Seven Shorts in Seven Days

I recently got an e-mail from Marcella, who told me my friend Jeremy had passed along my e-mail address to see if I would be interested in participating in an event she calls SSSD: Seven Shorts in Seven Days. I could tell you all about it, but she does a much better job on her site-- just check that link to see all about it.

Since I have written nothing but blog entries and vaguely entertaining e-mails for the last few years, I've decided to throw my hat in the ring, so I figured I'd let you guys know about it so you could do it, too-- it's like Workshop Lite, and without the line edits!

I think the deadline to join is coming up fast, like tomorrow, so check out their site for examples of past prompts and let them know if you'd like to participate! If my entries turn out well, maybe I'll post them here-- if they suck, which is highly likely, we'll just pretend they are so good that it would pierce the values and aesthetics of the entire literary world.

Neil Diamond: Real American Hero

I don't know why, but I am experiencing another Neil Diamond revival. Not that I am not always into Neil Diamond-- I have embarrassed myself in front of many a friend with my deep and, to others, petrifying love of Neil Diamond-- but there are some times when I am really into Neil Diamond. And this is one of those times.

A little background: My initial introduction to Neil Diamond was made by my parents when, while I was very young, they apparently played his "Taproot Manuscript" album again and again. All I really took away from that was an appreciation for the song "I am the Lion," mainly because it had little kids singing in it, and Neil Diamond made a very convincing lion. A few years later, maybe when I was ten, I was introduced to his live album, "Hot August Night," which again held little interest for me, except for the rousing, nine-minute closer, "Soolaimon/Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show", which I committed to memory, even the long, long speech he performed in the middle. I was able to do this by transferring the song to a tape, and taking the tape with me in a Walkman to day camp, which pretty much cemented my status as the Biggest Spaz Ever to Attend Day Camp.

But other than that, and a general love of his other songs, I basically had myself down as a Casual Neil Diamond Fan until college, when I woke one day with a burning, indistinct but very intense need to go out that day and buy "Hot August Night" on CD. This marked the start of Revival One: Really Zealous (But Not Overly So) Neil Diamond Fan. I would play my new CDs for my friends, turning the music down from ear-piercing levels only to explain, "This is where Neil really rocks out!" Luckily for me, but unfortunately for our next door neighbors, my roommate Katy also loved Neil Diamond, so we danced around continously to his vaguely anti-establishment, sugar-free brand of rock.

From there my fanaticism didn't wane, but simply plateaued for awhile (except for one notable moment when, while drunk, I discovered that my friend Tom had a vinyl copy of "Hot August Night," and made him play the "Soolaimon/Brother Love" encore like five timeswhile everyone else watched, bored and horrified) until just recently, when I have found myself, more and more, reaching for a little Neil to get me through the day.

Most people will scoff at my deep, freaky love of Neil Diamond, but I defy them-- I defy anyone-- to say there is not one Neil Diamond song that they enjoy. It's not possible for someone to simply not like any Neil Diamond songs; if they do, it means they have no soul, and are possibly in league with the devil.

Because come on! I Am, I Said! Cherry Cherry! Red Red Wine! Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon! I'm a Believer! (Yes, that IS a Neil Diamond song! Taste it!) Crunchy Granola Suite! (Okay, no one knows that one. But it's my favorite, so I throw it in.) Cracklin' Rosie! Coming to America! (If you watch the Olympics, you LIKE Neil Diamond. Period.) Forever in Blue Jeans! And if I still don't have you, consider this: SWEET. CAROLINE.

I really pondered whether or not I would expose my Neil Diamond-ness to the harsh, harsh elements of the blogosphere, considering that most of my friends listen to actual music, and would poop on Neil Diamond, if given the chance. But as I walked through the grocery store this afternoon, I heard Neil singing "You Got to Me," and I actually said out loud, "Jesus, this is a great song!" And the guy there, stocking the bread, he nodded his agreement.

Neil is everywhere! Do not resist his charms.

Just a quick note...

