Posted in all about me, life lessons


image courtesy of

I hate statistics.

It’s not that I hate math.  I mean, I don’t love it, but I’m good at it. Numbers make sense to me, and, unlike most people (including me) they never lie – and I looooove word problems. I know, I’m weird – but hearing “two trains leave the station…” gets my blood pumping. Word problems are multi-step puzzles without missing pieces.

But statistics?

image courtesty of getty/

I know that I’m not alone – a quick Google search of that phrase comes back with “about 221,000,000 results” in .61 seconds. There’s even an “I hate statistics” website.

So imagine my dismay at discovering I’ve become one – and not a fun statistic, like being one of the 1 in 42 million who win the California super lotto.

I am a victim of identity theft. Again, I’m not alone. As per this 2022 article from Fortunly, 33% of US citizens have been victims of identity theft, with over 49 million victims in 2020.

I am “lucky” in that he/she/they/the motherf-er “only” used my information to file an unemployment claim. It seems counterintuitive to do so little with my information (not that I’m not grateful) but, per my conversation with the EDD, it’s increasingly common. Criminals buy data in bulk when there’s a breach, and file thousands of claims. I don’t know about you, but filing thousands of unemployment claims seems like a lot of work.

I don’t want you to join me. Nerdwallet has great tips for preventing identity theft, including:

  1. Be alert to to phishing and spoofing. Scammers can make phone calls appear to come from government entities or businesses, and emails that appear to be legitimate may be attempts to seal your information. Initiate a callback or return email yourself, working from a known entity such as the official website, rather than responding to a call or email. And be wary of attachments-many contain malware.
  2. Watch your mailbox. Stolen mail is one of the easiest paths to a stolen identity. Have your mail held if you’re out of town. Consider a U.S. Postal Service-approved lockable mailbox. You can also sign up for Informed Delivery though the USPS, which gives you a preview of your mail so you can tell if anything is missing.
  3. Shred, shred, shred. 

Lastly, stop answering questions on Facebook. “I bet you don’t remember your third grade teacher” or “What’s your childhood phone number” may seem innocuous, but hackers use the answers to collect your security questions! While you’re at it, don’t play those games either. You know the ones – “Which Disney princess do you look like?” I love them, but a security expert warned me against them last year. No, I don’t remember why (thanks swiss cheese brain!).

If, like me, you do all the right things but still find yourself a victim, there are several steps you should take.

1. Scream, cry and throw things. It’s not helpful, but it is cathartic.

2a. Check your credit report. By law, everyone is entitled to one free credit report/year, but, thanks to COVID, you check your credit report once/week (which is the only good thing about the pandemic. Well, that, and the fact that I finally get to work from home).

2b. Place a fraud alert or security freeze on your credit report. The nice thing about a fraud alert is that you only have to notify one of the three credit reporting companies (they alert the others) AND it halts all those pre-screened credit card applications for 6 months.

3. File an identity theft report with the FTC. Their site leads you step-by-step through the necessary actions. Hmmmm. Maybe that should be the first step?

As my daughter reminded me, in the grand scheme of things, this is a minor bump – it’s fixable, nobody lost a limb or became “unalive” and we’ve dealt with a worse in our rollercoaster decade.

She’s right. Life’s a rollercoaster, and 49% of people like rollercoasters (now that’s a statistic I can understand). So get in, sit down, buckle up and don’t forget to throw your hands in the air – it makes the ride so much more fun.


Posted in all about me, life lessons

Today I FAILed

once2Once upon a time, back when I was a beginning blogger, I knew how to set up a new blog. I added widgets and images and “about” and “contact” pages effortlessly (well, maybe not EFFORTLESSLY) but that was not the case today.

Today I decided that I have spent too much time playing Harry Potter: Puzzles and Spells and Tsum Tsum and not enough time writing.

Today I decided that I have spent too much time scrolling through social media and not enough time interacting with my fellow writers.

Today I decided that I have spent too much time listening to the lies the EIC tells me and not enough time twisting suburbia.

