Book Review: Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight

I've never felt more like an over-privileged-unappreciative American than when reading Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight. Hearing of Alexandra Fuller's upbringing in war-torn Rhodesia, violent Zimbabwe and the dictatorship of Malawi will have that effect on you. 

But, only the power of good story-telling can make you feel somehow jealous at the same time.  I didn't have baboons, leopards, impala and kudus running around my back yard growing up!  I wasn't free to ride a motorcycle around town, under aged!  I didn't get to keep every dog that followed me home and go horse-back riding every single day!  I didn't get to be poor, yet have servants anyhow!

Then again, I didn't have to fear cobras in the cellar, scorpions under the bed, droughts that impede even toilet use, oppressive heat (worse than a Michigan summer!), malaria replacing my winter's flu and your every day terrorists beating down the front door.

No, a drive through my home town didn't require the flaunting of an Uzi as a preventative to being tagged "fair game".  Bribes didn't have to be exchanged at the border, simply to get to school.  Pedophilic neighbors weren't an oversight.  I couldn't be poor, but with servants, simply because of the color of my skin.  And, I never knew of so much death.

Her story opens like this:

Mum says, "Don't come creeping into our room at night."

They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs.  She says, "Don't startle us when we're sleeping."

"Why not?"

"We might shoot you."

"Oh."

"By mistake."

"Okay."  As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on purpose.  "Okay.  I won't."

Alexandra (or, Bobo, as you'll come to know her) wasn't raised by banshees.  She was raised by white Africans.  Blatant in their racism.  Undying in their "cause".  Stubborn of their rights.  Regardless of the civil war they were entrenched in and the every day dangers that surrounded them and their children.  Because this is where they stubbornly chose to live.  Even though they were born elsewhere, they weren't leaving!  Until they had to.  They'd then just head to another ranch or farm...  on to the next (what we Americans would call, "sharecropping") opportunity.  Sometimes crossing into other war-torn African nations, but never really owning much more than their pots, pans and dogs; and never really free.

Telling one's story isn't always subject to "nice and neat".  Someone's story is only real if it's drenched in truth... and, truth she does not squander.  Excuses are never made for ignorance.  But, apologies aren't either.  Her childhood may not sound idyllic, but this is the story of her childhood and she tells it well.

Colorful, descriptive, educational, humorous and painful all at once.  It's a story of adventure, drama, comedy, heartbreak and breakdowns.  Not a tidy life, but a life worth hearing about, a history worth learning and a continent worth catching a deep wide-eyed glimpse of. 

Even though I may have never stepped foot off of my own continent, I now somehow feel I know the taste and smell of Africa.

That's not just story-telling... but, the testament of brilliant story-telling!

Book Review: Born Standing Up, by Steve Martin

I'm a sucker for funny guys.  Especially prematurely gray ones.  So, I guess it goes without saying that I've always had a little soft spot for Steve Martin.

Not The Jerk's Steve Martin. Not, Wild and Crazy Guy-Martin.  Just Steve Martin.  Out of character and being his witty intelligent self.

Fortunately, for me, this is the Steve Martin that penned Born Standing Up.  It's a memoir, but not a birth-to-death kind of memoir.  Subtitled, A Comic's Life, this memoir chronicles Steve's journey of funnydom.  There's a bit of childhood reminisce, but just in laying the groundwork for what makes his funny tick.  Early influences.  Family struggles, that all comics seem to fabricate a protective shell from.  Earliest performances of any and all sorts.  

I treasured the chapter on his working days at Disneyland, being a fellow Disney nut myself.  Steve started at the theme park at the tender age of ten, selling souvenir books.  Reading his narration of weaving through the park, between the legs of full grown visitors, on his daily adventure of earning that two bucks was like seeing my own childhood fantasies realized.  His days were spent all over Disney's land, working hours and non-working alike. The Golden Horseshoe Review, Mr. Merlin's Magic Shop, the lassoing cowboys in Frontierland, every performer unknowingly molding the mind of a budding talent who studied them at their crafts on level that only a future star would invest.  He later worked his way on up to a stint in the magic shop, where he practiced what he learned in these first and basic steps to performing for an audience.