...to call your attention to some new blogs I've posted on my sideboard or whatever you call that thing-- my own personal Blogs of Note, since, for some reason, we keep getting passed over as real Blogs of Note, mainly because the Man is holding us all back.

So when you get a chance, check out The Incredible Edible Megs, The GUI Blog, and Utterly Clueless-- all awesome, all the time. Period. And while you're at it, give a shout-out to my friends at Turkey Hat Sweet-- a killer group blog, of which I am a member, although I hardly ever blog there because I suck at being alive. And of course, Convincing John, which is in need of its next wave of submissions-- come on, graduating third-years, don't you have some work to show off? Or am I going to have to bust out my old copy of "I'm With the Band" again? Come on, no one wants to see that.

In fact, just check them all out. Because they are all cool, and as far as I know, none of them ever talk about which combinations of foods make them throw up, which might make for a more sophisticated read than my blog. But don't go dissing my blog, either. Because I am a rock star.

So, in short, please check out all my Blogs of Note. But check out mine the most, because I am a Counter Whore.

Death By Fair

Not long ago, I wrote about the two-year anniversary of my going to the Azalea Festival with my friend Megan, eating an entire plate of homemade potato chips, and then developing The Stomachache From Hell, which, after an ill-conceived attempt to quell the problem by drinking several glasses of milk, ended with me being violently ill the day before my thesis defense.

One would think, then, that I would never eat homemade potato chips again, nor go anywhere near where they might be sold. Not so!

And sadly, my trip to the Chardon Maple Festival with Ben, Jeni, Joel and their kids ended in roughly the same way.

Oh, it seemed like a good idea. My diet is much healthier now, and I tend not to go so overboard-- an entire plate of chips? No, thank you, sir! I'd prefer only a chip or two. Or half a plate! Yes! Two-thirds of a plate! Turns out, though, that two thirds is still five-sixths too many, something I should have gathered when Ben started holding the plate high above my head, attempting to dump the remainder in the trash can as I climbed him, reaching for the last spiral of chips with a Gollum-like intensity. After all, this isn't Wilmington, they don't just have fairs two or three times a year here! Give me potato chips and give them to me now!

(At the height of my chip sickness, I began calling them "tater chips," and really meaning it.)

But then, to make matters worse, Jeni took me to a display of 'maple stirs,' which is just a styrofoam bowl with superheated maple syrup in it, which you stir with a tongue depressor until it reaches a peanut butter-like consistency, and then you eat it. This, too, seemed like a good idea.

But it wasn't.

By the end of my short stint at the Chardon Maple Festival, I was disoriented, ill, and so hyped up on sugar and fat that I could actually see particles in the air.

Needless to say, things ended badly.

And so, as a public service announcement to you, I would like to provide this equation:

Homemade Potato Chips + Maple Candy*= Severe illness. Who knew?

*Please note that "maple candy" can easily be replaced with "milk" in this equation, as the results are strikingly, eerily similar.

Look at my bra!

Having just received my tax refund over the weekend, I decided to go to Target and Buy Things I Don't Need, which is an annual April tradition of mine. Sadly, I didn't find much (safety pins! A face wash that actually made me get more pimples after the first three uses!), but I did buy a memory foam pillow, which I am now officially in love with, and a Gilligan O'Malley bra, which I like mainly because it has the word "Gilligan" in it.

Upon returning home, however, I found that the bra was the wrong size, producing the dreaded Third and Fourth Boob, which is not really a sexy look, no matter what Britney Spears says.

So that plunged me into an Anguish Spiral-- do I face walking into Target with a once-worn bra (only to try it on, not actually out in public, but still! Once worn!) and try to return it? Or do I keep it as a reminder that sometimes, even Gilligan can let you down?

Upon going to the dentist and learning about my soft teeth, I decided to make a return trip to Target for some of that really gross fluoride mouthwash. And if I was going back, then by God, Bad Bra was going back with me.

