It has been brought to my attention that my blog is a far cry from the stuff I wrote in the past. For those of you who have not followed my writing "career", I wrote a column for The Einkwell for two years called Moments of Clarity. It was a warm, fuzzy column about friends, family, parents, pets and finding the silver lining on every situation.

I received an email a while ago from someone who used to read my column and who stumbled onto by blog. I won't go into major detail, but the writer (you know who you are), said, "your column was so warm and upbeat. You were so positive and into finding the sunny side of life. What happened?"

WHAT HAPPENED?

Nothing happened. I wrote what was required for the column. The ezine was for the most part, a warm fuzzy place. They wanted writing that was positive and upbeat and that would warm the cockels of the heart. It was Chicken Soup and Chocolate all rolled into one ezine. I wrote what the editors wanted to see and what their readers wanted to read. And I enjoyed every minute of it.

However...there is no easy way to say this, so I will just put it out there: THAT AIN'T ME!

I am not a Mary Poppins kinda gal. I don't wake up, jump out of bed and break into song. Bluebirds do not land on my fingers and furry woodland creatures do not follow me everywhere. My name ain't Pollyanna.

My name is Kim and I am moody, sullen, tempermental, judgemental, impatient and an over all bitch...on a good day. And I can be a fucking bitch if you tick me off. I have a sharp tongue that can cut through a person if I am not careful.

I work hard to keep my general crabby nature to myself. But my take on life is far from the saccharin-soaked spin I put on it for my column. Personally, I think life can bite, big-time. There are lousy people in this world, and they live to say and do lousy things to those around them. As a matter of fact, I am more suprised when people don't screw me over than when they do.

For those who knew me pre-Moments of Clarity days, my column was a shock to them. As one friend put it, "If you were really the person that you write about, I would slap you." On the other hand, those that have only met me after I started writing the column and have gotten to know the real me make comments like a friend of mine did today, "I always knew you needed your own site for the real Kim to show up."

I prefer the real me to the KA of Moments of Clarity. I am more real. I see things for what they are, and I prefer to write about things without the sugar-coating and silver lining. That's why I like this blog. I can say what I want, and there is no editor who will email me with comments like "this is not like your normal columns", editor-ese for "I can't publish this, your readers don't want to know these things about you!".

Life is not simple. Life is what life is. It's complicated, it's messy and sometimes it simply sucks. There are no easy resolutions to problems...there is no such thing as the solution fairy.

But if there were, I bet she would be a crabby bitch too!
- posted by Kim @ 8:57 PM

 
Went thru the Wendy's drive through today and ordered a spicy chicken sandwich.

"Would you like Freedom Fries with that?" the person behind the panel asked.

"Uh..Freedom Fries?" I inquired.

An audible sigh, then almost a whisper. "You know... french fries?"

Oh...yeah, I forgot. We are boycotting the french fry. We can eat the deep fried, golden tuber, we just can't refer to them by name.

I think it bears mentioning that the FRENCH fry isn't french? They were created in Belgium. And until 1918 they were referred to as fried potatoes. GI's home from the war dubbed them French fries, because they ate these fried potatoes in France. The french had nothing to do with the name.

Now, if you want to boycott something french, try mayonaise. It's french. It's also disgusting.

###

NOTE: if you are a "I love America, and you should too kinda person, you might want to stop reading now. The below post/commentary/rant might not sit well with you. Still reading? Consider yourself warned.

Not sure who said it, but sometime today, someone made the comment that the United States could never commit the atrocities that Saddam has against his own people.

Oh really? Let's examine the facts.

It was Americans that burned and hanged women and men because they were believed to practice witchcraft.
We lynched men and women and becuase of the color of their skin.
We herded over one hundred thousand Japanese away from their homes and posessions and put them in Internment Camps.
We let men be treated as Guinea Pigs for 40 years in the name of "science" (the Tuskegee Experiment).
Wanna talk biological and chemical terrorism? Think Love Canal, think Cuyahouga and of the other lakes, rivers and streams and people that have been forever poisoned for the sake of greed.

