The ER of Doom OR How I'm Not Allowed to Go Back to the Hospital Anymore

In last week's exciting blog, I encountered Pier 1 and its clerk, AKA the Woman Who Cannot Ask for Help and is Wonderful at Standing Around With Her Thumb Up Her Bleep.  (I should call her Bleep for short.)

After I drove myself home, which was basically a huge fricking mistake, I tried to tough it out by calling my general practitioner and making an appointment.  The nice lady on the phone suggested I just go ahead and go to the ER, because 1) they could do something about the pain, and 2) they have an X-ray machine.  (I'll come back to these two points later.)

I totally didn't do this.

I called the hubster, or HIM, the man to whom I'm married and said/whined, "I've had an accident and need to go to the ER."  HIM said, "Be there in a jif," or something like that because I honestly don't remember what he did say.  (It might have been, "I'm in the middle of having something probed by aliens from Alpha Centuri, but they'll understand," but I was in too much pain to pay attention.)  I do remember finding a bottle of ibuprofen and the ice bag.  Some years later he showed up and helped me out to the car.  By the time we actually got to the hospital I was feeling marginally better.  However, I couldn't walk, talk, or chew bubblegum.

Once I checked into the ER, riding in a wheelchair, the real fun began.  I began my stint in the ER waiting room in a genial mood despite the fact that my calf felt like someone had reached inside my muscles and yanked several out, spit on them, tied knots in them, and then shoved them back in.  I got my vitals taken fairly quickly and explained to the nurse that I did not feel good.  I think they wrote "booboo on leg" on the form.  I believe that was a mistake on my part.  I should have insisted they write "horribly mangled, agonizing, ruptured muscles that have me writhing in pain" instead.  I should have begged for morphine and/or vodka.  I'm convinced that if I had done that I would have been seen faster.  A corpse would have been seen faster.

If a cartoon character had shown up in
my ER, they would have been seen
before me.

Now don't get me wrong.  I do understand why the man with the chest pains has to be seen first.  I totally get it.  I understand why the man who chopped off the tip of his finger with a machete had to go before me.  (Not making this up.  Seriously, the man who came in after me did chop his finger off via the machete method.  Unfortunately neither he nor I was in the mood to get/give backstory.)  I get why the meth head who was having convulsions and frothing at the mouth was going before me.  However, there was a couple who was there before me and both had hospital bracelets on, and both chatted constantly on their phones while waiting for a doctor/something.  I think they were at the ER to have a physical.  There was a hooker there who possibly was having STD tests.  There was a man there riding in a motorized wheel chair who looked like one of the humans from Wall-E.  (Coming from a fat woman, this is highly critical.  I wanted to tell him, "Just get up and walk because you're working that chair way too good."  Seriously, he could have stopped on a dime after racing through the chairs in the waiting room.  He zipped over to the bathroom and then back again so easily it was like he had a license for it.)  (Secretly I was jealous that I didn't have one.)

I was waiting for something all right.

Therein commenced the waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.  Waiting.  As the ibuprofen began to fail and my leg began to throb like bongo drugs, I got snarkier and snarkier.  In fact, I think HIM wanted to leave me at the ER so that he could run away to Africa and become the guy who takes people on safaris.

This would be the title of HIM's blog.

Or something like that.  HIM probably would have taken penguins at the South Pole over my snarkiness.

I don't know why I stuck this in here.  Probably because I thought
it was funny.  This is how I see myself while I was waiting
in the Emergency Room.

Whilst I was waiting/moaning/complaining, one poor clerk came to get my insurance information.  Poor woman.  Then I waited so long they had to take my vitals again.  The man who took my vitals again got into a conversation about how cool Tom Cruise was in Oblivion and I said that Tom Cruise probably would have gotten seen in the ER before me even if he had the weird thing on Oprah's couch.  (The young man didn't really care for my opinion.  Go figure.)

HIM had to leave (the lucky bastard) to go pick up the little girl at Girl Scout camp.

My daughter thinks this is funny.

