Mah Peepull… the inimitable Grandy over at Functional Schmunctional has tagged me for another Random Things meme. Obviously, I didn’t run fast enough! 

1. Link to the person who tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. List 6 random things about yourself
4. Tag 6 people at the end of your post
5. Let each person know they have been tagged and leave a comment on their blog

It’s going to be hard to pull more out of my ass come up with more random things, because I have done this a time or two. I’ll do my best.

1. I haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was in 8th grade. That was about 22 years ago. But then I bought a motorcycle, took a safety course, and got my license in 05/2007. I don’t really like driving a motorcycle; I’d much rather just be a passenger. When I’m driving, it’s just too scary and out of control. The whole time, all I can think about is how many different incredibly painful ways I could die on that bike. This doesn’t exactly make for a relaxing hobby. But I’m glad I did it, because it made Hunky awfully happy.
2. I’ve only had one speeding ticket in my whole life. That’s not because I’m careful, it’s because I’m lucky. 
3. My dad does stained glass, and I wish I could, too. But I can’t imagine taking on another hobby in addition to sewing and photography and scrapbooking and woodworking and riding on the back of Hunky’s motorcycle. 
4. I miss the smell of having a real Christmas tree, but it’s just too much hassle. But then again, it doesn’t really feel like Christmas without that smell.
5. When I was in 6th-12th grade, I played flute in symphonic band and marching band. THIS DOES NOT MAKE ME A BAND GEEK, HUNKY. Back me up, here, Mah Peepull.
6. I’ve watched the entire series of Friends, all ten seasons, at least five times all the way through. That’s not as bad as it sounds; it’s just that when I’m working on the computer, I like to have it on. I’ve also been through Scrubs seasons 1-6 four times. And Will & Grace seasons 1-4 at least three times, and House seasons 1-3 once. 
7. Sorry, I’m having to dig in the muck at the bottom. The cars I’ve owned: 1986 Gutless Cutless, 1989 Pontiac Grand Am, 1992 Pontiac Grand Am, 1991 Dodge Dakota, 1990 Dodge Shadow, 1986 Dodge Aries K Car, 1992 Plymouth Acclaim, 2000 Dodge Stratus, 1999 Saturn SL.

So there ya go. I’m not going to tag anyone because I just did less than a month ago, and I’d rather not be lynched or tarred and feathered. And if anyone tags me in the next couple months, my head is going to explode.

Mah balance. I haz lossed it.

I blame NahNoMoFoMe.

It is just so hard to write every single day. I worry that I’m going to lull you into a state of unconsciousness. I worry that I’m going to lull MYSELF into a state of unconsciousness. And the more inept I feel, the less I want to write.

Between writing posts, reading blogs, commenting, fussing with my blog design, and twittering, I’m spending way too much time in front of the computer. I haven’t cheated and backdated any posts. But is it worth my brain disintegrating in a fiery hell of SUCK?

My Google Reader is so voracious, I can barely keep up with it. I haven’t cheated and ‘Marked as Read’ a single post without a least giving it a good skim, and at most reading then clicking over to comment. But is it really worth it reading until my eyeballs fall out and roll around on the floor picking up dust bunnies and/or my family has put my face on the back of milk cartons?

I’ve worked on my blog design for at least a few hours this month. At first I was just kind of sprucing up the place. Well, then it did actually crash once, and I never did figure out why. I had to deactivate every plugin and reactivate a few at a time, and then rebuild everything including the Tabbed Widgets as I lost all my text widgets in the crash. I like it better now than before the crash, but was it worth 47 days of my eyes being stabbed by those little drink swords crossed by code?

My house projectile vomited all over itself. Some of the laundry came up the stairs and tapped me on the shoulder and politely inquired as to when it might expect for an estimated time of washing. Coincidentally, Hunky walked up to me and announced that if a load wasn’t done tonight, he was going commando tomorrow. (Hint: He’s not currently enlisted in any of the Armed Services.) Then I opened the fridge, and either the boys have been doing more fancy science experiments than I ever conducted, or I believe it’s time to throw out some leftovers. My kitchen floor is so filthy, I can’t come up with hyperbole outrageous enough to do it justice. I’ve been slacking around here and it’s really not fair to Hunky.

