Number 13

13. Finish writing a book with C.

At the end of May, C and I sat down over glasses of (one of) our favorite wine(s), and she asked me one of my favorite questions any one person can ever ask:

Will you write with me?

Specifically, she asked me to help her write a particular story she was burning to tell. It was a true story, but she planned to change names and embellish, making it what we dubbed faction (fact + fiction). So with the doors open, candles burning, and our planners wide open, we made a way to find enough hours over enough days to finish a book by the end of 2013.

The deadline, while unrealistic to some, was good for us. We both needed the pressure of a due date, but we didn't need to feel so pressured that we caved and gave up. Giving the book as a gift for Christmas was a perfect reason to finish, as well as a solid goal to work toward.

The process began pretty regularly: Wednesdays after work, there we were, writing and editing. We quickly realized that since it was her story, she should spend the week writing, and our time together would be spent editing and adding whatever I thought would be helpful or funny. We pedaled along pretty quickly with a title and 15 single-spaced pages before life interrupted.

Between our vacations and family get-togethers together (she's J's sister), we had events to tend to separately as well. She was embarking on a new journey of competitive running, while I was balancing my work and school. It started to look like someone was conspiring against us and our words, but somehow we still always found a way to meet. In some instances, we had to move the time; others the day. There were even some missed weeks here and there, but somehow we found ourselves in the dead of fall, 30 single-spaced pages in.

At the beginning of November, I was in full-blown new-job mode. On top of that, I had to balance a full load of grad classes. Inconveniently, Thanksgiving found its way into our schedule as well. We saw each other only twice that month, a striking difference from the normal 4-8 times a month we had seen each other since living in the same town. I felt horrible, not only for abandoning C, but for abandoning our book. It was our baby.

December rolled around, and shortly thereafter, I got an email from C.

"IT'S FINALLY DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I knew she had been writing, but the last time I'd seen her, our little novella lay in the 30-something range. The piece she had just sent me was 20+ pages longer..... and all that was standing between releasing the book to our friends and family was my editing every single word with the same diligence I'd had in prior months. The only problem was I also had hundreds of papers to grade AND two giant projects due in less than a week. Shit.

In a zombified stupor, I got through all of my work duties and all of my projects. I started editing until my eyes bled, but it still took me three days to finish revising the final pages the way they deserved. I rushed over to C's house four days before her departure to the Great North where she'd be delving out the first round of the books on flash drives to the family. It was close, but somehow, we did it. And after all was said and done, we ended up with an 83-page novella.

Writing this little book taught me a lot about a lot. I had to learn to be ever-so-reliable because the success of C's story depended on my editorial skills. I had to learn to be patient because quality work takes time, despite my need for instant results. I had to learn to let go of the reigns because this wasn't my story, this was C's story. I had to learn how to work as a true professional team for the first time in my life because no one else has ever treated me as a professional equal before.

Our book might not be Gatsby or War and Peace, but it IS a labor of love (and a little Sedaris-y if I do say so myself). It is one of those gonnas we all talk about doing, and damn if we didn't actually do it.

I am glad I got to help my friend tell her story, but most of all, I am glad to know that with a solid friendship, anything is possible.

If you're interested in reading our little tale, I have a PDF version ready and raring to go! Email, as always, is imgonnadothatgirl@gmail.com.

My Night with George and Neil

via The Unchained Tour (Seester is in this pic!)

Last year, I quit my job. I had been changing for months, as had the company. Those shifts made me unable to give what I should to a job that was no longer mine, nor to a great group of people who cared for me. Early in the morning of September 19, I gave my notice of resignation. It was scary, but necessary. It was freeing in the most exhilarating way, but also incredibly terrifying. What would I do? Where would I go? What did I want to be when I grew up?

I showered and tidied the house, trying to clean slate the whole of everything; of me and of my surroundings. I wanted to clear my head of the rough month I had just barely dragged myself through and the many months of political job shift. My brain felt defogged for the first time in months, and in that moment of clarity, my brain went straight to.... my sister?

My sister? Why was I thinking about my sister? There was static in my brain for a moment as it remembered how to think at all about something other than work and heartbreak warfare. And then, like a lightening bolt, it struck me: my sister was down off the mountain and in my town. I called her immediately.

"ARE YOU IN WINSTON?!"

She laughed and told me she was, that she was about to call me. She had been willingly taken by a traveling hoard of raconteurs on something called The Unchained Tour.

"Want to come? I can put you ON THE LIST!"

Not a girl to turn down a visit with her sister (or a VIP experience), I took up her offer. And not a girl to go anywhere uninformed, I looked up the tour.

