Happy Birthday, Mom!

Holy shit, my mother is 75 today! I swear to God, I can remember when she was 29. If you haven't read this post yet about my wonderful mother, give it a read--she's an amazing woman.


Have a lucky birthday, Mom!

My next book: 101 Reasons Not to Write a Book

OMG, you guys. You would not believe how much work goes into publishing a friggin’ book. A couple of days ago I said it’s like building a house, and I think that’s a good analogy. When you go into someone’s home, you don’t look at their freakin’ light fixtures and faucets and door knobs and all the other blah, blah, blah decisions that somebody had to make. Well, I don’t notice that stuff, but I guess if you built a house yourself, you’d be more aware of all that.

Now I can’t pick up a book without scrutinizing it. There are a million blah, blah, blah decisions to make when you’re self-publishing a book: the size of the thing — 6 x 9? 5 ½ x 8 ½? 5 x 8? What kind of font? What do you want on the header? On the footer? What kind of font for the header and footer? Do you want the page numbers in the middle of the footer or flush left on the left-facing page and flush right on the right-facing page? Do you want a footer at all, or do you want the page numbers included in the header?

And don’t get me started about the cover. That’s a whole other set of decisions.

I admit, I bit off a little more than I might have needed to. I did hire someone to do the cover and the interior design, but I soon realized that I wanted to learn more about the process and decided to take on more myself. That meant there was software to acquire and learn, and God bless my boyfriend, Mike, because without him I would have taken a hammer to my friggin’ laptop. I’m not the most patient person in the world (in case you haven’t figured that out).

But still, I’m glad I took more into my own hands. This is my creation—every word in that book came from my own brain—and I really want the presentation to be a reflection of my decisions as well. And in order to make good decisions, I had to learn a lot.

I believe that even when you hire someone to do something, it’s a good idea to educate yourself as much as possible; otherwise, how do you know if they’re really doing a good job? For example, I know some writers who have no interest in learning grammar, punctuation, and principles of style and the actual craft of writing; they figure they’ll just hire an editor and their editor will take care of all that. But my question is, “If you don’t know the rules, how do you know you whether your editor is any good?”

Now, when it comes to my car, I admit, I’m at the mercy of the mechanic; I have no idea what the hell is going on under the hood. But I’m not trying to pass myself off as an automotive expert—and that’s my point. If you want to call yourself a writer, you should know how to write, and that means learning all the boring rules and tedious nuances. And I’m not only a writer, I now have my own publishing company, so I feel I sure as hell better learn the ropes.

It’s just that the process is making me mental. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed; I feel like I’m on mile 24 of a 26.2-mile marathon and all I want to do is throw up, cry, and quit. But Mike keeps me going. So does my mother, and my sister and my friends in the writing community here in Las Vegas.

And you, the readers of my blog.

You keep me going. The encouragement in your comments and in the private emails you send—you have no idea how much that motivates me to press on. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Now I’m like, geez, that damn book had better be good.

XOXO

I’m shakin’ my head

Have you ever checked out I’m Shakin’ My Head? It’s one of the blogs I have linked on the left sidebar. You know how things can be funny and sad at the same time? That’s this site. The blogmistress, a 24-year-old student in Missouri, offers her commentary on pictures and videos of real-life stuff that leaves her, well, shakin’ her head. I love this chick—she has her head screwed on straight and tells it as she sees it. Take a look.

Anyway, a few things have made me shake my head lately. Like the other day on the way to work I saw a guy flick his cigarette butt out the window. I have a million pet peeves, but smokers who think the world is their friggin’ ashtray is toward the top of my list. Pigs. That alone was enough to get me going, but the guy was driving a goddamn Prius!

The next item is courtesy of my brother-in-law, Russ. Seems he was approached recently in downtown Albany by a dude asking for spare change. This poverty-stricken indigent had a brand new pack of smokes in his hand and a bluetooth device in his ear. Of course, Russ couldn't say NO fast enough.