I haven’t been giving my job hunt the priority it deserves. I’ve been applying for jobs, but not near enough. I’ve been temping, but it’s never a full week, and never more than I would get for an unemployment check. So by the time they take my earned wages off of my unemployment check, I’m making the exact same amount as I would have sitting my ass at home on the couch watching movies and collecting full unemployment. But my unemployment benefits are about to run out, and at this point, I have to start applying for shit I really don’t want to do to pay the bills.

I haven’t completed a single book in the month of November, and that is SO not like me. That’s like Martha saying, “I haven’t carved a single gourd into lovely… ” Turkey booties? I don’t know, honestly; I don’t watch her show.

I have at least three picture collage frames that I’ve bought but I haven’t ordered the prints to go in them. I rilly, rilly want to finish cleaning my basement so I can set up a place down there to have all my craft crap in one place, and a small rec area with TV, DVD, VCR, and PS2. I want to go out into the neighborhood and take more pictures. I want to kick Manual Mode’s superior, snarky, smarmy ass. I want to set up an Etsy shop for my photography. I haven’t done any sewing (unless you count me sewing that patch onto Kizzle’s hockey jersey) and I miss it. I want to cut out more squares for the boys’ t-shirt quilts, because they’ve actually been asking for them. Every time they outgrow a t-shirt they’re particularly fond of, they ask, “But I’ll see it again in my t-shirt quilt, right?” Well, yes, but at this rate, it may be your high school graduation gift, if we’re lucky, son.

I just want a magic pill that gives me an extra 12 hours in a day.

I saw a commercial for something like that, where this chick was just, like, on her hands and knees scrubbing her kitchen floor, obsessively lining up the throw rug fringe, and cleaning the bathroom tile with a toothbrush… What was the name of that stuff?

I wish I could remember…

Oh, yeah!

METH.

So, yes, I know they already make them and they’re called Methamphetamines, but I’ll pass, thanks.

No, just a little pill that will grant me a spare half day, with no nasty side effects such as my teeth falling out of my head, over-obsession almost to the point of insanity, [;/'''reeeeeeeee Emma just walked across my keyboard and she wanted to share that] insomnia on steroids+HGH and vitamin supplements; oh, and an addiction more powerful than heroin. OOOooo, can you make them with no side effects and make ‘em taste like Mike & Ike’s? That’d be groovy, dude.

I just need to make the scale swing the other way. I need to spend less time in front of the Mac, and more time investing in my family. I want to complete the NahNoMoFoMe thing, then take a couple steps back and reassess to admit I’m not make sure I’m spending my time as wisely as I can. I know I can do better than I’ve been doing.

But we have a more dire issue presently.

Mah funneh. I haz brokeded it.

I’ve been looking over the last few months and for the most part, I’ve felt disappointed with the quality of the word dance I’ve pushed out onto my little stage here. I’ve wondered and pondered and obsessed and worried that I’d lost it. My voice.

I almost allowed myself to forget why I’m doing this.

I was reading writers way out of my league and starting to think that as good as they are, made me worse.

I was frustrated with throwing myself into trying to find my connections with the blogoshere and starting to think that as popular as they are, made me less lovable.

I was watching my feedcount a little too closely, and trying to figure what I might have written that would explain a drop from 25 to 9 in one day, and was starting to think that as fickle as they are, made me less interesting.

I was reading pro blogger tips and was starting to think that as successful as they are, made me more of a failure.

I caught myself starting to whine, “Why don’t I have H8Rs and Trolls and obnoxious Anonymousi spitting their venom all over my comments?”

Then I pulled my head out of my ass.

This is MY casa.

I reminded myself that the writer I needed to be comparing myself to, and constantly challenging, was myself. I need to push my own limits, and refine my own voice. I haven’t lost my voice; I’ve just suffered a little laryngitis.