It took me about 10 seconds to start squealing like a 14-year-old fangirl when I saw George Dawes Green's name on the roster. THE CAVEMAN'S VALENTINE, IS LIKE, MY JAAAAAM!, I imagined myself saying to him. Nice. Poised. Eloquent. Rachel.

I didn't know any of the other names until I got to Neil Gaiman, someone I admired for his stories adapted to screen, but also someone whose work I had never had the chance to read. I figured it wouldn't matter, as the tour was a not-so-rag-tag rag tag group of storytellers, orally giving the audience a snippet of their lives and pieces of themselves along the way. My body started revving up in the anxious-excited way it does before something new and unexpected, so I decided to head over to the venue and bide my jitters and time 'til the performance.

Showing up to a full parking lot only aided to the anxcitement in my bones, but seeing my baby sis quelled the nerves. She was hard at work, but looked like she had been having the time of her life doing it. I left her to do her cd burning as I went to the auditorium to find an end seat. I always pick the end seats.

What ensued deserves pages and pages of descriptions, but I almost can't bring myself to write it. The storytellers opened a vein and bled on the stage. They gave us the dark and the light, the heartwarming and the heartbreaking. They made us laugh 'til we cried or just cried. There were stories of love, sexuality, writing, fighting, life in general, and storytelling itself. The whole audience was just as engaged as I was. You could almost feel the room move together like a giant organism. I could have sworn I felt a calm heartbeat all around me. Trying to write about it is like trying to take a photo of a Pacific sunset: it will be beautiful, but no one will understand how it felt. You weren't there, man! 

When I was done, I hung around and watched the people clamor to meet the storytellers, Neil in particular. It was moving in a way, how much they admired Neil, though I couldn't help but wonder if if ever got daunting for him to deal with. I hung out at a table alone as my sister ran back and forth from the merch table. The documentary crew came over to film me, but my answer seemed lackluster for the director who soon moved on. Her assistant looked like a kid, then made a release form from a napkin and a marker, perfectly appropriate for the age I imagined him to be. I signed the hell out of it. That kid had moxie.

The room started to buzz less, and I barely had time to relish in it before I realized my sister bringing George around a group of people to meet me. I immediately broke into a sweat and threatened myself silently: DON'T YOU DARE TELL HIM THE CAVEMAN'S VALENTINE IS YOUR JAM, RACHEL! DON'T YOU DO IT!

I took the man in I had earlier seen on stage. He was lithe and handsome, dressed in a green velvet suit. I reached out my hand to shake his as I heard my sister introduce us, though she sounded trapped in a bubble.

"It's nice to meet, you," I said. Yes! I CAN DO THIS! "I'm just trying not to throw up on your shoes." Oh, god dammit.

I thought he would laugh, but instead he asked me to repeat what I'd said. Ever the honest one, I did as he asked. His face was one I will never forget, somewhere between disgust and laughter. I think I awkwardly sat back down and tried to make some kind of intelligible conversation, but it wasn't long before he slunk away from me. Strike one, Rachel. Strike one.

Sis eventually saved me from myself by introducing me to Neil. At that point, I was dripping in shame, so I had no more pride left. It worked to my advantage, as I managed to get out a couple of meaningful sentences that didn't involve the words "vomit" or "jam." He introduced me to his daughter before the two of them went off to gather their things.

That was about as far as I thought the night would go. I would say hello, shake some hands, have some family time, and go home. But then the crew started asking me where they should eat when they couldn't quite remember the name of the place they had initially intended to go. I managed to sputter out a couple of suggestions before they started to leave. It was that awkward quick exit some people make out of a conversation that leaves you not exactly knowing what you're supposed to do. I finally just turned around, and George was standing right behind me with my sister.

"You're coming with us, right?!" he asked, smiling all the while.

"YES! Y...es."

"Good! Let's go!"

He cut right, and I just stared at my sister in awe. She did the signature giggle-shrug both her and my dad possess. We geared up – for some reason there was a lot of gear that night – and started walking around downtown with the crew. It was magical, not because some of them were renowned authors, but because the night was cool and the lighting was perfect. This group of amazingly talented people had first taken in my sister and now me with open arms, and they were wandering in my pretty little Southern city beside us. The crew and cast of the tour were seamlessly moving around one another, joking and laughing in the way a family would. It was clear the strangers and friends and strangers who had become friends had all become a fucked up little family, too... in the best way possible.

We wandered around in a noisy, rambunctious pack until we picked a table at the local microbrewery. It was mostly abandoned by that hour on a weeknight, so our party of 15+ was easily accommodated. My sister and I headed straight for the middle of the table so we could sit side by side, and George headed straight to the seat beside me. What ensued was an unbelievable late dinner full of Double IPAs and conversation with some of the coolest people I've ever met whose names I can't remember.

