Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Screw Lady Gaga and her Poker Face

Most of life is a gamble and unfortunately I’m a shitty poker player - for many reasons.

First of all, gambling excites me so I tend to go all in. Doesn’t matter what’s in my hand since I really don’t know how to play anyhow. Go big or go home - right, David Thorne?

We played poker for dimes and nickels once with my family for about an hour before Mark deemed me unfit to play and sent me to bed.

My math skills are on par with most first-graders, so I’m not so good at calculating odds. When I buy a PowerBall ticket I always assume I’ll win because, hey – someone will. Why not me? Knowing me, though, if I had the winning ticket I’d put it through the washing machine.

Also it’s been said that perhaps…at times…my face gives away what I’m feeling. Sulking and beaming are not great poker faces. My only shot would be to hide behind an online site like Poker Junkie (Hi, Brian Mosher!), but I’d still have to learn to count. And find pairs.

I could play strip poker in the winter since I wear at least 42 articles of clothing, but I’d still probably be naked first. My only hope would be that the game went on so long I bored the other players into submission.

All my life I’ve hated that my heart doesn’t even bother with my sleeve – it’s right there on my face for the world to see. I’ve wanted to be one of those cool mysterious people, the ones who are unreadable. Still not great with the math but I’m guessing those odds are nearly the same as my winning the PowerBall.

This weekend, though, I realized it’s OK to have your heart on your face sometimes. It was a gamble when Mark and I headed for St. Cloud and I wasn’t so confident about the odds.

But I saw his heart on his face as well. I guess we might both be lousy poker players, but maybe that’s OK. In my game of poker, a pair of hearts beat a royal flush any day.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

In Sadness There is Joy

Be careful what you wish for. I wrote down some wishes and dreams for 2013 and one was to travel. Mark and I spent last weekend in St. Cloud, MN at an intensive marriage counseling workshop.

It was horrible - excruciatingly long days for me, and my muscles rebelled. Three days of squirming on the floor in pain while trying to listen and focus. For those who know my situation, that's not the kind of stamina that I have right now. I nearly passed out during the last session from exhaustion.

Although I say the weekend was horrible physically, it was also the best weekend my husband and I have ever had. We went into the weekend barely able to speak for ten minutes without an argument erupting and we came out communicating better than we ever have. We totally reconnected in a way I doubted that we could.

I planned to sleep most all of Monday and today to recuperate. But life has other plans, and I said I wanted to travel.

I woke up to pee yesterday and turned on my phone. 14 emails and 7 voicemails.

My uncle Stacy died. Off we go to Iowa on the ice rink that is I-35, posthaste.

The picture above is doubly appropriate for this post. Mark and I absolutely reconfirmed our vows over the weekend and the photo is from our wedding. It's also now the last picture of our whole Ware family, ever.

Our family is so small and I'm so crushed to see them losing a brother, a father, a husband, a grandpa.

But Stacy lived a full life, and I'm overjoyed at the idea of seeing my family. We're scattered around the whole country so it's rare that we are all together at once. We've been blessed with two chances recently, my wedding in 2011 and my brother's in 2012. (It tears me up that we didn't get a group picture last year, but we got lots of fabulous photos, including one of my husband wearing my uncle Stacy's Indian attire.)

So although I'm still worn down from the weekend, I'm packing now for a funeral. Full of sadness for the loss of one of our little group, but full of joy to spend time with the rest.

And excited for the idea of a new member of the group.

No, I'm not pregnant. One of my uncles has a pretty serious girlfriend now so perhaps we can celebrate a wedding next.

I know two things today for certain.

In sadness, there IS joy and you should take a family photo every chance you get.

Friday, January 25, 2013

Conversations NOT to Have With Your Acupuncturist During the Insertion Process

So there I was on the acupuncture table as she inserted 70,000 needles one by one.

Holistic practitioners are much more personable than MDs, and the clinic that Leslie and I go to is stone cold amazing. I definitely feel a connection to the people there, but some conversations are better saved for AFTER the needling.

As she's sticking me, she says conversationally (she's reading my book) "So you scared my cat the other night."