AFTER three hours, I got wheeled back into a room.  There the nurse took some more vitals and told me to take my top off but not my jeans.  I was confused because I was sure I had injured my calf muscle and not my boobs.  SERIOUSLY, a woman named Frechandra, named after her father Fred and a woman named Sandra, wanted me to loose my t-shirt but not my pants.  (Shouldn't that have been Fresandra?  Fredsandra?  Frandra?  Safredra?)

Anyway, I waited some more.

This funness was followed up by Frechandra wanting me to take a pregnancy test.  I informed Frechandra that not only was I 50 years old, but my tubes had gone buh-bye in a tubal ligation event back in 2004.  She said unless I had a hysterectomy I had to pee in a little cup and make with the hormones/or no hormones to prove it.  I got a box with the appropriate stuff in it and apparently medical science has improved because now women get a little funnel thing instead of having to aim for a 2 inch cup.  (All the women reading this are sagely nodding their heads.)  Who hasn't had to wipe off a cup?  Hmm?  Let's just say I can't hit the little cup any better than I can sink a basketball in a hoop.

I was informed I was not pregnant.  I think my eyes rolled back into my head at that point in time and bounced off the back of my brain.

HIM returned with the little girl.  The little girl cried because I was in the hospital.  I said it was okay.  I said that she could wait on me at home, serve me ice cream, and be my slave.  She cried some more.  Then I said she didn't have to wait on me.  She stopped crying.

If you have to have crutches, go big.

Finally, the doctor came.  The doctor didn't have a sense of humor.  She asked what was wrong.  I said I had reached for the wrong thing and she said, "Huh?"  Then she felt my leg.  She asked where it hurt, while squeezing stuff and while I writhed in agony.  When I was able to speak again, I told her.  She said something about possibly having torn some muscles, take over the counter stuff, keep off it, go to the doctor after a week if it didn't improve, and not to let the door hit me on the ass on the way out.

So four and a half hours later, I hadn't been X-rayed, I hadn't gotten any bleeping thing for the pain, and I had wasted time and money at a place where the nurses look at you like you're a criminal.  Also I discovered I wasn't really pregnant.

Where was this when I needed an Ikea meme
last month?

But hey, I have all the material for a nifty blog.

Anyway, it's a week later, and it's slowly improving.  And people wonder why I hate doctors, hospitals, and medical personnel.

It's All Pier 1's Fault OR How I Enjoyed a Trip to the ER

Warning: Fat Woman may rant.  Nuff said.

How I tore a muscle in my calf or how I got material for a blog.  Both good subtitles.

It is Pier 1's fault.  I wanted a chair for my upstairs landing, so Pier 1 sent me a really good coupon.  See.  Their fault, completely, but they are even more complicit.  I found the chair I wanted online.  I ordered it, plus a cushion, and I used the coupon.  (Really good coupon.  I can't say no to a really good coupon.)  They sent me an email saying hey you ordered shizz.  Then they sent me an email saying your order is ready.  This is the significant part.  "Your order is ready."  I have quoted and thus it is official.  "YOUR ORDER IS READY!"  In my mind I add the bitch part.

This is the only Pier 1 meme I could find.
You know I just saw The Blues Brothers and there was a Pier 1
in the mall they drove through.  Just sayin'.

I went to Pier 1.  I gave the email that I printed out saying my order was ready to the clerk.  The clerk looked at the email.  She looked at me.  She looked at the email.  She looked at me.  She stepped to her computer and started staring at the computer.  She wasn't doing anything except staring at the computer.  It was at this point in time that I realized that I was in trouble.  I had ordered something and the clerk was an idiot.  I wasn't going to get my chair.  I wasn't going to get anything.

I stood there while the clerk stared at her computer.  Finally she pushed a button.  She pushed a few more.  Then she stopped and started staring at the email.  She checked the email again.  I decided to take a deep breath.  She stopped to ask me if I had ordered it online.  To myself I said, "Isn't that what the email says?"  To her I nodded because I hadn't yet passed the point of no return.