Today I managed to create a copy of myself.

Well, not literally…(I could use another self or three, but the copy of the copy of the copy gets pretty blurry) 

But I did manage to create a new blog site. A place where I can be be fundaMENTALly me, which leaves me free to return to my Erma Bombeck/Tracy Beckerman inspired tales from suburbia.

But in the process of building a new site, I managed to lose my version of suburbia (evidently no longer supports Coraline and I’m not a huge fan of Colinear (“our update to the older Coraline”) – so….

Today I changed the theme of my blog. 

I also spent HOURS trying to create the new site…and found that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, figure out how to add the sharing buttons on my post or remove “twistingsuburbia” as the author of my posts. 

In short, Today I tried something new – and I failed. 

But it’s okay – because today I wrote (two posts – one to each blog!) and, as Scarlett said, tomorrow is another day.

It’s also okay because today I remembered what A.P.J. Abdul Kalam said about failing.


P.S. you can check out my new blog here

P.P.S after spending hours trying to add social media sharing buttons, they magically appeared…guess they took pity on me 😉

Posted in 2020, all about me

Happy Fall Y’all

image courtesy of

Happy Fall! FYI that’s Fall as in brisk mornings and changing leaves, spooky decorations and bonfires (unless you live in California), hot chocolate and pumpkin spiced EVERYTHING, not “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” You’re probably too young to remember that particular commercial (lucky you).

After two months of 70 hour workweeks my side gig is finally coming to an end. I have tons of free time, which should mean that I have time to clean, write, catch up on Lucifer and This is Us or just Get Things Done.

Instead I’ve taken up a new hobby, and I’ve been spending far too much time drawing (my husband has nicknamed me Simon).

But as Suziespeaks pointed out, it’s the final quarter of the year, and the hell that is 2020 is finally coming to an end. It’s entirely possible that the new year will bring a fresh level of hell (how many levels did Dante say there were?), but I intend on starting 2021 with a clean slate – and a clean house.

Weekend #1 didn’t go entirely as planned. I was going to prep the livingroom for a new coat of paint, but decided to take a daycation at the beach instead. The water was finally warm(ish) and The Girl and I were able to swim and boogie board and search for shells while The Man watched the Sooners get trounced.

Sunday The Girl worked as a PA on a friend’s movie and we watched football with socially distant strangers. I was sad. Not because The Girl was working on a movie and I wasn’t (that’s a lie. I really miss being on set) but because the Chicago Bears forgot how to play football. I’m not sure what they were doing on the field, but I wouldn’t call it football (yeah, yeah, I know – the Colt’s D is #1 in the league. IDC)….and don’t get me started on the Lakers. I mean hellooooo – Jimmy Butler is just one guy. The five of you can’t stop one guy? (fingers crossed that tonight goes a little better).

Sorry. This post wasn’t supposed to be all about sports, but OMG couldn’t just ONE of my teams have won? It’s probably my fault that they lost – the universe wanted me to paint.

My point (yes, I have one) is that I want to spend the last quarter of the year Getting My Shit Together.

If you haven’t done it by midlife – why start now?

Oh goody, it’s the EIC. How I’ve missed you – not.

(EIC sulks away)

Wow. What a pouty hormonal B (the EIC, not me – although it applies to me as well…and the Girl. Sometimes I feel sorry for my husband – but he can be a pouty hormonal B sometimes too.)

ANYWAY. When I first got sent home (way back in March. April sometime this year) I thought “oh, I can use the time I save not commuting to tackle the garage and give the house a coat of paint” (I’m not sure how much tackling and painting I thought I’d get done with my extra hour/day, but that’s not the point) – and here we are, half a year later, and I still need to tackle and paint (which has nothing to do with bait and tackle, but coffee has kicked my ADHD into overdrive).

So I am trying to get organized – going through closets and drawers and tossing anything that doesn’t “spark joy” – all I have left are a pair of sweats, my supersoft robe, a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates.

