PETA Might Get Pissed

Those of us who are friends to the feline and pals to the pooch might have to add one more threat to the well being of these four-legged family members: defamation. The attack is not against a particular dog or cat, but against the entire species. 

Its an assault of association; a mistake in matching.

Jade (my sister's dog)

The basic definition of language, specifically written language, is a series of symbols that represent a concept shared by those of that language. English speaking people agree that the combination of the symbols d, o, and g represent a highly variable domestic mammal (Canis familiaris) closely related to the gray wolf.

Niley and Selene (my cats)

The combination of c, a, and t represent a carnivorous mammal (Felis catus) long domesticated as a pet and for catching rats and mice.



The naming of the species is not what's threatened;  no one has suggested that the word "dog" is out-dated for our canine companions.  What is at risk is the connotation of "dog." The idea that these puppy pals are traditionally loyal, protective, and playful is closely linked to "dog" that one cannot help but associate those ideas with one another almost subconsciously. 

But, as usual, slang has thrown a few stones into the easy flow between the definition of and the connotations of "dog." Unfortunately, I cannot immediately blame the teens of today because my generation has done the most damage by using "dog" is such contexts:

• Why would you want to go out with that girl? She is a dog!
• I spent all night crying because he dogged me.

The first example implies ugliness; the second, rejection or insult. To say that a woman (or man) is a dog is simply incorrect. A woman is only a dog in True Blood. And "She is a dog!" is not the correct way use an adjective.  It's like saying, "She is an ugly."

And how did the characteristics of a dog become associated with rejection and insult. Dogs don't reject anyone (unless they are trained to) nor do they insult anyone (unless they are trained to).  If you want to associate an animal with such behavior, it would make more sense to say "I spent all night crying because he catted me."

I do have to commend the current revisers of slang on providing a more respectable interpretation to "dog." Now, it is used in the following context:

• My girlfriend's ex-boyfriend was doggin' me at the prom.
• After running over his skateboard with my Ford F350, Jake dogged me every morning when I pulled into the parking lot.

In the first example, the "insult" and "rejection" make sense, but the slang "dog" doesn't have the same meaning. As my students explained to me, "dog" is a derivative of "mad dog"--both used as a verb--meaning to stare someone down in a threatening way or simply to give, as my students clarified, "the stink eye." I can see the association here. Mad dogs are threatening and they don't exactly bat their eyelashes at their targets.  Also, it associates power, a force to be reckoned with to the animal itself. That's much more respectful and appreciative than "ugly" and "insulting."

But then they got to go and screw it up by creating "dawg" to mean, according to Urban Dictionary, a close friend; a "homie." Why change the spelling then? The original symbol (aka spelling) of "dog" and the original thing it presents more closely associates with the "dawg" definition.  Why change the spelling, thereby disassociating it from those loving, loyal animals?

And what's up with referring to a timid, weak man as a "pussy"? Sure, cats might scurry away from a threat because they don't need to fight to prove themselves. Might as well save a few lives, right? Back a cat into a corner--watch out.

Courtesy of Purplepanda03



So by calling a man a pussy, one is insinuating that a) he knows when to fight and when to walk away and b) you back him into a corner, you won't be walking away without a few scars.

To Quote Ernest Hemingway: "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. "

It's not often that I have to stare directly into eyes of my less-than-awesome self. Maybe because I'm just that awesome.

But, I ran headlong into one of my flaws yesterday morning and I'm still recuperating.

I am the worst writer in the history of the universe.

The worst.

Last Thursday night, I printed out a copy of one of my autobiographical pieces to read through, tweak here and there before sending it off to a couple of magazines. I considered just sending it as is without even a cursory read-through, but I figured that since I haven't looked at it in a while, I should glance through it for that stray typo or maybe a few diction changes. 

After teaching for 12 hours, even the smallest glitch in writing would escape my view. So, first thing Friday morning---a belly full of coffee and a mind anticipating a weekend of probably being the only sober person in the world--I perched at my podium thinking that one class' worth of SSR time would be more than enough time for editing. I'll just handle it during 1st period while my mind is still sharp and my students haven't had much of a chance to radiate my brain cells.

