It is difficult to escape the political pundits with their ridiculous projection maps, especially with this being the eve of a historic presidential election in the U.S. While I find these talking heads highly annoying, there are a number of issues up for a vote this year. These “issues” extend beyond those talking points raised by the presidential candidates.

This is the third presidential election for which I have been able to exercise my right to vote. As I was listening to NPR today while running errands, it dawned on me that American women have had the right to vote for a mere 88 years.

With a number of states voting on ballot initiatives related to marriage rights and being from a state that voted a few years ago to write marriage discrimination into its state constitution, it horrifies me to think of anyone not exercising his or her right to vote. Regardless of if your state has one of these propositions on the ballot or not, voting is your right to assist in determining the quality of life you will be able to lead for the next four years (or more).

Mark my words: depending on the outcome of this election, I will make strides to move to Canada.

Working in a bookstore, I have come across a few titles that make me stop for a few minutes in my busy day to ponder the state of humanity and the sanity of publishers, editors, and writers.

Some of these titles make sense when placed in context of the genre categorization. This weekend, for instance, I happened upon a book entitled Rode Hard, Put Up Wet. If logic is telling you this is a romance title, then you would be correct. This particular title with the massive sexual innuendo makes sense considering the book in question is a romance.

Other titles provide glorious grammatical/mechanical lessons. A general fiction title I came across last week provides a good example of how comma usage can alter a given phrase’s meaning. The actual title of the book in question is Pussy, King of the Pirates. Considering the placement of the comma in the given title, one may assume that the Pirate King’s name is Pussy. (Why one’s parents would name him or her Pussy is beyond me. Furthermore, why that individual would then go on to forge a career as a pirate is even more questionable.)

I digress. Initially, I read the title incorrectly as Pussy King of the Pirates. Note my initial reading of the title removed the comma entirely. This elimination of the comma made the book seem as though it will be about a particular pirate who gets so much pussy, he/she has been given the “street” (or “high seas”) name “Pussy King.” The proper comma placement makes a great deal of difference in assuming a potential plot line.

The final example of a catchy title is one I came across a few months ago while doing a keyword search for a customer wanting books on nuns or how to become a nun. This title probably is the worst offender, and one I would file under “What the FUCK were they thinking.” Are you ready for the title? Seriously. Steady yourself for it. This title truly is classified as Christianity, not humor. Missionary Position: Mother Teresa in Theory and Practice.

Yes, you read that right. A book entitled Missionary Position is about the Nobel Prize winning nun who worked with the poor in Calcutta. I’ll attribute that title to a lot of bad crack.

With that, I hope your next trip to your local bookstore is enjoyable and enlightening. Pleasant reading and keep your eyes out for other catchy titles.

“Get busy living or get busy dying.”  We’ve all probably heard this cliche, but the meaning of it rarely registers with us. Recently, I’ve noticed a little aspect of life that has made this trite saying hit a little close to home.

Now, I am not a vain person (never have been); the thought of growing old never phased me. Hearing about people having botox injections and plastic surgery out the ass in a desperate attempt to maintain some whacked-out semblance of youth really makes me want to go on a feminist tirade. So, I never thought that the marks of age would bother me when I began to notice them somewhere in the distant future. Right.

The other night I came home from a rough close. It was 1 a.m., and I was putting my hair in a ponytail in preparation for bed. I was so thrilled to be home and knew that I had the next two days off. As I was reveling in the glorious prospect of sleeping in the next day, I noticed an unfamiliar glint in the mirror while I was sweeping my hair back into its ponytail. 

I leaned in for a closer look while thinking, “I know I do not have any hairs that are that blonde.” To my utter horror, I had springing forth from the middle of my head gray hairs.

Did you notice that? Not just one, singular hair. Oh no, plural – hairs.

What’s more is that these gray buggers are not normal hairs. Of course, the cosmos couldn’t make them normal hairs that easily blend into one’s regular hair texture. The universe is a cold, evil bitch. These hairs are the consistency of electrical wire. Gray electrical wire that springs out in odd directions quietly infiltrated my head when I was least expecting it.

In the future, I would like it if my body would send me a memo before it decides to stage a mutiny against me. Now, I realize how anti-feminist this blog appears. I should embrace the gray hairs instead of violently ripping them from my head cursing the little fuckers as I do so. I should be pleased that I still have hair, which means I should refrain from plucking the gray hairs. Maybe I will invest in a Clairol home-highlighting kit this afternoon. It is no botox; thus, I will not be betraying any of my feminist sensibilities (just let me lie to myself this once).