I got to know the people who made up the team of storytellers, even those behind the scenes. They were all so high off the energy of one another, and relished bringing new people into the fold; a rare quality to find in one person, yet alone a group of them. I got to know Neil's daughter, a fabulous young woman who just radiated happiness. I got to whisper with my sister about how surreal and stellar the night was. And to top it off, I got to share my own story, and the entire table listened. They all drank their libations and ate their pub food, but every one of them was staring at me and hearing every word I had to say. I hadn't realized how much I needed someone to just pay attention.

After my story, George pulled my shoulder in a signal for me to turn around. He leaned on his elbow on the table, breathed out, and looked me square in the eye.

"Tell me about your writing," he said.

I almost screamed in his face out of sheer disbelief. Luckily, the Double IPA packs a lot of alcohol, so I had enough liquid courage to play off the freak-out and come up with some sort of savvy reply about majoring in journalism and where I wanted to see this very blog end up. Even though I'm sure in the present that my savvy response of past was probably more bumbling than brilliant, he encouraged me with genuine kindness the entire time. He saved my life with that compassion; all of them did. I had been in a pit, and they had just thrown me my long-awaited rope.

The merrymaking was coming to a close as the bar was. As we signed off on our tabs, George jumped from table to table, telling everyone not to leave, for we had to race the buses! And oh, it would be no ordinary race: whoever's bus reached the finish line last would win. That was the moment when I started to question whether or not I was living or dreaming, but the realization it was the former was almost overwhelming it was so exciting.

We practically ran back to the venue to prep the buses for racetime. George was running like a sprite from each one, assigning roles and reinforcing rules. I watched as he got the two repurposed school buses in prime race position. Before I knew it, he had raised his arms and dropped them in a signal for the buses to start moving. Those of us watching started a chorus of laughter almost immediately; while required to actually move, the buses had no other speed requirements. George had already reached us across the parking lot at the finish line before they had barely moved four feet. I watched his face as he reveled in the idea he had thought of only minutes before come to life before his very eyes.

I turned to one of the storytellers. He, in fact, had been the MC of the show.

"I loved your stories the most, I think. I just quit my job, today, you know?"

He looked at me with kind eyes and smiled.

"Thank you! I heard. What are you going to do now?"

I thought I knew the answer, but I really didn't. I had to steep in his question for a minute before I could respond.

"To do this. To focus on my writing, and really do something I love. I'm tired of doing things I hate just because I'm supposed to."

He nodded.

"It's just... crazy. Today I quit my job, and 12 hours later, here I am with all of you."

"It's so cool how that works. It's definitely fate," he said.

I nodded and smiled, but had to turn. My eyes were filled with grateful tears. I looked around: at the cast, the crew, my sister, the slow moving buses. All of it was moving beyond measure, and it really was fate. It was fate that I should meet such an inspiring group of strangers. It was fate that I should have people listen to, support, and believe in my dreams. It was fate that I met them that day at that time because it all led me to where I am now, which is on the path to making those dreams come true.

Those buses finally crossed the finish line to the cheers of many. I will cross my own finish line the same way, and I hope when I get there, George and Neil and my darling sister and every single one of those traveling artists know how much of my finish I owe to that night and to them.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The Coquette

I'm so happy to live in an age full of these amazingly gifted writers and thinkers who have access to a platform because of blogging. When I first signed up for my beloved Tumblr, I stumbled across Coke Talk. Her sharpness and blunt advice immediately caught my attention. After reading (and laughing) for quite some time, I also grew to love her wisdom, her rationality, her intelligence, and her penchant for forgiveness.

I watched as she added features and changed her name, all things she did with grace and perfect timing. I even ordered a "Cunt" necklace from her Boutique and got a shout-out from the anonymous lady herself, a moment of true Tumblr glory and geekery that I will forever cherish.

The real reason I wax poetic about Coquette is because she is such a good source of truth in a world full of bullshit. She wants her readers to question everything, even her. She wants us to grow up, let go, and find peace. And even when she cracks that whip of a tongue at one of her advisees, she does it with the best of intentions. Some may say she's a bitch, but I don't see that. I see an unrelentingly kind and evolved soul.

Nine times out of ten, I agree with Coquette. The other 10 percent of me that dissents her opinions still respects the shit out of them. In fact, I even marinate on what's rubbed me the wrong way, sometimes for days, wondering if she was actually right. She makes me a better advocate for myself and for the issues I believe in.