Me: "Huh?"

Needler: "I was reading about when you got kicked out of the gay strip club in Atlanta and I laughed so hard I scared the cat."

Me: "Ha ha."

Needler (in very thoughtful tone): "You know, you really hit the nail on the head with the way you worded it. NO woman would give a gay stripper a blow job for FUN."




I lost my shit at that point and then she got going, too. Mind you, she's STILL sticking needles everywhere. The laughter had subsided to mere giggles by the time she made her way to my throat and for that I am thankful.

"Hold still and stop laughing," she says.

REALLY? After THAT conversation?

Interestingly enough, she was needling me yesterday to release emotional stress for the upcoming weekend. She left me alone to 'let it all out', assuming I would cry.

I giggled the whole way through the session.

Maybe laughter really IS the best medicine, even for my screwed up qi.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

The Honeymooners

It feels like my life has ground to a halt.

Six months ago, I lost my grip.

Literally, my grip on my pen. The grip on reality has been lost more gradually.

I was standing by my desk and I felt so woozy. I sat down to write down the doctor's number so I could go in the other room to call privately and the pen kept sliding out of my hand. My hands and feet weren't doing what my brain was telling them to do. I walked like I was hammered and I wasn't making sense.

It's been six months of muscle spasms and swollen joints and sleeping fifteen hours a day. Six months of stuttering speech when I never before stuttered in my life. Six months of clenching fingers, toes and brain. Six months of supervitamins and MRIs and EKGs and an echocardiograms. Slow thoughts, slow speech and apparently a slow heart, too.

I've lost my independence, my job, fifty pounds and I'm THIS CLOSE to losing my husband, too.

This is hard.

Bear with me for uno momento por favor as I bitch, for I know that there are so many out there who have it far harder, but it doesn't change the reality.

Hard is hard. 

(Boy, someone is gonna be disappointed when they key that search phrase into Google and land here.)

Hubs and I are going away for the weekend. We've never gone on an overnight trip together anywhere, just the two of us. Technically that may make this our honeymoon. The irony is not lost on me, but perhaps - and I am praying for this - it truly will be a new beginning.

We're going to St. Cloud, MN, current temp one degree with a windchill of 22 below zero. And we're going for marital counseling so we don't kill each other. It's a three-day workshop on how to Not Communicate Like Assholes. We are both guilty of this sin and going to three-day confession. Well, I think confession is only Catholics, but this is a church thing so I'm assuming there's talk of sin and talk is like confession, right?

I have more of a one-on-one kind of relationship with God, so I'm a little scared of having Jesus rammed down my throat. Mark and I have enough trouble communicating right now without having to process heavy bible bites. Thee thou dost sayeth I'm worried my brain would fizzle after an hour.

But I'm more afraid of what will happen if we don't go.

It blows my mind, but we are two adults and we absolutely cannot figure this out. We need someone to help us Not Be Assholes. Honestly, we both need Extra Good love from each other right now - A+ love. Instead we both somehow seem to say the wrong thing every time.

So yeah, it's gonna be a loooooooooooooooooong weekend. And I'm scared. And I'm exhausted at the very thought of try to focus on something so intense for an entire weekend. I'm still recovering from a four-hour birthday party for my dad last Saturday. Granted there were cocktails there and I'm pretty sure there won't be cocktails in church. But maybe hotel church is different and this is a little town in the frozen wasteland of Minnesota. Maybe we should bring a flask.

I am proud of us for being adults and asking for help, because frankly when I'm angry I'm like a hormonal teenager and so is Mark. We're gonna earn these damn Got Your Back shirts this weekend. Nobody said marriage would be easy, right?

This is battle, folks, and we're going in. If yer the prayin' kind, we'd sure oblige any prayers you could shoot our way this weekend.

We're off to see the wizards of St. Cloud and ask how to put our hearts back.

Saturday, January 19, 2013

An Ode To Wild Bill

Wild Bill turns 60 today.

At an age when he and my mom should be wintering in Phoenix or Florida, he's still parenting me.