The book follows his career to Knott's Berry Farm (where he met, dated and "lost it" to... wait for it, wait for it... Stormie Omartian.  Yes, THAT Stormie Omartian!) to San Francisco where he tried to brand his own, somewhat vaudevillian, act of magic + comedy + banjo-playing to the small club scene and then onward and upward to eventual fame and fortune.

His intelligence is realized in the methodical outline he used in pinpointing what it took to make a crowd laugh.  What to say, how to move, where to stand, when to raise an eyebrow, when to twitch a cheek muscle, what color suit to wear, how to deal with hecklers, which crowd likes what, which crowd will follow you out to the lobby and into the street after you thought your performance was through.  All documented, outlined, tweaked and honed, night after night.

This is not a step-by-step guide on how to become a comedian, though.  Just a step-by-step recollection of how one became Steve Martin.

Witty, endearing, heart-felt, laugh out loud funny and so well written that I've come to realize that Mr. Martin is really a writer at heart and only a comedian by trade.  I'll be ready for the next chapter, whenever he decides to pen it.  And, I'll be there in line, with arrow headband on.

To Do List

Everyone keeps asking me my plans for after my workplace closes this week.  I'm pretty sure, they mean what are my plans for employment.  I have a to do list.  It just doesn't have much to do with a 401K plan:

1. Get back to blogging more often.
2. Go see at least 1/3 of the the Best Picture Oscar nominees, before the ceremony for once.
3. Clean my desk.
4. Clean my room.
5. Clean my linen closet.
6. Catch up on sleep.
7. Read a pile of books.
8. Attempt to relearn how to use a sewing machine.
9. Attempt to make a quilt. (I was inspired by a Susana Allen Hunter exhibit at the Henry Ford Museum six years ago and never found the time to sit down and get to it.  Love her free-form, pattern-free style!  Haven't forgotten it after all these years.)
10. Attempt to make a Pioneer Woman-inspired owl pillow.
11. Look into opening an Etsy store (if I can manage to pull off goals 8-10. But, no pressure if I can't.)
12. Get back into painting/drawing.
13. Finish that darn Christmas project.
14. Take some new pictures.
15. Visit a museum or two.
16. Get back to the eye doctors and finally get contacts back in my eyeballs.
17. Exercise.  For real this time!
18. Grow out my bangs a half-inch.  (You should see them.  I trimmed them wet this time and they're hideous!)
19. Make a new recipe.
20. Be inspired enough to add to this list.

Don't worry.  Somewhere in the 20's will also be "figure out life" and "get a new job".  I'm still planning on being a contributing member of society.  I just need a fresh head first!

When I Grow Up

I recently found my copy of Dr. Seuss's My Book About Me in the family basement.  My Book About Me was a popular Seuss-illustrated book, that most of us kids in the 1980's owned, in which you filled in the blanks about your life. 

It asked you such questions as how many doors and beds are in your house, how many buttons you own and what sort of noises you are capable of making (complete with checklist containing the options of "rooster", "dog", "cat", etc.  I checked off all of the options and added in "person", "robot", "cow", "duck", "horse" and "weirdo".)

There's a page titled "I Like to Write Stories: Here is one I wrote" accompanied by two lined pages for the child to complete their story.  On the first page I wrote, "MY Book about ME.   My book a bout me.  I ♥ Ricky Schroeder." On the second page I drew a self-portrait in which I'm wearing an orange shirt with the word "Cat" on it, blue jeans and brown shoes.

There are pages to trace your hand and foot on.  A page for favorite foods ("Peanut butter, chicken mcnuggets - only McDonald's, nachos, pizza, popcorn, etc."  All still dietary staples.)  A page devoted to drawing your hair, on which I inexplicably did this to myself:

 (No I didn't have orange hair as a child.  What I apparently did have was a lack of mousy brown crayons.)

