Job job job

After Eternal Bleakdom, Gloomdom and Doomdom (Not to mention Despair, Agony and Woebegone Pathetiqueness), I FINALLY got a job.

BUT (there is Always a butt somewhere, hopefully not MINE that smells though) now it rather looks as if I might lose it yet again.

Thus, history repeats itself. (I KNOW that so I stopped reading history books long ago.)

I just found out earlier today that I could lose this job, albeit not to my own folly.

I cannot help but think that somebody is playing a HUGE DIRTY ROTTEN SORDID Trick on me.

This is the reason I haven't blogged in a while. I have been seriously looking for a job all year long. I was laid off June 30 2009 and didn't work seriously until mid June 2010. Which was about a year of sleeping until noon with lines on my face. (I have got to get new silk pillow sheets!)

So I temped somewhere Hellish from June until July. Then I temped somewhere else Hellish from July until October. Then I temped somewhere new mid October until December 1 in which case THEY HIRED ME. JOB JOB JOB!

But now it looks like the company where they JUST HIRED ME isn't doing at all well b/c of this piss ass poor economy being on the rocks. They might lay me off in mid January.

At this point I am thinking that YES YES YES I should write a bestselling novel. But which one to finish?

I've got the baddate.com story I suppose I could finish that one.

I've got the Fucking Princess Handbook story which is pretty cool.

I've got the Alien abduction story which my writer's group liked.

Or I could MERGE them all together and save time and try to get the fucker published.

Looks like I am back to writing a lot more often now. Since this job job job isn't working out out out.

The Girl Who Got Away...

Yes. I am the Girl who got Away.

This is perhaps what Michael Folk is thinking.

And who is Michael Folk?

Well...he is YET ANOTHER INVINCIBLE EX-BOYFRIEND OF MINE WHO WANTS TO BE "FRIENDS" WITH ME ON FACEBOOK.

Yes, yes, there are SO many of them on my Facebook! LOL! It really cracks me up when I think about it! If I ever need a good laugh - which is often - I think of this fact. It's such an odd concept for me to fathom. That scads of gorgeous guys I have dated in my youth (and even most recently of 3 years ago) are my FRIENDS.

I often fantasize about sending them messages asking them something like, "What were you thinking of DUMPING me? Especially on EMAIL? I mean, how CRUEL! Oh, and by the way, I KEPT your stupid email and I send it to my girlfriends to WARN them about possibly dating you!"

Is that even possible? To be FRIENDS with exes? Even on Facebook?

Well...these days it somehow is! Who'da thought?

So, yes, I "friended" him. (What an odd concept? I wouldn't have thought that this guy, this gorgeous guy back in the day of the late 1990's who I dated, who seemed so out of reach, the cool bartender, would want to finally be friends with me? He seemed so elusive and just so bloody gorgeous.)

So yes, Michael Folk is now kicking himself in the arse wondering about me. The one who got away.

Actually, to be technical, I am pretty sure that he just stopped calling me. He was really laid back. Lackadaisacal, really. We went out a few times. He was never the Love of my Life type though.

So all that being said, I am getting the idea that a new story could be emerging from my head about ex-boyfriends on Facebook. It might have colorful phrases and stalking and dumpster diving involved. A common thread is the girl who got away - me!

Get your stiletto in the door chick lit writer contest!

I just found a great contest to share with all you other chick lit writers out there! Get your stiletto in the door chick lit writer contest! Sounds great, right?

I think so. I'm going to enter it. I'm not in Romance Writers of America. Perhaps I'll join!

The only problem I have with this is that I don't actually wear stiletto's. Ever. I can't.

It would be like putting stilettos on a milk cow and getting her to actually move in them. Is that really possible?

Can you imagine? And it's already hard to go cow-tipping, which I have done back in the heyday of my yesteryear and hearty youth (which was a long time ago since I am, after all, a QUIM - a Quirky Uncontrollable Immature Middel-aged woman)!

First of all, the milk cow would just stare at you and perhaps not budge an inch if you tried to lift up her hooves to put the stilettos on her. Then she'd moo, which is the equivalent of a laugh - mocking you perhaps. And then she'd probably change her mind at the last minute and STEP on you. Eegads! Then you'd perhaps be injured and fall back into the mud (yes, mud IS involved if you are brave enough to go out to a hayfield and find a milk cow near the barn...) and curse yourself, her, and the evil stilettos. Yikes!

Anyway, I just can't wear stilettos for almost the same reason, except for the mud and hooves part. If you tried to put them on ME, I WOULD just stare at you like a milk cow, long lashes curling, chewing my cud (or chocolate!) and laugh at you. Then I'd probably sneer and push you down into the mud or whatever else was nearby.