I’m also going through files on my computer (not that I have any personal files on my computer, because we’ve been warned about that)…and I came across a document from eons ago – back when I first started blogging and was trying to “find my niche.” I knew that I couldn’t be Erma Bombeck (sigh. If only…) but I wanted to help new mothers survive the wilds of suburbia and parenthood with sanity (mostly) intact.

I was having a hard time coming up with a name for my blog, and although I love “Twisting Suburbia – Tales From the Skewed Side” my first tagline was a little darker:

Twisting Suburbia – Putting the F-U in fun, and the FUN in dysfunctional.

I have to admit I’m a little sad that I didn’t use this one:

Because I’m a B*tch – confessions from a mediocre aunt and a horrible mother

The document also includes a list of games for exhausted mothers/fathers/siblings/babysitters. The following games should give you 5-15 minutes of “free” time. Time to go to the bathroom, or take a catnap or cry softly while adding some Irish to your coffee:

  • Hide and DON’T seek
  •  The quiet game
  •  Statues (note – never touch/unfreeze the frozen player)
  •  Post-apocalyptic planet: everybody’s dead. Dead people don’t move. (Please note – this game may be hijacked by older children playing post-apocalyptic zombie apocalypse, but never fear – you can outrun a zombie, unless it’s one of those zombies from World War Z)

Full disclosure – I played hide and don’t seek with my brother. After about 5 minutes he would come looking for me.

“Why aren’t you looking for me?”

“You’re such a good hider – go hide again.”

He would play for at least 15 minutes, and I know of at least once that he fell asleep while waiting for me to find him.

I tried playing Hide and Don’t Seek with my daughter – when I told her to “go hide again” she rolled her eyes and walked away.

So, tell me  – what’cha doing with the rest of the year? How do you plan to “start fresh” in 2021? I’d love to hear from you (and not just because reading comments is better than painting the livingroom).

And for those of you who missed it, here’s the Life Call commercial that everyone mocks:

Posted in all about me

Voices, I hear voices

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It’s Monday, which means that I need to post (well, I don’t NEED to post, but I WANT to post, and I promised that I would try writing on a regular basis). Unfortunately my brain has melted and the voices in my head are snoring. Loudly. I promise to post something new soon (“soon” as in “sometime this week” not “soon” as in “See you soon” which somehow never comes…..)

Twisting Suburbia

voicesI have a confession to make. Seeing that I’m not Catholic, you’ll have to listen to my confession. If it will make you feel better, I’ll sit in a small stuffy room while I type.

I hear voices. No, not in a Joan of Arc way, and no, my dog doesn’t talk to me (probably because I don’t have a dog), but I do hear voices. They pop up when I read an “informative” article, listen to the side effects during a pharmaceutical commercial or when someone cuts me off on the freeway.

Sometimes the voices are helpful: “Pick up Lauren at school. Don’t forget to call your aunt. Today is your husband’s birthday. Hey, that a-hole just cut you off!”.

Sometimes they are catty: “Wow, did she look in the mirror before she left the house?”.

Sometimes the voices are lead by my EIC (Evil Inner Critic): “Wow, did…

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Posted in all about me, Feminine Wisdom

I’m Not What I’m Not (and neither are you)


My brother turned 50 last week. He used to be my baby brother, but now that he’s 50, he’s older than me.

He has to be older than me, because 50 is midlife (if we’re lucky) and there are so many things I thought I’d be before middle age, and I’m not any of them.

To be honest, I can’t remember what I thought I’d be by now (thanks Mental Pause!), but I don’t think this is it.

In fact, I know it isn’t.

I didn’t want to live in suburbia. I had escaped my hometown and planned on Never Returning. I brought my boyfriend home to meet my parents and he said the four most frightening words I’d ever heard – “It’s so pretty here.” We stayed for dinner and never left. I mean, we left my parents’ house (eventually. Don’t judge me – we were young and broke and they had room).  The nice thing about my hometown is that it’s centrally located – we spend the day skiing AND surfing (if only we did either of those things…..)

