Book review's the thing to do.

It's been a bit of a slow start, but I'm going alright. In this edition:

The 5 Love Languages
The Art of Asking
Sonnet 18
The Hunger Artist
Hills Like White Elephants
Hamlet

The 5 Love Languages- Someone once told me that this was a life-changing book. It saved her marriage. Then a friend got it for me for Christmas. And it's true. I was eating it up. It was a quick read. It's not very long, but it uses every bit of its space to change your life. I learned that my husband and I are complete opposites, and that my love language (quality time) is really difficult to attain with the military lifestyle. EEK! But seriously, if you're having trouble in your marriage, if you're not connecting to your partner, or if you're thinking about having a partner, get this book. It's amazing. You find out what you need to feel loved, and you find out what your partner needs to be loved. Then you can both make the effort count. It's fabulous. Read it.

The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer- Amanda Palmer is one of those famous people who is almost more famous for being her than she is for what she's famous for (kick ass tunes, btw). Her internet presence is fantastic with regular tweets and facebook posts. She posts longer things on her website blog and frequently connects with her fans. The book talks about her life and her music, but it's mostly about how she funded an amazing album through Kickstarter. People call her a crowd-funding pioneer. I think that misses the point completely. She's a people pioneer. What I got out of her book was courage. Courage to be vulnerable, courage to feel my feelings, courage to reach out for help, and courage to ask for what I want. If you're an artist, or if there's anything you want to do, but can't, I recommend this book highly. I'm currently in the process of asking for what I want (a career in writing in case you were wondering, and I know you might actually have been), and all because she gave me the courage. Also, there are some super cute parts about her relationship with Neil Gaiman. Wastepaperbasket.

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare- “Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?” It's that one. If you know it, like it, like poetry, or think you might, you need to stop right now, pick up your phone, and download The Love Book app. This sonnet is read by Tom Hiddleston. Yeah. You're welcome. I chose this poem to do a paper on in one of my classes, so I thought I'd grace you with my review. I've read/listened to this poem tons of times, but all of a sudden this time I suddenly realized, “Holy crap! It's about death/dying!” Ahh!!! Basically using the seasons of the year for seasons of life, ole Bill there is telling his love that she is beautiful, and he's sorry she's sick, that it really sucks, but it's part of life and at least this way, she won't ever be an old woman and be well, not beautiful. And as long as there are people around to read the poem, she will live forever. How effing romantic is that? Hashtag for real. I love it. I think it is a wonderful expression of love. There's a reason Billy S is a master. And I will always highly recommend him as a must read! So, I highly recommend this as a must read!

The Hunger Artist by Franz Kafka- Whoa. This. Just this. Let me sum it up first. Way back in the day, people would pay to watch someone come into their town and not eat. This is the hunger artist. People buy tickets to see an emaciated man fast even longer. It's commercialized as what, so it's profitable. Until people lose interest and then what is the hunger artist to do? This particular one has a sort of obsession with fasting for as long as he possibly can. This cannot be healthy. Anywho, he joins a circus, withers away, and then divulges his motive. The reason will surprise you! I like spoilers, but others don't so send me a message if you want to know why without reading this. It's a short story, and probably worth it, but only if you're committed to it. I found it to be really slow through the first reading. It starts out a bit dull, but then it sort of gets a bit strange. Then you're like oh my gawd, are you for real. It's a really interesting study in human nature. We all do things that sound all up and altruistic, but there's some kind of not-so-noble motivation behind them. It begs the question, Does that make our actions any less good? Hmm... Thought provoking. Fair warning, this is character-driven, not plot-driven, so if you're waiting to see what happens next, keep waiting. The point of this is to find out what's up with this guy. You follow his journey, if you want to. I leave this one up to you. I'm still on the fence. It's a good story, but I'm not in a hurry to reread it or anything. But you can say you read Kafka, so there's your conundrum for the day.

Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway- Hem's my bro, so it's a safe bet I will always recommend him as well. Everything I've read by Hemingway has been beautiful and tragic. Makes sense right? He was depressed as hell, so he had an excellent grasp on the beauty of tragedy and sadness. The phrase that comes to mind is “All the Feels” because seriously, all the feels. Hemingway evokes a total range of emotions even in a short story. This one leaves you wondering what happened, and while you're trying to figure out what the couple was arguing about, you realize, it doesn't matter. The point of this piece is how people interact. I'm really into that lately. I love things that are studies of the human condition. Things that don't really have anything to do with a plot, so much as you want to know what's going on with the characters. Hemingway captures all kinds of emotion, preserving it in a little jar so people don't forget it exists. Because we're all people, and we all feel things, and everything we feel is beautiful in its own way. Anyway, you won't know what's going on, but it's beautiful. And you'll be disappointed at the ending. I always am with him. But it's worth it.

Hamlet by William Shakespeare- This one's for my class, too. But I love reading Shakespeare. I read him when I feel not-so-smart. I've found that if you can remove yourself from the minutia, and see the thing as a whole, you can get it. Then, of course you run into the problem of not noticing theme and tone and what-have-you, but as far as getting the story, I've got it down. Hamlet is seriously quotable. To be or not to be. To thine own self be true. It's all there. Along with a ghost, a skeezy mother/aunt, uncle/father situation, and madness. Everyone goes cray. (Do people even say that anymore?) They all lose their shit and everyone dies. It's great. I enjoyed it. Plus, you can watch the Royal Shakespeare Company's version with David Tennant and Sir Patrick Stewart. Winning.

Stay tuned, for (hopefully)

Macbeth

Yes, Please

Drums of Autumn

probably some Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A bag of cats

My brain has something in common with Loki the trickster god. It's a bag of cats. You can smell the crazy coming off me. 