OMG. By the time 5th period's SSR time was completed, I was balled up in the corner, sobbing.

My piece is a disaster: It has no transitions, strays off topic, has about as much variety of language as Green Eggs and Ham minus the rhetorical intent, no climax, and inane reflection (which does not bode well in an autobiographical piece).

Holy shit. Why did I even think at one time that this piece was "finished"? Instead up uploading it onto Kindle and Nook, I should have been downloading it into the toilet. 

Rolling out of bed this morning, I looked forward to a day of trying to find a lifeline in the piece. Slight revision to my weekend plans: I will NOT be the only sober person in the world. From now on, I AM going to read over my writing Thursday nights after teaching for twelve hours and I'm gonna add a bottle of wine to my perception. Clarity is for the talented.

But, as I was shuffling around my office this morning, I glanced at the copy of one of the Shades of Grey books a friend loaned me for when I need a good laugh, and thought, "I'm gonna be just fine."

All you slaves to the quill, please comment on times when you doubted your talent and how you revived it without becoming alcoholics or drug addicts.

If you don't have anything pertinent to say . . . "

Well all do it. Every single one of us, and if anyone tries to tell me that he or she doesn't, I will call, "bullshit."

We all express our opinions without being fully informed first.

Bloggers can be counted among the most guilty. We comment on posts that we haven't read in their entirety. In fact, I am willing to bet that many bloggers comment on posts without reading an entire sentence. Read the title of the post, look at the pictures, scan a couple of the other comments, and then just tack one on. As long as your comment references anything--anything in the post it gives the illusion that you read it.

This bit of insincerity comes from a good place: we just want to make our fellow bloggers feel supported. Or, we want to make other bloggers feel guilty so that they'll check in on our blogs and comment on our posts that they haven't read--let alone read closely.

So basically blogging has become a lot like relationships: just another way to provide a false sense of security.

But my most recent post has brought to light a trend--at least new to me--in blog commenting. Not only does every porn site in the world "comment" on a blog if it is promoted in a public forum, but now a bunch of other online businesses are commenting "anonymously."

Courtesy of dryhumordaily.blogspot.com

Yes, I have finally learned the reason for the word-verification prerequisite in order to comment. Please refer to all posts related to technology if you are astounded at my stupidity.

And while we bloggers may not always read our comrades posts fully, we sure as shit read and re-read every single syllable of the comments to ours. This is how I discovered that blog commenting has become the new way to advertise, and apparently there is a huge market of out-of-work, pornography addicts online. 

Or maybe the title of my last post, "What Can Your Butt Do?", has the right key word to attract the automated, anonymous comments from the merchants of jobs and porno flicks. If you haven't read about my butt yet, please do so now.  I'll wait . . .

This post received a string of comments from anonymous "readers." To their credit, these comments are composed with sophisticated language and tailored to the writer's ego. Out of context, they seem intelligent and flattering. But, in the case of my butt-post, they are both impertinent and asinine.

For example, Forex Trading Systems commented:"I've been surfing online more than 4 hours today, yet I never found any interesting articles like yours."

Okay, if you can't find anything online more interesting than my ass, you are either retarded or even more inept with technology than I am.

Jobs from Home Online shared that I had, "read [their] thoughts" and that "[I] know a lot about this topic, like [I] wrote the book on it."  

First, if you are sitting around thinking about my butt, seek immediate help. Second, who else is going to write the book on my ass? It's not like I am wealthy enough to have my own private proctologist. And if such a book did exist, who in the fuck would buy it? 

I've also been thanked for "sharing this with all the people who understand what you are talking about." Really? There is a population of people who can trigger paper towel dispensers with their tush?

Finally, it seems as if I have "put a new spin on a topic which has been discussed for decades."  In this case, I'm willing to believe that this commentator did read my post, because I am sure people have been talking about my ass for decades.

Well, beggers can't be choosers, I suppose.

I'd appreciate your comments.

What can your butt do?

I have one talented ass.

And I don't mean "ass" as a synecdoche. I am referring solely to my gluteus maximus. Emphasis on "maximus" in my case.