I never thought I’d get married. I loved my boyfriend/fiancé, but I didn’t want to marry him. I mean, my parents were married! And no, that’s not a comment on my parents’ marriage. They were happily married for 35 years. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I was old/mature enough to be a wife (tbh, I wasn’t). After 5 years and a “marry me or else” threat from the man, I walked down the aisle.

Our wedding was wonderful, and our reception an alcohol fueled dance fest, but I could have done without everyone asking The Question. We’d been living together 5 years, so I supposed it was inevitable, but it still surprised me when the first person asked it:

“So – when are you having kids?”

What? Why would I want to do that? I might (or might not) have been old enough to get married, but KIDS? My parents had kids!! So many people asked us (including my doctor) that I started responding with “I can’t have children.” If the asker was embarrassed/apologetic enough, I would follow up with “Oh, I’m physically capable, I just can’t stand them.”

It wasn’t that I hated kids (really, I didn’t. Not all of them at least). It’s just that we were enjoying being DINKs (Dual Income No Kids), I was perfectly happy being the Fun Aunt, and I was superbusy with classes and auditions and Preparing to Be a Star (or at least a featured extra).

Then I became an Accidental Mother – and discovered that things really ARE different when they’re your own (and not just because you can’t hand them back). I told my manager that I was going to “take a year off” but I never went back. I could have. My husband was supportive and worked nights – but I really enjoyed spending time with the girl (even during the teen years).

The past 20 years have flown by, and my baby girl is not a baby any more. Or a girl. It’s not that she transitioned, it’s that calling the kid who is five inches taller than me a “girl” seems weird somehow. Of course, so does calling her a woman. If a child transitioning from baby to child is a toddler, what do you call a child who is in the transition period between girl and woman?

This year my daughter turned 20 and my baby brother turned 50 and I found myself having a meltdown, because I wasn’t where I thought I’d be. I wasn’t a single city girl living the Hollywood dream or a world traveling DINK or even a suburban soccer mom (AYSO ends at 18). The Black Dog grabbed hold and started dragging me into the pit.

And then I remembered. Happiness is based on perception. As Michael Schreiner reminds us, “The best way to (achieve happiness) is by focusing on…what you have instead of what you lack, on your gifts instead of your shortcomings.” He goes on to add “The people you know who are happy go through difficult circumstances just like everyone else. They are confronted with their fair share of failures and disappointments, but they don’t dwell on the negatives. They focus on the positives, when it’s dark they look for the stars.”

What I’m not is of no importance. It’s what I am that matters.

Or, as Popeye said, I am what I am.

I am a mother and a daughter.

I am a wife and a partner in crime.

I am a sister, an aunt, a niece and a cousin.

I am a friend.

I am kind and bitchy.

I am funny and sarcastic.

I am old enough to know better but young enough not to care.

I am more than the sum of my parts.

I am love.

I am woman, hear me roar.

I’m not sure where we go from here, but we’re better together. So tell me – who are you? 



Posted in all about me

Not Dead Yet

HI! How are you? What’s new and exciting? Have you missed me?

Once again I find myself apologizing for being MIA. It’s not my fault – I was killed by pirates.

(I was going to insert the “killed by pirates is good” scene from The Princess Bride here but evidently it doesn’t exist. If you can find it, please let me me know)

No, wait, not killed by pirates. That’s silly. If I had been killed by pirates, I’d be dead, and I’m not. It’s not like I’m a ghost (although I could be a ghostwriter, if anyone’s looking). KIDNAPPED. Kidnapped by pirates. Kidnapped by a handsome, rum-drinking pirate with a heart of gold (anyone else wish Elizabeth Swann had run off with Captain Jack?).

But I digress. Hey! How are you? What’s new and exciting?

Ok, I wasn’t killed or kidnapped by pirates – I got waylaid by Life. Life is a four letter word (literally. I can count). The past few years have been…challenging. Let me explain. No, there’s too much. Let me sum up.

