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It’s not the people’s fault, it’s the electorate’s!

I apologize for the tardiness of this post, but it’s not my fault.

I blame the election.

More specifically, I blame the Missus.

The Missus because of her habit of strapping me to a chair on election nights. Often strapping me far more securely than is strictly necessary.

To be sure, she has good cause, if past behavior is any indicator.

If the results aren’t going my way, I’ve been known to threaten suicide, or worse, pulling up roots and moving the whole family to Canada.

Yes, the Horrible Great Northern. I get that caught up in the election outcomes.

And don’t even ask about my reaction to the state and federal results.

So the last few election cycles, she’s taken to tying me to a chair before the news coverage starts. It reduces both drama and damage to furniture and fixtures.

A real win-win. If the two teams are Furniture United and Fixturepool. Turns out I’m the hooligan.

But even the most ardent hooligan, after spending hours chewing through leather straps, finds his passion for mayhem (and/or emigration) significantly cooled. Trust me, you don’t feel like doing much of anything. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.

Most years, I spend the next twelve hours after my escape perched on the toilet, head tilted back while I gargle a 50/50 blend of water and Orajel.

Especially if that year’s selection of leather was tanned improperly.

Not so, this year.

This year took a little longer than usual to chew through the straps because the Missus decided to ‘spice things up’ and instead of leather straps, used Bungee cords.

It wouldn't have been so unpleasant if she'd soaked the cord in fruit punch or diluted mint oil first

No, I’m not a human/chipmunk hybrid. It’s the extremely tight Bungee cord making my cheeks look puffy. Or maybe those donuts I get at work every Thursday.

Let me tell you, if you think leather is hard to chew through, you haven’t tasted anything yet. Not only are the Bungee cords more fibrous and fuzzy (ick, what a disgusting sensation), but they are surprisingly difficult on the old choppers.

To make matters worse, when they break, they snap! Comet-smacking-into-the-Earth-and-wiping-out-the-dinosaurs magnitude snap.

Especially with how tight the Missus has taken to wrapping them! I almost suspect she doesn’t support the same mayoral candidate as I do, and takes out my ‘incorrect’ allegiance with her binding technique.

So it took me three days to recuperate. Three days that included an emergency trip to the dentist, four crown replacements, a referral to a periodontist, two emergency implants (dental, people, my man-breasts are plenty large enough already!), and enough pain killers to stun a giraffe.

And when I say giraffe, I’m talking about one of those hard-core, strung-out junkie giraffes that has a taste for the black tar and looks scary enough that people cross to the other side of the zoo when walking past them.

It’s not speciesism! It’s common sense. You’d drop your judgmental attitude if you could see that damn giraffe, all gaunt with eyes rimmed black with mascara and a sneer that says, “Come over ‘ere an’ I’ll show you who’s boss.”

And that is why my blog post is late. Because I can’t be trusted to handle the damn city council election results.

But Ian, I can hear you muttering derisively, that only accounts for lost time up to Saturday. Why didn’t a blog post appear Saturday night?

Well, OK, I was hoping to skip mentioning this, out of respect for the fallen, but once I was well enough to move about, I had to go to several funerals and help some other surviving friends pack.

Turns out the state and federal election results didn’t go so well as far as some of my friends and acquaintances were concerned.

If only their spouses / significant others had some leather straps.

And now, a word from our sponsor: me!
 
My books are available!

Marlowe and the Spacewoman:

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So bad it won a Voidy for the next THREE consecutive years (would have been FOUR, but 2012 was a leap year)

 
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Posted by on 13 November 2012 in Angst, Life

 

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Don’t, Don’t, Don’t Edit Your Book! It’ll Dilute the Genius!

Sunday morning I jammed my index finger into a TV stand, drawing blood and tearing the nail.

Indexing for the next couple of weeks will be unbearably uncomfortable.

Indexing isn’t a job for me. It’s a way of life.

This is so unfair.

Ever Since The New Leap Year Rules, I Don't Remember What Time It's Supposed To Be

Midnight and the sun is up? If you live in the Lower Forty-Eight, that means my plan was enacted!

I blame this incident on Daylight Savings Time.

Oh sure, every time the time changes, it’s time for some time-sensitive yahoos to come out of the woodwork and repeat themselves repetitively about how much they hate changing the time for Daylight Savings Time. Again.

Where are these whiners when we gain an hour, I ask you? Sleeping in, that’s what!

Bastards.

