I’ve got flotsam-head but no flotsam.

Things are breaking down here. Tom’s truck is seriously troubled and his laptop sighed and died. Dollars are growing wings and flying away.

Everybody, everybody, everybody owes me money. Every dollar is already earned and long since spent. And my mailbox was completely empty today. I slumped to the post office floor and sobbed quietly.

Not really.

I have lots of little stories to do, lots of tight deadlines, lots of annoying little moving parts. One of the stories involves working with the Choctaw Nation. Working with the Indian Nations can be exhausting. In a way, I admire how much they don’t give a damn about our high-strung ways and needs. But I also embark on stories involving any Nation with dread.

Oh wait, I just got a marvelously helpful phone call! OK, then… never mind.

I’ve been having lots of fun this summer. Lots of parties and dinners, barbecues and gigs, trips and lunches and cocktails. Wheeeeeeee! It’s been grand. Now I’ve had enough. Leave me alone. I have nothing more to say. Go away.

See how much fun I’ve been having?


Photo by Crazy Picture Guy Scott Mankoff

I love this photo. It was taken after the reunion gig of Tex Edwards and the Swingin’ Cornflake Killers. The SCK haven’t played together in, what, a decade? More? They rocked. It was great.

Our lives flashed before our eyes that night. All the old folks made the scene. Ex-wives and everything. We relived our youth. And of course, every great club night ends up in a stinky alley outside a club, which is where this photo was taken.

It was grand.

Will our night at the Choctaw Casino Resort in Durant, Oklahoma be as much fun? I'll let you know next week.

Labels: griping, memoir, travel

Jenna declined to give me a pep talk this morning when I got all gripey in her direction and I appreciate that. The trouble with the sort of irrational and nonspecific funk that descended on me last week and continues today is that there is no effective pep talk. I’m not discouraged. I’m just cranky.

Life is just fine. And by that I mean, I have a swell husband and a great house. I have plenty of work. Jack is behaving. My social is chugging along nicely. (Almost too nicely. I’m nearly out of pleasantries.) Tom’s business is a little slow at the moment and that’s worrisome but that will pass. It always does. It’s even been raining the past couple of days, which is a very good thing. And the temperature is in the 80s, which is a very very good thing, after weeks and weeks of 100-plus.

So why do I feel all kvetchy and dissatisfied? Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s a change in the barometric pressure. Maybe I’m not happy unless I’m unhappy.

Maybe it’s all the socializing. Socializing does provide me with the opportunity to compare myself with other people and I rarely allow myself to come out the “winner.”

I had a drink yesterday with a friend who is The Dallas Gal in Demand. She has people running after her waving juicy job offers whether she’s looking for a job or not. Envy, envy, envy.

I don’t want a job but I do want jobs to want me.

Hm. Actually, I think that about sums up my attitude towards everything. I don’t want the hassle of writing for the big fancy magazines, but I want them to want me. I don’t want to do a lot of socializing but I want everyone to crave my company. I don’t want a job but I want employers to pursue me. I don’t want to go to parties but I want to be invited.

Wow. How stupid is that? What kind of pep talk could possibly be effective to dispel that kind of stinkin’ thinkin’?

Is admitting the problem the first step in recovery?

Do I feel better just saying it?

(Pause to think.)

Nah.

Labels: griping, personal growth

To quote a friend, “not saying ‘I told you so’ is extremely overrated. I think we should be able to say it as often as we like. It's like a polite smack upside the head.”

So when I saw The Dallas Morning News quoted this LA Times online feature about the yuckiness that is Dr. Phil, I felt free to holler “I told you so” at my morning paper.

I’m pleased the LA Times mentions our book, however I did write to the paper pointing out that we did not say Dr. Phil had an affair with a 19-year-old patient, as alleged in this feature. In fact, we stuck to the official story, that the unethical dual relationship was because Phil hired this young woman to work in his biofeedback lab. Allegations of sexual impropriety were made by the tabloids, quoting unnamed sources.

Here’s a sobering thought—this Wall Street Journal financial columnist says these days, we’re better off investing in food than in investments. He suggests stockpiling non-perishables, since the cost of food is rising so fast. Woe is me, the sky is falling…

But not that fast, according to another WSJ writer, who points out that as much as we whine about poverty, we do all have iPods, DVD players and flat-screen TVs. (Actually, we don’t have a flat-screen TV and our iPods are second generation clunkers, though they work reasonably well.)

I read this WSJ article, The Do-It-Yourself Tax Cut, with interest. Here the writer suggests numerous ways you can save money with lifestyle changes. I got to be both smug and bummed, since Tom and I do most of the things suggested here and still, as Tom likes to say, we can’t afford our modest lifestyle. At least it’s reassuring that the rest of the country is catching up to us. We don’t feel like have-nots anymore. We feel like everybody else.

Apropos to nothing, we gave stinky Jack a bath in the driveway last night. What a crazy ordeal that was. We tranquilized him (it's gotta be done) and muzzled him and he still went apeshit. He didn’t mind the soap and water as much as the brushing (attempts) of his hairy ass. We finally had to give up on the brushing. He smells a lot better but his hair is a mess. World’s most exhausting canine….

And now, I must whine. Inappropriately. Much as I’m enjoying my adventures in blogging, I admit to being a tad discouraged these days. My readership numbers are stagnant. The freewheeling discussions we enjoyed in MySpace don’t happen here. Many of my frequent commenters have fallen silent, even those who complained about MySpace. Sigh. I still enjoy the exercise but it was more fun when I didn’t feel like I was talking to three people.

The most successful blogs in the blogosphere focus on one topic and I’m considering that—although I haven’t yet decided what that topic should be. Writing? Jack? Money or lack thereof?

Labels: blogging, blogs, celebrities, dog training, dogs, dr. phil, eating, economy, food, griping, headlines, money, whining, writing

Here comes griping so if you’re not in the mood, move along. There’s nothing for you here.

I am totally out of sorts these days, all at sixes and sevens and I don’t know why. I’m not working worth a damn. I’m behind on deadlines, cranky with everyone, and just don’t care.

I’m about to turn 50 and I’m still waiting for life to kick in. There’s nothing wrong with my life except I can’t seem to live up to my own potential. I’m pissing away time with piss-ant stories. I have a half-cooked book proposal that’s been growing moldy, a first draft of a novel that I should be revising instead of playing Scrabulous and I really need to be drumming up more paying work but can’t seem to get motivated.

Most of what I’ve accomplished in life has floated my way. The jobs I’ve had, the books I’ve written—I’ve pursued none of it, it’s all come to me. But now that nothing is coming my way and initiative is in order, I am instead sinking into inertia. Well, not inertia, exactly. I stay busy, but it’s a hamster wheel going nowhere. Well, actually, at least if I were on a hamster wheel I would be working out. I’m not doing enough of that, either.

I’ve started making lists and using a kitchen timer to discipline myself. I managed to scratch most items off my list yesterday but “make dentist appointment” has migrated to today’s list. It’s not that I don’t want to go to the dentist, it’s that I don’t want to pay for it, what with Jack’s expensive new fence we’re getting this month.

It would help if I could drum up some good work. But I’m tired and bored and waiting for the Next Big Thing to come my way. Except I should be creating my own Next Big Thing.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Send Twinkies.

Labels: griping, motivation (lack of), personal growth, work, writing