When You're Hot, You're Hot

I am in the midst of deadline-meeting, so this will be brief. I know. How uncharacteristic of me!

Tomorrow, I will drag out and dust off an old chestnut that amuses me. It concerns blog comments for the rich and famous. Well, at least for the famous. I play the role of a fictional famous blogger, and share visions of the comments that dance in my head.

But now I am knee-deep in a tale of my husband's lust for a free hot tub, and I refuse to let my flow of ideas grow tepid. Nobody wants to attend a swingin' lukewarm tub party.

The Long and Winding Mode

I think I need some help with my organizational skills. I save things where I'm sure I will find them. And then I can't find them. I'm the old lady version of Vern, digging under the porch for my jar of pennies. You don't know whether to laugh or cry. Well, you're probably laughing.

At this very moment, I have fourteen windows open along the bottom of my computer screen. And another five at the top. I'd like to think of myself as a world-class multi-tasker. But I fear I'm just an "Ooh, shiny!" kind of distractible nincompoop. Funny how Blogger does not like "distractible", yet is perfectly content with "nincompoop". Do I digress?

Let's see...I was discussing my open windows. Of course I need my Zune, because music distracts me from the tedium of blogging about my distractibility. Funny how Blogger doesn't like "distractibility", either. And it's definitely important to refresh my Big Brother Updates screen every two minutes. Because I might miss some scheming. Funny how people on Big Brother and Survivor always have a hissy fit about somebody lying to them, when that is clearly a part of playing the game to win.

Of course I need my email open in case I get some spam. I once worked at an insurance salvage store, and the owner said he was raised on a farm, and one of the biggest delights for him was when his dad brought home some SPAM. Because he was tired of eating farm-raised chicken and beef and pork, so that SPAM was a real treat. Did you know that there's a version of SPAM called Treet? Did you know that SPAM stands for Shoulder of Pork and hAM? And that it's a real treat in Hawaii? I don't know if Treet is a treat anywhere in particular. It seems to be a rip-off of SPAM.

Where was I? I have to have my Documents open, and my flash drive, and a catch-all file that I put my most recent ideas in, and six files of things I'm working on towards the Chicken Soup submissions, because when an idea hits me, I can't be bothered to find the file. And I need an archive type file from my other blog, and the most recent edition of my other blog, and Google as a resource for things like whether Frontline the pet pesticide stuff is one word or two, and

I think I'm going to call it a night.

The Source of My Material

While dishing up supper tonight, I mentioned to Genius that I was submitting some stories to the Chicken Soup series. I told him that a few of them might involve him. And asked if that would be all right.

"I don't think so. I give you the ideas, and you keep all the money."

"It's not that much money. IF it even gets chosen."

"Still, I'm the one giving you the material."

"How about if I keep a tally and mark off it the expense of raising you? What is it now, for an average upbringing...a million dollars?"

"It's fifteen...uh...not fifteen million...uh..."

"You mean one point five million? Is that what you're trying to say, Mathie? Fifteen hundred thousand?"

"Yeah. That's what I meant."

"And yours would be twice that. You are high-maintenance."

"I am."

"There are other stories about your dad. Since we know he doesn't read, I don't see any reason to ask him."

"That's what I was going to say."

"It's not like they'll be chosen, or that your dad will ever read them."

"Ha ha. What if he has a Chicken Soup book by his desk at work? And he reads from it every day."

"What could that possibly be? 'Chicken Soup for the Employee Whose eBay Has Been Blocked's Soul'?"

"Yeah. Or 'Chicken Soup for the Guy Who Looks Up Car Parts All Day on the Internet at Work'."

I think I've got another story.

Wastin' Away Again in Val-the-Writer-Ville

I am in a slump. A writing slump. Some days, the witty details fly fast and furious through my head, like dodgeballs at a sniveling tattletale when the P.E. teacher has a substitute. These are not those days.

This affliction is not to be confused with a case of writer's block. The ideas are still there. But they languish listlessly in my drafts. Bloodless. Bland. They are the oatmeal bath, the warm milk, the saltless cracker, the boiled chicken, the plain noodle, the beige crayon, the white cotton panties, the brown wingtip oxford, the yellow #2 pencil, the elevator music of blog posts.

