Black diamonds are a girl’s best friend

That’s right, this year’s ski trip is planned, and the winner is Winter Park. Unfortunately though, that means the loser is me, since Mary Jane is going to KICK.MY.ASS. This is a mountain whose motto is, “No Pain. No Jane.” And they mean it. With an elevation of 11,700 feet and a 1,766-foot vertical drop, she hits like a girl… on the Women's US Olympic boxing team.

However, before I can tell you the rest of the story, I feel the need to explain something first: The term vertical drop refers to the distance between the summit and the base, measured straight down. And, while 1,766 feet doesn’t sound all that intimidating, trust me on this one–it is. Sixty percent of Mary Jane is expert terrain. In other words, there will be bumps, trees, grade and stupidity… but not necessarily in that order.

At any rate, I guess what I’m trying to say is that if I’m going to survive this, I need to bring my A-game, which is just funny. Because, if you know me, then you know that I didn’t even have an A-game when I skied competitively in high school and college. At best I was a B minus... graded on a curve. At forty-three, now I just bring my F-game, as in “What the F was I thinking?”

That being said, I’m not going to lie, I’m crazy excited (with the emphasis on excited not crazy). I’ve never done Winter Park, but TB has, and she loves it. Me? I love the fact that Mary Jane is named after the local mining camp madam who bought the land in the late 1800s. And, just so we’re all on the same page, I’m not judging. Like I told TB, “If you had to pick between your dignity and your own mountain, what would you call the resort?” Exactly.

With that, I’m off to work out. Talk to you later.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year…

When people everywhere “leave the poor choices of their past behind and look forward to the future.” Only, unlike Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, I’m not talking about Fashion Week. I’m talking about New Year’s resolutions. That said, statistically speaking, I probably won’t keep the ones I’ve made, so you really shouldn’t listen to me—especially since there’s actually a betting pool about how quickly I’ll fold on some of them; which, quite frankly, doesn’t even make sense. It’s not like anyone would know anyway; because, honestly, unless I trip and smack my face on a treadmill, no one wants to hear about my workouts. But I digress.

The point is that, thanks to your comments, mkromd has purchased a bag of ducks for Heifer (and, no autocorrect, I really did mean to type bag of ducks, but well played on your part). Furthermore, seeing as how I need all of the help I can get, I also bought Kanye West and Kim Kardashian prayer candles, which (God help me) I love almost as much as those two love themselves. Almost.

Also available, “HOLY CANDLES, Batman” and Lionel Ritchie in case it’s Him you’re looking for. I should warn you though, I don’t think modern idolatry works. No matter how many Kurt Cobain and John Lennon candles I light, Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus have yet to be raptured. On the up note, at least it’s not the end of the world (but I bet there's a Michael Stipe candle just in case).

In any event, happy 2015, and thanks again for helping Heifer. Talk to you later.

You’ve Got Mail

Have you ever said to yourself, “Self, where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?” Well, I have. In fact, I had that very moment today. You see, of late, life has been insane. I’m crazy-swamped at work all day, busy querying agents each night, and–in between–I’m trying to schedule a ski-trip out West. In other words, at the risk of putting my balls in your face, it’s a lot to juggle. Seriously.

Be that as it may, let me say this: I’m not complaining. I love my job and I love my boss; and, in this market, not everyone can say that. Furthermore, although trying to get published has only produced more evidence that God clearly hates me, at least the manuscript is finished. As for heading to Colorado to ski, I understand that’s a first world problem. It’s like bitching because you only got one packet of barbeque sauce for your twenty piece McNuggets. I get it. I do. However, disclaimer disclaimed, I have something to say to Yahoo Mail, which I’ve been using to contact said agents, and here it is, "Dear Ymail - Given that I’d like to become a real writer one day, I’ll try to provide grammatically correct feedback about your Conversation “feature.” Ready? Off is the general direction in which I would like it to fuck. Not kidding. Sincerely - mkromd"