There's a page looking into how you handle your anger.  It's titled "Sometimes I Get Mad at Some People" and provides a yes/no checklist.  I checked "yes" to sometimes getting angry and moved on to the section that's a psychoanalyst's dream.  The further options given are "I kicked someone", "I pushed someone", "I hit someone" and "I yanked hair".  I checked "yes" to all of the above, including a "yes" next to the box which states "I'm sorry I did it." (And, yes, my veins do contain Irish blood.)

Then toward the end of the book, is the "When I Grow Up, I Want to Be ________ " section, filled with two pages of helpful suggestions, in case you needed ideas.  I filled in the blank with the word "nothing".

Work was never an appealing concept to me.  I re-completed this book several times over my elementary school years, and eventually came to circle the options "T.V. star", "Frogman", "Writer", "Mother", "Artist", "Dog Trainer", "Millionaire", "Singer", "Cartoonist" and "Yak Trainer".   (I also scribbled out the options "Nun", "Burglar" and "Rabbi" with very deep no. 2 pencil markings.)

Thirty years later, and I still have no answer to that question.  In a week's time I will be joining the ranks of Michigan's unemployed as a result of the company I work for's need to close two of its smaller offices.  I will have seventeen severance-paid weeks to figure out this answer, or to at least find the nerve to reenlist in another soul-snatching job that simply pays the bills (as has been the pattern set in the twenty years since I've graduated high school.)

It's always interesting to look back at the goals you had as a child during these fork-in-the-road moments in life.  The hilarious choice of doing "nothing", certainly still seems appealing, though won't exactly make ends meet.  (Although my ever-ready hopes of the Publisher's Clearinghouse win does seem to fall both under the childhood wish of doing nothing and becoming a millionaire pursuit.  So, let's call that Plan B for now.)

T.V. star and singer should now be the choices scribbled out with deep no. 2 markings.  I have since come to terms with the fact that the good Lord graced me with the singing voice of someone who is simutaneously blowing a train whistle while trying to shoot peas out of their nose.

I'm not sure what the duties of a Frogman or Yak Trainer involve, and am no longer curious, so it's probably safe to scratch those options off of the list as well.  I never had children of my own, which places Mother out of the running.  Allergies that have developed over the years eliminates Dog Trainer. (Although, I'm pretty sure I never wanted to train the dogs, so much as just play with them and scratch behind their ears.)

Which leaves us with Artist, Writer and Cartoonist.  All still hobbies of mine.  Although, I haven't practiced drawing in close to a decade and I remain completely clueless on how to make a living at any of these things.  I'm also one of those fools that likes to keep hobbies as hobbies, as not to tarnish my love for them with deadlines and such.  So, I guess what this all means is that you'll probably hear of me back in another office setting some time within the coming months.

A seventeen-week deadline to figuring life out?  Yuck.  I think I'll try to have a little fun first and leave Dr. Suess with a big ol' "Thanks for nothing!"  Unless, of course, I come across an ad for a hot-tempered, robot-noise-making, peanut butter-eating frogman.  Then I'll know for sure that destiny is calling!

Resolution

Now that I've made my new year's resolution, I'm finding it harder and harder to blog and update Facebook.  I resolve the same thing almost every year; to be nicer, less judgmental, to block out gossip and to try to say something positive when a conversation turns negative.

This year's difference is that I made this resolution in December, back when I was still lying sick in bed feeling as if death became me, and I found myself in a week-long bartering session with God.  "Why am I not getting better?",  "No one else's illness is lasting this long?",  "Are you trying to teach me something?",  "What did I do?",  "I will be faithful like Job, but do you realize I feel like I'm dying?", "Alright, if you heal me I promise I'll really try to be a nicer person."  And, then I started to heal.