So, hell yeah, the United States is capable of committing atrocities against its own people.

Before you send me your hate mail, let me say this: I am not against any man or woman who is deployed in the Middle East. They are doing the job that was assigned to them. I have several family member and friends over there, and I worry constantly about their welfare. But for us as Americans to condem one person for doing the same things we are doing to ourselves is hypocrisy. If we expect others to be be honest and above-reproach, I believe that we should first start with ourselves and clean up our own backyard. Of course, then men and women in the Middle East are just cleaning up another mess and corralling another monster that we created.

But that is a subject of another post. Eh, what the hell, your already pissed at me, might as well go for broke.

Saddam Hussien is a monster we created, but he is the latest in a long list of "evil dictators" that we have helped put into power. Again, here are some examples:

Fidel Castro - appealed to the US for help to oust the "evil dictator" that was oppressing his people in Cuba.
Osama bin Laden - we trained him when we took sides with Afghanistan against the Soviets.
Manuel Noriega, Ferdinand Marcos...Japan...okay so Japan is now our ally...sorta...I won't lump them in there...

I can think of those off the top of my head. I am sure there are probably more. We just have the uncanny fortune of backing the wrong horse.

Well, I actually have real writing to do (not that this isn't real, but no one is paying me to write this..dammit) so I will leave you with these words:

Everyone wants the same thing: freedom to do what they want, say what they want, and be what they want. We all have the right to these things; American, Iraqi, British....and, okay even the French. I just hope that someday we can find a less voilent way to accomplish these goals.
- posted by Kim @ 1:48 AM

 
Spam

This afternoon I logged onto the Internet to check my email. I was expecting a few important emails, so when I opened my Inbox and saw I had 10 mew messages I assumed that my questions were being answered.

You know what they say about assuming anything.

Greeting me in my inbox was an email that insisted that I could "Fire My Boss", another that told me that I had been sent an Insta-Kiss by a secret admirer, a thrid that insisted that I was pre-approved for a VISA Platinum card with the low, LOW interest rate of 19.6%, and my favorite, "come see what my friends and I did last weekend! XXX"

Did I win the Spam lottery last night and someone forgot to email me?

Unsolicited email, spam, junk mail...whatever you want to call it, it is annoying. I used to jot off nasty reply emails to the senders of the unwanted mail, but that simply made me a bigger target. Now, I simply delete the mail and go on with my life. If sending me an email about the latest lottery or attempting to convince me that they have the lowest insurance rates EVER makes them feel like they have accomplished something, who am I to deny them that pleasure?

I would wager a guess that most people treat unsolicited email as I do, delete it and forget it. However I have a friend that became so incensed when they received an email they did not request that they sent copies to their ISP, the Attorney General, and the head of the Pentagon. And against my advice they replied to the emailer with a nasty email of their own, basically spamming the spammer and everyone on their list. The next morning what was one annoying email had exploded into over 200 junk emails.

I assume my "I told you so" email got lost in her inbox..probably between the Psychic Friends Newsletter and Bambi's Totally Nude Beach Pics.

I understand that many people feel violated and intruded upon by spam. However, I don't think it is worth getting worked into a frenzy over. I don't like getting junk email, I really dislike the slightly disappointed feeling I get when I realize my inbox is full of junk ads, but I don't lose sleep over it. But just in case some of you spammers are reading this (which I doubt, but hey, it's worth a shot), I have a few words for you:

I don't use Viagra. I don't need Viagra. I don't care how much it has improved your lovelife. If it's that great, when do you find the time to send me your stupid emails?

Yeah, I would love to fire my boss. But I would be firing myself, and how would that look? "I'm sorry me, but I have to let me go." Oh yeah, get the white coats ready, 'cause I guarantee the day I have that conversation with myself, someone will overhear it and turn me in.

Targeting Emails don't always work. If they did, my email address would not only be unlisted, it would have "spam me and die" in big red letters where the address should be.

