What happens when your alarm goes off at 5:03am and you crawl out of bed and into the shower and get dressed and get to work only to realize that someone else thought they were working today?
The right answer: You drive home and go back to bed,
The wrong answer: You come home, partially redesign your blog, create a banner, and decide that it's finally time to tackle the merchandise dilemma.
I'll give you one guess.
the slack daily merchandise can be found in my zazzle shop. If I'm missing something that you want (long sleeved t-shirts, hats, party hats), lemme know and I'll put it together. Note: I set the rating for the merchandise to PG-13, not realizing that it wouldn't be public, so you'll have to log in to see it. However, those who have - can you let me know if you think it's suitably rated G? I can't tell anymore.
In the meantime:
Keep your comments to yesterday's post coming! And yes, you will get to hear the Rest of the Story.
Last Tuesday night, in-between answering emails for one job and making phone calls for another and reminding myself that each extra second I was awake shaved another minute of sleep as I had to be up to work at the gym at 4:45am, I started to wonder when the last time I worked on a piece of writing. Not a slack daily post, not a rumination on nerd-boy dating, not 140 characters in a row, but an actual piece of writing. The outline for the book. The rewrite on the script. The new animated series. Something that actually had to do with, y'know, the thing that I supposedly do, but hadn't done in...gulp.
But what was my choice, really? I needed to stay on top of bills and we needed to do things like, y'know, eat. I put this thought on repeat and let my brain do the rest of the work. Five minutes later I was in front of Will.
I need to quit one of my jobs, I told him.
So quit.
But then we can't pay bills.
But we'll figure it out, he promised me.
On the surface, all of the jobs are perfect part-time jobs - except the gym, although it's relatively easy and comes with the bonus of a free membership. I could cut down on my gym hours, work maybe once a week...
So do that.
I don't know, that's eighty dollars less a week.
And that's when it hit me.
I was being held hostage by eighty dollars a week.
Everyone has their own version of what failure feels like. To me, it was to be held hostage by eighty dollars a week. But the more i thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't that at all, but the idea that I half-assing it. I had become the thing that I hate the most - the writer who doesn't write, the person with a goal who doesn't actually pursue it.
Will had said in our lastchat that the one thing he wants is a quiet, anonymous, happy life. I don't disagree, but I'd like that life to include things like creative endeavors, the ability to travel see our families more than once a year and a house, and actual house with a yard and electrical outlets and kitchen counters that aren't made of wood and no crazy packrat landlady and a parcel of fauxbos in the front yard.
So I'm using that eight dollars, that small parcel of financial breathing room to purchase myself some creative breathing room.
What's the point of running the rat race if there's not a piece of cheese at the end?
I find myself in need of ITC Coolman and Highlander Book fonts. However, I can only find them available for purchase. Can anyone help a sister out? It's for non-profit use.
There's something weird about being married to another blogger, much less blogging about it. It's a decidedly post-modern problem that will probably soon have a support group and an acronym. In the meantime, I've noticed that when I hit my blogging stride, Will sometimes wavers and when he hits his (see today's post, fr'instance), I sit at the screen with nothing to say.
We got Guitar Hero and although my actual guitar experience and my freakishly small hands has probably held me back in some regard, at least I'm the #1 Rocker in the house. In my defense, I asked him if he wanted to play and he said no. Pinky Swear! Judy Nails and our band Cupcake (please tell me that's not the best name ever for an all-girl band?) are blazing through Medium. I am sure that I shall receive my comeuppance forthwith.
How uninspired have I been lately? So much so that I watched Breakin 2': Electric Boogaloo in its entirety last night. To answer your question: yes, it holds up to the test of time.
And in case you ever find yourself in a breakdance fight, I offer you this clip. (From the original, classic Breakin'. To be used for training purposes only.)
Last night, I had the pleasure of tagging along to an LA Metblogauthor/reader meetup at Father's Office in Culver City. I say "tagging along" as although I am a reader of LA Metblog, I was there to support my husband, also known as the 8-Track Kid (because there are multiple Wills who write for them - in addition to my Will there's Will Campbell, Wil Wheaton, Will Keightley and...I think that's it. Mea culpa if I missed a Will.) We ran into the lovely and charming Tammara in line, and once inside found David Markland and Will Keightley.
Once inside, I attempted to purchase my own libations of the alcoholic variety until David told me to shut the hell up, there was a tab open. When David tells you do to stuff, you listen. Refreshments procured, we began the process of looming menacingly over people's tables, and like the Germans, slowly invaded seat by seat.