The last thing that’s making me shake my head is also a lesson in search engine optimization for all the bloggers out there. Back in May, I had a post entitled “I guess I’ll have to kick Mom’s ass.” Well, you wouldn’t believe how many pervs have landed on that page by Googling things like “mom’s ass,” “sexy my mom’s ass,” and my favorite, “momy ass” [sic]. Almost all are from foreign countries. Imagine their disappointment when they land on a post describing a libidinous Scrabble tournament with my almost 75-year-old mother. In Boise, Idaho. Yeah, that's what we Americans do for a sexy-ass good time--we play Scrabble.

I realize that including the phrases above will serve only to perpetuate the problem and is sure to result in more hits to today’s post. So to satisfy these licentious rakes all over the world, I give you… Mom.


Well, she is kind of hot.

I need your creative input!

Hey, my book is making me mental. You would not believe how many decisions you have to make when you self-publish. I've never built a house, but I imagine it's very similar--so many details. And there've been a million lessons learned.

Do me a favor and take a look at the two cover designs on the left sidebar and then cast your vote. I'd love to get your opinions.

Thanks!

No complaints and secrets to aging gracefully

You’ve heard me complain about a lot of things over the past year. My hair, my weight, Mormons, cancer, work, Twitter, feminism… the list is endless. But there are a few things you've never heard me complain about.

One is the Las Vegas weather. So what if it’s 110 degrees? I just think of Albany in January and thank God I’m not freezing my ass off. Plus, the heat keeps me thin. I have to look good in my collection of sleazy little Ross Dress-for-Less tops, so I can’t let myself pork up. And it really is the humidity.

Another thing I never complain about is men. I love them and appreciate them and am thankful for the differences between us. Even Bastard Husband was awesome in his way—I adored him. The only men I’m not so sure about are those Arab guys you see on TV, usually in throngs. Safe to say, it would take them a while to warm up to me. And I said “throngs,” not “thongs.” Eew.

And I never, ever complain about getting older, which is pretty surprising, especially considering how freakin’ vain I am. You never hear me say stuff like, “Weh, I’m getting so old” or “Weh, I’m losing my looks.” When I complain about my looks (which is a stupid thing to do), it’s all about my weight, which is also stupid because in real life I don’t even have a weight problem; I’m just not as thin as I used to be. Weh.

But I have no wrinkles worth fretting over (or maybe I just don’t see them) and fortunately, I have no aches or pains that I hear some people my age go on about. And even at 51, I have yet to experience a hot flash—knock on wood. I somehow escaped PMS, morning sickness, and all the other fun female events, so I'm hoping the big M passes by unnoticed. It's possible.

That's a long way off for most of you. I don’t know for sure, but I get the feeling about 95 percent of my readers are younger than I am, and I’d guess about two-thirds are more than a decade younger. A good portion of my friends here in Vegas are in their thirties—barely older than my kids. Some are younger. I know they look up to me (God help them) and I think it’s important to let them--and you--know that aging doesn’t have to be a drag.

Check out this picture of me and my friend Lisa, taken on the 4th of July. We're almost exactly the same age--just two weeks apart. Kids, this is what 51 looks like! See what you have to look forward to?


(I know, you love Lisa's blouse, huh?) Ha! Granny and Nana gone wild...

And look at this handsome devil I'm with. He's also 51, and he looks like a friggin' GQ model. Damn, I'm a lucky girl! But my point is, guys can look great as they age, too.


I believe there are two things secrets to aging gracefully, and I’m about to offer the same advice I gave last Saturday after my rant about eyelash-thickening Latisse:

1. Stand up straight.
2. Smile.

Stand up straight--simple! I’ve talked before about the importance of good posture; the way you carry yourself has everything to do with the way people perceive you. Want to be treated well? Don’t walk around like a schlub. The easiest way to improve your posture—and your entire life—is to start doing yoga. Don’t assume it’s only for those annoying super-spiritual types. If you’ve always wondered about yoga and would like to give it a try, listen to our Aging Nymphs show, “The Beer Drinkers Guide to Yoga.” Just click the show title in the right sidebar of this site.

And what could be easier than smiling? So do it now! Go out there and have FUN!

So have I convinced you that aging is nothing to fear?

Do you have any secrets you'd like to share?

Take a little cyber trip

I’m going to be sending you all over the place today.