This is a meme break because I couldn't find
any more Pier 1 memes.  I thought it was funny
and it is my blog.

Back to the computer.  A few more buttons.  She stood there.  I swear to god above, she did this for five minutes.  She finally decided to try another computer and I asked, "Is there a problem?" which was probably a dumb question because obviously there was.  And the twat didn't bother to answer me.

At this point in time customers came up to the other counter and waited on her to get to them.  I felt sorry for them because she didn't say anything to them either.  She just stared at A) the computer, B) the email, or C) the buttons on the keyboard.

Now this song is going through my head.
Also it's really funny to watch The Blues Brothers
while you're on painkillers.

Then she turned to me and said, "If this is on today's truck, it won't be here until this afternoon."

That was the point where if I had been a grenade I would have exploded and fragged the whole store and thought nothing about it.  I said, "The email says the order is ready."  I might have been somewhat snippy.

Then I relented because the poor people waiting on the clerk looked like they were about to blow a gasket.  I said, "Go ahead and check them out."

However, this is what happens when I am generous.  She took ten minutes to check them out because she obviously had issues with the computer, her brain, items on sale, and anything in front of her.  I was looking at tables because I wanted to distract myself.

This part happens later in the blog.  I didn't realize how long I could
rant about this subject.  Must have been saving up.

FINALLY, another clerk arrives from where she had been hiding, er, working in the back.  She looks at my expression and asks to help me.  I couldn't help myself.  I said, "I have an email here saying I have an order ready and she-" I pointed at the other clerk "-says it isn't here and won't be here until this afternoon."  The first clerk glared at me then.  Hey, I wasn't even exaggerating.

Five seconds, FIVE SECONDS, later the second clerk pushed a button and said, "Oh, yes, it's here.  I just saw the chair.  Let me make sure the rest of the order is there and I'll have you drive around to the back so we can load it."

So after twenty minutes and five seconds, I was ready to confirm I had an order.  It wasn't like I was waiting behind three other people including two clowns and Michelle Obama.  I was the ONLY one there when I first came in.  It was not busy.  I subject to anyone who's done retail sales that if you really don't know what to do after a minute or two of just standing there, then call the other clerk who she has to know is in the back of the store, not feet away from her.  Jeez.  Is that so hard to do?

Anyway, she confirms the order is all there, tells me to pull around to the back.  I do so, open the doors, and clerks one and two carry the chair and the cushion out.  It was a team effort by that time.  I wanted to yank it out of their hands and throw it into the Explorer so I could escape.

No, but I have tackled other things.

However, the chair was bigger than I thought.  I had to lower the middle row of seats down.  I got both side seats down easily and I could see clerk no. 1 was getting antsy as she tried to force the seat into the back, but the metal parts of the car weren't giving into the rattan of the chair.  I tried to hurry.

I reached to the middle seat, where it's got a little handle on one side, to pull it, and thus pull the seat forward.  I reached, and I stepped onto the step.  I couldn't quite reach it.  Then I got it, and as I got it, I heard the sound of material ripping.  Rippppppped.

I guess it was a good thing I didn't have a chainsaw
in the car.

I honestly thought I had ripped my pants reaching for the handle.  Haha.  I wish it had been my pants.  I wish my orange underwear with polka dots had been exposed to all and sundry.  I wish.  No, it wasn't material ripping or the step giving way.  It was the muscle in my calf that said, "Oh, I don't think so, sistah."

Then the pain set in.  The two clerks probably think I'm going to sue them.  Unfortunately I can't sue them for me being impatient with twats.

Next blog: the ER - home of weirdness even before I got there.

On Writing OR OH NOES, Ranting May Occur

I recently finished the first draft of Deadsville, a humorous urban fantasy mystery.  That's probably my first problem; I can't decide what genre it is, not that I finished the first draft.  I think I have to call it something so that I can sell it.  Urban fantasy works best I think.  I will write a brief line about its content and you all can tell me what it is.