So here they are, some of the columns and random snippets that have meant the most to me from Our Lady Coquette. Thanks for helping one girl on the opposite coast come to terms with life and its myriad of intricacies.

On cheating, identity, and the golden rule.

On church and state.
On bedtime death panic.
On seizing the day.

On what to say.
On laziness.

Guest Post: The Inaugural One

I started thinking not too long ago about how many great storytellers I have around me. Seeing as I often go through times where I can't quite get the words out, I thought "Why not let someone else?" Ladies and gentleman, I introduce you to the newest Gonna Girl feature: guest posts. Feel free to submit your own stories to imgonnadothatgirl@gmail.com.

For the inaugural submission, enjoy this lengthy but hilarious piece by BF's sister. If you like the style of David Sedaris, read on. If you just like to laugh your ass off, read on with the fury of a category five hurricane.

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Wedding Fun

Thursday

We are to be at Duane’s mom’s house at 8 a.m. to make 14 GALLONS of salads for the reception. Jenny had bought several bags of cubed cheese, and then decided it was too big for the salads and told me to cut it. I ask if she wants it quartered. She gets a confused look on her face and said, “No, honey, I want you to cut it in half, and then half again, and then you will have four pieces the same size. Quarters are big and round like the cucumbers, there is NOTHING round about this cheese!” If a car is traveling 80 miles an hour… never mind.

Friday

'I am not telling you how to do your job, but I am.'

After spending all day Thursday making salads and food for the reception, we head to Salisbury at 8 a.m. We are supposed to check into the hotel at 9:30 a.m. and be at the church at 10, according to our “Ternary.” I assume she meant itinerary. By the way, you cannot make this shit up:

We arrive at the motel and Jenny has a 40-minute discussion with the poor hostess at the desk on what rooms we are supposed to be in. Jenny changes the arrangement four times and keeps saying, “I am not telling you how to do your job, but it is MY WEDDING and I require it THIS way.” When it was my turn to pay for my room, I have a choice of three that are available for our group. The hostess asks where I would like to stay and I reply, “In another county.” I am put in the room RIGHT beside the bride... damn!

Classy

We arrive at the church late after the drawn out check-in process. We begin to unload the fifty boxes of crap that will be used to turn the church into a “dreamy island oasis.” Jenny goes up to the altar and immediately gets into an altercation with the music director because he will not move the drum set off of the altar. Jenny stomps her foot and shrieks, “This is fucked up!” Right there on the altar in front of her future in-laws, Jenny’s true class shines. She proceeds to have one of MANY meltdowns. Relatives rush her out of the church and off of the premises. We continue to unload and try to decorate the church to her taste, or lack thereof.

She returns about an hour later more calm and collected. After taking her father’s credit card for some retail therapy, she is willing to accept the fact that the drums will not be moved. Since eating is not on the "ternary" and we are all scared to leave our designated places, we are all shaking with hunger (and some with fear). Finally, we are provided with pizza. After a 10 minute prayer, we each get a few pieces of pizza before heading off to the reception hall to turn it into an island oasis, too.

Going Off Like a Bottle Rocket

In October, Jenny and her husband chose to have their reception at the local VFW hall. They toured it several times and determined it was the best place. They negotiated an excellent price and my check to the organization was quickly cashed.

We arrive at the VFW hall, sweaty and tired from decorating the church. When we arrive, I am surprised how many tractor trailers are there. Jenny had arrived before us and I see her going off like a bottle rocket. She is running through the parking lot, shrieking and threatening to sue this SOB for everything from “defecation of character” – perhaps he did shit on her character – to “libel and slander.” It turns out that although the organization cashed my check, they forgot to hold the hall for her and rented it out to another organization that would be there through Saturday evening.


The bride is uncontrollably upset and the manager's offers to assist only seem to agitate her more. The whole crew pulls out cell phones and start a mad scramble to find another alternative while taking turns consoling the bride. At this time, I call work and offer ALL of my vacation for the year if they call and request that I come back NOW! I know if I start walking I could be there by the next morning. 

Collections

Duane manages to find a place for $600. It also requires a $600 deposit that is fully refundable if the hall is left clean. The bride is outraged at this amount and has a MAJOR meltdown because if she spends $1500 (her math, not mine), she will not have enough in her fund for the honeymoon. After almost 20 minutes of screeching and crying, her sister wisely offers her $600 if she will shut up and calm down. We all second that motion!

Volunteers

The bride remains inconsolable and it seems that no acceptable solution can be reached. She begins to shriek that SOMEONE is going to DIE for this, and I stand up and offer my services as the first sacrifice. Others in the party quickly volunteer for this option as well.