My tush's talents do not relate to its basic functionality. So, those of you who are inching your cursor to the X at the top of your computer screen, come on back. This post will not include anything about my flatulence (which I never have) nor my feces (which does not stink).

My rear is an excellent ottoman. It's big enough to accommodate any side foot. Unfortunately, this use is not unique to me, but to all who have large derrieres. The more luxurious ones are not those of the yogi, the Pilates instructor, or even the runner, but those of the carb worshipers. Think in terms of a firm mattress vs. a tempurpedic.    

Courtesy of Colorbox

Those who have a cat, probably have discovered this next use of an abundant fanny: a pet bed. Whether stretched on the floor grading papers, reposing on my tummy on the couch, or asleep in my bed, my rear trumps all other locations in my apartment for cat's nap. In addition, my bum also seems to be the highest point in the room for my cats to climb up on and lord over their world, thereby complementing their egos.

My rump is also a weapon. A catapult to be exact. I once launched my best friend across a hotel room with my ass. In my defense, it was my only defense, even though I started out as the offense.  After too much wine and too much indulgence in immaturity, I decided a round of WWF as she is trying to inflate her aerobed was appropriate. On any given day, in any given situation, under any given condition, Lisa can kick my ass (now, I do mean "my ass" as a synecdoche) so once I riled her up, I knew I had to get some distance between us quickly, so I bumped her with my bum and she flew. Caught air. Her feet left the ground.

She forgave me the next day when I dropped my bottom like a bomb onto her aerobed to assist in the deflating.

But recently, I learned that my fanny has another talent; a use more valuable that a toilet seat cover.

A paper towel dispenser.

Now, I can pull a lot of things out of my ass, and paper towels from that region is of no use to anyone, so allow me to explain.

In the woman's bathroom at work we have an automatic paper towel dispensers. Ours if a fickle one. In theory, we are supposed to wave our hands under the senser to get a stream, but our dispenser makes us work for it. You have to damn near make love to it to get it to work. In fact, by the time anyone manages to get a paper towel, she has waved her hands around so much that a 757 has landed in the handicap stall and her hands are already dry. And in the amount of time we teachers have to pee added to the size of our bathroom as disproportionate to the amount of females on campus, no one has time to monkey-fuck around.

A colleague one told me that the senser doesn't work if it gets wet. Wait a second, a senser is sensitive to water when it's job is to provide that which takes the wetness away? 

Regardless of the efficiency of anything "technological," I will have problems with it. So, I automatically go for the extra roll perched on top of a shelf by the door. I have enough aggravation in my life. 

But then, my talented ass provided another solution. As I emerged from the stall and went to wash my hands something amazing happened. 

To fully understand, you must study the picture to the left carefully. Note the layout of sink to dispenser. 

I bent over to wash my hands and a ream of paper dropped right out. My booty set off the dispenser. And by the way, the senser is on the underside of it.

How convenient! Not only is that towel ready for me, but it saves time because it is dispensing while I am washing. Awesome. 

The colleague standing in line --my former student teacher, I might add-- was thinking more of my feelings than my new-found talent. As I turned to ask, "Did you see what my butt just did?" I found her covering her mouth with her hands, eyes popped open wide. 

My response? "Hey, what can your butt do?"

Idiot's Guide to Christmas Gifts

Gift-giving can be tricky during the holidays. First, you have to decide whom to buy for and whom not to buy for without offending either. You buy for someone who didn't buy for you leaves them feeling guilty; you don't buy for someone who buys for you leaves you feeling guilty. 

Drawing names and Secret Santa helps in avoiding this problem, but since I had to roll it like Greece (austere living with a bad attitude) this holiday season, I avoided the whom-to-buy-for conundrum this year by not buying for anyone I don't share DNA with. 

So when I found a gift in my mailbox at work, I was pleasantly surprised and slightly worried. When I saw that the present was from my department heads, I breathed a sigh of relief--as my superiors it was their obligation to buy me a gift in the spirit of morale. 

I took my present back to my classroom, shoved the 150 research papers that I would be grading over my Winter "Break" aside, and immediately opened my festive, cellophane gift bag, drew out the red tissue paper, and unwrapped this: 

My boss had bought me a pygmy pen. Cute. We English teachers can never have enough pens. 