My mental health practitioners would frown upon me using the word "crazy". My therapist two therapists ago used to ask me if I thought I was crazy when I said I was crazy. But you get the idea. I've been in country since September and I'm on my second psychologist and my very first psychiatrist ever. It's really very exciting to have someone who specializes in crazy drugs! 

I was first diagnosed with depression in a round about fashion when I was something like 16. My family doctor thingy prescribed me an antidepressant. That was it. No, you have depression, go see a therapist. Just meds and on my way. So I took them cause duh. And they worked for a really long time until they didn't. Then about three? four? five? years ago they stopped, so I switched to a diffrent antidepressant. It worked out alright. With a side of antianxiety for those hail mary moments. Then a death in the family, a move, some kind of strange world with no real purpose that was kind of a purgatory of sorts happened. About 32 appointments into my prolific career as a patient of the most patient therapist I've ever met, she diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder. WTF?!?! But it's true. All of it! Bag of cats. Then a month later we moved again. And now you're all caught up.  That was my Doofenschmirtz flashback.

Anyway, I'm now on my very first antipsychotic. I feel very Girl, Interrupted, except not really. It's really really helped. I've made it through multiple "cycles" without wanting to run away or cause immense physical harm. So, naturally, I'm psyched!!! (see what I did there?) I actually had a moment last week when I was just fine. We were half way through the day and all of a sudden I had one of those Keanu meme whoa moments. 

So, Yay, me!!! That's pretty much all I wanted to talk about was that I'm finally on some meds that I think are actually doing really good. They make me hella sleepy, but they're really good. And things are good. And I think I might actually be coming out of some kind of funk, so that's exciting. And this is a good time to have a mental health thing. There's awareness out the wazoo! Yay, interwebs! Yay hashtags! Yay! 

How Jehovah's Witnesses Taught Me to Never Trust Anyone.

I live in Germany. It's like An American in Paris except Germany and no cool musical dance numbers. Just a lot of rain. And bread. Lots of bread. Anyway, I was recently visited by two very nice Jehovah's Witnesses. Here's the story:

I'm helping the kids with their laundry and the doorbell buzzes. Thinking it might be our landlord, I go down to open it. On the other side of the door however, is not our kindly landlord with the goofy hat, but two smiling German women with cute hats. And yes, I said smiling Germans. It happens.

The younger one introduces herself, first name only, and this is her mom.

Okay. Good for you.

 Then she says she wants to ask me a few questions about government, says she's looking for English-speaking people.

So I'm thinking this is some kind of survey thing or this girl is gathering info for statistics or something.

She babbles something about corruption, and asks why I think that is.

So I give some sort of answer and she says yes, here, let me show you this bible verse that gives an explanation.

So I'm like, ... o... k... I'm being polite at this point, but I really want them to go. My hair's a mess, I'm in sweatpants, and to be perfectly honest, I was using my sweater to cover up my non-bra.

I then learned that the kingdom of god is the corruption-less government that god promised us. I even got a nifty pamphlet... and caught completely off guard.

So the lesson here is that when some nice person comes to your door implying that she's just trying to get an American's opinion on European governments, close the door and run because she's a politician for Jesus. Okay, I mean seriously, here I am thinking I finally got asked questions that might go into some kind of poll results or something and then all of a sudden, Jesus walked the earth. That's very disconcerting. I mean, how am I supposed to trust anything anyone says ever again? I feel so used...

Derpin' hard or hardly derpin'.

I recently tried to take a selfie. It didn't work out well for me.

I mean, I'm not a classic beauty, but I'm not a toad either. I'd say I'm right smack in the middle of average. If I apply a little effort and an ungodly amount of cosmetics (not tested on animals), I even think I look quite foxy. Then I get a little cocky, and think, “The world needs to know how damn good I look today.”

And then it happens. I take the selfie and every single one looks like I'm about to sneeze or have just been goosed. What is that crap? I'm over here looking adorable, but all I can come up with is some kind of horrid school photo quality selfie. All I need is that weird blue and purple hazy background and you wouldn't know the difference.

I derp hard. If only the word “derp” were around when I was growing up...

Well, it's actually probably a good thing it wasn't or I'd have been the ermahgerd girl. 

You know, if I really think about it, that's not true either. Like I said, I'm smack in the middle of average. Always have been. I wasn't derpy enough to be a meme (hahah like those were around then lol) and not popular enough to be noticed. I tended to hover just out of the way, in the shadows of the recesses of teenagerness. In some kind of popularity limbo. I was always trying to make my way up and out, but only until I got my shit together and realized I was in the best place ever. Where else can you judge the entirety of man, but back in the corner where you can see everyone?

So, I wouldn't have been a meme. That's a little depressing in itself, but not really. And as for those defunct selfies, I figure those are the faces you get when you talk to me, so what the hell. I mean, it's not like I hide the derpy faces when I'm around people. I let my derp flag fly! I feel like Chris Farley, 

and have been told not to make myself ugly. Meh, it is what it is. I'm doing the best with what I've got. This is the part where you think of Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries where she looks in the mirror pre-princess, and says, “This is as good as it's gonna get.” 

And it for real is. Besides, I don't think funny people are supposed to be the uber pretty ones, it just wouldn't be fair to every one else.

By the way, popular kid, I saw you pick your nose. You didn't think I noticed, but I did.

O Captain, my captain.