You mean I can lose 20 pounds in 20 days...Guaranteed? The only way that would be possible is if I sent my puppy to live with someone else...want her?

We need to face reality. Spam is to the Internet and the World Wide Web what the mighty cock roach is to the Earth. First, both only come out when either we aren't looking or the lights are off . Secondly, both were here long before us, and they will still be here long after we are gone.

If only they made a large cyber can of Raid...

Excerpt from Moments of Clarity - Get you copy today!


- posted by Kim @ 4:31 PM

 
Dreams, the Teenage Years, and the Great American Novel


I remember my room as a child. Andy Gibb, Leif Garrett, Shaun Cassidy and the Jacksons adorned my walls. I would spend hours in my room playing 45's and dreaming about meeting and marrying any one of my heartthrobs.

However, as I grew older I realized that as a thirteen year-old girl I would never be Mrs. Andy Gibb or Mrs. Leif Garrett, or even Mrs. Fill-in-the-blank-with-the-brother-of-your-choice Jackson. I had given up on my heartthrob dreams. I had matured. I was past the "Da Doo Run Run Run" and "I Was Made For Dancing" stage. I wanted--no, I needed more.

Enter Heavy Metal. When this music genre hit the scene, I realized that my idolizing energies had been misdirected. I had been pining after these wholesome, squeaky-clean, mop-topped teens that were singing these bubble-gum songs, and I recognized that these were boys pretending to be men. However, the guys of metal were different. These men -- their leather pants, bare chests, earrings, long hair, tattoos and badboy attitudes sent my teen senses (and hormones) into over-drive. As quickly as Andy, Leif, and Shaun came off my walls, Bon Jovi, Cinderella, and Skid Row went up. Again, I would spend hours in my room, this time armed with cassette tapes and MTV--dreaming of meeting my idols.

Alas, the inevitable occurred. I am not sure when it happened, or why, but the same reality that crept in with my first group of teen idols emerged with my heavy metal rock gods. Why did I shelve my dreams of marrying a rock star next to my high school yearbooks? When did I replace my Bon Jovi posters with floral prints and seascape portraits?

It was not my doing; time and maturity took hold and I knew that I had to grow and pursue dreams of my own making. Since I knew becoming Mrs. Rock Star was not going to happen, there was no sense in keeping the posters on the walls. Therefore, I took them down, and the seascapes and floral prints went up.

In a way, I am sad that becoming an adult had to be synonymous with giving up my childhood desires. We live in a society where children are supposed to dream but adults are not. Dreams are not faucets, they cannot be turned on and off like the kitchen sink. If you don't believe me, look around. The next time you are out with friends, observe the man at the bar who believes that his pain of never becoming a doctor will cease at the bottom of the bottle. Look at the clerk at the BuyNBag that wanted to be a dancer but never had the courage or the push to leave home. And the next time you are at a little league game -- observe the irate parents who wasted their youth and now attempt to live vicariously through their children. These people all shelved their dreams and are now living to regret it. The dreams are not the problem; the problem is the fear and insecurity of not pursuing them. Giving up a dream because it seems absurd or a long shot is not only wrong, but also detrimental to our very being. I would rather live with a plethora of "it didn't work out's" than one "what if".

I might have given up my dream of being married into the world or rock and roll, but I did not give up dreaming. Now I dream of writing the next Great American Novel, travelling the world, and owning my own island. Some would say my dream of marrying a rock star was more realistic. Nevertheless, I think that dreams are supposed to be big, they are supposed to be almost impossible to achieve. Otherwise, they are just things to cross off a 'to-do' list, and I think dreams are should be more important than that.

My eight-year-old daughter has just entered her idol phase. Pictures of the Backstreet Boys and N'Sync adorn her walls. She spends countless hours in her room armed with cassettes, CD's and videos dreaming about her idols. As I sneak peaks of her and her friends imitating dances and debating about which boy band has the cuter members, I am almost sad about what the future holds for her, her friends and their dreams. Then I remember what it was like for me at her age and the memories flood back as if it were yesterday. I climb up to my attic, open my college footlocker and take out my faded, dog-eared posters of my idols.

