Thursday, July 29, 2010

#chocwars


This time next Friday I'll be involved in a war. Truth be told I already am. But next week will be the epic battle that decides an outcome.

For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you may have already noticed #chocwars. It all started…… well, I'm not really sure how it started. Someone probably said "I like white chocolate", then some argumentative fool said "White chocolate isn't real chocolate" and somebody indignantly said "Yes it is", then some idiot said "No it isn't", then …..well, you get the drift.

At this stage a group of us (still unclear to me how I got involved, there may have been a glass or three of red wine consumed by that point. I'm not even sure if it was daytime or evening…), turned on poor Heath from Coles Online asking for free chocolate, as you do. Well….don't you?
Anyway, Heath, bless him, challenged four of us (myself, Sarah, Kylie and Kerri) to blog our arguments for a public vote to be held on the Coles Online blog, and in exchange he would send each of us 'research packs' of chocolate.

I laughed. And poured another wine. I mean, the other three are writers. Real, published writers. And I'm just….me. I drink wine, eat chocolate and blog about my boobs heading south. As if I'm going to say 'yes' to a competition with them. Free chocolate though…..

I slept on it. And apparently in a hangover haze I said 'yes' the next day. After all, I've been researching chocolate for over 40 years, I can do this, yes? Oh, crap.

The question we are trying to answer seems to be "Is white chocolate really chocolate?"

Well….duh….. you call it chocolate don't you? And all the labels on all the blocks in all the stores call it chocolate don't they? And they're all governed by some sort of rigid food standard aren't they? Is everybody wrong? Really?

I'll leave you pondering those questions for the next week, when I will threaten, err, I mean, urge you all to read our blogs and vote for your preference. As in, my team, #allchoc. You can read the others, just don't vote for them. You can even mock them a little, just don't vote for them.

So, Friday 6th August is D-day. Or would that be C-Day?

Sarah Pietrzak (@SeraphimSP on twitter) is my team-mate and we will be showing that white chocolate deserves to be included in the chocolate family with all the other colours. Or we'll just make you belly laugh so much you'll vote for us.

Kylie Ladd (@kylie_ladd) and Kerri Sackville (@KerriSackville) are arguing against the inclusion of white chocolate as a legitimate chocolate product. Or they'll just make you so bored you'll vote for us.

Either way you'll vote for us.

And you know what? I thought my stomach was hurting from all the chocolate I ate, but it's from all the laughter. Okay, it might be the chocolate, but mostly the laughter. No matter what happens, these girls have had me in hysterics all week. Follow them and their blogs and you'll laugh at them too.

But vote for us.

#allchoc #whitechocolateISchocolate


 


 

Friday, July 23, 2010

Brownie Points: How To Win (and Lose) Them



I recently received a funny email from a friend, original author unknown, as is the case with most joke emails I guess. Plagiarism is so easy and guilt-free these days when you don’t have the name of the person you’re stealing from.



It details a guide to the Female Demerit Point System. That title is a bit of a mouthful so I assume most people, like me, refer to them as Brownie Points, Reward Points, Gold Stars or Guaranteed Sex Indicators.


The general idea is that life for a man is all about making the woman happy. Do something that she likes and you earn points. Do something that she dislikes and you lose points. Do something that is expected of you and you get no points. Sorry guys, if it’s expected, it's a zero, that’s life, suck it up. Build up the points and cash them in. Or at least attempt to.

There may be ways of achieving bonus points, also known as Guaranteed Blowjob Indicators, but I would be kicked out of the Devious Housewives Union if I ever revealed them. Though one bloke assures me "We don't cash them in for sex, just for 'stuff', or peace and quiet." He's either getting plenty already, has a penny-pinching cow of a wife who never shuts up, or he's gay.

I read through the list of demerits and laughed at most of them, though to be honest, some of them perhaps referred back to those romantic, heady days of early life together. You know, before children arrived, the mortgage grew and the horror of reality set in.

Like the following guide for behaviour at a social function:

You stay by her side the entire party (0)
You stay by her side for a while, then leave to chat with an old school friend (-2)
Named Tiffany (-10)
Tiffany is a dancer (-20)
Tiffany has silicone implants (-80)

Sure, when we were dating, and even in our early married life, this would have been a scarily accurate points system which I would have adhered to, as would he (or risk losing his testicles). But now? After more than two decades of marriage?

