I need to preface this post by thanking Ottawa's CHEZ106 for totally making my weekend by reading 50 Plates of Bacon on the radio last Friday. That was a completely unplanned event - so much so that I slept through the entire thing because I didn't know it was on. I woke up to about 800 text messages, some emails and half a dozen Facebook posts about it. Oops. I was told there will be more 50 Plates read this week, which has me feeling a little giddy.
I also need to thank Applegate Farms for posting that amazing photo on their Facebook page that sparked my smutty creativity. They've been great sports about the whole thing. Social media connects us all in the weirdest ways. In this case, Applegate Farms and I will forever be connected though pork erotica. That's special.
Overall it was an excellent week for me as a writer. I have another exciting project going on that I can't talk about just yet, but rest assured that it's taking my writing in a whole new direction. It, too, was unexpected. But life loves to smack me in the face with surprises.
Speaking of which, I was in a foul mood yesterday thanks to some unexpected events.
I got up early to go work out. I detest getting up early, but I'd rather get my gym on and back home again before the Gremlins Three scuttle out of bed to torment their father while he's trying to work. This scores me serious relationship brownie points (or so I thought - keep reading). It took every ounce of motivation I had to leave the house this morning.
And I get out to the car to find I had forgotten to lock it.
And someone had gone through it.
And made a mess.
And stolen my iPhone car kit (minus the iPhone, thankfully, which was tucked away in the house) and, even worse, my coffee money.
And did I mention they made a mess? Like I don't have enough to clean up in my life. Thanks, asshole.
Not exactly the great start to the week I had imagined. I'm contemplating putting a fisher cat in the car every night. Nobody fucks with a fisher. One minute you lean in to steal someone's change and the next minute, BLAMMO! Fisher gnawing at your larcenous face.
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Step away from the hybrid, bitch.
(Photo credit: Tilly's Nest) |
Anyway, I got to the gym and ended up having angry exercise. It's kind of like having angry sex, but worse.
Angry sex is great in its own the way. In the end you're all, "I am still very angry with you, but at least I had an orgasm." The problem with angry exercise is that, in the end, you're all, "I am still very angry with you, but I did not have an orgasm. I did, however, have a heart attack." I worked out really hard, iPod up loud enough to pop an eardrum, hair dripping with sweat, cheeks as red as that bad blush your grandma used to wear when her eyesight started going, a scowl on my face. Nobody talked to me. Nobody even waved to me. And if you know how insanely popular I am, you know that's as rare as a nun at a Britney Spears concert.
I tried to be friendly on my way out the door by smiling at everyone, but I think it came out more of a twisted grimace than a smile, and I likely resembled a sweaty clown on bath salts.
An hour later, I was at my friend Robyn's house attempting to turn my frown upside down by quietly drinking a coffee and chitchatting. Apparently this heat wave has rendered me all kinds of stupid. Nobody can quietly do anything or enjoy coffee in any way when they bring three kids with them. I know this. I do. I practically wrote the book on impractical parenting, including a chapter on how to ensure maximum conversation disruption. I spent three hours negotiating hostile toy takeovers and giving out attitude citations. In the end, I threw all three gremlins in the car and told them they weren't getting their computers back until further notice. I then had to deal with two sulky kids and one that threw a tantrum. Fantastic.
Then - you know, because he likes to time these things oh-so-perfectly - my husband decided to buy a drumset. Yep. A drumset. Awesome.
He was obviously reading my mind. I was totally thinking that what this house needs is more noise.
The best part? We have a multipurpose room called the Moffice*. It's the music room/office.
You know, MY office?
Okay, also his office, but that's not the point. The point is that a drumset is not conducive to writing. It's like a bad college roommate sitcom come to life. There is no need to explain this further.
But I love him, and he's cute, and he's not generally inconsiderate, and he almost never argues when I really want something, so I did not veto the purchase. I may have sulked and whined a little bit, but I didn't yell, which, given the day I was having, was rather great of me.
Oh, and I made him buy me headphones. Nice ones that make noise go away by playing other noise of my choosing into them.
I didn't like those headphones. They were tinny. So I whined about that until he gave me his nicer headphones.
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They look better on me anyway.
Minus the greasy hair.
PS: Sorry for the greasy hair shot. |
Then I took myself out for a latte while he set up the divorceset drumset and put the kids to bed. Two hours later I came home with an actual smile on my face.
I woke up feeling a lot better today. I hit the gym again and actually spoke to people, and I have a plan in place to Bedazzle the bass drum to look like this:
*We don't actually call it a "moffice." I'm totally making that up. We call it the "office" which is a really stupid name when you think about it, because offices don't have music studios in them. We should call it the "studio", considering that studios sometimes have desks. Neither offices nor studios, however, tend to have pictures of half-naked unicorn men in them, thus making me think this room should have an entirely new name.