Like all children, I wanted to play with my gift immediately, but I couldn't figure out where the tip of the pen was. I popped off the cap, and like a child whose parents forgot to buy the batteries her new toy needed, felt disappointed.

Well shit, my pen was broken. The tube of ink seemed to be missing. Putting the cap back on, I examined my pen more closely and realized that it didn't seem to be a pen. But what the hell was it?

An eraser? 

Nope. 

I was completely befuddled. But wait, I had seen my friend and colleague, Laura, in the lounge with hers clipped to the collar of her shirt. Walking a few classrooms down the hall, I found her with another colleague working on a state report. Flinging the door open, I held up my mal-factured gift and asked, "What the hell is this?"

I popped off the cap again, "What, is it for? Drugs?" Do my bosses think I do drugs, and if so, are they encouraging me to stay off of them? Do they know that I don't do drugs and are encouraging me to start?

Laura guffawed, cast a side-glance at our colleague, then straightened up and with her widest, most condescending smile said, "A stylus." 

That answer did not help me at all. 

"For your iPad." The district had bought our department iPads a couple months back so we could be more "mobile" when using technology for instruction.

I shrugged and shook my head. 

"So you can keep your screen clean."

Smallest damn screen-cleaner I'd ever seen.

"Now you won't get your dirty fingerprints all over the screen," Laura clarified. "You can use that instead of your finger."

Lightbulb. "Is that what this rubber tip is for?" I said.

"Yeeeessssss."

I wish I could say that my lapse of intelligence was due to mental exhaustion. I wish I could say that it was due to mentally already being on vacation. I wish I could say it was due to just being mental. But, if you've read my other posts on technology, you know I can't blame it on anything else than the fact that when it comes to anything digital . . . 

Why This Blogging Shit Might Be Worth It, Take 2

It was brought to my attention that maybe some of you fellow bloggers may want to know why it is I keep blogging; why this shit seems to be worth it.

I started blogging about 2 1/2 years ago out of necessity. Frustrated by what seemed like hundreds of agent rejections, but knowing that I am publishable, I needed a new approach.

So basically, my ego brought me to the blogosphere.

First, my ego brought me to desperate measure. As I pondered how I was going to seduce an agent and fornicate my way to the publishing house, Jenny Baranick announced that she had found an agent.

Damn her. I mean, I was ecstatic for her.

Because Jenny is much, much more benevolent that I'll ever be, instead of hording her good fortune, she shared her path to it. The key to getting oneself noticed was to blog.  Mindi, the third of our writing group, already had a website, so now it was time for me to get on the social networking train.

I really, really didn't want to.  But, Jenny's benevolence is spiced up with action.  When she decides she is going to do something, she does it. Immediately. When she decided that I should start blogging, she meant for me to do it. Immediately. 

Oh, the whining; oh, the moaning on that first day. What am I supposed to blog about? I write fiction. Novels. Am I supposed to put up excerpts from my novels? I wasn’t sure I could write about writing; I wasn’t sure I had anything to put out there besides the fictional projections of my demented mind.

Jenny said that my blog would develop its identity over time and to just start writing.

Just start writing? Without a plan? Without a plot outline? I thought she was nuts, but I forged ahead based on her faith in my ability to blog.

And here I am--still blogging. Here I am--still without an agent. But then, a blog post evolved into a "creative nonfiction" piece got published in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine. “Language of Love” would not existing without this damn blog, so ya, it may have finally gotten me published, but not in the way I originally set out to be.  Still, when a fellow blogger ask for a bit of backstory to encourage everyone else in my boat, I sat back and really thought about it.  

What has blogging done for me?

It has given me the opportunity to experiment

Most of mine have been utter failures.  The "fact or fiction" series did not turn out as I hoped; I find it almost impossible to post any kind of fiction, let alone promote my fiction; and any attempt to host a blogfest to build up my followers has been nothing short of nothing.

