Christmas Miracles of The Write Woman (257 Days Left)

I'd like to discuss a bit of Critical Thinking to my readers, those in or considering university—especially the more elite schools. Public knowledge suggests future employers may investigate not only public records, but also social media, to cast an opinion of the type of personality they may be hiring. The same is said of admissions offices for universities. Now some people may say to themselves, “Oh, well I was just a kid going through some tough teenage years. They’ll get it.” The cold harsh reality is whether you’re a kid or not, when you threaten to hurt someone else, or drag someone else through the mud, don’t think your Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, etc. will state anything more than what you’ve said—FOREVER! Negative comments even mentioning your name by someone else reflect more than what’s on the surface. A critical thinking person, like a human resource administration or school admittance officials train to distinguish the good apples from the bad by using this information. So when your date dumps you and makes a fool of you at the office Christmas party, go home and beat the hell out of your pillow, but do it in private where the repercussions won’t come back to haunt you later and permanently. After all, everyone knows that if the announcement posts on social media, it’s a fact.

            My tidbit of advice goes to those charitable people who want to donate to the needy this holiday season, the way the story of Jesus depicts Him giving His life for others. For those who have been fortunate enough to find their dream job during this country’s financial crisis, good for you. I’m glad some of us are finding relief. I’m certain the search was treacherous and you’ve certainly earned it. But for those who have children and are sweating to figure out how much more you can water down the milk to make it last, I hope this next portion does justice for you.

            There are so many giving people who want to assist, but despite their efforts aren’t aware that Barbies and Transformers may not even have a place to reside after brightening the face of a child. After the child is surprised and plays with the toy for a spell, he or she returns to a bed oft times temporarily for the night. The only items these families can keep is what they carry, including their clothes and small children. In order to assist homeless families, the best way to help is by giving in other ways. Food is the most important. Now I’m not suggesting that you go through your cupboards to discover all the food with the expired dates to kill two birds with one stone. I’m talking about being charitable—not housecleaning by disposing of old food to people so hungry they’ll eat anything. Food that requires refrigeration is also not the best because it has a limited shelf life. If, for example, someone received six gallons of milk with an expiration date in a week, they may have milk coming out her ears and then nothing in the fridge a week later, so purchase canned or boxed food without an expired date. It’s too bad they don’t have gift cards for food. But they do have them for Walmart and other grocers.

            The best gift of all for parents is a working position with a couple of work appropriate outfits or a gift card specifying work clothes. If you know the sizes of the children, clothing is something every child needs. Wrap the gifts and give them to shelters. Then the workers don’t have the opportunity to pick through the gifts, not that all places do this, but some will unfortunately take advantage of their positions.

            Speaking from experience, when a kid attends school for seven hours a day in clothes that

don’t fit right or that have stains and holes, shame on the adults who criticize them for not putting their best foot forward in learning. How can they concentrate on learning when Johnny Big Buck’s expensive snow boots crush bare toes? And don’t even think for a second kids don’t notice and their grades aren’t affected. Other kids are after that kid like a prize hen is after aone-winged chicken. School is a lot more than the ABC’s and 123’s we think it is. It’s also how they learn to fit in and defend themselves, or buckle under the pressure of being unable to molt. Once a kid is labeled, the stigma follows.

            I did something I’m proud of and though it may seem small, to me it’s huge! Most of you probably have put together I’m an ex-invalid by now if you’re a returning reader. Yesterday, my seventh grade son’s online school went ice-skating. Because my third grader was still in class, he had to go alone. He skated around the ice several times with his hands crammed in his pockets before pausing to tell me he wished his sister were here so he wouldn’t have to be alone. I did something absolutely stupid! Without telling him, I walked out to put on a pair of ice skates, which I haven’t done since the accident. When he came back around, I gave him a thumbs-up and saw his smile light up the entire rink. He took me by the hand and we skated. My biggest fear was falling—not because I didn’t want a bruise, that’s expected—because I was scared to death that if I fell I would damage my back and end up unable to walk again on my own. But I did end up bouncing along a couple of times. After I finally tired, I came off the ice smiling bigger than ever and even walking a little taller. Watching my son skating more confidently now, even daring to spin a few times, I couldn’t help but grin enormously. 