I'm angry. And sad. And on the verge of tears. Seriously. Robin Williams has committed suicide. It's terrible news, folks. Celebrities die all the time, but some how, for my generation, this is our first real big guy to go. He was in our children's movies. We thought he was just the funniest thing ever! I remember watching an interview thing on tv with Robin Williams and John Travolta about the movie Wild Hogs. The interviewer asked Robin what it was like to work with a great actor like Travolta. I was like, excuse me, kid. Robin Williams is WAY better than creepy ole Travolta. Totally. I was actually mad at that poor little interviewer. lol.

So, I've seen people saying things like "I don't get it" and "Why would he do this" or "But he was so funny". I'd like to address these things. I certainly don't know Robin  Williams, but I know his ailment. If you've never been depressed, you can't possibly know what it's like to feel like that. No, you can't. Normal people get sad or even FEEL depressed, but that doesn't mean they have depression. The difference is that those of us who suffer from clinical depression can't just "snap out of it" or "cheer up" or even "fix what's wrong". Most of the time, nothing's wrong. Or everything's wrong. But when someone thinks of taking their own life, it's often the only way they can see out. It's not a selfish act. It's not about other people. It's about life. About not being able to see that there is a life in front of you. All those things people tell you you have to live for are just more things you feel bad about. They're just more things you're screwing up or not doing right. You feel like people would really be better off without you because you honestly cannot see the good. Good doesn't even register. Winston Churchill called it his "big black dog" that followed him around. It's accurate. J.K. Rowling used her experiences with depression to influence the dementors. All I can think of is Ron Weasley's comment that he felt like he'd never be cheerful again. And it's true. I think of it as a big pit. A giant hole, and when you're in the pit, you can't see a way out, or how you'll ever feel anything but that gut wrenching emptiness, guilt, and pain. And you know, sometimes, the funniest people are the most messed up. Look at me, I'm freaking hilarious. And messed up as heck. I think it's the depression lens that you see through that makes it so you can view the world in that funny and yet depressing way that is so common.

Now that I've cleared that up, I'd like to say how angry this makes me. It feels personal. Not like it was about me, but it hit me in a personal way. I've been thinking of Ernest Hemingway as my personal and professional hero for a really long time now, and I've just now gotten over the romance of living hard and fast. Living for the experience. I mean, I'd still rather regret the things I've done than the missed experiences, but I don't want to just do everything I want until I can't deal with it anymore. That was a huge thing for me. HUGE! And now, at about the same age, and able to grow the same beard, someone else I held in esteem has taken this way out. No, it's not the easy way out. I would argue it's the hardest way there is. I just wish someone would have been able to help him. I wish that he would have been able to see how much it was worth it, how much his work and his life meant to so many people. Now we're left with a deficit. One of the truly funny, not just crass people in the world has left it. Imagine what he'd have had to say about getting old.

So I'm going to watch some of his movies and wish him safe travels into the afterlife. May he still be making them laugh.

Short Story- Somehow It Was All Beautiful

Today I walked out into the tiny village in which I live. The work day had only just begun for the shop keepers on the main street. It was all of ten A.M., for, you see, things move more slowly here in Turkiye than in many other parts of the world.

Living in Turkey has ben like living on a completely different planet. Live moves along at its own pace here. The shops open whenever they please, which is why, at the not-so-early hour of ten, I was witness to the opening rituals of my village.

Normally, the dust and disorder seem to grate against my nerves, turning me vehemently against this friendly and haphazardly cohesive culture. But today. For some reason, today was different. The sky was brighter. The air was cleaner. It was all really quite charming.

This tiny street in this tiny village has been puzzle pieced together for at least the past twenty years. The result being that the sidewalk is not a sidewalk in the strictest sense of the word. In reality, it is simply a pathway made of a myriad of paving materials including, what I am almost certain is kitchen tile. It is all in varying heights, widths, and states of disrepair.

This morning, as I set out on the important task of checking for new movies and procuring lunch from my favorite doner shop, I owned the street. There were no men out to call, "Abla, you need carpet/haircut/watch?" The shop keepers were occupied with hosing down their bit of the sidewalk or sweeping out their store fronts. The old men were sitting down to tea on the tables set on the side of the street. So relaxed, in fact, is the attitude of my street, for it has become MY street, that the men leave their shops, wide open, to go and sit down for their tea.

And it was today, as I walked around the parked cars so as to not disrupt this most inane yet sacred of rituals, that I saw the beauty inherent in the simple. Today, I saw the little old man who makes the doners. I saw  him ready his knives, saw his skill with the meat on the spit, saw how things are done here. This man is always assisted by a young boy whom I can only assume is a relative, as nepotism seems to be the rule here rather than the exception. This man - these people - take pride in their work and the simplicity of life. As well they should, because today it was beautiful.

My, that antidepressant sure looks nice.

You ever get depressed? Happened to me. Like when I was a kid. I'm on medication though, so I'm better.

Then some of my friends who are, if you can believe it, bigger hippies that I am started talking about how they got off antidepressants after like seventeen years. I was like, WTF? You can do that? I'm gonna do that!!! Because, you guys know, I can

So, after much research on Dr. Google and talking to my therapist who by the way was not so much with the on board thing, I decided I can do it!

Except that then I discovered the true depth of my disease and decided, eh, maybe not.

And it's a good thing too because then shit got real. Like really real. I sort of lost my shit. So, that's not happening. I'm working on it. It's a journey, but I've definitely decided that those antidepressants sure do look nice.

Catching up with the synapses

I've really needed to blog for a while. I've been having really weird thought and super trippy dreams. We're talking Lucy in the sky with Walter bishop trippy. So, I bequeath to you a sampling of gems from the past time period.

I noticed that all old people everywhere look like old people. Like no matter where you're from, you're going to end up looking like a gnarly apple when you get old.

Dogs don't like taking selfies.

