I'm a NaNoWriMo Drop Out!

Mood: Lonely and out of sorts (hubs is at work all day today - great OT for the holidays but I'm used to having my best friend at home on a Saturday and I miss him. )

On TV: Haunted London (guess the tv isn't ready to let go of Halloween just yet)

I? Am officially a NaNoWriMo drop out. Yep. That's right. Already. I'm a quitter. *hangs head in writerly shame*

For the non-writing peeps out there, NaNoWriMo is national novel writing month. 30 days of insanity that take hold every November when writers, professional and amateur alike, try to pound out a novel of 50,000 words in just a single month. It sounds like a great idea, right? Just write with abandon and get the words out on paper (or the computer) and at the end of a mere 30 days of insanity you will have completed a basic novel.

After completing my last work I thought that joining in the NaNoWriMo insanity fun would be a great way to get the creative juices flowing again. It would be a way of driving forward with my next work while the previous one awaits rewrites. Yeah. That was the thought anyway. The reality was much different.

Here's the thing folks. I'm a nerd. A card carrying member of the "I have to have straight A's or I'll die" geek club. Which means that when it comes to writing (or anything that remotely resembles an "assignment") I'm a painful perfectionist. Why that perfectionism couldn't apply to something more useful like, say, keeping my house clean or actually applying make-up everyday, I'll never know but it is what it is.

So, when I decided to dive right into the NaNo fray? I froze. Couldn't write, couldn't think. Spent days trying to flesh out an idea and failing miserably because all I could do was feel the pressure of the looming deadline. My muse clammed up and sat in the corner refusing to talk to me. My brain? Was only capable of playing endless rounds of on-line Yahtzee.

What if I didn't finish? (okay, really, what did I think was going to happen? It's not like the NaNo police are going to come and confiscate my computer.)

But if I didn't finish then I would fail and I can't fail! (I can however let my dishes pile up, my vacuum cleaner grow dusty with disuse and are there really people who immediately put their laundry away after washing because I really think that's a vicious rumor).

Ultimately I decided that I needed to remove the pressure from  my writing. Not that deadlines aren't useful but, for me, the deadline of one month was nearly enough to drive me out of my mind in less than a week.

So, to all the NaNo warriors out there - I wish you luck and flowing words.

As for me? I have another game of on-line Yahtzee to finish and then maybe I'll do the dishes. Or maybe I'll write because now that the deadline has been removed my muse is starting to look like she might be willing to have a little chat.

Arguing With Myself

Mood: Stabby (Ask Jen Lancaster...it's a mood!)

On the Interwebz radio: Romeo and Juliet (Dire Straits version...from Empire Records - but today is so NOT my personal Rex Manning Day - if you don't get the reference, watch the movie. Seriously.)

*Hangs head in blogger shame*

I have been neglectful of my poor little blog. *Pats blog on head* I knew it had been a while since I blogged but I didn't think it had been over a month! Most writers I know blog almost obsessively. They wax witty and poetic on life, on writing, on their children and their pets. While I? Am doing what? Nothing! Well, not nothing obviously...I mean, I'm breathing and possibly playing Frontierville on Facebook, or eating ice cream...

<---- FYI: This? May or may not be what I look like when ice cream is involved.

...but obviously I've not been doing anything so spectacular that I've been kept from blogging. Because if I had been doing that awesome stuff? I totally would have been blogging about it.

So, let's take a small look inside my blogging mind:

Me: I totally need to put up a blog post. It's been like for-ever!
Myself: But I don't have anything interesting to blog about.
Me: So. Blog about writing.
Myself: I don't wanna blog about my writing. My writing sucks. I'm going to run away and join the circus!
Me: Well blog about that then.
Myself: Puh-leeze. Like anyone is going to believe someone with my bad balance and fat arse is going to join the circus.
Me: You could be a clown.
Myself: Shut.up.! I would not join the circus unless I could wear a super cute outfit and a sparkly tiara - like maybe the trapeeze.
Me: You're afraid of heights so the trapeeze thing? Is probably not the best option.
Myself: FINE!
Me: So? What are we going to blog about?
Myself: WE? We are not blogging about anything. This was your stupid idea, I'm going to get some ice cream.
Me: Ice cream? I want some too!!

