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.

How to Torture The Write Woman (310 and counting)

 When I started this blog it was to indicate my arduous trek to gaining an education because I was to graduate on my birthday next year. Apparently the gods are having a party and pulled my card for the next dare exclaiming, “Watch what happens when I do this!” They’re having a gay ol’ time because I’m not graduating after all. However, that doesn’t mean I’m stopping my crusade, oh no! I will continue onward and upward until I reach my goal. I may bend, but refuse to break, sort of like a gooey melted piece of taffy.

Speaking of breaking, did you hear the latest breaking news on bees? It’s all the buzz! The bees, as you are aware, have been dropping out of the sky to land on their backs in the middle of sidewalks and dying. I say it’s all the chemicals the farmers are plastering the crops with to kill insects—well, bees are insects, aren’t they? Must be working! But with all of mankind’s fixes, we find inevitably we need to find the remedy for those as well—like a scale that’s never even. According to the news, they’ve found the cure. I wonder what the aftermath of that will have an affect on. What would be truly awesome is if great scientists could discover a potion that makes government officials actually help the people who voted for them—or would that more likely be a miracle?

Studying transmedia is fun, so don’t let anyone tell you differently. I’m still working on my kids’ book, and just about done with the outline. I ordered several books from Amazon, one called Reign Rain (a methodically obsessed girl with an alcoholic father) for Nikki, The Gift (from the Witch and Wizard series by Patterson) for Cameron, and a couple of transmedia books for me, including The Art of Immersion. Unfortunately, despite the prices we pay for delivery, it cannot insure the delivery people can read computer printed addresses. UPS has lost a delivery containing Nikki’s and my books, setting us back a week. Still, if the temporary workers are required to go through a rush training as I am for my position, I have to understand the pressure they are under. There are days where I feel like my head’s going to pop off by the time I reach my car.

Photography should be easy, right? Point the camera and click? But when you get a sick baby and the mother is adamant about having the teething infant’s picture taken, what can you do? Coochie-coochie-coo doesn’t quite cut it. If the baby was strong enough, he’d just assume rip my nose off and teethe on it, killing two birds with one stone. I’ve not seen a devil baby yet, but I’m certain I will before the holidays are over. That’s when they come out of hiding, you know.

The best way to torture someone is to sexually arouse her and leave her to fend for herself. When you get into better shape, apparently the blood flow quickens and floods your entire body. I guess this is why I hated romance so much when I was inactive, and also why older couples are sometimes the walking dead. Cheers to those who stay together their whole lives, and double cheers to those who like it that way. The consensus is if you have a headache, go for a jog, and then jump on the bed. Whatever happens after that, keep it to yourselves.

Speaking of fending for one self, check out this article about my home state. Anyone who believes there’s a dividing line between church and state has never been to the state of Utah on the holidays, Sundays, or in public for that matter. Talk about torture!

The Write Woman asks, “What’s in a Name?” (Whittled down to 317 Days)

Have you ever met someone for the first time and you like him (or her) alright, until he tells you his name? Suddenly all the imagination hatches open, and you peer closely at his face searching for some zit or mole as an excuse not to like him. Well the same goes for pleasant names. Like I heard that some girl thought Ellen DeGeneres had the name Ellen the Generous. I thought, “Isn’t that nice? Ellen does appear to be a very generous person.” What’s in a name?

Take my name for example. Sure, you know me as MJ Brewer, the magical writer who knows all the answers, but my name is Michelle. Think about that! What kind of person do you think Ms. Hell-Brewer is? Names spell it out, right? So think about your own name for a moment. Decide if hearing the same thing over and over again has an impact on who you’ve become. Ms. Hell-Brewer has no friends—otherwise I wouldn’t have the time I have to write this blog.

Now that we’ve gotten past question as to whether I’m a nice person or not, let me verify your opinion for you. This morning at the gym, I got there at 4:30 a.m., thinking I would have the place all to myself with no one to bother me, right? Well, it was true for a while, but the gym is for all the members, not just one. So when I was finishing up the weight portion of my routine, about an hour later, this bald and stinky guy comes strolling past, waving his reeking towel around. I’m not sure if it’s to air out or spread his testosterone through the air to unsuspecting takers.

I watched him for a minute as he passed in front of me, and then noticed he doesn’t even wipe the equipment down when he’s finished. This is a huge pet peeve of mine. So I am-scrayed over to the stair-climber, figuring ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ I grabbed the machine in the front right

corner, leaving at least eight machines to my left. I began working out—harder and longer on that machine than I ever had. I was set to blow off 500 calories in an hour, which is not an easy feat for me.