Neither do cats

I was in a play. It was a great experience and super fun. However, it's not something that I'll be doing again. It made me bat crap crazy! Between having real kids and pretend kids, I almost lost my crap. The good news though? I totally looked like mrs. Patmore.

I swear there was more and you all were going to love it, but it seems I'm old and so I can no longer remember the dumb things I was gonna talk about.

On another note, I deduced the crap out of someone based solely on the knot of his scarf. If by deduce, you mean I could tell he has a Pinterest account because I've seen that knot zillions of time on there, then get me a Watson cause I'm amazing! 

iChildren

The boy is a big fan of Xbox. And by big, I mean that he'll throw a freaking fit if he doesn't get to play every single day. It's like Dudley freaking Dursley up in here. But recently he's been talking to this one kid who sounds like a kid. Either that or a foreigner or a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz. But this kid, we'll call him Gamertag, talks to other punk ass kids/teens in their nerdy little xbox Live parties.

One day these punks said something to The Boy like that he was a baby or something. He comes running in crying because these kids are picking on him. A few things popped into my head at this. 

1. Punk ass punks need to check themselves before I wreck themselves.

2. That's life, son. People suck. Learn to deal.

3. Oh god, life is so weird with internet kids.

Seriously, why is there not a guide book for what to do when your seven year old learns about talking to other people on the xbox? Internet exposure has seriously screwed up my parenting style. Though to be fair my style is more of a rough guideline than anything. 

I've noticed while living here in turkey that being unplugged is relaxing. I don't own a cell phone right now. And strangely enough, it's freeing. I'm not worrying about talking to this person or that person. I'm not being constantly bombarded by texts and information and crap. I can just be in the moment. Now if only I could get my kid to unplug and get in the moment.

Things I've learned in therapy.

So, we're getting ready to move to Germany in... roughly the time it takes an adult female human to gestate a tiny human. My therapist has had much to say on this topic. You see, much like crotchety old men and people with certain disorders and stuff, I don't dig change. When we moved here I immediately spiraled rapidly out of control so badly in fact, that I'm only now back on track after what? One year and a few months. No big right? Totes cool? Nope. Not remotely. It was a circle of Hell I wouldn't wish on Nancy Pelosi.

Anyway, my therapist gave me some homework. Hey, she knows who she's dealing with here. She wanted me to make a list of the most important things I've learned here. In regards to dealing with bouts of crippling depression and super spazzified anxiety episodes. So, I thought I'd share some of these gems with you. I went to Jared.

Ah hem...

I have learned while here that I don't react well to change. It makes me wonky. But the important part to remember is that sometimes it's okay to be wonky. You don't have to totally freak out because you'll never be happy again and the world is worthless and there's no point in living in a world if this is all you have to look forward to and blah blah blah... Emotions ebb and flow and that's all right.

I've learned that I'm worth a damn.

I've always had abominable self esteem, and it turns out that most of my problems stem from me not thinking I'm worth it. Like a make up commercial. I still don't wear make up or whatever but I'm starting to really feel like I deserve good things. I deserve to do something good for me. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to have the great relationship I have with my husband. I deserve way more hugs and kisses and gratitude than I get from these little freeloaders I couldn't live without. I deserve to be successful and I deserve to be...

And dangit, people like me. Just last night I found out that an acquaintance of mine, when trying to figure out who I was knew me by the description "the squeaky one". Thanks for that hubster. Anyway, it turns out, she loves me. When I'm all like "Let's do this!!!" She's all like "Yeah, now I really want to do this." And while that might just be a goofy little thing, it meant a heap of a lot that someone I barely know thinks something nice about me. It's really hard to get out of thinking that you're just a giant hunk of crap, and sometimes it's nice to just get that little boost along you know.

Another thing I've learned is something I picked up a long time ago from a kung fu master I was familiar with. I've always thought it was terribly clever, but never applied it to my life.

And it's truth. It's one of the truthiest truths of any truth that ever truthed. Mindfulness. It's a psychobabble term as well as an easterny philosophy. They're a bit different, but essentially the same. Live in the now. Take the time now. Don't spend today worrying about yesterday or tomorrow. You'll tell yourself, I'll deal with life tomorrow, but there's always another tomorrow and another tomorrow and another tomorrow. Which ironically is the day I plan to go to the gym... Regardless. Just be present. Accept what is around you. It's like the serenity prayer or the beatles song. Do what you can with what you've got and the let the rest go. You are only human. I am only human, and as such, can only do so much. I can't change the weather, speed up the harvest, or teleport you off this rock. But I can do something about some things.

I learned that to be happy is not to be manic. To be happy is merely to be content. Let me say that again.

To be happy is merely to be content.

Those people who walk around constantly smiling and bubbly, they're medicated. Seriously. In some of my worst times, people would tell me how bubbly and outgoing I was and I'd be like WTF?!? Sometimes the façade is cheery but the inside is melting away. I used to wonder why I couldn't be like those people, you know the ones who have their shit together. They're all "I'm fantastic" and I'm all like "I hate you. Why are you so perfect? Why can't I be like you?" Which I guess leads us into another thing I've learned and that's to not compare yourself with anyone else. We're all messed up in some way, shape, or form. We've all got something. That perfect mom, she lost a baby. That cheery kid, she wants to waste away and die. That skinny girl, she just threw up a hamburger because her dad called her fat. And maybe not all that extreme, but everybody's got something. The point is that when you realize that you are you, it frees you up to, back to my first point, be content with your lot. Just be content with it all. I can't change my circumstances, so I accept them. That was such a freeing revelation. The entire world is not my problem. I'm not responsible for the manic happiness and wellbeing of every entity on this damn rock. I'm responsible for me. I'm responsible for how I feel. I can't do a damn thing about a lot of things, but I can change how I feel about them. And how I feel about them is content. I just let the things be what they will. It only makes me crazy and cuts weeks off the end of my life, so just chill.