My husband almost died (twice) and was out of work for 3 years waiting for a work comp case to settle. I’m not telling you to get sympathy* – I’m telling you so that you’ll understand where I’ve been. It’s been an interesting few years, but we’ve made it with sanity (mostly) intact.

Money has been tight, and the house needs work, so when the opportunity arose to pick up a part-time gig, I jumped on it like a pogostick. That’s a lie. I am far too old to be jumping on a pogostick (I tried once, and almost broke my neck).


I have a friend who is an HR professional and mother to a 2 year old (stay with me, this isn’t just my overactive ADHD). She works 70 hours/week, and still manages to take care of her house, her toddler and their son (bwahhahahahaha – see what I did there?).

I don’t know how she does it. After working a 12 hour day, all I want to do is crawl into bed with a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine and watch the Winchesters kill things. We have Disney, Netflix and Amazon prime, but I’ve watched all 15 seasons of Supernatural 3 times now (those boys are super pretty – can you blame me?)

It looks like my part-time gig is finally winding down, so I should have more time to write – but appearances are deceiving and, knowing me, I’ll probably find another excuse to do everything but write (oh look! Supernatural is on!).

So that catches you up on where I’ve been lately. Not dead, just dead tired. So tell me, what did I miss?

*We all know where sympathy comes in the dictionary (between shit and syphallis)


Posted in all about me, life lessons

Birthday Bingo

Today is my 29th anniversary of my 29th birthday. I’m not looking for birthday wishes (but I wouldn’t say “no” if you offered them) or presents (but if you’re going to send one, I’d really like a pony). I’m telling you because although I’ve been an FFF* for a while now, I’m trying to make peace with the fact that I am o….o….not young.

They say facing your fears takes away their power (I really want to know who “they” are and how they get to be so wise), so I’m going to try again.

I am old. There. I said it. I feel much better now.

Not really. I’m lying. Again. I’d start a 12-step program, but we’d probably lie about not lying.

But old is a four letter word (not literally. I may be bad at truth telling, but I am good at math) and ageism is real. My husband has struggled to find a job recently. He’s smart, talented and (unlike me) a people person. He’s also not young. Old. Dammit. I will keep saying it until it doesn’t scare me. We are old.

But enough about him – it’s my birthday, so it’s all about ME.

I have a confession. I don’t like old people. I blame my mother – she didn’t like old people, so (since I am becoming my mother) it’s all her fault. It’s true. It’s the properties of equality – if A=B and B=C, then A=C (I told you I was good at math). Which brings me to my big birthday bingo moment.

I don’t like myself. Well, I do, but according to the EIC I shouldn’t (if I hate old people and I am old, I must hate myself). I told you, the EIC is an asshole.

But he’s right, I don’t like old people (because reasons) – but I have decided that I need to make my peace with being old. I’m not 29, no matter how hard I try to deny it. It’s a good thing, since the girl is 20 (do the math. Gross). The old lady in the mirror reminds me that I can’t lie about it any more. But getting older scares me, which is weird – you would think that the opposite (fear of death) would be true. But I’m weird.

I recently came across a video by psychologist and meditation teacher Tara Brach. In her video Facing Fear (part 1) she tells us  that “unfaced fear become toxic.”

This post from Ideas in English reminds us that “Fear is natural and can be helpful, but for many people it can become a problem that limits their lives” and suggests that we can move past the limitation by “allowing yourself to feel your fears, changing how you think about fear, and doing the things you’re afraid of.”

They go on to list the most common fears (fear of death, fear of rejection, fear of failure and fear of missing out) and list ways to move past them. But my favorite part of the article is the conclusion from psychologist Jordan Peterson. “He explains that fears and problems are like the dragons in western mythology – in many old stories, the frightened hero has to confront and kill the dragon…Peterson says, ‘the thing that you most need is always where you least want to look’; the dragon represents the thing you’re avoiding because you’re afraid it, and the gold you get after you have faced it is the thing you most need.”

What do I want for my birthday? A pair of granny panties – because I am old and it’s time for me to put on my big girl panties and face my fears. It’s time for me to remember that being brave isn’t being without fear, it’s feeling the fear and doing it anyway. It’s time for me to slay the dragon, get the gold, and remember what FEAR really means.