Half an hour later, sweat running down my neck and dripping onto my purple face, I was determined to climb those damned infinite stairs until I hit 500 calories, or an hour, whichever came first. But then it happened. Glossy top, sticky shorts climbed on the machine next door, abandoning the thought of possibly climbing onto one of the other lonely devices. 

Staring straight ahead, I concentrated as my plum-colored face reflected back at me from the huge windowpane. Perspiration was trickling down my back and I was quietly grunting like a piglet trapped under a fence. Okay, a piglet would probably squeal like the dickens. I concentrated on keeping my mouth closed and controlling my breathing—right up to the point my new comrade cleared his throat with a snort. I thought he was dying, but he was opening his mouth to release the dirty toilet odors he’d been restraining to keep to himself.

My eyes bugged and I attempted to hold my breath, but it was impossible with the velocity I had built up. Glancing at my calories, I could see I was almost there. Then, believe it or not, it got worse. He apparently got a whiff of himself because he either pulled out extremely strong mints, or one of those air fresheners that hang in the side of the bowl—either way it was strong. I pretended I was running away from him and moved even faster.

In the end, I accomplished my goal, and then some at 550, with fifteen minutes left. But when my time was up, instead of steadying myself and catching my breath, I staggered to the wall by the garbage, almost certain I was going to puke. But I didn’t, I manned up.

I grabbed the sanitizer, walked back to the machine and wiped it down. “Wow!” he exhaled, as

he urged me closer to the edge of sanity, “Quite the workout, eh?”

I could feel Ms. Hell-Brewer emerging and thought if I stayed I’d pull an Anthony Perkins, so I made a dash for my car. I don’t even remember getting there. I was just grateful I was going to the sanctity of my rambunctious kids in my little apartment. What's in a name? Danika, my Morning Star, is just what I needed!

Where did The Write Woman go Wrong in Education? (323 Days to Go)

First of all, I’m not sure what the public school system is teaching anymore, but I’m relieved my son his home schooled. Trying to figure out how to get Nikki back to home school while working, but attended her parent/teacher conference yesterday. Her teacher, Mrs. Young, is one of the sharper tools in that drawer, and last night it was a pleasure speaking with her. One thing that confused me, however, was her mention that Nikki is well beyond her colleagues in reading and because of this she will next read “TheMagic Finger.” Doesn’t this sound like the type of literature congress would write, if they could? I'm aware of several people who have received such a gift from myself, although they may not feel the same way.

Okay, here’s the bad news for this wallowing Wednesday—I’ll get it over with first, because it’s so depressing and moving on would be best. The first time I attended a university, it was to study law. In the midst of my education, the friendly doctor advised me Prozac would cure my OCD, even though I was there for a typical physical for my employer. This was the combination of anterograde and retrograde amnesia. Needless to say, I did not finish school in my twenties, and it took another twenty to make sense of life. Strike one.

In my thirties, with a four-year-old child, I began again. This time I was shooting to be a teacher. I pulled up my knickers and went to work. But apparently I pulled my britches up a bit too high because halfway through my education I got pregnant again. While I was enjoying the opinion of my other half’s sobbing because I refused to have an abortion, I continued working as a school bus driver and pushed forward to complete school. A truck running a red light changed my plans at seven months along. Unable to sit for long periods, much less anything else a man might desire, I lost my employment and was forced, after repeated attempts, to relinquish my schooling. Strike two.

In my forties, still unable to obtain work that doesn’t make me wanna throw myself under a bus because it would be less painful, I did manage to hide the pain well enough to get a job. I studied for a week to become a bus driver in another district, taking the physical, I passed! But after the long ride home, I could barely climb out of my car and shuffle inside before collapsing on my bed where I remained for the following two days. I also managed to locate an online school, permitting me to stand and move around when necessary. Not only am I able to attend school, I have an A average—all while working, home schooling my son, and taking care of my daughter and our home. I feel like Super Mom!

But then my current school’s financial adviser changed where I'm studying writing. The new one notified me the only loan I could apply for to allow me to complete my degree is at 12%, repayment begins in two months after graduation and must be repaid within five years at over $300/month. I thought it over as I read, because I have less than a year left, and I’m certain I’ll be making enough money to pay it back—the median salary is $50,000. As I continued reading, they were willing to pay less than half the money needed to graduate. My last financial adviser had told me that I would be fine and not to worry about it, so I didn’t. Now I have less than a month to poop out nearly $35,000. Strike three.

