i'm blinking off and on and off again

HOLY MOLY.

Writing is hard. Writing stories for newspapers that care about details and “getting things right” is extra hard. My sophomoric effort to the ass story made it’s debut on Sunday. I haven’t read it yet. I just can’t. It’s been the subject of enough e-mails to bring down AOL. It’s been passed from editor to editor with more frequency than a really bad cold. It’s been the inspiration for passionate rants in the parking lot about whether a word should be in italics or in bold. People. That is not worthy of a passionate rant. So this Sunday, I just let it come and go with nary a clinked glass to my second stint as a freelance writer. But let you not be fooled. I’m already signed up for round three.

It’s like San Pellingrino that way. It takes a little getting use to but once you like it you feel significantly cooler.

Want to know what is not cool? Amateur magicians.

I’ve been to many an advertiser recognition party. I’ve worked in media since you were a toddler and I know how they are supposed to go. The recipe is as follows: open bar, decent band. It’s really that simple. You are supposed to flex your market might to snag a band and venue that your competitors could only dream of. Then you get everyone drunk, fill them up on finger foods and watch the magic happen NOT hire a magician! His first trick were those hoops. You know the ones - where you clink them together a few times to no avail and then suddenly - poof! - they are magically linked together. “Can’t you buy those at Walgreen’s?” I asked Chris. “I’m fighting an urge to make balloon animals.” he said back. Thankfully, they nailed the open bar part.

It’s day 16 sans sugar. Feels a little like day 116. Keith seductively licked a Twix for my benefit. I passed up the prettiest little fruit tarts. I’m really really - really - sick of raisins. Day 21 will be on Saturday freeing me up to eat a wheelbarrow full of brownies on Sunday. Or not. The idea behind this little experiment is to reset my sugar tolerance. I want to feel it when I eat sugar. The highs. The lows. I want to face plant into my keyboard 90 minutes after eating a doughnut. I want to find candy too sweet and maybe, just maybe, chose something like an apple over something like a cupcake. I know it’s a long shot. These hopes typed from the fingers of someone who, say just 17 days ago, considered chocolate chip cookie dough a perfectly acceptable dinner.

Uncooked.

What else? What else? Chris accidentally dressed like an American flag one day. I’m undefeated in fantasy football. Clover The Cat tried to communicate an emergency to me using just her eyes. Boo finished her quilting project. That’s huge. BOO FINISHED HER QUILTING PROJECT. You know what that means ... pole dancing lessons are next on her agenda! This week is the corn-off! My coworkers and I are having a contest to see who has the shortest time frame from corn consumption to corn ... ah ... deconsumption? (a.k.a. pooping.) Kay’s having a football party. I’m making Chex Mix!

Woo-hoo!

Wanna come?

sing me the alphabet

I’m quitting sugar for 21 days. Cold turkey. When chocolate chip cookie dough sounds like a good thing to have for dinner, you know you have a problem. Or perhaps a number of problems. I’ve made it through two full days of turning my nose up at all things sweet and delicious. So far so good. Keep in mind that the Hawaiian economy may collapse but I can’t worry about island states when there are peanut butter labels to read. And jams to shun.

Yes. I've shunned jam.

But I don't shun prophetic dreams! People are having dreams! People like Kay. People like Diana. In these dreams I'm hooking up with a certain boy who makes me laugh like a goofball and who also happens to star in the following snippet. Names have been changed to protect the inocent.

Zach Braff: Hi, this is Zach.
Me: You referred to yourself in the third person.
Zach: What do you mean?
Me: This email. It says “Braff doesn’t like that.” and it’s from you, Mr. Braff.
Zach: What’s your point?
Me: Referring to yourself in the third person is kinda ... um ... weird.
Zach: Braff doesn’t think it’s weird.

Then he hung up on me. Click. For comic effect. And today. I caught him looking at my butt.

I finished my story for Gender F. Gender Foosball. Gender Foxy. Gender Fifth of Gin. It’s about crafts and girls. Girls and crafts. If you’re in the knitting know you’ll be able to make a pair of leg warmers by following the bouncing ball. It hits the streets on September 25 and get this - THEY ARE PAYING ME AGAIN. I thought the first time was some kind of accident but apparently it’s on purpose. Even more amazing - I’m gearing up to write something for a section that is not special and is not about women. Hint: It doesn’t start with and G and end in an F. It’s about my friends and their super cool company and social networking sites and saving the world and doing what you love and seeing how many bottles of Perrier you can drink in an hour without blowing up.

The jam I shunned was blackberry.

I’m thinking of going back to school. I dunno for what. Maybe law. Or maybe French. Or art. I need more assigned reading in my life. And index cards. I’m severely lacking in index cards. Preferably scribbled with words in a foreign language and held together with a rubber band. I might just decide to bake raisin-walnut bread instead. Or join a particularly challenging book club. I could always take up Latin again. Nothing cured my want of an education as effectively as a quarter of Latin.

Ah. Those were the days. The frustration. The erasing. The cassette tapes.

I’d write something snarky here, in Latin, if I was able to retain anything that I could use in somewhat normal conversation. Instead, all I can say are things about killing. And herding sheep.