The Plagiarism Paranoia

I’m not sure how many of my readers are aware of who AmySchumer is and that she was recently accused of stealing jokes, because let’s be honest, you don’t all have my Buzzfeed addiction. For the purpose of this post it actually doesn’t really matter if you know the whole spiel or not except that this was the catalyst for bringing up yet again one of my semi-constant paranoia’s. I live in very frequent terror that I am going to be accused of stealing creative content.

Not jokes, because I am not a funny, joke-telling person. This really applies to two of my creative outlets: writing and nail art.

Since I started posting fanfiction back in the day (which speaking of, I super need to finish that story I added three years ago and never finished the last chapter. Oops. Any fanfiction readers will know what a bitch move that is) I have been dreading the possibility that someone is going to scream PLAGIARISM. To be clear, I have not plagiarized. I do not steal ideas from people. AS FAR AS I KNOW.

Because in my opinion, sometimes people have very similar ideas, maybe even stemming from the same source. It is near impossible to prove whose idea happened first. This became even clearer when I started getting into nail art. I have a few Youtube personalities I follow, and they often have very similar design. There are SO MANY COMMENTS from fans going back and forth claiming Person A made the video first and Person B is stealing and yada yada that it gives me nightmares about posting something of my own.

But for example, a month or two ago (or maybe longer, time perception is not one of my strong suits) everyone suddenly heard of the glass nail trend. Within like a day, both of my favorite nail people had a video showing how to do glass nails. Do I think they stole from each other? No! I think they saw the trend and created their own version, just like WE ALL DO. How many ideas are wholly and completely original, with no basis whatsoever on any other existing content out in the world? NOT THAT MANY. THAT’S WHY THERE ARE A MILLION MOVIES WITH THE SAME PLOT OVER AND OVER.

One of my designs

I have been debating whether or not to enter a nail art contest recently, and honestly, half of my hesitation is that I don’t know how “original” any of my designs are. They wouldn’t be deliberately copying anyone, but most of my techniques were learned from watching other nail art videos. There would be similarities, obviously. What if there already exists a design that DOES match mine that I don’t know about because I clearly haven’t seen every nail art design out in the world!?!  WHAT THEN?!

Actually, on a smaller level I already worry about this with my instagram account. I’ve been posting some nail pictures and while I tag the artist if I followed a tutorial, again, some of my “original” ideas are loosely based on things they’ve done that I then changed up.

Another set of my nails!

Is that copying? Is that plagiarism? Am I an idea thief? If I don’t even remember a video but then a year later the design re-emerges in my subconscious, am I a bad human being? Is there a magic ratio where if 40% (or more, or less) of the creative content is new, it’s okay?

In case you’re curious, the other half of my hesitation on entering the nail art contest is that it has to be a video entry and I’ve never made a video before other than work stuff. This is despite the fact that several of my coworkers want me to start a video channel for my rage-baking, nail art, and/or retelling of movies as they claim it is hysterical. I will neither confirm nor deny my level of entertainment value. 

A Neek Holiday Letter, Because

Dear friends, family, and random strangers,

What up, yo! As some of you (mainly the family) will recall, back in the day I used to send an annual Christmas letter. This was mainly because my mother forced me to, but it was totes popular regardless. No for realz. People loved that shiz.

Anywho, I started getting holiday cards this year and after a second of thinking “that’s so adorable why don’t I send them!” remembered that I only get stamps roughly once a decade and so jealously guard them for a slow, purposeful use over time. Also I don’t collect addresses. Also I’d have to write in cards, and my handwriting is atrocious and requires me to really concentrate since there’s no autocorrect. So I realized the next best thing was to create a “virtual” holiday card! Except not really a card, but more of a letter. This is basically an attempt for me to brag on what happened this year. Prepare yourself, because it’s super exciting.

Early on in the year, one of the posts from this blog went viral-ish. This was due to absolutely no effort on my behalf, which is the best kind of accomplishment. I celebrated for days. DAYS! People got a little sick of hearing about it. I have no regrets.

In May I visited my brother and went to the best laser tag place ever. I managed to scar my elbow and actually was the top performer for my team in MORE THAN ONE ROUND (I emphasize this, so you know it wasn’t a fluke).

This came at the cost of my knee pestering me for a few days, but overall the knee struggle has been not as real this year. I am knocking on so much wood right now. You have no idea. Of course all of my major bad knee days have been during vacation (visiting my brother, hitting Universal Studios, going wild in Vegas). Figures.

Speaking of vacation, this year I had what I have deemed the most traumatic experience of my life. I also got LASIK. More on the LASIK momentarily. What was my traumatic experience, you ask? THE FREAKING HARRY POTTER RIDE AT UNIVERSAL STUDIOS!! I screamed, I cried, I almost vomited. Never again.

In comparison, LASIK was crazy easy. Actually it just happened last week so don’t hold me to that if I accidentally blind myself during the continuing healing process. Sure, you can smell the laser burning out your eye and that’s mildly disturbing, but on the other hand now I CAN SEE. #worth

Other things you may have missed this year?

• I received the FUN award at my company this summer, along with some others last week I’m not quite as proud of (Most Likely To Need Rudolph’s Guidance Home After The Party and Most Likely To Bring Their Own Mistletoe).
• I completed NaNoWriMo again! If you have no idea what that means we clearly aren’t really friends, and you should read my friend Erin’sblog for some background.
• I created an Instagram account finally, which is mainly used for nail art. Baby, I was born to nail art. No really, this is like a secret skill I didn’t know I have. Yay for developing new skills!

Was there anything here you didn’t know about yet? Anything peak your interest for further blog writing? Let me know in the comments.