*******************************

So, yeah, kind of scary in there isn't it? And we didn't even get close to the crap I keep hiding behind High School Algebra.

Anyway, I'm going to try to stop by here more often because really? After a month you would not believe the dust and spiderwebs that accumulate around here! :)

Is This Type of Torture Legal?

Mood: Frustrated (trying to write and the hubs keeps interrupting me - every few minutes - for oh so important things like switching out cables for our printer).

On tv: The Simpsons (Don't judge me!)

It has recently been brought to our attention (via the fact that our clothes no longer fit properly and walking more than a few feet has become cause for both exhaustion and celebration) that the hubs and I are in desperate need of a renewal of our gym membership. Truthfully, we thought that we'd only allowed our membership to lapse for a year...maybe a year and a half, tops. However, when we dragged our tired, fat, lazy selves up to the gym counter to "renew" our membership, we were advised that we were no longer in the system, nor were we in their "old" files. The perfectly perky lady at the counter cheerfully advised us that they only keep files for three years. Seriously? Three years? It's been  more than three years since we've dragged ourlazyselves to the gym?

Since our last foray into the world of exercise, a few things have changed. First, we had to fill out a new form and then instead of the old (and quite handy) key fob you used to swipe to check in, we were issued ID's - with pictures that they took with no warning. Kind of like a surprise mug shot that left me looking a little like this (only fatter):

Personally I suspect that they are going to use this picture to shame people like  me into coming in and working out more often. I expect that I'll open the local newspaper someday and see my picture with a caption "have you seen this woman? Last spotted in the Dairy Queen drive thru - if found, please return to the treadmill."

Sigh. I tucked the card away hopefully to be promptly lost tragically misplaced and never to be seen again. Then, the hubs and I headed for the equipment room...where lots of shiny new equipment waited for us - ready to torture us mercilessly help us get ourselves into shape.

I headed for the treadmill because walking seemed easy enough and I was drawn to the fact that the new treadmills have personal televisions attached (short of hanging a piece of chocolate cake in front of me, tv is a pretty good way to keep me moving). The problem? I am gym equipment stupid and there were way too many buttons and way too few instructions on this machine.

<----See? Lots of shiny fun buttons to push.

Oh sure I figured out how to turn it on and even how to set one of the workout programs but the tv? That took a bit of effort. I finally figured out how to turn it on and change the channel (is it sad that I was wishing for a remote so I could just punch in the channel I wanted instead of having to scroll through and find it?) but the headphone jack still eludes me - thank God for closed captioning or I'd have no idea what the Food Network challenge was all about. Yes, I watched Food Network while walking on the treadmill - don't judge me!

Eventually, the machine and I were moving. Well, mostly it was me doing the moving but in an occasional burst of sadistic rage the treadmill would speed up or suddenly ramp up the incline so that I was forced to hold onto the bars for dear life. I began to both fear and loathe the random mood swings of my self inflicted torture but I reminded myself it was for my health, for the greater good - eventually I resorted to closing my eyes and thinking of England (which, btw, was absolutely useless).

Finally, I was nearing the end of my workout. I was watching the countdown timer the way a fat woman I watch the cookie timer. I was checking my pulse on the pulse bars, I was checking out how many calories I had burned (surprisingly little considering how much punishment that machine had doled out), etc. when the unthinkable happened. My hubs, the love of my life, came bouncing over after his workout on the stationary bike and decided he had to "check his pulse" on my machine - he reached across and put his hands on the bars tripping the emergency stop button on the treadmill and causing all my wonderful information - time, distance, calories burned - to be erased in what I can only assume is the exercise equipment equivalent of a panic attack.

Then he had the nerve to look at me and say "Why did you stop walking?"

We Hubs decided that, in light of the homocidal rage annoyed look in my eyes that it was best to call it a day and head home for dinner. The sad thing? We've got that membership so we'll be going back and I'm fairly certain I saw the elliptical giving me the evil eye.