While waiting for my mojo to return, to get my groove back, to get in the swim of things again, I am content to loll sun-drunk on my air mattress of patience in an ocean of lukewarm creativity. I anticipate that brisk, North Atlantic sea-breeze of inspiration which will generate a current of creativity to carry me out of the end-of-summer doldrums.

My readers, however, are marooned on Bore Island without even a wish for one item to bring with them.

I Bawl, You Bawl, We All Bawl for Grammar Police

From the gal who brought you The Great Patty Wagon Round-Up, based on the unfortunate misuse of sound-alike words, I now present: Who's Got the Bawls to Tackle this Subject?

Today's sadly inappropriate word switcheroo was chosen because it was discovered twice in one day. The first source was a comment on a mid-western political-type blog, by a person of patriotic ilk. Not that there's anything wrong with that. The second instance of poor word selection was the update thread on a Big Brother site. In both cases, the mental images created are a bit disconcerting.

Exhibit 1- 

I balled when I stepped foot on American soil again.

Okaaaayyyyy. Some things are better kept private. That's really nobody's business. It's between you and your balling partner. And perhaps the witnesses to the incident at the airport or the shore...wherever your foot (or other appendages) touched soil.

Exhibit 2 -

Shelly balling in the kitchen. She doesn't want her daughter to see her upset. Kalia and Dani comforting her.

First of all, Shelly knows that a kitchen is no place for balling. She is a clean freak, always spraying and polishing and sweeping and washing. So she should be ashamed. And in what universe is it appropriate for a daughter to see her mom balling? Surely, it's obvious that Shelly is not upset. She's balling, for cryin' out loud! But to further kinky-up the moment, Shelly has an audience. It does not appear that Shelly needs any comforting. So Kalia and Dani need to make themselves scarce, lest they put the kibosh on Shelly's balling.

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This public service message has been brought to you by Val Thevictorian. Who has no desire to read about somebody balling her eyes out, and advises folks to do a quick Google if they're unsure of a word. Please.

And Then Came the Day that Nothing Happened

My rural Missoui denizens are in for a good tongue-lashing. Despite a trip to town this morning, nobody did anything remarkable.

I tried my best to lure that motorcycle dude onto my gravel road. He had just passed the Fed Ex truck that was behind me, and cruised right up to my bumper in an effort to enter my blind spot. But he refused to follow me. Thus refusing to be force-fed several truckloads of dust that has a habit of kicking up from my wide back tires. Especially when I sweave from side to side.

Jesus on a Rascal

There is the edge of vehicular impropriety, and then there is the abyss.

Perhaps you remember my rants about people driving four-wheelers or other off-road vehicles on blacktop county roads. Or people walking in the road and refusing to yield the right-of-way to automobiles. Yesterday, I even encountered a golf cart woman, two bicycle kids, two dogs, and a lawnmower man in one long Mardi-Gras-like procession over hill and dale on my narrow, unlined blue highway.

But what I ran across today in town took the cake like an Olympic-caliber cakewalker at a grade school carnival.

A man in a motorized chair. 

It was like a Hoveround. Or a Rascal. Only the man was not motoring down either of the two available sidewalks, perhaps dreaming of a rumble with George Costanza. Neither was he driving his chair down the smooth, paved shoulder, ample enough for car parking. No. He was driving down the right lane like a licensed vehicle. He even had a small license plate under his butt. JESUS. That's not an exclamation from me. That was his license. JESUS.


Technically, I did not "run across" this road blocker. Which is a good thing, because the long arm of the law pulled out from a side street and tailgated me for half a mile. That was after the Hovering Rascal pulled off onto the shoulder. Which he did upon seeing the long arm of the law. Note that the Arm did not stop to chat with Hovering Rascal about his future route about town. The Arm followed ME. A law-abiding citizen who struggles daily not to inadvertently commit vehicular manslaughter. I wanted to climb out on my running board and holler to him, "Sorry, buddy. It wasn't MY idea to make the speed limit along here 20 mph." I could have even done a few flips over the top of my SUV. Or hopped off, run a circle around it, and jumped back in through the sun roof at that low speed.

The Arm gave up my chase and turned down a different side street toward the 7-Eleven. Maybe they had some snacks that interested him. Or maybe he received radio confirmation that my driving record is spotless and sparkling. Now.

What I wanted with him was a dialogue. Specifically, the answer to my burning question: "Since the chair man drives on the street, can I drive on the sidewalk?"