With the way everything is going, the only thing I can count on is landing on my feet. I don’t know how, but I trust that it will. The numbers counting down at the top of my entries signified my graduation date, which happens to be my birthday. I will continue the countdown, but now the big day will be my goal to become a success (I do not consider less than $50,000 a success for a household). With less than a year left, I’d better get my ass in gear. Besides, I believe I have every screenwriting book available on my bookshelf. If I plan it correctly, I should be able to read every one of them. 

In the meantime I believe I will be playing Publisher’s Clearing House and writing my children’s novel, in hopes of it creating an income. Here's crossing my fingers for comedy--guess it won't hurt to go for it!

We’ll see what happens in my future and if September 4, 2015 reveals the admiration and cheering of a successful forty-nine year old won’t we?

Meanwhile, while I applied my deodorant this morning my daughter asked where the correct

place to put it is. I explained that it deodorizes smells from perspiration and showed her where it goes. She got out her deodorant, I intended on throwing away before she confiscated it, to apply on her tummy. “No,” I stopped her, “Not on your tummy. Put it where you sweat, like your armpits.” That was when she insisted I help her apply it to her back. No matter how much I argued, she was certain her back sweats more than anywhere else. What kind of a child is this?

The Write Woman Loses with a Left Hook to the Floor with only 324 Days to Go

Popcorn that's munchy helps

Today marks my first complete week of working out on a daily basis, and I decided to tackle my worst area—my garbage bag stomach. Needing to be careful because of my slowly healing back, I wanted to wait until the rest of my body had a bit of adrenaline circulating before I took it on. While in the midst of a kinetic exercise in regard to planking, I felt a sticking pinch into my left pectoral (breast) area. Reaching down, I felt around with my hand to feel a protruding wire from my bra. Cramming it back inside, I got back to work until it repeated a few minutes later. Fed up, I pulled the wire out and tossing it across the room into the garbage instead of repairing it. Since mirrors surround the room, I did a quick look to see one of my breasts noticeably higher than the other. Oh yes! Not finished working out, what could I do? The stair stepper—with one or the other foot in a downward position, no one would ever notice the difference. My workout was an hour and a half, but I should have stayed to cool down. On the way home, I got a little dizzy in my car, but I’ll eat a package of Skinnygirl popcorn and be okay. The breakfast burrito is 250 calories and my popcorn is 25 calories to my daily allowance.

Yes, the kids are opposite of each other. Keeps things spicy!

On the home front, I was informed that both of my kids have Thursday and Friday off of school. Typically this would be okay, but my work schedule for the beginning of the week and has been switched to the end. You realize what this means—they’ll be home alone for hours! For normal families, parents probably turn a blind eye as to what could happen while they’re gone. For me, not so much. My memory churns up the fact of my own adolescence of growing up with four other kids. One would be the lookout while two others would drag a mattress into the living room and ramp it across the couch. We would play a game we cleverly coined Alligator where one kid had to stay on the floor and catch the others as they cruised across the top of the furniture in a circular motion about the room without getting caught. The lookout would get a break as we took turns. When the enemy was spotted, we each knew our assigned tasks. Two grab the mattress and haul it back into the bedroom while the others picked up, readjusting the tables, lamps, rugs, etc. and greet our parents with cheerful expressions. When they asked how it went, we’d eagerly reassured them of the good time we had. Oh, those were the days. If that ever happened in my house, the Tasmanian Devil would unquestionably break loose.

Churning over ideas with Cameron about trying my hand at writing comedy, we’re toying with a few ideas for a Halloween comedy. Anyway, the story idea is a scream on its own. But we’ll need to work on it. Still working on Vermillion Beech, in the meantime. However, the comedy would be less expensive as the sets would just be a neighborhood, as opposed to the future setting of Vermillion Beech.

Arriving at the library today, arms full and balancing while I locked my car door, The Most Dangerous Game fell from the top of the stack into a muddy parking strip. I rushed in and cleaned it off, hoping it will pass inspection. My day's gonna get even better now.

