Proboscis Monkey Valentine Cards are a gift from me to the world. If you’re not familiar with Proboscis Monkeys, they’re incredibly ugly, but desperate for love (something I think most of us can relate to). No matter the size of your nose, I think we can all use a bit more proboscis monkey in our lives. I have no idea what to write here. I’m literally just rambling to meet the 300 word count so my SEO score goes up.
I have worked tirelessly for just over an hour on these Proboscis Monkey Valentine Cards™. These will make a face light up. They will melt a heart. Eyes will have tears. Proboscis Monkeys are the symbol of love in 2021 and beyond. Are you convinced yet or are you still thinking about wasting $3.99 on a Hallmark card? Most of those just sound sarcastic anyway.
An uncensored version of the “disgusting displays” card is also available behind a pay wall. Just Venmo me $1 and it’s yours (I don’t have Venmo). I should warn you that if you google image search “Proboscis Monkeys,” many of the pictures will disturb you. Even with safe search on.
As far as I know, you can’t see a Proboscis Monkey in captivity (at least not in the US). You have to go to Borneo, which is not even on my top 20 list of places to go. It’s a bummer because I really wanted to see them and be both amazed and disgusted at the same time. By the way, I did not hit the 300 word mark and now the stupid thing says I use “passive voice” too much. Wait, the passive voice thing went away. I’m only 20 words away. Now it says I don’t use transition words enough AND that stinks!
I have no interest in jumping on the police brutality bandwagon. That’s because I know where the real danger lies. The biggest dispensers of violence aren’t wearing a badge and blue uniforms. No, they’re dressed in jeans and Looney Tunes t-shirts. They walk our nations schools, attacking children. And I’m the only one willing to fight them. You ever heard of the Iron Whistle? Sand Pigs? The Wo-Man? The Buzz Kut? How about this familiar term: yard duties? Yeah, you heard of them. I bet the hair on your arms is standing straight up.
Do you know why they’re called “yard duties”? It’s not what you think. Fifty years ago, a boy named Spencer Kipshaw overheard his irate father yell, “I just stepped in a pile of dog ****!” Spencer’s mom gasped, “Walter, we call it ‘yard doodie’ in front of the children!” The next day at school, one of Spencer Kipshaw’s friends brought a Luger his father “found” in France during WWII (“spoils of war” if you know what I mean). During recess, a group of boys stealthily made their way behind an oak tree to check out the blood-crusted pistol. Along the way, Spencer whispered, “Fellas, watch your step. We have to avoid that recess monitor like a yard doodie.” The phrase, which garnered a good five minutes of laughter, caught on and traveled through the school district, around the state, and then nationally. This was all on wikipedia… until “they” forced the website to take it down.
Who did it?
On a side note, Spencer Kipshaw was murdered in 1976; his body was found hanging from a tetherball pole. Soon after his death, yard duties managed to successfully switch the spelling from doodie to duty using a propaganda campaign with the help of a militarized teachers’ union.
I Speak Out Because I Am a Victim
I’m not just a witness. When I was in the first grade, there were two yard duties: Theresa and Mrs. Luna (aka Lunatic). Like many villainous pairs in movies, one was big and beefy, while the other was scrappy and small. However, unlike most villainous pairs, neither one was “the brains” of the operation. Both were “the muscle” even though one was skin and bones and the other one was pure fat. You could say things like this in the 90s.
Mission: To Find and Execute Your Child aka Charlie
The biggest adrenaline rush yard duties get is when the recess bell rings. At our school, when the bell rang, every child was supposed to freeze until the second bell rang, then you would line up and wait for your teacher to escort you back to class. I heard this was for safety reasons, because we all know kids stampede over one another to get back to class. In reality, going back to class always resembled a funeral procession. I personally think this rule was invented to give kids a place to easily fail so that they may be punished. I’m sure there’s a fancy psych-word for it.
Anyway, once the bell rang, Theresa and Mrs. Luna were like sentry guns. If you moved, you got shot down. Didn’t matter why you moved. Let’s say you were swinging on the monkey bars, the bell rings, you drop to the ground, but just as you hit the ground, you fall forward. You moved. You’re dead. Or, let’s say, you’re sprinting for the ball just as the bell rings. There’s inertia, gravity, and a bunch of other physics stuff at play and you can’t stop without serious injury. You’re still moving.You’re dead. I watched a boy hurl himself from the top of the jungle gym onto the ground just because he’d rather risk a broken neck than be caught moving after the bell rang.
