A Case of the Jazzies

I have a cup of hazlenut creme-flavored coffee, but that's not what I want to talk about today. If I did, I would have named this post "Drinking an Entire Case of Hazelnut Creme Flavored Coffee." And then I would be too tired to sit at this desk and write. I would be running down the hall narrating like a fatally caffeinated maniac, and then later I would have to explain that it was a form of Slam Poetry. And does my place of business want to suppress such exuberant creativity?? Well, yes. They would appreciate it if I wasn't so creative at work. So I'll make this quick.

The Pack AD is my favorite band. That's what I want to talk about. And I will shamelessly promote them here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=67JTbDeku0Q&feature=related

I am nuts about this song, "Blackout." So nuts about it that I could run down the halls narrating about it like a maniac, even without the caffeine. I'm that jazzed about these people. They're two people, actually, two tomboyish Canadian chicks, they rock ass, and somehow their mullets are sexy in this video. I know. I can't believe I just admitted that on-line either. They are also sexy as cartoons:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbwM9a_kPaE

No mullets in that one, but "Haunt You" is still a driving, growling song that I've been listening to when I need energy, and the hazelnut creme coffee isn't cutting it. I turn it up especially at work when my coworkers are all talking about The Saints. I think I might be the only person in New Orleans who can not wait for football season to be over, but even when it is it's not like the subject is going to change from how the Saints are doing to female Canadian rock bands.

Speaking of work, back to it.

Waiting on a bank is worse than everything else that is bad

I am waiting for the sale of my house to close. It's all I do, even when I'm doing a number of other things. I could be helping a kid with her homework, talking to the dog, or transferring a phone call to the Security Director because part of the hospital is on fire, and I'll be thinking in the back of my mind, "I wonder when my closing date is." There have been a few possible ones, and they've all been rescheduled for one reason or another. I have moved out and am ready to pass the house on to my buyer who is also ready to move in. Our realastate agents are ready. THE ENTIRE WORLD is ready for the closing of my house expect for the bank because I don't think that the bank is part of the real world. I think it exists in a parallel universe where it is tradition to set up a house sale, have it ready to go, and then take a nap for five years.


I don't understand. Every day I hear about how depressed the economy is because the housing market is bad. You know those people who are miserable sometimes because they want to be miserable? I think that the housing market is one of those people. I have a house that I am selling which someone wants to buy. He has good credit, and the deal works out well for both of us. HEY! Economy! This is good for you! TAKE IT!!!! Stop looking at it like it's a spoonful of medicine that you know is going to taste bad! I don't care if you like it or not, it's good for you, and it will make you feel better, and only a derranged, masochistic idiot would refuse it! Sell my house! Boost yourself! Help ME help YOU! DAMMMMMM!!! ITTTTT!!!!!!!

I go back and forth between being cool about it (letting go and accepting that it is out of my control), and banging my head againast my desk with my teeth clenched. Today I'm blogging about it, so that's new. It makes me wonder if the power of my blogging to tip the scales of the universe in my favor. I think about that when I'm relaxing and banging my head too. I think, "I'm letting go and accepting...I wonder if that means things will happen now. And then I can tell people, 'Yeah, I was all stressed about about the closing, but then I accepted that the matter was out of my control, let go, and that's when the bank finally set a closing date.'" When I bang my head in frustration I think, "I was all patient and now I've finally snapped. I wonder if that means it'll happen now. The universe was just waiting to see how far it could push me before I cracked and now that it's experiment is over, it will reward me with a closing date." And now I'm blogging and wondering, "I wonder if I'll get an email or a phone call about the closing since I'm writing about it. I can write in the middle of this post, 'I interrupt this post to bring you fabulous news! I have a closing date! The nightmarish waiting is over! The economy has decided to take one little step toward getting better and it has benefitted me! Hooray!'" But that has not happened.

And so I am still, even when I let go, not letting go because the only reason I'm letting go is because I think if I do it will trick the universe into making things happen in my favor. My will wins!...Doesn't it? No? Well, can't it just win this once? Please? You know that saying, "When we make plans, God laughs," well, just this once and I swear I'll never ask again, can it be, "When we make plans, God thinks it's the best idea ever and is so proud of you that He gives you whatever you want?" How about that? Just this once? No? Ok, well, if you change your mind I'll be over here banging my head on my desk. Thanks.

Blogging from phone - denied!

Ok, I tried blogging from my phone and it didn't work. Damness. In no way do I blame my phone, but rather my bad technology karma.

My essence thinks that electronics are a threat and it attacks them like white blood cells on an infection. I don't even have to touch an electronic device to mess it up. Sometimes when I walk past TV remote controls they explode. This is problematic because people usually have four or five of them. So when I walk into some one's living room and five remote controls spontaneously combust, it's like setting a roman candle off in some one's house. And there's no way cover it up, like if you spill Coke on some one's couch and you dab it with a napkin or lay a cat on top of it. No, this is loud, and there is shrapnel, and oftentimes your host is holding one of the remotes and you inadvertently kill him. Which is just awkward.