In closing, let us reflect on some Shakespeare (you know it’s my weakness): “With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come” (from The Merchant of Venice).

Now that we are half way through 2008 (hard to believe), I figured I would take stock of how the year is going thus far. Okay, so that is a white lie. Really, I have been very self-reflective as of late and writing is my way of working through thoughts and those little life hurdles. Honestly, I feel that I have learned a lot about myself based on the events of the first six months of 2008.

Ending a relationship of nearly five years has allowed me to recognize just how much I compromised or sacrificed on integral aspects of my personality and life goals. As a result, I have vowed to myself and my dear friends (who were sacrificed while I was in the relationship) that I would never again return to Crazy Lesbian Land (CLL).

For those not in the know, CLL involves falling into a deep infatuation quite quickly, determining it is love (long before the ‘L’ word should ever be mentioned), and U-hauling your love-struck lesbian ass into a lease after only knowing your lesbian lover for 5 months (or less).

Never again, kids…never again.

Now this isn’t to say that I didn’t love my ex; I did, we simply should have waited longer to move into that “serious relationship” realm. If we would have taken a bit more time in getting to know one another, I think we would have realized that we were better off friends.

After the break-up, I took some time to rediscover what I want and who I am. Yes, this all sounds very new age-y…as though I’ve embarked upon some lesbionic vision quest complete with a sweat lodge at Home Depot and a beaver for a spirit animal.

Fear not, this little semi-femme avoids Home Depot at any cost. Now, there may have been a beaver involved; I refuse to discuss the more intricate details any vision questing that may or may not have taken place. The end result is this:

* I’ve realized I need to get back to writing in some form or another. 

* I need to be true to my social, libra nature and not cut myself off from my beloved friends. Though, I must balance this socializing with plenty of “me” time. Libras, we’re all about the balance in life. 

* I should take more time to get to know the woman I choose to date. There is beauty in going slow. This woman also should be independent with her own group of friends.

Now, these are the highlights of what I’ve learned since January. So far, I am making progress on the second and third points. I’m finding a better balance between socializing and recharging myself; and I’m dating a woman with whom I have a great deal in common and whom does not reside in CLL. 

I’m focusing the second half of the year on working at getting back into the writing gigs. I’ve ordered my copy of the 2009 Writer’s Market and plan to have a go at some freelancing. So if anyone has any helpful advice or suggestions in that regard, please feel free to let me know.

Here’s to an ever-improving 2008 (and maybe a helpful little beaver).

 

A professor of mine told me years ago that I’m rather Victorian in nature because the Victorians constantly contemplated their navels (metaphorically speaking). He told me I needed to loosen up and enjoy life: “gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” (Double jeopardy points to anyone who can name that poetic reference…without cheating).

I was reminded of this a couple Fridays ago (yes, I did write Friday) when I was contemplating my navel…and not in a metaphoric manner. I was wondering how one might best clean a navel and decided to do a little internet research on the topic. Not that my navel was in need of cleaning, but I figure it could be an overlooked area of the body in the personal hygiene area. 

Did I mention this was on a Friday night?

Well, I became disenchanted with my internet research when I began to discover conflicting reports and thought about calling my mom, who happens to be a nurse. Who better to ask about belly button cleaning than someone in the medical profession?

As I picked up the phone to call, I decided my mom would probably make fun of me (and rightfully so). So, I abandoned my research, decided to read some Jane Austen,  and went to bed early.

So much for gathering my rosebuds.

Not since 5th grade have I found myself locked out of my own home; but this morning, there I was sitting pathetically at my front door – no keys, no cell phone, and two barking dogs running amok inside my apartment.

It all started because of a UPS package. I had just awoke from a great night’s slumber; had just started the coffee pot; then, I noticed the UPS truck parked out front. I have been expecting an important package that, of course, requires a signature. So I open my door to wait for the UPS man; however, my two dogs take offense to this gesture and begin growling and barking. I decide to stand outside, take off my lamb-slippers (they have cute, little lamb heads on them), and put on a pair of my roommate’s tennis shoes (that happen to be too small and are not laced properly so they are very loose). I close the door behind me hoping this will curb the dogs’ barking.