There were kids all over the playground, frozen in the dumbest poses because they knew if they simply lowered their arm, they would be punished.
If you moved, you ended up with one of three punishments (a) sit on the bench during your next recess (b) citation (this was for repeat offenders) (c) stand in the “bad kid” line and go back to class after everyone else. That may not seem so bad, but that’s only because you’re reading this with hardened adult eyes.
I never got in trouble for moving, but my eldest sister did. This is her tale: she was playing with my cousin and some of his friends. The bell rang, everyone froze, but one kid. ONE kid. Jeremy Goodrich, who was later appropriately renamed Jeremy Badpoor. Theresa decided she was in the mood for collective punishment and made my sister, cousin, and his friends line up with Jeremy in the bad kid line. I think yard duties have a daily abuse quota they have to reach. My sister cried. What kind of person punishes an entire group of children just because one refuses to obey?
This kind of person:
Cafeteria Doodie
Yard duties are not limited to the playground. Their jurisdiction also includes the cafeteria. Theresa always eyeballed our sandwiches, chips, and cookies. She would utter, “That looks good” and you would always feel ashamed. Mrs. Luna, on the other hand, ate infrequently, much like a reptile.
PPpppCchhhuugghhhhhssshhh!
At the end of every lunch, Theresa would lumber up to the stage, grab the microphone, and blow into it. You could tell this was Theresa’s way of “flexin.” She sauntered up there like it was her grand throne and we were some diseased peasants, unworthy of her presence. I wish I knew what was going through her head the day she decided a blast of white noise would be the best way to get a room full of chattering kids’ attention. When Theresa blew her mighty horn, we were supposed to hold up our peace signs to acknowledge that she got our attention. If you didn’t hear this blast of white noise… then you just found yourself cradled in the enemy’s hands.
“Who wants a Luger?”
I Didn’t Hear…
It was lunch time. My classmate Brett and I were talking about Doritos. I did not hear Theresa’s gale of silence because I typically relied on seeing her walk up on stage (she wasn’t hard to miss). So Brett and I kept talking. Let me explain something to you about myself and Brett. We were not bad kids (while at school). We weren’t the sort to get in trouble. In fact, I would say we were the more sensitive, scared-to-get-in-trouble types. Basically, cowards.
As Brett and I were talking, I felt something hitting my lunch box and turned to see Mrs. Luna’s beef jerky skeleton face glaring at me from the end of the table. Let me paint this picture for you: I was close to one end of the table, she was on the opposite end, shoving my classmates’ lunch boxes so that each one collided into the next until they hit mine.
Once she got my attention, she pointed at me and Brett and screeched, “You and you, BENCH!” It was surreal. I never got in a trouble at school. If I could just get my teacher here, she could be a character witness and testify that I was a good little girl. It was all a misunderstanding! Sitting on the bench was a harsh punishment for a first time offender. I was going to be propped up in front of the entire school for a whole 25 minutes. And I knew I would cry.
Lord Theresa began to excuse each table to go to recess. My classmate sitting on the opposite side of me said that Mrs. Luna had actually been shoving their lunch boxes into mine for quite some time. No, don’t use words to get my attention. Why use words when you can blow into a microphone and shove lunch boxes? If I could go back in time, I would pick Mrs. Luna up and slide her across the table, head first, but only after I put a garbage can at the end for her to slide into.
Just as our table got excused, I made a fateful decision: I was going to run. There was no way I could handle recess on the bench. The bench was shameful. Sitting on the bench meant I was guilty of something. I didn’t deserve to sit on the bench. I always put up my peace sign. I just didn’t hear Theresa this time. Give me a warning, at least. This was injustice and I wasn’t going to take it.
A Life on the Run
I followed my classmates out to the playground then made a dash for the shadows where I would spend twenty-five minutes as a fugitive. The playground was located on the backside of the school behind the last row of classrooms. There was no way I could hide on the playground without being caught and I definitely couldn’t wander the school without a teacher getting suspicious, so I hid behind the last row of classrooms. It wasn’t that uncommon to see a kid walking through there, so if someone saw me, I could play it cool and act like I was on my way to the bathroom. Plus, I could keep an eye on the playground from there.