Hey, I said I took the posters down. I never said I threw them away.

Excerpt from Moments of Clarity - Get Your Copy Today!

- posted by Kim @ 4:03 PM

 
Simple Doesn't Live Here Anymore

Remember when a birthday party consisted of ten kids wearing party hats, playing pin the tail on the donkey, and musical chairs? How about when the biggest theme decision that needed to be made was which cartoon character to put on the birthday cake?

When I was a kid, you knew you were at a good party if there was more than one flavor of Kool-Aid to choose from. It was a great party if there was more than one variety of Kool-Aid, and three or more party games. I had the granddaddy of all birthday parties; two kinds of Kool-Aid, three party games, treat bags full of cookies, toys and candy, and a piñata. I remember my parents complaining about how much that party cost them...

Ha!

My daughter just turned nine. When she was younger, we were able to get away with a few of her preschool friends and a cake. I figured that the next logical progression would be a party with games, hats, balloons, and treat bags.

Well, at least I got the treat bags right.

Taylor is now a slim, lanky, mischievous, too-intelligent-for-her-own good nine-year-old. At times I look at her and wonder where time has gone, how my once quiet, tiny bundle of joy seemed to have morphed into the individual that I see today.

Of course, my daughter is not the only thing that has morphed. Her birthday, which not so long ago had consisted of a cake and a new package of play-doh has evolved into a full-blown community event.

My daughter doesn't have birthday parties, she has annual celebrations that rival an Inaugural Ball.

Okay, so I can't place all the blame on her still petite shoulders. I admit that I get a kick out of planning her parties. But I also get an ulcer, huge credit card bills and somewhere in the middle of the planning stages the need to grab my husband my his shirt collar and scream "why did you let me get sucked into this again?!?"

The parties have gotten increasingly complicated with time. For her seventh birthday we rented out an arcade. For her eighth birthday, we did miniature golf and laser tag.

However, this year I was determined to keep it simple. A medium sized party, a cake, and snack foods. Nothing major or elaborate.

Yeah, right.

After several weeks of deliberation, Taylor decided that she wanted to have a bowling party. After calling several alleys in the area, I found one that offered a party package at a reasonable rate. I informed Taylor that she could invite fourteen friends and her cousin that was the same age as she. She was fine with this, and proceeded to compose her guest list. Meanwhile I proceeded to pick a date for the party.

I should have known that things were going too well.

Trying to fit a party into my daughter's incredibly busy schedule is as easy as baking a pie over a candle. I had both of our day planners (yes, she does have one), balanced on my lap while I was on the phone with the bowling center. We finally settled on a day and a time that was available. I was just grateful it wasn't 4am on a Wednesday.

The fifteen-person guest list quickly ballooned to twenty when my oh- so conscientious daughter felt it necessary to invite kids that had invited her to their parties and the siblings of her schoolmates that she also played with. Since there was no way for me to object without looking like an ogre greedily guarding a bridge, I approved the extra five people.

To myself, I smiled at her thoughtfulness. My wallet however was not pleased. It was screaming "Danger Kim Francis, Danger!" like the robot from Lost In Space. I ignored it and went on to my next task - finding a cake.

While I was on the phone with the bakery, my daughter said thoughtfully, "Mom, doesn't the bowling center have an arcade?"

I almost dropped the phone. "Shh", I said, "We'll talk about it when I get off the phone". Since I was on hold, we could have talked about it then, but I needed a moment to create an objection to what I knew would be an expensive proposition. I knew I being delusional. Anyone who believes you can gather twenty kids at a party and not spring for arcade tokens should look into buying that big bridge in Brooklyn.

Again, I had been relocated from the suburbs of simplicity to the sprawling urban jungle of party extravaganzas. Where had I gone wrong?

In the midst of this, my husband upon arriving home from work, quietly changed from a button-down work shirt to a T-shirt. He gave me a smug smile. I wanted to slap him.

