Surviving The Strain On The Crazy Train

So, I'm drowning in my annual kid science days. I only got eight parent volunteers this year as opposed to 21 and 25 the two previous years. I have a new principal who doesn't know what he's doing and apparently lacks the ability to answer emails.

The first of the two days is this Friday, and I've done virtually everything myself. It's been a nightmare of epic proportions. So directly after I take 140 first and second graders tromping through the woods from science station to science station with seven teachers and eight parent volunteers, I'll be retreating to the hermetically sealed environs of My Happy Place.

Until it's time to do it again with 200 third, fourth and fifth graders next month.

Speaking of elementary schoolers. Why in the world didn't they offer a program like this when I was a kid? This ROCKS!!



They also perform Led Zepplin, Jimi Hendrix and James Brown. Among others.

If I survive, I will see you all next time, Citizens. Though I may be forced back into super villainy. Only time will tell.

Slacker or Burnout?

So, hello everyone. (chirp-chirp-chirp)

Okay, yes, I deserved that, I guess. I've been a slacker. But not completely.

I'm burnt out. On so many things, that I haven't had much joy or even energy to do anything that isn't absolutely necessary. I run my Urchins to their thousand things. I work with the three-year-olds from the Black Lagoon.  I take care of the house. I participate on the committees. I work on trying to schedule those crazy outdoor educational days that I plan, create, organize and run for my daughters' two schools. I toil for the blue-haired-old ladies.

Monday afternoon I went into Youngest Urchin's second grade class and crushed soda cans with air pressure and forced hard boiled eggs into jars using nothing but air. Taught about the water cycle in cool and innovative ways. But it felt like a chore. And I LOVE science. Especially when I get to teach it to young 'uns.

I'm crispy.

My writing is stalling, though part of that is due to waiting for feedback from two crit partners, but I know I should be plotting the next book and jumping on the edits I already received back. But, I'm tired and fatigued with the story and I have to take the Urchins to their next stop and...and...and...

I haven't even finished blogging about my camping vacation from back in July. And I promise you, more happened than just goat-reeking devil phone poles. There was the terrible journey to the unholy land of hideous mumus. Not to mention the sadistic torture of marshmallow Peeps. But do you see the name up there? Tongue in Cheek. I just haven't been able to find the fun, let alone channel it. So I haven't blogged.

I've had some good news. I got nice feedback from an editor at Harlequin on the first 500 words of my book. I'm headed to the NJRW conference next week and will be pitching it to either an agent or editor. But I'm not nervous or even excited about that prospect.

I've been doing a bunch of taking care of others, but not myself. Which is my M.O.

So instead of bringing you along with me to that unholy land I mentioned earlier, I'll leave you with an excerpt from the end of chapter 4 in A Shot At Forever. The hero, Ethan, just broke up an ugly situation at the pool table where Sheridan's marks figured out she was hustling them. Instead of running her out of town like she expects, he asks her to dinner.

-->

            She froze. He could tell that wasn’t what she’d expected him to say as she slowly turned to face him. Even with her eyes narrowed in distrust, he couldn’t stop thinking how pretty she was. Tapping her hat against her leg, she regarded him for a moment. He held his breath and hoped like hell he passed muster. Her gaze drifted down his entire frame before leisurely traveling back up and Ethan felt the pass of her eyes clear to his bones.

“Sorry, but I never mix business with pleasure.” She settled the hat on her head and turned to go.

            “But what about last night?”

She stopped but didn’t turn fully toward him. “Last night I didn’t know you were a lawman.”

Certain he’d never see her again if she walked out that door, he heaved in a deep breath and laid his cards on the table. “Look, yes, I’m the sheriff. But I wouldn’t be taking you out as the sheriff. I’d be taking you out because as a man, I recognize you’re the best thing that’s walked in here in more years than I can count, and after having you in my arms I can’t imagine never getting to do that again.”

He winced when he heard how that sounded. Tugging off his cowboy hat, he dragged his fingers through his hair before moving to face her head on. “I think you’re a helluva woman, Sheridan, and I’d be honored if you’d let me take you to dinner.” He looked steadily into her hazel eyes and silently willed her to see the earnest plea he knew resounded in his own.