The benches/cells were located in the middle of the playground between the asphalt and the grass. It gave you a nice 360 view of what you were missing out on, plus everyone could look at you and whisper about how you were on the bench. There was a certain type of kid that was commonly found on the bench (Jeremy Badpoor) and to be associated with these kinds of kids was bad for your reputation and ego. From the shadows, I saw Brett on the bench. He was tainted.
At one point, I looked through the gaps between the buildings and saw Mrs. Luna frantically looking around. For once, I am not exaggerating when I use the word “frantically.” I knew she was looking for me. Let me tell you, when someone is looking for you with a bloodthirsty glow in their eyes, you stay hidden.
Treated worse than a school shooter.
For twenty-five minutes, I hid behind the classrooms as she paced the asphalt looking for me. She never found me–that’s why I’m still with you today. I kept my head down and ducked behind my classmates when it was time to line up after the second bell. By the time the teacher’s appeared, Mrs. Luna’s rage was restrained by the presence of sane adults. Even after I was safely in the classroom, I was afraid the Lunatic would come after me during the next recess when I was back on her turf.
Nothing happened. I guess if there’s a lesson in all this–for all you kids out there–it’s that if you don’t want to be punished by a yard duty, just take off and hide. Maybe you’ll get away with it, but still be haunted by the incident 30 years later. If someone even mentions “yard duties” or I hear what sounds like someone blowing into a microphone, I get real anxious and run to the nearest shadows where I cower for exactly 25 minutes. Where’s my payout?
Bury Your Heads in the Sand
Even though I’m telling you all this, I bet none of you will do anything to stop yard duties. It doesn’t fit your “narrative.” Regardless of your apathy, I’ll be staging a bench-in next weekend at the capitol. There I will blow into a cordless microphone and hand out citations to government employees. I will do this until there is systematic reform, charges brought to guilty parties, payouts to those affected… or until a publisher offers me a six-figure advance to write a book about it. Sometimes it only takes one person.
And, for the record, I’m not depressed nor do I want to hurt myself.
Why am I suddenly working on a library comic when I should be finishing my novel? Here’s why: in my mid-20s, I got a job at the city library. I thought it was going to be an awesome, chill job where I could just sit on my butt and read books. Nope. Turns out, a lot of weirdos go to the library. Most of them don’t even go there for the books. They like to sleep, clog toilets, cuss at you, steal DVDs, accuse you of trying to rape them, etc.
Anyway, I decided not to let my stories of working at the library go to waste and that’s why I am working on a library comic. I guess that doesn’t explain why I’m not working on my novel. Truthfully, I’m in a novel-writing-rut and need something else to do in the meantime.
I’m going to “go there.” Forgive me. I’ve seen a lot of clogged toilets in my day. I’ve walked in countless stalls and seen the result of slobs who can’t simply raise their foot up and flush. Here is why this clogged toilet is seared into my mind: when a toilet is clogged, the water rises, but doesn’t go down. The addition of water from the tank should dilute the contents of the toilet. In other words, the poop to water ratio shifts from 1 part poop /6 parts water to 1 part poop/12 parts water. There was no dilution with this clog. It honestly looked like six people (specifically 400 lb men) took turns on the toilet without flushing. I think this library comic is going to come back to haunt me.
If you’re curious how this story ended, I got the custodian/maintenance guy and let him lose five years off his life. I think the patron who informed me of the clog expected me to do something right that minute. If I tried flushing that toilet, I had no doubt it would explode in my face and give me Hep-B.
It’s almost 2020, which means it’s time to leave your water drinking habits in the past. Throw your water bottle in the trash. You’re going to look like a caveman drinking from a bottle. Trust me.
In 2020, we drink from ladles.
Would this guy lie to you? He might, but I won’t.
“What’s a ladle?” A ladle is a spoon that looks like a bowl on a stick.
“But where do I get my water?” you might ask. From everywhere! A Burger King bathroom sink, puddles, water fountain, a Home Depot bucket you fill with tap water and keep in your car trunk… use your head! I can see you now with my binoculars rolling your eyes. “I’m not drinking that gross water.” Wow, you are spoiled, but I get it.
I’m hydrated.