You stay by her side the entire party (-10)
You part ways as soon as you enter the party (+1) and only go near her again to refill her drink (+2), and again at 4am when she passes out and you have to carry her back to the car (+5)
You stay by her side for a while, then leave to chat with an old school friend (0)
Named Cheryl (0)
Cheryl is a barmaid (0)
Cheryl has silicone implants (0)
And Botox (0)
And 5 divorces behind her (0)
And 7 kids by 6 different fathers (0)
And will be starting her third stint in rehab next month (0)
You get scared by what you see and appreciate what a wonderful woman your wife is (+10) or...
You run away with Cheryl and end up living in a trailer park with 6 of her kids (one is in jail), leaving your wife the house, cars, money, credit cards and wine collection (+20)


It also covered some areas like simple household duties; a source of endless arguments, plate-throwing and silent stand-offs amongst many couples. I pondered this category for a while and came up with what has worked for me.


You put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher (0)
You stack them incorrectly and she has to re-do them (-2)
You unstack the dishwasher when it’s finished (+1)
You put things away in ridiculous places and she can’t find her favourite cake plate when her guests are due to arrive for afternoon tea in ten minutes (-5)

You put the rubbish bins out (0)
You put the green waste bin out when it’s recycle day or vice versa (-2)

You decide to rid the bathroom of any traces of mould (+2)
You spill mould remover on her favourite green bathmat, bleaching it beyond recognition (-2)
You use so much product the entire bathroom still smells like a public swimming centre 3 days later (-5)

You pick up the dog poo (0)
You miss the poo that is directly under the clothesline (-1) on washing day (-2) when she is barefoot (-10)

You do maintenance around the house (0)
You cut through live power cords (-1), fall through ceilings (-2) and tumble off ladders whilst wielding a chainsaw (-5)
You give up and call a qualified, young, good-looking tradesman (+10)

You offer to cook dinner (+2)
You pour her a wine and tell her to catch up on her tweeting while you cook (+5)
You present a meal that not even the dog will eat, has the kids gagging and her calling for pizza (-10)

Sometimes, it is NOT the thought that counts.


Which brings me to thoughts and gestures. These can be tricky areas for the man to navigate. Us women know what we want the man to do, but we don’t always communicate that to him, we just expect him to know. When he gets it right, we don’t react much, so he doesn’t always know he got it right. But when he gets it wrong, the whole on-line community knows within minutes.


You stop at the shops on the way home from the footy to pick up some things you know are needed (0)
You forget something important (-1) but you go out again (0) in the rain (+1)
You bring her back some chocolate (+2) and wine (+5) because it came free with the carton of beer (-10)

You remember your wedding anniversary (0)
You buy her the same card you bought her the previous year (-1) and argue about it when this is pointed out to you (-2)

You buy her a single red Valentine’s Day rose (+1) the day after Valentine’s Day (-2) because they are half price (-5) and you do this six years in a row (-10) and brag about it to all your friends (-20)

You ask her what she would like for her birthday two months in advance (+2)
You forget what she wanted (-2) and by the time you remember, the item is no longer available (-5) so you take the daughter shopping with you (+2) the day before her birthday (0) and end up giving her a CD (0) that the daughter really wants (-1)

You have a vasectomy (+5) so she doesn’t have to use contraceptives (+5) in the hope that when her body adjusts, you’ll get more sex (-20)

You tell her you love her (0)
You tell her you love her with no prompting (+2)
You tell her you love her with no prompting and no thought of what's in it for you (+5)
You tell her you love her and immediately ask if you can buy a bigger TV (-5)
You tell her you love her and immediately ask her if she wants to 'do it' (-10)


You take her out to dinner (+1) to a sports bar (-1) and spend the night with your eyes on the footy on the TV in the corner (-5)

You take her out to dinner (+1) to a restaurant with linen tablecloths (+2)
You continually point out the Specials menu to her (-2)
You suggest she only order an entree size (-5) because she is supposed to be on a diet anyway (-20)


Finally to the complicated area of communication. Fraught with danger. I’m not sure there are too many men who emerge from this minefield with a points advantage.


