This is not the writing I should be doing right now

What I *should* be writing are the edits on a document that I’ve already edited once, and then they sent it to someone else who added a ton of new info. But the document is only in PDF format, and if you’ve ever Post-It-Note edited a PDF doc, you know that by the end, it looks like the dog’s breakfast. (funny, I’m typing “dog’s breakfast” and our 18-pound cat comes in right then to rub against my ankles… someone thinks a small mammal is being fed and IT’S NOT HER.)

So, what I’ll do is create an MS-word doc with a map to where all the additions go.

Speaking of writing, this weekend Monstro (my husband, for those of you new to this ballgame) mapped out the entire plot of his new novel, which has the BEST title in the whole world, and I’m not going to spoil it here.

Also: Walking Dead was grue-some last night. I say last night because we do not have cable (bye, $100/month bill!) so we’ve bought the season pass on vudu, which is great because it’s commercial free but it’s also delayed gratification because we don’t get to watch it until Monday.

Also: Someone needs to invent an on-the-fly spellchecker that does NOT undo the hyphens or creative spelling that this MFA does because she already knows *all* the rules and therefore is allowed to break them as necessary.

Time to go work. xoxoxo


Lex and I went to church by ourselves yesterday — Monstro’s down with a cold and BK’s ears still hurt — and on our way up the path to the sanctuary, Lex complained bitterly.

“There’s a pin poking me in the butt!” he said.

“A pin?”

“Yeah! Something’s poking me!” And then with every step he let out an “ow!”

“Let’s get in to church, put down our things, and go to the bathroom to check it out.” So we did that, and hot-footed it into the family restroom, where I had him take down his pants and underwear.

There sure were pinpricks on his bum. About 10 of them. I looked inside his undies and saw a tiny black spot that I thought might be a flea (if you’ve ever suffered multiple flea bites, you think fleas are the culprits for everything), but no, it was just a speck.

Then I had him pull up his underwear.

And Viola!

There was a feather that was sticking into the fabric covering his left bum-cheek.

I pulled it out and showed it to Lex.

“Honey, look at this. I washed your underwear with my featherbed cover — a loose feather must have stuck to this so the quill could poke you in the butt.”

He looked astonished for a moment, then laughed and laughed. I gave him the feather, he put it in the garbage, and then we fastened his pants and went back to church.

Seriously, you could have knocked me over with a feather!


I had a pretty good week. Actual work was involved — work that I am trained to do and (if I do say so myself) damn good at.

Monstro had a shit week. The work that he is trained to do (and damned good at) is unappreciated and ignored at his current place of employment. A “hey did you get my email” turned into a round of bullying by his boss’s boss the likes of which I’ve never heard (the guy’s an a-hole, obviously).

So, now we’re on opposite sides of the coin. Again.

“We’re like Ladyhawke,” Monstro said the other day. “When you’re up, I’m down, and vice versa.”

I guess between us, we round out to zero.

Cheats with Friends

I love to play Words with Friends. Ever since The Master Theorem went on hiatus (sob, sob), Words with Friends has been my lifeline to using my brain. Of course, when my thoughts were scattered like so much chicken feed, it was hard to organize letters, so I’d rely on the Words with Friends helper. A lot.

Monstro would come into my office at our old house and see me using the site. “Oh, playing some Cheats with Friends, huh?” I laughed, because it’s only the truest things that are funniest.

I don’t hide my cheating, though. I often proclaim it on Facebook. And, when I went in for the interview for my dream job that I didn’t get, during the exam I told the HR person that “I have my study notebook here but I’m not using it. I only cheat on Words with Friends.”

She did a double-take. “Me too!”

Alas, it did not help me to get the job.


I’ve picked up some new-client work and I’m very, very thankful. This month is two birthdays and Thanksgiving. I need the scratch, man. I’m particularly happy because most of the work is editing things that other good writers have written, which for me is like playtime. I love making other peoples’ words flow more smoothly. It’s been a real confidence-booster, too, to do work for which I was trained. I feel like I’m still shaking off my spate of PTSD from caring for MFM, and there are still some nights that I can’t get to sleep from residual stress of it all, but slowly I feel as though I’m getting back to myself.

Also, I’ve gone back to the gym. I’ve run something like 6.5 miles this week. Hoo-ah!

Election Day

Well, I tried to vote early but the lines were prohibitively long w/ little boys in tow, so I awoke at 6:15 this morning and hightailed it to my polling place. I was expecting some blowback because my election-day address is not the same as my ID address, but sharing my ID and my Social Security Card took care of it. I received ballot #13, stood in line, marked all six pages, fed it into the hoping-this-records-my-ballot machine, and skipped out of the gym into the early morning sunlight. Another woman my age was leaving at the same time and we looked at each other.

“Now’s when I start getting nervous for the rest of the day,” I said.

“Me too,” she said.

“I just hope that it turns out that our nation’s voters are… sensible,” I said. She laughed.

Here’s hoping. Shit, I’m unemployed. Mitt Romney has already written me off. He doesn’t want to be my president? Here’s hoping he never has the chance.

Who Doesn’t Like Michelle Obama?

This conversation happened last night on my sofa, so I wrote it up as a play.

Monstro & Motormouth sit on the sofa, watching a political ad starring Michelle Obama.

Monstro: How do people not like her?
Motormouth: Everybody likes her. Who doesn’t like her?
Monstro: Your mom doesn’t like her.
Motormouth: My mom has dementia. Who else?
Monstro: (crickets chirping in the background)