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?"

What of us goes to waste?

I have a whole lotta skills, yo.

Unfortuneatly, not all of them are valuable. Some are useful; some are enriching. The rest go to waste.

When I think of "useless," the connotation is more pragmatic. These are skills necessary to stay alive or reach a certain goal--that goal being in the name of efficiency or necessity. 

I have skills that are very, very useful. I am very good at knowing how to obtain food and wine. An expert, in fact. Grow food? Not so skilled there, but I'm still alive so I figure it's a skill not everyone needs. I am also very good at selecting shelter: an apartment three blocks from the beach. Can I build a shelter? No, but that goes into the category of growing food. I know how to use a hammer, that's a shelter-building skill. Thank the goddess that I have the skills required to teach others how to use language which keeps me employed so that I can pay for already-grown food and already-built shelter.

In addition, I have skills that enrich my ability to stay alive. I am a pretty good cook. Italian food is one of my specialties. I can also make a pot black beans that would impress a Cuban.

I am also have great organizational skills. I can create a system for anything--a step-by-step process even a monkey could follow (my job as a high school teacher has perfected that skill so that it is becoming a more useful skill).  And planning? I am a planner extraordinaire.

And dare I say that my skills in writing not only enrich my life, but others as well? (Again, this might be a useful skill because if I didn't write, I have no idea how I would keep The Crazy at bay.)

The skills I have that I consider wasteful are those that neither keep me alive nor enrich my life. They might enrich another person's life, but since I can't use them, they just rust over.

For example, I am very good at flirting with women. All women: gay, straight, in transition. Now, my ability to pick up on women would be very enriching if I were a lesbian. Unfortunately, I am straight. And there is no occasion other than hooking up with women that my skill would be useful. Maybe enriching to men who would like to watch me pick up on women, but being a side-show for men is neither a goal nor a flourish I have in my life.

Another skill I have that serves no purpose is my ability amp a situation that has a green terror alert to a red terror alert within 60 seconds. If I were an actress, my flare for over-reaction and drama would be very useful. I am not, nor desire to be, on the stage.

Lastly, I recently learned that I have the skills required to be a foot mistress. I guess I am excellent at trampling, stomping, and squashing. Now, if I were into feet, that'd be great. But, I'm not. I hate my feet as a matter of fact. Now, I do have a friend who is greatly enriched by my skills, but the novelty has worn off for me, so it has slipped into my wasteful skill category.

What are your most wasted skills?

Plan B for My Writing: Bumper Stickers

As I mentioned in an earlier post--see "What We Writers Do for Our Readers"-- I am one-third of a wonderful writer's group.

And, as I also mentioned before, we are all very different women. This comes out not only in our writing, but also in the way we take notes for revisions.

Jenny, aka Missed Periods, doesn't take notes at all. As Mindi and I make suggestions, she maintains eye contact, asks pertinent questions, and when she feels that something does need to be written down, she asks us to note it on our copies of her work. I find this method of "note-taking" bewildering because I'd forget my name if I didn't have to write down on a daily basis.

To maintain balance, Mindi takes copious notes. As Jenny and I dialogue about her submission, she is feverishly writing on her copy of the draft. Or, if we are working at her place, she will bust our her Mac and feverishly type.  It's almost as if she's doing the revisions as we are suggesting them.

I am a little in-between: I have a journal of fragmented instructions for overall revisions. For line edits, Mindi and JennyB are great about making those marks on their copies, so when I revise, I need both marked-up copies and my journal. 

As I was leafing through my notes that probably span at least a year back, I realized that if anyone read my journal, not knowing the nature of its contents, he or she would think I was a homicidal maniac. The female American Psycho.

But then, it hit me. These notes were going to make me rich!  I could market them as bumper stickers!

I know that there are a lot of great bumper stickers already, but I have a niche (or two)

Bumper stickers with relationship advice:

   

Stickers for those women who don't want their Match.com date to follow them home or for those women who want their Craig's-list-booty call only to fuck them.

                                  

So, what do you think? Maybe, instead of finding my name on the spine of a book, you'll see it . . .

Here.