Yeah, so this trade was intended to impact only my personal sphere of human beings... But then, by default, I found that each time a celebrity would go and do something dumb/weird/gross/off-the-wall, at the point that my snark usually kicks in, I'd run to update my FB status and find myself not being able to hit the "Enter" key.  I've literally gotten as far as typing out a hilarious comment (that was sure to get at least ten likes and five LOLs) and then found myself at the mercy of an immediate spiritual twinge that took control of my arm and made be hit the backspace key.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

Oh boy.  Celebrities are people too?  I'm screwed.  I even willingly let my People subscription run out!  I even skipped The Soup AND E's Fashion Police this week!  I even felt sorry, when flipping past one of those Kardashian shows, for Kim and her romantic codependency condition!

I guess my resolution has just taken on new life this year, when elevated from just a good thought to an actual promise.

There are a few other things I've learned in the last year that I like to try to carry in to the new one:

• Stress is unavoidable, only the way you choose to handle it is in your control.
• It's okay to watch only comedies if that's all you're in the mood for.  There's no need to force yourself to sit through any form of entertainment that scares you, depresses you, grosses you out, makes you feel weird inside, makes you cry when you're not in the mood for tears, or anything else that seems like a waste of your time or that just isn't your cup of tea.  No matter how many awards it may win one day or how many friendly recommendations you've been given.  This goes for music, books and tv too.  Sorry, American Horror Story!  No offense, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo!
• Fresh air is like nature's vitamin supplement.  Be sure to inhale a recommended amount daily.
• Too many months of glasses wear has officially killed my vanity.  I don't even do my hair every day!  (Yes, I comb my hair everyday.  I just throw it in a ponytail much more often.)  Makeup, also, has become strictly optional.  Not sure if this is a good or bad thing yet.
• I have finally reached the point where I can honestly say, "Okay, I really do own enough clothes."
• I tried some new foods and didn't like them.  The curiosity is over and I never have to eat them again.  At least I tried!
• Go to the doctors while you still have insurance.

I thought the biggest challenge of 2012 was going to be wading through that puddle of job stress.  I'm now beginning to think it might actually be finding ways to make you guys LOL, without compromising my resolution.

Cheers to my trying!  Hang in there with me!

Book Review: She Got Up Off the Couch, by Haven Kimmel

Another book from my 90% off Borders Going Out of Business stash. I picked it up and put it back down at least twice before deciding it was worth the $1.40 required for its purchase.

Good thing they put the word "Zippy" on the cover.  The name Haven Kimmel didn't ring any bells (beside the brief wondering if she's in any relation to Jimmy) and I wasn't sure the phrase She Got Up Off the Couch sounded very promising.  But, the sight of "Bestselling Author of A Girl Named Zippy" is what kept causing me to add it back into my "yes" pile.  I'd heard of this Zippy before.  I'd read marvelous reviews of this previous book and wondered if it was possible to read the sequel first and still figure out what was going on. 

That answer ended up being "yes".

Haven Kimmel (whom I'm sure is working under pen name) is one of the most brilliantly comical authors I've ever read in my entire life.  This memoir, as well as the---as yet unread by me---A Girl Named Zippy, chronicle her hilarious, somewhat dysfunctional, upbringing in rural Indiana.  The book is written as if being directly beamed from her past adolescent mind.  She's unapologetically goofy, awkward and tomboyish with a charmingly intelligent way of sounding childlike.

This book passed my ultimate litmus test of having something quoteable on each and every page.  To prove this to you ('cause this speaks volumes in comparison to any lousy reveiw I could write) I have randomly opened the book in several places and typed out the first sentence that caught my eye on each page:

• "The couch in the den was the color the crayon people called Flesh..." 
• "Mom leaned toward the windshield as if she could make the car go faster." 
• "Just a glance at persimmons reveals them to be suspicious fruits and yet we ate them constantly." 
• When her dad let a mysterious vagabound camp out in their backyard: "I didn't have much experience with tents, but God knows I wanted some." 
• As she silently protested her teenaged sister's marriage: "I moved and felt like a zombie, only without the flesh-eating joy that seems to drive zombies around neighborhoods like Jehovah's Witnesses." 
• On being forced to attend church camp: "I would not sing Kum-Bye-Ya around the campfire.  I would not play games of tag in the dark, where the boys and girls were allowed to hunt for one another, and find each other, in ways that made my veins run cold." 
• "My sister pulled up...and said she was heading to Grant's department store...and wanted to know if I'd like to ride along.  Grant's meant one thing and one thing only---a frozen cherry Coke, for which I would have compromised any principle---but I had my rats to worry about." 
• When speaking of her favorite song: "Beep Beep (The Little Nash Rambler), by the Playmates. A morality tale about a little car...This song brilliantly gains momentum, and is sung faster and faster right up to the hysterical ending.  Could be sung in the truck so frantically the father in question would sometimes have to stick his head out his open window while praying aloud." 
• "Olive's body had been covered with stretch marks and varicose veins, like a map you turn over and can never make sense of."
• On escorting her mother on her first solo purchase of a used car: "I could only whistle and shake my head as proxy for my dad, who was neither there nor did he know we were."
• "I once overheard Mom refer to a man as someone who Had Accidents for a Living.  I was fairly certain this was my vocation, too, and I wished I could interview the man to figure out how one got paid for what came naturally to me." 
• On her dad's adventures as a volunteer deputy sheriff: "Dad reached around and thrust his hand in the Bad Check Man's mouth...getting severely bitten in the process.  This caused him to wind up in the emergency room, and when he got home he explained the extreme dangerousness of human saliva, which sounded as toxic as hyena spit." 
• On meeting a colleague of her mother's: "Ted was the drama teacher and he made all the plays happen.  He was the cleanest-looking person I'd ever met...and..he had the straightest, whitest teeth on Planet Earth.  They were like a shining white tooth bracelet."

If you chuckled at least six times above, pick up She Got Up Off the Couch today.  It won't change your life, but it just might heighten your reading standards and make you smile.  Alot.  Yes, it is a sequel, but you won't be lost without having read it's predecessor.  By the end you'll wonder what happens to her family next and start praying for a third volume.  And, while you're at it, someone pick me up that Zippy book, stat!  My funny bone is itchin'!

Mark Twain is Full of Himself: The Autobiography of Mark Twain Book Review

Mark Twain is full of himself.

In reading his century-awaited autobiography over the last few months, that is the quickest and most reoccurring analysis I have come to.

Mr. Twain was a proud man. Very proud of his own accomplishments, talents, opinions, business savvy, connections and, seemingly, his temper as well. He is also a merciless name-dropper. I’ve never seen so much effort put into dropping names that has had the most unimpressive effect (given the removal of a century between the impresser and his audience.)

Don’t let that distract you from picking this one up though! Mark Twain is full of himself. But, in the most blatant yet endearing way.

He has an effective way of convincing you that he was constantly surrounded by people less intelligent than he. People who needed his opinion thrust on them in every matter of their lives. People who surely would have come to utter ruin if they had not crossed his path. And, THESE were his friends. Reading about his enemies is where it gets really entertaining!

Twain’s saving grace is, no matter how many paragraphs are dedicated to knocking his chums down a notch or two, they are always book ended by a gracious statements of, “Oh well. He was a kind man and I enjoyed his company.” And, he must have too, because he continues to keep their company and they become reoccurring characters throughout his story. It’s who Twain was. You soon come to accept it and read on.

His memoir feels part like homework, part letter-from-home and, perhaps, part tabloid fodder (if we could only figure out who these littered names belong to!)

Given its thickness, it’s tempting to want to bypass any chapter that starts off slow. I almost did this on several occasion but, upon sticking with it, came across something wonderfully delightful in boredom’s wake. If you are going to skim, do it only paragraphs at a time rather than in entire chapters. Whether you become lost on the people, places or language of the time, Twain will always bring you back with a overly-descriptive gem that suddenly absorbs you into that setting where you can finally picture yourself there.