I had the opportunity to finally meet the Travis Kaplow (she'll always be Kerplow! to me) and the Mike Winder, and I saw the Sean Bonner and the Matt Mason from afar (apologies if I missed anyone!), but the picnic-style seating wasn't conducive to large-scale mingling. Toward the end of the night, David Markland said that he had a surprise...
He was raffling off a Los Angeles Moleskine. Slips of paper and pens were handed out.
I couldn't possibly, I don't even write for Metblogs, I said as I handed the paper down the line.
Oh, you're fine, everyone assured me. And you comment! Just enter! But I'm a freeloader!
Shut up and enter, David told me. If you win, then you have to mention LA Metblogs on your blog.
Okay.
Your most popular blog.
Mention LA Metblog in my most popular blog? Done! I handed my folded slip of paper with my name on it back. There were close to ten of us sitting there when Will Campbell (have you seen his Tortoisecam?) reached into the hat.
And the winner is...
He looked at the slip of paper.
Slackmistress!
Okay, so maybe there is such a thing as a free lunch.Or free drinks and prizes.
Hearing from someone that they took a check that was mistakenly sent to their house and wrote on the envelope "no longer lives here." To be fair, they did email me about it - just to an email address that I haven't used in two years (and I haven't used to correspond with them in just as long.)
having a woman refer to me as "girl." Not as in "she's such a cute girl" (I'll live with that) or "Girl, get it together!" (sassy!) but as in "Girl, there's no toilet paper in the bathroom."
Oddly enough, those are also the same things that make me feel stabby.
Things that make life worth living:
WE HAVE A WII. (And a Wii Fit!) Don't tell Will that Wii Sports sneaks in some exercise with his game-playing. He's a purist that way.
We've decided to make BeTheMarriage Live! (On Ice!) a regular fixture, so check out the details here. For those too lazy to click: this Saturday, June 28th at 9pm PST. BYOB.
I hate blogging in lists, but I hate not blogging even more.
Also! SlackMom celebrates her second 31st birthday today! Happy Birthday SlackMom!
I was three years old when I attended the Ark preschool in Glen Ellyn Illinois. It's the place where I learned to tie a knot and write my first and last name and sit quietly and read my book while the other kids went over their ABCs. Outside on the small dirt playground I eyed the monkey bars in shape of a snake wearing a boater suspiciously, not entirely sure if he was going to swallow me whole or burst into The Music Man. There was music time and quiet time and learning time and play time. Honestly, the only thing that interested me was learning time. Quiet time was a waste, I could nap at home. Music time had us playing triangles and wooden blocks, which I would have enjoyed if the other kids didn't use the time to throw them at each other. But play time was was the hardest, as everyone separated into groups and I'd have to figure out who I'd be friends with for the day. I wasn't really willing to commit past that.
I've written before that I was an odd child, and I wasn't really interested in playing with the other kids. This worried my preschool teacher, and notes were sent home saying I didn't play well with others. I wasn't mean, I wasn't disruptive...I just didn't really seem to care. SlackMom finally took me aside and said pretend you're interested in playing with the other kids. That'll get her off your back. Now that she had explained it in terms that made sense, I complied. And I learned how to get along with people I didn't particularly like.
Working the front desk at an upscale gym in Los Angeles, you'd think I'd run into cases of over-inflated egos with a sense of self-entitlement every day. The fact is that it's rarer than you'd think. But there are a few cases where my smile shines a little brighter, my compliments get a little more effusive, my hands clasp and I positively giggle.
It was a moment like this that my boss, T., comes out of her office and asked what the hell was that? That was me being a jerk, I responded.
If I don't like someone, I make no effort to connect to them. Usually by way of ignoring them. But there are some people you cannot ignore. They're your co-workers or they're your clients or they're friends of friends and you have no choice but to interact with them. So I'm nice Beyond nice. Incredibly nice. I overcompensate for the fact that I don't like them.
This used to be due to the fact that I thought there was something wrong with me, and perhaps by being nice I'd see whatever it was in them that everyone else would see. And y'know what? That rarely works. Now it's just my way of being a jerk. Because generally if you don't like someone, they know and don't like you back. So if you're only nice to them, complaining about you makes them look like a bigger dick. Because I'm a jerk that way.
I got my Nerd on and met many fabulous people at TweetUp LA. It's the first internet event I've attended in years where I knew not a soul. (Well, except for the one that's allowed to touch my butt.) Pictures forthcoming.
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