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?

My Childhood Monster

A fellow blogger and author, Christine Rains, is celebrating the release of her paranormal romance, FEARLESS, by hosting a blogfest based on childhood monsters. I couldn't resist an entry, especially since my next project is going to be revising the YA horror novel I wrote when I was a YA. A very grounded YA.

My childhood monster answers the age old question once posed by Luke Skywalker: Why would Storm Troopers want to slaughter Jawas?

Well Luke, because they are scary little suckers. Storm Troopers may be an army of evil, but they wear white, shiny uniforms. Not quite the image of a childhood terror.

And as I child, I thought I saw one in my bedroom and to this day, the image still haunts me.

I grew up in a foreboding house located up in the hills where there were few residents and lots of wildlife. The city hadn't bothered with putting up many streetlights, so the nights were silent and dark. Tomb silent. Grave dark. My father claimed that any light, no matter how dim, that might be on anywhere in the house would keep him up, so no nightlights in my house. No sir.

I would sleep with my window open so that whatever moonlight available could break up the pitch blackness of my room. Some nights, I would sit up--rigid, teeth clenched-- in my elevated, antique brass bed, and wait for my eyes to adjust to the shadowy darkness so that I could make sure I was alone in my room before lying down to vulnerable sleep.

Yes, that's my dresser.

Yes, that's my laundry basket.

Closet door is definitely closed.

Oh my god, what is on my chair in the corner? Whew, just my teddy bear.

I was never quite brave enough to check under my bed. Probably should have, because that's the only place the Jawa could have been hiding.

One night, I went to sleep feeling safe, but it must have been a bad dream that jerked me from my slumber. I shot up from my repose, panting.  I wish I had just stayed in the nightmare.

At the foot of my bed, I saw a cradle. In the cradle, the profile of a hooded figure, no bigger than a small child. While the cradle seemed to be rocking from side-to-side, the figure rocked forward and back. I knew by the way the hood pointed at the back, and the rim formed what seemed a perfect, stiff circle that it was a Jawa.

A Jawa sucking his thumb.

Well, not sucking his thumb in the traditional sense. When the Jawa rocked backward, the thumb slowly pulled away from the hood; when the Jawa rocked forward, the hooked arm and jutting digit disappeared behind the folds of cloth. Rock back, rock forward. Rock back, rock forward.

I sat in complete terror: heart pounding, sweat dripping. I did end up screaming for my parents. But instead of begging for a light to be left on, once they reassured me that a Jawa nor a crib was nowhere to be found in my room, I shut my curtains, wanting  my room to be at dark as tar so that whatever was in my room, I wouldn't be able to see it.

An Emerging Market: Cougars

Dear Apple,

I realize that you are taking over the world. You lure us with cute pictures and the illusion that you are saving us time (try completing a task without your cellphone or computer within reach and you'll see just how much "time" technology is saving you). You promise convenience and efficiency. But the most seductive thing about your product? It's pretty and easy.

Instead of worrying about things like words and being burdened with texting complete sentences, you provide cute, little icons for users to make their communication both clear and quick. I no longer have to deny anyone a moment without the honor--the need-- to interact with me.

I can text a birthday cake instead of "happy birthday" (also helps avoid the unanswerable grammatical question of whether or not or even how "happy birthday" should be capitalized).  I can text a thumbs-up for "that sounds great!" or "I agree." At the end of a long Monday, I can choose a pile of poop in response to a "how was your day," and at the end of a Friday, I can text a martini glass. Or the hypodermic needle.

And I have to thank you for the egg-in-frying pan icon when I need to send a text about breakfast. Or to present what age, blogging, and too many drugs in high school has done to my brain.

And who doesn't need a picture of an eggplant in his or her daily communication? Oh, and Apple, thanks so much for the hedgehog, the nose, and the ghost with the eye patch.

But Apple is sorely neglecting a market: Cougars. We are adapting to texting as a main mode of communication to accommodate our twenty-something interests, but the age gap does bring about some problems. Therefore, Apple, I need you to please add these icons to iPhone 5.

