Holiday Smut

One of my book clubs determined, through a great conversation of great fun that shall not be repeated here (what happens in Book Club stays in Book Club), to read “holiday smut” over the break. I was intrigued. I have never read smut. I swore to never, ever read That Smutty Book Everyone Talked About a Couple Years Ago because I heard right off the bat that it was chock-full of really poor writing. (In fact, I’ve heard it’s so terribly written that I won’t even sully the wall of my blog with its title.) There are too many good books to waste time on sloppy writing, no matter how steamy it is. So when one of my friends offered to recommend a smut book for our December read, I jumped at it. The only smut book I really knew about was the best seller that was made into a movie. Which I also didn’t see because I don’t want to throw good money at poor writing in any form. So to have a smut book recommended for reading over Christmas? Perfect. A whole new genre to explore. I’ve studied the Russian masters, the English classics, the new Americans. Dostoyevske to Shakespeare to Capote to Kerouac. Spent a whole term on Chaucer freshman year of high school. Read Lolita in college because Sting sang Don’t Stand So Close To Me. Fell in love with Dorothy Parker’s wit. But through sheer subconscious purposeful intent luck, I have managed to avoid smut. It’s time to expand my horizons.

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Just my type

I pulled out my grandmother’s typewriter today, which I have been more or less using as a decoration on the bookshelves in the great room because I love typewriters. I love how they look, how they sound, and that incredible works have been created on them. I learned how to type on an IBM Selectric nearly 30 years ago. My school had a computer lab filled with boxy DOS machines and giant monitors with tiny displays, but the typing class still had Selectrics. To this day I don’t know why I signed up for a typing class, except that maybe my subconscious knew that I’d go on to bail out of engineering school after three terms and move to journalism. My subconscious, then, is way smarter than the rest of my brain. This is not surprising.

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Fashion Forward

I am the least-trendy person I know. The only attention I pay to fashion trends is when something pops up that I do not understand and there for absolutely hate. This year’s bared shoulder blouses is a perfect example. What the hell. I have enough trouble getting into my clothes early in the morning when it’s dark and I’m still sleepy without dealing with extra holes. Not happening. And skinny jeans ought to be destroyed. That trend has overstayed its welcome, and makes shopping for regular jeans a herculean task that ends in frustration every. damn. time. Even my tried and true Levi’s has succumbed to this fad. Yo, Levi’s: I weigh more than 86 pounds, thanks.

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On Writing. Humorous and Otherwise.

Registration for the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop opened at 11 a.m. yesterday. The conference is for humor writers, the only conference I’ve ever found that is specific to humor, and is held every two years. I discovered it too late to register for the 2016 workshop, because it sold out in six hours the winter before. I’ve been waiting not-so-patiently ever since. If you know me, you know that this has been excruciating. I entered the conference dates on my calendar as soon as they were announced in spring 2016. When the registration date was announced, that went on my calendar (with the notification activated for five minutes before). I wasn’t leaving anything up to chance and set an alarm, too, that morning.

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The End. The Beginning.

So here I am, on the last day of November, having hit my goal of blogging every single day this month, assuming I finish this piece and post it. I fully recognize that my Christmas tree saga has taken over the blog this week, and I’d just like to say, “Welcome to my world.” It has taken over my life this week. I’m happy to report that I have hit my goal of getting the tree to a state where it’s ready for ornaments. Between M and I, it took approximately 80 hours. Eighty hours we will never get back. Eighty hours that makes me wonder why people erect trees in their homes for one month out of the year anyway. It’s not logical, if you stop and think about it.

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Resignation

I am hereby tendering my resignation, effective immediately. I wish you all the best luck in finding someone who will actually get your stupid giant Christmas tree decorated in time for the 2017 holiday season. You may have to pay a higher salary, hiring this late, so I appreciate the predicament I am leaving you in but for my own mental health I must take leave immediately. It has been an honor horror working here.

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What did I forget?

I’m taking a break from stripping The Christmas Tree From Hell because I made a commitment to write every day and somehow that’s stronger than my intense and utter hatred of this stupid tree. It better look damn good with its giant multi-colored lights after this is all over.

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Me vs. Tree

The war began tonight. While Zoe practiced for her Christmas piano recital, I went mano a mano with a Christmas tree. In case you haven’t read my last post, I’ll get you up to speed: my giant pre-lit Christmas tree decided this year to be a half-lit Christmas tree. It was a lovely stripey pattern but I couldn’t sell M on being avant garde for the holidays. After farting around with the lights for too long yesterday, I made the decision to strip the tree of its lights. M left on a business trip this morning, so it’s up to me to denude our tree. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

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