In San Diego, tap water tastes gross. I’m originally from Northern California where you can drink from a garden hose and it’s no different than chugging from a majestic waterfall. In SoCal, the water tastes like hotel water. You know what I mean. We’ve all been there: dried out in your hotel room because you ran the A/C at 67 degrees because you wanted your money’s worth. Desperate, you look at the Aquafina bottle sitting on what looks like a wireless phone charger. You know you’ll get charged $3.99 for it, so you grab the urine sample cup they left you by the coffee maker. You get some sink water, even though you know some weirdo probably put their butt on the sink faucet. The water tastes gray, like fossils. They probably let a rock dissolve in it. That’s life in San Diego, 24/7. Ladles solve this problem.
How? Because ladles fix nasty water. WHAT?! HOW?! Because it’s RUSTIC. Nasty water is rustic. Ladles are rustic. Do you get it?! Ladles are meant for bucket water. Puddle water. Water from a well where a raccoon fell inside and died. If you drink nasty water from a wine glass, you will be offended. If you drink nasty water from a ladle, you are content. That’s how our brains work. Deceive your brain! You will feel like a gristly hero drinking from a ladle.
Ladles are cool. Ladles save money. And they come in a variety of shapes and sizes. This guy on YouTube made a ladle from a piece of tree. My ladle came from my kids’ Melissa and Doug kitchen set. They weren’t using it. Final point, I have never seen a wimp drink from a ladle. Be in good company. Get yourself a ladle.
Six years ago, my husband and I were visiting family for Christmas. I was pregnant with my son (first trimester) and I felt awful. The Dropbox album for this trip is appropriately called, “Christmas: To Hell and Back.” On this trip I had what is known as a “hypnagogic hallucination.” Hypnagogic hallucinations are the visions, sounds, or sensations you experience during the first stage of sleep. If you’ve had sleep paralysis or the common nightmare of falling off a cliff right after you go to bed, then you’ve had a hypnagogic hallucination. They’re often caused by stress and anxiety.
Figure 1. Victim in bed with dog. Photo take by perpetrator.
Clint and I stayed at my sister’s house; she had a new puppy and a TV with many channels. We were in bed, the lights were out, and I was ready to pass out. Clint was probably watching a 45 minute video of American Truck Simulator on YouTube.
The Hallucination
Here’s what I remember: Clint gets up to use the bathroom. I close my eyes, hear the bathroom door close, and then my brain starts malfunctioning. I open my eyes and I’m still at my sister’s house, but Clint never returned from the bathroom. Instead, there’s an invisible demon presence standing in the shadows watching me. I can’t move. I start screaming, “Get out! Get out!” but my voice is muffled. I’m terrified. Why is this happening to me? The demon won’t leave. They never leave.
From the demon’s perspective.
Clint wakes me up.
The demon was gone… or was it? Clint told me that he came back from the bathroom and heard me breathing heavy, so he quickly woke me up. At least that’s what he should have said. What he really said was that he heard me breathing heavy so he got out his phone and started recording it. This is when I start to wonder who that demon in my hallucination represents. Clint said that after awhile I stopped breathing heavy, so he shook the bed to get me going again. And it worked. That’s when I started yelling, “get out.” In the embarrassing (edited) audio clip below, you can hear a garbled “get out” followed by some whimpers. I sounded a lot more passionate in my hallucination.
I sound like one of those dogs that can say, “I love you.”
Here’s the point of all this: You don’t want to be “the Carolyn” in this kind of situation. If you want a good laugh, like Clint, heed my advice: get them before they get you. If your spouse or a family member is exhausted from all the Christmas shopping, baking, and socializing, make sure you stick close by as they fall asleep. You may catch them hallucinating and could get great footage to play the next morning for everyone to laugh at. That’s how you win Christmas.
Hallucination Tips and Techniques
– Must be done within 5-10 minutes of the person falling asleep.
– Put something stinky near their face. German researchers (go figure) found that smells influence peoples’ dreams. Stinky = negative, good smells = positive. Maybe light a match then blow it out so they think the room is on fire. Now that I think about it, Clint went to the bathroom right as my hallucination started…
– Use Clint’s bed shaking method. Be gentle or you’ll risk waking your victim. Try sitting at the foot of the bed and giving it a good bounce.
– Think about what you want you want the person to hallucinate and make subtle sounds associated with that monster or beast. Moaning, growling, hissing, Andre the Giant impression, are some good ideas.
This is such a special Christmas commercial. Not because it warms the heart or brings back fond memories. It’s because this commercial is to blame for the rise of entitlement, narcissism, and socialism in our nation.