Three reasons I don't wear stiletto's:

1. I can't walk in stilettos because I can't MOVE in them. I'm very afraid that I will trip and fall. It's analagous to a green (and very scared) paratrooper whose job in training in whats-it man-sludge army/navy/manly-whatever-R-Us is to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. I won't jump, thus I won't walk.

2. I rock from side to side wearing stilettos. How can you walk if you are rocking and swaying uncontrollably? Not meaning to rock? I guess I could go dancing in them, but I wouldn't be able to walk onto the dance floor. I'd have to change from my sneakers into the stilettos and then rock. And then where would I be if the dance style changed to tango? In Hell?! Oh yeah!

3. I might be just way too attractive to the opposite sex and my beau might have to help me fend off all those men! Ugh! Who wants that? I already have my man, and trust me, one is plenty!

So get your stiletto in the door at this fine chick lit writer contest! And maybe one of us will win! Hurrah!

I'd like to make a living writing chick lit online

I'd like to make a living writing chick lit (or anything at this point EXCEPT accounting) online.

Yes, it's true.

I once thought about writing serious accounting stuff, but the vernacular of accounting lingo (which is Deadly Dull) combined with THINKING about something as grainymade and gritchy made my pulse slow down drastically ("Heart Stopped Beating," I bleated blandly to them), and I had to get my friends Clarabelle, Hilda, and Ermengarde to take me to ER where I wound up being JUST FINE once I saw all the HOT DOCTORS at the hospital so then my heart started pounding quickly once again.

"LIFE! There is LIFE in her again!" Squeaked Clarabelle.

"Hurrah!" Chorused Hilda and Ermengarde.

So Death Might Becomes Others who write boring wasteland mind-numbing accounting, but NOT ME!

Which is why I must be saved from my accounting abysmal nightmare, from working here in this horrid and wretched field. It's like getting lost in a haystack and not getting found by the happiest of goats who eat said hay.

I am lost and I will write and write and write until I get paid enough to retire from accounting permanently.

The latest chick flick I've seen

I just saw Eat, Pray, Love. It is incredibly inspiring, plus I LOVE any chick flick with Julia Roberts. The story makes me want to go to Italy instantly. I'd like to find the rustic beauty of the scenery where the heroine stayed, the intense beauty of the food, the glorious food of which the heroine ate. Pure pleasure!

How we get such pleasure from food! The color of it, the density of it all...the joy of it. The tastebuds going to a party!

It is now my fave chick flick of the year. I see a LOT of chick flicks. I get lost in stories.

When Sex and The City 2 came out I saw it. I feel like I have lived Sex and The City. With all my dating traumas and pleasures of it all.

EPL makes me want to travel even more than I already have. It makes me want to write more than I already have. It makes me want to live more than I already have.

And that is why it is such a wonderful story and movie.

Enough said for now.

People In Transit or the Floor Above the Unemployment Stint and Below Permanent Job Status

People In Transit or "The Floor Above the Unemployment Stint" and Below "Permanent Job Status" is what this blog post is called.

After a grueling nano-year (which was ALMOST a year, but NOT quite) of being Unemployed in America, strapped slimily in the swarthy-in-grimy-decaying-pseudo-corpse-of-a-career, I grabbed the remains of my career (bloody carcass hanging off brittle bones, flailing away at the Vultures) and resurrected it Just In Time, fleeing to the Employment line at: Temps-R-Us.

Which is not always the nicest place to be, but MUCHO BETTER than the Sweaty, Uninvincible Unemployment Line.

So now I am a Temp.

No longer Unemployed.

Which is good because my Unemployment income (having twice been extended) had definitely run out. No more extensions. (Which is as cruel as getting short-sheeted at summer band camp.)

And while I am THRILLED TO PIECES TO BE WORKING AND BACK TO BEING SANE AGAIN AND FEELING VERY LUCKY AND VERY GRATEFUL TO HAVE A WONDERFUL FAMILY AND FRIENDS AS A SUPPORT SYSTEM THAT HELPED ME A LOT I DO want to point out that being a Temp is not always good.

You are neither here nor there.

You are a Person In Transit.

A PIT. And it can be the pits. The depths of despair.

The Bargain Basement of Leftover of the Used and Abused.

You have No Control over whether they will hire you or not.

And the Treatment of a Temp by Office People is very like the Treatment of a Humpbacked Igor by a Mad & Evil Scientist in an old black and white 20's film on the Big Screen back in The Day.

You can deal with people at the office who will be very very nice to you and spill their guts until you realize that you have initially become their therapist! Ugh! Who want's that?

It can be detrimental to your emotional energy and very draining to have whiny-ass friends at work.