You listen when she wants to talk about a problem (0)
You listen for more than 30 minutes (+10)
You listen for more than 30 minutes without looking at the TV (+20)
She realises this is because you have fallen asleep (-50)

You ask her if she’s wearing something new and you are correct (+5)
She asks if it suits her. You hesitate with your response (-2)

You ask her if she’s wearing something new and you are incorrect (-2) because she wore it at your work’s Christmas party last year (-5) where everyone complimented her and you complained about how much it cost (-10)

She asks if she looks fat. (-5) (Let’s face it, there is no correct answer to this question and you lose points no matter what)
You reply “Which part of you?” (-500) (In fact, you may as well stop bothering with the points system right then and there. You are never getting sex again.)


My husband gave up keeping score years ago; since the Falling Asleep At The Sports Bar Incident of 2001, he knows he will never get into credit. And if you’re wondering why the challenge to accumulate Brownie Points is perpetually aimed at men and not women, perhaps a couple of quotes will explain it.

Firstly Oscar Wilde, who said, “How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being.”

And one from another unknown philosopher, who said, “To make a man happy, a woman needs only to show up naked with food and beer.”

Thursday, July 15, 2010

From Nappies To Nikes; Thanks For The Mammaries


Have I committed cyber fraud?
I have recently joined an Aussie Mummy Bloggers site, but to be honest it was with some trepidation and expectation of being politely restrained at the door by the mummy police. You see, I am a mother and I blog, but I guess I'm not what is strictly defined as a mummy blogger. My kids are not young uninhibited muses or hilarious toddling fodder for a wannabe writer any more. Those days seem to have passed me by, and so my blog doesn't always focus on my children's snot-nosed exploits. Now that my son is 17, he is no longer interested in latching onto my boobs (but no doubt interested in other younger, perkier ones), and at 15, my daughter has finally stopped clogging the toilet and remembers to flush.

I still mention being a mother, there's no escaping the fact no matter how hard I try. And I talk about past experiences from when my kids were smaller, as were my arse and wrinkles. Then there's the boob talk. They played a big part in nurturing two little cherubs in this great Southern land, and now, well, they're just big and heading South. Barely there B-cups to Egads! E-cups. (Is 'E' for Elongated?)

So am I a Mummy Blogger, Memory Blogger or Mammary Blogger?

If mummy blogging had been the phenomenon it is today back in the 20th century when my two grumpy teenagers were knee-high pooping machines, I wonder what I would have blogged about, compared to what my post topics are today.

I decided to take a walk down a soggy, smelly memory lane and investigate the similarities and differences. If I had been a blogger way back then…


1987: diamonds, wedding dresses, big hair, bridesmaids, flowers, mortgage, new home

2010: bricks, curtains, dusty hair, builders, trampled flower beds, bigger mortgage we'll never pay off, new family room extension on the third home


1988-89: sex, sex, sex, 101 positions

2010: headaches, tiredness, Viagra, 102 excuses


1990: reproduction issues, miscarriage, stress, tears, pros and cons of a sensitive and supportive spouse

2010: pre-menopausal issues, hormones, stress, tears, pros and cons of murdering a spouse and an open forum on the best places to hide a body


1991: Fiji, sunshine, warm clear water, clean beaches, relaxing, cocktails, healing

2010: Adelaide, hailstorms, leaking family room, cleaning toilets, valium, vodka, oblivion


1992: morning sickness, obstetrician appointments, healthy glow, bigger boobs, jeans that no longer fit

2010: being sick of life, physio appointments, hot flushes, bigger boobs, jeans that no longer fit


Nov 1992: labour, pain, tears, joy, "I can't wait to do it again"

2010: manual labour, pain, tears, despair, "What the fuck did I do that for?"


1993: breastfeeding, mastitis, maternity bras, weight loss, libido, sleep deprivation, wind, burps, smiles

2010: breastsagging, cystitis, push-up bras, weight gain, libations, insomnia, farts, burps, smells


1994: toddlers, toys, nappies, Thomas the Tank, dummies, tantrums, breastmilk, more morning sickness

2010: teenagers, online games, Nike, Call of Duty, spitting the dummy, blazing rows, booze, hangovers


Jan 1995: labour, tears, back pain, relief, "I'm happy, I'm done"

2010: aches, tears, back pain, pneumonia, "That's it, I'm done for"


1995: sibling love, baby wipes, dolls, Barbie, fairies, dresses, eyes that can sear your soul

2010: sibling rivalry, pimple cream, iPod, Twilight, vampires, Converse sneakers, eyes that can kill with one look


1996: weaning the baby off the breast, toilet-training, socialising, play-dates, ball games, bathtimes, cringing during their 'self-exploration'

