Tag Archives: WordPress

A Strange Tale of NyQuil, Rodents, and Random Christmas Lessons.

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Let me start by inserting a spoiler alert. I wrote this after shotgunning about a gallon of NyQuil.

Yesterday I was bragging to my husband, Scot (who’s fighting off a tiny cold and is bedridden for the foreseeable future…likely until America pole vaults off the fiscal cliff) that due to my impervious genetic make-up, I haven’t been sick for two or three years.

Today I’m tired, achy, sore, and my voice has dropped a couple of octaves (which is actually kind of cool in a Darth Vader-like way when I yell “You don’t know the power of the dark side!” at my kids), I’m annoyed by the presence of a mouse we’re rodent-sitting for my daughter’s 3rd grade class during winter break, and my teeth hurt.

Clearly, I’m sick, which brings me to Christmas Lesson #1: Don’t bring strange animals into your home during the holidays. Or ever. 

Not cute. Image via preparednesspro.com.

I’m sure, due to my clinically proven, bionic DNA, that I’m not sick in the traditional fa-la-la-la-la kind of way, but have actually contracted Hantavirus from the vermin presently residing in a cage in the hall, and must immediately enter a self-constructed isolation chamber to keep my germs from spreading. That my dwelling will contain a posh heavenly bed overnight air-shipped from the W Hotel, soundproofed walls meant to muffle the screams of my children as they beat each other due to lack of parental supervision (remember, Scot’s sick too), and the entire Twilight series on DVD is really none of your business.

As I wait for someone to help me construct my self-constructed parallel wellness universe, I decide to crawl into my daughter’s bed (because as Alpha Mom it’s really all about my health after all, plus Scot’s in ours with his baby cold) and sleep. Due to my spiking fever, I also sweat, a lot, and dream not about sugar plums fairies and stockings hung by the chimney with care, but mimes….evil clown-like ones walking naked around my house with 80s-style boom boxes on their shoulders blaring Kajagoogoo.

Christmas Lesson #2: Read all warning labels before self-medicating and resist the urge to download any bad 80s music while ignoring the aforementioned warning labels.

Don’t bring this dish to your next office holiday party. Image via addictiontreatmentmagazine.com.

After about an hour of tossing, turning, and stalking that cute guy in the A-Ha video, I wake up to find a plate of cold spaghetti, fourteen low-salt Ritz crackers, and a glass of something that looks suspiciously like Michelob Ultra by my daughter’s bed. If nothing else, my kids know that alcohol makes mommy a better person, which could technically be lesson #3, but that would be pathetic.

In a traditional blog post, this is where I tell you how amazing my children are, imply or directly state that they’re more intelligent than yours due to my superior parenting skills, and incidentally, that each just won the World Series Championship of their respective sports (I don’t disclose that they competed in the loser’s bracket and rode the bench the entire season).

I know my kids better than that though, and as you’ve probably figured out, my fever is at its peak, the NyQuil is coursing through my veins (I can’t feel my cheekbones), and there’s nothing normal about what I’m sharing.

Not to be fooled by my children’s faux-sympathy, I realize that in my over-the-counter-drug-induced fog, I promised them they could open presents sent from their grandparents in Kentucky after lunch, because I’m not ashamed to buy time at someone else’s expense when I need to sleep. And I need to sleep. Desperately. But they need me to eat.

Christmas lesson #3: If your children want any big ticket items this holiday season, pawn them off on your out of town parents who feel like it’s somehow their fault that you live so far away.

Our family is A-OK with buying love.

Our family is A-OK with buying love.

And now here I sit, semi-alert on the sofa and banging out this post that may or may not be based on actual events. The kids are skillfully playing the video games I asked their grandparents to send, gifts I requested not to improve their vocabulary or bionicize their IQs, but to buy me the much needed time to do nothing that every parent should have during the holiday season, and really, all year long.

I’m getting sleepy again, so that’s it for my Christmas Tale. It doesn’t make any sense, yet here I am, happily typing away as everything below my kneecaps goes numb. If you don’t like it, feel free to say so. I’ve developed a thick skin (Literally. It’s all rubbery and translucent due to my Hantavirus.). Plus everything feels all warm and fuzzy and blurry right now, which is awesome. I just love the good tidings of comfort and joy I feel when I chug cough syrup, our family spends quality time together.

If you do like my story, consider gathering your loved ones around the fire tonight and passing it on. Maybe it will become one of your family’s most beloved holiday tales, a tradition cherished and requested over and over, so much so that I’ll be forced to self-publish and sell millions of copies so you can read it to them for years to come and I can actually build my aforementioned isolation chamber. In Hawaii.

Truth be told, NyQuil is expensive, and at the rate I’m going, and I could use the cash.

Today marks my one year anniversary on WordPress. This is a slightly edited version of my first post. At the time, only my mom and  some lady I accosted in the grocery store parking lot read it. Thank you to anyone and everyone who’s taken the time to stop by and read my work. Your support is the best Christmas gift ever, even better than a case of NyQuil.