There are three elements that make this Fruity Pebble commercial a moral tragedy:
1) Rampant Sin. In 30 seconds, Barney breaks two laws: breaking and entering with intent to steal, and identity theft (Santa’s). In California, this is a felony punishable by prison time and a fine. Barney is not punished for either crime, which I’ll get to later. He also does not apologize–not even a half-hearted “sorry Fred.” In fact, by the end of the commercial, the untrained viewer would have forgotten these sins altogether because Santa has manipulated the situation by saying, “tis the season to be sharing” implying that allowing a thief to steal from you is “sharing.”
Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. [2 Corinthians 9:7]
“‘Tis the season to hand your rights over to the State, Fred.”
2) Corrupt Authority Figures. As I wrote earlier, the untrained viewer will think Santa is the moral authority, there to teach Fred how to properly behave. Santa’s worldview is full of contradictionsSa. Let me explain: Santa shames Fred for having a normal reaction to someone attempting to steal from him. Santa claims to only reward people through good behavior. “He’s making a list, he’s checking it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty or nice… So be good for goodness sake!” This is one of the fundamental characteristics of Santa… or so we’re taught. Who gets rewarded in the commercial? The “naughty” Barney. Do we not see this same trend in our culture today? Covet your neighbor’s money? Let’s raise their taxes! It’s no coincidence that Barney dresses as (maybe even idolizes) this thug in the same way gang members idolize Scarface.
Evil men do not understand justice, but those who seek the Lord understand it completely.
[Proverbs 28:5]
3) NO JUSTICE. How does the commercial end? Barney gets what he’s after. Santa rewards him! The System (Santa) gives it to him. There’s not even a moment where Santa says, “Hey, you know what, Barney? Maybe you ought to go back home, change into that burlap sack you wear, and knock on the door like a civilized caveman. And maybe apologize to Fred. Could you do that, Barn?” Even that would be something.
What’s in a name?
So, here’s what we know (or maybe what I just made up): Fred goes to work at that rock place and earns his clamshells. Wilma goes to the market to pick up some Fruity Pebbles to share with Santa because Fred likes to share. There’s no doubt about that. To me, it’s obvious he’s had this whole thing planned out for weeks. I’d be willing to bet money that this is a yearly tradition for him. If you notice, Fred’s in a good mood when the commercial starts. The only reason he gets angry is because Barney breaks into his house and stakes claim on Santa’s bowl of cereal.
I know a drunk when I see one.
Where is Barney’s money going, by the way? He works at the same place as Fred and they seem to have a similar lifestyle. Judging by Barney’s feelings of entitlement, I’m thinking he’s one of those guys that hits up the bar on payday and shouts, “Drinks on me!” Then there’s no money left for rent much less a $3.49 box of Fruity Pebbles. With the right coupons, you could get that down to $2.50 (California dollars).
Someone in the YouTube comments pointed out how Fred chews even though he never takes a bite. He’s not even living in the moment. He’s somewhere else. He is so far gone, he can’t even properly fake that he’s eating those pebbles.
The worst part is how broken Fred is at the end. He plans this special night for Santa, someone he clearly admires (now that I think about it, that may be Fred’s downfall: admiration for a charlatan like Santa), and Santa snaps at him for being upset with a criminal. Fred just wants to please Santa, so he buddies up to Barney and shares his pebbles. I know Fred is probably thinking, “This just doesn’t feel right.” Good. It shouldn’t. This was your downfall, Fred, putting your faith in Santa.
It eats at Fred, night after night. He tries to confide in Wilma, but she tells him to put it behind him. Then finally, 18 months later, he takes his own life. There are no heroes in this story.
“None is righteous, no, not one; 11 no one understands; no one seeks for God. 12 All have turned aside; together they have become worthless; no one does good, not even one.” [Romans 3:10b-12]
I’m not in great shape, but if I were, this tip would be the reason for it. You will not find this life changing advice anywhere else on the internet. The government has been trying to hide this secret from the masses since the Taft years; they want us to get fat and die young. I am risking my life sharing this information with you, but here I go:
Don’t wear deodorant.
How did I discover this life changing secret? The other day I was on the treadmill and I forgot to put an extra swipe of deodorant on. I was hoping the swipe from the day before would cover the stench that was to come. Four minutes into the run, I began to sweat and with each drop was the foul smell of BO. My social conditioning tried to shame me, but I still couldn’t ignore the fact that with every whiff of stank, I ran faster and with more gusto than before. In fact, we should change the name from BO to gusto.