I've learned a great deal about love also. Not like whoooo romantic love. Friendship type love. Love your friends. If you love/appreciate someone, let them know. Just be kind. Be a good person. Believe in something. Love someone. Those are important things. If you can do something nice for someone, do it. It doesn't hurt you at all to check on a friend or to say thank you or to just hug someone. And it certainly won't kill you to look a service worker of any kind square in the eye and say thank you. Be one with your fellow man. After all, once you skin us, we're all the same.

Merry Christmas, merry Christmas, kiss my ass, kiss his ass, kiss your ass, happy Hanukkah.

That's right, folks, tis the season! It's the annual, non-festive first showing of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Now before you go telling me useless information like the date, let me just say that y'all are lucky I've held out this long.

Every year, we watch this movie way too many times. And every year, I take something different out of it. Last year was "Merry Christmas. Shitter was full." You really should make sure to check your shitters at this, the Yule loggiest season of all. This year for some reason, it's the part at Clark's office when he tells the line of suits merry Christmas. It's just the funniest thing for some reason.

So our weather just changed over here, and if I pretend the palm trees don't exist, it's almost like being home. And that's another thing. You really can't go home, but by golly, once you've been gone for a while it seems like the happiest place on earth. Sorry Disney, my mama's house is cheaper and the food's better. It's not like its any less crazy than the last time you were there or that somehow your family morphed into the Cleavers. I mean let's face it, we're all way more Griswold than all that. But I just keep feeling the weather and thinking off all these horribly romanticized memories of Christmases passed. 

I think of the time I got a puppy in my stocking, and all the other stuff like that. But it's not just the big things or even the things. It's the feeling of the heater running in an old farm house, curling up in flannel Jammie's, the Christmas Story marathon, and just being together. It's not like we liked each other more, it was just too damn cold to be anywhere else. But it was Christmas, dammit! And now I have to try to make these faux memories with my kids. It's all about the experience, Russ.

Horribles, Hippies, and Hipsters, Oh My!

I  used to write pulp fiction.

No, no, not Quentin Tarantino Fan fic or something weird like that, but actual fiction in the style of pulp. I was always under the assumption that I was at least moderately good, which in my head meant I was a complete freaking genius and the world would soon bow down to my word smithing prowess.

Guess not. Cause today I stumbled upon the first review of anything I've ever written, and while I'll admit, pulp is not at it's core supposed to be award-winning, this jerk was a jerk. That's not really what I want to call him, but whatevs. Rise above it right. Yeah, that's what I should've done. What I did do was go hunting for more reviews, still convinced that this guy was a hapless douche and my brilliance would shine through on something else I had written. Bollocks! The lady that reviewed the other stuff actually used the phrase, "the plot was terrible and horribly executed". Ass hat. I've been told by the hubs that all amazon.com reviews are shit, and that's what I'm going with now. Besides if I don't make it as a writer, I could have a very lucrative career making granola!

Hey, since you bring up granola, I made some groovy granola that I'm going to have with my almond milk tomorrow morning for breakfast. In case  you didn't notice, I've become a bit of a hippie. But it's seriously great granola. Chocolate with chocolate chips and local honey. Mmm... And something funny happened to me on the way to eating dinner tonight. I freaked out all the hell over a bag of chicken breasts. All I could think of was that this used to be a living chicken. I was cutting up dead animal tissue. I was a mutilator. O.O It really wasn't as cool as Dexter made it seem.

 And then it made me really sad. I was kinda flailing around like a freakshow, mumbling about chickens.

I'm not sure that's what my dad had in mind when he let his hippie-ness rub off on me. Though I was thinking today that he did kind of raise me to be a hipster.

Hysterical book, btw, if your dad still did things like wear waaaay cut off shorts and stuff. But he always had on some kind of groovy tunes. The first one I can remember is Arlo Guthrie.

"The Pause of Mr. Claus" by Arlo Guthrie

He starts by hassling the FBI, making very astute observations about society and then sings a song about Santa Claus being a Communist beatnik. Winning! I even discovered it on a basement expedition on a freaking 8-track, the only one left. You might say it was fate that lead me to this...

Oh, hey, I said Communist while talking in a round about fashion about my dad. There's a funny story about that. So my dad came to visit me on base. Like a military base, and we're getting his gate pass so he can come on base, and he looks at the cop guy behind the counter and goes, "I am not now, nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party."

And hey, speaking of Communists, didja hear about how Vladimir Putin said stuff about peace and whatnot? Then people are all, "Dude is ex-KGB (as far as they know...), how peaceful is he really gonna be?" To this, folks I have the answer. He got it out of his system and now relies on his reputation. It's like me and this one poor gangly kid that used to work for the hubs. He was kind of terrified of me, it's only because I get the mother of all Napoleon Complexes when I drink. Regardless, I was never gonna beat him down or anything like that, but he knew if I felt the need, I'd probably just smack him. It's the same thing. I'm cool like Vladimir Putin.

Look at that, I covered my day, my dad, and even threw in current events. WHAT!

Foodventure No.2 Aspartame

On this edition of A Hapless Foodventure, I'd like to talk to you about a subject near and dear to my heart and probably the brain tumor I'm gonna find out I have: Aspartame.

This is where the intro music goes. It's something between the NBC Now you know thingy and the PBS Masterpiece music.

