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?
6 comments:
I deleted my first comment since I was probably searching for the wrong term ... anyway is there a link to the story?
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/genderf/2003271266_genknitters.html
There it is... shiver.
A good thing to do while you are there is admire my friend Kay's legs. She modeled the leg warmer!
What a cool article! Narrative *and* instructions for a pattern. Didn't see that coming. Nor the popcorn in the crockpot, lol.
Nice legs, Kay, btw.
Hey! I remember this place. And I have missed it so! I like the idea of resetting the sugar thingy-dealy. I have a friend that is trying to get me to stop drinking any sodas for a full month. I would rather strangle a sack full of grandmothers than give up soda for a month... we'll see which one comes first.
And to add to your corn game, try some mushrooms added in. Those things just do not digest.
Back home in West Virginia, Thanksgiving was always a fine time for me and my kin. I'll never forget the episode when cousin Jimmy forgot to flush the toilet. Great Uncle Floyd rushed out of the bathroom just a few minutes later, a big grin on his face, singing "Jimmy crapped corn and I don't care, Jimmy crapped corn and I don't care." Floyd was a bachelor farmer.
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