I may die doing it, but mark my words I WILL figure that tv out!*


*Yes, I realize that I should be saying "I'll get in shape" or "I'll lose weight" but I think it's only fair to be realisticly honest and my money is on my ability to figure out the tv.

Sunday - The Day of Rest?

Mood: Stressed (Really? Murphy and his law are having too  much fun with my day!)

On TV: Food Network Challenge (Toy Story 3 cakes - am I the only one that didn't like the Toy Story movies?)

The hubs and I were awakened this morning by the unsettling sound of the airconditioner motor dying an early and unnatural death. Since the hubs was  snoring like a saw sleepy peacefully, I decided to get up and investigate. Luckily it turns out that the airconditioner wasn't exactly dying - but it was completely frozen over. Well played heat and humidity. Well played.

Hubs and I dealt with the frozen compressor and then decided that we hadn't had quite enough home improvement type projects so we headed out to Wal-Mart where we bought a much needed new bookshelf. Why was it much needed? Well, this is my *old* "big"  bookshelf:

As you can see, it's well more than overloaded with books. I also have a smaller  tiny bookshelf that is just as packed with books AND I also had the leaning tower of books. Alas, I neglected to take a picture of the leaning tower of books but it was a tower of books on the floor next to my bed that had grown so large that it was, you guessed it, leaning (see how clever I am with the naming things thing? If I had a baby, I'd probably name it "baby" - so yes, it is a good thing that the hubs has had the big snip).

Anyway, two hours, several curse words (seriously? The instructions were written in Spanish with pictures in Swahili), a few smashed thumbs and many false starts later, we ended up with this:

Just imagine all those books stacked up in a tower with no home to call their own. *sniff* Now they're properly shelved and happy! Oh, and because no bookshelf is complete without it:

Also, I totally have empty space on these shelves - you know what that means??? Hello B&N!!!

YA? Why?

Status: Meh (long day at work but had an amazing dinner - life evens itself out)

On tv: World's Dumbest Criminals (seriously, even I had no idea that there was this much stupid running around)

We spent last weekend attending my step-daughter's high school graduation. A six hour road trip just to get there, tons of gifts, lots of hugs and, of course, plenty of tears later I'm proud to say that the hubs and I are now the parents of a high school graduate.

As we watched our precious little girl cruising down the aisle while a rock version of Pomp and Circumstance blasted from the PA system (seriously? how kick ass is that?), I noticed that she was crying. Not just regular crying but full on snotty nosed, wracking sobs crying. Really? Crying?

<----  Oh, yes, there was sobbing.

I watched her collect her diploma and I couldn't help but think back to my own high school graduation. There had been no tears from me on that night. I'd walked through my entire four years of high school with a cosmic kick me sign taped to the back of my hand me down K-Mart clothing and, on graduation day, I was so incredibly happy to be done that I couldn't wait to get my diploma in my hand and leave my high school experience behind me forever.


Which leaves me wondering why I'm drawn to writing YA novels...it's not like I'm trying to relive my high school glory days because, let me assure you, I had none. I had humiliating days, awkward days, lonely days, ugly days, and hurt filled days but definitely no glory days. After that kind of experience, you'd think the last place I'd want to revisit, even in fiction, would be high school. Yet, that's where I often find myself when I sit down to write.

I open a word document to find myself once again navigating the uncomfortable territory of high school hallways, lunchroom table seating politics and the horrors of the girls locker room during gym class. *shudder* Why? Really, why would I want to do that? Maybe it's like being a ghost stuck in an endless loop reliving your own murder over and over again until your murder is avenged. Only in my case it's more like being an awkward teenager reliving the moment when I got stung by a bee - on my ass- in the middle of gym class or the day that I slipped and fell, butt naked, coming out of the shower in the girl's locker room? I mean, it's practically the same thing, right? Hell, I think I would have preferred dropping dead over laying there on the cold tile floor of the locker room while all the cool, pretty girls laughed at me (okay, I totally would have probably laughed at me too, but still...).