First, you know how the people from Saturn asked me to post something on their website when my car hit 200K and I did and then they said I was a friggin’ blogging rock star and asked me post again, but then my aunt died and I got caught up in preparing my book for the printer and blah, blah, blah? Well, I finally posted again for them; it’s called “Baby gadgets for the car and why some memories are better left repressed.” It’s pretty funny and I think you’ll like it, so if you want to check it out, all you have to do is click here. But then come back because I have other places for you to go.

Good, you’re back. Ha-ha-ha, right?

Okay, the next thing I want to tell you about is www.SheWrites.com. This is a friggin’ awesome social networking site for women writers of all kinds. I cannot believe the sense of community that’s developed in such a short time. They have a million different online forums—I joined the ones for memoir writers and bloggers. (All you girls who have blogs—I expect to see you there.) There’s so much great information about writing, I kind of hate to see the site so slanted toward women. Writing is writing, and everyone can benefit from the same information, you know? So you guys should check it out, too, if you can stand all the estrogen. (But if you're reading this, you must have a high tolerance.)

The third place I want to send you to is a great blog for classic rock lovers—Classic Rock for the Soul. What makes this site unique is that it’s put together not by some dude my age, but by a very cool 19-year-old girl in Texas. I dig this kid and I don’t even know her, but I totally want to adopt her. I’d love to send some traffic her way—she does a nice job.

What else? Oh, yeah, back by popular demand, the boyfriend’s formulating another guest post (you read his first one, right?) I don’t know what he’ll come up with this time, but it’s sure to be more fascinating than the smarty-pants stuff he’s got on his blog.

One more thing: if you’re so inclined, do me a favor and click the Follow button at right. I’m seriously investigating corporate blogging gigs, and it’ll help me if they see that I’ve been able to con people into believing my writing is worth following. I know, it’s little like selling your soul, but I’ll very much appreciate it.

And don’t make me get mushy, but I really, really appreciate all of you stopping by to read the crap I unload here. I love you all, even my crazy stalkers who leave comments that I end up rejecting—you’re still family.

XOXO

Linda

New shoes and great advice for the men!

OMG, yesterday at lunch I went to the outlet mall on Las Vegas Boulevard to find a present for my friend’s 50th birthday, but instead I bought the cutest. shoes. ever! Look:


Cute, huh? I knew they were cute, but just to be sure, I asked a couple of eighth graders in the shoe store and they said, “Yeah, they’re totally cute” and with that confirmation, I marched myself right up to the register. I totally wanted to wear them back to work, but I saved them for today, which was a smart strategy because for the first time in ages I didn’t murmur an obscenity when my alarm went off this morning. Nope, I sprung out of bed because I have cute new shoes to wear today!

I have been in kind of a shitty mood lately, too. I thought the grand opening of the new Ross Dress-for-Less near my house would do the trick, but no… every cute little blouse I looked at was already on a hanger in my closet and nothing else brought me joy, so all I got was underwear.

I thought this Marilyn Monroe thong was funny because… well, do you think Marilyn Monroe actually wore a thong?


I hope I become a famous author so 45 years after my death my image will grace products I've never used. Imagine the Linda Lou kitchen apron?

But whatever... new underwear didn't quite do the trick. The fact is, nothing, nothing lifts my spirits like cute shoes!!!

And here's my great advice for the guys: Don’t worry, there’s something in this post for you, and it’s important. I’m going to let you in on the secret to getting laid. It's simple; all you have to do is say this:

“OMG, your shoes are so cute! They totally elongate your legs and make them look very slender. Did you lose weight? Please don’t lose any more; you’re perfect as you are.”

And then, I guarantee, the response you get will be:

“Why, thank you! Now, let’s have a romp in the sack, shall we?”

What could be easier? Try it, you'll see!

Yet another thing that can kiss my ass: Latisse

Okay, I know I’m the most vain person on earth, but even I’m not falling for this bullshit.

I’m talking about an article I just read in the Las Vegas Weekly, our weekly (duh) arts and entertainment magazine, about something called Latisse, “nightlife’s newest secret weapon.” Latisse is an FDA-approved prescription treatment that’s supposed to make your eyelashes long, thick and luxurious. It’s being hailed as a cost-effective alternative to “laborious and expensive lash-extension applications, which are being performed at boutiques and spas everywhere.”