The experiment that did work? Writing about teaching. Instead of sharing my teaching adventures via oral tradition, I have begun to blog about them. As much as I like being able to make my friends laugh, there's something glorious about being able to make strangers laugh.  I may not hear the laughter, but I can see it of "hits" a post gets.

Also, blogging about teaching escapades is therapeutic and has probably taken a critical role in keeping me employed. 

Another success would be writing about language; in fact, that's what "Language of Love" (hit the link, yo) is about.  I had been writing and teaching long before I began blogging, so I have always had a curiosity and love of words, but writing about them has deepened the relationship. Instead of them just being tools for me to build fiction, they have become spiritual entities I channel. 

It has helped me find my voice

Jenny Baranick, creator an author of Missed Periods and Other Grammar Scares, said that “blogging really helped me find my voice.” 

Ditto, my friend.

For me, the key has been the "my" in "my voice."  I had a voice for my different fictional characters: I knew how to be Corey Malone, Clark Stein, and Brian Little on paper, but I didn't really learn how to be Holly Vance on paper until I began to blog. And even though I am sometimes teacher Holly, cougar Holly, technologically-challenged Holly, each with her own distinct voice, blogging has given me the opportunity to see myself in a new way.

It has redefine my writer persona

I went into blogging a horror and crime thriller novelist.  How I was going to produce anything worth a shit in under 500 words baffled me.  I tried flash fiction, and those posts never left me feeling satisfied. And they are not amongst the frequently viewed.  I have always been funny, but not a humor writer.  I have always been open about my life, but never a memoirist. But in the arena of blogging, I had the opportunity to produce a lot of it and get feedback about it.

Much to my chagrin, I have been told by many that I am a better nonfiction writer than a fiction one, so blogging has also given me a bit of an identity crisis.

It reminds me why I write

As writers trying to get published, what agents and publishers think of our writing is critical, but honestly, don’t writers want the praise of other writers? Maybe those of us running in the same blogging circles aren’t any Stephen King, Nora Roberts, Scott Turow, J.R. Tolkien,  or JK. R0wlings but that doesn’t make any commentary or praise from a less “successful” writer any less valuable. Especially when that praise comes from other bloggers, who don’t ever have to read a word you write or say jack shit about it, just one or two of those every four to five posts is priceless.  It reminds me that I don't write to be rich and famous; I write to be read. I write to entertain and connect--and blogging allows me to do that. 

I've learned a few things no related to writing by blogging as well. 

I learned that a lot of people hate me: the most read post it the Final Destination post where I create several scenarios in which I die a horrible, violent death. And I am very careful to make sure that my students won't stumble across this blog.  Or maybe there's a huge underground cult who worship the Final Destination films and were duped by my title.

I learned that if you try to promote your blog in the public arena of Facebook, every porn site in the universe will "comment" on your blog. 

I learned that agents aren't spending hours online, searching the gazillion blogs looking for a new client. 

Bummer. Guess I better got back to figuring out how to fornicate my way to the publishing house.

"Age is No Place for Sissies" -- Bette Davis

If I survive this weekend, I will turn 40 on the 23rd. 

I'll admit it: I do get wrapped up in the number. I often wonder how my perspective would change if I had no idea how old I was? Would I be less embarrassed that 10 p.m. now seems like the middle of the night? Would I see that pillow that I jam between my knees at night as a luxury instead of a way to keep my back from hurting?  

Would the two days it takes to recover from two glasses of wine be attributed to bad wine instead of a tired liver?

When I breeze through the latest trendy magazines during my pedicures, would I figure that the reason I don't know who 90% of the people featured in them are is because they lack sophistication?

Well, I'm gonna find out. I'm hitting Vegas like a 21 year-old, dammit.

Okay, maybe like a 30 year-old. 

Maybe I'll end up making out with the latest heartthrob and not even know it.  Doesn't that make me extra cool instead of old and out-of-it?

Wish me luck--not that I'll hit a jackpot on the slot machines--but that I can have three drinks, see midnight without having to take a nap, and actually be able to get out of bed the next day. 

I'm either going to come back with a lot of blogging material or I won't come back at all because I'll be dead.

BTW, the music video on VH1 as I type this: I have no idea who the singer is. None.