Object Lessons

I talk to inanimate objects a lot.

These are typically not the most thrilling conversations.

They hardly ever respond to me.

In fact, sometimes I think they aren’t even listening.

I hadn’t realized just how often I talk to things, though, until my brother started answering on their behalf.

That was also when I realized that the objects may have a fair reason not to obey me:

I’m not giving them nearly enough positive reinforcement.

Their work environment can get downright hostile.

So I’ve got a new plan of action. I’ll keep you posted on the results.

NaNoWriMo II: Exo-Cuter and the Statue of Liberty

We’re hitting the home stretch of National Novel Writing Month. Anyone trying to reach the 50,000 word goal needs to be about 38,341 words in by now, especially if you’re planning to take a break for your turkey-induced nap on Thursday.

I, on the other hand, already promised not to write a novel, so I’ve been turning everything within reach orange instead. See, last month I was given this forty-pound Fairytale pumpkin:

So far, the first two thirds have become three pies, three meals, three dozen cookies, and three pounds of puree for later use, plus a light spray of pumpkin paste on every surface in the kitchen.

It’s important to do my part for promoting literature, though, and I still have a crate full of spiral notebooks from elementary school. Unlike every word I wrote in high school, all of this stuff happened long enough ago that by now it’s cute instead of mortifying.

Cowrite credit on the masterpiece below goes to my brother, who was six when I was nine. He had written the original story and shown it to me. Being older, obviously superior, and entirely without my own ideas, I decided that his version was dumb and I could improve it.

The first-grader was thus responsible for the character names, setting, and plot, including all events and strategies. I was in charge of dialog tags, adjectives, and stealing the phrase “calm yourself” from Disney’s Jafar.

Our mother didn’t think my exploitative reimagining was fair, but with that reasoning Hollywood would have had to close up shop twenty years ago.

Hello. My name is Ted. We are here in TechnoWorld. Here are Ringtail, Dabson, and Exo-Cuter. We are investigators. We are on a case. We have to find the person who is scaring everyone in TechnoWorld.

Uh-oh. Dabson, do you hear what I hear? It’s the Evil Howl! We’ve got to find who’s doing it to complete our mission! Dabson, get behind this rock. Ringtail, climb that big tree and find out if you can see the culprit from there. Exo-Cuter and I will go out and find the noise-maker. We need you to tell us where to go.

“A-a little to the right,” said Ringtail. “Now straight, and to the left,” came Dabson’s deep voice from behind the large rock. “Now! You’ve got him! Throw the net over him!” cried Ringtail again, suddenly excited. “Who is he? Why was he scaring all of TechnoWorld?”

“Calm yourself, Ringtail,” said Exo-Cuter slowly. “He says his name is ThunderBeast, and that he was howling for someone to help him find the person who wants to steal the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, back on Earth.”

“Oh, Earth,” said Dabson sarcastically. “Why would we want to go back there? Didn’t we all come to TechnoWorld to get away from Earth?”

“Now, Dabson,” reasoned Ringtail, “our new friend is right. We can’t just let it be stolen.”

“You’re right, Ringtail,” I broke in. “But he isn’t exactly our friend. I mean, do you think that we can trust him?”

“Of course we can’t,” agreed Dabson. “Didn’t you hear him howling out there?”

“Calm yourself,” said Exo-Cuter a little less slowly. “Let’s trust him for now. If he tries to hurt us later, then leave him behind. But for now, let’s save the statue!”

“Yeh,” shouted Ringtail and I together. And that was only the beginning of our adventure to Earth.

My brother’s original version of the story sews it up with this tidy ending:

All of a sudden, ZAP! We’re at a race. Let’s race in it. We won!

I, on the other hand, made it my own by applying my trademark inability to finish writing anything. It's clearly better this way.

The tale of TechnoWorld teaches three important lessons:

1. Stealing from weaker people is the best source of creative material.
2. Howling is evil.
3. Exo-Cuter is the voice of reason and justice.

Happy Thanksgiving, and good luck to any novel writers.

Promises, Promises

For part of last week and most of the weekend, I was unable to draw or type with my right hand. I decided not to spend that time producing an array of these:

You’re welcome.

Anyway, now that I have my manual dexterity back, I’m using all of it to move to a new apartment this week. Rarely has such creative power been focused on which spatula to pack first.

Provided that we get the internet connected in short order, I should be back next week for the story of what happened to my arm, or “How I Keep Injuring Myself in Progressively Lamer Ways.”

Parking Lots

This is me in the wee hours of Saturday morning, running laps around my car in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

From what I hear, the party I had just left continued for three or four more hours, though I can’t imagine why because the cheese crisps had run out. My ability to sit still without falling asleep had also run out, which is why I pulled in to Wal-Mart for some crash-prevention calisthenics.

This negligible energy boost did not last me all the way home, though, and I ended up mumbling memory drills out loud like Hawkeye Pierce with a concussion.

********

This is me on Saturday evening, dashing furtively across the dark grocery store parking lot with a glass bottle of amber liquid stuffed in my coat.