Skipping a chapter may also cause you to miss something you’ve been anticipating. Since much of it is taken from dictations, these chapters wind and weave and suddenly become something other than what they started out to be. Many passages, paragraphs in, have him suddenly realizing that a tale---one he had already perfectly drawn you into the scenery of---was being recited from the wrong memory.  "No. Wait, now… It wasn’t such-and-such at wherever, it was such-and-who and over here that this happened. And, maybe a decade later..."  And, so he begins to delicately paint a brand new picture of the same story.

Not my favorite reading style, but it’s what he insisted on. You become as patient as you would be with a beloved grandparent who speaks in much the same manner. Those cases where respect and adoration restrain you from saying, “C’mon! Quick circling the block and cut to the chase!” And, since the book also keeps no chronological order, skipping ahead will lead you nowhere expected.

I enjoyed the essay-styled chapters myself. Especially ones written about his family and his childhood. It's a sweet change of pace when he speaks of his family. They seem to earn only pride and reverence from his pen... and I love that! These were the gems I sought out.  

I’m only about 70% through it. But, I’m sure I’ve gathered enough information to produce my review. Hopefully, making the remaining 30% feel less like homework and more like sitting at the foot of Grandpa’s rocker. We’ll see!

An Essay a Day Keeps the Writer's Block Away!

How about "An Essay Title a Day Keeps the Writer's Block Away"?  I got as far as that just now and... humph. That orange "Publish Post" button is staring me in the face.

In exchange, I found an appropriate document while rifling through the Word folder on my PC that I had written December 2010. I guess we can call it "Ode to Facebook" (I called it "Blocked" at the time):

I am addicted to Facebook. If there is a support group of fellow addictees, point me in its direction because I am in desperate need.

I check my Facebook every day, the moment I get home from work and at regular intervals until I lay me down to sleep. Sometimes at lunch. Always during dinner. (Yes, during. I almost always eat dinner at my home desk.)

Why? I’m published. On Facebook, I am published. I have an audience, presently of 303 “friends”, that think I’m funny. That’s addictive too.  There’s nothing more satisfying to me than a “LOL”.  And, if I can garner a “ROFL”?  Well, then heaven is mine.

I used to want to be a writer. A paid writer who could stay home all day and tap away at the keyboard at any hour I pleased. A paid writer who could do my work anywhere on planet Earth and still get paid while doing so. A writer so paid that I could afford a desktop and a laptop. I could tap away under any tree or beside any body of water and still get PAID!

I tried in vain for about six months in my mid-twenties.  Children's books, a grown-up book, articles... I even tried greeting cards. Then I ran out of money and got myself a white-collar job. Proof-reading. Proof-reading boring insurance documents and letters that is. I come home drained of all creative energy. Too tired to type, let alone proof-read anything more than my day has already required. 

The dream eventually died.  I was still blocked ten years later. Then came Facebook.

Although my creative energies are sapped the greater five days of the week. I can usually bring myself to muster up a clever sentence, observation or repetition of a out-of-place occurrence from my day. After I post, I wait anxiously in vain for that red notification alert, signaling a “LOL”, a comment, or even a “like” would be welcome.

On Facebook, I don’t sound as bland and formal as I do now. I write in my talking voice. People can practically hear the ridiculous things I say, because I am not formal in speech. I am not formal on Facebook. So, why am I formal and bland now? That’s the challenge.  And, I’m proposing that challenge to Facebook. So Facebook, I’m talking to you, make me a better writer!

(Pause. I see a notification at the bottom of my screen. Okay, just a Frontierville request. Not quite as gratifying as typed laughter.)

I’m not a people-person either. The people I allow myself to be comfortable around know I’m fun. I won’t hide it. It’s true. I’m just not the type to go out seeking more people to entertain. It’s exhausting. People drain me. Enter Facebook, once again.

There’s no way I could physically keep up with 303 human friends. Mind you, everyone on my “friends” list is an actual friend, family member or childhood acquaintance. I don’t “friend” strangers, that’s just creepy. (Although, I’ll admit to having “friended” a couple of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. Those ladies crack. me. up. ) I’m not a phone person. I’m not a “let’s do lunch” person. I’m a Facebook person.