I wish I were one of those techie people who can fix anything, or figure out an electronic device if given a few minutes to troubleshoot it. I'm not even sure I'm using the word "troubleshoot" correctly. It would be oh so convenient if I could blog from my phone because then, hell, I could update this baby anywhere. I'm not always by a computer, but I am always by my phone. And my essence WANTS to hurt my phone, but it knows it can't because my essence is also codependent and it knows that the phone is a gateway to people. So it lets me make calls and receive them, and has recently adapted to text messages but it gets uppity at the idea of checking my email, blogging, facebooking, or joining Twitter. Honestly, by the time my essence becomes comfortable with the very idea of Twitter, it's fad will have passed. There will be something new, possibly something combining terms like "trending" and "occupy." Maybe "Troccupy," which will be shortened to "Troc" and then abbreviated to "trc," which leaves out one letter, which then makes it much more convenient to type, dnt yu thnk? Troc will be even better and more awesome than Twitter than any of us can imagine, but I won't be able to use it because my essence's karma won't be able to get within a mile of it.

So here I am, sitting at my computer and blogging, which my essence has allowed because I've convinced it that I'm not staring at a monitor but a pile of mud. I'm karmically in tune with mud, which anyone who has grown up with me or tasted my pies can attest to. I wonder if I can convince it that my phone is really a hamster. Then I can join the millions of others on Twitter! Unfortunately, it's not fooled for long because it senses lies. I mean, it is ME.

Speaking of which, gotta go. My essence has just figured out that I'm using a device and my monitor is beginning to melt.

Where is my plot?

I've been writing the Locksmith story for about a month now. The day before yesterday I finally wrote out the whole plot so I can see where I'm going with it, and now I can't find it. You would think I might keep track of things like, oh, the plot of my novel. But no. It's probably under a piece of bacon somewhere in the house.
At least I know where my notes are from my two days with Jay, the hospital locksmith. I followed him around during my lunch breaks to get an idea of what the swinging life of the average locksmith is like. My favorite notes on my time with Jay are ones that have nothing to do with anything, really, and/or don't help my book much. Here they are:
-"Jay's storeroom is so cluttered you'd have to climb across a work table to get into and and he won't let me because he's afraid I'll hurt myself. Pshaw!"
-"To pick a lock, you must use a pick."
-"The 11th floor has a good view of the river"
-(a quote taken from Jay out of context) "Key shavin's? Key shavin's don't smell like that. You probably smell me. Does it smell like dried shrimp?"
So that's been fun. I called over at ACME Lock, which is the place Jay calls when he needs back up, and left a message with the head Boss Lady there. I'd like to interview her, and come by the see what the shop looks and smells like. You would think I've had enough of the smell of dried shrimp but no. Never!
Aside from random notes, I also like facts about locks and keys with no clear idea of why. I like that the wheels inside of a combination lock are called "tumblers." I'm also charmed by words like cylinder, pins, pick-tool, and tension bar. Yes, I think I will use these words a lot in my book. "She crossed the room, eyes piercing coldly at Burt like pins at a tension bar." Actually, that makes no sense and there is no one in my story named Burt. But I like that sentence anyway.
For this story I'm ressurecting a name I've used in a previous book I wrote that is lying somewhere under my bed. Her name is Parker. In the other book she worked at a coffee shop, and in this one she gets to have supernatural powers and help save the world. She's been given a promotion. And yes, supernatural locksmith powers! She can pick a lock like it's nothing and wears a toolbelt like a stud!
My writing goal for this week is to send out the short story I wrote over the summer (yet again, because it's only been rejected once) and to work on "Locksmith." Perhaps also update Creature Feature House. So you can look out for that too, if you're into that kind of thing, which everyone should be.

Locked

Two days ago I wrote a blog post at home and saved it to my jump drive (a riveting beginning to this post, I know but bear with me). The idea was to blog at home and then upload it at my break at work. Work and the library are the only two places that I have access to the Internet right now. So, I thought, "Hey! I shouldn't spend work time blogging, so I'll do it on my own time and then upload it at work during my break! Work, writing, and blogging shall be done but none of the twain shall meet! Integrity is getting slung around like crazy over here!....But no. I have Microsoft Works at home and Microsoft Word at work. I can't pull up what I saved. I can't do it at the library either because they have Word instead of Works too. Which also means that (pause for seizures of frustration) I can't access the file of the new book that I'm working on ANYWHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD except for at home. Home!!! You know? That place full of humans and animals who all say that they want me to write but then get hungry for dinner or throw up the minute I begin typing? ARRRGH!!!

Anyway, I wrote the most awesome post ever, and now it's locked away in a file that I can only look at by myself at home. But speaking of locks, I have a new book that I'm working on. And speaking of books (note the build of of tension because I did not tell you about my new book right away. I learned that from writing, which is neato), Agent Sarah says that The Dylanson Obituaries have been rejected six times so far. She's submitted it to four other publishers and we're waiting to hear back from them.