To end a long story, the party went well. Taylor had a blast, her guests were happy, and they each won things from the arcade. In addition, the kids all liked their treat bags. On the way home from the party, Taylor asked, in all seriousness, "So, what are we going to do next year"?

Oh well, at least I'll get the treat bags right.

Excerpt from Moments of Clarity - Get you copy today!

- posted by Kim @ 3:42 PM

 
Please Check One

I received a packet from my daughter's school this week. It's the typical stuff; welcome back letter, medical information forms, school lunch program application, and a general information form. Not having anything better to do at the moment, I began to fill out the forms.

Name: Taylor (of course I put her full name, but since she's already going to need therapy because her mother writes about her every week, I won't include it here)

Date of Birth: May 8, 1992

Address: (again, see explanation for 'name')

Gender: FEMALE. I always put this in capital letters so that people are aware that Taylor is a girl. Not that it really matters. We once waited in the pediatrician's office for two hours because the desk receptionist was looking for a little boy. "Taylor just had to be a boy's name," she explained to me.
"Sure," I replied. Taylor Leigh-Anne is obviously a boy's name.
We found a new pediatrician. If they would assume she was a boy, they might also assume that a gaping chest wound was just a scratch.

Anyway, I work my way though the maze of innocuous questions: parent's names, telephone numbers, in case of an emergency contacts, allergies, medications, etc. Suddenly, there it was. The Question that annoys me to the ends of the earth every time I see it.

Race (please check one):

For those of you that might not know my daughter is biracial or as, we refer to it a multicultural cocktail. There are at least three different races coursing through her veins and I resent having to ignore all but one of them. Last year I took turns checking off the options, checking Caucasian on one form, Black on another and the obnoxious "Other" category on the third. At least that way I was acknowledging a more complete background, even if it was on several different forms. I got some acknowledgement of my own as well. The principal called me.

"Ms. Francis, I have a few questions for you," he began.

"Fire away," I replied.

"Do you have more than one child named Taylor?"

"Uh no, as a matter of fact I only have one child period."

"And that would be Taylor, correct?"

"Uh-huh."

There was a pause, then an audible intake of breath. "Could you tell me what race Taylor is?"

Ah..thus the reason for the call, the forms. This was going to be fun.

In as innocent a voice I could muster, I answered, "Well, didn't I address that on the forms? I know I must have checked something."

Again, a pause through which you could drive a truck. "Well, that's the problem, Ms. Francis. You checked something different on all three forms. You checked African American on one, Caucasian on another, and Other on the third. If you could kindly tell me which is the most accurate answer, I would be glad to correct the other two forms."

At this point, my cackles went up and I really wanted to lay in to this man for making such an insulting statement. However, realizing that my anger would not help, I resorted to my best weapon: the crushing grip of logic combined with my sarcastic sense of humor.

"Well, that could take some time to figure out. You see her father's grandfather came over here from Germany, but his parents, Taylor's great-great grandfather, or is it just great? Anyway, his parents were Italian and German. Then her grandmother on her father's mother's side was Irish, but she married a Scot..."

Ms. Francis if you could..."

"Then there's my side of the family. My grandparents on both sides, Taylor's great-grandparents were both of Indian descent, meaning Native American. Then of course, they both married people of the African persuasion, but there is also some Latin American and Mediterranean in there somewhere. So, I'll tell you what. Just a soon as our DNA comes back from the lab, and we have a definitive answer to the question, I will let you know. Whatever the highest percentage is, that's what we'll go with. After all, this is a democracy and we are all equal, right?"

Silence. Then an audible sigh.

"Hello?" I called innocently into the receiver.

"Ms. Francis, I think that for now we can leave the forms the way they are."

"Oh really, are you sure? I would hate to cause you any unnecessary problems."

"It's fine Ms. Francis, it's not a problem. You have a nice day." Then the line went dead. The gentleman retired soon after, but I'm sure it's just coincidence.