Another mom was dark-skinned and gorgeous, grinning from ear to ear. She and a group of girls had long skirts on with their skates, so I imagined their beliefs were very different from my own. The woman was holding her cell phone up to take pictures. The doorway wasn’t very wide, so I asked her if I could take a picture of my son and she politely stepped aside. She explained how her daughter had never skated before and I was stunned. Aside from holding onto the side with hand, her daughter was extremely graceful. I asked her if she wanted my son to help her daughter skate. (Cameron stopped along his travel to ask each person who fell if he or she was okay.) She laughed and said her daughter probably wouldn’t want to, so I asked her myself. Taking Cameron’s hand, her daughter smiled and the two of them skated around and around, laughing the whole time. Her mother turned to me and said her sixteen-year-old daughter had never held a boy’s hand before, so she accomplished two new things today. All in all, the day was an absolute gift. Cameron’s hands stayed out of his pockets and his smile remained glued to his face the rest of the day.

 

            Now you can enjoy my latest story about a girl who, through one individual error, changes the rest of her life called Humpty Dumpty.

The Write Woman Considers a Gun (260 Days to Graduate)

          

“Okay Ernie, I’m going to spin the wheel,” I say with the fingers of my other hand crossed behind my back for good luck. Bending over the platform, I grab the metal peg and give the wheel a whopping shove. Rotating a gazillion times the wheel finally comes to a halt on one hundred thousand dollars.

The audience roars and it’s no wonder. That’s quite a chunk of cash.

            Ernie could blow his nose with that much money without giving it a second thought. Still, he appears pleased with this bright yellow card for his contestant. He picks the triangular card up and hands it to me. “Okay, Rebecca. What is the next letter?”

            Looking at the game board on the wall with Peggy poised elegantly to the side as she pauses to readjust her bra that has dropped on one side, I think extra hard. “Is there an N?” I ask, half squinting my eyes, fearing it’s the wrong letter.

            “That’s correct!” Ernie announces as Peggy turns the final letter around in the word ‘gun.’ The room thunders with eagerness and the clapping is full of electricity.

            The cue cards flash that the show’s breaking for a commercial and then the lights on top of the cameras flash off. The conversation, however, continues.

“Peggy, did you know that in this country, anyone is allowed to own a gun of his or her choosing such as a Bushmaster .223-Caliber Assault Rifle without a special permit?”

            “No,” she says, placing her hand over her mouth. Her eyes blink huge with exaggeration. She strolls, using long strides, over to Ernie standing relatively close.

            “Let’s be honest, Peggy.” Ernie drapes his arm across her shoulders and she giggles a little. “If you could have any gun you want—any gun at all—which one would you want to have in your home for protection?”

            Rolling her eyes around as if she’s giving the question considerable thought, Peggy finally says, “I would want a great big cannon.”

            “Wait a minute,” Ernie answers pulling back and shaking his head in disbelief, “A cannon like they used in the war—the type that protrude from the side of a pirate ship—that kind?”

            “No, the kind that are high on the castle wall protecting the princess from the dragon and witches,” Peggy says, twisting her pose to the other side and smiling with her hands in the air in a giant V. “Besides, those Bushmasters are for shooting multiple targets at once, like the shooters at post offices, schools, and shopping malls. Why would private citizens need them unless they’re farmers overrun by a herd of crows?” She swings her arm in front of her face as if shooing away a fly.

            “Herd of crows?”

            “Of course I’ve heard of crows. I wasn’t born yesterday!” Peggy feigns ignorance and insult. “Something else I heard was that it’s time to get real with the wheel!” Jumping up and down she claps her hands wildly and the audience joins in. Turning on her heels, she meanders back toward the wheel.

            I pipe up. “Peggy, are you suggesting that private citizens don’t find it essential to use automatic weapons in their every day lives, as opposed to military or other guarded servicemen?”

            “That’s exactly what I mean.” Peggy stops and half turns, looking over her shoulder. “Ernie, speaking of military servicemen, did you hear the one about the CIA and their torturing methods? That’s a little confusing to me.”

          

    Ernie looks at me as if I will have the answer. Fortunately for him, I do. “Yes, their torturing methods are unconstitutional and too mean. They are searching for a way to get information without hurting their feelings. Maybe since they’re into positive reinforcement, they can offer them something useful for the information.” I tap a finger on my chin and turn my eyes to the ceiling, as if in thought.

            “Oh, we know that answer don’t we Peggy?” Ernie’s enthusiasm is amazing.

            Bending one knee, Peggy places a hand on her hip and one in the air—sort of like a teapot. “If they give a right answer, Ernie, we sent them home in a spanking brand new car!”

            The audience applauds with passion. Whistles break out from the back.

            “Seriously,” I say interrupting the cheers from enthusiasts, “If we can’t rely on our own government, what are we supposed to do, call some other country to come to our rescue?”