Whoa, whoa, WHOA!

Are you telling me that now we’re supposed to be worried about the thickness of our f*cking eyelashes???

Evidently Brooke Shields is touting this stuff (insert sarcastic comment here). Look at the “before” picture.


Can you believe she had the nerve to leave the house like that? Well, thank God for Latisse—her career is sure to get back on track now. Lindsay Lohan, there’s hope for you, too!

Seriously, I find this ridiculous. Have you ever, ever looked at a pretty girl and thought too bad she's cursed with those stubby eyelashes? Guys, how many times were you on the brink of asking a woman out and then backed off because of her meager lash inventory?

Do women really need to be told that there’s one more area of inadequacy to worry about? I stopped logging into my MySpace page after being greeted with this:


Yeah, thanks.

Perhaps the most disturbing line in the Weekly piece was, “Latisse is letting cost-conscious ladies (and increasingly, men) stay competitive in an appearance –obsessed city…”

First, hold on, men are doing this? Sweet bearded Jesus, tell me they’re not straight. Because straight guys are getting into some pretty gay grooming habits these days, like going crazy with the eyebrow tweezers and over-trimming “down there.” Please, stop that shit. Women like men to be manly. We’ll have second thoughts if we’re unsure that you’ve actually made it through puberty.

And second, what the hell are we competing for? Whose attention are we trying to gain, and if long, thick eyelashes are the criterion for acceptance, do we really want to be a member of that club?

Imagine feeling so satisfied with your looks that you’d spend $1200 a year on this?

I’ve attained such a level of perfection, I’m afraid the only thing left is the eyelashes. I didn’t have anything else to spend that $1200 on… every vase in my house is in place, my charities are no longer accepting donations… thank you, Latisse!

Recession? What recession?

Hey, there’s no denying that only four days ago, I wrote “I think women should make every effort to look pretty.” Yes, I said that. And while I do believe we should take pride in our looks, I’m now taking back the “every effort” part. Enough is enough. Skimpy eyelashes aren’t going to make or break your looks.

To anyone who wants to appear more attractive instantly, I offer this simple advice:

1. Stand up straight.
2. Smile.

And to the drug companies, I say this:

Stop preying on people's insecurities and start finding a cure for cancer!

My blog anniversary and 20 things my old self would wonder about

Hey, tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of my first blog post. As I’ve been looking through this collection of crap, I’ve been thinking how surprised I’d be if the Linda Blackwell from 10 years ago were to look into the future and read the posts of the past year.

Man, I’d have a lot of questions and commentary:

1. I live in Las Vegas? How the hell did that happen?

2. What??? I’ve done stand-up comedy? In front of people?

3. I wrote a book called Bastard Husband: A Love Story? Wait, Chris wasn’t a bastard… oh, no! Did I get married again?

4. I had essays published in books? Oh… one of them is Chicken Soup for the Divorced Soul. Shit.

5. Beautiful Aunt Joyce is dead? No! No! NO!

6. Guiding Light has been cancelled? Bastards!

7. Hey, I don’t look too bad for 51.

8. I weigh 138.5? What the hell? (Note: “WTF?” wasn’t invented yet.)

9. Oh, so Mom and Jim got married… cool. But they live in Boise???

10. Wow, I sure have a good looking boyfriend.

11. Courtney plays the guitar and is a singer-songwriter, too? Like Christopher?

12. Oh, I see I haven’t gotten over my bird phobia.

13. Oh, I see I haven’t gotten over my obsession with Beverly D’Angelo.

14. Oh, I see I still hate going to work every day.

15. Yay! I finally got to see Leonard Cohen in concert!

16. I lived in Laramie, Wyoming? And UTAH?

17. I knew I’d still have my Saturn!

18. We have a black president?

19. Who the hell is Sarah Palin?

20..What the f*ck is Twitter? Is that Sarah Palin’s nickname?

Whew!

How about you? What would your self from 10 years ago say upon looking at your life today? What would be the biggest surprise?

What it's like to do stand-up comedy? Find out tonight on Aging Nymphs!