            As her sharp assessing gaze took the measure of him, he stood stock still, gripping his hat with bloodless fingers. Confusion and what looked like hope flashed briefly over her features before they went blank and stony again.

            “Sorry Sheriff, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

            Ethan clasped her hand in his. “Please, Sheridan. At least let me buy you a drink to show you the whole town isn’t like that bunch of jackasses you played pool with tonight.”

            She bit her lip as she turned and looked at the exit, then back down to where their hands were connected. Her gaze slowly traveled up the length of his arm, finally reaching his face. As she stood there looking up at him through her lashes, a surge of emotions he thought long dead crashed through his body.

            Gently, Sheridan pulled her hand away, and it was all he could do not to snatch it back. Still biting her lip, she regarded him with a hopeful expression, but it didn’t last. A deep sadness fell over her face, weighing down her shoulders, and then that blank mask was back. Ethan’s heart sank as she pulled her cowboy hat down over her forehead, shadowing her eyes from his view.

            “Thanks, but no thanks…Ethan.” Her last word was softer than the others, but it hit him like a hammer blow. Before he could respond, she disappeared into the crowd.

Hope you guys are taking better care of yourself than I am. Until next time, Citizens where we venture into truly unholy lands.

'Tis The Season...

of reruns.

What, again?

Yes, again.

In the summer, when my Urchins are home and life speeds up even more, I have less time for a whole bunch of stuff. Especially blogging. So I usually compensate with a few reruns. I'm feeling a little guilty this year since April and the AtoZ challenge was nothing but reruns here at Tongue In Cheek.

Plus, I'm feeling the undeniable pull of my iso chamber. Every once in a while, the world becomes too overwhelming for my skewed, old fashioned brain, and I cocoon up like a pill bug and decide that society can go on without me for a while. I even have an entire category devoted to those times.

I'm a 33 1/3 rpm girl living in an mp3 world. Sigh.

So with that thought, here's an EXTREMELY early post from way back in 2008. It's actually the second post I ever wrote.

Hopefully soon I'll emerge from my self imposed isolation. Until then, enjoy...

Pop Culture is Passing Me By (and I don't really care)

I don't pay for TV. I'll give you a moment to recover from the shock before I go on. Nope. No cable. No Direct TV. No satellite. Do you need more time to mop up the beverage you were drinking? I get five channels pretty clearly, and one that looks like an avalanche.

Every once in a while I surf my five and a half channels to see what's on, and as I return to the first one again I think to myself, "Yep. Nothing's on." I figure I'm saving myself a lot of time. I've heard many a person after they've surfed their two hundred plus channels come to the same conclusion.

I grew up in a house where there was no cable TV. I watched some MTV at a friend's house back in the day, but that was about the extent of it. So it never was a real inconvenience for me to be without it later.

Do I feel deprived? No. Not really.

The only thing really coming out of it is that pop culture is passing me by. Show me a picture of Usher, and you'd have to tell me who he is. Same with George Strait, Jonas Brothers, any contestant from American Idol, Nick Lahey, actors from CSI or Law and Order, and most of the cast of Sex And the City. (I'd recognize Sarah Jessica Parker from Square Pegs.) I could go on, but you get the idea.

There are some people that are so ubiquitous that they even penetrate my little cocoon. Even though I'd rather they didn't. For example, I know who Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, Brittany Spears and Jessica Simpson are. And I have to say my life is no better for that knowledge. It may even be a little worse.

I've never seen an episode of Ghost Hunters, Rachel Ray or Sex and the City. Am I shocking you? Do you think I'm crazy? Could be, but as I live my life in ignorant bliss, just remember to speak slowly to me about anything dealing with pop culture. And ignore my confused stare.

I'll be okay. Honest.

Conking Out Computer

My MacBook, which is about seven years old and has been being very crotchety this past year, is really starting to crap out. Which makes doing any social media a chore.

I've developed a long and harrowing relationship with the stupid spinning beach ball. It's becoming my trigger, like Pavlov's bell. I see that thing and in ten seconds I'm enraged with impatience.