            “It won’t be Britain,” Ernie says with a smirk, “Unless they have a year to plan ahead. James Bond is that country’s number one defense, but the script has been hacked and the movie isn’t even ready to be released for a year.”

            “That’s Sony’s fault, not Britain’s,” Peggy says in Britain’s defense. “The Sony agents aren’t very smart at all, if you ask me. In fact, they are on the forefront to delivering another September eleventh U.S. catastrophe for Christmas.”

            “Hmm, that’s odd.” Ernie stares intently. “How can movie productions have enough clout to start a war?”

            “Well,” I say, “When the movie entitled The Interview is released, James Franco and Seth

Rogen can be credited for smearing our country’s name. The film insults North Korea, poking fun at their leader Kim Jong-un. While the aim may have been junior high level comedy, this isn’t a good time to point at North Korea and laugh. They’re considering pointing right back at us over this, unfortunately not with their fingers.”

            “Wow,” Peggy says, “I always thought Sony Pictures Entertainment was a big named movie producer with a lot of smart people running the place. Perhaps I could get a job there, Ernie.”

            “I’m not so sure that would be a good move,” Ernie says, tugging the bottom of his jacket down. “I don’t think they have a place for you, unless you took the letters on the board with you. I have a feeling Sony either needs to buy a lot of guns or admit they’ve had a good run and close up shop. It’s not looking good. In fact, their own employees are suing the company and say they've been plunged into an epic nightmare, much better suited to a cinematic theater than to real life.”

            Peggy’s eyes tear up. I remove a tissue from my purse and wave it at her. She receives the tissue and wipes her eyes. “Wow, Ernie. All those bright careers flushed down the tubes because of a few stupid people trying to make a buck from our country at the expense of our country. That’s messed up.”

            The director tells us the show is back on in three… two… one. The lights on top of the cameras light back up.

            “Did I win?” I hope the game is over because I’m growing uneasy standing around talking about this when I ought to be preparing for the war.

            “Yes you did,” Ernie says, pointing to the lit up numbers in front of me. “You’ve won seven-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Not quite a million, but a far cry from what you started with.”

            “Thank you.” I smile, my eyes welling with tears.

           Peggy claps her hands and beams from ear to ear.

            Ernie directs the next question to me. “Can I ask what you’re planning on doing with all that money?”

            I look out over the faces in the audience and I see teachers, store clerks, college students, and a lot of futures that won’t matter until something changes. We still have so much to share.

“Guns for everyone,” I shout. “We’re going to need them!”

Now, if you’re considering a story that is a bit on the twisted side, you’ll want to read “Delilah in the Dark.” Make sure and express your thoughts after.

             

           

           

The Write Woman has Balls with 267 Days to GoI

            I didn’t plan on letting the cat out of the bag until I felt confident. That day is today. No, I’m not releasing some big secret about having a higher testosterone level than other women, although that’s probably true. I don’t feel it necessary to test until I grow a mustache and sideburns, but in my studies of discovering myself I found a new way to self heal and it’s so freaking incredible I’m going to share. It’s all in the balls—not the gonads.

            Speaking of gonads though, when I shared this information with my male friend, all I managed to get out was, “I have these little balls I use…” and was cut off by, “Ben Wa Balls?” As soon as I realized where the conversation was headed, I immediately interjected. “No, no, no!” Then I explained the purpose of Chinese Meditation Balls was to relax, not heighten a mood. On the days I don’t work out at the gym, I make it a point to participate in meditation. Boy does time fly! An hour seems like fifteen minutes. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m so deep into meditating, or I’m so excited to get away from real life. No matter the reason, time slowing down while I’m doing something good for myself is always welcome. Maybe I’ll get a set for him as a Christmas gift. I just hope his wife doesn’t find them and think they’re for her. Little kids in Walmart will follow her around searching for Santa’s reindeer.

           

Did you hear about some of the activities our youth are doing to promote giving for the holidays? It’s really too bad they’re leaving the adults in the dust when it’s the adults who should be teaching the kids. One teenaged boy gathered needy families’ information to provide turkeys for Thanksgiving. One little girl is making crocheted purses for families containing gifts so they can have Christmas this year. The fact remains that kids are setting the example. Anna, coincidentally the same name as the character in my story, sets a shining example.

At our house, we won’t be having a Christmas, so to speak, but I feel as if we’ve outgrown “The Season of Giving.” After all, shouldn’t we give every day? Instead we concentrate on all of the goodness we are grateful for, a little bit more than usual, and the time we have together. But in the season of giving, I certainly hope you enjoy my latest story called The Pouch.