So when I was in high school, for one of my small town snooty so not so snooty science classes, we had to write a paper, APA format, 6-8 pgs, double spaced, size 12 Times New Roman, on a controversial topic in science. First I thought about time travel, but it totally tripped me out, man. Then a friend suggested I investigate the topic of Chi Energy... I leaned over and gingerly rested my chin upon the molded plastic surrounding the most sacred of beverages and then it came to me, like a beacon in the night. I would write my paper on the Aspartame that sweetened the Diet Coke I already drank with frightening frequency.

My science teacher was actually impressed by my not memorable essay proclaiming the dangers of Aspartame from it's weird combinations of Amino Acids, to it's forming formaldehyde. She commented though that it made her think twice about giving her kids Crystal Light all the time. Not enough to stop poisoning them with yummy fruit flavors, but she thought about it. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but it's the thought that counts.

I was thinking though, I haven't heard much about Crystal Light in the past few years. Aside from their weird commercials with women dancing with scarves or something that happened to coincide with the rising popularity of the Mio liquid water flavor enhancer thingy. I'll admit, sometimes water is boring. Nothing but two Hydrogens mushed to an Oxygen held together by a weak nuclear force or something laced with chemicals to make it more palatable. Kinda boring right? But you throw some burst of flavor and color into that and suddenly...

And the part that nobody seems to notice or care about is that there's Aspartame in Mio, too. It's not healthy. It's not a good food option. Really, it probably has no "food" in it. It has a chemical sweetner to start out with, and a weird color. And don't let them fool you with "natural colors", they're just the ones they put in a corn base. But that's not what we're talking about here. What I'm talking about is how I've been totally duped! Duped, I say! Into thinking that drinking Diet Coke will keep me slim and svelte like the logo, didja notice??? But really, it freaks out your system making it think it's getting sugar and therefore energy but it's not so it's like WTF and stuff. On top that, the part that plagues me most is that it can give you headaches, anxiety, depressed feelings, a bad attitude, and a brain tumor.

So my Diet Coke induced anxiety and headaches that are probably precursors to the brain tumor pushing on my be nice and tolerant to children I didn't birth gland are going to part ways... I hope.

Food Stuffs Journey

Today, I'd like to address a fact of my life that is glaringly apparent. I'm a chunky monkey.

That being said, I also feel like cat dirt most of the time and my ... times of the month... are a bear. Not the cute little Coca-Cola polar bear from my youth, like a ravenous, man eating, blood thirsty grizzly bear. So I was thinking... Self, do you suppose that perhaps, eating all this chemically derived shit posing as food has something to do with the fact that you're fat and losing your marbles? Why yes, Self, I think that may be the ticket. And so  here we are... stuck between a Tastycake and a hamburger.

I have a friend who recently did this whole 30 thing where you like only eat whole foods but no dairy, gluten, or sugar. It worked out well for her so I thought, what the hay, hey! Then I went, waitaminute, Self, What are we doing? And Self, who was moderately freaking out, replied, I DUNNO MAN, I DUNNO. I'M FREAKIN OUT MAN, I DON'T THINK I CAN DO THIS BRO. THIS IS A BAD IDEA... And so here were are again. Twinkies and potato chips

But this time, I thought, Self, you can't just sit on your fat arse and do nothing, and clearly the post-it note you put on the fridge ordering you to "Walk Away Fatty" hasn't helped, so you should take a step. So I've decided to cold turkey quit Diet Coke. ZOMG!!! I'm pretty sure I'm gonna go into convulsions any time now, and I may or may not have been disowned by my othermother. It seems to be my nicotine. I quit, then I fall off the wagon, then I quit, then I swan dive off the wagon into a Coca-Cola factory and drown in the stuff. But this time is different... Yeah... Different.

I used to be a vegetarian/vegan. It started out well enough, but did you know that French fries and Diet Coke are vegan? I did... So I consumed. If there is a stereotypical example of the American plagued by junk food, even though she knows way better, it is me. I am that example.

So here I am, stuck in the middle of sweet tea and some spaghetti. That's burning right now.

These... are the days... of their lives...

I was gonna write this a while ago and call it "My daughter married a guido". But I didn't, and I'm glad I didn't because sooooooo much has happened since then.

It all started one Sunday morning when my friend and I left the kids with her hubs. Our two littles's who are both 4 had a good time. We went to the market to buy fruit and when we came back, Her Boy was wearing "wedding pants". We were also informed that they had got married "for real" and kissed in the closet "for real". Then later The girl saw "her husband" in his underwear, and when they were playing at my house, they both came out of The Girl's room with her dress around her shoulders. EEK!!! I'm going to assume that's the preschool equivalent of consummation.

Not to worry though, eligible bachelors, because, on the way to school later that afternoon to pick up the biggles's, they broke up. It turns out that she had her feet on his feet in the wagon, and well...

A few weeks later, Her Boy informed us that they were gonna get married. He said, "We're gonna get married."

But then, a few days later, the kids were all hanging out in my carport. There are a handful of them, they're all four, and they're like a freaking gang. Anyway, I walk out and overhear... "No! We broke up!" So I ask other Boy, "Who'd you break up with?" He says The Girl, so I'm all like

And then the other day, all the kids were back over at friend's house. When I picked them up, she told me that she had to tell the two littles's that, no, they could not go upstairs and kiss. O.O

Seriously. OMG!!! These kids are gonna give me a coronary. I swear. Hubs wants to buy a gun just for all the little punk ass kids gonna be hittin' on shawty. Or whatever the kids are sayin' these days.

As a bonus I give you this amazing list that my dad once gave my husband...

Rules for Dating my Daughter

Rule One: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

Rule Three: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open-minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, In order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule Four: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilising a barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

Rule Five: In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."

Rule Six: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry.