I’ve got to write for first of all, myself; to dare myself to push my talent harder and longer and stronger. (That made me feel a little bit dirty just then, how about you?)

And second of all, all of you, my Innernetz Budz; to make you laugh a little bigger, forcefully spew a little more raspberry mocha cappuccino in your keyboard, think a little longer, feel a little more connected, and care a little more.

And if the big girl (and boy) bloggers never notice me, that’s got to be ok.

As small a world as it is, Dooce will never be my non-practicing lesbian lovah complete with matching decoder rings. Someone told me she was just a mythical hobbit, and I know she’s not, but she might as well be Angelina Jolie for all it will change my life. Ree will never invite me out to her ranch to work cattle with MM and the punks and give me one-on-one photography lessons.

I will try to write as strikingly as Black Hockey Jesus and as unabashedly as Avitable and as bitingly witty as The Bloggess; but if I never do, that’s got to be ok.

And damn the page views and subscriber count. I’m thankful for how much I’ve honed my writing talent to this point, and will continue to spin the mental Thesaurus and dig a little deeper. I’m grateful for each and every comment you guys grace me with, and will continue to enjoy connecting with you.

I hope I’m not blowing smoke up my own ass.

I hope you all notice the difference.

But if you don’t, as long as I’m doing my best, that’s got to be ok.

This just in…

An unnamed source has just disclosed that Dory is writing for Blissfully Domestic on their Photo Bliss Channel. Rumors had been flying around for a few days, but now there is proof: Dory’s first article has been published.

Supporters are strongly encouraged to show their backing by leaving a comment on said article using the most superlative hyperbole they can muster in their endorsement of this exceptional example of outstanding journalistic essay.

That is all.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled naval gazing.

So, I don’t wanna jinx it or something, but I think I quit smoking.

When I met Tom (Hunky), he had smoked a pack or two a day since high school. Reds.

We were friends for a while, and that was fine; I kind of liked the smell of a cigarette lit with a match when we were taking his car. He and his roommate smoked in their apartment. But I could tolerate my friend smoking around me. That was fine.

But. We became a little more than friends. Before we got very far, I told him I couldn’t date a smoker. Just not an option. He didn’t quit.

Later, I told him I couldn’t accept a proposal until he quit smoking. He didn’t quit.

Later-er, I told him I couldn’t marry him until he quit smoking. He didn’t quit.

So after begging and pleading and fighting and coercing and arguing and crying and groaning and gnashing of teeth, nigh, even unto hyperventilation, guess what? He didn’t quit. And I had the unmitigated gall to act surprised.

What was it about cigarettes exactly that was so great? Because, he must really love smoking more than he loved me, of course. (Did I mention I was kind of a drama queen about the whole thing?) Why couldn’t he just quit? Why didn’t he want to quit?

I was working second shift at MCI and we’d all get off at 11:30 and go to the bar across the street, O’Maggie’s. One night, I was sitting there with my friends, drinking and laughing, and long story short: they showed me how to smoke. I was 21. At first, I just smoked after work at the bar. Then, I was smoking on breaks, too; I had discovered the social aspect of smoking at work. Then, screw it, I’m smoking at work and the bar, why not just one in the morning before I left, and one with Tom before we went to bed? And one day when I wasn’t paying attention, I became a smoker.

Fast forward a few months, and I found out I was pregnant with Rocky. I dropped the cigarettes like a bucket of cockroaches. Then after he was born, post-partum depression hit, and I started drinking, then smoking, again. I kept smoking even after I found out I was pregnant with Dino. I told myself since they were ultralight 100s and I was rationing three a day, it was fine. I smoked for another few years after he was born. Several times I tried to quit, and I’d get a week or so in, sometimes a month, and something would happen that I would go, screw it, I gotta smoke just one. And the next day I was a smoker again. There was one time that I tried to quit, and I started having what we thought were maybe asthma attacks but then decided maybe they were panic attacks (it’s all very which came first, the chicken or the egg; asthma, then panic or panic, then asthma) and I started again to make whatever it was go away. I said, leave it to my stupid body to have trouble breathing after I quit smoking!