So until you hear Santa’s bells ringing, I might suggest getting a set of meditation balls to soothe your mind and help you think more clearly. That’s what I’m doing and it’s working wonders!

The Write Woman Cries “It isn’t fair!” (268 Days Left)

          

  When men lose weight, the fact their girth is less is a good thing all over. When women lose weight, their stupid bodies choose where the weight will come off—breasts first, ass last. It’s a treacherous fact of life and for those increasing their health, it’s a crime. I work out between one and two hours a day, at least five days a week, and I’ve got a lot of butt to work off, but is that where the results are apparent? No sir! In school I was known as “Bubbles.” I naïvely thought my personality was the cause, but no such luck. Some say it was because of my breasts and others say it was because of my derriere. Either way, now I resemble a water cooler with bubbles on the inside—praying someone will refer to me as Bubbles because of my exuberant personality.

            Last weekend, my daughter and I took a hiatus and had a healthy junk food celebration of togetherness. We played a terrific round of “Cashflow for Kids,”by Robert Kiyosaki. Nikki caught on quick. We talked about investing and why spending money on items such as candy and toys isn’t usually a good idea. It was a ton of fun and we didn’t eat anything while we played.

            But Friday night we ate this terrific fruit platter with chocolate dip. I was even pretty good and didn’t dip too much. Then I pulled out the cashews and dipped my banana before adding nuts. Oh my gosh! I was in so much heaven, we didn’t even stop to eat our typical Friday night pizza. Instead we ate huge turkey Dagwood’s and watched Maleficent and a Scooby Doo Frankencreepy movie from Redbox. BTW, when you rent from Redbox and reserve it on the computer, your time starts from when you reserve it, NOT when you pick it up. I found out the hard way. What was my opinion of the movies? Since my children are easily frightened, they like mysteries to figure out without being so scared I need to walk to the restroom with them. I would give this show an eight star review.

            Maleficient? Eh, although Angelina Jolie is an outstanding actress, she just isn’t good enough to change from a long flowing dress to a black shiny unitard and then back again without the audience noticing. I also thought Elle Fanning is cute, but as Snow White? I’ve always pictured Snow White with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and ebony black hair—a bit more than dark brown eyebrows. All in all, I was impressed with Isobelle Molloy as the younger Maleficent and have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of her in the future.

            This brings us back to what I was saying at the beginning of this article. Angelina Jolie has had a double mastectomy and still looks incredible. If I could afford the surgery—nah! I wouldn’t change a thing. But if my butt could somehow be shifted to my breasts, we’d be onto something. Maybe standing on my head would help? Gravity is having a tug on everything else.

       

     Speaking of artificially tweaking things, my daughter ate part of her apple last night and this morning I found it half-eaten on the table. Was it yucky brown in the center with the peel curling on the edges? No discoloration at all. Can you believe that? This scientifically enhanced food can’t be good for our bodies. So in honor of this discovery, I have written a story for you to enjoy. It’s called Beautiful Girl, after the Van Halen song. Remember that? Have a peek!

The Write Woman Succeeds (with only 273 days to go!)

...to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Okay, here's the lowdown on the showdown as far as The Write Woman is concerned. I finally found out I will be graduating next year. The road was arduous and long, but the financing went through for my final year. What that means is I will be set to graduate on my birthday next year, in 273 days. Yippee!

What else has happened since I wrote last you ask? That's a great question! First, I've written other blogs. This isn't my first rodeo. It's probably my most important though. I've been getting better as I go.

Speaking of getting better, my weightloss is going splendidly! I've lost fifteen pounds since I started exercising and I'm pretty stoked about that, but nobody's perfect. That means that no matter how gorgeous I get, or how much education I have, I'll never be perfect. But for the handsome prince who still searches for me, slow down there. I'm not quite finished. 

I've decided to move forward with becoming a substitute teacher. Sure, I needed to pay for a test and a background check, but I suppose that sort of weeds people out from the sincere to the ones of a passing phase. (It also weeds out the more intelligent from the um, not so able.) The materials took several days to go through, but I did it, arriving at the end with a score of 89.73%. I contemplated taking one of the tests again in order to gain that extra .27 percent, but decided I was being silly. After all, you only need a 70% to pass and I was nearly 90%, right?

So there's a lot going on in the news right now. Orion was supposed to be launched by NASA, but due to bad weather they've postponed the launch until tomorrow morning. But I've decided to take you to new heights with my own story, Mission Complete, in commemoration of the prepping for the historical event. Go ahead, enjoy a good read while you wait for the new discovery. You'll be glad you did!

