The Write Woman Learns about Transmedia Writing (with 338 days to go)

When the beginning of a word begins with Trans, I always think of Transylvania, although not the one in Kentucky. Sometimes transvestite or transit system, but what in the hell is transmedia writing or storytelling? In case you’re one of the larger percent who isn’t aware of this word, here it is. They’ve determined everything from advertising to displaying visual programs such as movies and television shows is changing dramatically. You do realize what this means, right? If you are in the writing industry, you’d better get in line to begin brushing up and widening those skills. The job market is a tough one with less pay, and health insurance is no insurance for sound mental health. 

Health insurance is only an option to 65% of the workforce now through the employer. You used to never have to ask if health insurance was an option, just what the benefits were—and that’s a major draw to a position. But healthcare is a governmental monopoly that will continue to rise, because it can.

Since I’ve started my new and exciting job as a photographer, I thought I probably should invest in some healthcare. Besides, I’ve heard about the ghastly hit at tax time for those without it. Either way, the government makes money off of you. The premiums alone will cause a heart attack, and for that price, I’d better make sure it’s a damned critical one. With these prices, and Obama’s rule of MUST HAVE INSURANCE, (even one named after him). Insurance companies got their teeth in your ass like an alligator hanging off your backside. The bill alone will force you to the hospital.

For those of you feeling as if you need an extra boost of confidence, especially if you wet your pants but have no wet grass to sit in. Still, I wouldn’t suggest walking around your office all day in the Victory pose. That’s just weird. 

Now I'm going to get back to becoming a transmedial genius, without the gator or wet pants.

Getting Wet with The Write Woman (339 Days Left to Tackle)

So how was your weekend? In case you’re thinking it was a bit questionable, consider an eight-year-old girl explaining she is familiar with what a hypocrite is and then telling you it is a cricket with huge hips. (That wouldn't be so easy to consumer in an insect eating contest.) I suppose in Nikki’s little world a hypocrite makes sense in being a bug. I’m still scratching my head while she’s rolling across the floor laughing. Welcome to my world.

Nikki toughed it out with her Cocoa Puffs in one hand, umbrella in the other.

Cameron was totally psyched to play soccer Saturday, especially when he the game would continue despite the rain. The rain came down in torrents harder and faster than I can recall for a long time, all through the night. The flood waters didn’t cease by morning, but the coach declared real players would battle the weather. I wasn’t that concerned with Cameron as much as I was with Nikki and myself. If someone had placed a sieve on our heads and filled it with sand, we may have located a few rare coins. We vibrated.

The hot pink and violet clad girls were kicking that ball relentlessly.

We got there early enough to see the last game finish up. Fluorescent pink and opposing purple jerseys alerted us to a female team tearing up the grass and grinding their elbows into the mud with the best of ‘em. These girls were shivering and murky messes by the time they left. Then it was time for Cameron to show his true colors and he was psyched. Unfortunately, the coach came over and asked if we had any objections to cutting the game to a short scrimmage because the other team was for it. Since our team is creamed enough to add to a cup of coffee every week, it was a win-win situation.

The coach talking to a water-logged team with educational results.

The worst part about the game was that I had a pretty bad cold coming on. You know the type I mean, runny nose and sneezing fits of ten to twelve sneezes, unable to catch your breath, much less open your eyes. You’re probably fit and young, but let me tell you one of the first signs of losing your body’s virulence is dampening your pants when you sneeze wholeheartedly. My plan is to overcome old age by attending the gym and reinventing myself, so I will no longer need to sit on damp benches after sneezing, or wear weather resistant clothing.

Pushing The Write Woman’s Buttons (342 Days Left ‘til Celebration)

Like any kids in a family, mine don’t always get along. Let me rephrase that one; my kids almost never get along. But when a brother and sister fight, it’s expected that the parent intercept like a peacemaker. This means I’m the good guy! Someone needs to explain this to my daughter.

Yesterday afternoon, her friend asked if Nikki could play today after school. Thinking it would be good for her, and I could play a video game at the library when I was done with my schoolwork, I was psyched. “Sure,” I said, and the little devil on my shoulder nodded. This was going to be awesome! Imagine my disappointment when Nikki became obstinate.