I can sympathize. I had to work Sunday, so I was up an hour earlier than usual, normally the crack of dawn, but this Sunday an hour before the crack of dawn. As such, I was suffering from the sort of exhaustion that kind of lack of sleep causes.

This makes Daylight Savings Time 50% responsible for my injury.

The other 50%? Not enough slack on the charge cord for my phone, which was resting on the TV stand. I pulled too hard, it didn’t give, and rather than send the phone flying off the stand, I instinctively thrust my hand forward to prevent said flight and the inevitable crash landing-induced damage that my phone would have incurred.

I have bad instincts and, even worse, a brand new, expensive phone.

But this whole incident reminded me (and continues to remind me while the fingertip is bruised and scabbed, and the fingernail rent) about my brilliant leap year idea.

Which led directly to my discovery that editors are killjoys. They just don’t get my brilliance.

Here’s what I mean. As I mentioned three paragraphs earlier, I had a brilliant idea about leap year. The following is an actual transcript of a conversation between myself (brilliant idea haver) and my wife (proxy for editor for purposes of this argument and all-around killjoy):

Brilliant me: I had this brilliant idea for a new way to deal with leap years.

Reluctant to get dragged into another one of these conversations missus: Yeah?

Brilliant me: Instead of getting one whole day every four years, they should give us six hours every February 28th. At midnight, roll the clock back six hours and let us do whatever we want.

RTGDIAOOTC missus: Um..?

Brilliant me: Every four years, that adds up to one day! But we gain six hours to bum around, or relax, or cook up a huge list of even more brilliant ideas to improve the world. People are going to be so thrilled, I could get elected President of Canada based on this idea alone!

RTGDIAOOTC missus: Honey, Canada doesn’t have a President. They have a Prime Minister.

Brilliant, politically ambitious me: OK, then, Prime Minister.

RTGDIAOOTC missus: You aren’t Canadian.

Brilliant me: Fine. I’ll settle for President of the United States.

RTGDIAOOTC missus: This idea isn’t going to get you elected President. Maybe Governor. Of Colorado. But don’t hold your breath.

Brilliant me: I don’t want to move to Colorado.

RTGDIAOOTC missus: Let’s put aside your political ambitions, just for a moment. You seem to be overlooking an important fact.

Brilliant me: Not possible! [pause while face screwed up in thought] What fact?

RTGDIAOOTC missus: An astronomical fact. The sun is still going to come up at the same time, no matter what our clocks say. If you add six hours to the day, our schedules will fall out of sync with sunrise and sunset.

Brilliant, but now nonplussed me: Say that again?

RTGDIAOOTC missus: [rolls eyes] Say you roll the clock back six hours. At the new midnight, it’s six AM old time, and the sun is up. So now the sun is up at midnight.

Brilliant and misunderstood me: I hate you.

And this is why editors are killjoys. They read our manuscripts and then gleefully direct our attention to typos, plot holes, and characters whose names change several times over the course of the book. Then they smugly point out how finding these trivial issues will prevent a lot of angry, humiliating reviews on Amazon and Barnes and Noble about how stupid your book is.

Never mind that it’s the story that matters. The overarching, brilliant story that will suck the reader in and blind them to any alleged errors.

And maybe, just maybe, that apparently random name changing was intentional and actually a metaphor for the fluidity of life and friendships and our connections to other people! Huh? Did you ever think of that, Mrs. WifeyEditor???

Like I said, editors just don’t get brilliance.

And don’t forget that in pointing these alleged problems out, editors invariably foist a huge amount of ‘extra’ work on the poor, hapless authors who now, in addition to dealing with the crushing depression of having the my-novel-is-finally-done! rug pulled out from under them, must also fix all these supposed issues.

We don’t want to hurt the cursed editor’s feelings, because who knows what they’d complain about in your next book if they’re mad at you!

Bad enough when the editiing is done for free by friends or family. Even worse, though, are those cases where you’ve paid a ‘professional’ for the ‘pleasure’ of this editing.

It’s like paying extra for the privilege of staying late at work or to come in on the weekends for the day job (or, if my leap year plan is ever enacted, sometimes night job).

I can’t tell you how angry all this extra work makes my.*

And I won’t even go into the drama I’m currently experiencing with my critique groups. Bunch a killjoys!

* I am proud to say that this post has been, and always will be, editor-gfree!

And now, a word from our sponsor: me!
 
My book, (the edited) Marlowe and the Spacewoman, is out!
 

Marlowe and the SpacewomanClick here to learn more or order a copy!

 
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Posted by on 13 March 2012 in Other Blogs

 

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