Tavie Stone dies and then her day just gets worse.  She wakes up in Deadsville, where deadies hang out waiting for Reapers to come and take them away to their final judgment.  However, it's taking a long time because there are a lot of deadies and not a whole lot of judging.  In the meantime, Tavie discovers that Deadsville isn't just a static place with nothing going on.  On the contrary, there's mystery, murder, and mayhem, not necessarily in that order.  What's a former living police detective to do?  Why become the Sheriff of Deadsville, of course.

It is, of course, the first in a series, and I had a lot of fun writing it.  Plus I had help.  Even my daughter was suggesting funky ways for people to have had died.  There are whole websites dedicated to weird ways that people have died.  Plus there's the Charles Darwin Awards which is great reading for individuals who can't believe how stupid people really can be.  A Facebook fan suggested the show 1000 Ways to Die, which was almost as helpful.  (Of course, the difference between the two sites is that the Charles Darwin is, barring any that slipped past Snopes, is real, stupid people doing real, stupid stuff that ends up in death.  In some cases there's honorable mentions when they live.  The other site is about a show on Spike that presents an odd death and asks the viewer if it's real or urban legend.  We've all heard about Mikey and the coke with the Pop Rocks.  The actor probably giggles about that every time someone asks.)

See Mikey likes it.  And he's not really dead from consuming Pop Rocks with soda pop.  In fact, he's an advertising executive somewhere, which is almost the same thing as being dead from consuming Pop Rocks with soda pop.  (I have an urge to go buy some Pop Rocks.)

Jeez, I meandered.  What was the point of this blog?

Oh, yes, writing.  So I wrote the book.  Now I have to edit it.  I have to get some other people to edit it.  I have to write a synopsis, which is like the curse from the mummy's tomb.  Then I have to contact literary agents in order to convince them that they want to represent my shizz in order to sell it to a traditional publisher, which probably means that I won't be published for the next five years.

I think my relatives think I sit on my ass eating bonbons.  In fact, I don't even know what a bonbon is.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I have never eaten a bonbon.  Maybe I'll get bonbons with Pop Rocks.

Okay, off to work.

Tripping to Atlanta Part II

In our last exciting episode our fat heroine was trapped at LEGOLAND.  (GASP!)  There were Legos everywhere.  In fact, the Legos were about to attack when she escaped with Pain (Pain in the Ass Man or HIM, the man to who I'm married, or the man who is incredibly grumpy when traveling.)  Having suffered the wrath of the LEGOLAND experience, we made it to the hotel, which we later learned was in the middle of the ghetto, but it was close to Ikea.

Cressy demanded to use the pool, but then said it was no fun because it didn't have a) other kids in it, b) a ten story water slide, or c) that it wasn't much bigger than a postage stamp.

The next day we went to The World of Coca Cola.

While we were waiting for The World of Coca Cola to open up and show us its colaness, we explored the Centennial Olympic Park, or where the summer Olympics were held in 1996, or the Olympics that had the bombing in it at Atlanta.  (Sadly, that's the major event that pops into my head.)


Olympic memorial or the cash cow that keeps
on giving to Atlanta.

Of course, there were playgrounds there.  Only a parent knows that playgrounds are never created the same and that each must be tried out for posterity.

Playground joyfulness!
No one can frown on a playground.
It's the law.

We also saw the CNN building.  I wanted to stop and see Jeanie Moos, who is my favorite offbeat commentator, but I was prevented.  (Security guards don't understand about my needs.  Stupid security guards.)

Of course, when I see the CNN building I think
of James Earl Jones saying,
"This...is CNN."
Now I bet you can't get it out of your head.
Onto Coca Cola World!

In front of the World of Coca Cola there was a statue of the guy who invented Coca Cola.  I think he got gypped when he sold the entire kit and caboodle to someone else for peanuts.  But hey, he got a statue.

Have a drink and a smile...

I must say that The World of Coca Cola has a serious set-up going on.  They have gauged their tourist clientele and they have them moving right along.  First there was a guy who did a funny short history of Coca Cola.  Then there was a movie which didn't really have anything to do with Coca Cola but it did use the song, On Top of the World, by Imagine Dragons, and had me humming it for the remainder of the day, whether I wanted to or not.  (I could say something about Imagine Dragons selling out to Coca Cola, but that would probably make me a hypocrite.)