The Write Woman Makes $200,000 Year (287 days remaining in the countdown)

For those concerned citizens who are up all night thinking, “My God, how does a single woman get her vision repaired when she has to drive to the eye doctor winking all the way?” Nothing is impossible—and I didn’t drive to the eye doctor with my broken glasses. I had to do that to pick up some paperwork. I drove to the eye doctor with nothing, which is really stupid, but winking that long gives me a serious headache. But in my defense, I haven’t worked out since my daughter broke them. Apparently she wasn’t quite finished playing Monkey in the Middle. But we can see where quitting the game early can get us, right?

As a final effort to do what I’m good at and something I love, I am continuing to work on my novel/screenplay of Vermillion Beach, however it’s no longer after a beech tree. I figured since the hospital she is in when she goes under the cryonic procedure is on the beach, what the hey! It can be her surname, too. So there you have it!

This morning, while working out and admiring how well my nails are growing and my body is shaping up, I was pleased how my thinking processes are changing. I mean, people who have dishwashers have all the discomfort of having to bend over and get the dishes, usually larger ones, out of the back on the lower rack of the washer. I don’t have that problem because I take my dishwasher everywhere with me—they’re tagged on the ends of my arms. People with windows have to scrub them periodically or they just can’t see, whereas we have no windows—win! When someone’s car is in the garage and the door opener gets jammed, how do they get to work in the morning and how much does it cost to retrieve their vehicle being held hostage? I don’t even have a carport. But with winter coming, a carport might be nice, I guess. But my car won’t be trapped! If my daughter wakes up in the middle of the night with the stomach flu or having bad dreams of the boogie man, I don’t have to get out of bed, I can simply roll over, push her onto the floor and proceed with a good night’s sleep. How many people are begging to trade me places now?

If you’re concerned about why I did this totally insane thing I did to make my daughter run through the house at six-thirty shouting to my son, “Mom makes $200,000 a year, Cameron! Mom makes $200,000 a year -- Woo hoo!” I made little posters written in different script with various colors of marker that state, “I Make $200,000 Per Year!” and hung them all about my house where I will see them. Now some people are probably coming to the conclusion it’s a stupid idea because if I really thought it would work, why wouldn’t I put in my thought process I will win the title of me making $200,000 a year, I can explain that. You see, I’ve heard several times that if one really truly feels as if they own something to the point she can convince herself, it happens. I figure if it doesn’t happen, I’ll drive myself to the point of thinking I am with sheer craziness, and it then it won’t matter anyway. So let me help you see Publisher’s Clearinghouse, or I will be a gazillionaire tomorrow? Because, first of all, I don’t want anyone handing me anything (although if PCH turned up on my doorstep I certainly wouldn’t shoo them away), but I just want to find a way to make my own money. I don’t want a lot of money, but enough to know each month the bills will be paid and we’re having dinner tonight—with meat! I’ll let you know if it works or not, but don’t tell my daughter the news. Just let her think I’m a stingy success.

Speaking of success gone the other way, I have to tell you that every time I saw Bill Cosby, for some reason he reminds me of my father. Granted, my father is white and Bill is black, so it wasn’t that. It also wasn’t money because Bill probably uses his to wipe the mud off his shoes and well, my father planted the seed for my financial future by laughing at the mention of university—need I say more? Finally, I figured it out when I heard Bill Cosby is in court facing charges of drugging women to have them participate sexually with him. THAT’S my father! Now tell me, what must a person think of himself to conclude the only way to have sex is to drug someone and take her without her knowledge? These women can’t even wake up and realize what happened to say, “Wow, if I’d have known it was going to be that good, I would’ve said yes!” How crushing for no one to get in line for the ride, but when it’s over have no recollection of the speeding hills, right?

And thank goodness Utah has a hole in its personal ozone layer. They have what they call Patriarchal Blessings, which is a church appointed fortune teller that sees you when you are of age, acknowledging your future if you live a worthy life. Mine told me at age fifteen that I would become a teacher of some sort. I don’t know if he meant someone to teach my kids well or a substitute teacher (which I’m currently in the running for), or perhaps someone who blogs and informs others. Anyway, I believe what he told me. But the LDS Mormons do NOT think seers should be seen unless they are patriarchs of the church, because they are the devil’s helpers. That seems a bit odd to the average thinker.