In October 2004, I quit, and managed to stay on the wagon for a while. Then I did smoke the night of my graduation party. The next morning I was so hungover, had I tried to smoke, I’m convinced it would have been like a scene out of The Exorcist. I managed to only smoke that night and not pick it back up.

I started working at my first real graphic designer job in January 2006. By December 2006, I was having huge problems at work and started having panic attacks again. I started smoking just one or two, because it would make them stop. Again, when I wasn’t really paying attention, I became a smoker again.

Now, today, I still really like smoking. I know I shouldn’t, for my health and good hygiene, but gosh, I really like smoking. I like the habit. It’s like a blankie. I like the social part of smoking. There’s like, a bond, between smokers, almost like the bond between motorcyclists. I don’t smoke in the house, and I do smoke in my car. (And it smells like ass.)

Things have been changing in my environment that affect my smoking habit.

Strike one: In July, Cedar Rapids became non-smoking in all restaurants and bars. So no more smoking when you go out to eat. When you’re drinking, if you’re lucky, you have to go outside to a beer garden. But sometimes that isn’t even an option and you have to smoke a certain distance from the building.

Strike two: This year, I don’t have a set habit of smoking at work because, well, I don’t have set work. I temp or I’m at home. And oddly enough, when I’m at home, I don’t smoke for several hours at a time, sometimes even a whole day. So no set habit of smoking at work.

Strike three: A couple weeks ago, I bought my brother’s car from him, and oh my gosh, it actually smelled really nice. I decided no smoking in my new-to-me car.

Adding insult to injury: Every winter, I end up smoking less because I go out to the garage to smoke, and that’s kind of a pain in the ass when it’s toasty warm in here and nipples-at-attention cold out there.

Finally, I got whatever chest cold that’s been going around and I’ve been sick as hell since last weekend. My chest was so congested and painful, I couldn’t smoke.

Now, today was the first day that I felt not-so-sick anymore, and I didn’t smoke. And I haven’t smoked yet. I kind of feel like I could maybe not smoke tomorrow.

I just know that the problem comes at the moment I decide, Ok, NOW I’m not smoking. Because then, all I want in the whole wide world is a damn smoke.

We’ll see.

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. But this is the non-smoking section.

*Remember this from one of the Beverly Cleary “Ramona” books?

I’ve never really dug politics. In general, politics makes me feel stupid, when I know I am not. It doesn’t help having an incredibly smart opinionated husband (yes, I am biased, thanks for athking!) bolstered by an $18,000 a year education going off on a 20 minute rant carefully constructed monologue, of which I recognized all the words he was using, but they made no sense in that particular order. Kind of like when you order something that has some assembly required. But you open up the instructions, and it’s obvious that it’s been through a few translations on the way back to English. Because obviously, what part of “Lean screw tab for to in bracket slowerly SLOT A adjacent quick in for the TAB B except nut through for to shelf can washer toward construct missing” do you not understand?

Which, BTW? The twitters all through the DNC? All me. The twitters through the RNC? Not all me. While I was out shopping stimulating the economy, he hijacked my twitter.

Anyway, this election year, I’m really trying to GET IT. I really want to understand why I chose the candidate I did, and be able to back up my choice with a more intelligent argument than “BECAUSE… shuddup.”

Because politics and smart choices and cheesy online quizzes all go together sooo smartly…

Way earlier this year, I regaled you with my grape-scented list.

Then I took this.

Your Political Profile:

Overall: 60% Conservative, 40% Liberal Social Issues: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal Personal Responsibility: 75% Conservative, 25% Liberal Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal Ethics: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal Defense and Crime: 100% Conservative, 0% Liberal

You see why I have more homework to do?

I can’t wait to watch the McCain/OBama debates.

[we pause a moment for those who know Dory to pick up their dropped jaws off the floor in amazement at that last statement]

I’ve never cared this much about politics in all my life. Who is that chick in the mirror?

Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dude. Don’t slip on the confetti.

*This is a play on the quote by Winston Churchill