Next it was on to the Coca Cola Polar Bear for a photo op.

I say they had someone in the bear suit.
HIM said it was all animatronic.
I wanted to go back to kick the bear
in the nuts to show HIM
but those pesky security guards
were everywhere.
 

We went into the Vault, which
where they keep the secret formula
for Coca Cola, and they
did a whole top secret thing
and showed us the vault and la, de, dah,
but I didn't get to see the secret formula.
You'd think they would have
flashed us or something.

There was Coca Cola art work everywhere.
Everywhere.

I was forced to be in the photograph.
Remember the camera adds 50 pounds,
no, 100 pounds.  Whatever.

We learned that Coca Cola has
sponsored Olympics for almost a thousand years.
(I may be exaggerating.)
They've got a ton of torches, so
they let the peasants hold it.
Some of those torches in the background
do not look like torches.
They look like something you'd buy at
Toys R Us or possibly
something used in an X-rated movie.

Let me tell you, The World of Coca Cola
isn't messing around with its product
displays.

The last part of the museum is going through the gift shop, and the gift shop is almost as large

as the rest of the museum.  They had stuff that was way cool.  I was forced to spend about $200 in there.  But we did get a souvenir bottle of Coca Cola.

 

Next was Ikea, where we consumed of the Swedish meatballs.  The kid had macaroni and cheese because she hasn't learned the finer aspects of Swedish meatballs.

 

We bought a bunch of stuff here, too.
The hat Cressy's wearing was from
The World of Coca Cola.  It's a polar
bear hat.  It kind of looks like
Finn from Adventure Time to me.

Finally, we left Atlanta, our wallets a little lighter, and our horizons broadened.

 

We stopped to pee here.
It needed to be said.

Then we made it home about three hours later.  There was only one minor incident where the GPS told me to go the wrong way, and Pain freaked out, whereupon I threw the GPS unit out the window (not really).  At home everyone collapsed and the moron cat complained pitifully about our absence.  In all, it is grist for my mill.

Happy summer vacations to the rest of you.  May you find the cleanest restrooms and always have plenty of toilet paper.

Trippin' to Atlanta OR I'm Going to Caption Photos Again!

Because we don't have an Ikea in Huntsville, and Ikea charges inhuman shipping charges on their stuff, I was forced to drag the family to Atlanta, which has the nearest Ikea.  But then the whole entertainment thing kicked in and I had to come up with ideas of what else to do in Atlanta while we were there.  (As if Ikea wasn't enough.  Peasants.)

The first part of the trip was subjugating myself to the whim of Pain-in-the-Ass Man, otherwise known as HIM, the man to whom I'm married.  Pain, for short, cannot breath or exist if the car is not packed properly.  As this is a battle I shall never win, I let him.  It makes him feel good that all is dressed-right-dress in the back of the Ford.  (Marriage is all about these kind of concessions.) 

 

HIM, in a rare peaceful moment.
HIM has just packed the car
and HIM is feeling Nina Simone.
No meteors approaching Earth at the moment.

So after that arduous task was accomplished I took a photo to commemorate the moment.

All for two days.  Pillows, cooler, toolchest,
luggage.  I'm surprised Jimmy Hoffa wasn't back
there.

Early in the morning we set off to Atlanta.  It was a three hour drive, not unlike a three hour tour and a cheap shot at Gilligan's Island.  (I think it should have been Mary Ann's Island.  Also she should have hooked up with the Professor.)

Passing lots and lots of kudzu, otherwise known as the plant that's slowly taking over Georgia, we finally made it to Atlanta.  (2 hours ad 46 minutes according to my new Garmin.)  Our first stop was Legoland, or the place that was guaranteed to give me a friggin' headache.  Legoland is clever enough to have put themselves into a high end mall.  While walking through the mall to Legoland, we had to stop to commemorate more moments.  I call these shots, Cressy standing next to places that I shall never shop in.