As I sat through that hot, neverending ceremony (was the 20 minute slide show really necessary?), I realized that I write YA because teenagers can be mature and funny, smart and naive, hopeful and angsty all at the same time. They have the future wide open ahead of them and think that they've lived it all and have all the answers. Basically, they can be anything and everything - often all in the same day (if they're teenage girls, they can run the full gamut in less than 10 minutes). They're fun and interesting if you don't have to live with them.

Here's our graduate! It's all official, the sobs are gone, the smiles have appeared and may her future be just as bright and filled with joy as she is!

Also? If a character who vaguely resembles one of the cool, pretty clique of girls who tormented me during high school just happens to fall, butt naked, coming out of the girls shower in one of my novels? It's totally a coincidence. I swear.

Dan Quayle Was Here?

Status: Crazy stressed (lots going on, not enough time or sanity to go around)

On tv: Addicted (Another intervention type show - wondering if my slight obsession with reality tv could be considered an addiction. Maybe I need an intervention?)

The hubs took me out to dinner tonight because, well, I was having a bad day and he knew that if I didn't feel like cooking, dinner prep would fall to him  he loves me and wanted to pamper me. It was steak night at the restaurant that he chose - so YAY!! Sorry, but I seriously loves me some steak! :)

However, when we sat down at the table and I glanced at the "special" steak menu, I felt my eye start to twitch. The special menu listed the different types of steaks one might order along with the note that each meal came complete with a salad, a dessert and my choice of POTATOE.

Really? You run a restaurant and you don't know how to spell "potato"? *sigh* I tried to ignore it. I tried to convince myself it didn't matter if the word was spelled wrong but really, it does matter. I couldn't sit there and eat at a table where the little standing menu proclaimed that I could have a potatoe.

So, I did what any self respecting writer would do. I pulled my favorite pen out of my purse, removed the paper insert and scribbled out the "e" at the end of the word. Finally all was right in my world and I could enjoy my dinner.

Tomorrow, I'm totally fixing the sign outside the local market advertising the fact that they "except" debit cards.

I seriously suspect my hubs has the local insane asylum on speed dial.

In Like a Lamb...

Mood: Expectant (my sis is still in labor. Yes, still! But she is going to be "induced" at the beginning of this week..."induced" meaning that the docs will help move things along so that I can finally meet my new little neice or nephew).

What I'm Watching: Lock-up Raw (These are some seriously screwed up criminals they're talking to this time around...really....*shudder*)

It's March and Mother Nature is finally showing some signs of letting go of the stranglehold of winter. Today the temps topped 50°. 50°!!!! Cue the singing birds and the budding flowers. The hubs and I were drawn outside to soak up the promise of spring and, in the time honored tradition of people who live in snowy areas, we decided to take advantage of the first nice day to wash months of winter residue off of our car. For those of you who aren't familiar with the "winter residue" phenomenon, I present you with exhibit A:

             













This isn't my vehicle but this is pretty much what mine looked like so you can totally see why I wanted to make a trip to the local car wash, right?

So, the hubs and I headed out to the car wash but when we got there we found that the debit card taking machine (technical name) was out of order. This was a source of some frustration as the hubs and I rarely (never) carry cash. But, it was a beautiful day and we had nothing better to do so we schlepped over to the ATM at the local bank branch to get some cash to wash the car. Sitting in line at the drive up ATM, we had some discussion over just how much cash we should withdraw and we decided on $20.00 because this would pay for the car wash and give us a few dollars to grab a soda or something later in the day (blue raspberry icee's...score!)

This seemed like a very sensible idea...until we got back to the car wash and realized that the car wash doesn't take $20's...it only takes $5's or $1's. Le Sigh. There was a Dairy Queen across the road where we could probably get change but they don't just "make" change...we had to purchase something. Normally this would not be an issue but we'd just eaten a large breakfast and even I, the ice cream queen, could not even contemplate eating ice cream (this may very well be the first, last and only time I ever even think that sentence).

At that point the car wash was no longer just something we wanted to do...it was a quest of honor. Two rational, reasonably intelligent adults The hubs and I should be able to figure out a way to run a single car through an automatic car wash without involving cursing, head banging or calling out the national guard.