I had rushed into the store for something legitimate like orange juice and emerged with a bottle of hazelnut flavoring syrup instead. Plastic bags will likely play into the coming apocalypse, so I just swept out the door clutching my prize. I really wanted to taste it on the way home, but I really didn’t want to explain to the cops that my big weekend plans featured an instant Folger’s latte and four hours of sci-fi TV on NetFlix in my kitchen.

********

This is me after work on Wednesday, flattening other people’s moist cardboard boxes to make room in my apartment complex’s recycling bin for more than just a single-family supply of Orange Crush cases.

This is the concerned citizen who pulled up behind me to monitor my suspicious activity.

********

NOTE: Those of you who follow me on Facebook may recall a statement I made about this week’s post not containing butts. Looks like I was wrong on that one.

Time Management

So, I procrastinate pretty badly. That's why I used to post on Fridays, and then maybe Saturday night for a while, and now in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, unless I forgot my jump drive in the car and I can't go get it because then I'd forget which '80s commercial I was going to look up next on YouTube.

This habit was bad enough in college when I had external deadlines and tangible connections between finishing papers and keeping my scholarship or avoiding professor-induced guilt. Now that I make up my own time frame for things like blogging, I'm sliding slowly into the Well of Darkness with the pile of unanswered letters and blank tax forms under my desk.

What I'm saying here is that I really do mean to post this week, but I haven't written anything past "I like to take Oreos apart." On the positive side, in the time I've spent on these three paragraphs, I've also found two new recipes using Velveeta and learned the Lite Brite jingle.

Anyway, maybe come back here in a couple of days? Thanks!

P.S. It turns out there are two jingles. I can't believe they didn't stick with "Makin' things with light!"

UPDATE: I just noticed that I've had two links to the same Lite Brite jingle up here for weeks. It's a real tragedy because the other one is a lot more...1970. Anyway, I fixed the link, so you don't have to feel cruelly taunted and deprived anymore.

Listen to All My Slacker Excuses

I’m in a play* that opens this weekend. We are rehearsing a lot at the moment. I currently get to spend 7 ½ to 9 hours out of every 24 at home, and that time has to be carefully divided among dining, bathing, and setting my laptop background to a slideshow of Star Wars screenshots. Also, my roommates keep insisting that sleep is nice, and I figure I should humor them and at least see what it’s like.

The point here is that all I can post this week is another passive-aggressive public service announcement I drew for my office. I will most likely actually write something new by Monday or Tuesday, so you can hold out for that.

In the meantime, just know that someone periodically takes down the stuff I post at work, so I have a tendency to replace it with updated material.

*If you live in Albuquerque, come see the show! Please don’t bring impressionable children or, in most cases, your grandparents. And yes, I’m the one with my head in the fridge on the theatre web site. I knew my wombat skills would come in handy.

My Brain Is Fighting Against Me and Winning

I heard about some research indicating that humans aren’t very good at anticipating or remembering what it’s like to feel other ways besides how we’re feeling now. Like how when it’s 120 degrees in your car because you forgot to park in the shade in July and the AC stopped working in 1997, you drive home with your sweaty hands slipping off the wheel and can’t seriously believe that it will ever be January again because “too cold” is clearly not a state that exists in the world.

This idea makes sense to me because it’s usually how I feel about food. When I’m stranded in the half-mile line at Chick-Fil-A, likely to waste away at any moment, all I can think about is the last time I had access to a veritable smorgasbord and how foolish I was not to eat more of it to protect against this cruel starvation.

On the other hand, when I am suffering under the weight of my “one of everything” approach to potlucks, I become convinced that no food will ever appeal to me for the rest of my life and I might as well spend my ice cream budget on posters of Han Solo.

This phenomenon is also to blame for my perpetual self-inflicted sleep deprivation. I can spend the entire day exhausted, doze off in my Cup O’ Noodles, bite through my lip trying to stay alert for a staff meeting, skip the gym on account of a potentially fatal lack of muscle control, and drag myself home willing to miss dinner in favor of an extra half-hour of sleep...but first I have to check my e-mail just for a second in case I have another Nigerian lottery prize waiting.

Now the internet has already won.

Google’s home page has Pac-Man on it, so I have to play that for a while. Then I’m not sure when Ms. Pac-Man was introduced, so I need to check Wikipedia. That article has a link to Atari, so now I have to look up that one game with the castles. I’m definitely awake now, so I might as well draw some pictures for my blog. Then I need to check four or five other blogs in case they have new posts, and I should watch that video my brother sent me again. That reminds me of the book I was reading, and I can fit in one more chapter before my reserve back-up emergency late bedtime. Or maybe two more chapters. Heck, I’m already up this late, so what’s another fifty pages? Besides, it’s not like I’ll be sleepy tomorrow—I’m awake now, and it’s the middle of the night, so how could I not be awake at 7 a.m.?

So the next day I arrive at work feeling slightly less alert than the furry take-out enchiladas in the breakroom fridge.

The Beginning

Hi! I'm Clara. Welcome to my blog.

It's pretty much an excuse to get attention, since sometimes the people I know in real life get tired of listening to me talk.