

There was nothing in the Hallmark store like this – I looked.

In preparation for your Valentine’s Day date:

At 20:  You make a special trip to Victoria’s Secret to pick out some sexy lingerie.  Then you create a romantic iPod playlist that will provide the soundtrack to your night of passionate love making – Marvin Gaye? Check!

At 40:  You decide to go all out – you shave your legs AND wax your mustache.  Nothing’s too good for your man!

Trust me - after two kids, this lingerie works out better for everybody.

Trust me – after two kids, this works out better for everybody.

Things he does that gets you in the mood:

At 20:  He spends the day teasing you with soft caresses and fleeting kisses, and then recreates the secret fantasy you once felt brave enough to share with him – tonight is going to be Fifty Shades of RED HOT!!

At 40:  You wake up in the morning and discover that he has cleaned the kitchen, including the sink full of dirty dishes you were dreading having to wash.  You haven’t felt this turned-on since the night he put the kids to bed and took out the garbage without being asked.

Is it wrong that this is the guy I fantasize about?

Is it wrong that this is the guy I fantasize about?

Happy Valentine’s Day!!

Tempting Slate

There are moments in everyone’s life when they get the urge or opportunity to begin anew – a clean slate….

For a dieter, it’s any given Monday or the night after all the cookies and ice cream has been purged from the house.

For a smoker who wants to kick the habit, it’s the moment they stub out the last cigarette in the pack.

For a new mother, it’s giving birth to her first-born child…. right before the realization hits her that there is no possible way to avoid screwing the kid up.

For a writer, it’s a blank page – or in my case, a brand new year for my blog.

The list of clean slate hopefuls and their situations vary wildly, but they all hold one thing in common – they’re all hoping to change something old, and create something new.  And what better moment to do that than when presented with a clean slate?  Our clean slate offers the inspiration and momentum to leave behind our old way of life, ditch our bad habit, or achieve a new goal.

That is why we usually fall hook, line, and sinker for the ultimate in clean slates, the one day of the year when everyone gets a big, fat, do-over – New Year’s Day.  It’s a magical day when we give ourselves absolution for all the times we sat on our asses instead of going to the gym, all the broccoli we passed over in order to save room for the brownie sundaes, and all the debt we incurred because it’s more tempting to go on a weekend bender to Vegas than to stay in and pat yourself on the back for being frugal.

new-years-eve

So we make a list of all our resolutions, and hang it on our bathroom mirrors, near our refrigerators, or any other location in our house that’s usually designed for self-flagellation.  And when we see our list, it comforts us and swears that regardless of years passed, this year will be different.

This year we will shut off the TV and start reading more books – beginning with the classics we hated in school.

This year we will join a gym and workout everyday. Everyday!!

This year we will not eat anything made by Hostess, Entenmann’s, Drake’s, or Frito-Lay.

This year we will lose forty pounds (should be a piece of cake after resolutions one and two).

This year we will find inner peace through daily meditation (note to self – google the Dalai Lama).

This year we will stop smoking like we own stock in Philip Morris.

This year we will stop drinking like we don’t own a liver.

This year we will keep our house clean (not just for company).

This year we will give Sally Struthers’ charity the 70 cents a day its been begging for since the early 90’s  (it’s the cost of a cup of coffee, for chrissakes!)

This year we will….

2011-year-resolution-400x400

And for the first few days of the New Year, we feel a surge of empowerment every time we lay eyes on our (strategically placed) list and feel secure in our belief that we will have NO problem sticking to our lofty goals.  There is a smile on our face, a spring in our step, and a virtual silver lining encircling our head.  We are completely committed to our sparkly clean slate, and no amount of temptation could lure us back into our torrid love affairs with Ben & Jerry, Jose Cuervo, and the Marlboro man.

But slowly, as the month wears on, our clean slate gets smudged…. sullied…. and eventually shat upon.  And by the end of January we find ourselves lying on the couch in our pajamas, watching Jersey Shore on TV, with an empty ice cream carton beside us dripping its sparse remnants onto our unread copy of Moby Dick.   We feel more stuffed than a pothead after a convenience store run, and in disgust we set fire to our hopeful little list (and our gym membership card), and light a cigarette from the burning embers.