I am 36 years old and I have both of my parents here to love me, to steer me (let's not tell lies), to support me. I realize I'm every parent's dream spawn, but I'm certainly at an age where I ought to be taking care of Ma and Pa, not the other way around.
Last August when I was too ill to go, my dad took a copy of my hot-of-the-presses book and went to try to give it to Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess, on my behalf. He bailed before making it to the front of the meet-and-greet but to be fair, I got text reports for hours as he stood there awkwardly, no doubt one of very few 59-year-old heterosexual men at Barnes & Noble that night. He might have grown a vagina from all the secondhand estrogen.

He's been my de facto manager since my book came out. He handles fulfillment, distribution and helping me beg people to read it. It's an unpaid internship but I think he ought to ask his accountant if he can write off the mileage for helping a mentally handicapped person.

Many of his days off are spent practicing for when I go on book tour, but instead we go to hospitals and clinics. He drives me there, gets me past the paparazzi, then waits patiently in the background for hours while I'm greeting my readers poked by nurses and lab techs.

Just a few days ago, he drove me from Richfield to St. Paul to Plymouth back to Richfield and sat in the parking lot for an hour so I could get fired. For those of you three readers who aren't local, I'd draw you a map but I'm typing this with a cat sleeping across my forearms so it would be too hard to draw. It's an annoyingly long drive, basically a whole loop of the Twin Cities on an icy cold day.

Good times. I know that's how I hope to spend my golden years.

It's been brought to my attention that I get a lot of my...quirks...from him, including my sense of humor. So if I'm half his genes then the success of my book really is partly his responsibility. Let's hope it makes it Twilight Harry Potter 50 Shades, so we can pay someone to drive him around for a change.

Who am I kidding?

Wild Bill would never let someone else drive. We'll be chasing him down on his 90th birthday, trying to get his damn keys.

Cheers to another 30, Wild! After that, we might have to put you down.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Perhaps My Next Job Will Be In Technology

My job was in marketing and required fast-paced multi-tasking to manage dozens of initiatives at once that were constantly evolving. Priorities changed daily, if not hourly. There was no training program, I learned by doing it all, and by doing it all at once. I continually pulled things out of my ass at the eleventh hour like a magician.

In thoughtful honesty, I have to say I understand their decision to let me go.

Since becoming ill, my brain doesn't work the same way. I need step-by-step instructions to complete simple tasks.

Leslie forgot to record something and asked me to do it. Naturally, I'm happy to do a favor for a friend, but...

"Leslie, I need instructions..." In meek tone of text.

Shortly thereafter I received an email:

Setting up for Ellen.
(Like she's coming over. I wish.)
  • Find the remote on the couch... somewhere.
  • The slider tab at the very top of the remote should be all the way to the right under TV (if not, move it).
  • Turn on TV by pressing uppermost right button that says On. Hopefully I was not watching anything last night that would incriminate me.  I feel asleep on the couch...
  • Using the top slider tab, slide it all the way to the left side so that it's under Satellite.
  • At this point you should pet one or both cats.
  • In the middle of the remote on the left side there is a guide button. Press it once.
  • Guide should pull up a program list press the numbers 04 - this will take you to the channel 4 list for today.
  • Around the orange select button there are arrows pointing up, down, right and left. Use the right arrow to scroll to the 4:00 hour. 
  • Once you see the Ellen show use the arrows to highlight. 
  • Press the button with red circle with an R on it (on the right side).
  • Click the exit button.
  • Slide the tab at the top back to TV and press the off button (under the on button).
  • Now that you are done, any available cats should be snuggled.

She even included a helpful picture for me to reference during my assignment.

Bear in mind, these are exactly the kind of instructions I needed. Leslie sees me daily and truly understands my mental capacity at present.

So, yeah.

Who wants to hire me? I can work an hour or two a day between appointments and naps.

Thursday, January 17, 2013


I've been thinking a lot about what we leave behind.

After reading Tell My Sons..., after losing my job, after hearing that yet another of my classmates has taken his own life. If the only constant is change, then I guess if we're moving in the correct direction (forward, I hear) we're leaving small legacies behind every day.