I need a in place of "please, don't send me naked pictures." 

I need one of these to indicate that I don't send naked picture.

(Well, maybe for $.)


And I definitely need one of these so that my potential suitor knows that I don't put out on the first date.

If my request comes too late for the iPhone 5, I suppose I can use a thumbs down + the camera + the eggplant in place of "please don't sent me picture of your penis," but that's three things I have to tap! So, Apple, I'd hop on it because my next letter will be to Android.


Regards,

Cougars of America

P.S. Trust me when I say that we have more power than the NRA.

Why We Need LOL

I speak two languages: snob and sarcasm.

Snob is my written language; sarcasm is my colloquial language. Whenever I write anything -- fiction, prose, emails, grocery lists--I always used correct punctuation, sophisticated vocabulary, and rhetorical flourish. I use semi-colons in my text messages. Hell, I even capitalize first person "I" and spell out "you."

Sarcasm is my colloquial language. I know, I know--sarcasm is only funny to the person using it and is the sword of language. But in the home I grew up in, sarcasm was as valuable as a lifeboat on the Titanic. After years of wielding it in the name of survival, it flows naturally from my mouth, more free than air.

When I was in school to get my teaching credential, I recall a professor warning to "never use sarcasm with students" because it causes psychological damage. At the time, I wondered how I was going to teach anyone anything if I had to be mute.

Then I learned that I needed sarcasm to not only survive my childhood, but also to survive my profession. Have I scarred any teens during my teaching career? Probably. But fuck it, I've always been a bit Darwinian. And the students always know that I'm just kidding. I mean, the voice inflection that cloaks those biting words provides a cushion, right?

But, speaking sarcasm  is so much easier than writing it. And when one is texting (or IMing) it is meant to flow like conversation; it's digital dialogue. Therefore, taking the time to chose that perfect word or orchestrate language so that tone comes through is just practical or reasonable, even for masters of the written word.

Thank God for LOL and :).  Tacking one--or both if the sarcasm is really poignant-- indicates that one is j/king.

LOL is infant in the family of language, but it's precocious. It has already evolved. In the beginning, LOL was primarily used by the receiver of a message to mean that the content of what was sent made him or her to "laugh out loud."

For example, when a prospective suitor texted me, "UR cook dinner n suck cock?" I responded with "LOL" as a kind way of saying "The fuck I am, asshole." If it's a new flirtation, I might tack on a :) as well. That way, he knows that I have no intention of cooking him shit nor sucking on anything but that I am not offended by his sarcasm. If he was being serious, he'll learn right away that I may not be the girl for him. Better he learn that now than after dinner, right?

But then, LOL went from a message receiver's signal that he or she is enjoying the conversation to a message sender's tool to keep the conversation amiable.

This evolution affects both sides of the conversation. Now, the potential suitor would text, "UR cook me dinner, LOL" and I would respond with "No, you're going to buy me dinner, LOL." I don't think he's a misogynistic dick and he doesn't think I am a gold-digging bitch. Instead, we learn that we are both witty and playful.

If potential suitor texts, "UR cook dinner?" without the LOL :), I know that his question is serious and I can whip out my snobbery and respond with, "Sure, after you take me out to dinner, buy me a dozen roses, and then send me a thank you card the following day."

As long as the communication is clear, it's all good. If the potential suitor was joking and the lack of LOL was an oversight, well then, I've learned that he's careless. No thank-you. Still a win-win for me.

Inspiration

A Writer's Journey

A Writer's Journey is an inspirational blog that just launched a blogfest that really gets us writers to put on our PR hats while celebrating our works.

To join this blogfest, I have created THREE pages on my blog, primarily dedicated to my serial killer novel. Please visit my blog, check them out, comment, etc and then go to A Writer's Journey (link provided as picture caption) and enjoy other inspirations. Who knows, maybe our inspirations will inspire you!

Well, hopefully not to kill people. I'd feel bad.

Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?

I understand that language will and must evolve to join with scientific discovery, technological progression, and cultural mish-mashing, but I'm more in favor of creating new language instead of just redefining words already used.