I sign for the package, exchanging the typical pleasantries with Mr. UPS, and turn to open the door with package in hand. Sadly, the knob will not turn and the door does not open. I caught up with the UPS man and inquired if I might borrow his cell phone to call my roommate as I am now locked out. He graciously hands over his phone. After receiving no answer on the rommie’s cell (and not knowing her work number because it is stored in the memory of my cell phone, which is now locked in the apartment with my howling hounds), I think I may cry.

Mr. UPS offers to look up my landlord’s number in the phonebook (which we can’t find) and then calls Information for the number (which apparently isn’t listed). I look up roomie’s work number in the phonebook only to find out that she is in a meeting until 10 a.m. (it is about 9:45 a.m. at this point) and must leave a desperate voicemail (that happens to cut me off). Mr. UPS offers to stay with me until help arrives, but he has a job he needs to do. Plus, I am feeling a little insecure because it is very windy, a bit chilly, I’m wearing a thin t-shirt, no bra, and have yet to brush my teeth because I just woke up 20 minutes ago. I think I am in hell.

Mr. UPS drives away after offering to leave me with his jacket (which I decline because I’m mortified at this point). I sit in front of my door for a few moments and then decide to attempt breaking into my back door to no avail, which should be comforting but I just find it frustrating given my current predicament. Of course, my attempted break-in has now riled up my dogs exponentially. I return to the front door, sit right in front of it, and laugh; I hope my roommate gets my message because I have to work this afternoon, yet I have no watch to have any frakkin’ clue as to the time. 

Adding insult to injury, I am expecting a potentially life-altering phone call in the morning and continue to hear my cell phone ringing from inside the apartment.

After helplessly sitting for a few minutes (it felt like an eternity), I decide to walk down the block to a friend’s house. I have hopes that she will 1) be home, and 2) allow me to use her phone so I can call my roomie to inquire as to her whereabouts. No answer at the friend’s house, so I walk back up the hill to my place. I sit for a few more minutes and decide to walk back down the hill to a convenient store to use their phone.

Did I mention that is windy, chilly, and I am wearing a t-shirt with no bra? Of course, the convenient store is conveniently filled with men who happen to laugh at me when I explain my desperate need to use the phone.

Thankfully, roomie had received my message and was on her way posthaste. After all was said and done, I was locked out for an hour. 

At least I had the foresight to remove the lamb slippers from my feet before accepting the UPS package.

There is a book some of you may have heard of: How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie (Mass Market ISBN: 9780671723651). 

Let me save you the $7.99 on the book and offer you this little, one word hint on just how one might best make friends and, indeed, influence people: SOAP.

It is such a simple answer that some of you may scoff: “How can one little bar smelling of spring freshness gain a person friends and assist me in furthering my personal/career life?”

Working with the general public, I have had the unfortunate experience of smelling a person before seeing said individual. If a person wreaks of death, dirt, and poopy-shit, how much time do you want to spend hanging around that individual? Probably not much.

I have a smidge of OCD and am not ashamed to admit I carry around a pocket-sized hand sanitizer. I also am not ashamed to admit that I have burned through that hand sanitizer in under 30 minutes because McSmellyAss doesn’t know what the hell book he/she is looking for (“It’s blue and is by a guy”) and refuses to go away until the book is located.

McSmellyAss meet McIrishSpring. Use McIrishSpring; then, come back to me and we can talk.

A little personal hygiene really goes a long, long way. 

In the process of begrudgingly jumping on the blogosphere bandwagon, I damn near had a neurotic meltdown brainstorming a username for the freaking thing. So a dear friend, Brent, showed me this glorious time-killing website Rum and Monkey: The Name Generator.

Who knew my “fluffy kitty” name (and get your minds out of the gutter) would be Nightmare Merryweather. I forget exactly which name generator produced “The Bitch with the Switch,” but pair the two names together and I have one hell of a dominatrix name! If I ever decided to enter the sex industry or write a sultry romance novel, I have my pen name.

Obviously, I decided against using either of those as my username. Though when I first attempted to enter “litcrit,” my fingers pulled a Freudian slip and the username turned into “clitcrit.” While clitcrit would be equally as appropriate for my lesbian-feminist sensibilities, I fear the content of any comments people might leave for a blogger with clit in her username.

Maybe when I am feeling feisty, I will allow my alter-ego, Nightmare Merryweather, to post a blog. For now, I shall bid you all adieu.