But that sent me into a frenzy-- how to get Bad Bra back into the store without being seen? I could have just put it back in a bag, but that made me feel like I would look like a reverse shoplifter. Do I tuck it under my arm and run in like a linebacker with a padded football? Walk confidently into the store with a beige Gilligan O'Malley bra in my hand, or slung over my shoulder like a kicky sweater?

Ultimately, I chose the Confident Woman With Too-Small Bra strategy, which worked really well until a little girl pointed me out to her daddy and said "Look at that lady's braaaaaa!" At which point I wadded it up and stuffed it in my purse, which made me look even weirder when I finally got to the return line and had to fish the bra out from under my portable manicure kit and gigunda wallet.

But the point is, I am now rid of Bad Bra, $11.67 richer, and in possession of fluoridated mouthwash. Take that, shame spiral!

Trench mouth

I have seven cavities. Seven. Which is way gross and wrong. Although apparently not uncommon. I specifically asked the dental assistant, "Is this the worst thing you've ever seen? I mean, from a young person? A young clean person?" And she assured me that many other young, apparently clean people have disgusting, sewage-y mouths, and that I, by comparison, have Smithsonian teeth.

Apparently, my seven cavities stem from the fact that I have soft teeth, which is also really gross, because it makes me picture my teeth suddenly one day going gummy like a wad of out-too-long mashed potatoes. This, apparently, will all get better once I start using the billion dollar prescription fluoride toothpaste that I conveniently forgot to inquire about after my forty-five minute post-dentist scheduling session.

Oh, and my one-half wisdom tooth has got to come out, too, because, as the dentist put it, it is a "bad scene."

I feel so gross and wrong. I would like you all to know that I care for my teeth zealously, other than the fact that I consider my one-half wisdom tooth to be quirky and charming, and not a bad scene at all, but rather a fun comment, as in "my friend Kim has one half of one wisdom tooth."

But not for long, friends. Not for long.

Thought Police: Day Two

Until something of great interest happens to me, you will continue to read and enjoy my thoughts. So it shall be written, so it shall be done:

• I like Cleveland Cavalier Larry Hughes because he looks like he knows how to rap.

• It is interesting the Cake has songs called "Guitar" and "Guitar Man," although less interesting when you remember that "Guitar Man" is a cover of a Bread song. Perhaps, to complete the trilogy, they should cover Ray Stevens' "Guitarzan."

• This shirt is vexing, because it clearly maintains the shape of my double stomach even after I have stood up. Why do I have to be cursed with two small stomach bumps, instead of one big, Santa-esque one?

• Seriously, how come everyone in the world has been on a golf cart but me? And it sounds so awful. But lo, I am still drawn to it. Perhaps moreso now.
  

• Why do people always come to wash their hands at the sink that's right next to my bathroom stall? Don't they understand that they're actually closer to me now than they would have been had they chosen to pee in the stall next to me? And yet they maintained a respectful distance during that part of the whole procedure.

I wrote down some other interesting thoughts that came to me while I was at work. One of them made me giggle. But sadly, I didn't bring that piece of paper home with me, and I don't remember what it said. So those thoughts will have to wait for tomorrow. Until then, tell me: what other celebrities look like they can rap?

Thought Police: Day One

Actual thoughts had today, recorded here for your amusement:

• The people at work have changed our toilet paper from Standard Rough to Fake Quilted One Ply. I don't care for it. I liked it better when our toilet paper did not pretend to be something it wasn't.

• Today I received an e-mail from an old professor and he signed it "your friend," and then his name. This made me feel slightly gawky, as it reminded me of letters written to cousins and girls you met at day camp but then never saw again because they lived one town over. But it also made me feel slightly giddy, because he is my friend. It is amazing the power the words "your friend" can have.

• I have always wanted to drive a golf cart. Even though I am now old enough to drive a real car, driving a golf cart will never lose its allure for me.

• (On walking past my childhood house on E. 260th): There used to be a swingset back there. I remember when my parents sold it, and some people came and pried it out of the concrete my dad had poured around the legs to keep it from uprooting. I sat in my bedroom window and watched it and sobbed. That would mean my bedroom must have been the one in the back on the right, if you're facing the house. I never had another swingset again.