*FFF=Fabulous Fiftyish Female

So tell me – what is your greatest fear, and how can we help you face it? 

I had good intentions of continuing SuzieSpeaks’ Daily gratitude challenge (you know what they say about good intentions) but I got distracted by Fandango’s Dog Days of August challenge. Today’s theme is “blog.” They asked why I started, and because I’m lazy and haven’t finished my coffee, I chose to reblog instead. I swear, I’ll get back to being grateful “in a football minute.” Please note, that football minutes are much longer than regular minutes.

Twisting Suburbia

th5HHDH7O9When I started blogging, I had aspirations delusions of becoming the next Erma Bombeck. My mom and I loved Erma Bombeck, and her posts frequently caused milk (mine) or pink chablis (mom’s) to snort from our nose(s). I find it highly suspicious that my mother died shortly after her favorite author left us.

I started blogging because, as a reluctant suburban soccer mom, I felt out of place and intimidated by the perfectly quaffed Stepford Wives PTA moms (in their slim skirts, clean blouses and 9″ heels) who chatted effortlessly with each other and the school staff at back to school nights and  “Coffee With the Principal” events.

Wait. That’s not right. I started blogging because, as a former DINK (Dual Income, No Kids), I felt out of place and intimidated by the perfectly quaffed new mothers (in their yoga pants and squeaky clean athletic shoes) at the “baby…

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Write Here, Write Now

Posted in all about me, life lessons

The EIC is a D-bag

image courtesy of
For those of you who were disappointed/confused/irritated by my earlier post, it was my half-assed attempt at humor. With all the divisiveness/hatred/bad and sad news out there  I haven’t been feeling very funny lately, but I’m trying. It was either a silly post or putting bologna in my shoes. 

image courtesy of

I promised that I would try to blog on Tuesdays and Fridays. I was thinking of adding Sunday, which is when my EIC spoke up.

You can’t even post twice a week, what makes you think three times is a good idea?

I wrote three times last week.

But not on Tuesday or Friday.

(checks blog). Liar. I wrote on Friday.

You posted a “Woe is me, my brother’s dog died.” That’s not a post, that’s a not-so-subtle cry for attention.

Shut up.

No YOU shut up.

You’ve been quiet lately.

Did you miss me?

Hell no, I was hoping you’d died.

Well, I was hoping you’d died.

What? That doesn’t even make any sense.

You don’t make sense. 

You’re an idiot.

I know you are but what am I?

OMG. Shut up already.

As you can tell, my EIC is a two year old.

You’re a two year old.

Please be quiet.

My Evil Inner Critic is a two year old. Actually, he changes. Some days he’s two, some days he’s my age, and some days he’s my older than dirt grandmother who was always disappointed in me. Whoops. That wasn’t me, that was him again. Sneaky bastard. My grandmother was a military wife, and our house was never clean enough for her (she actually wiped the top of the door on a visit) but she loved me and taught me to garden, to cook, to fish and to paint (well, she tried). The EIC whispers that she was disappointed in me, but he’s a liar. She would love her great-granddaughter and she would get a kick out of my blog.

That’s what you tell yourself, but you’ll never know because she’s dead.

He’s a liar and a d-bag.

The Evil Inner Critic is that voice in your head that tells you that you’re not good/smart/thin enough. The one who says that you’re too old/young/tall/short/dumb to try something new. The demon who whispers that it’s too late to chase your dreams, and that even if it wasn’t, you’re a talent-less hack and that nobody likes you anyway (or maybe that’s just mine).

Nadia Bolz-Webber (founding pastor of The House For All Sinners and Saints) says that your EIC is the devil. She/they look AWESOME. I’m more spiritual than Christian, but I’m definitely going to check them out.