It puts a big damper on my writing as well. It takes literally ten minutes just to open a wip. Then more of my hair is torn out in absolute frustration quality time is spent with the spinning beach ball with every command I give. Don't even get me started on saving said wip.

I've been backing up my computer daily, which, you guessed it, takes even more time to do now than ever before.

So I'm feeling badly because I haven't been getting out to the blogs I love (see sidebar for all the cool cats to visit). It just takes up so much time that I don't have much of.

To help me chill out and get through, I'm dedicating this song to the swirling beach ball. Enjoy some Funk on this Funky Friday. I hope it takes you into a fantastic weekend.

Curse You Head Cold I Was Unprepared For!!

So I was sitting on the floor of my bathroom two days ago, rummaging around in the cabinet under the sink, looking for cold medicine. Which we apparently hadn't restocked from last year. I sat there, in my mucus haze, cursing the little three year old glazed-doughnut-monsters that had passed on their crusty germs to me and looking for anything that might provide relief.

This is how The Man stumbled upon me as I dazedly contemplated the decade old Benadryl in my hand, trying to remember what I knew about half-life potency of certain drugs. Which, whether sick or healthy, is pretty much diddly over squat.

Cautiously, like approaching an injured animal in the wild, The Man asked, "Whatcha got there?"

Clutching the medicine that expired in 2003 to my chest like it's My Preciousssss, I replied, "Nothing."

"Nothing, huh?"

"Just some medicine I think I might take."

"Lemme see it."

I shook my head, wishing immediately that I hadn't.

He gave me that disapproving look, the one he saves for when I've really gone off the reservation. The one that's part, "Do we really have to ride this train?" and "Why do I always have to be the responsible adult?"

After much coaxing and bribery by alcohol, he got me to release the medicine and brought me some whiskey with honey and lemon in it, which I sipped until he came back from the store with Nyquil and day time cough medicine.

That Man, I tell you. He's a keeper.

So I've been sick and wishing I could stay in bed, but nursery school duty calls and I must obey--since I'm hoping to give the germs right back to those little critters!

Anywho, until next time, Citizens, when I'll be talking about music and writing. Stay healthy! And if you see any little glazed doughnut monsters wiping their noses on their sleeves. . .  head the other way!

Remember When

I Felt Like This? Well, I'm feeling that way again. So hide the Ho Hos and tomato juice before I start exuding chrysalis building viscous secretions from my pores.

It should be an interesting weekend.

It's Been A Helluva Month

So my mother left at 5:45 this morning. She's been in from Montana for the last three weeks. But only this last week was she ensconced at Chez Quinn.

I love my mother. Like Christmas and taxes, she comes but once a year. And her visits are the emotional equivalent of a bungee jump. The jerking of emotions from highs to lows and back again are one of the universe's mysteries revealed in great detail as it's played out in my house.

I'm exhausted.

On top of that, the youngest urchin was home sick today, so writing could not resume after a week of forced respite while visiting with my mom.

Maybe tomorrow.

So many times after a visit I go into isolationism mode to recover. I even have a category for that on the sidebar to the right. I'm hoping to skip the crazed over-analyzing and dreariness that follows such visits by plunging into the w.i.p. again. Though that can be dangerous territory. I can take left turns in my writing and seriously torture my characters in some sort of twisted effigy of self preservation that will take weeks of rewrites to repair.

Maybe I'll just take up a new hobby. (No, not knitting tank cozies.) Something more sensible.

Like Roadkill Art (tm).

I really think it's the up and coming new thing.

Until next time, citizens. Unless I succumb to the isolation booth. Then who knows when I'll return.

Doctor!

Too much to explain now. Will catch up soon.

Derailment

So, between a sick kiddo and crappy writer attitude I've gotten off track. We'll see if I launch a come-back any time soon.

Maybe I need a little Ozzy scream therapy.



Watch at your own risk. This video is definitely F.U.B.A.R.

Ben Fold's Girl's Got Nothin' on Me

Back At The Desk . . . Sorta

So I've been experiencing technical difficulties with my computer. It crapped out last week, and in that time I've come to some limited terms with my newly discovered internet and computer addictions. My window to the world was dark. *unholy shudders*

I've got some bandaid fixes on the computer, and it's up and running - for now. It must have been that last huge entry about Sasquatches Who Shanghai. That'll teach me to make a long post.