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After several years of this self-destructive nonsense, we start to feel like Charlie Brown right after Lucy yanks the football away from him, and he ends up flat on his back, wondering how the hell he fell for that trick again.  It’s the very definition of stupidity – doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.  Charlie Brown should just realize that Lucy will never stop being amused by watching him fall on his ass, and we should realize that major life overhauls don’t work.

So I am hereby starting the Anti-Charlie Brown movement in an effort to prevent future emotional wipeouts.  If you decide to join, you will forever swear off mile-long resolution lists and unrealistic expectations.  Joining the movement with a friend would work especially well, this way if you try to set your sights on a ridiculously unattainable goal, your partner will be there to smack you upside the head and yell, “You blockhead!

its-the-great-pumpkin-charlie-brown-youre-not-elected-charlie-brown--20061101033906296-000

So throw out that once clean slate of yours – the one that is far too banged up and bedraggled to ever be considered clean again.  And pick one thing you want to change or start anew.  Me?  I’m going to expand my palate by trying new foods…. beginning with all 31 flavors at Baskin Robbins.  See how easy that was?

It’s all about baby steps…..

Sexting With Grandma

Every once in a while, a blog idea comes to me while I’m commenting on another person’s blog.  The inspiration behind Sexting With Grandma is compliments of the incomparable Madame Weebles who wrote a blog post about some of the twisted thoughts that run through her head sometimes.  After reading her post, I told her that I sometimes think about sending my friends and family members wildly inappropriate text messages just to see how they would react; something along the lines of….

“You were incredible last night, Rafael! I never knew it could be like that!  I love how adventurous you are… and that goes double for your dog, Sir Humps-a-lot.  What do you say I ditch my husband again tonight and find out if we can come up with any more uses for that vibrating chicken of yours?”

I loved the idea too much to let it end with Madame Weebles comment section, so I decided to actually send this exact message out to several people I know.  I was both eager and anxious to find out what their reactions were going to be. I was pretty sure they would all take it in good fun, but since I had never really tested the kinky boundaries of my friends and family members before (because… EWWW), I wasn’t positive that they wouldn’t disown me afterwards.  But if Rafael can be adventurous, then so can I!!

Initially, I really wanted to send the text out to my mom.  But my mom’s innocence was protected by the fact that her cellphone doesn’t receive text messages… I know, right?!  But she’s firmly planted on the “people should pick up the phone and TALK” side of the communication debate, so there’s no convincing her of all the merits of texting – like being able to send texts involving vibrating chickens, for instance.

The next victim on my texting hit list was my sister.  So, I sent it out and waited…. as it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long for her reaction.  A couple of minutes after sending her the text, my home phone rang.  I tried to answer with an innocent sounding “Hello?”, but couldn’t quite pull it off because I was giggling too much.  She said something along the lines of, “I just got a pretty interesting text from you….”  I couldn’t keep a straight face, so my ruse was quickly ruined.  Didn’t she know that when she gets a sext from her sister, she’s supposed to sext back?  Seemed like common sense to me.

I toyed around with sending the text to my older brother, but for some reason the idea grossed me out more than sending it to my mom.  So, it was on to victimizing my friends.  I sent the text to six of them, and then pretended that it had been a mistake that they got the message from me.   I will share with you my top three favorite responses.   [*Side note: All of my responses are in blue, and my friends are all in grey].

The Twisted Countdown Begins……

Number Three came from my friend, Jenn…. who apparently takes me WAY too seriously, and also thinks that me having an affair with a guy, his dog, and his chicken is a totally plausible idea:

text.with.jenn

Then I waited about twenty minutes for another reaction out of her, but when nothing came, I started to get nervous that she was taking me seriously.  So, I texted her back, and filled her in on the gag:

text.with.jenn.2

text.with.jenn.3

text.with.jenn.4

Number Two came from my friend, Buck.  I’ve known him since college but apparently, he doesn’t think enough of our friendship to put me into his contact list, so when he got this text message, my name didn’t come up with it.  He thought he was getting this crazy text from a complete stranger:

text.with.buck.

Again, nothing but radio silence for a solid twenty minutes, which got my paranoia working overtime again.  At that point, I didn’t know that he wasn’t aware the text was from me.  So, I texted him back to make sure he knew it was just a joke:

text.with.buck.2

text.with.buck.3

Then much to my surprise, Buck’s wife, Colleen decided she wanted to jump in on the act.  I thought her attempt to shield her husband from a sex-crazed poultry slut and her lover was kind of sweet.  Who says chivalry is dead?:

text.with.colleen.

