Hell Week and OTC Fun

Holy Week, or as musicians think of it, Hell Week, is at long last over. No more wall-to-wall rehearsals and performance for this gal, not for a while at least. Naturally, my body has responded to this newfound free time by producing a lovely snap-crackle-pop in the ol’ lungmeats. Because of course it did.

                I’d probably be responding with a hissy fit right now, only I’m pretty sure I’d just wind up passed out on the floor doing a passable impression of a yule log, and I’ve sworn off all Yule log impressions for 2016.

                This situation, I suspect, may require a bit of low-key The Magicians binge watching, perhaps under the influence of a soupcon of Nyquil later on. I’m told 2016 is a fantastic year. (On a non-related note, I am not quite sure how Nyquil is legal while marijuana is still kinda meeehhh in Illinois. Not saying I’ve ever partaken during my wild and reckless twenties, but purely theoretically, Mary Jane never packed three quarters of the wallop of that special purple cold pill.)

                This Easter was extra feisty. I managed to leave my coat, my phone, and my house keys at my cousin’s on Saturday. Then my husband locked us out of the house on Sunday, requiring a super-exciting break-in to our own home. Adventure! Excitement! I think next year I’ll take a pass!

                On an unrelated note, April 20^th is fast approaching. That’s when I take the plunge and do a little standup. Boy oh boy, do I ever feel unprepared. There’s not exactly a checklist for what to do to get ready for something like that, and that would totally make me feel better. I like lists. They make me feel like life isn’t spiraling rapidly out of control. Of course, that statement implies there was some sort of control in my life in the first place, which is debatable.

                Anyhow, I have a few thousand words piled up for the night in question. Hopefully a few of them don’t suck. And even more hopefully I won’t just get up in front of about ten people and have a massive, crippling panic attack. Though, that could be kind of funny, in a morbid sort of way.

                Probably not.

               

Not At All Like Julia Child

A special cocktail of Daylight Savings/fucking cat related sleep deprivation and proofreading some of the shittiest proofs known to humans in utter monastic silence has left my brain the consistency of room temperature tapioca. I feel weird, y’all. Extra squirrely weird. I should probably have just say to hell with it and gone to bed, but I didn’t because I had adulting to do tonight. We’re talking kitchen cleaning, laundry, and baking an apple cake for the work St. Patty’s day bakeoff.

                Why? Because I want some goodies. Also, my entire house smells like apple cinnamon wonderfulness right now. And, it’s a good excuse to drink wine. Is there wine in my cake? Hell no. But that never stopped Julia Child from tying one on of a rainy and blusterous Tuesday evening, and it sure as shit isn’t going to stop me. Box wine 4 lyfe!

                All in all, I feel rather proud of myself today. I worked hard, I made something tasty, and I totally zeroed out my sweet conservative husband’s vote. (For the record, he thinks Trump is an absolute cockwaffle as well.) I feel almost capable of giving myself a pat on ye olde back. But that would necessitate loosening my death grip on my grown ass woman’s juice box. And that just ain’t happening. 

Touch My Wine, And I Will Cut You

                Oooh. I just had an amazing idea. What if my work cooler were filled with chardonnay instead of water? I swear, I would work so much more effectively with a buzz on. I might not even give much of a shit about the nearly mind-bending levels of boredom entailed in working in a cube farm. Also, it might make certain people less dickish, though I wouldn’t put  money on it. Food for thought.

                Seriously, I don’t have much to say this week. I’ve been working on a lot of great world-building and back stories for a few of my writing/game projects, and that’s been fun and productive, but it’s not easy to blog about yet. Early days. Let’s just say, I’m finding all sorts of nifty ways to bring super gritty grimdark urban fantasy into D&D and leave it at that. I’ve also been doing a lot more art stuff.

                As a matter of fact, I decided to make an illustration of the fat three year olds who like to jump on my chest gleefully whenever I decide to step out of my comfort zone, which is apparently just a blanket fort well supplied with box wine. So here it is. I call them Humphry and Hunny, and they’re yours to enjoy. Apologies for the crap quality of the image. I need a scanner. 

Sleep Tight! We're Coming To Get You!

               

               

Mr. T and Me and the Pegasus Makes Three

There’s a certain level of audacity some sales reps at a company whose name shall be withheld display from time to time that almost ascends to the level of awe-inspiring. For example, someone at Nameless Corp sold a text marketing program to a fucking Amish dude today.

Yeah, you read that one right. Some poor Amish bastard is now the proud owner of a pricey text marketing program. You know those guys. The ones that drive around in a horse and buggy and maybe have one land line to service about ten families. That’s who just got sold text marketing. Some dude named Yoder who makes really nice chairs and has about a dozen kids.

The balls of it. Just breathtaking. I almost want to stand and clap. But then I remember that there’s at least a small percentage chance that Hell is for reals, and I truly don’t want to be stuck there with the kind of douche nozzles who would sell a goddamn Amish guy text marketing.

Frankly, if I could bottle this level of gall, I’d probably be some sort of millionaire. It’d be me running around TV making an ass out of myself in a narcissism driven bid for president, except I wouldn’t be spouting a bunch of racist, misogynist horsecrap.

Either that or I would be paying some scientist to genetically engineer me up a functional Pegasus. Then I’d buy a mountain, and I’d have it renamed Fuck Mountain, and we’d fly to the top of Fuck Mountain and live in peace with Mr. T and the rest of the A team.

Knowing me, it’d be a solid option B.

You know what, I may not be able to bottle that kind of piss artistry, but there is something to be taken from it. You know, more than the message that I need a new job and some people really should be warming a bench in jail. I make some really spiffy things. Usually, I don’t put them out there because of that annoying little voice in my head that says “you’re not good enough, Melinda.”

It’s not that that little voice is entirely wrong. Being self-critical keeps you from walking around with a comb-over and a raging sense of entitlement. But if I could manage to take a dash of that unbridled balls that sales rep had to sell an Amish person a product he neither needed nor understood and apply it to a good end…holy shit, the places I could go.

And the best part is that I could actually live with myself at the end of the day. Because, you know, the whole not a fraud thing.

Incidentally, if anyone wants to help kickstart my fund to buy Fuck Mountain and genetically engineer a Pegasus, message me. #Don’tStopBelieving.