But, before I can tell you why Yahoo so justifiably deserves my wrath, I have to tell you this part of the story first . . .  Since the holidays, I’ve spent easily a hundred hours researching literary agents who handle humorous memoirs/narrative nonfiction work (specifically geared towards women) and are willing to take on new writers. I even found a select handful who specialize in female bloggers looking for book deals. If you don’t believe how long all of that took me, just ask the NSA. They can totally verify my digital whereabouts. Note: Dear National Security Agency, thank you for backing me up. Also, while you may have read thousands upon thousands of texts between my sister and me, I’m not whiny or needy. She likes hearing every minute detail of my life. It makes her feel important (she’s welcome). And though her replies say things like, “Did you HAVE to send me a disgusting pic of your toe? It’s a spider bite. You’re not going to die, so stop freaking out.” When I saw her face-to-face, she hugged me and said, “I’m glad you reached out for help. As a woman with a degree in Biology and a mother of all boys, I was the most logical person to contact. Besides, I wanted to be there for you. Even mom was worried it would spread and you could lose your whole leg.”

Anyway, I digress. The point is that, using the criteria above, I created a list of ten agents and worked with an editor to craft the query letter and mini-proposal. Then I began submitting my work, and it was a mistake. Today I found out that Yahoo decided to “tag” every email with a similar Subject line (e.g. Query for your review), assume it was one conversation (regardless of the recipient), and combine them into one threaded discussion, so every agent can see exactly who I’ve contacted and what I said. Yes, really. It’s like Gossip Girl, the Mid-Life Crisis episode, with a splash of American Horror Story thrown in to mix things up a bit.

In any case, on the off-chance that a snowball landed in hell and one of those agents is visiting my blog (despite her better judgment), I sincerely apologize for the chaos and deeply appreciate your interest. I realize you may feel like you weren’t special, but I assure you that’s not the case. Hours upon hours went into finding you; and, like Herman Cain once said, “It’s true there were a lot of other women, but think of how many I didn’t bother.” Given that I just quoted him to help my case, perhaps hell really did just freeze over. That’s OK, I’ll ski that, too. Speaking of, I’m off to plan our trip out West. I mean really, how bad could it be?

Talk to you later.

Let it roll, baby roll

Can we please have a moment of silence for my dignity? It died this week at work… on a toilet seat… much like Elvis did. Only there were no drugs involved. In fact, there was no toilet paper involved either, and that’s exactly where this week’s story begins. 

You see, when I’m at home, I accept that there’s never toilet paper when I need it. Though I buy it once a week and restock each bathroom in our house every weekend, for some reason there is never a square to spare when I'm in the loo. The roll is either as barren as Carthage or has a single, tattered remnant of hope still glued to the cardboard. 

But that’s not the point. The point is that you don’t expect that to happen at work. You don’t grab a roll on your way to the bathroom, “just in case.” Nor do you do a little recon before you “drop trou.” You assume that everyone has done their part. In other words, both you and the toilet paper roll are completely covered. Worse than that, at home, at least you have options: Kleenex… paper towels… packing tissue. I’m not proud, but I am honest, and there are days that the cocktail napkins in the kitchen drawer should be grateful they dodged a bullet.  At work, your only option is to twerk like Miley Cyrus to elevator music and hope you can actually drip dry with some modicum of success… which is precisely what I did.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. 

At the risk of blaming the victim, I should say that there was, indeed, some toilet paper on the roll when I walked into the stall. Not enough to line the seat, per se, about twenty to thirty squares, but definitely enough to take care of business. So there I was… jeans around my Dr. Martens… peeing… when I reached for the toilet paper… and accidentally pulled the entire roll with its holder off the wall. Yes. Really. The toilet tissue literally flew across my lap, landed on the floor, and proceeded to unravel as it rolled all the way to the restroom sink… while I helplessly watched in abject disbelief and horror.  