Gardenias and lavendar never made me feel this way.
Perspiration Is Inspiration
“Aw yeah, gusto.”
According to my studies, smelling your own BO while working out will extend your workout by 20 minutes.
That’s 250 lbs! A new record for that guy.
Still don’t believe me? Look at the math:
I crunched the numbers so you can get back to crunching them abs.
STILL don’t believe me? Try it yourself, since you’re so smart. Go to the gym during their busiest hours (this way you’ll have a bigger audience when you reach your maximum potential). Make sure you have zero deodorant on. Take a baby wipe and wipe your armpits if you need to. Then get pumping. You should probably use Instagram or Facebook live to broadcast your workout for the rest of us to see what happens.
Just a warning: People get scared of other people’s gusto because it’s intimidating. They don’t want to see you succeed, so if they try to fight you, just know that it’s because they see you climbing the fitness ladder and they’re jealous. They could also be government spies sent to take you out.
When my husband and I first moved to San Diego, a relative of ours broke the depressing news that it takes men three marriages to find the right woman. Forgive me if you did not already know this. It was a shock to me, too. I went to bed that night wishing someone had told me sooner. Imagine me, Carolyn, the first of three brides. How long did I have before number two came along? Five years? Twenty? Did my husband already know this? Did he sense it? Was he already looking for number two? She’d be a real beast of a woman, no doubt. I would have to teach my kids to hate her.
She’s always telling me she ain’t playing for real.
But after her comes the third wife; by the time she comes along (probably when I’m in my late 50s), my bitterness will probably have subsided. I’d still judge this woman though. Not so much in a hateful way, but with great pity. “Oh, she must be so insecure and pathetic. The poor thing.”
She’s boring, but she’ll be a great relief after the last one. Also, I just realized, she’s wearing my sweater.
Anyway, today is our nine year anniversary and our marriage has gotten better over the years, which only means that it will be even more tragic when the end comes. What could possibly cause my husband to lose his mind and leave a charming creature such as myself?
Middle-age is going to be rough. He has two divorces to go through and I have to find a man that’s already been divorced twice–this way I’m guaranteed to be “the right one.” I bet I could find a young one in prison. I’ll have to check the minimum security prisons since I’d rather be with a white collar criminal.
Always scheming. I’ll have to keep my own checking account.
I don’t know how I’m going to handle step kids. I haven’t even met them and I already can’t stand them. Spoiled and always looking at me wrong. Their moms will try to start fights with me because they’re still in love with MY husband. Plus, they’ll be jealous that my kids are cuter. Wait’ll the courts see all the voicemails and texts I saved.
Or I can just stay single and spend my free time matching missing persons reports with unidentified remains across the country.
Oh, and since this is an anniversary post, I’m supposed to write something like, “We’ve had our ups and downs” then you guys can start thinking, “Ooo, I wonder what she means by that!”
One stupid-dumb thing I always do when making writing goals is that I come up with the goal first then I try to make my terrible methods accomplish this goal. So, for example, last year I said, “My goal is to be done with my book by the end of the year” because that sounded cool. My husband and I agreed that my writing nights would be Monday and Wednesday after dinner. Then I would try to cram in writing any other time I could. Of course I failed. Not because of the timeframe, but because my methods weren’t very wise. Also, sin.
(L) Me trying to find a balance between loving, teaching and disciplining my children (R) Me about to Bawitdaba da bang da bang diggy diggy diggy
For starters, as a stay-at-home mom with two young kids, my brain is pretty fried by 5 pm. At that point, I could probably be collecting disability. Remember that brain-egg in the frying pan commercial? “This is your brain on drugs?” Well, my brain on kids would be the same, except when he cracks the egg, a fart comes out of the egg and swirls around the pan.
I guess anyone with kids, whether you work or not, is fried at that hour, but I would argue that stay-at-home mom brain is a different flavor of exhaustion.
Anyway, I would still go upstairs and write, but it was such an inefficient use of time. Sometimes I could only get 200 words out in 90 minutes. I never took the time to experiment with different times and figure out what worked for both my family and me. But that’s all changed, you guys!
Here are some bits of wisdom I learned over the past 3 months that helped me hone in on a method that is actually working.