But speaking of Utah’s hole, we are finally considering bringing back the death penalty. Great news, right? The lawmakers of Utah say we cannot afford lethal injections, so they will

need to be placed in front of a firing squad instead. Hey, I’m all for that, but if lethal injections cost more than having a bunch of men fire their weapons with only one bullet between them, why not trade out the immediate injection with something like Drain-o. I’ll bet that would kill them if you gave them enough. But when they interviewed the eight men on death row to ask their preference, only three of them wanted it. Excuse me? We’re giving these people a choice in how they will die after taking other lives? I wonder if any of them asked their victims what their choice of demise was—makes you wonder, eh?

Oh and even though I live in Utah, I attend school online through Full Sail University, giving me a whole array of learning materials and experiences. You can imagine, with me being socially retarded without a television set, my dismay to hear of FSU’s campus shooting. (Keep in mind I’m working out at 4:30 a.m. when I hear this news.) Watching the news, it finally dawned on me that it was Florida State University, not even my school. But still, with finals coming up, maybe the guy should have veered away a little more from the drugs and tried to relax with a video game or something. Or maybe he was so exhausted and drugged out he actually thought he was in a video game or some wild movie.

       I’ve gotta ask the movie buffs out there, when you see a second sequel can you tell when the scales are tipping in favor of the writers compared to the favors of the audience? Maybe I should explain a little better what I mean. There are some stories that started off mind-blowing and then stayed there, like HarryPotter. But let me tell you, I am not a Harry Potter fanatic like a lot of people are, just as I’m not a Star Wars or Star Trek nerd, either. (Okay, when I was younger, I was a Trekkie, but that's old news.) But when a series is well written, you’ve gotta respect the job they’ve done and the time put into it, don’t you? On the other hand, The Hunger Games is a great movie set the pace for future movies to catch up to, but Catching Fire? What a huge, huge, and unforgivable let down. The second movie is like the part of a television show

just before a commercial. When it was over, the audience is left sitting in the dark wondering what happens at the end because this certainly wasn’t it. I can’t speak for everyone, so I never try to, but this pathetic reprise does not have the excitement built into it for a line of people waiting overnight on the curbs to be the first to see it. In a daring struggle to regain the audience, the third movie, Mockingjay claims to be the most violent yet and is itching to bring female leading roles out of the miniscule 15% films now hold. I guess if you’re into Saw and other movies with gore, you may be excited. Personally, I like stories. But stories must be fluid because if you lose your audience in the middle of the book, they’re not coming back to read the end. I can’t wait to read the reviews. Hey, maybe I’ll be utterly shocked with them because sometimes change it good.

With contacts and shrinking a little every day, I’m changing myself and so is my outlook. I could make $200,000 a year, don’t you think? Come on now, you don’t have to hold your breath and make a scene about the whole thing.

The Write Woman’s Right Eye (290 Days before Loosening my Grip on Reality)

Is it a newspaper or a zebra's derriere? It's all the same to me.

 Okay, so I haven’t totally lost vision in my right eye, however after attempting to settle the kids down after a baffling game of Monkey in the Middle, my daughter refused to settle down. I picked her up, drew her across my lap, and her thrashing made the lens pop out the right side of my frames. I understand why I can’t find it, I couldn’t find my butt with both hands right now, but neither of my kids can find it either. (The lens, not my butt.) Honestly, I can’t even see what I’m typing, so I just have to keep my eyes peeled for the ever-popular red squiggle to stay on track. Other than that, all I can see is black lines on a white background.

Yesterday I was forced to drive to the photography place with my resignation papers while squinting one eye to drive, with my one-lensed glasses—tinted no less. In the rearview mirror I resembled a goofy cartoon with one eye darker and larger than the eye without a lens, closed. Perhaps a new-fangled Popeye the Puppy program?

Oh, and please don’t bother texting me, unless you want my son to read it first. (This means to keep it G-rated) He doesn’t always understand what he’s reading and watching me respond must be hilarious. It’s all I can do to get my fingers between my phone and my face to press the buttons.  But, I still managed to change the ringtone I use to wake Cameron up. It’s a really annoying rooster crow, produced by yours truly.

The strangest thing is I used to be a nail-biter—let me rephrase that. I was not a nail-biter, more

Yeah, right. Shut up and let me dream!

like a finger-gnawer with nails so short I never had to worry about cleaning out from under them. There was no “under them” to clean. I was a wreck. But now, I don’t know what caused it, but I’ve magically quit putting them in my mouth. Personally, I believe it's because I work out, releasing stress. So my hair is growing, due to the deal I made with Nikki. I’m losing weight, to appear presentable for the job I no longer have, with a contract at a gym. And I’ll be acquiring contact lenses because my glasses are trashed. I’m going to unwittingly emerge more attractive by the time we move.