And may your holidays be bright and not filled with Star Wars spoilers! 

Miss Goody Two-Shoes

Whenever I describe my mother to someone, I get a look. It’s a look I recognize, although I never acknowledge it. It’s a look that says, “you realize you just described yourself, right?”

I can understand this, as my mother and I do have a few similarities. We’re both short. We both frequently have reddish hair. We both seem insanely nice and are easily amused. However in my humble opinion there is a huge difference between us.

Remember how I said we both seem insanely nice? Well, my mother is legit nice and adorable and goodness and sugar and all those things. Apparently she was the perfect child. I’ve heard this from several reliable sources (basically all of her siblings, and her mother). She can’t even get mad properly. Sure, if you’re under the age of three, you might be a little intimidated when she starts yelling gibberish. When she’s really mad, there may even be a curse word included here and there. But let’s be honest, for anyone who’s not a toddler, her random outbursts don’t accomplish anything than making you want to pat her on the head and go “there, there.”

For the record, while no one believes this initially, me when I’m truly angry is actually a terrifying thing to behold. Avoid it.

But the main reason I don’t consider myself to be like my mother isn’t because she fails at being angry, but the larger problem: her goody-two-shoes-ness.

My mother is the ultimate goody two-shoes. So much so, that in our family she is routinely referred to as Miss Two-Shoes. The goody isn’t even implied, it’s just known.

I swear too I’m not saying this because the rest of the people in my family are deviants that like to torture each other, and in comparison my mother comes off like a saint. My mother legitimately seems compelled to follow the rules that everyone else feels free to ignore, whether they be actual laws or mere social conventions. 

For instance:

• She is the only person I know who actually comes to a full stop at the guard shack when leaving the gated community where my parents live. The guards barely give a f*** who’s coming into the community, let alone who leaves. She also insisted throughout our childhood on telling them every time a visitor was coming. To be clear on how unnecessary this was, if you smile and wave, or just say you’re going to the pool or ski lodge, they let you through.
•   She is the first to volunteer for her church, her community, or any random cause that comes hither. Sometimes to switch it up she donates. Or does both, and then also “recruit” her kids into it. Every time I call her she’s either canning soup, making candy, or setting up for a fundraising event. If other people aren’t hitting the quotas on candy production, she complains once, feels bad about it, and then makes more.
•  She feels compelled to follow all directions. This includes assembly directions in a box, directions when traveling, as well as signs saying “stay off the grass.” If she is with someone who ignores these directions (like my father) she has a special face of disdain and superiority, indicating that this will end in misery and it will not be her fault since she wanted to follow them (you’d know the face if you saw it).

Whereas I have never considered myself a goody two-shoe because my moral code is all over the place. I don’t want to give examples because that would provide concrete evidence against me, but trust me, there’s some deviousness sitting pretty in my corner.

So you can imagine my surprise when a few weeks ago, I realized that I too might be a goody two-shoes. This was mainly due to NaNoWriMo. If you don’t remember this from previous years, it stands for National Novel Writing Month. I am yet again attempting a novel (which is why there won’t be a surplus of posts from me for awhile). I had a whole month of debate though on whether or not to do it, because the thing is that I have like 5 days where I won’t be able to write because I’m visiting my family. This gives me a condensed writing schedule. While it’s doable, because my friend Erin did it last year, I had doubts.

I was discussing it with my mother, my perfect, goody two-shoes mother, and she suggested I CHEAT by starting A WEEK EARLY. I spazzed. Was I turning into more of a goody two-shoes? Was she now the devious one? What was happening?

After giving it much consideration, I have decided I am NOT a goody two-shoes. You’re relieved, I know. There are a few random rules I follow and stick to, but it’s not consistent, and it probably goes more along with my general insanity and slight OCD tendencies and whatnot. It doesn’t really come from a desire to “do good.”

However, I also have to say that if I was becoming more like my mother, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. We need those goody two-shoes people to make up for those of us that are running amuck and causing havoc.  

#WritingDate - Watch (A Wedding Gone Wrong)

It's that time of year again - National Writing Date Day! Once again I made a date with my dear friend and wonderful writer Erin to set some time aside and just write, write, write. Erin provided us a few prompts. The first prompt we both did. The prompt was: 
There's a nail salon near you that never seems to have customers. You discover the real purpose of the business.

This one got away from me a bit. I may hide the resulting stories in the corners of my mind until I'm ready to grudgingly acknowledge it, but Erin's version is available here. 

For the second hour we did separate prompts. Erin's was:
You've been on the road driving for almost twenty hours. At 2 am you drive up to a restaurant that's open all night. Describe the experience and the people you see.

Her story is here!

I liked this prompt:
A fight breaks out between a bride and groom in the middle of a wedding. What happened?

And thus, a story (a completely unedited story so bear with me here) was born...
  

Watch

 

The little girl was flawlessly adorable. I couldn’t believe how tidy she looked. I had only been babysitting for a few months, but kids were never that clean. I looked around to try and identify her mother. The girl was standing by herself near the gifts, swirling around her skirts, but I was pretty sure the mother wouldn’t be far off.

Sure enough, a few tables away I saw a woman watching her. The woman was also flawless, which was why I assumed she was the mother. They didn’t really look the same. The little girl was lighter. Lighter hair, lighter skin, and she seemed like one of those genuinely nice children. The mother was dark and glamorous, but she also looked like she’d be perfectly happy ruining your life just for the fun of it. She screamed money though, and I wasn’t exactly making the big bucks right now for the families I babysat for.

It all depended on the little girl. I made my way towards the gifts, pretending to be startled when she almost danced into me. “I didn’t see you there.” I leaned down with a smile. “What are you dancing to?”