As 2010 nears its close I’ve had the chance to use an application called “My Year in Status”. Here is a sample of this year’s posts:

“Somebody better get NKOTB round the clock security because all of my teen crushes seem to be dying!” (Corey Haim had just passed. Seemed funny at the time.)

[Kim] “finds it strange that I’m collecting horsehair on Farmville...” (Yes, I’m also a game app addict.) “…What do farmers do with horsehair? Oh well, it could be worse. At least when I click on my horses it doesn’t say ‘collecting glue.’”

“If I type LOL in the next hour, I only mean it figuratively. I’m sitting in the library. Shhhh…”

(Pause for notification at the bottom of the screen. Okay, just a Cityville request.)

“PHEW! Power’s finally back on. We had a wicked thunderstorm last night. Lightening struck our neighbors yard, woke us all up and stole our electricity! I couldn’t even update my FB status! I missed out on the chance to write, “Gee. Having no power sucks.”, “I had to toast my Eggo on the stovetop” and “Why are the birds chirping? Don’t they know we don’t have power?”

[Kim] “just got my annual Social Security Statement in the mail. If I can retire in 1982, I’ll be set for life!” (I’m still depressed about that one.)

[Kim] “wonders why the Zoo World app has me feeding my animals ice cream for dinner. PETA would have this zoo shut down in a heartbeat! If I know ice cream is not a sensible supper for myself, how can you expect me to feed it to my unicorns?”

That’s just a taste. So I ran the app (switched out a few boring statuses about family surgeries and requests for prayer in favor of more humorous ones) and posted it proudly. The only comment I’ve received told me, in no uncertain words, said that copulating statuses is just taking Facebook too far. That’s just one person’s opinion, right? I chuckled it off and waited for the red message alert signaled by my real target audience.

Two days later, I’m still waiting. Well, they LOL-ed the first time around! I’m covered!

So now, in closing, I’ve decided I don’t want you to find me that support group. Facebook is good.  It’s found me people I can call “friends” (even though I don’t necessarily want their physical companionship.) It’s made me published. It’s established me as a successful farmer, restaurant owner, zoo-keeper, frontier woman and city founder. And hopefully, eventually, it might make me a better writer.

It's an Aunt's Life

When starting a blog on a whim, my first concern was having a snappy blog name. As most writers can attest, it's easier to write a paragraph than a sentence. It's easier to write an essay than a greeting card. And, in keeping with "a writer is wordy" tradition, I find it easier to blog than to name one.

A title should describe something's content to a tee. Anyone who knows me will tell you, I would probably first describe myself as an aunt. It's not the title that earns my income, it's not the title that describes my heritage or personality... but it's my favorite title. So, it's going in my blog title.

The word "aunt" isn't snappy enough on it's own, so I've been wracking my brain for a whole 15 minutes trying to find a clever twist on the the words "aunt" and "ant".  Given the amount of time invested, these were my most clever combos (and their reasons for failing the blog title test):

• Aunt Farm - Would have been so cute if I lived on a farm. Urghhh! Too bad I'm from the burbs.
• Fire Aunt - Too sexy
• Aunt Bite - Sounds mean!
• Aunt Bully - See Aunt Bite
• Aunt Eater - Sounds a little pervy
• Aunt Hill - Seems political for some reason
• Aunt's Nest - Sounds like I have messier hair than I'd care to admit to
• Queen Aunt - A mite egotistical
• Aunt Trap - ummmm... no.

So then the 90's movie "An Ant's Life" popped into my head. Then, the realization that the movie is actually called "A Bug's Life" immediately followed. But, Ant's Life/Aunt's Life is stuck in there now and I had to pick a title before I could hit the "Continue" button (Dang it! Can't I just pretend I live on a farm?)... so here we are!

There are enough mommy blogs, wife blogs, pet blogs, farm blogs in the world. This one's for the aunties! For today. Tomorrow might bring you a book review, opinion piece, reality show rant or essay that woke me up in the middle of the night.

Who knows what this blog will bring but, for today, it's just the aunt's life.