The Write Woman wants to know What's Wrong with this Picture? (325 Days Left)

Now that I work out at a gym, I have access to television and hear all the hubbub going on around the world. All the news is disturbing, and I’m not just talking about the war, I’m talking about the stuff we bring on ourselves like this drink on the market called Legal. First of all, no one’s number one fruit choice for a drink is pomegranate. Secondly, aside from adding marijuana to it, the yeast included causes the containers to blow up to the point the servers wear protective gear in order to distribute the beverage. If they didn't, they could lose an eye. I'm not sure how that would work in a courtroom with the drink's name being Legal. Would the prosecuting attorney claim the victim lost an eye by legal means?

I also saw an interesting commercial for a law firm by the name of Murphy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but asking help from Murphy's Law seems a bit like you're searching for trouble, doesn't it?

Then reality shows certainly are making an all-inclusive hit on the market. Nail’d It is a show about girls that do nails. Really, are we so bored with our life that sitting in a chair every two weeks, getting our own nails done for forty minutes, isn’t enough and now we watch a show about it? Please! And what about Snapped? The show about women that have just had too much and finally set up maniacal plans to erase the people they blame for making them miserable. I think if you really want to get rid of someone, put them in front of the television for a Snapped marathon and a six-pack of Legal—problem solved. (If that doesn’t tip the scales, add an extra hour of Nail’d It.) 

Enough stuff about 101 ways to kill ourselves with misery, what are we gonna do about it? I’m doing my part in an effort to beautify the world, one piece at a time. I’ve been working out every day for six days and counting. Although it’s hardly long enough to make a huge difference, I can wear my rings now. I have three bands I wear on my left ring finger with my kids and my names on them. Cameron’s name is interrupted with x’s, Nikki’s with o’s, and mine in the middle with <3’s. It’s the most important jewelry I could wear. Glad I’m losing weight.

School is tough and work is awesome. When I took a series of photos of Cameron, because he doesn’t have any, Jen said she wanted me to enter a photo contest for the cover. The prize is $500, so that would be nice. As Cameron escorted me back to the car, he said something I’ve always longed to hear. He said, “It’s hard to believe you’re getting paid for having fun!” I almost feel guilty—but I’ll get over it. Meanwhile, I'm willing to take your photos for Christmas at JcPenney--make an appointment!

What's that? You noticed I said, "School is tough?" Okay, it's sort of not true. You know when you go to dinner and it's the most perfect restaurant, with the most perfect ambiance and an incredible date--when suddenly, your server shows up. Her kid is sicker than hell and she feels compelled to fill you in on all the details of her miserable life, breaking down in tears. Sort of puts a damper on the evening, doesn't it?  Same affect. Terrific class with a great instructor, got the most compelling storyline to work with, and a real "go-getter" for a project manager. Then we get one member who doesn't show up for the initial meeting, when the plans are being set, but shows up yesterday (the outline is due today) and decides to take over, wasting nearly forty-five minutes of the other four members' time. Add that up and it's three hours of time wasted! Same thing as the waste of money on a crummy dinner. But all this talk about food is making me hungry, so I'll change the subject.

Sometimes when I come home from working out, my kids are so supportive they’ll do anything to make it easier for me. Nikki was so impressed with my progress she offered to massage my caboose after 1.5 hours on the max glut setting. Wow! I sure hope this one pays off. In high school I was nicknamed Bubbles and I thought it was because of my sparkling and upbeat personality, but according to some it was due to my derriere. While round is good, my bubbles have become an out-of-control dirigible filling my pants ‘til the seams beg for mercy. I’m fighting for control. 

Meanwhile, when my daughter rose from bed declaring she must wear sleeves so her friends will continue to play with her, I was alarmed. "That's silly," I said, marking that she refuses to wear sleeveless shirts anyway. "It's true," she replied, "If my friends were to see my huge muscles they'd be intimidated and no one would play with me." I asked her if I could take a picture to show the world how unfair life can be for those who are fit. She agreed to pose.

Hey, I’ve got a question for you before you go. When you have a star who’s a good guy in a movie, does it upset you when he dies? G.I. Joe’s Duke, known as Channing Tatum, dies in the first quarter of the movie and I was devastated. But then in Get Smart, the director has Dwayne Johnson turn out to be the bad guy. That really pissed me off--sort of like finding out Santa Claus is Uncle Sam, giving one minute and taking it back the next. Are there any movies you’ve seen with actors you favor playing parts you don’t appreciate? Does it impact your opinion of the director’s upcoming movies?