Fortunately, I had a flash of inspiration...why not run into the Dairy Queen and buy a gift card? Then, we can get change and we can have ice cream later. Win-win, right?!? That? Is why sometimes I'm just all kinds of rock star awesome!

So now my car is all sparkles and shine and I've got a DQ gift card tucked away so I'm going to call it a win.

Retail Therapy?

Mood: Sleepy (it's a sleepy type of a Sunday afternoon)

What I'm Watching: Lockup (They're letting the inmates work with rescue animals...interesting concept)

In an effort to forage for the essentials like toothpaste and toilet paper, the hubs and I had to make our weekly trek to Wal-Mart yesterday (exciting way to spend a weekend, no?). As usual, within 30 seconds of entering the parking lot, I was ready to start strangling people with my bare hands. What is it about shopping that turns ordinary people into card carrying members of the moron club?

In the interest of keeping the body count to a minimum and myself out of prison, I'd like to propose the following rules for shopping:

1.) When you are leaving the store, pushing your cart across the lot, you are not surrounded by a protective force field. My car is big, your bones are fragile, maybe you'd like to at least give a cursory glance around before jetting out in front of me.

2.) Parent is a verb. It's something that you need to do, not just something that you are. If your offspring is screaming, climbing out of your shopping cart, or opening packages of food and randomly tossing the contents on the floor? The correct response is not to continue chatting on your cell phone whilst randomly yelling and/or slapping said offspring. Put the damn phone down and pay proper attention to your children!

3.) While I'm on the subject of phones. Put the damn phone down already! Seriously. A quick phone call to  find out if you need paper towels? No problem. An extended phone call about who did what with who at the bar on Friday night? No one needs to hear that, especially the cashier who is being paid minimum wage for you to ignore her while she waits for you to stop gossiping long enough to pay her already! And people who talk on cell phones in the bathroom stalls? I'm also looking at you here. This is a situation where multitasking is NOT a good thing.

4.) Thanks to technology, the world is now a very small place. There are cell phones, social networking sites, texting options and the good old fashioned land line phone and while I'm super psyched that you've run into your old neighbor/cousin/sister/dear friend/mail carrier, stopping in the middle of a narrow aisle to catch up on the last 20 years of news? Not acceptable.  I really don't care where your son is going to college or how many kids your daughter has. So exchange phone numbers, promise to look each other up on facebook and get the hell out of my way already!

5.) The express lanes? The ones that say 20 items or less? Stop pulling into those lanes with a cart filled to overflowing. And when you do get into those lanes? Don't look annoyed when people like me, who are stuck behind your dumbass with one or two items, make a comment about your apparent lack of math and/or reading skills.

I really have never seen the appeal of "retail therapy" but I do understand the need for therapy after a retail experience!

Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's...

Mood: Lazy (really lazy. I have so much that I need to be doing...writing, wrapping Christmas gifts, addressing Christmas cards...but here I sit, blogging away.)

What I'm Watching: TMZ (We all know how much I loves me some celebrity scandal!)

Current Word Count: 11,356 (my muse? not kicking so much ass today)

2010? Doesn't have quite the same ring to it does it? Anyway, as often happens to the hubs and I, we get all wrapped up (see what I did with the punning right there?) in the planning and celebration of Christmas and New Year's Eve gets relegated to the back burner until it's too late.

The hubs and I have spent 9 New Year's Eve's together and I don't mind saying that the first 8 of those were a pure slice of hell. They would go something like this:

Me: Hubs? NYE is in two days, what do you want to do?
Hubs: I dunno.
Me: Me either, but don't you think we should do something?
Hubs: Yep.

Repeat this coversation several times over the next two days until we find ourselves staring down the barrel of New Year's Eve with absolutely nothing to do. Then? The meltdown would start.

Me: Hubs? What about checking out the celebration downtown (ice sculptures, horse drawn carriage rides, lame entertainment but with cool fireworks at midnight.)
Hubs: Meh. It's cold outside. (Uh, yeah dumbass...we live in Illinois. But, he has a point, it's definitely not worth freezing our collective asses off to see some lame ass entertainment)
Me: So, what do you want to do?
Hubs: I dunno (so original, no?)
Me:  Well it's NYE, we're young, we should be doing something fun.
Hubs: Yeah, but what?
Me: Wanna go bowling?