2010: keeping the husband off the boobs, house-training, partying, sleepovers, balls through windows, long showers, screaming when walking in 'mid-self-exploration'


1997: playgroup, kindergarten, yummy mummy groups, parenting courses, Mother & Child books, vasectomy procedures

2010: dentist, orthodontist, drunken lunches, winery tours, the latest Dan Brown novel, castration options


1998: standing at the school gate, wanting to stop him from going, crying as he went into class on the first day of school

2010: standing at the front gate, trying to stop him from entering, crying as he came home for six weeks of school holidays


1999: schoolyard spats, kid's birthday parties, food fights, cordial, bouncy castles, grandparents, volunteering on school committees

2010: family spats, 40th and 50th birthday parties, food fights, wine, being bounced out of pubs, nursing homes, avoiding parent/teacher nights


2000: Olympics, boy and girl friends, curls, lunchtime discos, bikes, sports coaches, skinned knees, Pixar movies

2010: World Cup, boyfriends and girlfriends, hair straighteners, school formal, cars, driving instructors, accident claim forms, porn


If asked before today, I would have said that life had really changed as the kids grew, but after having chronicled their (and my) blog-worthy lives like this, I'd say it hasn't. Maybe the language is ruder, the problems more profound, the pitfalls more dangerous, and the alcohol content higher, but I'm still feeding them, still cuddling them, still worrying about them and still cleaning up their shit.

Once a mummy, always a mummy.



Wednesday, July 14, 2010

The Spanish Inquisition















Blimey, I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition. But that's what I got, thanks to Cardinal Biggles, AKA Tim from Bringing Up Charlie.
Amongst his weaponry are such diverse elements as fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope, and a nice red uniform.

The crafty Cardinal has even forced me to sit in the comfy chair whilst threatening me with the rack (which looks suspiciously like a dish-drying rack), and had Cardinal Fang (Charlie) poke me with soft cushions.

He has inflicted my tortured, weakened self with this meme, though I prefer not to think of it as a meme. I would rather it be viewed as a brief, amusing interlude situated between long-winded, ridiculously sarcastic posts.

So, to answer his questions....


1. If Hitler had won, Goebells had none and Franz Joseph was blessed with three, what was the score after extra time after the match had gone to penalties?

Who cares? The World Cup is over. We didn't win, England didn't win, thank goodness the Germans didn't win, we were all robbed, let's move on... (though the Spanish did win so I should probably be careful how I answer from now on ...nah, who am I kidding?)

2. How is it that a calendar - which had no moving parts - can, unlike a stopped clock, still record the passage of time?

I'm not sure that it does, especially when somebody forgot to write an orthodontist appointment on there.... trust me, time stood still during THAT argument.

3. Is the King of France bald?

I only know the King of Id and he is a fink.



4. Seaside or countryside?

If I want to watch foamy waves rolling in as the sun sets on the horizon I go to the countryside and if I want to watch green rolling hills basking in the afternoon sun I go to the seaside… wait, I have that the wrong way round… I must be dyslexic.

5. Why is the sky blue?

Well, my sky is blue..... I thought you only see a grey sky in the UK?

6. Does God exist?

My dog does. Hey, I'm dyslexic.

7. What is the meaning of life?

I'm glad you asked. A team of the world's most brilliant minds, including mine, has been working around the clock and has finally discovered the meaning of life. At great expense to the taxpayers of the world, and possibly causing such terrible side-effects as the Global Financial Crisis, the BP oil spill, and Justin Bieber's popularity, we are now very pleased to finally reveal it to all you bloggers. The meaning of life is..... [READ MORE]

8. Why do flies always find a way through the smallest of gaps even though they've got the entire WORLD to fly around, yet find it impossible to find their way out once they're in your house?


They must be males.




9. Do bees have ears?

Well, the Bee family I know all have ears as far as I can tell. Although according to Mrs Bee, Mr Bee has selective hearing and the middle child says "What?" rather a lot so perhaps I should check...

10. Are blogs the future?

Not according to Back to The Future. Marty McFly travelled forward to 2015 and I don't remember noticing Mummy Blogs being of particular importance to the plot.

But that does raise another question… how soon do I get my hoverboard?