The Write Woman under a Blood Red Moon with 330 Days Left

The moon at 4:30 a.m. in Utah

This morning marked the first of a few things for me; I saw my first blood moon, worked out, and discovered a portion of my body I'd long since forgotten. As far as the first thing, I took a photo to share with you. This time the moon is 5.3% larger than it appeared in April. The red color sort of washed out a bit in the picture, but since my other computer is out, I don’t have the potential of enhancing it. Still, I got up at 4 a.m. to take a bunch of pictures to share. Unreal!

Anyone who has seen my photo thinks of me as a smaller built individual, and in my twenties the rest of my body matched my head. As you can see from the photo, despite my worn-out vanity of my younger years time, stress, and the accident have taken their toll on this body. And I hate to say it—UGH! My body has outgrown my itty-bitty head! I’m certainly not boasting to put this out there on the web, but doing so will ensure my follow through and help others who aren’t quite as daring to do the same—not lose weight in particular, but find something they don’t appreciate about themselves and change it, a little bit at a time. When I went to the hospital about a month ago, I weighed 199 lbs. Personally, I think I was 200 and the nurse saw the horror spread across my face, shaving off a pound. But that was before.

I went to the gym the first time and felt as if I was walking onto the set of The Jetsons. No one told me the bicycles, stair-steppers, and ecliptic cycles have television screens built in and you get to choose your own channel. Do you have any idea what this means? Don’t forget, I haven't had television service at my house in over three years. Now I can stay up-to-date on current events. 

In fact, one of the horrors of Halloween came to light early this year when it’s discovered that drugs are not only distributed at high schools and junior highs, but a woman in Delaware was arrested because her four-year-old was distributing heroin to her preschool buddies at Hickory Tree Preschool. I don’t know if authorities found out because one of the friends told a teacher, or because perhaps one of them was trying to fly off the monkey bars to escape a pterodactyl. I can tell you I’m glad we’re not trick-or-treating in that neighborhood. But this incident is not the only preschool drug bust.

Speaking of Halloween and the unspeakable, I came to a conclusion this morning about the way my life is turning. By the time I got home from the gym,

spoke to Cameron a bit, and then jumped into the shower, my muscles had begun to tighten and I was beginning the feel the impending burn. 

Attitude is Everything

While rinsing off, something unexplainable and unexpected happened. I’m not talking about how many times kids scream, "This is amazing!" in Disney and Pixar movies, I’m talking about a real life extraordinary experience. Are you ready? I got turned on—just from running water. I haven’t looked it up online yet, but I’m curious as to how the mechanics of a body, the dopamine or whatever, get worked up by working out and transfer into a sexual energy. In case you aren’t getting the full impact of this, I have been happily celibate for years upon years, not even interested, let alone curious about getting a partner. Don’t get your waistband under your chin, I’m not looking to book a chapel and drag anyone to the alter, but a few of the cobwebs have blown away. That’s all I’m saying. By the time any mechanics climb under this chaise, I plan on appearing like a new piece of sleek equipment, not a hay baler. I want confidence!

The other goal I have is to be on a payroll of $200,000 a year. Last month, I was unemployed. How likely do you believe it is for someone to gain this income and lose sixty pounds at the same time? I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? If you want to know if it can be done, I suggest you stay tuned for the big reveal (in 330 days).

The Write Woman Brushes her Dead Self Off (With 331 Days Left)

Okay, so just because someone calls herself a writer doesn’t mean she doesn’t listen too. On the way home from gathering nutritious donuts and milk for breakfast, the radio stated that Nick Hogan, Hulk Hogan’s son, is in the news because he submitted his password and pin to hackers and then has his naked picture all over the web because some scathed girls had it in for him. He claims he was only sixteen, but what in the hell is a sixteen year old doing showing his junk to little girls? I think it’s a pathetic lie; he isn’t sixteen. Nick is probably twenty-one and his parts haven’t grown up. I’m surprised he didn’t claim he was fourteen or twelve, hitting it.

 

Katie Perry is awesome! She said she’d be honored to play at the Super Bowl as long as they didn’t charge her to play. What is this saying, America? In case you can’t figure it out for yourself, it’s saying that we’ll be lucky to have Pizza Underground perform. On the bright side, it’s the perfect time to use the restroom in those long lines during the game. It isn’t like you’re missing much, but you’re still paying for it.

Now, let’s talk about me. I got my nails done, I got my gym membership that happened to be on their anniversary letting me start for $1! All for my job in the line of work. At least it’s a good excuse to do something positive and the gym is open 24/7, so I can go in the middle of the night if I can’t sleep, which is often.