Or that you have become (even worse! GASP!) their friend and they keep inviting you to Jewelry Parties (which are normally sponsored by some corporate company and thus are usually lame unless your "new best friend at work" is actually crafty and make their own which is very rare but my friend at IBM was like this so cool friends who are talented do exist) or Pampered Chef Parties (where you have to buy their crap or else you feel rude if you don't) or Birthday Parties with Fattening and Frosty-Girthed Birthday Cake (sometimes where everyone pitches in some money and this can pile up quickly!) or Happy Hours until you realize that if you want to be their friend you will have to be very rich to keep up because work IS their social life and you already have a social life. Or a life. This is the person at work who needs to get a life because they have made work their life. So you have to refrain from being their friend because you cannot keep up with their office political/social stratosphere so you either tell them you cannot afford all these extracurricular office party/events/social hour or make up some dumb lamo excuse like you have to pet sit for money or babysit or have a part time job or something to showcase how poor you are. Who knows. You normally have to white lie to get out of it.

It can be - ahem - rather expensive having these types of friends at work.

So you can suffer if you are a nice person. You have to not be too friendly to people at work. Know your limits.

And then there's the other side of the coin. The meanies at work.

You can deal with people at the office who will be very very mean to you for a variety of reasons. Maybe you are not hoopy-religious enough and the first thing they ask you is if you are conservative and whether you go to church or not. In fact, the first thing they might ask you, like Griselda Grunchthorpe did once:

"Where's your Home Church, sweetie?"

In which case I answer:

"I only went to church to pick up guys," with an inward sneer seething, but a polite-yet-snarky remark.

In which case, she'll gossip about you the rest of your stay at said office. Etc etc etc and it will be hell. Because all the other hoooopeee-religious assholes at work will give you a hard time. They might start putting syrupy Pepto-Dismal pink nightmare pamphlets about Jesus Christ being your Saviour, etc etc on your desk during their spare time.

In which case you can retaliate by putting Devil Worshipping and/or Black-as-Night Voodoo Doll paraphenalia on THEIR desks (of course I have NEVER done SUCH a thing, but I HAVE been tempted!) and where you can get it I have no idea. That would be another blog.

It's not that I don't like Hoopee-Religious people. I have to say that some of them are my very dearest friends and family members. I just think that work is not the place to shove crap down my throat, I'm already unindated with boring-ass work, thank you very much! I just don't like other people's stupid personal choices slammed onto me and I don't like being judged by having better personal choices than their's. Perhaps they're jealous that I get to sleep til noon on Sunday (with lines on my face if I want!) AND: It's also none of anybody's fucking business what I do with my free time when I'm not at work! If I want to sacrifice small children at the Pitchfork-Darkest-Midnight Moon on Halloween then that's MY BUSINESS.

So there are plenty of bad things about being a temp. Namely, being treated pretty shabbily. Like you are not a real person.

So my latest nightmare, after a year of:

1. trying to start a bookkeeping company (THAT doesn't work if spoiled princesslike selfish clients do NOT want to pay your rate)

2. trying to get free coffee through friends meeting friends and friends of friends at coffee shops for a year - one does not and cannot live on coffee alone, otherwise you - JUTTING - cannot - CRUNCHING - holda - SHAKING - conversation - CAFFEEEEEN/caffeine enrichment

3. trying to do this blog for a while until I realized nobody was really reading it except the few friends and family members I begged/pleaded/bludgeoned/conned into reading it, so I stopped (but I'm BACK, BABY!)

etc etc etc

So like I said my latest nightmare is Dealing with the Office Bully at Work.

She is basically what I like to call one of many types of accountants that can drive one crazy.

I like to call these types of accountants BAWCKERS. That was it. Boring Anal Wanderlust Cutthroat Klutzy Egotistical Retreads.

When I say boring I mean sludge-vomit vixen-bred snore-bore boring!

And when I say Anal I mean nose-stuck-up in the air cornucopia-stuck-up-the-butt along with a broomstuck-stuffed-up-the-ass Anal.

That’s it.

I could go on and on but I have been living this nightmare for a while now and the temp job before this one that began June 14 and lasted for six weeks was one in which I had to deal with another kind of accountant asshole: a control freak.

All I can say now is that after doing accounting for almost 20 years, I have finally figured out to Stand Up for Myself. Because, really, nobody's gonna do it for you. You have to do it for yourself.

And there are a lot of nasty-ass accountants out there. The Control Freak? She is Egotistical, Cutthroat, and Anal.

The Office Bully I've been dealing with this past week horribly and a few weeks before? She is threatened by me, scared I'll take her job, Anal, Cutthroat, Control Freaky, Boring, etc.

I could think of more acronymns for Evil Accountants, but I'm not going to right now.

I just wanted to say that I'm BACK! Back to blogging. I recently took a blogging for money class and I feel like I can do this better now.