Let me start out by saying I’m particularly upset because her friend is a good influence. How many parents can say that with a straight face? In third grade, her friend is outside after school, delivering sales pitches to the parents for her low rates in babysitting. I’ve heard parents accepting—I mean, this girl is on fire—a more perfect friend for my daughter couldn’t have been hand-picked by me.

This morning, with that fire beneath her, I decided it was the best time to encourage her independence and responsibilities by turning on the light (bad mommy) when the alarm went off, and explaining the rest was up to her. If she wanted breakfast, she’d need to get a move-on if she was going to be on time. Well, the threat set the pace for the rest of the morning. Not getting into it, just going to sum it up by admitting I lost.

I unloaded her in front of the school with her hair tangled, her posture bent, and a frown on her face that bounced off her knees as she skulked across the parking lot. I’d had it. I called her friend’s dad and notified him that Nikki was unfortunately not living up to the standards of a good friend today, therefore would not be playing after school.

Meanwhile, I’d completed her costume for Halloween. The kids aren’t supposed to wear masks, and Nikki wants to be a werewolf. I bought a cute little nose, ears, and tail of a fox, pulled out the fake blood and set to work. An oversized sweatshirt and pants and she could be a $5 Walmart Special werewolf. I’m a freakin’ genius! At least I was until Nikki finished oooing and awing over how great the costume was. That was when she told me they couldn’t have fake blood because it scares little kids. I suppose a nosebleed is presumably cause for a trauma team then, huh? I told her I’d buy another ensemble and a rubber chicken she could put in her mouth as the age-old fox in the hen house gag. What can you expect for five—or, I mean, ten bucks?

The most incredible thing happened when I picked Nikki up from school, she had experienced a complete attitude makeover, thanks to the great friends she chooses to associate with. Who can predict that when she'd a bit older, she won't be giving me solid advice on how to behave better? Hopefully by then, she'll at least have outgrown her fox in the chicken coop costume.

When The Write Woman Needs Some Solace, “Don’t Go to the Library!” (343 Left)

It isn’t necessary to raise your hand right now, but just answer to yourself, how many times have you “used the restroom” just to take a break? Whether you’re at work and recently got off the phone with a taxing and never ending call, or your kids are driving you crazy (or spouse, sometimes the same thing). The point is, you sort of hope to have a bit of privacy, in even public facilities. Granted, it certainly won’t be the same as home with magazines to keep you company and the radio nearby, but still a moment to take a little itsy-bitsy interruption from reality.

The other day, at the public library, school studies combined with computer difficulty and teaching my son his studies became a bit much when a boisterous mother entered the picture. Her vocabulary didn’t seem to stretch over the four-letter limit as she “guided” her children where to go. Apparently she had no knowledge of the 440 race taking place where her young and giggling children were the stars. Unable to think clearly, I exited to enter the ladies room down the hall that has gorgeous artwork decorating the walls. A soothing transition—so soothing, I decided to use the restroom. I went to the end where the larger latrines are situated and decided a five-minute break would be just what the doctor ordered.

No sooner did I set my things down on the counter at the far end of the restroom to take my seat, than I heard another customer enter. Finding her throne, she made a call to someone she wasn’t particularly fond of. I decided to leave, but my body had other plans and I was going to be there awhile, unfortunately.

The woman grew angry and began using “extra-curricular” language quite loudly until she grasped she wasn’t alone by the acoustics and my bowels working in unison. I hoped she would be finished now and leave when I heard her say good-bye. I heard the sounds of her moving her purse around. That is until her phone rang and she answered it, angrier than ever. “Please, God,” I said loud enough for her to hear, “If you can hear me, give me strength.” 

There was a moment of silence until my phone began to ring. And it rang and rang, echoing louder each time because I had placed it so far away I couldn’t reach it. “Get your damned phone, (her favorite word)!” she said before returning to her conversation.

“I can’t, psycho!” I was in hell today. I couldn’t stand it anymore and finished up, grabbing my things and heading to the sinks to wash up. Then I heard her toilet flush and she came out, not at all the twenty-something I had imagined, but someone who'd recently been released from an institution. She gave me a look. It wasn’t a “I’m so happy to see you look,” as much as a “I’m a former roller-derby queen and I can still hold my own so don’t f*** with me” expression.

