Some Times You Feel Like A Nut

The excitement has been overwhelming. I finally got the toughest part of my book proposal finished. Trying to write about authors whose books mine would compete with was by far harder than I could have ever imagined.

First I had to go to the library and pick out some humor books by well-known writers. (That was the easy part.) I would have to read them and compare myself to them. In this section of the proposal, I would have to say why I am better but how my writing is similar. (Self doubt, please step forward.)

Facing the grueling task, I grabbed the stack of library books and a notebook and curled up in my reading chair. I opened the first book. By page ten, I was sound asleep. Visions of best-sellers danced in my head. I awoke two hours later. Much to my chagrin, my book was not already on the list as one of the best of the best, like it was in my dream.

It took days to finish reading all of the books in between my accidental catnapping. While reading, ideas bounced off of my brain matter like popcorn bouncing off of a microwavable bag. When I finished all of the required reading, every good idea I had left the building. I looked to my notebook for some answers. I wrote titles and authors down and that was all I had.

I turned to my friend, the Internet. "I can research a few things and get that hamster back on the wheel in my head." I thought.

After surfing the net for five hours, I decided I was what a textbook case of adult ADD looks like in the flesh. Attention Deficit had somehow entered my brain, and I no longer was looking up anything related to writing or books. Instead, I found flash videos, humor sites, and all of funniest and coolest stuff the Internet had to offer.

I thought maybe a shower would help to refresh me and cleanse my mental clutter.

In the shower, washing my... body. Yeah, washing my body, I had an idea. My inner voices were speaking to me. One suggested if the book flops, I should consider writing for the Vagina Monologues. I tried telling my inner Sybil that I wasn't interested in anything called 'vagina' anything.

"Listen," I said to the voices, "If it were the Cunt Chronicles or the Twisted Twat Tales, I'd be all over it. But 'vagina' just sounds nasty."

I believe that was when the nut officially cracked.

---

My sister Angie's boyfriend, who we'll call Papa Roach, was in a car accident yesterday. He and his 8-year-old daughter are sore but okay. The car wasn't so lucky. It was declared a total loss. He was hit because some guy was too busy talking on his cellular phone and not watching where he was going. The message, if you can't chew gum and walk at the same time, you ought to just hang up and drive.

I hate cell phones for this and plenty of other reasons. If my old man weren't out of town so often, I wouldn't even have one.

Friday I received the first solicitation call on mine. The guy acted like he knew me. He pronounced my name right and everything.

He gave me the, "Hey Lois! How are you?" treatment. My mind couldn't place his voice and he began his spiel.

I interrupted, "You're trying to sell me something?"

"Well, Ma'am, I am just offering..."

I interrupted again, "You are wasting my cell phone minutes. And for what? To try to sell me some shit I don't want or need? Listen up buddy, cell, is spelled C-E-L-L not S-E-L-L, ya dig?"

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry for bothering you."

"You're damn right you're sorry."

The dude was just doing his job and I shouldn't have jumped all over him. The message, if you are a telemarketer, I can be a rude bitch. Don't call me and I won't be mean to you. That's what we call a win-win.