She blinked back at me with the prettiest blue eyes I had ever seen. The color seemed familiar, but hers had such dark lashes that they stood out more than usual. I wasn’t sure if she was scared at seeing a stranger, or had been told not to talk to anybody. I continued to smile.

“I’m dancing to the music,” she finally said shyly.

There was no music playing at the moment. My aunt had instructed the musicians to wait until her first dance before playing anything. My mother had argued, saying it was weird for the guests to be eating in silence. The groom, my now uncle, had agreed. Aunt Beth had stayed firm though. She said it was because they were paying the band by the hour, which swayed Dan to her side since it meant less money. Especially after she had bought the wedding dress. That had been a battle right there. But I knew Aunt Beth. It had nothing to do with the money. She wanted the entire night to be her moment, one right after the other. Having no music beforehand would make it even more noticeable when her and Dan emerged soon for their first dance.

“Well, it’s a lovely dance,” I told the girl. She smiled slowly. “May I dance with you?” I was surprised but pleased when she nodded. I wasn’t sure she’d let me.

Copying her, I started twirling my skirts around. Even though I wasn’t in the wedding party, Aunt Beth had insisted on picking out my dress. Hideous wasn’t the right word. Old-fashioned worked if I was being polite. My mother had protested once or twice on my behalf but then gave in, as she always did. Dan had been surprised to find out my mother was the older sibling.

The woman was watching us both dance now. I was staying a few feet away from the little girl. I didn’t want to look like some kind of creep. I suppose I could be talking to my cousins or sitting with my grandparents, but if one more person said something nice about Aunt Beth I was going to scream. She wasn’t nice, she was a controlling bitch, but apparently one wasn’t supposed to say that about their aunts.

The little girl stopped dancing. “There’s no more music,” she told me solemnly.

I nodded. “That happens. Thank you for the dance.” I started to walk away.

“Will you come sit with me?” she asked before I could move. I hesitated. Aunt Beth had been very particular on her table arrangements, but it did look like there was an extra place at their table.

“Of course,” I said with a smile. What the hell.

I followed her back to the table. Apparently I had passed the test, as the little girl was now chattering on and on about her dress and how pretty the wedding was, and did I like the flowers at the table? Her mother gave her an adoring smile as we walked up. “Did you make a friend, sweetie?”

“Yes, mommy!” She gave her a quick kiss then sat down, smoothing out her skirt, before patting the chair next to her. “Here, sit with me.”

First I stopped and smiled at the mother. “Hi, I’m Madison.”

She shoed me over to the seat. “Go ahead and sit down. Ella seems to adore you.”

“She’s a very sweet girl,” I smiled. This was always a good line. Mothers liked their children getting complimented, and Ella was still at that age to like being praised. Babysitting had taught me that both mattered. Even if the kids liked you, if the parents didn’t, you weren’t getting the job.

Before the woman could say anything, the music started playing. I rolled my eyes as Aunt Beth and Dan walked in to applause. She had even arranged a few of our other relatives to toss petals in the air as they walked to the dance floor. I thought I was going to be sick.

I turned away. To my surprise, the woman was also grimacing. Was there someone else out there that recognized Aunt Beth for the catty bitch that she was? Or maybe she didn’t like Dan? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t remember seeing this woman at the ceremony to know where she was sitting.

“How do you know my aunt and uncle?” I whispered as they started the first dance. Ella was dancing in her seat and ignoring us, clearly enjoying watching the couple.

The woman paused. I sensed that she was choosing her words carefully. “I’m a friend of Dan’s. He might have mentioned me before. I’m Stella.”

I hated people that named their kids after themselves, but I didn’t comment on it. I remembered hearing about a Stella. Not from Dan, but from Aunt Beth.

“Oh, yes,” I murmured. Thank god, Ella chose that moment to speak up.

“Can Madison and I go dance, Mommy?” I marveled at how well behaved she was. At that age, I would have been tugging on my mom’s skirt for attention. She would be so much better than some of the devil kids I watched now.

“Not yet, sweetie. Uncle Dan has to finish dancing first before other people are allowed to. That’s how weddings work.” Ella nodded as if that made sense to her. Maybe it did. It didn’t make sense to me, but my mother also said I was bitter about marriage because of her divorce. Of course I was. Now my dad had a new family and I had to start saving money for college, otherwise I knew I wouldn’t be going.

I was eager for the dances to finish so I could get away from the table. Now that I realized who I was sitting with, I was a little less eager for Aunt Beth to see me flaunting her seating arrangements. She hated Stella. She had complained about Stella more than once. She thought that her and Dan were too close, and that Stella always talked down to her.

Soon enough, the dances were done and Ella got her wish to go back to the dance floor. I figured Ella was a safe enough bet. Aunt Beth knew I liked kids, and I had never once heard her say anything about Ella, so I figured she must like her well enough. She pretty much only talked about people to complain about them.

The next hour passed fast enough, faster than I was expecting really. The beautiful thing about playing with Ella was that I got to follow her around on her every whim. She was a typical kid, distracted by something else every few minutes. This meant I got to avoid some of the other random duties Aunt Beth thought the family should help with during the reception, and even better, avoid Aunt Beth.

Stella continued to keep an eye on us but didn’t intervene. I tapped into my reserves of patience so that I could continue to appear as the perfect caregiver.

However I realized before too long that not only was Stella watching us, but Aunt Beth was too. I worried for a moment before realizing she wasn’t watching me so much as Ella. I didn’t have too long to wonder why, when Aunt Beth started making her way towards us. Seemingly in response, so did Stella. Dan was across the room talking to some of his college friends, but when he saw what was going on he started heading in our direction too.