Oh, the novel I’ve been working on taught me a valuable lesson yesterday. (Between writing it and reading numerous full-length books for school and taking care of the kids while working out, I’ve been getting up at 3:00 a.m. and going to bed at 9:00 p.m. in order to fit everything in.) See, I made the mistake of allowing the kids to play a game I had downloaded for school. It’s called “The Movies Superstar,” and they love to fire people after they catch them drinking on the job. Anywho, I wrote in the morning for a few hours before taking a shower. When I came back, the kids were taking turns playing the game. I thought it was pretty cool they were getting along so well, so I let them continue. When I finally kicked them off to write some more, I said, “Oh, that’s weird, I should be on about page forty-five by now, but it says I’m on page twenty-two.” They both agreed it was odd. I even switched layouts to see if perhaps in changing it earlier, as I had, I may have altered the page numbers somehow. Deciding I’d better quit playing around and get back to work, I did. I managed to make it to page thirty-two before I needed to go back and check on a quote one of my characters said earlier. That was when it hit me; the first twenty-four pages of my novel had been erased. Holy crap! I started to hit the undo button, thinking out of desperation I may be able to undo some of my work and get the lost pages back, marking lost hours of work. But then it dawned on me that there’s no way to fix the issue by using that method. I will simply need to rewrite that portion again by using the index cards and screenplay I’ve already been working on. Oh yeah, and tell my kids they can unfortunately no longer play on my computer.

If you ever want me to ignore you, say the word “unfortunately” because it always precedes a statement meaning, “and now I’m gong to tell you that life is tough. You're not going to like what I'm about to say.” This turns my brain off faster than a nose-picker on a jumbo tron. Think about having a loved one in the emergency room and the first word out of the doctor’s mouth is unfortunately. Go ahead and start making funeral arrangements, because there’s no good news to come.

This entry is a freebie—so if I make any grammatical or spelling errors, I refuse to be held accountable. And UNFORTUNATELY, I will not be adding another blog until later this week, when I can see properly.  So, have a good day and remember, no matter how bad you’ve got it, someone else has it worse! Thinking this always makes me smile.

The Write Woman Explains Why Happy Chef Needs Bejeweled to Procreate Properly (294 Days Remaining)

In expressing how much my eight-year-old daughter loves my twelve-year-old son, she wants to know why they can’t marry. “I’m working right now, can it wait?” I ask, hoping either she will forget or some ingenious idea will strike that sounds like I know everything. It can’t wait, apparently, because she rephrases it several different ways, trying to break the barrier. What can I say? She’s tenacious. At least she isn't trying to marry a loser, right?

I feel it’s important to express in terminology she can relate to, being a kid and all, yet not making me appear as a clumsy oaf. As a former dancer, you may think I’m so familiar with the subject I can recite it in reverse. The truth is I can if it’s in four-letter words, but this is my daughter. So I figured if I expressed The Speech in relation to video games, she will more than likely get it.

“Okay,” I say, “You know how much you like the game Happy Chef?” Her head nods emphatically, so I follow up with, “That’s me! I’m Happy Chef. And I have two little games of my own that are both Happy Chef games, even though some of the programming is a tiny bit different because you’re a girl and he’s a boy, but you still have the Happy Chef genes.” Hooray, her anxious will to understand is forming.

The gene pool is where all the programming comes from when a baby is made, and the programmer says, “I want the mouth of this game and the eyes of that game to create a new game,” controlling it. I follow up with, “The gene pool thinks it’s getting two different games to mess around with to create its new game, right? But when the programmer says to use Happy Chef eyes, it scrolls down to find the Happy Chefs eyes to find green and blue. Because it can’t tell which ones to use, it may create blue eyes like yours, or green like your brothers. But what if it is so confused it gives the baby one eye of each color or maybe even three eyes because both colors are Happy Chef eyes?” My daughter watches, deep in thought, brain in high gear.

“But if the programmer says ‘Oh I can either use Happy Chef eyes or Bejeweled eyes,’ because that’s what your husband has, it isn’t confused. The same goes for whether the new baby game will be dark colored, smart, funny, tall, etc. Then it creates a whole new game from Happy Chef and Bejeweled. Maybe it’s called Happy Jeweled. Does that make sense?” Satisfied because either she got it, or she was so baffled she quit, I was just content with her not asking the gender of the Happy Jeweled baby.