So now again, here I am facing the dreaded "Race, check one" question. I could do what I did last year, I could pick one of the races and ignore the others, or I could check "other" and make them guess. But my pragmatic side took over and I did the only logical thing:

Race: (check one)
Black (check)
Caucasian (check)
Other (check)

And if I get a telephone call this year, I have wonderful news. I just found out that Taylor's great grandfather on her father's mother's side was from Greece...

Originally published in The Einkwell, November 2002

- posted by Kim @ 3:20 PM

 
I'm a list maker. I make lists to remind myself to make lists. I have several notebooks and each is for different aspects of my life.

Today I made a "to-do" list of writing-related things that need to be accomplished in the next two weeks.

I am sooo screwed!

The list was a full typed page. How in the hell am I going to fit a typed page full of writing-related projects into two of my weeks? When would I shop for groceries? Hell, when would I breathe?

Okay Kim, this is not the time to panic. You said you wanted to be a professional writer, and you are well on your way. Now get your fucking ass in gear and do it.

Dammit, these pep talks never work. I always end up wanting to tell myself to go to hell. And then I do.

One way or another I am going to do everything on that list. Somehow I will accomplish my goals..all 22 of them.

Yeah, I said 22. I am an overachiever and damn proud of it!

I'm accomplishing one of my goals as we speak. I'm writing aimlessly in my blog. I can check it off my list.

That's the only reason I have lists. It's an excuse to make backwards check marks. (It's a southpaw thing...)

------------

I belong to several writing groups. On almost all of them people are discussing taking classes on writing. Why? You want to learn how to write? Sit your butt in a chair and write. Then toss what you just wrote and try again. Then get up and go be with your family, drink too much, or eat a cheeesecake. Then come back and write some more. Reading about writing or taking a class on writing doth not a writer make. Writing makes a writer. So quit asking about classes and write already. Damn. Is it that hard to figure out?

***no I was not talking about any partucular group or individual. It was a collective rant, so quit getting all insulted. But if I hit a nerve, so be it.***





- posted by Kim @ 1:53 AM

 
I am not a prejudiced person. Yes, I know, only prejudiced people feel the need to make the statement that they are not prejudiced...lemme make my point already.

I like all sorts of people. Race or national origin has never been a factor for me. There are certain people that I don't like, such as trifilin' black men who think their only job in life is to make babies and sponge off women. (and in case there was any doubt, I am black, so it wasn't a racist statement, just an observation I have made from first-hand experience. Anyway, how many nonblacks have you heard using the word "trifilin'"?

But I am digressing from my initial point. No suprise there.

Normally, I enjoy interacting with all people from all walks of life. But my "day job" is killing my desire to do this. I am almost to the point to where unless you can speak English without any hint of an accent whatsoever, I don't want to speak to you.

Ever.

I'm not sure if I have ever gone into detail about what my "day job" (why do I keep calling it my day job when I haven't worked there for more than 2 hours during the day in 6 months) actually is. I am a Customer Service Rep for a computer manufacturer. People who need to have their computers and electronic equipment repaired call the 800 number and you talk to me or one of my coworkers and you place a service call so that a technician can troubleshoot with you over the phone, or if need be, send someone to you. Sounds simple enough, right?

Ha ha ha!

See, there is one factor -- an important one -- that needs to to be address for the wheels of proper service call placement to turn. The person calling and the person taking the call (me) must be able to understand each other.

Thus the reason for the entry. I don't think I fully understood a single freakin' person that called me today.

There was the guy from India that wanted to place a service call on his laptop. It took me five minutes to decipher his "h"'s from his "8"'s..and believe me, if you don't want to pay for the service call, then you want me to get that right.

Then there was the Asian that had a bad tape drive. For some reason, he kept giving me the error code in Japanese and was very upset that I did not speak his native tongue.

Then there was the native spanish speaker that excitedly told me that his laptop battery was making a crackling noise as if it was on fire. In spanish. I replied "uno momento por favor" ( the only spanish I remember from college, other than "no habla espanol", "hola", "si", "perro" (dog) and "gatto" (cat)) and called the spanish translator.