For example, I love the word google. It started as a proper noun and then the frequency of its use morphed it into the verb to google which means to investigate or to look up. I don't even mind that text has become a verb because the spirit of its meaning remains the same. That emo has replaced my generation's goth to describe that teen sub-culture is just fine. No problemo.

But, when a word that's been around for a while changes definition--that irritates me.

Currently, my students are setting up a mock trial based on the novel The Stranger. (If you haven't read the novel, don't worry, you can continue reading this post without becoming confused.) To keep these seniors who have mentally graduated motivated, I put them into legal teams, assigned them to be the prosecution or defense, and then paired the teams up to compete against one another. To take it up a notch, I informed the students that only one legal team in each pair can earn an 'A'.

A few days ago, they presented their opening statements. Robed, perched at my podium, I played the judge. As each team presented, the rest of the class acted as jury. After all teams had presented, I asked for jury responses. For one particular pair, the jury unanimously favored the prosecution. After the results were presented and the defense team was slinking off to their desks, one of the members of the prosecution taunted: "We smashed you."

Based on the content, I knew what the student meant, but my understanding of the word smashed did not compute with the situation.

To my knowledge, smashed had gone from meaning “totally drunk” in my day to “having sex” for the current adolescent lexicon. In fact, Urban Dictionary specifies that smashing is "fucking someone good" which if we apply the rules of grammar means "fucking someone who is a good person" so I am guessing that Urban Dictionary intends smashed to mean fucking someone so much (or so hard) so that the fucker dominates the fuckee. In a consensual sex kind of way.

And I don't allow fornication or drinking alcohol in my classroom, so clearly, the meaning has changed.

"Hey Cody," I called to the gloating student. "What does 'smashed' mean now?"

"It means like a landside victory. We totally dominated."

"So it doesn't mean 'to have sex' anymore?" I asked.

"No, it means that too," Cody said.

"In my day, it meant 'drunk'," I said.

"Oh, it means that too."

So now smashed can be counted with those words that have so many definitions one must provide several context clues so as not to cause confusion or panic.

For example, if I were to tell my friends, “I got smashed last night,” they wouldn’t know I got drunk, punked, or fucked. And then they wouldn’t know whether to stage an intervention, make fun of me, or buy me a chastity belt. They’d have to really sit back and think about which definition is more likely to be true. And nobody is gonna like the results of that.

That same day, I asked my college class how they use the word smashed. As it turned out, my college students don’t use it to mean “dominated” in a competitive setting. In fact, one student, Stevie informed me that “We actually used smushed to mean ‘having sex’.”

I dunno, being smushed is ever less appealing that being smashed. But because Stevie is a great writer with a unique spirit that I admire, I considered her clarification seriously. My conundrum was just getting more conundrummy.

Already planning to write a post on the usage of the word, I tested my title: “Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?” to illustrate the problem with the multiple definitions. Several students laughed, which was the reaction I was hoping for. Charlie, who happens to sit behind Stevie, offered a solution, “Well, if you said, ‘I am smashed’ it would be more clear.

I presented my I-was-smashed-last-night example to illustrate that unlike talking to, smashed didn’t come with a preposition (or linking verb) to aid in the clarification.

Being another talented writer, Charlie was not discouraged, “Technically, punking someone isn’t the same as dominating someone in competition. Punking is more like a practical joke.”

These fools can’t use MLA format, but they sure as hell can punch holes in my rhetorical wittiness.

The conundrums were now smashing and multiplying. “Great Charlie, now I have to decide whether of want to be rhetorically catchy or denotatively accurate.”

“I like your title,” Christine, who sits in front of Stevie said. I asked her, “so stick with the title, even though it’s not accurate?”

She nods.

“The inaccuracy doesn’t bother you?”

She shakes her head and I have to remind myself that not everyone is as anal as I am. And I mean anal as in “obsessively orderly.” Besides, Christine is a pretty good judge of when I am actually being funny and when I am actually being an idiot based on which of my jokes she finds humorous.