This also means I probably won't make my writing goal for the month. I'm way behind and it's doubtful I'll catch up by Saturday morning. So at this point, why bother.

I'm still sick and haven't been out on my motorcycle in over a month. I'm going into withdrawal. If only I could get out and ride. It would change my attitude in an instant. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Riding a motorcycle is better than therapy.

So lay it on me - either computer crapping stories (yeah, I called it that) or things that are better than therapy. I could really use the lift.

Techno Freak

So I admit, I don't do much with technology. My cell phone only makes calls and has no fancy ring tones. Just the one it came with. I don't text. I don't even have my cell phone number memorized. Even more pathetic, I don't have a voice mailbox set up for it. If I don't answer, you don't get me.

And that's just the cell phone. I don't tweet. I don't Facebook, I don't MySpace. I don't upload videos to YouTube.

I don't have call waiting on my home phone. If you call here and someone's talking, you'll actually get a busy signal.

Yet even with all I don't do, I'm light years ahead of where I was. I grew up with a rotary dial phone. No answering machine. I'd tell my friends to let it ring at least ten times before hanging up.

When I went to college in 1990, it was the first time I ever used a microwave or a washing machine and dryer. I bought myself a touch tone phone and an answering machine.

No, I wasn't Amish. It's how things were at my house. I grew up with three generations in one house. My grandmother's house. She was the quintessential matriarch of all times. Even though I was born in the seventies, I was raised like I was living in the forties. Just how it was.

And now, my friend has sent me a tiny youtube video for my cell phone and I'm scared. I'm not even sure if my cell phone will do it. The invite asks for my cell phone number, and I don't even know it to try. So I am officially a techno freak.

And if you've ever read this blog at all, you know I'm also a paranoid conspiracy theorist. So giving out information about myself will only exacerbate that part of my personality. Which usually yields crazed and embarrassing results. So I'm ignoring the invitation. I'm sticking my head in the sand and refusing to open that can of worms.

So there.

The Merits of the Mullet

So, yeah. Things are pretty much chaos at Casa de Quinn (or chez Quinn for all my legions of loyal but silent French Canadian lurkers). Nothing life threatening, just taking a major beat down by some masked freak in spandex, jumping off the top rope wielding a metal folding chair. You know, normal chaos.

So it's got me to thinking, which with me, you never know where the hell this will go. Usually nowhere good. And here are the fruits of my ruminations - The Merits of the Mullet.

I have now determined that there are some nice benefits to be reaped by sporting a mullet. You don't even have to really get it done. They sell mullet wigs now. All you'd have to do is show up in public with one of these bad boys nailed to your noggin.

Righteous, huh?

So here, in no particular order are the merits and virtues of the mullet as I see them.

1. No one expects anything from you.
2. You can get away with any degree of laziness.
3. You are not expected to be a productive member of society.
4. Any number of carny jobs are yours for the taking. (and really, do I need to enumerate the endless amounts of perks that go along with carny work? I didn't think so.)
5. You can wear the same clothes for days and no one will look twice at you.
6. "All business up front. Party in the back."



7. You can write nothing for over a month and no one looks at you twice.
8. No one believes that a mullet wearer can actually write at all.
9. It's completely assumed that your greatest accomplishment is clearing the lint from your navel.
10. Mullet equals magnificence.



You didn't think I could come up with ten, did you? Yeah, I know. Some of those merits seem almost the same, but hey, what did you expect? I have a mullet. (You just can't see it under the pointy hat.)

Sometimes You're Marvin . . .

sometimes you're the Muppaphone.



This week I was the Muppaphone.

Attempt #1

Here's attempt number one for trying to make it back from wherever it is that I've been. Plans for the destruction of the isolation booth I've been spending so much time in are filed with the appropriate offices - county and local. So it shouldn't be long before the wrecking crews get here. In the mean time, I'll try and put myself out there again.