Hey, my sister Lori and I have a great radio show on tap for tonight, when our guest will be Albany-area comic Dave Kanyan.


Pretty, huh? I know--he has a body for radio. He'll probably want to kill me for posting that, but what can he do? I'm on the other side of the country.

I met Dave a while back when we did an open mic at the Lark Tavern in Albany—he’s a great guy. We’ll be talking about the in's and out's of performing stand-up--how to get started, how to keep motivated, dealing with stage fright… and whatever else you want to talk about. Join us for a lively conversation!

To listen, simply go to our Blog Talk Radio website at 7:00 Pacific/10:00 Eastern and click on the show’s title. Call the number on the screen to join in.

Remember, you can listen to the show archives anytime, so if you missed Hurricane Mikey two weeks ago, simply click the link on the right sidebar of the site you’re reading now.

Talk to you later!

P.S. We're always looking for fun topics and interesting guests--let me know if you have any ideas!

5 more reasons why I’d make a terrible feminist

I should probably keep these thoughts to myself since I could single-handedly take the women’s movement back a hundred years, but after last Saturday's post, I've come up with five more reasons why I'd make a terrible feminist.

Reason #1: I’d be perfectly happy with the model whereby men provide and protect, and women take care of their kids and their men. Especially their men. And by take care of their men, I mean "take care." Wink, wink. And why not? They deserve it! Please, it’s so much fun and it makes them so happy—it’s the least we can do.

Related to that…

Reason #2: Personally, I’d like to have a word with whoever decided it was a good idea for women to have jobs. I’ve said it a million times: I’ve never had a day at work that was better than a day at home. My grandfather Papa used to check Nana’s wallet everyday to make sure she had money to go out to lunch with her girlfriends from church, and if she was low, he’d stock it with a crisp twenty dollar bill. Awesome! But there I am, sitting in a gray cubicle day after day, churning out proposals and other boring documents that mean nothing to me but a paycheck… hell, I’m nothing but a while collar Norma Rae. Is that really progress?

Reason #3: I love it when people call me “honey.” Especially women, and especially waitresses. Nothing makes you feel more loved than a 110-year-old greasy spoon waitress with painted on eyebrows calling you “hon.” And I’m always intrigued by waitresses who call me that and who clearly are my kids’ age. I know some women get bent out of shape when they’re called “honey,” which is curious because I have a feeling they’ve been called much worse. I take no offense—I’m just thrilled that somebody is actually going to put a plate of food in front of me and all I have to do is sit there.

Reason #4: I think women should make every effort to look pretty. You don’t have to be a classic beauty to keep yourself up. I’m way too vain to let myself go (hello, did you just meet me?), but personally I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Men appreciate it when you care enough to look good. If you can't do it for yourself (and why not?) at least do it for your man.

Reason #5: Men really are the stronger sex. No matter how much I work out, I will never be able to open some jars of spaghetti sauce. Which, unfortunately, says a lot about my cooking.

So there you go. I’m not saying this is how it should be for everybody; I’m just saying this is how I look at it. But still, can you believe that in 2009, this is what I really do believe?

What's your opinion? Am I nuts or right on?

Long post about love and why feminism is on my list of stuff that can kiss my ass

I’m not done talking about Julie over at 47 and Starting Over. She is one ballsy chick, which is why I love her. Julie’s fearless about sharing her opinion; she tells it as she sees it, even when it comes to her own emotional landscape. She lays it out there for all the world to see.

In a recent post she wrote

I am so lonely it's palpable.

I miss dating. I miss intimacy. I miss flirting. I miss hand holding, and making out like teenagers. I miss sweet text messages and phone calls and surprise flowers. I miss...well, you know what I miss the most. *That* goes without saying!

The bottom line is, I miss being in love.

You know, it takes guts to say that. It takes guts for a woman to admit that she’s lonely; it takes guts for a woman to admit to the world that she misses being in love.

Ever since the 1970s, beginning with that stupid fucking “I am strong, I am invincible” song, women have been conditioned to believe that they shouldn’t have to “need” a man.

You must be independent.
No one else can make you happy; happiness comes from within.
A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

That’s such bullshit!