Number One came to me from one of my oldest friends, Moe.  I’ve known her since high school, and her response is the perfect example of why we have stayed friends for the last twenty-five years.  I love you, my twisted sister:

text.with.moe

text.with.moe_2

text.with.moe.3

Have any of you ever pulled a texting prank on someone you know?  If so, I’d love to hear about it.  And if not, what are you waiting for?  It’s a fun way to pass the time while you’re waiting in line at the grocery store or during those annoying commercial breaks on TV.  If you have the guts to send out this text or something like it, and tell me the reaction you get, I’ll pledge my undying love and loyalty to you.  I might even throw in a vibrating chicken.

[*Disclaimer:  Get Write Down To It takes no responsibility or liability for any divorce, disownment or involuntary psychiatric commitments that may result while performing this texting prank with your friends and family members…. mostly because I’m too broke to afford a lawyer.  So, proceed at your own risk.]

The Blogger Stands Alone

I’ve been blogging for close to two years, and something happened to me this week that has never happened before:  I wrote a blog post that got absolutely no comments.  NONE.  NADA.  ZIP.  I know there are a lot of bloggers out there who’ve experienced this before.  I’ve seen empty comment sections on countless blogs that I’ve visited…. and then scrolled passed without commenting.  But believe me, had I known how shitty it felt to put on a performance for an empty room, I would’ve taken the time to give you my two cents worth of feedback.  Probably.

I didn’t even get an obligatory comment from any of my friends or relatives – what good are you people if you’re not going to feed my ego and tell me that everything I do is awesome?!  Anyone who knew me back when my hair had its own zip code….

High School

is contractually obligated to blow smoke up my ass every once in awhile – especially when no one out in the cold, harsh world seems willing to do it.  Hey, I’ll probably be the one changing your adult diapers if/when you become too old to remember how to navigate the complicated world of indoor plumbing.  So, the least you can do is comment on one of my blog posts if it looks like it’s going to crash and burn.

Which clearly, this one did.  Okay, so point taken.  Obviously, none of my (almost) 1,400 followers had any interest in hearing about my writer crushes on David Sedaris and Jenny Lawson, or the fact that I’d love to know what it feels like to wear their skin like a suit.  Whatever.  You want to be all judgey about it – FINE.  How was I supposed to know I was the only one who got excited about tumors and children dressed up as dead fairytale characters?  It’s not like they tell you those kinds of things in the blogger’s guide to the galaxy.  I had to learn it the hard way.  But that particular lesson came at a pretty hefty price – now my ego feels a bit like week-old roadkill.

No, that’s fine.  Just paint right over me.  My shame looks good in speed-bump yellow.

No, that’s fine. Just paint right over me.
My shame looks good in speed-bump yellow.

Perhaps I’ve been a bit spoiled by the past two years worth of praise from other bloggers and the WordPress powers-that-be (I was Freshly Pressed.  Twice.  Yes, I’m totally bragging – give me a break, did you see the splattered remains of my ego back there??).  I know I can’t realistically expect to always be on top.  I also know writers need to have a really thick skin so they can withstand the public’s scrutiny, time and time again.  And yes, I know that I should be writing for myself, and not just to please the masses or get a pretty ribbon pinned on my shirt.

But here’s the deal – knowing all of that doesn’t make failure suck any less.  It also doesn’t silence the voice of doubt that creeps into my head while I’m sitting beneath a pile of my own stink; the voice that keeps wondering if I’m really cut out for all of this.  And if I wasn’t…. what the fuck am I supposed to do now?  Seriously – WHAT?!

I hope the future has karaoke bars.  If I’m going to be stuck working some shit job,  I’d at least like the option of getting drunk and singing show tunes.

I hope this exit has karaoke bars. If I’m going to be stuck working some shit job in the future,
I’d at least like the option of getting drunk and embarrassing myself in public.

Have any of you writers out there ever had any truly EPIC fails on your blog?  Please share your sob story with me.  Then we can have a few beers, a good cry, and sing a drunken rendition of Gloria Gaynor’s  “I Will Survive”.   It’ll be awesome.