Fuck. I had no idea what was going on, but I wasn’t an idiot. It was something not good. Poor little Ella continued with catching the bubbles I was blowing from the table favors. She didn’t seem to notice everyone coming towards us.

Aunt Beth and Stella got to our corner at the same time. Aunt Beth was staring down Ella. She wouldn’t look away.

“Who’s this you’re watching, Madison?”

Ella looked up. “She’s not watching me. We’re playing.”

Aunt Beth gasped. I blinked, and stopped blowing bubbles. It wasn’t like Ella had said anything shocking.

“What pretty eyes you have,” Aunt Beth hissed. I felt compelled to pull Ella back a little closer to me. I had no idea what was going on, but this was starting to sound like a bad kind of fairy tale.

“That’s my daughter, Ella.” Stella spoke up. I think Aunt Beth knew that though. She didn’t look surprised at all. She also didn’t look away from Ella.

“It’s a little funny, isn’t it?” Aunt Beth asked. I looked to Stella to see if she had any idea what Aunt Beth was talking about. Aunt Beth continued. “Somehow I’ve never seen your daughter. Dan talks about her, but I’ve never met her.”

Stella looked composed as ever. “Somehow Beth, I didn’t get the impression you wanted to have much to do with me, or my daughter.”

Dan walked up to the group, putting his arm around Aunt Beth. “Is everything okay over here ladies?” He looked between the two of them. An idiot could see that Aunt Beth was livid about something. Dan wasn’t an idiot. He wisely deflected, and leaned down instead towards Ella. “Hey baby girl, are you having a good time at the party?”

Ella lit up. She had been starting to hide behind my skirts, but now she reached for Dan. “I got to dance! And have cake!”

Dan laughed and picked her up. I gasped. I finally got it. Now that he was holding her, I realized why Ella looked familiar. “Good, sweetie! I’m glad you’re having fun.”

Somehow I knew that Dan didn’t see it. Aunt Beth did, and I could tell right away she wasn’t going to let this go.

“When were you planning to tell me?” She had turned towards Dan and Ella, hands on her hip, clearly in battle mode. The rest of the room was beginning to murmur. The body language in our corner screamed conflict.

Poor Dan looked clueless. “Tell you what?”

“That you had a CHILD with that WOMAN,” Aunt Beth screeched. I winced and looked towards Stella.

She was smiling! What the fuck?

“I don’t have a child,” Dan protested. “And I tell you everything.”

“So you told her about that time we slept together?” Stella asked coolly. Aunt Beth was turning red. I had no idea why I was still standing near this disaster other than morbid curiosity.

Dan spluttered. “That was six years ago, I didn’t think it mattered.” He turned to Aunt Beth. “It’s not like you’ve told me every single person you slept with.”

“Yes, but I have asked you about her MULTIPLE TIMES. You said you were just friends!”

“We are just friends! We’re better as friends!”

I saw Stella wince at those words, and I knew then that the friends thing was not her idea. Ella was looking frightened. I took a breath and pushed my way in. “I think Ella wants to go play. Come here, Ella.”

Dan looked down to hand her to me, and that’s when he got it. I was afraid he was going to drop her. He went completely pale, and then turned haunted eyes back up to Stella.

Stella choose that moment to take her revenge. She swiftly took Ella from Dan’s arms and pushed her towards me. “Go play, Danielle. Mommy will be over in a minute.”

I grabbed Ella’s hand and started hustling her away, but not before I could hear Aunt Beth hiss, “Danielle?”

“What did you think Ella was short for?” Stella said.

I was pretty sure I would not be seeing Dan at the next family gathering.

Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A. *pause* Boobs.

It’s hard to believe I’m writing my 100^th post for this blog. It’s been just over three years, and tons of random madness, but overall I think we’ve all had a good time.

Since this is the 100^th post, I had quite a struggle over deciding what to write about. I felt like it should be something epic and mind-blowing. Or, since this blog is really a means of forcing myself to write, an update on how my other writing is going (hint, not well). I petitioned my family for ideas. My brother wanted me to do a review of best/worst posts. My mother wanted me to talk about some spoilers from the latest Game of Thrones that she is having trouble accepting. My father suggested the evolutionary aspects of sleep (which I probably will do at some point because let’s be honest, I love talking about sleep).

In the end I decided to go with something very near to my heart.

Boobs.

(Yes, that was a pun. Laugh and move on)

Boobs are often the bane of my existence. Actually, I suppose not boobs, but the bras we need to keep ‘em in check.

Basically, bras are life ruiners.

You first have the struggle of trying to find a bra that fits. It is MUCH trickier than the male mind can even imagine. You have to take two things into consideration: band size and cup size.

Now a common misconception is that cup size is always the same. So if I wear a C, I would wear a C no matter what band size.

FALSE!!

The band size actually changes the cup size. So if you wear a 36 C and move up to a 38, you’re probably now wearing a B. This is called a “sister size.” Basically for every band size you move down you add a cup, and every band size you move up you subtract a cup. In theory, 34 D = 36 C = 38 B = 40 A.

Are you starting to sense the crazy here?

There are a ton of statistics flying around saying that most people are not actually wearing the correct bra size. That’s partially because of the band/cup logic we just discussed that not everyone is familiar with. It’s also partially because of how one determines their size.

If you go to a fancy bra store they will offer you a “fitting,” where using measuring tape and magic they will tell you your true bra size.