I know a little something about living the life of the strong, independent woman. I also know what it’s like to be in love, and I’ll take love any day. Not that they have to be mutually exclusive.

Let me give you a timeline. My first husband, Chris, and I split up in May 1994. I met Bastard Husband, infamous star of my book, in May 2000; we got divorced three years later, almost to the day. I’ve been with my beloved boyfriend, Mike, for a little over six months. If you do the math, you’ll see that I’ve been unattached for 11½ of the past 15 years. Yeah, I’ve had boyfriends—all truly lovely men—but none were what I’d consider to be relationships with long-term possibilities.

I spent 5½ of those “alone” years here in Las Vegas. If you read my book, you’ll see I do pretty well as a soloist. I make friends in no time and I’ll go anywhere by myself… to the movies, to check out live music… hell, I’ll even go to biker bars alone. But I’ll tell you, it does get old.

Bastard Husband: A Love Story chronicles only my first year in Las Vegas. What you won’t read about in that book is my post-divorce relationship with B.H. Believe me, we did not split up due to lack of love. We had a wonderful life together (until his thirteenth beer) and were crazy about each other (probably literally), but as I say in my book, it was clear that his path was wide enough only for one and it became increasingly unhealthy for me to stay married to him. He’s been living in New Zealand for the past several years now, but he’s come back to Las Vegas several times. To see me.

The last time was in January 2008, when he stayed for two weeks. He was on his best behavior and I loved every minute he was here. He even came to my writer’s group meeting. We walked in separately and B.H. stayed under the radar since, of course, everyone there had heard me read about him week after week and he would have been a bit of a celebrity. We laughed about how we felt like we’d really pulled something over on everyone. We had a great time together—we went to the movies and checked out bands and I realized how much I missed having somebody to do things with. I missed the companionship, and I missed being in love.

I almost left Las Vegas last October to join B.H. in New Zealand when my lease was up. If you look at this post from back then, you’ll see I meant business—I hated my job and felt there was nothing for me here. But I didn’t go. One night we were instant messaging about the logistics of my trip, and I heard something in the tone of his IM that told me, don’t do it. Even though I was getting just plain fucking tired of living alone and that whole independent woman persona, which, by the way, I pulled off quite well, I heard something that told me that I’d be making a big mistake. So I renewed my lease and stayed put. And I decided to back away from that relationship for good. Finally.

Within a couple of months, Mike and I got together. Our relationship is healthy and I love him with all my heart. I intend to be with him for the next 50 years—I’ll shout that from the rooftops and I’ll put that in writing with my own blood.(Wouldn't it be funny if, after I say that, he breaks up with me?) (Ironic funny, not ha-ha.)

My point is, for years I held onto B.H. I held onto the fantasy that he could overcome his demons and we could live together again and enjoy each other’s companionship and live the life we were meant to have. But it really was a fantasy.

There’s a lesson here: you have to get rid of the old to make way for the new. You have to release what no longer serves you in order to allow fresh, new energy into your life. I believe that with all my heart. If you’re holding on to a relationship that no longer serves you, release that person with love. Yes, you may go through a period of alone-ness and the period of transition will absolutely suck, but I believe the universe hates a vacuum and that someone else, someone more suited to your authentic self, will soon come into your life.

But getting back to the feminists who say we shouldn’t have to need men… yeah, they can kiss my ass. I’ll take being in love anytime.

Life isn’t fair and neither is death

My twin separated at birth and blogging buddy Julie over at 47 and Starting Over took some heat this week for her take on all the hoopla over Michael Jackson’s death. For the record, I’m with her 100 percent, but I’m so friggin’ sick of it all that the last thing I want to do is write about it myself. I added a comment to her post; that’s all I’ll say.

Okay, just let me say one last thing: if I were Farrah, I’d be pissed. She was dead, what, three hours before the news broke about MJ?

I picture her up in heaven, wearing a cute little angel outfit… her gorgeous hair is back and she’s flashing that famous smile… Heath Ledger and Princess Di and JFK, Jr. and my Beautiful Aunt Joyce are there to welcome her with a bottle of champagne and they’re all chatting it up over how great Larry King will be tonight since his whole show will be devoted to the lovely Farrah.