Not sure of the name of the store but it
had a giant Swarovski crystal covered
cheeseburger in the window.
It might not have been edible,
but it looked fab-u-lous.

What you don't see is the two
clerks in Versace glaring at us
because we took a pic and didn't
come in to drop big bucks
on their crap.  But hey, I got
the shot.

After trudging through the mall, there it was.  All primary colors blaring at us, letting us know not only had we survived the trip to Atlanta, the walk through the high end mall, but we had made it to LEGOLAND, home of little plastic bricks that will kill you if you step on them in the middle of the night on your way to the bathroom.

I'll tell you that Batman looks a lot bigger on the silver
screen.  Also I just noticed this is
Legoland Discovery Center,
not plain ol' Legoland.
I bet Legoland thinks the addition of
"Discovery Center" makes parents more
likely to bring their children here.
Haha.  We didn't even notice the
discovery part until after we were done.

I'll warn everyone now that I took a lot
of photos with Cressy posing.  Just saying.
I'm not sure who the Lego critter was,
but it was life-sized and Cressy liked it.
 

This is really a shot of all the Lego stuff
we shall never build.

Cressy enjoying all the bright lights
that Legoland had to have
in its place to make all the little
children happy.
I liked the shot with the colored lights on her.



The one "ride" in Legoland that involved
shooting
Lego targets and Lego villains
and occasionally each other.

There was a four-D movie that involved
shaking, buzzing seats, and rain.
Finally it did, in fact, snow.
I tried to snooze but the seat kept waking me up.

After the Legoland experience from whence few women remain sane, we went to the hotel and saw a hawk.  We also experienced the pool because you cannot go to a hotel with a pool and a ten-year-old and not use it.  Cressy was not impressed.  There wasn't a slide.

Coming soon - Part 2 of the Atlanta trippin' or how I took too many pictures for one blog.

Sunday Afternoon OR I Should Write a Blog But I'm Pooped OR Random Crapity

He is smiling but I suspect the cat isn't.

So recently I had a writer's block.  I unblocked.  Now I'm halfway done with Deadsville, my next novel and paranormal mystery/urban fantasy/unable to categorize.  Let's just say that the heroine does die in the book.  (How many authors can say that?)  But in this case, that's where the story begins.  (The fictional story, that is.)

Again, I've taken the opportunity to put
random lols in my blog just
because they amuse me.

Then we started feeding two feral cats.  (Nice transition there.  Halfway done with novel about dead heroine - feeding feral cats.  It flows.)  The moron cat - the cat of my daughter - sits on the enclosed porch and watches the feral cats.  The feral cats have figured out that Megaroy is a big pussy and is no threat to them.  But apparently their fleas are because one day HIM, the man to whom I'm married, was scooping the poop, and found, da da dah, worms.  Seriously gross.  You haven't lived until your pet has worms.  We have an inside cat who got worms from eating a flea that he got through a screen door from feral cats.  (This is something I would have been ever so glad to have not learned in my lifetime.)

This cat looks like a tribble, a drugged tribble.

Off to the vet with the cat.  I dodged that bullet by going camping with our daughter and girl scouts.  (Upon reflection, I would have rather taken the cat to the vet.)  One $250 bill later, we're instructed to catch the feral cats, feed them medicine, and also bring them to the vet.  I will do it, but the feral cats aren't like Megaroy.  They have little brains in their noggins.  Megaroy got his meds and his poop is now worm free.  But now he has to wear a collar.  HIM thought it would be funny to get him one with a bell.  I had no idea how much that cat prowls at night.  You hear jingle, jingle, jingle, coming up the stairs.  You hear jingle, jingle, jingle going from room to room.  You hear jingle, jingle, jingle, patrolling downstairs as he goes from window to window.  Then you hear jingle, jingle, jingle as I remove the bell and give it to HIM as something that made the cat wince.

See, there's kind of a theme here.

Anyway, the moral of the story is not to feed the feral cats anywhere close to where the moron cat hangs out at.  Also to never eat fleas.  Also never sleep in a room with 30 girl scouts without ear plugs and a sleeping pill, but that's a whole different blog.