My best friend works in a state prison. I love the stories she begins with, "So I was at the prison . . ." My absolute favorite was the one that began, "So, I was at the prison talent show . . ." I had to stop her right there and ask the question. "They have a talent show in prison?" Apparently it's a whole competition. I think they used to compete state wide, other prisons' winners versus each other. But I digress.

She's works with the general population everyday. One of the inmates she knows passes his time by making up new slang terms and seeing how long it takes to make their way around the prison. I don't know how original these are, but here are some that she said caught on.

Ca-ra-na-zy ~ when a guy is past crazy. Man, that boy is ca-ra-na-zy!
Selling wolf tickets - when someone is crying wolf. especially used on the basketball court when somebody's trying to draw a foul. Dude, he's doin' nothing but selling wolf tickets.
You're butt's hungry - when an inmate has an obvious wedgie. Dang, is your butt hungry today.

That's enough re-education for today. I let the inspection on my motorcycle run out. Gotta go make a call to get it in the shop right quick. Later.

Intermission

I'm taking a break for a bit. Consider it a hiatus.

I leave you in Bill Wither's capable hands. I've been listening to this and lots of good covers of it for a couple days. I'd really like to find a good reggae version.



Enjoy.

A Menagerie of Misgivings

Does it make me a bad person if . . .

I would rather have huge bat boogers fly out of my nose than see my in-laws tonight? (See this post for a small explanation)

I want this T shirt really badly?



I want to stay at the writing retreat and never come home?

I wish I had flying monkeys to deliver my wrath?

I'm an ageist cynic in regards to the blue hairs in charge of a committee I volunteered for?

Probably am, but like I said after the Jehovah's Witnesses darkened my door, I'm headed for Hell anyway. So what's the difference if I enjoy myself along the way?

My Turn at The Wall

So, yeah. It's my turn to hit the wall. I'm going to forgo all the whining and excuses. It doesn't matter how I got here with my writing. All that matters is what I decide to do now.

My initial response was to close off and get really introspective. Do a lot of thinking that clouds the issue and gets me nowhere. My commonsense knows what to do, but my motivation just isn't there.

I don't know how some authors can work on the same novel for eight years. I'm so sick of the two I've been working on for about a year that I get nauseous every time I open the damn document. The shiny new ideas are calling to me, but not even the allure of something else can tempt me back to fiction.

My creativity is a dead bloated fish belly up in the water.

Hmmmmm. Even that description is trite and tired. Just not into it. Need some inspiration or motivation or circulation or ventilation or calculation or ammunition. I'm leaning towards the ammuition. That way I could pull an Elvis. Instead of shooting my TV, I'll shoot my computer and put the wips out of their misery.

Hoping something good is going on for my writer's meeting Saturday. Nothing's really scheduled, though. If it's writing again, I don't think I'll stay. We'll see. Maybe by then my motivation will catch up with my commonsense.

Here is what my commonsense is telling me to do to the wall - as interpreted by Grover.



C'mon, motivation. Get in line and get going.

It's My Turn To Chase

My brain has decided to chase the shiny new germs of ideas that keep churning around in my head, abandoning the wips that I've been diligently trying to complete for the past year. I need a relief pitcher or a closer to come in and finish my manuscripts. The sad part is I basically know how I want them to go, but can't force myself to sit down and begin the arduous task of all the little nuances of putting them on paper well.

So my brain decides to wander, which is nothing new. Here's some places it's decided to go. Remember this is first draft writings that I just jotted down in my idea file. Be gentle with me.