Rule Seven: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process that can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter:
- Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool.
- Places where there are no parents, policemen, or nuns within eyesight.
- Places where there is darkness.
- Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness.
- Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her throat.
- Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme re to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Rule Nine: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a pot-bellied, balding, middle-aged, dim-witted has-been, but on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten: Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a rice paddy outside of Hanoi. When my Agent Orange starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit your car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside. The camouflaged face at the window is mine."

Take care little neighbor boy...

And she jumped up on his disco stick and rode away to Funkytown... (I'm gonna go ahead and say NSFW...)

Or... not.

It's been previously established that I am a writer, primarily of unsuccessful children's books, and as such, it is a necessity that I have a novel in progress. All good writers do. And in writing said novel, I've come across many roadblocks. Sixty thousand words is a LOT. I don't like writing dialogue. The kids zombie drink my brains. Seriously, I'm not so sure but what one of my curls isn't a crazy straw. Writer's block. Feeling like I'm shit, and this is a shit novel, and I am a shit writer and no one reads shit novels from shit writers who haven't even gotten their shit published. And so on and so forth.

However, recently, I've come across a particularly sensitive issue... one might call it "delicate", "unmentionable", "unsavory"... "skeezy". I had to write a sex scene. I seriously had more trouble coming up for the idea for the novel than I did the language of the sex scene. So I did what any normal person would do, I asked my friends via Facebook. I was greeted with suggestions that were unhelpful, bizarre, and hilarious, but all reminded me of that part in 10 Things I Hate About You. I used to know all the words to that movie. Sigh... Ah hem. Anyway, I was saying... Oh yes...

And no one wants to be like that lady. No one. My guess is not even the people who write that garbage. But then I was thinking about all the hubbub with Fifty Shades of Grey. Full Disclaimer here: I HAVE NOT READ IT NOR DO I INTEND TO. IT IS SIMPLY NOT MY CUP OF TEA NO MATTER HOW COMPELLING MY MOM TELLS ME THE STORY IS. Yeah, and guys read Playboy for the articles. That's why Hef has surrounded himself with the most intelligent women of the time. I'm hoping you're picking up on the sarcasm. That being said, I've heard a lot about the "crappy writing" in this book and how "she can't even say penis". Right well, let me write you a scene with the word "penis" in it.

She kissed him until his penis filled with blood, stiffening enough to penetrate her vagina.

Romantic, eh? So if your problem is that E. L. James doesn't use the word "penis", shut up. Let me show you by this flow chart I made in paint.

Basically what I'm saying is that it's hard to find a happy medium in a normal book between "Penis" and "quivering member". It has to go with the tone, you know? And the answer is most likely not "Disco Stick".

No, I don't care if Lady Gaga says it is. It isn't. She is not a reputable source, she wears dresses made of meat. She wears dead cow carcasses. She is the Hannibal Lector of pop, and yes, I'm sure it seemed like a good idea at the time.

But anyway, I went with generalities such as "She took him inside her" and "wrapped her lips around him". I'm gonna call success on this one.

And also, just for fun...

PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS PENIS!!!

OMFG, emphasis on the F

So the kids are whining at me all day for one thing or another. Their either hungrier than African orphans, or they desperately need their video game fix. But not the three or four video game systems currently available to them, nooooo... They want the one they are not allowed to have because they've become overly obsessed girlfriend about it.

Needless to say, it's not been a peaceful, zen inducing day. But I finally cave, because at five pm, it is finally cool enough to go outside and not drown in your own boob sweat while sinking in your swamp ass. But then apparently, poltergeists or aliens or someone about to get the piss beat out of them by Liam Neeson have come around and kidnapped everyone on our street because no one can play, no one is home, and this is clearly the start of the apocalypse. Or at least the apocalypse according to kids. Maybe that should be the name of my blog???

Okay, so whatever, whine your asses off, you've been doing it all day, what else is new? Run on sentence anyone? But then the girl comes back and after much tantruming and phone calling and get-the-crap-out-of-my-face-ing, I tell the kids to get the crap out of my face go to the purple park with their friends and the nanny. They were supposed to go to the friend's house, but not them. They're efficient, they just went to the park, came back crying and yelling and whining because no one was there. I tell them to stop crying right NOW!!!! And to go to friend's house. They seriously don't make it out of our yard before all hell breaks loose and I'm not sure, but I think I saw some Horsemen riding by me. Though, since it's the kiddie apocalypse, maybe they were like little midgets riding Shetland ponies or something. REGARDLESS! They were like screaming and yelling and freaking all the hell out for no. apparent. reason. Hand to God. No reason whatsoever. None. Pretty sure the Shetland Ponymen are Whining, Crazy, Starving, and Obnoxious.

And now we arrive at the present. They are in their rooms screeching and crying and yelling, and I? Well, I am blogging it out. Sure, I thought about writing it all to the hubs in Spain, but where's the fun in that? You all can't read it, if it's in an email, all private and stuff. Well, not necessarily private since the NSA is reading all of our correspondence now. Who do they have reading all this crap? I mean, are there special people whose job it is to read my emails? I think that's the money that needs to be going to military programs because, I'll be the first to tell you, my emails are bor-ing. Unless you think my inane daily goings on are exciting, in which case I can refer you to Overly Obsessed Girlfriend up there ^.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, I've learned today that 7 sucks. Mostly because now, I never let them do anything they want to do, ever. Never Ever, and they know it always. And the boy wants to die. Martyrdom for the sake of Xbox Live games everywhere.

P.S. Hi NSA guy. You could at least be polite and follow my blog. Jerk. That's probably why they have you locked in a back room reading my emails, because you're a jerk. No one likes you. Carry on.