I cleaned out my desk yesterday.

A desk at a company I've spent seven and a half years with in one role or other. A company whose people I've known for thirteen years. My belongings didn't even cover the bottom of a box.

No awards, no family photos, no pictures of hubs and I on a tropical President's Club vacation. There's a softball that was given to me mocking my largish frame, a half-headless magnet lady and a picture of me with midgets in wrestling attire. Some tea, some spare change, some hair binders and an ounce of Aveda lotion. Frankly I'm shocked the lotion was still there. Aveda is good shit.

I said a handful of awkward goodbyes, though mostly just random people wandered by like "Hey, you're back!"

My boss hugged me, handed me my parting gifts and off I went.

That, folks, was where I spent the majority of my adult career.

I felt a cocktail of emotions leaving. Sadness, resentment, hurt, anger. I worked myself ragged on so many initiatives and it got me nowhere in the end.

The good news is that being let go relieves a certain amount of pressure. I can honestly stop feeling guilty about my work falling to the wayside, because it's no longer my work.

I can truly focus on myself for a bit, on getting healthy and well and strong.

Because when I DO go back to work I don't want to become just another forgotten desk somewhere again. I want to leave something better behind than some hair elastics and politically incorrect photographs. You know, for when I die.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

The Ultimate Dinner Party

So I was thinking about who I'll invite to the ultimate dinner party. You know, the hypothetical one where your answers should be along the lines of the Dalai Lama, Martin Luther King, Mahatma Ghandi and Mother Teresa.

But they would make me far too nervous to eat.

If I'm having the ultimate party, there's gonna be food and beverages, and I'm inviting Chelsea Handler, Augusten Burroughs, Ellen Degeneres, Dane Cook and Diablo Cody. Amanda Palmer and Kid Rock can come too, but only if they agree to perform.

Chelsea can bring Chuy because I would like to befriend him as well. It would be good for my midget karma to have a small friend.

Ellen can bring Portia. I need to see for myself how skinny she is. She's a beautiful woman, but Ellen must be a shitty cook. You'd think she could just buy one, though.

Come to think of it, I don't have enough chairs for these people, so we should probably have the party at Chelsea's house because I bet she has a pool and we know she has a bar.

There will also be a dolphin at the party because I've always wanted to swim with one and it's not any less likely a dolphin would show up than the others in real life. But this is blog life, where I can make shit up as I please.

Chelsea's pool is probably so fancy it has some amazing filtration system that sucks pee right out of the water, so we wouldn't even have to leave the swim-up bar at the one end. It would be 83 degrees and sunny, the pool refreshing but not cold, and the mojitos would muddle themselves.

My real life friends would be there as well because otherwise they wouldn't believe me and also that would rock.

As the sun sets, we'd have canapes. Nothing haute cuisine, just some deep fried diamonds and money clips and dip. Kid Rock would then break out the guitar for a campfire sing-a-long. Social D should show up at this point, too, because we'd definitely need to dance. I would grind up on Chuy like there's no tomorrow, but in a platonic way for more midget karma. The s'mores would be perfectly toasted, as would we (thanks, Kid!).

I do feel the need to end this by saying there's no need to worry, they didn't change my medications and I'm not having a seizure or a psychotic break. It's just a coooooooold January day in Minnesota and it's fun to daydream sometimes.

That is all.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Lt. Col. Mark Weber Called Me a Whore

Blogging is for validation whores.

The second I hit publish, the post is there in all its glory, just waiting for your feedback.

Once upon a time I had a lot of readers and they left a lot of comments. Now I have a lot of bots that leave comments about penile enlargement and Indian banking. Not quite as validating as hearing that someone 'LOLd' or 'peed a little' while reading something I wrote.

Sometimes, though, one comment is all it takes, such as when someone far greater than you takes a moment to acknowledge your writing.

Mark Weber, also know as Lt. Col. Inspiration, opened my book.

At some point between stuffing his guts back inside and duct taping himself shut, book signings and speaking engagements, being a husband and a father to three boys, this man is reading my book. He is dying, people.