Sunday, July 4, 2010

Diary of a Narcissistic Blogger




MONDAY: Happy, happy day. Check all statistical information on the blog. Follower numbers, Clustrmaps, Google Analytics, StatCounter, SiteMeter, MyBlogLog, BigBrotherIsWatching, ILoveMyBlogYouShouldToo, IfYouUnfollowMeIWillTrackYouDown, etc. Chart, graph and analyse everything, so I know exactly what new traffic came to me last week. Where they came from, what they looked at, how long they stayed, what connections they have and how much money they have in off-shore bank accounts. Amazing what you can find out these days.

Negotiate new deal with blog sponsor. Offer to review products positively in exchange for cash, vouchers and advertising my blog. Sure, I can review the new strollers and pushchairs. What? I need to have a baby? Search for new sponsor.

Send out 127 emails offering advertising space to new clients. Tell them to Google me and see how popular I am.

Change header in an attempt to be modern and fresh. Change it back when I reflect that I am a ‘brand’ and shouldn’t confuse people. Change it back and forth at least 17 times. Decide to leave it; my people love my blog no matter how it looks. Get nervous about that decision. Change it again.

Add a black and white photo of myself that makes me look cool and sexy. Delete the photo when I realise it makes me look old and grainy.

Fiddle with fonts and colours for a while, try to get that “LOOK AT ME” thing happening. Give up when I notice the psychedelic look I choose gives the dog seizures.

Stay up past midnight obsessing about getting my blog to fit my personality, and past 1am when I decide my personality doesn’t matter, it’s all about what sells.

Collapse into bed knowing I’ve done all I can to please my audience and push my product, secure in the knowledge that the post I have scheduled to publish in the morning will generate immense interest, and more importantly, bring me the blog love.


TUESDAY: Wake up in a panic at 5.47am when it dawns on me that in my fixation with my blog’s presentation, I didn’t even write a blog post. Stumble to laptop. I can do this, I am an awesome writer. Blank. Panic. I post every Tuesday morning, my public expect it. There’ll be an outcry if I don’t. They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me, terrified that I’m ill, dead, or worse; that I’ve lost my touch.

Send message to my Blog Publicity Guru, namely Lois, the butcher’s assistant from Phoenix whom I met on Twitter, who didn’t finish high school but adores my blogs, so she must be intelligent. And her fifth (and current as at Friday) husband drives an icecream van; he’s a man of the world, he'll help. Throw ideas for blog subjects at her and wait for her response.

“No honey, do NOT write yet another post about Twitter, it’s been around for years now and has been hacked to death, a bit like this carcass I’m leanin’ on. You done seven of ‘em already. Etiquette, followers, spammers, stalkers, the pros, the cons, a funny twist or a serious one; trust me babydoll, Twitter’s been blogged about. Unless you’re changin’ your blog to one o’ them Social Media Columns? No, I didn’t think so. Don’t do it. As my first husband, may he rest in peace, used to say whenever anyone stared at his incredibly large genitalia package, “You can mention it, but don’t harp on about it, it just gets embarrassin' for all concerned.””

Sob. “What then?”

“Darlin, what did you do on the weekend? Write about that. I have to get back to work, the boss wants me to handle his sausage meat today. And I mean that in every way you’re thinkin’.”

What DID I do all weekend? I saw a movie, read a book, and was fixated on my blog for the rest of the time. A book and movie review then. Type. Fast. Choose catchy title, relevance to post unimportant. Do what sells. Publish by 7.15am.

Sit back and wait for the accolades.

Check comments after 15 minutes. Frown. Post link to blog on Facebook and Twitter. Sit back and wait for the accolades. Google myself while waiting.

Check comments after another 15 minutes. Frown. Check to see if ‘Comments’ section is working on the blog. Frown.

Sigh. Go back on Twitter and send blog link to regular followers. Reliable people who never let me down. People with nothing better to do. Sit back and wait for the accolades.

Check comments after another 15 minutes. Yes. 2 comments. Smile. Bask in the glow of knowledge that I am loved and well-respected by my followers. Lois and her husband have not let me down.

Monitor progress throughout the day. Mutter reaffirming chants.
I am a great blogger. My fans love me. I am a great blogger. My fans love me.


WEDNESDAY: Ignore breakfast, hot shower and toothbrush. Blog is more important. Check statistics.

Not bad, 41 visits, could be better. If there had been boobs in the movie or book and I could’ve mentioned them, it would have cracked at least 50. Make note to exaggerate and falsify facts next time.

Check comments. What? Only 9? Check Twitter. What? Only 2 retweets and 2 mentions?
That’s a Blog Love Ratio of only 31.707%. Frown.