It’s times like these I wish I had more middle fingers so the universe knew exactly how deeply I wanted it to fuck off. Anyway, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m not sure what happened next. I like to think that by repressing it, I actually found some dignity. Note: If no one claims it within twenty-four hours, I’m keeping it.

Talk to you later.

Please, please, please wait a minute Mr. Postman

Today’s tale takes “going postal” to a whole new level. However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. You see… a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine’s dad suddenly and somewhat unexpectedly passed away in Florida. In less than a ten day period of time, my friend got the phone call, hopped a flight, drove to the hospital, and lived in a waiting room or by his father’s side until the decision was made to end life support. 

Having lost my own dad, I know how awful the whole experience can be. That's why, when my friend returned home to the Mid-West, we went to lunch so I could see how he was doing. As expected, we spent as much of the conversation laughing as we did crying; then, after an hour or two, we hugged our good-byes and he said, “Wish me luck. I’m off to the Post Office to get my dad.” Yes. Really.

Now, please believe me when I tell you that Mark Twain was right, “Reality is stranger than fiction because, unlike the truth, fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities.” And since there’s NO delicate way to say this, and my friend gave me the OK to share it on mkromd, I’ll simply be candid. His father’s ashes were sent to his neighbor’s house by accident. For one minute, imagine that you’re the guy who lives next door, and the mailman asks you to sign for a package… from a crematorium… that CANNOT be returned to sender… since that would be God.  

Because I don’t have a filter, when he told me that, I literally burst out laughing (which, thankfully, made him do the same). I mean, really… when a child loses a parent, it’s a tragedy; but, when the United States Postal Service does it, it’s just careless. That said, he told me everyone was GREAT about it. Maybe since all’s well that ends well, on the drive home, I found myself saying, “Self, if that’s going to happen to ANYONE, it’s going to happen to you. You’re going to die, and instead of DB getting your ashes and you meeting your Maker, you’re going to spend eternity in a Post Office. Seriously, if you thought mailing a package at Christmas was Hell, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

And that would be the BEST case scenario. What if they mail me First Class, with adequate postage (though I’m sure I wouldn’t weigh as much as they think I do), and I get delivered to some freak’s house who keeps me in a jar in his bathroom. You don’t know. Strange shit happens in suburbia. It does. And then, imagine if THAT person dies and bequeaths me to HIS kids, and so on and so forth until my remains become like the Elephant Man’s. I’ll be trapped in limbo screaming, “I am not an animal!”

At said moment, I realized that perhaps I’m the suburban freak people talk about, because I ACTUALLY wondered… what if I chose to have myself anonymously shipped to someone instead. What if I paid extra, and the crematorium put me in a pretty box, gift wrapped me, held me until the holidays, then mailed me like the ghost of Christmas present. That’s right, she who laughs last laughs hardest.   

And, just because it’s important to plan the work and work the plan, I logged onto FedEx’s and UPS’s websites. Neither will allow you to ship human remains. Only the United States Postal Service can do it. In other words, neither rain, nor sleet, nor hail will stop them from delivering you… to the wrong house. And to my friend who is reading this, I sincerely hope you laughed, if only for a little. To everyone else, talk to you later.

Your Own Personal Jesus

While Depeche Mode was the first band I ever saw in concert, this post isn’t about them or that song. It’s literally about buying your very own Messiah. You see, last weekend I began Christmas shopping, and God bless Amazon (no pun intended) because their “If you love that, you might like this,” algorithm recommended biblical action figures to me. Yes. Really. You simply cannot make this shit up. 

Anyway, as a result, I’m now the proud owner of a Deluxe Jesus, who comes COMPLETE with a toy amphora (to turn water into wine), two fish, and five loaves of bread, so I can feed the masses… of other dolls I’ve purchased… including:

• Moses, who comes with a stone tablet and his very own glow-in-the-dark burning bush, and

• Adam, who was ACTUALLY marketed as "still having all of his ribs," which would explain why I cannot find an Eve doll anywhere. It’s OK, I kind-of want a shiksa Barbie anyway.