Well, we all are, technically, but he's really, really sick and he said that I made him laugh. I cannot describe how amazing that feels. I also cannot describe the feeling of horror that is overtaking me. I've always said I want to make people laugh until they choke or pee or snort.

But I do NOT want anyone to laugh until their guts pop out, and since Lt. Col. Weber is already struggling with this, I feel a certain sense of responsibility. He's done amazing things in his life and he's truly going to leave behind a legacy. If he reads my book and laughs, I'm humbled and grateful. If he reads my book and has to make an emergency run for Kotex and duct tape, I'm gonna feel like shit.

He told me that he opened my book before mass, and *almost* skipped church. His sense of parental duty won, though, and he took his spawn (his word, not mine) off to the house of God instead. I consider it a huge coup that my book engaged him enough to even consider such a thing. God probably doesn't approve of my pride in this instance, but hopefully He'll let it slide.

So, to Lt. Col. Inspiration, I say this.

Thank you for taking a moment out of your very busy and much more important life to make another writer feel so great. MY guts almost exploded when I saw your comment on my blog.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

Humble Pie Tastes Like Ass

So there's a guy here locally who wrote a book.

Lieutenant Colonel Mark Weber.

Self-published it with the same company I met with initially, but I wasn't able to afford their services so I ignored their advice and edited my own book along with the help of the cat's butt*.

Anyway, my dad bought me a copy of his book, Tell My Sons... for Christmas and you know when Alice eats the mushroom and gets really, really small? That's how I felt about myself after reading Lt. Col. Mark Weber's story.

To sum it up he's a heroic Army Superman fighting a bloody civil war against the cancer ravaging his body. So basically he's spent his life serving the US of A and now he's dying and of course he has a beautiful wife and three young boys he'll leave behind.

So, yeah. I met him today and naturally I gave him a copy of my book. Because why wouldn't a dying American hero want to spend his last days here on earth reading about when I squeezed tranny boobs with my brother?


Help me redeem myself, buy his book here.

It's a crisply written illustration of how unfair life can be, but how much our character still matters and the lessons we leave for our loved ones. We should all learn something from Lt. Col. Weber about pushing ourselves further than anyone believes we can. I know I wanted to push my own lazy ass off a bridge after reading his book - he deserves healing more than I do, in case there's only so much to go around. I wonder if any witches have prayed over him? I should give him mine, just in case.

Anyway, buy it. Because it's a way to support a family who has given service to us, and because it's a damn good read. And because if a man fighting cancer with a wife and three kids can make time to write a book in eight weeks, you can make the time to read his words of advice.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Dear Diary

When we were 30, my girlfriend found her junior high diary. Over cocktails, we read it aloud, quite literally rolling with laughter.

The entire diary can be summed up here:

Dear Diary, I think I like Mike. But Rob is cute too, but I don't know because Jeff was smiling at me during passing time and I heard he likes Jenny but the way he looked at me makes me think he probably likes me so I wonder if I should like him instead. But Mike is SO hot. I just don't know what to do.

Now I'm keeping a diary, but not about boys. I have to record what I'm doing/feeling for the whole 48 hours I'm wearing the holter heart monitor. Then the cardiologist will read my diary while comparing it to my heart rate during those noted times. I'm guessing he'll pour a cocktail, too, because this is not nearly as scintillating reading as Sarah's diary.

I've decided to share my diary with you, dear readers. Go get a drink. I insist.

1/9/13 3:30 PM
Ate toast and drank V8.

1/9/13 4:50 PM
Argued with husband.

1/9/13 5:30 PM
Ate dinner.

1/9/13 6-6:30 PM
Petted cat.

1/9/13 7 PM
Took Klonopin for muscle cramps.

1/9/13 8:30 PM
Went to bed.

1/10/13 9:55 AM
Wake up. Try to poop. Epic fail.

1/10/13 10:00 AM
Drink V8, eat toast.

1/10/13 10:10 AM
Stub toe, stutter obscenities. Cry.

1/10/13 10:20 AM
Walk to coffee shop two blocks away. OK, fine - one block. But two blocks sound like I exerted myself more.