What else is new? We’re trying to figure out what we should do this weekend for Family Time, since we can have two a month with my job. We’re talking about a corn maze, a movie, or going to the Heber Creeper, a local train that has theme-oriented tours. If you have any helpful advice, it would be great since we’ve not done anything for years.

Plus, this is totally weird—I found my journal from 1992 –1994, some of the time missing from my memory that happened just before the whole Prozac thing. I was affected by two kinds, anterograde and retrograde amnesia. It’s weird reading it because even after doing so, I can’t remember. So it’s like reading the journal of a stranger. I wish I could have been my own best friend and given some sound advice because that girl was tripping, even though it’s evident she was trying her best to do the right thing. For example, when her boyfriend wanted to move in with her she told him she couldn’t because she was taking care of her little brother. She tried to help her sister too, but that fell through, leaving her flat and bewildered. I feel compelled to write my old self as another person because, like I said, she practically is. Some day I may figure out a way to write a movie about it after all—maybe a movie about the current me going back in time to help the past me. Naw, I’m sure that’s been done to death, besides all the movies I've seen depicting amnesia are way off base. For example, in Memento how in the world would Guy Pierce know he reads the Bible religiously if he can't remember anything? Frustrating to me.  I suppose I’ll just enjoy the real life version. I just hope it’s a happy ending!

The Write Woman takes a Shot in the Dark (333--is half of 666--Days to Go)

Why do people WANT to be normal?

Let me explain the difference between myself and normal people, I don’t keep a calendar readily available. I have had no reason to keep track of days – I certainly don’t date or do anything for entertainment. The dates I do keep track of are the dates of child support and food stamps. How lame is that? When someone says, “Parent/Teacher conference is scheduled for the sixth,” I remember by realizing it’s the day after we get food. Isn’t that sad? To become a success, one should obviously keep the mental attitude positive by ignoring the negative things. But how can you do that when your choice is remembering negative or remembering nothing? Guess that’s why there are so many drug addicts and alcoholics roaming around. Soon I won't need to worry about governmental assistance at all--yeah!

Zack is a smart and intuitive boy.

I watched a movie last night entitled Little Red Wagon, written by Patrick Sheane Duncan, that conjured up a lot of horrific memories, but made me realize that homelessness is not all that rare. It could have been written a lot more clearly than it was, however. At the end, the closest the writer came to reconvening the single mothers was by having the homeless boy receive a Zach Pack from the helpful boy. But the focus wasn't on the heroics of the boy, as much as the hardships of his family. The film steered away from whom he was helping too often. And my first opinion of his mother, the real estate agent, was not a good one. When she met the soon-to-be homeless mother, whose husband had recently died and she had to move, the hero’s mother seemed aloof and callous. It tainted her for the rest of the movie. The layout was all about the boy’s mother and her relationship with her kids, using the homeless family's story as a filler.

Nikki will only sing and dance privately. No public shows!

Nikki is watching—you guessed it—Mama Mia, again. She says, “Sam is hot, even if he needs a pill to be married,” of Pierce Brosnan. I’m not going to take the time to explain this. In the offscreen shots Amanda Seigfried got a boo-boo and the hospital refused to see her, she asked the onsite nurse if she could have leprosy. Inquiring minds want to know, right? When Nikki asked me what leprosy was, I explained. “Oh, is that where leprechauns come from?” she asked. At Cameron’s game, Dave gave Nikki five dollars for a back scratch. For the amount of time she spent, she’d be rich if she did that for an hour. But she’s decided to purchase the movie from Amazon with it. She’ll care for that movie!

The perfect one-night stand

Oh, so now I have a new dilemma. I found out yesterday I am short almost $15,000 to graduate on my birthday next year, with about a month to do my rain dance. My mind is extremely Don’t send money, I want to earn it myself. But if you come across any writing contests of scholarships for single mothers surviving amnesia and homelessness, let me in on it. Please do NOT submit ideas for medical studies—no way! My life is still trying to recover from the last “medical miracle” of Prozac, some twenty-five years ago. 

Last night Broomhilda and Baby Huey were stirring a ruckus a bit after midnight and going back to sleep was damned near out of the question. Still I woke up again at 3:00 a.m., so I worked on Vermillion Beech some more. I figure that may be a way to earn some cash—a long shot, but a shot in the dark is gonna hit something! I’ll just cross my fingers I don’t shoot myself in the foot.