What is wrong with you people?!?

I don't like cleaning. If you don't remember me telling you that, I have, and you should catch up.

http://motherofanadventure.blogspot.com/2013/04/i-dont-like-cleaning-or-glitter.html

But sometimes you have to bite the bullet, suck it up, put on your big girl panties, use lotsa metaphors and just clean the damn house. And since hubs is gone. To sunny Spain. To the beach of sunny, Southern Spain. On "work".

Looks like work doesn't it?

Anyway, I cleaned the house so I wouldn't be on an episode of Hoarders. But the kids were home. And you know what that means...

So, Oreos in mouth and Pandora rockin' out some AC/DC, I set to work. I swept the floors first. I was taking it slow. Which basically means that I didn't want to do crap but the house was nasty so I had to sweep the floors. It was then that my littlest Oreo... er... kid decided she wanted to run through the house with a pilfered package of graham crackers leaving bits and crumbs behind her, you know, in case she lost her way to the butt kicking I wanted to give her. Why do you do things?!? What is wrong with you?!?

Then the next day, I set forth picking up, mopping, and wiping off surfaces in the house. Being grown up is bananas. I actually scrubbed finish off the desk trying to get colored and regular pencil off it. In the desk's defense, I was the one who redid it, so the finish was sub par at best. But still. It was a lot of trouble and was annoying. So, job wonderfully done, I set off for a shower with my step bouncing from my feeling of success. It really is true, cleanliness is next to godliness because I was some kind of magic. Fifteen minutes later. When I got out of the shower, I walked into the computer room to check on the Girl Oreo when what did I see but PURPLE FREAKIN CRAYON ALL OVER THE DAMN F***ING DESK!!! I was a little upset. What is wrong with you?!?

Then I was putting up the boy's clothes and there was crayon on his underwear drawer. WHAT. IS. WRONG. WITH. YOU. PEOPLE?!?

I quit life as a result. You've reached Mom. I'm not in right now, but if you'll leave your name and number, I still won't care.

The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

I read The Other Boleyn Girl and thought I would give a little review of it.

The book takes place in the Tudor court of England. Basically, the Boleyn family has two daughters and lots of ambition. They marry off the young one and ship off the old one. The young one is pretty and gets shoved basically right onto King Henry's knob. They do their thing and the Boleyn's think they're just the coolest kids ever. Then the old one comes back. Aww... snap. It's Anne. Spoilers. So Anne throws out her boobies and wiles and catches ole horndog Henry's eye. But she won't put out. She won't be cast aside because Hank is tired of her. So she skanks it up like whoa and gets a queen exiled, a king excommunicated, and a new church founded, not to mention the heads lobbed off in her honor. So, Katherine is out of the way with her piousness and sincerity. There's no room for that crap at court. And the king marries Anne, but Anne can't birth a baby who is both alive and has bits. Then she does the nasty with her homosexual brother and gives birth to a stillborn monstrous baby thing. The king yells witch with the help of the rival house of Seymour, lobs off Anne's melon, and dips his stick in someone else called Queen. The End.

The story is told from Mary Boleyn's pov which is nice because Anne was AWFUL. So much so, in fact, that I was kind of glad her melon got lobbed off. I would like to point out that the rival families of Howard and Seymour were just barely classed up Hatfields and McCoys. Also, if you seriously think skeeziness and gay love and crap like that is new, you're a moron. I'm not sure there was a skankier time period than Tudor Englad. Nor was there one more entertaining.

The book was great. Follow it up with the movie of the same name and the Showtime series, The Tudors.

Mad Men

I've been watching Mad Men. I really like it. I like it in the way I like Napoleon Dynamite or "The Catcher in the Rye". There doesn't seem to be any real plot other than drinking and checking out Joan. I really love the costumes. They're amazing. I can't watch this show without wishing I could change my wardrobe. It makes women want to wear dresses and men want to smoke.

Also, I find it to be a comedy. I mean seriously. Aside from aiming a jab at the people we sprang from under the guise of entertainment, we get to laugh at the ridiculousness of "olden times". Just by the way, I hate it when people say "olden times". I feel like times should be tymes and you should be 8 years old or in a special school for special people who say "olden tymes".

For instance when the Drapers went on a picnic, Don chucked his empty beer can in the trees and the family left all their garbage on the ground. Somehow the director of this show has an uncanny ability to zoom in on these things without actually zooming. Also, the drunkenness and the pregnant women smoking and drinking cocktails.

Speaking of cocktails, do you ever break down words to try to guess their meaning and/or origin? Break that one up would ya? The cleanest I can make it is a chicken's ass. I'm not sure what that has to do with putting juice in hard liquor,  but there ya have it.

Mad Men also has an interesting view of women.

The poor jilted housewife kicks out her husband and then apparently loses all desire to go on. She stops getting dressed. She drinks and naps in the middle of the day. She basically just gets modernized.

 Then there are the "professional" women. Not like those kinds of professionals, you pervert, the kind who work.

There's the adorable little girl who is "one of the guys" now, except for the fact that she (gasp) had a baby "out of wedlock" with one of the guys she's supposed to be now and went whackadoo for a bit.

And that brings us to probably my favorite character: Joan Holloway. It is my opinion that Christina Hendricks owns that show. She's Sterling Cooper's own Marilyn. Curves and great hair, and then she finally gets a chance to have a job she enjoys, not just managing secretaries and what do they do? The bastards give away her new job that she likes to some punk kid who has no idea what's going on. Well f you, fat glasses guy (I can't actually remember their names), you should know that the voluptuous lady that has been charming networks is a better choice than the idiot you picked.

Overall, I love this show! I think it's great!