Now some people luck out, and have a great fitting and find their true bra right away. For years, I hated fittings with a PASSION because I would go with friends, get a fitting, and it was disastrous. They’d tell me a size that was so far off what I was wearing, all I could do was stare blankly at them. I’d try the bra they suggested. Not really because I believed them, but because I wanted to be a dick and show them they were wrong and stupid. This always led to trying on bras that produced quadriboob. Not a pleasant experience. Discouraged and pissed, I’d refuse to try anything else, because if the magic fitting doesn’t work for finding a size, what does? Random guessing? Luck?

I promise it’s not just me either. I recently read a buzzfeed article where a woman got six different fittings in a day, and while I laughed, I also almost cried from commiserating with her experience.

But recently, I figured out part of why this happens. I have cracked the logic of the bra fittings.

In theory, your bra size can be determined using measure tape. If you measure around your ribs this should determine your band size. So if you measure 34 inches around your ribs, you should wear a 34 band. The cup size is determined by then measuring across your breasts. You want to aim roughly for the nipple region for this measurement. Then, you subtract measurement 1 from measurement 2 to determine your cup. 1 inch of difference = A, 2 inches = B, 3 = C, and so on and so forth.

With such simple logic, how can anyone manage to screw up all the time??  

Two reasons.

First, the reason I often have problems specifically at Victoria’s Secret is because they make the assumption you’re wearing a PUSH UP BRA and thus DON’T FOLLOW THE FORMULA. Their push up bras are actually designed to measure as a cup size or two larger than you really are, so since they assume you’re wearing one, they subtract 2 inches from your second measurement before calculating your bra size. I know this, because the ONLY time I got a correct fitting at VS was when the lady specifically stopped and asked me if I was wearing a push up bra or not.

The second reason, and really the killer here, is that bras ARE NOT CONSISTENTLY SIZED. A 34 D in one line is NOT the same as a 34 D in another. Try taking sizes across stores and you will basically want to give up on wearing a bra forever. So even though you now know some of the secret logic behind bras, IT DOESN’T REALLY HELP MUCH.

Fucking bras.

If you somehow magically find ones that fit well, you then need to be prepared to shell out a decent amount of money to buy them. The bras I’m buying these days cost between $40-80, even on sale.

That’s not by choice. Let me stop to emphasize how much that is not a willing decision. Yes, I prefer pretty bras. I do not buy plain white bras, it’s true. But guess what. There are plenty of cheaper brands that still have pretty options. Guess what else. BITCHES DON’T EVEN MAKE MY SIZE!! I literally cannot buy bras at Target anymore. My size doesn’t exist. It’s not an option, even if I was willing to get something a bit dowdy, which is why I’ve had to resort to Victoria’s Secret.

Yay…. (not)

One would think that since bras are expensive, you should buy less of them, right?

ALSO FALSE.

I mean you could. I’m not going to stop you. But here’s more bra logic – the more you wear bras the more the band stretches and thus STOPS FITTING. You are never supposed to wear the same bra two days in a row because this causes it to stretch even faster. You are supposed to rotate bras, and the more you can add to the rotation the longer you can keep them keeping your girls nice and perky.

I mean seriously, is anyone else going crazy trying to follow all this “logic” that no one tells us and half the time doesn’t even apply? Was the entire bra industry designed to crush our dreams and drive us mad??

Pretty sure it was.

PS. If you didn’t recognize the title for this post, it comes from the excellent horror movie Stay Alive, because let’s be honest, bra shopping is it’s own kind of horror.

How to Handle Going (Semi) Viral

Step 1: Make Sure This Is Really Happening

I was thinking today about how slackerish I’ve been on my writing. I logged into Blogger just to see what my last post was even about, since I couldn’t remember. Then I had several minutes where I thought my dyslexia had reached epic proportions of awful because I couldn’t figure out why the graph of recent views had 100+ on what looked to be a LOW visit day.

Turns out, I went (semi) viral.

Step 2: Figure Out WTF Happened

Detailed research soon revealed that a random post from last year (31 Signs You May Have a Jazzercise Problem) was the cause of about 96% of the views. I couldn’t get anymore information except that the bulk of the views were coming from a Facebook link.

So I turned to Google.

Extensive Googling revealed that SEVERAL Jazzercise locations had shared this blog post! Oddly enough my Jazzercise had not posted the blog link, which is why I didn’t know this was happening.

Step 3: Tell People

Obviously it’s not real unless you immediately text or run over and squeal at friends/family to tell them all about it. I figured while I was at it, I should probably write a blog post about my success.

I also realized as I was telling people that it was the perfect time to remind them of all the other facts this reveals. I can now prove that I’m ridiculously clever, have an amazing sense of humor, and am potentially the most amazing person they know. I’m also crazy humble and down to earth about my success!

Step 4: Do a Victory Dance

Maybe even more than one if you’re feeling really excited. I did. I decided it was a baking night so I could have celebratory dancing all night long. This ended when the oatmeal cookies refused to cooperate, but there was plenty of dancing squeezed in before that.

You don't get a picture of the victory dance. Deal with it.

 

Step 5: While You’re At It, Have a Celebratory Meal…

 

(actual dinner pictured on left)

 

…Or Drink

(actual mini champagne on right)

 

You know, or do both. Why not? I’m semi-viral. I totally earned it.

Step 6: Calm Down

Of course a short time later I’ve completely forgotten about it because I’m busy swearing at f***ing oatmeal cookies. It’s important to keep things in perspective. I may be a Master Blogger (also known as Dumb Lucky since this is more a Jazzercise promotion thing than an actual example of my writing prowess), but clearly I have yet to perfect baking. F***ing cookies are ruiners.

Shuttup and Do It

I’m pretty sure anyone that’s ever actually given birth will kill me for this, but I kind of think of NaNoWriMo like labor.