The Write Woman Sees the Goodness (334 Days)

Yesterday was crammed tight with a hundred things to do within a fifth of the hours, without a sign of food coming in. (Refer to Facebook site to vote here: Should The Write Woman divide the available food, or abstain so the kids can have more?) Here's the pizza we created last night with pita bread, cheese, spaghetti sauce, jalapenos and spices. Yummy, right?

When you wake up early in the morning to get a start on your day and still can’t figure out a way to fit it all in, what can you do? Like most people addicted to something whether drugs, alcohol, shopping, or controlling everything is their sickness, the only way to curb the illness is one day at a time. Honestly, I am unaware of what my disease is, but I must have one. Oh, I chew my nails, sometimes ‘til they bleed. That has to be an ailment. When I’m not frazzled I can grow beautiful nails, but then I usually have artificial ones. Even if I afforded acrylic nails now, I’d chew and pick them off because of stress. But if I could divert my tension to working out, the whole puzzle would come together.

So I went to work at the studio and I love it, just like I do every day. I shared with my co-workers the theme I would use to get me through the grumpies is I’m the Fairy Godmother, helping with a kind smile to get patrons through the short time we spend together. I wonder if Cinderella’s Fair Godmother ever had to help someone she didn’t like, or if she had no one to answer to. If she did have to help some crabby troll, she probably grinned from ear to ear. Anyone who has seen Shrek 2 can attest to Fairy Godmother being a real bitch, but that’s not me—at least at work.

Ricky and Jen from JcPenney's LifeTouch Photography

I talked my new co-workers into having their picture taken. Looking at them, you’d want to gobble them up, right?  These are my co-working photography friends Ricky and my ever-cheerful supervisor Jen. The photographer who does the most business this year gets a bonus. This could be my key to the last bit needed for school. I’m psyched!

Oh my God! If you live in an apartment with not-so-good insulation let me say I feel for you. People that have intercourse in them should have designated times so I don’t have to hear it. Baby Huey is going it at like a greyhound chasing a rabbit right now. I can only hope he only goes around the track once before catching it. Yep, there it is! The crowd goes wild! You especially don’t want to live in an apartment if you’re dating and have some single old maid living under you, unless you enjoy exhibitionism. She’ll hear every creak, roll, sigh, gasp, scream, and “oh shit!”

Ready for take-off!

Last night Nikki called Cameron, at his dad’s, to ask if she could sleep in his bed instead of sleeping with me. She was so enthusiastic all I could do was go along with it. Needless to say I was awakened early in the morning with a long and lean little girl snuggling up against me whispering her brother’s room is haunted. My eyes popped open. “Haunted? Why do you say that?” I asked. She candidly expressed the clock waited until she was asleep to tick loudly enough to wake her up. I tickled her back until she went to sleep.

Naked on a chilly leather couch -- YIKES!

Because Cameron is gone this morning, I’m doing my work naked with dye in my hair. Nikki strolls in, shimmying her shoulders, naked and smiling. “We’re twins!” Perhaps we need to revert back to Sesame Street and discuss the same and different. But she’s got the television on watching her favorite movie, Mama Mia, which she enjoys turning up to belt along. At seven a.m., with such a thin floor, I made her turn it down a few decibels. Unfortunately when the refrigerator runs the television is inaudible, so she stands directly in front of it singing loudly. Sorry, but I refuse to squelch it. Guess if the neighbors don’t like it, they’ll need to fire the pistols and restart the race.

Deon, Stan, and Sam--the humblest of knights

On our way to the library to post a few minutes ago, I saw the two best friends of a writer (besides a computer) off to the side of the road—a filing cabinet and a huge bookshelf—for FREE! The problem to solve is I drive a little Toyota Yaris. Not a lot of trunk room, but I was determined (or stupid), because I started walking the filing cabinet to my car. The guys standing around the moving van saw me and came over to help. One of them laughed, “You’re not going to get those in that trunk.” Guess what? They were just leaving and with my house being only a few blocks away, they said they’d deliver it for me. Coincidentally, there was exactly enough room for both of them at the rear of the truck and they were leaving now. They were a little shy when I asked to take their picture for my blog, but happier when I told them how I wanted to share with the world how Deon (left), Stan (middle), and  Sam (right) stopped what they were doing to help me. Sure hope he enjoys setting up in Herriman, Utah. See? CONCLUSION: There’s still goodness left in the world.