Also noticeably missing from my growing collection are the Pope, the Dalai Lama, and Gandhi. On all that is holy (pun intended), I swear to you, if I owned those three action figures, I would take them to each and every happy hour simply to be able to say, “A Catholic, a Buddhist and a Hindu walk into a bar…” And no, that joke would NEVER get old. 

On the up-note - I did, however, find an Alexander the Great, a Sigmund Freud, and a Big Foot (who sadly is not made of real hair), and I may need to get them. That way, if I ever want to play Armageddon, I’m ready. I’m joking, you don’t use them. They’re collectibles. Helloooooo. That’s why I can’t understand DB’s fear of walking into our house and finding Moses in the kitchen sink parting the dish water… especially when he knows I’m FAR more likely to put Adam on a Barbie Love Couch so he can be psychoanalyzed by my repressed, German sounding Freud doll, “So Atam, tell me about yor mutter. You did not know her, ya?”

OK, I just talked myself into buying them, and (for the record) SEVERAL of you should expect them as presents this year. Who knows, if I’m lucky, I may even find a Lao Tze with a Kung Fu grip for myself. A girl can dream.

Talk to you later.

Train in Vain

Hands-down, The Clash is the greatest band of all time, period. It’s also what I’ve been listening to while running through my neighborhood these days - which is crazy because it’s like a surreal, post-punk soundtrack for my suburban life. No really, it’s true. I feel like I’m trapped in a David Lynch movie as I listen to London Calling on my iPod and wave at Stepford wives with strollers and affluent business men with accessory dogs, all-the-while waiting to see an ear randomly lying on the road. But I digress.

The point is that a few weeks ago I started running again. And by running, I mean that I’m lying to you. I’m actually doing the Couch Potato to 5K, which goes something like this: after you map out a route, get new shoes and make a play list, you have to actually use all of it… at the same time. Now, for the record, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that there are as many stages of grief as there are kilometers to finish or that they intersect at key points along the way. For example:

At 1K, I immediately go into Denial. This is the part where I say to myself, “Self, I don’t care if I stroke out and die. I’m actually ready to meet my Maker.” That said, whether or not God is prepared to meet me is an entirely different question. Personally, I’m betting no, which technically means that I shouldn’t need to run after all. I’m just saying.

At 2K, I hit the second phase, Anger. At this stage, I find myself furious at people who name races. Instead of things like The Kafka 5K or Dante’s Marathon - Where you think you’re getting hotter but it’s only because you’re going through Hell, they misleadingly call it stuff like, “Run for your life…” which is ironic, because my life was actually better and happier before I went for a jog. Seriously.

At 3K, you begin to Bargain. No lie, I will actually begin to believe that I should just go on Lipitor because it’s possible to achieve better living through pharmaceuticals; which makes me think that I lost the war on drugs; which makes me think of George Bush, who said the same thing about America’s War on Drugs; which makes me laugh because somewhere a bunch of stoners are eating Doritos and winning.

At 4K, because I realize that someone is eating junk food and watching Cheech and Chong while I’m sweating profusely and silently swearing at strangers, I become Depressed. I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to be bitter and hostile, but I have to be, because God hates me and my cholesterol sucks. That’s right, I’m the victim here.

At 5K, I transcend into Acceptance. In other words, the pain stops but only because I'm finally home. Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, if you were to see me pull into my driveway, you would think I had just finished a half-marathon. One because of the amount of time I was gone, and two because I look like Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. No wonder my neighbor stands at his mailbox and yells, “Finish strong!” I want to scream back, "Fucking really? The only thing I finish strongly are books, doughnuts and New York Times crossword puzzles." But I like him, so I don't. Instead I politely wave and listen to Death or Glory as I limp into my air-conditioned house.

Talk to you later.