Perhaps someone needs to come up with a computer generated Birds and Bees lesson to explain this concept in a fun way to kids. But parents would rather have their kids find out from their friends, with intentions of doing it themselves. Even when parents find the time, often they are lost in rationalizing, or perhaps have no clue themselves. But there’s gotta be a fun way for kids to get the facts before they discover the four-letter terminology from their friends at school. In case you were unaware, the stork story is grounded.

What does the Fox say? Ask The Write Woman. (307 Days 'til The End)

 Not being in school will suck, especially with so much more I haven't learned. When I relentlessly called my school again, I managed to soften the unremitting ground. The consensus of whether or not I will continue my education should be made known by Tuesday of next week. My counselor will talk to her boss to see if an exception can be made, due to my blinding GPA. Meanwhile, I’ve contacted instructors requesting letters of recommendation submitted to my counselor’s email. Worst-case scenario, Plan B says there’s always Amazon to help guide me on how to complete processes. They are the prime go-to-ers for the do-it-yourself kinda gal, and you can literally learn to do anything through them at a fraction of the cost. You only have to know what you don’t know, so you can learn it—you know? If you don't want to learn, join in the fun with the rest of the country being terrified as hell without recourse.

Meanwhile, I let my intelligence go to my head and took a nosedive, moving ass in the air with my face planted firmly on my right cheek, rug burn included. See, I am not an advocate of This has nothing to do with living in Utah, land where the center of town sculpture of Brigham Young stands with his back to the temple and his hand out to the bank. The reason I don’t gamble is simple—I have nothing to gamble with except for talents and skills. And when winning means I will get something, I’m there.

gambling.

I’m using my abilities to interpret movies to educate me on money. The Wolf of Wallstreet with DiCaprio is an introspective film. Watching the show carefully I came to understand that when a potential customer speaks to a sales person they aren’t familiar with, one salesperson has the same chance as the next to make a first impression. It’s all in the words—the first three to five minutes—delivered determining if the sale is or is not a success. So as a salesperson that is the window of time to gain a potential sale by having the client trust you. How do you make someone trust you in such a short period of time? You tell them what you have today that will change their life tomorrow and why it will make them envied by everyone else—then shut up and listen.

Here’s some food for thought: with science jumping along in leaps and bounds, making people believe we have the world by storm, why are we shortening everything to acronyms? Let’s take our vocabulary for example. The boys from the hood have been saying A’ight for a while, but I saw a white kid say it to his friend at the library and it just wasn’t the same. And then we have technology with our Fob Keys. What the hell is that? I’d never heard of it until I joined the gym and got a small plastic teardrop fob key to wave in front of the door for admittance. Once I tried entering with another client and set off some alarm louder than Gucci department store. I was embarrassed as the girl I was following turned to give me a look. I held up my fob, and she simply said, “You need to swipe it.” Yeah, I pretty much figured that one out on my own. Little did I realize I have been using one for years on my car without having a clue of what it was.

So acronyms are taking over our language. Given names have always been shortened to nicknames, (such as Michelle Joy shortened to MJ) and now our common everyday words are shortened as well. Truth be told, my original nickname, Shellie, was only one letter shorter than my name and phonetically the same length anyway. The question here really is when we’ve taken so much care to name things in the first place, why does Best Friends Forever change to BFF when the original version sounds a lot more endearing. If you had called someone your BFF twenty years ago, you’d get flattened before having the chance to explain. Even the names of cars are shortening; forget Excursion and the Mach 1 Mustang when you can have the H2 and the GT. It won’t be long before our conversations are a series of letters and numbers. What we really need is to figure out the Morse code versions and speak in beeps. Think of all the time that would save!

Today is Halloween and Nikki is the fox in the chicken house. I explained that if anyone asks her what she is, she needs to sing, “What does the Fox Say?” If they don’t get it after that, don’t waste anymore time. That ought to drive the teacher’s crazy, right? I’m all about that!

Have a safe Halloween and remember, if I’m going to spend $100 to have my family scared, I better be given a bonus of a heart-attack. Otherwise it isn’t worth the money. There’s a haunted house in Utah called The Asylum where you must sign a “legal waiver” submitting yourself to their torture. What sort of stupid gimmick is that? It’s protection for them, that’s what. If any customer looney tunes enter and maims their employees, they’ll have your information to find the culprit sooner. So sign an unsuspecting name such as Pee Wee Herman or Mary Poppins. No one would suspect either of them killing people. Meanwhile, let’s see what realistic mayhem the holiday brings about this year. My wager is a spook house.