1/10/13 11:30 AM
Return from two one block walk and lay down to rest.

1/10/13 1:00 PM
Draft 'why you fire me' email to my boss, who I guess is now my ex-boss.

1/10/13 1:30-2 PM
Light housework. Took out garbage and vacuumed.

1/10/13 2-4 PM

1/10/13 5:20 PM
Eat pot roast and carrots.

1/10/13 6:05 PM
Vomit pot roast and carrots.

1/10/13 7:15 PM
Play board game with husband. He won.

1/10/13 8:15 PM
Husband lures me to bedroom with promise of a back massage

1/10/13 8:19 PM
Backrub turns into marital relations because, and I quote, my husband 'wants to have sex with a robot'. He suggests that I mark this period in the diary as 'running up and down stairs'. He's quite confident, that one, and really wants to know what my heart rate was during this time. I told him not to get his hopes up since they had to give me a shot of atropine in the hospital to get my heart rate above 100, even while I was cycling full speed.

1/10/13 8:35 PM
Replace electrode pads on all my lead wires now that Mark has smushed them all loose.

1/10/13 9:00 PM
Tuck all my wires into various layers of jammies and go to bed.

1/11/13 3:30 AM
Wake up to charley horses in calves. Writhe in pain. Get up to pee and knock monitor out of jammies. Panic and wait to be electrocuted when it lands in the toilet. It misses and I live. Do stretching exercises in the dark living room to loosen cramps. Cry.

1/11/13 4:30 AM
Husband gets up to go to work and asks me what the hell I'm doing on the couch. Go back to bed.

1/11/13 7:00 AM
Wake up. Poop. Go back to bed.

1/11/13 9:30 AM
Get ass out of bed for realsies. Drink V8 and scratch as hard as I can around all the electrode patches. Wonder if I can stand the itching for one more day. Kiss the cat. Eat yogurt.

1/11/13 10:00 AM
Took Klonopin for muscle cramping and translated this diary for your reading pleasure.

1/11/13 10:01 AM
Realized my life is even more pathetic than I thought.

1/11/13 10:30 AM
Back to bed.

But I still have several more hours to go with the holter, so who knows? Maybe something will happen to make this diary half as entertaining as Sarah's. I'd hold my breath, but with a heart rate this low, that might be the end of my diary.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Welcome to 2013: Bling and a Bomb

Many women likely received expensive jewelry this holiday season, most ostensibly from their husband or lover. My husband gave me kitchen stuff for Christmas, but don't worry, I still got the bling. Just not exactly the kind of bling one wishes for.

Last week I learned that my resting heart rate is about 40. A normal person should be between 60-105. Doctors do see heart rates in the 40s and 50s in Olympic athletes, which quite clearly I am NOT, despite what you might assume after seeing this shirtless hardbody. So they blinged me out and sent me home for 48 hours to decide if I need....

wait for it...


What the fuckety fuck!?

My body is on strike. It won't absorb vitamins, I stutter, my brain doesn't do what it's supposed to, my muscles host their own dance parties that I'm not invited to, and now my heart's getting in on the action.

This post is entitled Bling and a Bomb. The bling refers to my new accoutrements. The bomb refers to the news I just got - NOT to my heart, I hope, please and thank you very much.

To make 2013 even cheerier, I got sacked.

Now to be fair, I realize a company can't hold a job indefinitely hoping someone stops being retarded and starts being a marketing manager again.

But wow. Losing insurance will just be the whipped cream on the disaster sundae. I'm sure I'll have no trouble getting new insurance. Who doesn't want to insure a walking catastrophe?

It's been said that when a door closes a window opens. I can't find the window right now. If anyone sees one, push me out of it, please.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

Be Gay for World Peace

Life would be so much easier if I were gay.

Now before you go all Dan Savage on me about gay hardship, hear me out, I'm on to something.

We should all be gay. Here's why.

Two things are required to make a marriage run smoothly, communication and a reasonable compromise on the thermostat, and no man and woman will ever master these two things together.