Praise God

One of the girls in the group is married to a Nazarene minister, and she calls the local Nazarene church. They have agreed that for a “love offering” of $100 we can use their hall tomorrow. The bride agrees and we all sing "Hallelujah!"

Apparently the entire town spells just like the bride. I cannot locate the church, and I am told again and again that it is on "Eisenhower Road," like the president. Turns out, it is on "ISENHAWER Road." At any rate, we locate the hall.

Most of the crew has to go to the rehearsal dinner. I am one of the few who does not have an official “job” at the wedding, so another girl and I are left to turn a gymnasium into a “dreamy island oasis.” I spend an hour assuring the pastor that I will leave everything as clean or cleaner than I found it, and I will put everything back just like I found it. I pull 27 tables and 158 chairs from every corner of the church and arrange them in some sort of functioning design. I arrange it to have a dance floor, a food line, seating for 158 guests, a cake table, and a gift table while being “island flowy.”

I Hate Girls

Just as I am finishing putting up the 158^th chair, the brides’ friends from her hometown arrive with the wedding food. They decide that the entire layout was flawed and have me rearrange it, and that doesn’t look just right, so move it over here… Um, you know what? I liked it better the first way, or was it the second way?... The most ironic part was a 20 minute heated discussion on the parent table. Some of the girls were upset that it was not at the center. I am biting my tongue because I do not know these people and I am praying that if I am nice enough I might get to eat SOMETHING. It is now around 9:30 and the only thing I have had all day is two slices of greasy pizza.

At 10:00, Duane and the crew arrive from the rehearsal dinner. Duane tried to get a plate for me, but the caterers had already packed everything up and left by the time they walked down the aisle FOUR times! The bride hates everything, and we have to change the layout over and over. The “good” news is that there is cold pizza in the van, and I get to have two more pieces of cold, greasy pizza. I was told that the wedding food was off limits. I snuck a cookie and a piece of ham.

REALLY?

By 11:00 my bad knee is swollen to two or three times its size. There is a good chance I am facing knee surgery, and my knee has caused me issues for more than a month. I have an appointment right after the wedding. As I peel off my jeans that I fear may have to be cut to release my knee, I ask Duane to get me some ice. He goes to the ice machine on our floor and it is broken. He goes to the one on the lower level and it too is broken. He inquires at the front desk and is told that they have been broken for quite some time, but he can check the convenience store right across the street. He goes to the convenience store and they are out! They state that with the motel’s ice machine down, they cannot keep it in stock. He brings me a cold soda so that I can lay the bottle on my leg. I am too tired and in too much pain to even complain or have more than one glass of wine. I go to sleep to the sounds of the room next door, a fairly constant cycle of crying, shrieking and laughing…

Saturday

Mine Mine Mine

According to our “Ternary” for the wedding day, we are to be at the sanctuary at 7:30 so we have plenty of time to get ready. Mind you, the wedding is at 1:00. I stop for a BIG bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit at the risk of the bride’s wrath of my lateness.

Additionally, I make the best decision I have made in weeks! Due to the knee pain, and the pain I knew was coming, I took two vicodin pills. They not only took the edge off the pain, but took the edge off of me.

When I walk into the sanctuary the bride is jumping up and down, shrieking at the top of her lungs that this is HER day and EVERYONE is going to do EVERYTHING SHE WANTS. Believe me, none of us have any doubts about that.

Mama Gopher

The bride selects three minions to be her “Gophers.” She selected a little gopher, a big gopher, and I had the “privilege” of being the MAMA Gopher. As a gopher, you have to get the bride everything she needs. This includes but is not limited to: ice, drinks, make-up, moving her luggage around from car to car as they decide what vehicle to take from the ceremony, putting her in her wedding dress, helping her pee in her wedding dress, and all other duties as assigned.      

As the Mama Gopher, I have the added bonus of babysitting the men who are getting ready on the other side of the sanctuary. My first duty is to block ALL of their doors with chairs and tables – the hell with fire codes – so that they can not see Jenny in her wedding gown. (Heaven knows she is not fearful of them HEARING her!) She also wants every window to the classrooms covered and some of the exterior windows covered. I cannot find any tape anywhere, so I enlist the help of her father-in-law to be.

In All Her Glory

The unfortunate father of the groom is sent on a tape hunt, while I coral the men to keep them on schedule. I hear a scream that does not belong to the bride and a red-faced father-in-law returns with tape in hand. Apparently he had opened a classroom where he knew there was tape, walked in on a bridesmaid getting dressed, and saw her “in all her glory.” As the Mama Gopher, it is now my immediate job to ensure that the men no longer leave a certain two room area.