I think that's what I wrote about in my locked away post, that Agent Sarah has been awesomely supportive. She said that she loves the book and believes in it and doesn't think I should change it, but keep trying to find a publisher who loves it too. That's very sweet of her but also nerve wrecking.
"Oh good," I told my girlfriend Michelle over the phone. "Someone just needs to fall in love with it. No pressure."
"It's been known to happen," she told me, simply. "Keep trying."
"ARRRGGH!"

Despite my pirate-like protest, I am still trying. And while I wait for The Dylanson Obituaries to sell, I will be writing this new one. It's fantasy, which I've never written before but it's fun so far. It's about a female locksmith named Kelly. Because she who has the key has the power.

There are sometimes I think about driving

There are sometimes, like ten minutes ago when I walked out to my car to get something, that I think about driving away. First and foremost this would have been a terrible idea because I was (and still am) on my break at work. The impulse happened for no reason I can think of. It reminded me of when I was younger and I would jump at the impulse to cut class, or dodge my bus and hide for the day instead of going to school.

Skipping a class in college, though not wise, wasn't going to get me kicked out if I did it once or twice. Hiding from the school bus though - that never turned out well. I think I only did it a few times. One time turned out especially bad, and I won't go into details, but let's just skip to the end and say that the police came out and my parents were very upset with me, and also worried that I might be crazy. (Note to mom and dad: I am, but it's not that bad) I never did it again after that, and instead dragged myself onto the bus where I slumped over and didn't look anyone in the face. This made me irresistably popular, and by that I mean that I was the mean kids' favorite target. I always got upset and never retaliated, which is a perfect combination for another kid who needed a quick reputation boost by picking on someone else. Looking back, I really wish I had just sat up straight and told off Julie Whatever Her Name Was when she threw gum in my hair, but instead I spent five unsuccessful minutes trying to pull it out and then the rest of the bus ride staring out the window wishing I could run into the trees that we were driving by.

Now when I get these impulses, I don't drive off and I don't slump over and stop talking to someone. This would not work.

Kid at Home: Mom, can I have some lunch money?...Mom? Why did you fall forward on the table? Mom? (starts tapping on my head) Mom, are you awake?...What are you mumbling? No, I don't want to go get your car keys. Why?"

But the impulses don't always happen because I want to escape stress. Sometimes it's when I'm feeling good and I just want to get out there and see things. This morning when I was walking into work I saw a photograph of a shell on the beach in the hallway and I suddenly wanted to run back to my car and drive to the beach so I could look for it. I don't even know what beach that was. It could have been a New Zealand shore. All the better! I've never been to New Zealand! What a lark! I am sure that this is exactly what my boss would have said when I called to let him know of my plan.

"Norris," I would say, "No, I won't be in this morning. See, I was walking down the hall towards the patient elevators when I saw a picture of this shell and I decided to go to New Zealand...Yes, I think it's a lark too! You're so supportive, sir!"

Speaking of bosses and such, my break is over and I need to get back to work. I'll avoid the seashell hallway, and mean girls who look like they might throw gum at me.

Woman vs. Mower

Yesterday while I was mowing the lawn I accidently punched myself in the face. How did this happen? I would like to make something up and say that I was mowing the lawn when this thug appeared out of nowhere and demanded money, and that I leaped over the lawn mower and kicked him, and then he did a flip and threw a punch that clocked me in the jaw, and I reeled but then I recovered, and I did a cart wheel and a triple backflip and punched him right in face and knocked him out cold. The lawn mower was running this whole time, threatening to mow down the both of us, just to add tension, and once the thug was down I returned to the machine and began pushing it across the yard again, like nothing had happened.
But no. It was a hundred and something degrees yesterday when I went out to tackle the jungle that my backyard has become, and after an hour of mowing I was overly hot, tired, and aggravated. The grass was especially high in one area and the machine kept killing. So I pulled the chord to jump start it and nothing happened. Pulled it again. Sputter and then nothing. I pulled it again and the mower laughed at me and then tried to pass it off as another sputter. Lyer. It wasn't the high grass, or my mowing skills - this machine was just a jerk. So I grabbed the chord and tore it back.
"Start goddamnit!" I barked, which only made it laugh harder at me.
I took a deep breath. I gave that thing a burning glare that I hoped it noticed and felt ashamed of itself, as its mistress panted and sweated before it. But that fucking lawnmower took one look at me and laughed until it cried.
"I SAID START!" I yelled, seized the chord, and jerked it back.
My hand was too sweaty. I lost my grip on the chord, my fist snapped back, and I popped myself right on the jaw.
As I stood there, dazed, my first thought was, "Did I really hit myself?" I touched below my chin, and the tips of my fingers came away bloody. My second thought was, "I'm done for the day." I actually split my chin. What. The. Hell?
So the backyard was left undone. For those of you who don't know, I live on almost a fourth of an acre so it takes about two hours to do the front and the back yard. The front looks great, but the backyard looks like half a jungle now. It looks like those pictures you see of land that's been cleared, and you can see where the demolition stopped because there's a flat field and then a wall of forrest. That's my yard.
And also at the edge of it there's a lawnmower that's laughing so hard it's wetting its pants.