“Can I buy you a drink?”
A somewhat maniacal laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
She turned to the devastatingly handsome man, and looked him up and down. “I don’t think so, but thanks anyway,” she answered before turning back to the glass of wine she’d been nursing.
“May I ask why?” His smooth voice played down her spine as she gave him her attention yet again. His face was quizzical and slightly amused.
“Because I don’t box out of my class.” She turned back to her drink once again.
“Wait. What? What do you mean by that?” He placed a large hand on her shoulder and gently turned her back to face him, obviously not used to being turned down.
“I meant what I said. I don’t box outside of my weight class.” When his questioning stare didn’t waver, she waved her hand in an all encompassing gesture up and down his body. “Look at you. You’re extremely handsome, well-dressed, you come across educated and cultured. In other words, a heavy weight. Me? I’m a light weight, maybe a middle weight on a good day when my hair doesn’t frizz out and my socks are free of holes and my hips decide to fit into my favorite pair of jeans.” She stared at his amused eyes and tried not to get caught up in them. She took a deep breath and hurried on. “What I’m telling you is that I’m not equipped to handle you. You’d tear me to shreds, whether you’d mean to or not.”
“It sounds like you’re talking from experience.”
“Not particularly, just a solid knowledge base of how the world works.” She tried to return to her drink, but he inserted his knee between both of hers before she could swivel back around on the barstool.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Look, you need one of those high maintenance girls who moisturizes every day and gets facials. And who would never go to work in two different colored shoes because it was dark and she was late. I mean yeah, some days I can pass for cute, and sometimes I have little moments of adorable, but that’s really not what you’re looking for.” She took a breath from her ramblings and saw the interested spark smoldering in his blue eyes.
“Oh no. Stop. Stop looking at me that way. I didn’t mean to pique your interest. It’s not what I wanted to do at all. I’m trying to be honest. I’m not prepared to handle someone like you. I don’t do casual sex. And if I ever got started with you, I don’t know how I would. . . survive.” Her voice quieted and trailed off. “And then when you got tired/sick of cute and quirky and moved on to sexy and gorgeous, how would my fragile ego be able to handle that?” she whispered.

Or how about this?

He looked down at her picture as the silence of the empty house drowned him. God, she was beautiful. When was the last time he told her? He couldn’t remember. The smooth burn of the scotch did nothing to dull the tight ache high in his throat, the relentless squeeze of a cold vise in his chest. He hurt. How could he hurt so bad when he felt hollow inside? As if when she left she took everything that was in him with her.

Here's one more.

Sunlight tried to break through the barrier of his eyelids, so he squeezed them tighter against the offending assault. His mouth felt like a dirty ashtray ground into an old motel carpet. With a grimace, he peeked open an eye to take in his surroundings. His bleary gaze traveled over the area as he recognized his own patio in the back yard. At least he was somewhere he recognized. Not like last week where he couldn’t even find his damn truck for the first hour and a half. His best friend, Jerry, had to come pick him up and drive him around town till he found it.
He sat up, his stomach lurching with the effort as his head spun in eight different directions at once. A low groan made its way around the sickening knot in his stomach. He looked back at the bare straps of the folding recliner he'd just peeled himself from and wished the cushion had been on it as he stretched his stiff limbs. But that was a detail that Sandy would have thought of. Which reminded him that she wasn’t here any more.
“I need a beer.”
He scanned the bricks, and kicked the empties out of the way as he gingerly brought his feet to the side. Elbows on his knees, he held his throbbing head in his hands and prayed for the world to stop spinning.
A slamming truck door made him wince in pain. As every crunching footstep headed his way, tension and annoyance zigzagged down his spine.
“Mornin’, sunshine!”
“Fuck you,” he muttered. “You gotta be so loud? Can’t you tell when a man’s nursin’ a hangover?”
“When ain’t you nursin’ a hangover these days?” Jerry asked.
Steve flipped him off and regretted the quick move immediately as his stomach gave a sick lurch.
“So, you gonna sit out here all day, or you gonna go call off work again?”
Damn. Work.
“Or do you remember Scott tellin’ you that if you came in one more time worthless he was gonna can your ass?”
“Fuck. I need a beer.” He searched again half-heartedly on the ground around him.
“It’s nine-thirty in the fuckin’ morning, Steve.”
“Best cure for a hangover. More beer.”
“How much longer is this gonna go on, man? When are you going to decide to pick yourself up and figure out what to do?”

Does it make me a bad person that I want to run away from home for a few days? Run away from bottles and diapers and potty training and teething and sick husbands and housework and dogs that crap on the floor and dogs that are so needy that they follow you everywhere including the bathroom whose latch is broken so it can nose its way in with no problem and in-laws and laundry and clingy changeling children and bills and no Supernatural.

The retreat can't come fast enough right now.

Official Announcement

Today is canceled. Everyone back to bed.