Peter Michaelson explains on The inner critic (known in psychoanalysis as the superego) is a brute force, a totalitarian tyrant, lurking in the human psyche. It’s a primitive part of us that operates with the mentality of a psychopath. It harbors a capacity for evil. (It) is a formidable inner foe, a true enemy within that is audacious and shameless. He says that we cannot ignore it, tame it or befriend it, but says that we can, however, undermine and defeat it with correct self-knowledge. 

I’ve battled the EIC for years all my life. I’ve tried different techniques to keep him quiet. Some of them work well, some less so. I’ve found that giving him a voice – letting him spew his lies and hatred without interruption works best .* As you can see from above, I don’t always follow my own advice, so I looked online for some tips.

Katherine Grugg says that her EIC is the henchman of Fear (FEAR=False Expectations Appearing Real) and that she pictures him as an evil disney sidekickHe whispers his lies into my ear, hoping that I’ll believe him. He’s as quiet as the Evil Queen’s raven in Snow White, as subtle as the Siamese Cats in The Aristocats and has the same tone of voice, at times, as Cinderella’s step-sisters. But that’s where the G-rated comparisons stop. (And I call him he because it fits better today, but he’s not restricted to gender.)

She says that her inner critic is the single greatest threat to her success as a writer, and lists ten techniques that work for her. These two are my favorite:

  • I yelled right back at this voice. My therapist told me I can tell him to shut up. He will. I owed it to myself to fight back. And I also learned that if real people say this stuff to me, I have the means to leave them.
  • I stopped comparing myself to others. My inner critic is obsessed with the success of other writers. He whispered in my ear that I should be doing this, that or the other better. This is a bunch of ca-ca. My success is mine alone. Just tell that inner critic to shut up once and for all so you can focus on being you!

She explains that If I actually listen to my inner critic, then it’s like I am putting the handcuffs on and I’m allowing him to drag me into fear. There’s no way I can be successful and listen to him at the same time. One of us has to go.

Hey Assbutt. I’m not going anywhere. Time for you to go.

*I take dictation from the EIC, writing everything he says longhand (because it’s faster) for 5 minutes or until he runs out of steam, whichever is shorter. Sometimes I laugh and shred it, sometimes I write out responses to his B.S.



Posted in all about me, on writing

I’m (very) Trying

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I’ve been told (well, not TOLD, exactly) that the secret to a successful blog is blogging on a regular basis. Heard. That’s the word I was looking for. I heard that a good blogger writes on a regular basis (no, I don’t remember where) – that his/her/their readers want to be able to depend on the blogger – that they/he/she (am I missing any pronouns?) need to know when the posts will come.

If you’re following me (and if you’re not, why not? don’t you like me?), you’ll know that I’m not a good blogger. You’ll know that I’m far less than consistent – that (at best) I’m an occasional blogger. I have a confession to make. Seeing that I’m not Catholic (and even if I were, churches are closed). I’ll confess here. I let work and worry and stress and the black dog derail me. I want to write on a regular basis, but there are some days the brain weasels are running so fast all I can hear is the squeak of the wheel and other days the EIC won’t shut up.

BUT (Yes, I have a big but, and not just the one that’s getting bigger thanks to the pandemic and stress eating drinking).


I’m trying to change. I’m trying to be a better writer/friend/human. I am trying to overcome my procrastinating perfectionist tendencies. I am trying to stop ignoring the voices in my head and allow them to speak their (my?) mind – because my customer service training taught me that if you allow a person to vent, uninterrupted, eventually they will run out of steam.


The problem with change is twofold

  1. We don’t have any. No, really, haven’t you heard about the change shortage?
  2.  I hate change. Not coins, just change. It’s scary and hard and icky. I don’t like it.

But I’m trying. In my attempt to change, I decided to post on Tuesdays and Fridays. The problem with that (in case you haven’t noticed) is that today is Wednesday.*


I’m off to a great start. But at least I’m trying.

Tomorrow (or maybe later today, or perhaps Friday) I’ll be back to July’s gratitude challenge. Today I’m grateful that the weasels oiled their wheel.

What are you grateful for?


*Where’s The Doctor when you need him?

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