Last year, I successfully completed NaNoWriMo for the first time. If you’re not up on the lingo, basically a bunch of insane people (including me) attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words, the catch being they need to both start and finish it in the month of November. Thus November is NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth.

I talked a little last year about my reasons for doing NaNoWriMo. I checked in almost halfway through the month with an update on my story. I never really talked about the experience afterward.

Why do I think it’s the same as giving birth?

When I finished last November 30^th, I was immensely proud of what I had done, and I promised myself immediately I would never do it again.

A few weeks later, I looked back and was even more proud of my accomplishment, and started thinking maybe in a few more years I’d be ready to do it again.

By this October, I convinced myself it wasn’t that bad and I could totally do it again. In fact, it’d probably be easier since I would go in more prepared than the first time. Oh, the sweet little lies we tell ourselves.

This NaNoWriMo I actually did a little more prep than last year, but I’m not sure how much it’s helping me. My entire timeline changed with pretty much the first chapter. Weird things I wasn’t expecting keep happening, like my main character pissing accidentally herself and having some sort of hair dye fetish. I’ve already killed off three people, and I certainly wasn’t planning on that.

While I’m actually on target with my word count (which is a minor miracle, since I was 10,000 words behind Saturday morning), I also want to finish ahead of time this year since I’ll be spending time with my brother the last few days of the month. At this point it’s equally likely that I say screw it and stop writing, or somehow pull 10,000 more words out of my @ss to finish.

But since this has been more or less taking over the last month of my life, and thus preventing me from update, I decided to share with you, my dear friends, the first chapter of the story!!

Keep in mind there will be typos. There’s really no looking back with NaNoWriMo, just moving forward. Someday if I finish and decide not to forget this whole mess ever happened I made go back and fix things, but that day is not today.

So here it is, the first chapter of my insane zombie story!

Above Reproach

Chapter 1

I’ve never really understood why we’re so rigid about the rope rules. Who exactly do they think is going to climb the ladder if we leave for a few minutes? The grounders? The day zombies get smart enough to climb we’re going to have a fuckton more problems than worrying about the ropes.

            No one ever listens to me though. They listen to me talk. They love to hear my stories. The minute I turn somewhat serious they close their ears and hum, which is why I’m standing under the lookout whistling the magic tune to get somebody to drop down the rope ladder and let me up. Never mind the fact that they can clearly see me. Allegedly the whistling proves that I haven’t been infected in the ten minutes I’ve been on the ground, and I’m safe to climb up and take over duties.

            It might be me, but these days I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes every time the Three make a new rule.

            The ladder drops and I start to climb. It’s not exactly a ladder in that the rungs are randomly spaced out, and you still have sections of pure rope that require a little bit more concentration to make it up. I can never decide if wearing my gloves makes it harder to navigate those sections or if I’m lucky to have them protect my hands.

You can tell who frequently has lookout duty based on the calluses on their hands. It beats the rope burn at least. There are other ways to tell of course, like who has freaking amazing upper torsos. If we still had a government and leaders and all that, they’d be ecstatic that we’ve beat the obesity epidemic. I can’t decide if people are more motivated to stay in shape because they have a better chance of outrunning a mob of grounders, or if it’s because of the shitty food. Maybe you like a second helping of burned squirrel stew and gummy rice, but I’m good, thanks.

            I’m not entirely surprised when someone reaches down and pulls me up the last bit of rope. I’m going to say that it was a subconscious decision to pick this lookout, but that’s a lie. Pierce always takes this tree. I know this. I’d like to pretend I was unaware that he was out on duty and probably here, but I can admit to myself at least that I wanted to see him.

            “Hey Mink,” he says with a smile. I haven’t figured out yet how he manages to look like a wet dream and somebody I want to punch at the same time. It might be the hair. Given the lack of barbers it tends to erratically hang in his eyes. In another lifetime, like five years ago, I probably would have called him emo and laughed in his face, assuming he had the same hair. More likely he had some super cool douchebag cut that emphasized his strong jawline and let the world see those baby blues. Not that I’ve memorized his face or anything. This thought is purely prompted by the fact that he’s staring at me at the moment. Right.

            Of course that might be because I have yet to respond. I manage a cool nod. We’ve been talking too much recently when we’re both at the lodge. I wouldn’t want him to think we’re becoming friends. I don’t need friends and all the shit that comes with them anymore.

            I give the lookout a quick lookover, but nothing’s changed since I was here last week. Of course Pierce the perfect would have everything in order.

            “How’s the ground movement?” I ask as I set my bag down in the corner. Since we don’t keep any of the food supplies in the lookouts it’s a good excuse to lug my bag around with me. One of these days someone’s going to open it up and find my stash of goods. I’m not the only lookout hoarding junk from the towns, but I don’t kid myself. I’m more likely to be searched at some point. The current Three only trust me so far.

            “Nothing on this end,” Pierce says, and his voice sounds too close. I look up to see he’s followed me to the corner. “They’re losing their juice though, we’re going to need a replace mission soon.”

            I toss my hair, which forces him to back up a step. “We’re going to need a supply mission soon too. The lodge is running low on meds and some of the kids have a fever.” I can’t help it, I feel myself start to grin at him. “I’ll radio in that you should go for supplies if you tell them to send me on replacement duty.”

            Pierce laughs. “Trickster girl. You’re too slow, I already heard from Lookout 2 that we’re heading in for supplies. You’ll be earning no favors from me today.”

            There are so many comebacks dancing on my tongue, but I literally bite it to hold back. That’s the problem with being around Pierce. Even worse, I think he can tell what thoughts are running through my head. His face softens and he steps closer again.

            “Maybe I spoke too soon,” he says. His voice is dangerously low.