Be all you can be.  Be a vet tech and stick things up cats' butts.

Shout Out - Author R. Mac Wheeler

I would like to acknowledge a fellow writer and blogger-friend for reaching a monumental milestone…publishing his 24^th novel. I hope you'll visit his blog where he posts his photography and give him a congratulations…or visit his home page and peruse his titles…read an excerpt...and help him celebrate.

Mac has written across several genres including…

·       Contemporary Fiction (2)
·       Speculative (6)
·       Paranormal (5)
·       Science Fiction (4)
·       Fantasy (7)

He spins tales around rich, gritty characters with a lot of baggage, and puts them through a bit more grief than they can handle. His tone leans toward the sarcastic, passive aggressive.

Please visit Mac at:

http://rmacwheeler.com/
http://rmacwheeler.blogspot.com/ 

 

 

Blogity Blog Blog OR When it's the Attack of the Writer's Block from 50,000 Fathoms

It's been awhile since I ranted, er, blogged, so what shall I write about?


I have never understood what the eff the monolith was
until this moment.

I know.  Writer's block.  I have a nice outline all planned out.  I have characters prancing around in my head.  I have witty dialogue and titillating scenes.  Then when I sit down at the computer, I got nothing.

Nothing.  The big, fat, whomping zero.


I have lots of assistance.

Even when I've had an active case of insomnia, which does happen to me upon occasion and I happen to resemble a zombie (without makeup too!), I have been able to write.

So what do I do?  I Google it.  Because Bing and/or Google knows everything.  They're like omniscient Internet gods.  (I like the pictures on Bing but honestly I think the two are about the same otherwise.)  (Today's picture on Bing was a swimming duckling.  It was so cute I could have died.  But I still am blocked.)

People have lots of tips on breaking the psychosomatic problematic issue of writer's block.

1.  Write anything.  Write about nothing.  Write about your weird uncle who used to live down by the creek by the outhouse and ate nothing but kudzu and Moon Pies.  Write about your big toe.  (500 words on your big toe.  Just try it.)

2.  Read.  Read.  Read.  Today I was reading a book and I had to stop because this was the sentence I came to.  "She took hold of his big stalk and..."  I'm sure you can imagine where that was going.  It was obviously a romantically inclined scene with the Jolly Green Giant.  I had no idea.  So anyway, reading wasn't helping. 

3.  Change your environment.  I put up black drapes and started playing The Mikado.  Then I went outside and started weeding.  I hate weeding.  I couldn't find any unfinished novels out in the flower beds so I went back inside.  So instead I decided to run outside and see if anyone noticed if I went streaking.  Fortunately the police were not called.  (Pity.  I would have liked to see the inside of a Huntsville jail.  I'm sure that would do something for writer's block.)

4.  Research.  My research usually falls to Googling (or Binging, which actually sounds kind of lewd) odd drinks to make.  I found some new ones.  This one topped the list.  A Trickie Dickie Screwdriver, which I would think had something to do with Richard M. Nixon and/or Checkers.  But in actually is one part Jack Daniels, two parts purple Kool Aid and a jigger of formaldehyde from the jar Hitler's brain is kept in.  (That would be the hard part to obtain.)  Then I found a recipe for infusing gummy bears with vodka, which we have tried before, but it didn't really work that well.  (I would like to say that I did get smashed once from alcoholic gummies.)

5. Exercise.  Do something else.  Ask for help.  I glommed these together because I thought it was about the same thing.  We did go for a walk this morning and I tried to talk plot with HIM, the man to whom I'm married, but HIM immediately shut down.  I'm pretty sure it's the same to him as it is to me when he starts talking about his job.  "Rocket Science blah blah blah Missiles blah blah blah schematic arch of a trajectory blah blah blah."  Except HIM hears "Plot blah blah blah writing blah blah blah poopy head."

Anyway, so I wrote a blog instead.  Does this mean I don't have writer's block?  I will see tomorrow.