Communication in our house at times resembles foreigners shouting in one another's face, thinking that volume will compensate for an utter inability to understand each other's language.


Mark thinks our thermostat is set at a reasonable temperature when it indicates it's 63 degrees inside the house, which is clearly actually closer to 40 real degrees. C'mon, the thermostat is older than I am, and we have no insulation. FALSE POSITIVES.

A lesbian wouldn't turn the thermostat down two degrees for every one I try to inch it upward. We would be way too busy endlessly analyzing our feelings and having thoughtful romantic dinners that don't end in sex. It would nice to be warm enough to wear fewer than four layers at a time.

You know, the thermostat issue alone is probably responsible for thousands of domestic violence calls worldwide. More gay couplings would result in a dramatic decrease in household assaults.

Fewer criminals means less overcrowded prisons. Corrections officers could focus more on rehabilitation than basic crowd control.

I've made up a new word to describe the next benefit if everyone were gay, because Webster submits to peer pressure now and I think the word is pretty catchy. Men all around the world would be submissified. I suspect getting porked in the butt would humble them all just a bit. Less ego and a touch of a limp. If more men truly understood the feeling of being drilled, perhaps they'd stop trying to hump their wives eight times a day. I think ultimately it would result in less aggressive men, sort of like when you neuter a dog. But more humane.

More gay marriages would result in fewer unplanned pregnancies and let's be honest - there are more than enough neglected oopsies running amok already. If gay people have a baby it means they thought it through, they likely suffered through a battery of emotional and financial readiness testing, and they are choosing to parent that child together.

These are just a few of the brilliant thoughts that raced through my head last night as I shivered under the covers in my mountains of fleece, my naked husband snoring contentedly beside me. I had no idea that insomnia and the goosebumps could result in world peace, but I'm pretty sure I've stumbled onto the answer.

Let's be gay.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Spreading Warmth (Not From Peeing Your Pants)

In late December I wrapped up 26 copies of my book with silly notes about sharing laughter and I gave them to strangers. It was just a handful at a time but after the Newtown shooting, I knew 26 copies was the right number. Free laughter for 26 people because the world needs to laugh.

It was just a little thing and I had fun doing it even though it turns out people look at you like you're a nutter if you walk up to them and hand them a present. But I quickly learned that the looks grew even more suspicious when I spoke (stuttered) so mostly I handed them to people silently and walked away.

My friend Mary read about my Santa-bombing and liked the idea of performing 26 acts of kindness as well. She's more talented and less offensive than I am, so instead of handing out raunchy books on the street, she's knitting 26 baby hats for a nearby children's cancer center.

Today Mark and I went to the post office to drop off a present for Misty Mason, who won my first blog giveaway of 2013 and when we returned home, I found a present waiting for me.

Mary made me a hat, too, and you know what? I'm thankful she's my friend, I'm happy about the cute lid and I'm so grateful I'm not a kid in a cancer ward. Incidentally I needed that reminder because it's been a rough week.

It's the little things, guys. I like living in a world where people give presents to strangers and knit hats for each other. What could you do 26 times this year to be nice to other people?

I read somewhere that it takes 21 days to make or break a habit, so committing to do something kind 26 times could in theory change your outlook and therefore your world.

What if we all did this?

I'm not wearing a tie-dyed shirt or driving a VW bus but there's something really, really hopeful about the idea of a world ruled by small acts kindness and love. Even if they are rejected at times or people look at you funny, you might make just one person's day.

Isn't that worth it?

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

My First Giveaway of 2013!

From now until noon January 2nd,
you can enter to win the 2013 custom copy of
Confessions of a Recovering Cynic,
along with a  MYSTERY PRIZE!!
 - Leave a comment on this post that you want the mystery prize
- Like the Tershbango page
- Leave a comment on Tershbango page: "I want the mystery prize"
- Share the giveaway info on Facebook
 - Follow Tershbango on Twitter
 - Tweet @Tershbango: "I want the mystery prize"
 - Retweet the giveaway info
Today at noon I selected a random
winner from all the entrants.

Misty Mae Haislip-Mason


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