            I don’t believe in prayer anymore, but hearing the walkie crackle to life makes me think for a second that the universe might have been sympathetic to my inner turmoil. That would figure, that it cares about the little moments and ignores the problems that ruin your world. I step away from Pierce to answer the call.

            “Lookout 1 reporting, over.” My voice sounds steady. Points to me. Especially since Pierce clearly followed me over. I can feel warmth right behind me, but I’m smart enough not to turn my head. This was my fault. I should never have climbed up that ladder.

            “The Lodge wants all lookouts coming off duty to head to the carport. Send them immediately. Over and out.”

            I feel myself tense even as Pierce moves away to gather his gear. I don’t know who’s voice that was, but I burn with hatred for them.

            “There’s no reason for you all to take a car. All they said we needed was meds. You can carry that back easily.” I glare at Pierce as if it’s his fault that they’re making a simple trip more dangerous.

            “Down get your fur up, Mink, I’m sure the Three have their reasons.” This time Pierce is the one avoiding looking at me.

            I scowl. “All we need to do is call back in. They listen to you. Tell them it’s a bad idea. The grounders are going to be closer than usual.”

            “Maybe that’s why we’re taking a car, so we can outrun them if necessary.”

            “Please,” the word is so hesitant, I feel it shimmering in the air as if the next breath will blow away the memory that it was ever spoken. “Call back in and ask them to let you guys walk.”

            Pierce has already pulled on the straps of his bag and is standing at the rope, but he crosses back to my side of the lookout. I have a few seconds of hope before he gently touches my cheek.

           

            “Trust me, it will be fine. Be a good soldier, Mink.” Before I can decide how to react, what to do, he steps away and yells back, “Besides it’s my turn to drive.”

            He gives me a wink as he goes to start down the ladder. I force myself to say the right thing.

            “In that case it’s definitely not safe.” I unlock my wooden jaw to smile a little as I say it. If we joke around it’s okay. Nothing will happen.

            I wish I believed that still. I wish I could have said what I was really thinking. That we aren’t soldiers. That it might not be fine. And that the Three aren’t always right.

            I go to the window to watch Pierce head off to the carport. He never looks back, so being ready to wave seems pointless. I can’t make myself move away though. From this lookout I’m too far away to see the carport itself, but I can catch glimpses of whoever’s coming down from Lookout 2.

            It’s enough to free me. I don’t really want to know who’s coming down that ladder. I don’t want to spend the next ten hours worrying about anyone else on this supply trip. It would be fine if they were walking, or if we had replaced recently. The grounders get closer though when the scarecrows aren’t fresh, and they’re always attracted to the sound of engines. They might not be smart, but it’s like zombies have an instinct for being in the worse place possible for us. They’ve cut off the return from town before. It’s why lookout and scavenger duties are strictly volunteer work.

            There’s not really enough to do on lookout duty to distract yourself. Pierce kept the place tidy. Half the time I spend the first part of my shift cleaning up after whoever was before me. I make sure the guns are loaded. The walkie clearly is working, so I don’t need to check it. We’ll still do the midshift check-in, but that’s hours away. All I need to do at this point is watch out the windows and listen for the bells.

            My mother was the first to question if the lookouts were even remotely useful or not. As long as we keep the scarecrows fresh the grounders never wander this far in the woods. It’s been weeks since another survivor followed the lights here. I’ve suggested that it would be better to have lookouts stationed on the path to town, but that was shot down in a second. I can’t be the only one to notice that the lookouts, as they are right now, are crowded around the Three. They don’t even really block the Lodge from the town side of the forest. This side is naturally protected by the river, so why are most of the lookouts clustered here?

            These are the questions that plaque my shifts. I settle in at the window as I hear the broken sounds of a car driving too fast for our dirt path. As my eyes adjust to staring at an endless view of trees, I start my mantra. They will not stay grounded. They will return above.

#WritingDate Part 2 - Bust a Rhyme

So today was National Writing Date Day! My friend Erin and I decided to do a #WritingDate together, and it was everything I wanted and more. You can read an explanation of what we were doing here on Erin's blog. We had decided ahead of time to share the results of our writing prompts, so I'm sticking to that bargain. We did prompt #12 together, but then I decided to do prompt #5 - rhyming. It starts out okay and then gets a little crazy (or cray, if you'd prefer. I now have to pretend it's a real word since I used it).

Be warned, I decided to do no clean up whatsoever, so this is the madness of 1 hour of writing...

What is there to know about a neek?
Are they short? Are they sleek?

Do they stumble? Do they creak?

The answers below are what you seek!

A neek is one who is absurd,

A bit of a geek, a bit of a nerd.

They might obsess over the written word

Or memorize every song they’ve heard.

They love to share their love of things,

Whether it be candy or diamond rings.

They’re like a cat playing with string;

It becomes their everything!

A neek doesn’t care if something’s cool.

Or if people think they’re a fool.

You can even call them a tool,

They won’t stop saying that it rules.

The neek might own every CD released,

Or every comic, without a single one creased.

They might dwell on the living deceased,

(That means zombies, don’t be rhyme police!).

 If you ever get to meet

A neek, a nerd, or a geek.

Remember to be nice and sweet

Because you’re in for quite a treat.

As long as you don’t interfere

Or laugh at them, or start to jeer

At their obsession for that year

They’ll be a better friend than beer.

So in summary you should pray

You get to friend a neek someday

They’ll change your life a little each day

As they show you things other people call cray.

#WritingDate Part 1 - Somebunny Loves You

So today was National Writing Date Day! My friend Erin and I decided to do a #WritingDate together, and it was everything I wanted and more. You can read an explanation of what we were doing here on Erin's blog. We had decided ahead of time to share the results of our writing prompts, so I'm sticking to that bargain. Here is my version of prompt #12 - to make the Easter Bunny scary.