Clean at Night
This is a good idea for two reasons: (1) Cleaning requires little brain power or creativity, so it’s best to do while braindead in the evening. Writing, on the other hand, does require brain power and creativity, so I should probably use my fresh morning brain on this task, right? (2) My kids will destroy my cleaning efforts throughout the day and then I’ll be re-tidying up ALL day (this = rage). Better to do it once at night and wake up to a clean house.
Rude.
In short, give your “stupid self” stupid tasks and your “smart self” smart tasks. I feel like if I took the time I could come up with a cool Johnnie Cochran rhyme for this.
My husband helps, too, but it looks better if it’s just me slaving away.
Note: It’s not like I DON’T clean during the day. Things likes laundry have to be done during the day, but certain things are left for when the kids are in bed (e.g. loading/running dishwasher, kitchen wipe-down, tidying the living room, chiseling boogers off the furniture).
Write in the Morning
I never considered myself a morning person until I met my husband and realized there are people who need three hours to wake up. Now please don’t confuse being a “morning person” with one of those X-Men that only needs 4 hours of sleep. I wish I had that power. Anyway, I thought about getting up early to write, but it just didn’t seem practical to me.
(L) Early bird (R) Night owl
After attending a Christian writing conference in March, one of the speakers (Costi Hinn) encouraged us to get up early. This was kind of not good to hear, because my daughter (before daylight savings time) was getting up between 5-5:30 am. That means I would have to get up at 4 am to get at least an hour in. That’s going fishing times. But I took a step of faith and started doing it. I realized if I go to bed at 9:30, I could still get 6.5-7 hours of sleep. So, three days a week, I’m up before 5, usually 4:15 am. And it works.
I Still Do Bad Things
“Oh no, a Bible verse” – some people
I had a few paragraphs here about how I still do bad things, but I decided to make that into a separate blog post. To sum it up, the third bit of wisdom came about when it was brought to my attention (thank you God) that I had sin in my life that I needed to repent of. Stay tuned for that juicy gossip. Oh, and with the scripture above in mind, I actually did that (commit my work to the Lord) and I just want to warn you that sometimes God needs to correct you in order for your plans to be established. It’s worth it though.
By the way, if anyone wants to be a character witness at my trial, please e-mail me.
My Revised Methods and Writing Goals
So, here we go. Just a little snapshot of my goals for April. Things will be modified for May.
Write ~4,750 words a week.
Wake up early three days a week (write at least 750 words during this time)
One writing night a week (Wednesday night, write at least 1000 words).
Two hour block of writing Saturday (write at least 1,500 words)
April total: ~ 19,000
Total word count: ~ 59,500 words
This post was supposed to be short. Also, for the sake of my SEO keyword density: writing goals, writing goals.
Hello. If you’ve been to my page before, you probably remember that I, Carolyn Honeychurch, had a lot of illustrated posts on here. They were mostly stories about my life. I archived those since I’m transitioning this site into something more professional. Just to be clear, my idea of professional is not good (that’s what a real professional told me, at least). Also, my old stories contained material and language that can get you thrown in prison nowadays (e.g. m*dget).
So many memories.
Anyway, if you don’t already know me, my name is Carolyn Honeychurch and I’m currently working on my first novel. By “first” I mean the first one I actually intend to publish. I wrote one in high school and had another one going in my early 20s (got about 80% done with that one). Maybe I’ll write about those in future posts (Spoiler: they’re terrible).
I’m not really a Playmobil.
As I get more involved in the writing community on social media, I realize that a lot of wannabe writers are very willing to share their plots, snippets of their writing and character bios. I will not be doing this. If some jerk came up to me and had two envelopes, one containing my work in progress and in the other, a nude photo of me, and then this jerk threatened to release one to the public, but I get to choose which one, I would have a lot of trouble choosing.
Here’s what I will tell you: it’s fiction, satirical, kind of adventure-y, a little fairytale-ish and maybe fantasy-like. It’s supposed to be funny. If it’s not funny, then I failed. But, on the bright side, if I fail, you all get to experience my failure with me.
Subtract 126 words.
Here’s my current word/page count. I assume my finished book will be between 75,000-85,000 words. My goal is to be done with the first draft by the end of May.
That’s it for now. I will keep everyone updated on my journey and other stuff here or on my Instagram @honeychurchbook.