There were others as well, who had names and accents that I did not immediately recognize. When my shift was over this evening I was mentally exhausted. I had people munching in my ear while they were talking to me, I had people who put me on cheap speakerphones and had the nerve to get aggravated when I told them I could not understand what they were saying. Then of course there are the people who are busily working while they are talking to me, and need me to repeat things two and three times because they weren't paying attention the first time. Or the second, or the third...

So now you see that I don't have a prejudice after all. There isn't any one race or nationality that bothers me more than others...just rude, obnoxious, self-obsorbed people who really don't care if they are making my life more difficult. And we all know those people come in all shapes, sizes and colors. Love may be blind, but stupid seeks out a target and normally finds one.
- posted by Kim @ 2:08 AM

 
This is supposed to be my day off. Tuesdays was my day away from the office.

But now, I don't get a day away. I can't have a day off during the week. They need me there. Our service levels will suffer without me.

Bullshit! The problem is that I won't kiss ass and bat my eyelashes and say "pretty please..may I have Tuesdays off again?"

That ain't me. It was never me, and it will never BE me.

Since I have been working at that place I have had Tuesdays off. I have made it clear that I need Tuesdays off, and I choose shifts, regardless of their hours...so I can have Tuesdays off. You would think they would be aware of this. I did everything but skywrite that I need Tuesdays off.

And yet, I am working Tuesdays, and they cannot figure out why I'm ticked off!

So, they can have this Tuesday. But it's the last one they get. If they can't arrange to have me away for one day a week, then they can arrange to work around me on the other four days as well.

This bites. I kinda liked that job. It was tolerable, and I like the people I work with. But the red tape crap has got to go. Tuesdays are my line in the sand. If they can't meet me halfway on that issue, then I'm not going to play the game.
- posted by Kim @ 1:44 PM

 
Lately while I have been writing I have had two necessities. First, I have to have plenty of water or coffee, and second, I either have to have a musical playing in the background, or I have music streaming from the Internet. Not sure why I suddenly need these things to write, but I have definitely been more productive with these things in place.

Tonight I have been researching and compiling the needed resources for the book I am writing while listening to a Internet stream of songs from the 60's, 70's and 80's. I don't know whether it is the historical nature of the book or the music, but one if not both of these factors have left me feeling nostalgic.

I am the product of the 80's. I grew up before the technological boom, before the Internet was the place to be, and CD meant certificate of deposit and it was a new thing.

I grew up amidst day glow, Reaganomics, the Berlin wall, and rubik's cube. When I was growing up, school was a chore, cars were still made of metal and Michael Jackson was still a black male. Yeah, I know, skin disorder..

Things seemed so much easier in the 80's. There were two kinds of coffee - instant and fresh brewed. Ice cream came in 31 flavors and frozen yougart was something that strange people in LA ate while sitting in their smog surrounded cars. Aerobics was jumping jacks done in time with music and a computer was something that your rich friend's father had.

Beta was all the rage, and it was a modern miracle when VHS was invented and even more of a moracle when the camcorder was introduced. Now you could carry a camera around with you and shoot your own home movies, and when finished you popped the tape into the VCR and voila! You were in pictures.

Jerry Garcia was still alive and tripping along with the throngs of fans that followed him and his band mates everywhere they went. This was before he became an ice cream flavor.

Madonna was still a virgin (ha!), Heavy Metal was a force to be reckoned with, and jeans were ripped, faded, shredded and kept together with safety pins - and $40 a pop.

Gas was under a buck a gallon, a burger and fries was less than 2 bucks at Mickey D's and you didn't need to sell a pint of blood plus promise your first born to afford dinner and a movie.

Teased hair, leg warmers, and ankle boots were the rage. Men with long hair and earrings were followed by girls everywhere they went. We all wanted a bad boy. My bad boy's name was Joe. He was a rebel with a cause...which was to get me to to..well we won't go there. Last I heard he was an accountant, had three kids and was losing his hair...

But I digress.