Nevertheless, I still did some online research before composing this blog. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, smashed appeared in the English language in 1819 to mean “crushed; broken to pieces.” It retained that definition until those rebels of 1962 used it to mean “intoxicated, drunk; under the influence of drugs.” No mention of fornicating, dominating or otherwise.

I did look up smushed on Urban Dictionary and I was right—it is less attractive that getting smashed. According to that site, smushed is “the act of pressing a flaccid penis against a woman’s groin area in a vain attempt at sexual intercourse.”

Therefore, as the self-proclaimed czar of diction and with the Oxford English Dictionary to back me up, I declare that smashed is only allowed to mean “crushed” as in “broken to pieces” or “drunk.”

Although, “Am I Drunk, Punked, or Fucked?” is a better title than “Am I Broken to Pieces or Intoxicated?”.

A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose,
By Any other name would smell as sweet?"
                             --- Romeo and Juliet


If names didn't matter, expecting parents wouldn't spend months researching and debating names.

Take my name for instance: Holly. It means a plant with red berries (that are poisonous). I'm sure my parents went ten rounds on which plant to name me after.

So, Holly by any other name would be just as poisonous? Awesome.

If it weren't for the Internet and social networking, I would agree with Juliet (on the value of a name only). For most of us, our birth names don't really represent the scope of who we are as people. But we didn't name ourselves and our parents name us before any sign of personality shows itself. At best, our birth names represent what our parents hope we'll become.

So, my parents wanted me to be poisonous. Awesome.

But on the Internet, when we set up email accounts, Twitter accounts, participate in online gaming, and dating profile we get to create a name that we think represents who we are. Therefore, my lovely and naive Juliet, a name does represent the scent of the rose. Or at least a person's willingness to take a whiff.

For example, my email involves a reference to vampires. I  have had the address forever, back when I wanted to be seen as dark and dangerous because I thought it was sexy. I keep the email address out of pure laziness: it's just too much for me (see technology humor posts) to send out a mass message directing my friends and family to my new addy. And, if I want to be honest, I still hope that whomever I give it to will see its contrast to my physiognomy as mysterious. Edgy. Unconventional.

Sexy.

What usually happens now is that those to whom I give it regard me as kooky. Confused. Immature (even though I always explain that my vampiric address has "nothing to do with Twilight"). They laugh at my explanation--trying to sound humored by my wit--but really they are backing away, lowering their eyes, and quickly closing the conversation (or transaction).

Missed Periods has great posts about the value of a professional email address, so I'll move on to profile usernames.

Usernames that are known only to you--sure, unleash the inner adolescent. Sexy beast. Lunatic. Go ahead and register that "BoogerEater." "69forever." "BloodyPretzel." Hopefully, you won't have to call the IT support line and be forced to share it with a complete stranger.

But, with dating profiles, the inner adolescent, sexy beast, and lunatic needs to be harnessed. When potential mates are perusing their matches, they may look at every aspect of a profile before noting the specifics of the username. The problem arises when someone is notified via email that someone winked, smiled, emailed, or wants to meet you.

For example, I have received the following notifications:

"Clitlicker wants to meet you."

"Cocknorris just winked at you."

And my favorite, "Bigdaddypoopface is interested in you!"

And recently, I learned that I am a favorite of MrRightNow!69 and WalkingDeath.

Let's just say that I have no intention of being the dick-sucker to Clitlicker.

My vagina doesn't want to be anywhere near Cocknorris.

And I am certainly not interested in Bigdaddypoopface. I might be open-minded, but I'm not disgusting.

And MrRightNow!69 gives me performance anxiety.

Select. Delete. No viewing profiles. Clitlicker could be Gerard Butler, Cocknorris could be Vin Diesel, and Bigdaddypoopface could be George Clooney, but I will never know.

WalkingDeath? I guess I'll hit him up when I'm feeling suicidal or necrophiliactic.

Therefore, Juliet, there is a lot in a name. One can't be too hard a a tween expressing what little wisdom he or she can gather in the first thirteen years of their lives.  I mean, everything turned out alright for her, didn't it?