“How ‘bout those Falcons?” I said, concentrating on standing tall and thinking about what I wanted to do to her.

Without another word, she finished washing her hands and brushed past me as I completed my drying. The smell emanating from her was that of death. For the first time since I was a little kid, I found myself scared in the bathroom. Needless to say, I was happy to get back to the races by my computer with little kids screaming.

Technology vs. Intelligence Stumps The Write Woman (344 Days)

Okay, first of all, let's get one thing straight for those who have any doubt; buying something technologically advanced doesn't make you smarter. In fact, for those familiar with Microsoft products, and Apple as well, are already aware from past experience that being the first on the block to have something new may be someone racing to the front of line of a guillotine. The best example I can give of this amazing feat is this new iPhone 6 Plus.

After driving to the nearest Apple store, forty-five minutes away, and being told by multi-color haired clown (later to be discovered as her actual hair) that I missed my appointment, but she could squeeze me in within two short hours, I left because the least she could do is show me a card trick. I took my computer to a far less crowded venue who told me about this astounding new device with a price tag of $199 and up. Even though they've only been released for a few days and the line to purchase these "gems" continues to propagate, the phones bend with hand strength. In rear pockets, with a good sized caboose, your time is limited to send the emoticon of satisfaction. My question encompasses testing products before their release. Is there one? Or is it up to the consumer to dedicate time to straighten it out?

So answer this riddle, if you dare. What is it you pay for over and over again, and then feel bad when you need to use it? I'll tell you in a minute, but keep your mind working on it 'til I do, k?

The big question of the day is does anyone else experience a bra that squeaks when you move? Every time I shoot playing basketball, I swear I hear Jiminy Cricket and friends cheering. Sort of embarrassing, you know? Not the squeaking part as much as when they cheer and I let them down by missing the shot. But like Jiminy says, "You buttered your bread, now sleep in it." My breasts have had their day in the sun, so to speak, and it's quickly approaching midnight without a can of WD-40.

I suppose there's a price to pay in being an older woman trying to blend with the younger scene--it's called technology. Starting up at a health club has me pretty nervous, I gotta admit. Learning all those new gadgets will be like learning a new job, everyone that's been there a while is going to be watching and waiting to laugh when I climb on the treadmill and can't figure out how to make it move. I can see them pointing and whispering now, with an occasional giggle because I'm the new confused kid on the block. I guess it would be too much to toilet paper their houses though, right?

Let's talk about getting something for nothing. Is there such a thing anymore besides receiving free illnesses? The air tank at Holiday Oil is getting nothing for something, but what about the high cost of insurance? You're paying money through the nose every month and praying like crazy you never have to use it.

Speaking of insurance and doctor's appointments, I don't get the paperwork. I mean, I understand it's important for them to call in reminder of appointments, or send bills to your house, plus bill the insurance companies--that all makes sense. But the stack of papers I filled out today asked three times what my address is, my birthday, phone number, etc. Don't they just put it into the computer that repopulates automatically anyway? If computers become obsolete, as we've been told, where in the world will that leave these types of companies that require repetitive documentation if they're already behind? And this office said it needed my social security number! Why? Confused, I called them up to find out. The woman who answered the phone said they don't need that information and it is unnecessary to fill that part out. Okay then, why is it on there if we don't need to fill it out? Is it just me, or is it hot in here?

The Write Woman Writes Again (345 Days and Waiting)

Please, wait 'til the rewrite to purchase

So here’s the deal. A couple of years ago, I started a children’s book series based on the antics of my daughter Nikki called Hazards of Eris—just a simple little one-hundred and thirty double-spaced page book. When I wrote the book, I hadn’t yet started school and was trying for something fun to create an income. Surprise! Sales are finally happening and we got a check in the mail. Since sales are happening now, I thought I would redo the writing for a new one. Nikki, with her zeal and ambition, piped up boisterously at once. “I wanna do the artwork!” she said. I smiled and said, “Congratulations! You’ve just landed your first paying job.” Nikki will receive payment for each book that sells after it’s rewritten and her pictures are in place. I can just hear her bragging at school now. If I am arrested for promoting child labor, I'm open to visits!