“Larry’s next,” one of them says and they all giggle and clink glasses. Heaven is awesome!

And then who shows up at the pearly gates but Michael friggin’ Jackson. I’m telling you, if I were Farrah, I would have marched my (now cancer-free) ass over to St. Peter and I'd be in. his. face. With teeth clenched, I’d be like, “No f*cking way--you send him back right this instant! Is it too much to ask for one goddamn day to myself of post-mortem glory? Huh? Get me Jesus. I demand to talk to Jesus!”

Yeah, if I were Farrah, I’d be pissed as hell--where, by the way, MJ should be IF those charges against him were, in fact, true. But we really don't know, do we? None of us knows for sure.

Mental movie talk

So Sunday night beloved boyfriend and I had a date to go to the movies and when he picked me up, I swear, I was like a friggin’ mental patient. You know how you try on 10 different outfits and nothing looks good because you’re too goddamn fat and your face looks weird and your hair looks shitty and you hate all your clothes and you just want to cry?

Yeah, that’s what he had to contend with when he arrived at my door. Poor guy. Let me remind you that I was doing all this primping so I could sit in a dark theater for two hours, where, even if I looked fantastic, no one would see me.

Remember this from a previous post?


Imagine that to the tenth power. Do you ever get crazy like that, or is it just me?

Anyway, we saw the new Woody Allen movie, Whatever Works, starring my hero, Larry David. L.D. basically plays himself—the same guy we see on Curb Your Enthusiasm—but OMG, what a great movie and I’m not just saying that because I love Jews. I thought it was hysterical and so well done. I highly recommend—two thumbs up, four stars.

The review in our local Las Vegas newspaper said that if you liked The Hangover, this movie is not for you, and all I can say is NO SHIT! Are Mike and I the only people on earth who thought The Hangover sucked? We actually walked out after about a half hour. Please, I am not above stupid humor—I think What About Bob? is the greatest movie of all time—but we found nothing funny about that piece of crap. Nothing. Yet it will gross at least 10 times more than the new Woody. See, that’s when I think I’m out of whack with the rest of the world. I’m still trying to figure out what people see in Julia Roberts.

Oh, they showed the preview for Ang Lee’s new movie, Taking Woodstock, which comes out next month. It was shot in upstate New York, and guess who worked a few days on the set last summer as an extra?


Yep, our Courtney. You can see why the casting director was psyched when she showed up at the casting call. Can't wait to see it.

How about you? Any movies you're looking forward to? What makes you feel you're out of whack with the rest of the world? And please, please tell me you thought The Hangover sucked, too.

Olfactory pleasure at the Stone Temple Pilots show

What? WHAT?

Sorry, I’m still having trouble hearing after Thursday night’s Stone Temple Pilots concert at the new Joint in the Hard Rock. My friend Joanna was nice enough to offer me a free ticket, and I certainly wasn’t going to pass it up—thank you, Joanna! The new venue is awesome—not a whole lot bigger than the old Joint, but much nicer and you don’t have to leave the place to use the bathrooms, which is a big improvement.

LA-based rockers Hurt played a good, solid opening set and I actually liked them better than the headliner. Unfortunately, turnout for Hurt was pretty sparse, but the crowd thickened by the time STP took the stage. And holy cow, did it ever reek in there! My days of tokin’ are long over, but I have to admit, I love the smell of reefer. As I stood there taking in that lovely aroma, a couple of funny thoughts passed through my brain, like how I once I spent an entire afternoon searching the Internet for hemp-scented perfume.

Of course, I was at work. Don’t tell anybody, but several years ago I had a technical writing contract job that was a bit of a joke in that I really didn’t have much to do. But you know how it is—if you tell anyone you don’t have much to do, they’ll find stuff for you and I can guarantee it’ll be the crap nobody else wants to work on, so it’s best to keep your mouth shut and just look busy. And so one day, after telling a girlfriend at lunch about how much I love the smell of ganja, I had a mission and spent the rest of the afternoon “busy” doing research. There’s no shortage of products out there.

