Based on a True Visceral Reaction

I used to date a man named Doug and he would often complain that “Doug” was the name they used for every idiot character in TV and movies.

Case in point: Doug Whitmore for 50 First Dates.

Intelligent *cough elitist* ex named Doug hated movie character Doug Whitmore because he held all the hallmarks of an unlikable, pathetic, fatally flawed character mocked for his utter lack of masculine prowess: An adult male who lives with his dad, doesn’t hold down a job, stutters, can’t get/keep a woman, is inappropriately vain, has poor fashion sense, and much too obviously “compensates for something” with the masculine traits he does exhibit (his physique).

Sure, there are a few other dopey Dougs: Doug Funnie from Doug, Doug Billings from The Hangover. But there are also some awesome Dougs like Douglas Quaid from Total Recall or… I don’t know, Douglas Adams who wrote Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Ooh, Doug Jones who is THE monster in every awesome scifi show/movie! How about Doug E. Fresh, the human beatbox? Boots and cats, ya’ll!

Still, the argument stayed with me and every time I see a character named Doug, I automatically assume he’ll turn out to be the turd who ruins everything.

That’s why I named my new character Doug. He’s a turd. He deserves a name that makes me think, “Ugh, TURD!” every time I write about him. Also, it’s possible that he’s loosely based on a real person who may or may not–depending on who you ask–be someone sort of liiiiiiiiiike… my real boss.

“So I have a meeting with a woman named Ann at 1:30 today,” I said to my boss that morning. “You want to fill me in?”

Doug scratched his head in that annoying way that meant he was definitely about to lie to cover his own ass. “Oh yeah, I met her at the… um… so she’s working on a client management system thing for Kathy’s department and I said I could use something like that and I may have mentioned that you were trying to…”

…

He shrugged and pouted before turning back to the two sentence email it was taking almost twenty minutes to write. This is my boss. This is the person responsible for so much more than he can reasonably handle and his paycheck reflects it. I, on the other hand, am the person who does the work and makes the decisions that he “just can’t deal with today” and my paycheck looks like I work the counter at Dinky Donuts part-time. Mother’s hours, of course.

Ugh, Doug.

DISCLAIMERS: Sean Astin = awesome. My boss’s name does not = Doug.

It’s My Potty and I’ll Cry If I Want To

In my mid-twenties when everything was a mess and I didn’t know what to do or how to get control over the rollercoaster of expectations of how my life was supposed to be, sometimes I… would just run to the restroom and have a little cry.

No one, not even in HR, wanted to confront a young woman who claimed to be pooping for 15 minutes and that’s why she wasn’t at her desk when you needed her today. Not if it was only once or twice a week at most.

The job I’ve got now, I could take a three hour lunch break and no one would even notice. So when it came time for the damn to finally break, I took a walk to the restroom. And I cried.

I can’t say it’s the first time I’ve done so since those early roller coaster days. I’ve been in the same stall, 7 months pregnant and trying to psych myself up to prick my own finger and check my glucose levels while crying hysterically because I was obviously a terrible mother for having gestational diabetes. I’ve been here at four months postpartum and suffering  from postpartum depression, trying to keep myself sane by reading Riverdale fanfic on my phone and crying because Betty and Jughead broke up again.

And I was in there today, composing a blog post in my head while freaking the eff out about money and work and childcare and healthcare and trying to explain to my White Man Privilege boss that I can’t just change my schedule on a whim because CHILDREN and SECOND JOB and PITIFULLY POOR PAY.

Not quite two decades later and despite all the progress I’ve made emotionally, financially, mentally, career-wise, lifestyle choices, everything EVERYTHING I’ve done, I’m still running to the bathroom to cry.

I’ve seen Parenthood. I know the roller coaster goes on forever. I know you can get off once in a while to puke it out and regroup before you get back on. But you have to get back on. You have to keep going. Because if you’re not in the arena with Brene Brown, well then you’re just not living your life.

She likes the ride.