Insert frustrating 15 minute trek to the bowling alley in sub zero temps only to discover that it's closed for a private party! So we trek back home, cranky and disappointed that even our lame ass plans have fallen through.

Me: Are you driving back home?
Hubs: Where else are we going to go?
Me: Why don't we just go downtown? (no I don't really want to but I also don't want to spend NYE watching tv while the hubs hangs out on the computer all night)
Hubs: *fixes me with the death stare*
Me: Fine. What do you want to do?
Hubs: There's nothing to do. We're not bar people (totally true..not the we don't drink but generally hanging out in the cramped, dirty bars in our town is just not our thing) and there's nothing but drunks out on the road.

It's at this point that the situation really starts to disintegrate. Suddenly we morph from a loving couple who rarely fights into a couple of snarky, snappy bitchy people who are annoyed by the mere exitstence of one another.

I snap at him because he's being difficult about getting out of the house (even if it is just to do some lame ass town thing). He snaps at me because he wants to do something fun but there's nothing fun to do. Eventually, we hear the distant booming thunder of fireworks being set off and we pause the argument long enough to make our way to the livingroom window to watch the fireworks being set off over the river in town. We wish each other a terse "Happy New Year" and retire to our respective corners...him on the computer, me on the sofa with the remote.

As much fun as that tradition probably sounds to you, last year we decided to do something different. We recognized that we needed to head off the evening of merriment before it started. To that end, we made reservations at a local hotel that was hosting a NYE party. There was a DJ (music and dancing...yay!), a fancy cocktail bar (the hubs could drink but without being in a bar atmosphere) and the endless entertainment provided by watching drunk people dancing, partying and just generally being, well, drunk. And? At the end of the night the only thing we had to worry about operating under the influence was the hotel elevator. Win/Win/Win all the way around! For the first time we didn't spend the evening weighing our chances of getting away with seriously maiming one another.

So, in the interest of cultivating our new tradition (you know, the one that doesn't involve bodily injuries and trips to the ER and/or the local jail), I just made our reservations at a local hotel where we will once again enjoy the music, the drinks and generally laugh at the drunken masses!

Here We Come A Caroling....

Mood: Monday Morning (it's not a mood, but it damn well should be!)

What I'm Listening to: Fireflies by Owl City (see, I don't always watch tv)

Current Word Count: 9,615 (I know, the same as last time...busy weekend Christmas decorating w/ the hubs = no writing time!)

Over the weekend, the hubs and I were decorating our humble abode in preparation for the festivities of the Chrsitmas season. As we decked the halls, strung the lights and just generally made an absolute mess of our apartment, we were enjoying the sounds of streaming Christmas music over the internet. I was happily singing along about Chestnuts Roasting and Sleigh Rides and even Grandma being run over by a reindeer when, as surely as death and taxes, the station played that most heinous of all popular Christmas songs...The Christmas Shoes! What.The.Hell?!?

Typically, I avoid this song like the plague for several reasons:

First, Christmas songs are supposed to be about joy and hope and presents and candy...not about some little boy's mom dying! Sure, nothing says "Merry Christmas" like "hey kid, sorry but your mom? Well, maybe you shouldn't be adding her to the Christmas dinner head count."

Second, it just doesn't make any sense. Hey, I like shoes as much as the next girl but I've made it very clear to my step-daughter that should I ever be in the position of dying on Christmas Eve the doctor I want her to call is NOT Dr. Scholl. I want her to take me to the emergency room, call 911 or take some other, equally appropriate medical measures...none of which, I assure you, involves new shoes.

Finally, where is this kid's father? I get that mom's dying and dad is probably busy out buying her some new perfume or something but really? You're going to let your kid wander around unattended (and filthy to boot) on Christmas Eve while his mom's dying? You couldn't even put him in some clean clothes and wash his face first? Why not just put him in a box on the corner with a tag that says "free to good home"? Sheesh!