Penis Envy

Another of my duties is to check on the men every 15 minutes to make sure that they are getting ready. We had to arrive at the church at 7:30 and pictures are at 11:00, so you can understand her concern that the men cannot put on their tuxes in 3½ hours. As I make my way to the blissful peace of the men’s side, I have my first true experience of penis envy: the men are playing ping pong and poker, having fun and laughing. Damn them! As I report back to the bridezilla, ping pong became “prayer” and poker became “spiritual discussions.”

Can’t Stand The Heat

The anointed hour FINALLY arrives. No, not the wedding hour, but the hour that the bride has to be locked up so no one would see her. I head over to the church across the parking lot for the wedding. I am immediately corralled by the pastor’s wife and locked in the kitchen. Apparently, there is some Southern Baptist law that the mothers cannot be seen by the wedding guests until they are walked down the aisle... lest they catch on fire? A few moments later, the other mothers and grandmothers are put on lockdown with me. Duane comes to check on us, but Jenny’s shrieks and screams from another room cause him to run back to keep her quiet.

Nothing better than sitting with the mother-in-law, the future mother-in-law, and the ex-wife in a kitchen that is about 150 degrees! The hour of stifling heat and even more heated conversation (you can only IMAGINE how disenchanted my mother-in-law was) gave me a glimpse into what hell would be like. Just as I questioned that phrase, MY mother came in to join us. Yep, hell…

Hot Stuff

Surprisingly, the actual ceremony goes off without a hitch. The best man ALMOST catches his jacket on fire with the unity candles that were “wisely” placed at a three foot height. (I swear the jacket was singed when we returned it!) And of course, there is a classy deep throat make out session when the couple is told that they can kiss.

Smurf-like

After a million and half pictures, we venture to the reception hall. It is my job to give each guest a small bag of blue rose petals to shower the bride and groom. I open my bag and hold the petals for a few moments, and notice my fingers are turning blue like a Smurf’s. I look around and notice EVERYONE’S fingers are blue, as well as a few kids’ mouths. I lean into the bride’s sister and inquire where they got blue petals. I am told they had to make them. The bride purchased white petals and colored them with bingo dobbers. As my jaw drops, the bride and groom walk in.

The petals are thrown and I can FINALLY eat! I get into line and fill up my plate. I put my plate at the parent table and the Church Lady – the church was “kind” enough to leave someone from their congregation to babysit help us with any questions or issues – comes over and tells me that the petals are staining the floor. I grab a broom and some kids, and clean up the blue petals, their puddles, and the stains.

I return to the parent table to find a drink dumped over in my plate and Duane is nowhere to be found.

To Dance or Not to Dance

Just as I am dealing with the blue petals, Duane is pulled into the church office by the same Church Lady and told under NO circumstances will there be ANY dancing in HER church. Duane explains that the pastor authorized it and even suggested where to put the dance floor. The Church Lady will NOT be deterred. Duane suggests that the Church Lady contact the pastor and speak with him. The Church Lady states if there is dancing, the pastor WILL be fired and she will make sure of it. I think Jenny might have met her match here!

The pastor cannot be reached, so they go to a higher authority: his wife. It is agreed that they can do the bride and groom dance and the daddy/daughter dance. Duane breaks the news to Jenny while dancing with her. I wonder if anyone got a picture of that face...

Thud

After trying three times to eat SOMETHING, I finally give up. Every plate I make is spilled, taken away, or set down as I go put out another fire. I never once sit at the parent’s table that caused such a ruckus. I am shocked when it was time to cut the cake. The bride and groom have decided to be mean and rub the cake in each other’s faces. “Unfortunately,” Justin misjudges his wife’s weight or lack thereof, and while smearing her face with cake, ends up slamming her head into the wall with a resounding THUD. Once it is confirmed that she is ok (I swear, I think she has a concussion), a deafening cheer goes up in the room.

Awkward

As if the day has not been stressful or tiring enough, we have to add awkward. Before all of the guests leave, but as the party was winding down, Duane’s ex-wife, Arleen, grabs my arm and drags me into a closet. Now, Arleen is a close talker – I have made out with people before and not been as close as she is when she talks. Here I am locked in closet with the ex, scared to death that she is going to make a move. Surely you go to hell for making out with another girl in the Nazarene Sanctuary hall...


While she is speaking to me, her lips are LITERALLY brushing my face. It turns out that she wants my opinion on tipping the girls who worked in the kitchen. I mumble a “sure” and run out of the closet, feeling the stares of the guests and the Church Lady. I smile at her and wipe my lips off! She left shortly thereafter. I can only imagine that her prayer list is longer than a floor-dragging skirt.