The Super-Secret Key to Becoming Freshly Pressed that Nobody’s Ever Told You

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Before getting Freshly Pressed, I read all the advice on how to get…Freshly Pressed.  Like, 24/7.  I won’t regurgitate it here because you’ve all read it too.  Like, 24/7.

I have no proof, but it’s my opinion that there’s a super-secret, critical factor (plus a back-up plan) necessary to get this honorable, if not Wizard of Ozish, Munchkin Mayor behind-the-mysterious-curtain designation.

The Wizard of Oz as pictured in The Wonderful ...

Image via Wikipedia

Because I believe in karma, a parallel universe, and the Tooth Fairy, I’m letting the genie out of the box to share it with you.

Secret Key: Find Your Blogging Bestie

While trolling Freshly Pressed late-night in the dark a couple of weeks ago, I stumbled on The Paltry Meanderings of a Taller Than Average Woman.  Well, I didn’t really stumble on it because it was in the pole position of all the best blogs that day, and I was actively searching for stuff to steal.  O.K. not really.  I’m a fairly honest person but since you don’t know me (unless you’re my mom) I shouldn’t say things like that.

Anyway, the title of the featured piece was (and still is…go check it out, like right now!) Why I Hate Witty People.  I immediately identified.

I’m that girl, who, in 6th grade, never uttered a word.  Especially when Crosby Middle School’s Queen Bee came up to me (which she did on a regular basis) and said,

Queen Bee (comics)

Image via Wikipedia

“I don’t like your Hello Kitty lunchbox.  You’re not my friend anymore and I’m officially not inviting you to the best Ouija board, spooky ghost story, popcorn with melty M&Ms, stay up all night ‘cause Mom and Dad don’t care, pretend to be Charlie’s Angels in my creepy basement birthday party ever.”

On demand, she could connect whatever was going through her huge, cantalopish head, right to her ginormous mouth, and project it like Whitney Houston (before she self-destructed and ruined an otherwise megastar career).

English: Whitney Houston talking to the audien...

Pre-meltdown. Image via Wikipedia

Because there was a parallel universe swirling through my head at all times, however, where I was in fact, a very funny and unusually loud person, I’d come up with fifteen comebacks to say right to her face, so that I could recite them one after the other and scream, “In your face!

Unfortunately, it was always ten minutes after she’d turned on her Dr. Scholled heel and walked away that I figured this out.

Why I Hate Witty People is an incredibly witty (irony!), laugh-out-loud essay about why Cristy Carrington, the uber-intelligent author, doesn’t like witty people.  The fact that she doesn’t like witty people is funny in and of itself, because she’s such a hilarious person (She’s secretly a double blog agent, love it!).  Anyway, when I finished this essay, a little buzzed from my warm beer by the bed and once again unable to sleep, I decided to stalk her until she agreed to be my blog bestie.  As it turns out, this was a good idea.

How to Get A Cool Blog Bestie

Step One: Find a blog you love on Freshly Pressed.

Step Two: Get some kind of weird, tingly feeling (and not from your leftover abscessed-tooth Vicodin) when you read her stuff, as if you could have written it yourself on a good day, in a parallel universe, maybe.

English: Hydrocodone bitartrate 7.5 mg / ibupr...

Image via Wikipedia

Step Three: Make a funny, yet somewhat pitiful comment on her awesome essay that you secretly wish you’d written, like, “Hey, loved your blog so much I now have blog envy.  So thanks for making me feel like a loser.”

Step Four: Perform some kind of Freshly Pressed sacrifice, ideally on your neighbor’s cat, but if you don’t have a neighbor, any one of your kids who’s all “blah, blah, blah, blekity blah,” and in your face at the moment will do.

Step Five: Wait.  Please don’t check every five minutes to see if she’s commented on your comment.  You’ve got more pride than that and the magic site stat genie is recording your clicks.

Step Six: O.K. Go ahead and check.  It’s almost cocktail hour and you don’t want to risk offending her by writing something creepy when you’re drunk.

Martini Spash

Image via Wikipedia

Step Seven: Read her comment.  If she’s all “Sorry to make you feel bad, but maybe you’ll rock like me someday,” she’s opening the bestie door for you to respond.  On the other hand, if she says, “Sorry to make you feel bad, but I checked out your blog and totally understand,” abort.  This relationship is going nowhere.

Step Eight: Reply back, but not until tomorrow because you’re pretty buzzed now and don’t want to appear as pathetic as you feel.

Step Nine: Wake up, shotgun a triple-espresso Caramel Macchiato from Starbucks, and respond with an everything-in-your-pants-on-the-table reply along the lines of, “Rock like you?  Please.  Step back and check my flow.”  Then google an obscure Rihanna song from her first album, and copy the words.  You should probably put her name above it for credit and everything but I think it’s O.K. to use invisible ink.

Rated R (Rihanna album)

Image via Wikipedia

Step Ten: Watch in awe as this mutual blog bestie relationship in-development takes on a life of its own.  Your comments back and forth should be so natural and, well, funny (unless it’s a blog about stalkers), that you have to double-check her site from time to time just to make all of this free-flowing fun is real.