The way we were

Tomorrow is the two-year anniversary of my thesis defense, and just like last year at this time, I'm bummed. And just like last year, I couldn't figure out why I was bummed, just figuring that it must be a weather-change thing, or an anti-daylight-savings-time issue (I do have many DST issues, but I don't believe this to be one of them). But then it hit me: it's been two years since I really wrote anything.

Other than this blog, of course. But, while I do make myself giggle from time to time while blogging (I'm sorry, but the phrase "I'm Mark Harmon, check out my sweet 'stache" is fucking classic), it doesn't really hold a candle to the actual act of writing an essay, or a story. It's better than writing a poem, at least for me, as my poems always received scathing reviews in college, although many of them were about how I was sad as a youngster growing up with an afro, so logistically it makes sense that they were universally panned.

And I know I should just stop whining about it and start actually writing something, but my greatest fear in college and grad school has come true-- it's really hard for me to write an essay if I know no one is going to see it. I could write one, but then I'd want to make 15 copies of it and pass it around, silently willing everyone: grade me.

Also, as a girl who generally never got to go to Homecoming (except once, with someone who told me my dress reminded him of something he saw in an episode of Star Trek: Voyager) and, until I met Ben, never really got asked to dance at weddings (with the notable exception of Alan, the world's best Platonic Friend Wedding Date), my thesis defense was a really big deal, as you can see from the fact that I wore an insanely expensive dress to it (and a girdle).

So it's weird now, two years later, to still have the exact same portfolio of writing. Did I fail at being a writer? Or am I just taking a really, really long break?

In general, this time of year just bums me out-- I remember my defense, and the defenses of my friends, and the after parties at Fat Tony's and Rim Wang (but it was Cedars, we all knew it was Cedars).

Okay, so I don't have a thesis defense, or new work. But I do have Ben, who is easily worth ten defenses. And I can confidently claim that my arms are much thinner now than they were in that picture (why didn't anyone tell me that putting my arms out like that was a bad look?), and I no longer have to wear a girdle with that dress.

But I still want to write again. And I will. Right?

Please advise.

PS: As a side note, while tomorrow is the two-year anniversary of my thesis defense, today is the two-year anniversary of me eating an entire plate of homemade potato chips at the Azalea Festival, and then wandering around in agony all day until finally throwing up. Sexxy.

I'm big in Portugal

Turns out I'm way funnier if read in translation. Here, for example, is an excerpt from an e-mail I wrote to Ben earlier today:

Anything new and interesting at the Coatings? Anything catch fire, or explode?

If so, things are a million times more exciting there than they are at Amtrust, where the following things have happened:

1. I completed, separated into categories and color-coded my giant database.
2. I realized that my shirt was cut in such a way that anyone taller than me could stare directly down into my bra, and then spent most of the day holding my hand over my chest, so now it looks like I'm really patriotic.
3. My computer doesn't understand Daylight Savings Time, so I had to devote 15 minutes to convincing it that it really was an hour later than normal.

But I just remembered that I have some candy here, so that should help speed things up.

Pretty good, right? Not bad for a work e-mail? Now, check out the same thing translated from English to Portuguese and then back into English (thanks to Babelfish:

Any new thing and that it interests in coverings? Any thing stops the fire, or blows up?

If thus, the things are million there more emotive times of that they are in Amtrust, where the following things had happened:

1. I finished, in categories and color-coded separate my giant database.
2. I carried through that my shirt estêve cut in such way that any higher one the one that me could look at fixed directly to swallow in mine bra, and spent then the majority of the day that arrests my hand on my box, thus now looks at as I am really patriotic.
3. My computer does not understand the time of the economies of the light of the day, thus that I had that to devote 15 minutes to convince it that were really one delayed hour more of the one than the normal one.

But I only remembered that I have some candy here, in way that had to help the things of the speed above.

My favorite part is that any higher one that me could look at fixed directly to swallow in mine bra. It just so much more poetic in translation.