Nikki has her first paying job as an artist

Cameron was nearby and heartbroken I didn’t offer him a job to create an income. I explained to him that I never offered Nikki the job, she suggested doing the work herself. He quickly offered to do the toilet I’ve been nagging him to do for a week. Uh, not the same thing at all. But when I offered to purchase a helium balloon so he could make funny voices, he was ecstatic. 

We hurried off to the store and halfway there Cameron began screaming like a little girl and flapping his hands around, feet stamping. In the commotion, I noticed a huge moth hysterically flapping for shelter. Rolling his window down, the moth fluttered out and it only took a couple more minutes to convince Cameron he was safe.

We purchased a red balloon and had the florist Mikayla put tape on it instead of tying it. As we were leaving the checkout, Cameron said, “Moooom.” He was sad. His burgundy string was limp in his hand and his balloon was stuck on the ceiling.

Mikayla was happy to blow up another balloon and tape it closed for him. He reminded me of a three-year-old after his first day at the zoo, Cameron was so happy. When we got out to the car and started to pull out of the driveway, his balloon popped. He was so heartbroken, his eyes filled with tears and his face was the color of the balloon. “Just forget it,” he said. 

Thrilled to have his balloon home safe. Hope it's still inflated when we return.

 When Mikayla saw us, she stopped dressing the flower arrangements, walked over to the balloon pump and grabbed another red balloon. She was smiling and asked if we’d made it out of the store at least. We thanked her and Cameron brought home is new friend where I tied it safely onto his bed.

Meanwhile, since I’ve decided to join a fitness club, I stopped by Anytime Fitness and while their services are open to members 24 hours a day, the only time to gain access to consider a membership is between noon and eight p.m. By then, perhaps I’ll change my mind! Just kidding. It’s just as well because I’ve gotta make this money work for me until I get a regular paycheck coming in so I can start looking the way I deserve to look.

In fact, the rules of presentation at my new employment are nails must be manicured, hair pulled back, make-up on, and wearing black. Oh, I never told you what the job was, did I? A photographer! It’s right inline with what I’m going to school for, and I’ll be able to learn a lot and practice my professional candor with clients. Plus, I can try new methods of promotion. Isn’t that wonderful?

My computer keeps pooping out, and when I called the technicians, they suggested I send it in—Again! Just before the end of one of the most challenging classes I’ve had? After returning from the balloon incident, my power light was activated on my system. Upon closer inspection I realized the cord has been severed and it isn’t getting the power needed. My appointment is for tomorrow. Wish me luck!

The Write Woman’s Surviving Intestinal Discomfort (with 346 beautiful days left)

The barbecue was fun but because my body doesn’t process pork or beef well, let me say the hotdogs pulled the plug on my weekend. Nikki enjoyed herself with my ailment and Cameron at his father’s as she pranced about the house naked, her hair tucked under her armpits from behind, declaring she had armpit hair. Uncertain as to what is entertaining about behaving this way, she never got dressed and performed her maiden au naturel routine several times throughout the weekend. My ass was too sore and my bowels too loose to laugh a lot.

Nikki did dress long enough to accompany her mother to the library yesterday so I could post about my Cougar fantasy and the low cost way to appear younger. While we were there, she begged me to bring home the Dr. Seuss book, Yertle the Turtle. That book made me want to get a T-shirt declaring, “I burped for Obama!”

Nikki, on the other hand, suggested I create a movie about O-Yertle. First, the Dr.’s wife would never want a movie like that released. I informed Nikki people didn’t watch movies like that for an education. I reminded her of Mike Myers and Dakota Fanning in The Cat in the Hat and what a big deal of nothingness, except for fun and crass humor, it was—a bad investment. Even though it was his wife’s choice to submit the movie, because he’s dead, it isn’t an event he would have presented wholeheartedly. In that regard, he’s been immortalized by his wife’s participation in doing the exact thing he was against his whole life—selling him out.