Since I opt out of listening to this song (makes me reach for the radio tuner faster than Rush Limbaugh talking about sex), the hubs was probably one of the last people on earth to hear it. As my hand reached out to the radio with  lightening fast ninja reflexes that I didn't know I possessed, he stopped me and asked why I never wanted to listen to that song. I told him it just wasn't a good Christmas song...that it was too depressing.

He said he wanted to hear it. Moron. I warned him again but he insisted. Did I mention he's not particularly bright when he's being stubborn?

As the final notes of the song played, I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He was crying. Not just a tear or two but red eyed, silent sobs.

"You're crying" I said (trying not to laugh, because, really? I did warn him)

"What am I? Made out of stone!?!" He yelled "What the hell is wrong with those people!?! What the hell kind of Christmas song is that!?!"

*Sigh* Finally. Some validation. Now we both reach for the radio dial with our mad ninja skills because we'd rather listen to Weird Al singing about Santa beheading Rudolph than the Christmas Shoes one more time!

_______________________________________________

Also? My mother tells me that there was actually a tidy bowl man commercial when I was little. I had no idea. So, in the interest of further public humiliation, here's a youtube video of the Ty-D-Bol man. Truly terrifying!

Tis the Season to be Shopping...

Mood: Tired (It was a very long weekend)

What I'm Watching: (Intervention. Seriously, how can someone be taking 3 times the maximum dose of a prescription drug and still insist they're not addicted?)

Current Word Count: 5,221 (yikes! Had to do some majorly ruthless cutting as my story arc decided to take a slightly different direction than the one I had originally planned.)

Black Friday. A day of national insanity that can only be attributed to the copious amounts of carbs consumed on Thanksgiving combined with an extreme need for retail therapy to purge the stress induced by a day spent immersed in the fun family drama that is a happy family holiday.

The hubs and I succumb to this time honored tradition every year, but, having at least two functioning brain cells, you will never find my happy ass waiting in line in the freezing cold at 3 freaking am just so I can save a few dollars on ANYTHING! However, lest I get to feeling too superior, I will drag myself into a store at the crack of 10 am and stand in line for a half hour to do some serious Christmas shopping ($45 gift for $12.99...squeeeeee!!!).

Although, I happily found many bargains in my shopping excursion, I also found myself teetering dangerously near homocidal tendencies as I made my way through crowded store after crowded store. So, in the interest of making Black Friday a more enjoyable shopping experience for everyone (namely me) and keeping people (again, namely me) from going completely ape-shit insane, I propose the following Black Friday Rules for Proper Shopping Etiquette:

• Parking lots will be crowded. Tempers will be short. Blocking a string of cars in the parking lot so you can wait while someone loads their trunk up with three carts full of stuff? Is just rude. Getting out of your car to yell at me because I won't back up so that you can pull your oversized SUV into said parking space? Makes me question whether or not you have a death wish. Really, Miss 'I can't be bothered to park more than five feet from the entrance of the store', I suggest that you just accept that you're going to have to park in the 'back 40' like the rest of us "common folk" and use the extra exercise to work off that second piece of pumpkin pie that you know you had on Thanksgiving. Seriously.

• Yes, the lines are long. You knew this when you got into said line that was snaking through the entire length of the store. Whining, fussing, and generally bitching about the length of said line? Not cool. Listen sister, you're young, healthy and thin and if my tired, middle aged, fat ass can stand in line without bitching then so can you. If you can't? I may feel a compulsion to bitch slap you. Fair warning.

• A word to merchants: After waiting in line that snakes roughly the length of the Great Wall of China to make a purchase you really should offer a snack, a smile and NOT make the customer show a receipt two feet from the checkout where you just watched her pay for her purchases. Best Buy? I'm totally looking at you here. FYI? I totally blew by the receipt checker guy. Go me! I'm such a rebel.

• Cell phone users stopping in the middle of the main aisles to text your bff's, check your voicemails or update your Facebook status? Just no. Really. No.

The hubs and I no doubt will be out in the insanity again next year but, I have no doubt that, with proper medication and enough pumpkin pie, I will once again be able to avoid actually inflicting bodily harm on those who insist on annoying the holy living crap out of me.