Oh, wouldn’t it be hysterical to show up to work some morning smelling like dope? Imagine chairing a meeting at the top your game, explaining product specifications and marketing predictions, emanating the sweet scent of cannabis and then going, “Sorry, I need to take this” when your Grateful Dead ring tone goes off. Think of the possibilities: baby showers, dental appointments, job interviews, business networking events... You’d be perfectly straight and totally articulate; you’d just freakin' reek.

I’m bad, but you know what else I was thinking about during the show? The time my daughter, Courtney, came home from her first unchaperoned concert and announced, “That place smelled like Dad’s jewelry box.”

Happy Fourth of July! My BFF Lisa Gioia-Acres invited me to a VIP party tonight at the Santa Fe casino up in the northwest part of town. I'll have a full report on Tuesday...

Techno-whine

I’ll come right out and say it: I’m sick of learning shit.

Every new purchase—whether it’s a TV, cell phone, or coffee maker—comes with a 100-page user’s manual. No more simply plugging stuff in and turning it on. Part of the reason I don’t buy anything is because I dread the accompanying learning curve; it’s not good for my blood pressure. I have all the patience in the world for people, but I could take a friggin’ hammer to a machine that doesn’t do what I want it to do.

I don’t know about you, but I am really starting to feel overwhelmed by technology. For a while I’ve been shamed into transitioning to Gmail from AOL (which I was perfectly happy with). “You’re still on AOL? You have to switch to Gmail.” So I gave in and now I have to learn the in’s and out’s of Gmail. Tuesday night it took me a good hour and a half to figure out how to send a mailing out to all the contacts on my mailing list, a task I could have accomplished in 10 minutes using AOL. And the worst part is, no sooner will I get Gmail down and I’ll be hearing, “You’re still on Gmail? That was so 2009.”

MySpace is out, Facebook is in. For now. You have to be on Twitter, you must be on Twitter. Well, guess what? Twitter can kiss my ass. I don’t give a crap that your bagel was delicious or that it’s raining again. You know scones, those overpriced bakery items that are supposed to be so cool they even sell them at Starbucks? Well, scones are shit; they taste like friggin’ dust. Totally overrated.

Twitter is just as overrated; it's the scone of technology. I'm not afraid to say the emperor’s naked: Twitter is a load of shit, for the most part, anyway. And “tweeting” sounds gay.

As a technical writer in a technology company (surprised?), I’m constantly learning in order to do my job. I don’t mind that; it’s to be expected. But I don’t appreciate having to learn technology so I can do other people’s jobs. In the course of a day, I can perform the duties of a grocery store clerk, bank teller, postal clerk, airline check-in clerk… Not to sound snobby (and I truly don’t mean to come across that way--those are all noble professions), but in high school we were advised to go to college so we wouldn't have to do those jobs.

Because I’m self-publishing my book, I have a ton to learn. There’s new software to understand, and now that I have my own publishing company, there are the nuts and bolts of setting up and maintaining a business. I also need to create a website I can sell books from and figure out how to get the thing in e-book and Kindle formats. I’ll also want to create an audio version. I don’t minding learning that stuff—that’s all aligned with my goal of getting my book out to you. But even so, I just want to learn it once and be done with it. Don't tell me the software I just spent two weeks learning is now antiquated.

I sound old, don’t I? I don’t care (as long as I don’t look old).

But what about you? Is technology making you mental? Are you sick of learning shit, too?

The return of Aging Nymphs!

Yep, we’re back and better than ever. After a brief hiatus, Aging Nymphs, the Blog Talk Radio show my sister Lori and I host, is returning to the Internet airwaves. Our guest tonight is my BFF and Las Vegas blogger extraordinaire, Hurricane Mikey.

Mikey’s been posting for many years and as of today he’s taking his first break from the blogsphere. He’s agreed to let us pick his brain about how he got started, how he built such incredible traffic and reader loyalty, and other topics of interest to both bloggers and blog readers.

To listen, simply go to our Blog Talk Radio website at 7:00 p.m. Pacific/10:00 p.m. Eastern and click on the show’s title. Call the number on the screen to join the conversation, or you can listen to the show archives anytime by clicking a link on the right sidebar of this site.

Talk to you later!