I’m telling myself to revel in the bathroom cries. They are a much deserved break in the facade of keeping it together. And no one–at work at least–will interfere with your Me Time as long as they think you’re pooping.

 

Do It With a Please

As a writer and a thoroughly unqualified neologist, I understand that words can change meaning over time with enough use. But I do not–CANNOT–understand the use of the phrase, “I’ll do” when it comes to ordering food.

You will “do” a grende unicorn fart flippicino? You’ll “DO” a medium heart attack meal? Oh, you “don’t do” yellow foods or anything a fruit fly may have sneezed in? Ok, yes, I take that very seriously.

Mind you, I have food allergies too. I do not mock food allergies. I know the trauma (I know the TRAUMA!) But that’s why I say things like, “I am allergic to milk so please don’t accidentally use milk.”

Just because… you know, I use words the right way and like, went to Kindergarten where they taught me how to say please and thank you when people are doing things for me. Like servers. And baristas. Line cooks. Sous chefs. Bussers. Cashiers. People who deserve common courtesy.

You can just… ask for things. Can I have a flippicino, please? I would like to order a medium fast food meal, please.

“Do” your taxes. “Do” Pilates. “Do a Dew”, I guess? But if you’re going to order like that, could you just say please too? Could you just treat that person behind the counter like a person?

Robots are for Stop n’ Shop and look how that turned out.

 

See? There are consequences to your actions.

hashtag mom life

Last night I dreamed of the kind of dust that settles on mummy tombs after hundreds of years of neglect wrapped around my bedroom curtains and being angry that my husband microwaved a toaster waffle.

This is a woman who toasts her waffles, just like god intended.  Photo by Pedro Sandrini on Pexels.com

The Book OG Ghostbuster Fans Will Hate

I started re-reading one of my books recently and realized pretty quickly that I have mislabeled that poor lady and perhaps that’s why it don’t sell for shiz.

Also, am I too glib in my book descriptions? Is it so totally obvious that I do not take myself seriously as a writer? Is that why no one else does either?

Read all the cutesy and inspiring Pinterest quotes you want about #writinglife and #authorproblems to make yourself feel better about making your DREAMS come TRUE but when it comes down to it, you have to be dedicated enough to get things done if you want to be taken seriously as a writer.

And when I say “dedicated”, it’s not “to your craft”. It’s not “a writer WRITES” and “put on your black beret and tweet about coffee”.

If you want to make money and/or be taken seriously, apparently you have to be dedicated to all the boring crap no one wants to do: social media, self-promotion, paying for ads, writing promotional copy that doesn’t come across as self-deprecating.

 

A REAL writer doesn’t write glib promotional copy that comes across as self-deprecating.

 

Ugh, book descriptions. UGH, ad copy. UGHHH, self-promotion! Why can’t we just write the stuff we want to write and then people just find it and buy it for a nominal fee?

All this is to say that I will be re-writing some of my book descriptions in the near future and I’m not happy about it.

Lay Her Ghosts to Rest by Eda J Vor

This book isn’t a fun sci fi/occult adventure in ghost removal so much as a blatantly feminist critique of gender imbalances in the work place.

Sorry for the confusion, everyone! I was trying to make it fun when really, I’m just sick of not being taken seriously or paid fairly in any job I’ve ever had.

But also, there’s ghosts! (Some of those are feminist too!)

Keywords: Angry feminist ghost book, gay supporting characters, patriarchy in the workplace, corporate irresponsibility

Buy it on Amazon!

I Didn’t Even Get on the Bus

I just want ya’ll to know that I did NOT quit Camp NaNo on the first day.

I quit three days ago when I realized that any time I have not spent working or preventing my children from starting the apocalypse really needs to be spent sitting quietly and/or sleeping because Mama is So Stressed Out that she can no longer function as a human person.

Writing is a hobby that I do to de-stress. When it starts becoming another reason to tear out my eyebrow hair, I need to take a break.

Word to my bunk mates. I’m out.