Step Ten and a half: On the other hand, if your future blog bestie’s second comment to your sober, ball’s-up post goes something like, “Hey gizbot.  Take it somewhere else. You’re totally freaking me out and I’m gonna call the cops,” with a lot of blah, blah, blah, blekity blah legalese at the bottom?  Abort.  You’ve gotten a little further, but this relationship is also going…nowhere.

We’re gonna assume that didn’t happen though, because life is all about positive thinking, and now you’re in super-awesome bestie blogland, where the sun always shines and dreams really do come true.

Step Eleven: You and your new blog bestie cross-promote each other, talk about your husbands’ weird toes, cross-promote each other some more, promise to rendezvous in Cabo as soon as the bank will let you use credit cards again, and figure out more ways to cross-promote each other.

Español: Atardecer en Cabo San Lucas

Image via Wikipedia

Step Twelve: Your blog bestie, who you found on Freshly Pressed, responds to a 7×7 Link Blog Award, and features you (the “you” in this case would be me), in her post.  A couple of hours later, you (the “you” in this case would still be me) are Freshly Pressed.

Coincidence?  No freaking way.  And now you know the Super-Secret Key to Becoming Freshly Pressed.  I owe my bestie, Cristy, an almost unpayable debt, and unfortunately, she doesn’t want any of my kids.

That seems like a great place to end this blog-chapter, and if I were writing my novel, I’d stop.  Because I’d like a cocktail.  But I’m not working on my novel today, and it’s only 2:28, and I want you to get Freshly Pressed.  So I’m gonna keep going.  Plus, I just slammed a Coke with forty fun-filled grams of sugar, and I’m like, flying right now.

In the event that you simply don’t like people, I have a another plan.

Back-Up Secret Key

I noticed, after my post, “Why You Should Take A Day Off From New Year, New You,” a strange spike in traffic.  It was only my third blog, and technically, I shouldn’t have any noticeable hits at all.  Yet there they were.  So I started trolling my stats, and found some interesting, if not repetitive, search engine terms:

  • rajinikanth portrait paintings
  • rajinkanth without makeup
  • rajinkanth photos without make-up (apparently, Rajinkanth wears a lot of make-up for a dude)
  • rajinkanth straight face
  • rajinkanth old photos
  • rajinkanth portrait paintings
  • body paint in indian actor
  • loc india chin

This isn’t even twenty percent of what I’ve been picking up.  Since then, I’ve developed a ginormous following from India, and more hits on my site from Rajinkanth’s picture, who is apparently a huge megastar, than anything else.  Like, every day of the week.

And because I believe in a parallel universe where everything is connected and we’re all part of one big, happy light family and stuff like that (not really), I’m convinced that Rajinkanth has something to do with me being Freshly Pressed.  I’m serious.  And I’m sharing my secret with you.  Again.

Rajinikanth

Megastar Rajinakanth. Image via Wikipedia

I’m so certain that his presence, or spirit, or groovy retro hair and ‘stache played a role in the whole FP thing, that I’m bequeathing him to you.  Take him.  Please.  Figure out a way to include a Rajinkanth photo in your next post and watch the magic unfold.  And if your traffic doesn’t immediately pick up?  Check back in a few days and I’ll have a limited edition Rajinkanth statue for sale that you can buy direct and bury upside down in your front yard.  It’s only $19.99, so really, what do you have to lose?

And there you have it.  You’re officially on you way to being Freshly Pressed.  I can feel it.  Well, not really.  I can’t feel anything right now, especially my fingertips, from my self-propelled, sugar-induced typefest.  But I’m sure I’ll feel it tomorrow.

Glossary of Terms:

Genie: “Pseudonym for a feral child who spent nearly all of the first thirteen years of her life locked inside a bedroom strapped to a potty chair.”  I lifted this definition straight from Wikipedia.  I swear.  Go look.  One of the things I love about Wikipedia is that a crackhead on crack probably wrote this definition while he was tripping on crack and the Wikipedia genie hasn’t caught it yet.

Crackhead: I couldn’t resist adding this one from urbandictioary.com based on the definition above.  “A broke a_ _ mutha f_ _ _ a who relies on crack to sustain daily life. Often seen running at full speed for a multitude of reasons.”

(I’m using _s because I try to keep this blog suitably rated for the Disney crowd.  The Pirates of the Caribbean Disney crowd, that is.)

Trolling: My way of communicating late at night with a warm beer by the bed and zit cream on my face.  I’m usually looking for anything and everything that might get me Freshly Pressed.

Über: The absolute best, most awesome thing, like, “I’m über-excited to take a nap!” or “I’m so über-stoked that winter break is over and the ankle-biters are back in school!” or “I’m uber-serous.  I will cut you if you eat the last Cool Ranch Dorito.”

Blah, blah, blah, blekity blah: This is how my children respond any time I try to pass on the abundance of wisdom I have to offer.  It’s also what my husband hears when we attempt to verbally communicate (hence the two-part non-verbal communication blog).

Megastar: Rajinkanth, Indian film actor.  Demi Moore, pre-Skeletor phase.  Whitney Houston, pre-Bobby Brown.

Stalker: Me.

Gizbot: I don’t know. I just made it up.  It could be a robot that…..never mind.