Cartoons were for entertainment, not 22 minute commercials interrupted by a show. Bob Marley was a hero, and Eric Clapton was singing his songs. (Or is it the other way around?) Yeah, I know, I could go look it up and be more accurate, but I'm lazy.

There was no WWW, and the Information Superhighway was just beginning to be constructed. Email was an unheard of form of communication, and Yahoo, Google, and AOL were just a gleam in their now sinfully loaded creators' minds. Of course, without Al Gore, the Internet would never have come to pass.

Notice I didn't mention Microsoft. Satan had that planned long ago, he just needed for his spawn to come to earth.

Okay, so that wasn't very nice. Oh well. I'm not calling Bill Gates Satan's spawn, but I HAVE heard the rumor...

AIDS was a new, mysterious disease that effects gay men and drug users. How quickly some things change.

Dick Clark was the host of Rockin' New's Years. Interesting how some things remain the same.

Yeah, the 80's were cool. The 80's were revolutionary, The 80's were twenty years ago.

Now that I have sufficiently dated, and therefore depressed myself, I will log off here, take my geritol, slide into my craftmatic adjustable bed, watch some MTV and go to sleep.

Just as soon as I find my day glow jammies...
- posted by Kim @ 2:42 AM

 
Okay, so, for some DUMBASS reason, I made blogging part of my writing goals for the month of March. Wait, maybe I dreamt that..lemme check...

Damn.

Nope, wasn't a dream, there it is, #5 just above following up on a couple of queries I sent out, and just below finishing the Writer's Stew website.

I'm not sure why I even have a blog. I mean to me it's just a journal with a whole lot of bandwidth. I am inviting people to flame, spam and otherwise contact me. Of course for that to happen, I would have to post an email address.

Yeah, like THAT is going to happen. Well, maybe someday. But I doubt it.

But I have to confess: since I have been blogging, my other writing has improved. In volume anyway. Can't really see any difference in quality. But my writing was perfect already, so that could be why.

Oh, stop laughing. It wasn't that funny. I happen to be a damn fine writer!

Speaking of writing, this new gig I got is pretty cool. Those of you that might be reading this know exactly what I am talking about, but just in case a stray visitor is reading this page (Hi Stranger..welcome!) lemme explain.

I landed a plum writing gig. I will be writing books for young adults. I can't go into details...well I could, but if I told you then I would have to kill you. If all goes well, I will be making a decent enough amount of money that I will be able to quit the evil day job. I will be able to tell those clueless computer owners that were completely convinced that the CD Rom tray was for their coffee cups...and the "I know how to put a disk into my computer so let's change the administrative settings..ooops now, where did that pesky harddrive go?" computer users where to put their service calls.

Oh, what a happy HAPPY day that will be! I'm hoping and aiming for the beginning of April, but I could make it to the summer if God is good to me and I don't lose it, tell someone off and get fired first.

Of course, getting fired could mean that I could collect unemployment...

Now, I'm way too moral to do a thing like that. Ethics mean a lot to me. Stop it with the laughing, you are beginning to tick me off.

I have pushed back the launch of the ezine by a month. Now, instead of an "Ides of March" launch, it will be a "hope you filed your taxes, but if you didn't this is your last chance to keep the IRS guys from seizing everything but your underwear" launch on April 15th. Of course, for my husband, it will be "hallelujah, tax season is over!" day. For those of you out of the loop, my husband works for H&R Block, and he's REAL tired of preparing forms. As a matter of fact, if you mention 1040 to my husband his eyes glaze over and he slips into a slight coma.

Well, I think I have written enough to call this an entry. Sometimes I am convinced that I write just to read my own words. But, since I never read these things once I post them, I don't think that is really true.

Wait a minute..lemme check something...Dammit to hell! What was I thinking?

"Goal #7: Transform 2 blog entries into actual essays - find somewhere to submit."

I knew having goals was evil. Why couldn't I stay unmotivated and been happy selling flowers on the side of the freeway?
- posted by Kim @ 9:29 PM