Go on Twitter and post link again. Do what sells. Engage in conversation with people who have commented in the past, whether I like them or not. Remember, personality doesn’t matter, statistics do. Drop hints. Mention I saw a movie and read a book. “What did I think of them? Well go read my blog and find out. Here’s the link. Leave a comment and please retweet if enjoyed.”

Get off Twitter when the blog has received several responses. Do not saturate the marketplace yet. Save that for tomorrow.

Sit back and wait for the accolades. Check comments after 15 minutes. Frown. Accept the fact I will have to go wholesale blog-whoring some time soon.

Note to self: When next on Twitter, remember to retweet other people’s blogs. Reading them first is of course optional. I might read and comment on them later when I have absolutely nothing better to do, but probably not. It’s the sucking up that’s important. They will in turn feel obliged to read and then retweet my blogs, even if they are rubbish, but I’ll get more readers and comments, and that’s what it’s all about.

Check emails. 126 rejections. One offer of advertising from a company which makes female incontinence products.

Consider stealing neighbour's toddler to become a mummy blogger. Dismiss idea when I remember the kid is kinda ugly.

Almost decide to take part in Worthless Wordless Wednesday for attention. Almost.

Buy vodka.


THURSDAY: Forget how long it’s been since I ate, showered, brushed my teeth or hair. Blog is more important. Check statistics.

More visitors. Reasonable but not giving me a warm glow. Two new followers. Meh.

Check comments. Moan a little. Total is only 14. Check Twitter. A couple of mentions. Blog Love Ratio now stands at only 28.571%. Frown.

Breathe deeply into a brown paper bag. Struggle to remember affirmations.
I am a great love. My fans blogger me. I am a love blogger. My greats fan me.

Debate with inner voices over posting a follow-up blog. Feel desperate need to get back on top of everybody’s blogrolls. Send message to Lois. Search for anti-anxiety medication while waiting for response.

“Lawdy darlin’, please tell me you are not seriously considerin’ doin’ one o’ them rantin’an’ ravin’ pieces about how nobody comments on your blog. Baby, that is a sure fire way to scare off them kind folks who do take the time to suck up. As my second husband, may he rest in peace, used to say when he was my pimp, “You don’t get the bees to the beehive by screamin’ an’ hollerin’ at them, you gotta behave like a Queen and offer up some sweet honey.” Good luck girl, I gotta go, boss wants me to do some meat tastin’. And yes, before you ask.”

Sigh. Do what sells. Change into blog-whoring clothes. Red lace lingerie and black kimono. Ugg boots.

Start reading blogs, and.. *groan*.. leave comments. Drink vodka chasers to steel the nerves.
Try not to cringe every time I write comments like...
“LOL!”
“I feel your pain :( ”
“Great pic! Gotta love Wordless Wednesday!”
“Wonderful post about Twitter, I had never heard all that before”
“I know exactly how you feel, my children had pooing-in-public-toilet issues too”
“I agree, your Uncle Gilbert suggesting Naked Charades every time he babysat you was probably inappropriate.”

On extra long posts, just read the first and last paragraphs, and comment on something there. Pray that it makes sense.

Swear loudly every time a word verification is required.

Sit back and wait for the reciprocation. Google myself again.

Check comments after 15 minutes. Squint. Screen is blurry. Check vodka bottle. Empty. Phone somebody. Anybody. Complain that nobody loves me. Hang up when I imagine I hear Lois’ third husband, may he rest in peace, telling me "Girl, it's all about the art. Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self."

Make note to never phone the dead penniless sculptor of play-doh phallic symbols again.

Notice that dog has left me and moved in with ugly toddler's family.

Fall asleep in a drunken stupor.


FRIDAY: Crawl to laptop. Wipe hands on kimono. Wipe tongue on carpet.

Check statistics and comments. Struggle to work out percentages.

Blink hard. 23.5955%. Mutter affirmation.
I blogger my fans am a love great me.

Reach for new bottle of vodka and medication. Send message to Lois.

Don’t even hear the sirens as they approach the house.

Open my eyes to see Lois’ fourth husband, may he rest in peace, standing over me, saying, “Darlin’, as my Lois used to say to me every day of our marriage, right up til the day I was run down by that unidentified icecream van, “Honey, you need to get a life. Preferably some place away from here.””






Any resemblance to bloggers, living or dead, is purely deliberate coincidental.

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