Keeping in mind there’s no television service at my house and we don’t frequent the movie house, have you ever seen the movie with Jeff Bridges and Ryan Reynolds called R.I.P.D? At first, I was disappointed in my skeptical way of considering it a reinvented Men in Black, which I guess it sort of is. The difference is instead of aliens from another planet pretending to be human the villains are dead guys inhabiting live bodies. Ever since seeing Jeff Bridges in Star Man, I’ve never considered him much of an actor. However in this movie, he was pretty darned awesome. I watched it three times, crossing my legs to laugh with Mary-Louise Parker as a black man.

So in lieu of the fact I feel as if I’ve been using aluminum foil for toilet paper the entire weekend, Nikki and I had a fairly decent time, dancing armpit hair and all. She was an absolute angel—until her brother got home. Have you seen the third X-men movie where Jane is discovered to have dual personalities? If so, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Cameron sitting on one side, arm draped across my stomach and Nikki on the other, my stomach became a table for an arm wrestling match. Needless to say, in my condition, this isn’t the best situation. Let the games begin!

The Write Woman gets the Right Youth Serum (with 347 Days Left)

There are several key elements to staying young and virile. Although I haven’t got them all yet, I will have them by the time I graduate. See, I’ve learned to be what people call an observer. That means instead of talking all the time, I’ve learned to shut my yap and take in what’s around me more. Learning this new trick hasn’t been easy, and quiet people do it naturally. For one hint, let’s start with the elevens—and I’m not talking about eleven secrets to living a rewarding life, besides you’ve probably heard plenty if you’ve got a single gray hair.

Go ahead and check in the mirror at the top of your nose between your eyebrows. You got wrinkles that look like an 11? No problem, it’ll be gone in a week. If you’re really set on amazing yourself and you’ve got itchy dry legs and cracked heels, it’ll fix that too. I’ve used it to cook with instead of cooking oil, because it’s less calories and healthier. I’ve heard it’s good for your dry ends on hair, although I don’t support that statement. But you can mark my words on the rest by purchasing coconut oil. (Nutiva in a 78 oz. container from Costco) Of course if you are going to use it to cook, you may want to consider separating into different places first. Where I have mine is in one of those inexpensive hair-coloring bottles, so I run horizontal lines and work it down to my clavicle. Be careful not to get it in your eyes. Using it on my legs negates having to purchase shaving cream, plus it dries smooth. Look at that, you’ve got me sounding like a commercial!

Beautiful and dangerous--perfect stimulus for a daring man.

In our country, if you aren’t familiar with the term Cougar (not the mountain lions) yet, don’t bother reading any further because you aren’t going to get it. But for the rest of you, isn’t it sickening? When I first heard about it I thought, “Yeah, right. As if some young stud is going to have any interest at all in a pizza from 1984---good in its day, but way beyond stale now.” And then to see the Cougars boldly displaying their catch on the front of magazines or a page on the net is nothing shy of disgusting. What the heck do the guys get out of it? Are all these women so filthy rich that it snubs out the smell of decay? Or are these guys searching for a different frontier to conquer—one with mysterious valleys and peaks with rugged cliffs? Are these the same men that want a Potty-Time Patty when they grow old?

Let me explain what I learned growing up. When I was about twenty-two and an exotic dancer, I dated this guy named Andy I met at a late night drive thru. He was a couple of years younger than me and still lived with his mom (she was riddled with a condition and he didn’t want to leave her alone—sweet). He also had an interest in comic books, particularly The X-Men, without space on his wall to spit, due to posters and paraphernalia. This was weird, however my mind talked me down from the ledge by explaining that Stan Lee, the creator of comics was no puppy. I forced myself to overlook more and more things until Andy called me at the last minute to tell me he had to work late at a pizza shop, because they were swamped. He was the first guy to cancel a date with me.

My life was centered around something more than comics.

Following my nagging intuition, I showed up at the pizzeria to find a lone female worker sweeping an empty restaurant. She divulged he’d left about an hour ago to play at the arcade with his friend, Orly. Yeah, that name should have set off some bells. The point is I needed a mature individual and this guy was way beneath my scanner. I should have known that from the get go, and it’s impossible to imagine getting involved with someone ten or more years younger. We’re talking Legos now. And for those of you concerned with whether or not I confronted him, I did humiliate myself in front of a hundred little kids by berating him as I stood in my stiletto heels, tight skirt, and leather jacket. I’m certain the image is still clear in some of their minds today.