Silkwood Shower

The party has ended, the guests are gone, and more importantly, the bride is gone and it's time to clean up. Duane is dragged to the church by the in-laws to clean up their sanctuary, and I am left to clean up the reception hall. With help from many of the kids, I clean 158 chairs (only 60 guests showed) and 27 tables. I put everything back just like I found it.

I head to the ladies room to make sure it is clean. I am displeased with the condition and I work to leave it cleaner than I found it. I move on to the men's room and someone has taken a poop in the urinal! I am beyond appalled. I go into the supply room and don a garbage bag over my clothing and gloves. With the urinal clean, I go into the stall and finally understand why someone pooped in the urinal. Apparently, after a child pooped in the stall, he must have “wiped” with his hands because I could see EVERYTHING he touched: the toilet handle, the stall, the entrance door handle. Notably, he did NOT touch the sink or soap, and now I am glad that I missed out on the buffet. I finish cleaning the bathroom, praying for a silkwood shower.

'Communion'

At this point, Duane returns from the church with our vehicle that has two glasses of wine left in a bottle. I pour it into a coffee cup with a lid and go back into the church kitchen to finish my cleaning. One of the family sees me and states that “God will smite you!” She stops and laughs and says, “Oh wait, he already did!” I take my communion into the closet where I don’t have to share it.

Are You SHITTING Me?

Hallelujah, Praise God, it is DONE. Everything is cleaned up, closed up and we are going home! It is 6:00 and we are only an hour away. The caravan starts, and we end up in the back since we are hauling a trailer with all of this wedding crap. The rest of the crew gets about two miles ahead of us and then there is a nasty accident. The rest of the caravan made it safely past, but Duane and I sit in park for a full hour and 20 minutes while the accident is cleaned up. As I sit there dying for a shower, a meal, and a bottle of wine, I threaten Duane’s manhood if he has any more girls.

Disaster Strikes

Today couldn't have gone worse for my newly enforced gonna. I started off the day with the best of intentions, but you know that means that someone had to ride in on a life-ruining horse and annihilate my dreams. This black knight of horror I speak of is the HVAC guy, but ya know... we'll come to that.

To my terror, our heat broke last night. Well, not broke, but it kind of tried to kill us, so we decided to keep it off until we could get a professional to come out and talk it down. I went to bed wearing my man's wool socks and aviator-chullo-wolf hybrid hat.

Despite the setback, I woke up this morning feeling less sick than I have all week and decided to take advantage of it by cleaning the house early so I could get to my aforementioned writing sess. I even went and met J (the bf) for lunch because, by jove, there were SO MANY hours in the day!

I returned home to the cold (and the shivering little monkey dog), but even that couldn't deter me from my newfound tenacity to write like a motherfucker. Two of my best friends were coming over later in the day, but I had time before they'd arrive. It would just make the sweet victory of following through even more sugary. Oh, and the HVAC guy? He'd be pulling in my driveway annyyyyy minute, so I could relax, watch some telly, and know that every little thing was gonna be alright.

I was almost all the way through Glee (WHAT IS THIS SHOW EVEN?! JUST STOP.) before I realized that the appointment with the HVAC dude was well overdue. I frantically texted J to see where the hell this guy was. No one had been driving by, at least not between shitty musical numbers, and panic started setting in as I realized my perfect plan was being slowly poisoned by a stranger. I waited a while longer before giving in to the overwhelming depression I felt about losing my hour of writing.*

While I was halfway through a glass of super flat Dr. Pepper and even more than halfway out of my chair, J texted to let me know the renewed time of our HVAC appointment. It was too late for me to redeem my lost time and my friends were arriving at any minute. With the help of a SERIOUSLY TIME-CHALLENGED HANDYMAN, I self sabotaged myself... again.

Of course, I soon forgot about my despair when my lovely ladies showed up and made me laugh. My bf came home and kissed the anguish away. The delectable dinner that followed truly and fully erased my memory, thanks to a semi-food coma. I was completely numb to the horrendous error of the day until I laid my head down to sleep.

I instantly was wide awake and the writing fiasco came crawling back into my memory like an injured fawn. I jumped up, ran to my computer, and knew I had to tell my story. Oh, and in doing so, I got my hour of writing in. (I was also unfortunately reminded of why "Roadhouse," even with the Swayze touch, should never be endured..... even on mute.)

So, yeah. Never give up, never surrender.

P.S. If you're wondering about the rest of my October gonnas, they're on the way. I'm editing video tomorrow!

P.P.S. Happy 100 posts to me!

