Kerry Allen

.

1. (Passed) Not saying “What the hell were you thinking?” upon learning the names inflicted upon two teeny little babies. Not my problem if one sounds like the name of a mutant in an RPG and the other is a variety of cheese and these poor kids will be mercilessly teased until they snap and go on a killing spree, right?
2. (Failed) Not saying “What the hell were you thinking?” upon learning the equally ridicule-worthy middle names inflicted upon Mutant and Cheese, robbing them of the old standby of “I go by my middle name, for obvious reasons.” Yes, you were very creative. Remember how proud you were of that when your kids are crying because the other kids start picking on them at the moment of introduction.
3. (Failed) Not being pissed that when minimum wage goes up 70 cents and my salary does not, I’m 70 cents closer to making minimum wage, with the added kick in the proverbial nuts that the price of everything I buy is going to increase to cover increased payroll and maintain profit margins, in addition to the ongoing skyrocketing price of everything due to gas prices, which in the not too distant future is going to drive me and a few million other people right out of the “middle class” range. Hey, Feds—how about doing something to improve the cost of living, which will benefit everyone, instead of your usual fake “solutions,” which screw everybody in the long run?

And it’s only Tuesday…

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

see famous look-a-like faces

I’ve been grooving on Alan Rickman since Die Hard, so I thought that combined with Snape’s moral ambiguity (my favorite fictional character trait evah) was the source of my perverted infatuation.

Oh, the subconscious, what a sneaky, sneaky bitch she is.

.

.

This does NOT violate that ridiculous restraining order.

I have thrice recently read comments from blog lurkers who say they’re hesitant to delurk and make their first comment—not because what they have to say will cause all sorts of nastiness (those people never have a problem piping up, in my experience) but because they feel like they’re intruding on an established community and wouldn’t be welcome.

That makes me a little sad. There are exceptions, of course, but in general, the internet is ill suited to high-schoolish cliques. Nobody knows what you look like, what you’re wearing, how much money you have, what neighborhood you live in, what you drive… It’s the perfect venue to be valued entirely on the basis of what you have to say.

Often when these webflowers are finally compelled to comment, what they contribute is something profound or hilarious or informative, and I’m left wondering how many gems have been lost because they’ve needlessly felt excluded up until that point.

Truly, there is no need to drift around the edges, watching the goings-on but not taking part. The purpose of blogs is to generate discussion and reader participation. If you don’t have to be a registered member to comment, everybody’s comments are welcome. If comments aren’t welcome, that option will be turned off by the poster. If you really aren’t welcome, comments will be members-only and your request to join will be denied. If you’re really, really not welcome, posts will be unviewable unless you’re on the poster’s VIP list. (Anyone who puts that much effort into excluding people is usually a deadly bore anyway, so you’re not missing anything.)

You have to remember, the “existing community” of any blog or message board started with people leaving their first comment. If you have something to say, don’t be shy about it—here or anywhere else. You can’t be included if nobody knows you’re there, and silent = invisible on the web.

I had to explain to my mother the purpose of a tongue stud. Awkward not because I had to go there but because I assumed she’d know. I actually quizzed her to make sure she wasn’t yanking my chain just to force me to talk about oral.

Is this the first symptom of my mom getting old and uncool? What’s next, she’ll start driving her ‘Stang 15 mph below the speed limit instead of over?

Also, mere days after I convert Mom to the joys of canvas grocery bags, she takes them to Wal-Mart, and the cashier refuses to use them because (a) “they cut down my productivity” and (b) “I’m not stupid enough to believe Al Gore’s lies.”

Oh, how I wish I’d been there. The things I would have said.

• “I have a suggestion for your productivity. Shut the hell up and pack my motherhumping bags.”
• “See what this does for your productivity. I can stand here holding up this line all damn day until I get your manager over here to discuss with you the inadvisability of failing to serve and then insulting customers.”
• “Honey, you should never utter the words ‘I’m not stupid.’ People are laughing at you.”
• “You’re a cashier at Wal-Mart. While I commend your high sense of self-esteem, this smug superiority crap is out of line to the point of delusion.”
• “Regardless of your political leanings, it is a fact that this planet can store only so much eternity garbage, such as plastic bags. If you dispute the biodegradability of plastic bags, I’d like to see you digest one right now. Here, I’ll even stuff it in your mouth for you.”
• “You’re a moron.”

Mom, although thinking along these lines, is too nice to say any of it. Then she hands over her payment, and Cashier of the Year rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, how did I know you were going to pay with cash?” I would have said more things.

• “Aw, is it too much of a strain on your wittle bwain to make change?”
• “I hadn’t realized Wal-Mart had stopped accepting money in exchange for merchandise.”
• “Seriously, get the manager over here NOW. I’ve decided not to leave until you’re fired.”

CUSTIMER SERVUS—UR DOIN IT RONG.

So be cheered, Wal-Mart Lady, that no matter what kind of crappy day you were having, you were lucky enough not to take it out on me. Be warned, however, that next time I have a crappy day, I’m driving 20 miles out of my way with an armload of canvas bags on a quest to take it out on you.

‘Cuz nobody messes with my mama and lives to tell about it.

Coincidentally, Jaci Burton is guesting at Mandy Roth’s today about little things you can do in addition to canvas bags to help save the world.

(Yeah, I skipped last weekend’s update. Even with two weeks’ worth of reporting in this one, you’ll notice it’s scant. The heat has fried my brain, and August and September are only going to get hotter. Looking forward to those utility bills…)

IWS: I got bogged down trying to “write clean,” so I switched to powering through with dialogue and stage directions just to make some headway. I have nothing against revisions, but it’s difficult to do them if there’s nothing there to revise. I said it would be done sometime in August. I may have lied, but I’m going to make a concerted effort to ensure that’s not the case.

Blog: I’m panicking because I have an RTB post in 3-1/2 weeks and have no idea what I’m going to do. I’d like to defend my title as Her Royal High-larious-ness, but I don’t feel funny right now. (Brain. Fried.) Here’s hoping an idea presents itself.

Blind Fangboy: No, haven’t heard the verdict on the story, but I went ahead and finished my cover in case the verdict is “no,” so I can put it up here posthaste. On a scale of 1 to 5, I’d give my artwork a 3, which is satisfactory for recreational use.

Cooties: No, that is not the official header at the Cooties site, but working on Blind Fangboy’s cover burned me out on Photoshop, so I haven’t finished the comic strip that will be the official header. I’m leaving it primarily black-and-white and it’s barely a step above stick figures, but it needs more cleaning up than I can deal with right now. (Brain. Fried.) Still no Cootie content. I suppose I should read a book and do something about that.

But I pretty much just want to take a nap with the fan blowing right on my face.

It has been a hectic week. One of these days, when it’s all over, I’ll tell you all about it in a manner that will make it all seem like a regular laugh riot.

No cause for alarm! I have consulted the Magic 8 Ball at length, and almost everything is going to work out for the best.

Like I need $27 mascara.

No, seriously. I NEED this $27 mascara. Standard mascara wands and my absence of fine motor skills do not combine with glamorous results. If you ever see me with sexy, smudgy, smoky eyes, it’s merely an attempt to rectify a mascara application gone tragically awry.

At least with that teeny little thing, when I twitch or fumble or blink or sneeze or in some other fashion stab myself in the face (or drop down my shirt—it happens), it will make only a teeny little mess.