Saying "no" to a woman in stilettos is a death-defying business.

But here I am nearing a half a century, haven’t had a relationship for over six years, and it’s never even occurred to me I might be missing out. And as odd as it sounds, the guys my age are mostly wrinkled and bald with hips twenty inches smaller than their waist. They probably have little idea if their goods are still fully intact.

After all these years someone has finally woken up Ol’ Bessy, and I’m fairly sure he’s under thirty. He’s not a seam splitting Adonis, but he’s taller than me. He doesn’t even have neatly coiffed hair, which is usually a necessity in my book. And he wears his pants the way kids wear them, sort of baggy around his hips so you can’t tell if he even has an ass. So what is it about this guy? There are three things, because I’ve given this a lot of thought. The first is that he does more than hear me he listens to me. The second is he has a gorgeous and sincere smile, that’s a big one for me. The third is he carefully chooses his words. That’s important because if someone wants to break-up or propose (just as examples), you’d sort of want him to be cautious of your feelings, right? But there is one pretty big drawback, he’s a technician deeply involved with—you got it—video games. But I have a healthy fix for this, I’ve written him into one of my screenplays. That way I can still let him save me, from a distance.

Is The Write Woman the Right Man for the Job? (349 and counting)

As you’re well aware, I’ve been an unemployed student wrangling two kidlets for a bit. The other day I strolled through town and took pictures of some of the positions I feel qualified for. I'm starting fresh with my schooling and needed to find which one would suit me best. Bet you can’t guess where I finally got a position. The best part is, I really think I’m going to love this job!

Once, I was a water truck driver…

But it's hard to be feminine when you work with the boys all day--okay, so I'm not feminine.

A toll booth operator would drive me stir-crazy behind a 3 X 3 window. I'd rather be one of those live mannequins. The models probably get better pay, too.

Working with old people who keep thinking I'm their son and yelling at me wouldn't work well for me.

Nope, been there and done that! (Something every construction worker says regularly.)

Gardener or groundskeeper? Are you kidding? I'm still trying to get off my knees from my last job!

Although I AM qualified, UTA is only hiring for people to sort out the coin boxes---Ooooo!

But the good news is, I start work next week! Yippee! And get this, I will wear make-up and get my nails done regularly for this job, plus I get to wear a lot of black. When I came to the library to pick up my son just before the interview, his eyes could have lit the planet like a solar flare. They were big! Thank goodness he agreed to pick his sister up from school and walk her to the library carrying both computers in his pack so I could go. Can you believe the dedication of this kid?

So he's going to his dad's this weekend, while Nikki and I are headed to a barbecue to spread the good news! Look out, hotdogs, here we come! And I am one lucky mommy.

My class at school is teaching me about writing games now. At first I was sort of burned about it—I was thinking “I don’t want to pay for a class I don’t even want to take!” but now I’m glad I did. I never realized how much of the same skills go into movie making as creating games and how easily one could be switched to the other. If you consider your favorite movie and put in terms of a game with a quest, how amazed are you? Thinking I'm going to try out Elder Scrolls. What do you know of it? Cameron helped me figure out an awesome game, and I'm seriously considering rolling with it. I wrote to my instructor to find out what he knows on finding teammate connections for a project. We'll see!

Cameron and I go for walks regularly, and we came upon this utility box--you know the kind on some people's front lawns. He dragged me back to have a look and by the time I got the camera out, most had gone inside for their convention, I guess. "Bzz-bzzzzz, utility box on Morris Ave. at 8:30 today. Be there or else!" Needless to say, I didn't stick around to see if they all got the bulletin. What has me in high alarm is that I've seen four dying bees in the past two days, lying on the sidewalk upside down with their legs wiggling. Without pollination, think of all the pesticides our country will make in vain.

Without bees there will be no flowers, fruits, or vegetables creating less animal feed. Cows love barley and chickens love corn. In a short sense, this means a lot less food for human consumption. Sometimes the humans need to just leave Nature to do her job, right? At this rate, we may end up eating each other--yucky! However, there is one man I don't think I'd mind sinking my teeth into.

I think we ought to let the wasps die out a little bit--interrupt their conventions, but please wait 'til I'm gone first.