* See: Hyperbole and a Half's most recent entry, specifically this photo.

Strugglin'

As a writer, I've had many an encounter with writer's block. It's always inconvenient and hefty, but once you find a tool big enough to crack it wide open, words normally come flowing out, projectile vomit style.

There's another obstacle that I find far tougher to overcome and it shows up much more frequently at my doorstep than ol' blocky block: me.

It's not that I don't have story ideas. It's not that I don't have time. It's that I don't have organization, and most importantly, motivation. Well, at least not at the right times.

Let me illustrate. It's nearing 10 p.m. on a week night, which means I should be asleep or at least thinking about it. To make matters worse, I'm sick and know that the tried and true method of extra rest would really rock my socks off. I'm also listening to my splendid boyfriend snore the most relaxing sounding snores in the history of man. My eyes are dry with exhaustion. OF COURSE THIS IS THE BEST TIME TO WRITE!!!!!!!!!

This is how the connections in my brain work when it comes to writing. I don't know if this plagues my old App pals, too, or if this is just an example of the shitty work ethic I've somehow acquired in the last couple of years. Either way, I'm tired of getting in my own way. The only problem is, well, me.

I know, right? What is all this Inception-esque shit I'm throwing at you? How can the problem AND the solution be me? That's how it is when your creative shit flows from the same place your procrastination tactics do.

Even now, I'm having a hard time forcing myself to write even though writing's what I love and know. I have checked Facebook at least 5 times for no reason. I am forcing myself not to look up at the TV and watch "The Mummy," a film I have already seen at least 405 times due to an inappropriate crush on Brendan Fraser when I was a young girl. I have already caught myself looking at jobs, while productive, is something I should give full dedication to after I've finished what I've started. Self sabotage at it's finest.

It's time to turn off my metaphorical (and actual) TV and get back to my homework. It's time to crack my own whip and get my ass into shape. Here's the plan for the initial two week period, aka long enough to break my seriously horrid habits:

1. Write for an hour every day, even if it is an exercise out of my old creative writing books.
2. While doing so, turn off the TV, don't touch Chrome, and back away from the cleaning supplies. This is just me, the keyboard, and maybe some music.
3. Dedicate at least half of that writing time to this blog.

Alright, folks. A real gonna plan, laid out here for you to follow and help me conquer. If you don't, there's a good chance I'll develop a stutter. P-p-pleeeaaasee don't do this to me!

Silently Waiting, Worrying, Wondering

As is standard with anything to do with the written word, there is an ebb and flow to it all. It's strong then weak, ruthless then soft, riveting then slow.

I know this blog started out with a bang of sardonic comedy and might have made you laugh. It might have given you hope or inspired you, because it seemed like I was really doing big things, or at least overhyping small shit I was proud to have done that day.

But then I fell. Not literally (but almost) because of health issues. I didn't let it stop this blog, but I will be the first to admit that there is a certain essence of myself that seems to be lacking from its content lately. I try to remedy it, but constant exhaustion combined with sometimes debilitating physical problems don't exactly make the mind clear. It's not a conducive environment for wit, and I know that the cracks of my real life have started to show in my written one. Consider these past few weeks the ebb to my prior flow. That means the flow should be returning any minute with coffee, ready get back to work.

I spent yesterday figuring out what my next move was going to be and generally lounging with people who are some of the few on the planet willing to listen to my constant obsession with, well, everything. I talked to my future roommate and my current roommate. I pondered what life will be like a week, month, and year from now. I loosely planned a trip to the big city I soon hope to call my home. I read David Sedaris for the laughs, and found myself reading a story about his elfin job at Macy's his first weeks in New York City. (It was oddly comforting.) All of these things, I would label as gonnas accomplished.

But what I accomplished most yesterday was a nagging feeling at the back of my mind concerning the results of my CT scan. I've convinced myself that it will be completely fine, while at the same time having apocalyptic visions as to what is going on inside of my body. Worse than being legitimately sick would be the fact that all of the gonnas I have planned for myself, big and small, would suddenly have to take a back seat. In an essence, I would have to give up, even if only for a moment. Sure, my gonnas could easily change with me, but my heart would still be with the gonnas I'd committed myself to before I was sick.

So here it is. Today I'm gonna find out if I'm fine or if I'm sick or anywhere on the spectrum between. If I am healthy, I'm gonna celebrate with a dance. I'm going to dedicate myself to making all of my gonnas come true.

If I'm sick, I'm gonna cry, dust my shoulders off, and find gonnas that will make me better.

Regardless, I'm gonna need my readers to stay beside me and keep reading, because really, where would I be - healthy or sick - without anyone by my side?