Be warned, I decided to do no clean up whatsoever, so this is the madness of 1 hour of writing...

 

Carla knew her face gave them nothing, which was probably why the rest of the room couldn’t hide their nervousness. Some looked like they were struggling with outright panic. They thought it was about the money. They thought someone, maybe everyone, was going to be fired for the colossal drop in sales this Easter season.

With a huff of displeasure, Carla walked to the window. If nothing else, being CEO of Bunny Stuff, Inc. gave her a gorgeous view of the city. She tapped her nails, long and filed, against the glass. It gave her a quick thrill to know she was prolonging the fear of her employees, but faded just as fast as she thought about the real problem.

“Gentleman,” she started. She spared an internal grimace for the sad fact that she was the only woman in power in the company, but that was a battle for another day. “You tell me the drop is to be expected, yet you also say that our competitors don’t seem to have gained any more shares in the market in last year. Explain.”

She turned from the window to again confront the room. She knew what they would say. It was a fool’s hope to expect anything else. However she was mildly curious of who would speak up knowing they risked her further displeasure.

Mike, her VP of sales, stood up. “With all due respect mam, the consumer isn’t buying this year. It’s not just from us. My contacts have indicated that even Break An Egg Company had a severe drop.”

Heads bobbled around the table in agreement. Carla stalked back to the table, sparing a furious glance at every individual before settling on Roger. She softened her voice. “What happened to all our marketing efforts? I thought you said they were well received.”

“The new campaign did very well. Our email opens and clicks have doubled, and site traffic has never been higher,” Roger said. He had stayed seated, and in fact looked to be sinking even further into his chair.

Carla tilted her head. “What about our piece on the psychological effects of hunting Easter eggs? How did that perform?”

“Er, not as good,” Roger sank even lower into the plush chair. “Shortly after releasing it, another psychologist published a study that refuted basically everything we said about the benefits of children believing in the Easter Bunny.”

It might have been her imagination, but Carla could have sworn she heard a sigh of relief from everyone else in the room. She slowly walked toward the end of the table where Roger was sitting, speaking just as slow so that the clatter of her heels punctuated each word. “And why am I just hearing about this now?”

The sweat gleamed on Roger’s high forehead. “We assumed you knew,” he stuttered. “It was on several front pages.”

By this time Carla was standing next to the quivering blob some might call a man. She would call him a cowardly ball of fat. “It is not my job to keep abreast on the market.” She moved in for the kill, leaning close and lowering her voice even more. “That was your job. You failed.” She turned suddenly, flinging her hair across his face. She hoped it stung. “Get out. You’re no longer needed at the company.”

Of course, firing Roger wasn’t going to solve the greater problem, but it made her slightly less angry.

“Ms. Webber,” Steve, her VP of Product, spoke up, “not all of our products failed this season. There were several that saw significant increases in sales from last year.”

Carla continued walking to her spot at the head of the table, but chewed her lip momentarily as she digested this new information. “Continue, Steve. What products excelled?”

“Baskets did particularly well this year. We also saw a spike in demand for the crème eggs, mini bunnies, and the scented candy grass.” Steve paused to fumble at his computer. “In fact if you look at this slide, you’ll see that our lowest performing item was the egg dyeing kits.”

“Kits?” Carla asked. “Plural? As in more than one kind of kit performed poorly?”

Steve blinked. “All the kits. We had developed a new glow in the dark line, which saw the best return, but every single egg dye kit sold less than expected, and less than previous years.”

Carla stared at the powerpoint in despair. It was worse than she expected. There were only two weeks until Easter, and she didn’t see how the season could be saved. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. No matter what, she needed to try. The children deserved every effort and more to turn this around.

“Listen to me,” she leaned across the table, trying to fix the remaining VPs with her stare. “From here until Easter our focus needs to be on those egg dyeing kits. Every commercial spot, every email, every salesperson MUST push those kits. We’ll meet again the Friday before Easter and I expect every person in this room to make those kits sell!” She lowered herself to the chair before saying, “You’re all dismissed.”

As the room scrambled to escape, Carla swiveled to stare outside once more. They still thought it was about the money. No one realized how much was at stake. She knew that Mike, for one, was a family man. She imagined if he realized the risk his children were in, he’d be pushing sales harder.

Sometimes it felt impossible, trying to prevent the inevitable crisis. Carla had debated many times over whether to clue her team into the fact that she couldn’t care less about the sales numbers and profits. All she cared about was what it meant – the number of families dyeing and hiding Easter eggs.

There were only a few people still alive that knew the truth. The Easter Bunny was real. He had always been real. But he wasn’t a fluffy bunny of love.

Carla shuddered. He was terrifying. If her father hadn’t woken up the Easter when she was eight, she’d be dead now. The Bunny had been in her room. His mouth open, drool pooling from his fangs, and scarlet eyes locked on hers. She knew he was about to eat her. She knew she was doomed. Then thankfully, her father had heard a noise and come to investigate.

After that she had devoted her life to first researching the Easter Bunny, and then trying to prevent his return. What people didn’t realize was that the fun dyed Easter eggs hidden each year acted as a ritual. They kept the Bunny away from their homes. They protected their children. But the agreement was that if no offering, no eggs, were presented, the Bunny had every right to devour any child under ten.

Every right, and the ferocious appetite to eat his fill Easter night.

 Carla stared outside, but really she was staring ahead to the headlines. Each Easter more and more children went missing, and the sales numbers indicated that this would be the worst year so far.