Maybe then someday soon - hopefully - I can figure out how to make a living writing online so that I don't have to be an accountant any longer.

Hurrah!

Writers Group critique (made me pissy)

If you are happy and you know it clap your hands!

And then FUCK OFF!

And then exit stage left, do not read the rest of this post, RUNAWAY, go scrub your hands to eradicate the beginnings of this post, or whatever you have to do, but just leave NOW. ASAP!

BEWARE.

This post isn't pretty.

Or Fun.

Go on your merry way, with your hard candy in your pocket, beer in hand, chocolate-lotta-love to give, your smile intact, Keep Your Hugs to Yourself, and Leave Immediately.

Click the BACK arrow on your computer RIGHT NOW.

Realize that if you are still brave enouhg to read the rest of this post, that I am QUITE PISSY...!

Because...(do read on, my friend, if you do insist that is)...

I was critiqued HARD tonight by an idiot writers group.

Freaks.

They just did NOT like my Cliffhanger Alien story.

SO.

I am going to critique THEM and any names in this posting is now their NEW ALIEN NAME.

What a bunch of slobbering idiots.

What a bunch of Snore-Bores.

What did Groucho Marx say again?

What was it?

That he NEVER wanted to be in a club (or in this case, my case, Writers Group) that would have him as a member.

Well I "coitainly" don't want to be in this particular Writers Group that would have me be one of their members.

Because, quite frankly, they suck.

They suck ass, they suck worms, they suck like voyeuristic vultures stuck to the carotid remaining arteries of sludge-vomit-vixen versimillitudes inside the vomitarium of Roman Gods and Goddesses and the leftover milky-white pain residue of anything left inside the bottom of my old grotesque college fridge...which again, isn't pretty and isn't for the faint-hearted.

It’s about 8:15 pm when I am writing this and I am a tad pissy because not only is my mortgage company blowing me off but this particular writer’s group sucked this evening.

They didn’t really warm up to my alien story, didn’t react nicely to the pace, stupid cow-faced bitch Blech!kkanna Blowhardt (such a great Alien name, isn't it?) didn’t like my story much or my word choices, neither did anyone else. She snapped her sharp teeth, gritted her grinchy nerves, rattled her rattlesnake voice and she hissed:

"I Don't Like Your Word Choices Much."

Then she burped and then hiccupped. Profusely.

Hmmm.

MAYBE THEIR BORING WRITING STYLE IS JUST TOO BORING FOR ME.

They all hated my pace and prejudged my future writing based on this and all I did was read the first chapter for gawd's sake. And it wasn't even that long.

But I don’t care, I WON’T be returning to THAT BORING ASS group.

I hate boring writers.

Especially those who do NOT like my stuff.

They cannot handle the FUNNESS of it. The thrill, the chill, the fun zip-zappiness of it all. They do not have any style themselves.

Perhaps they are actually just jealous and they have to put me down to rise up in a sordid bubble that will burble to the top of the boisterous billowy clouds, then burst! Ha! Then they fall, like the boring ass writers that they are.

Indeed.

Naturally, I will have dialogue in my writing and I DO have dialogue. Did Xenargk-Urpeeness Philzepott (another fabulous Alien name, what?!) just not get it? Or was it because I did not map out the quotes in the proper places?

Xenargk-Urpeeness Philzepott said to me, squinting squeamishly and squelching anything NICE, said slitheringly:

"Well, I am just not SURE about the pace, I think it's just TOO Fast for us, does it ever slow down? Hmmm?"

Then he paused to vomit, without even wiping his brown-yellow-green snort gurgles this time.

I must say that I was greatly offended.

He has absolutely no manners.

Naturally, my style IS different. Not everyone gets it.

I mean it made HIM vomit after all. And it made HER burp and hiccup continually.

My writing IS good. I know that it is.

So this lack of respect and lack of the LIKE, it just kinda pisses me off.

Bigtime.

I guess I am NEVER going back to the New-yuck Haven-ick group.

Pardon me while I burp. *URP*

Honestly, I thought Bonghdick Blongfick’s (yes a perfect name for this old Alien with a come-over for hair) story was BORING.

I also thought Xenargk-Urpeeness's story was BORING.

I also thought CarboCarBORla’s story BORED me but I am SO not her audience.

I also BET Blech!kkanna Blowhardt’s writing SUCKS too.

So are they even published – except for that one nice one who has gone unnamed?

Perhaps I am being overly sensitive, but why did that want to critique my pacing and wonder if the rest of my story will be having that same pace? Does it matter? Why do they judge just a little of my writing (chapter one) as the pacing for the whole thing?

Jesus Fucking Christ.

Enough already. Maybe they just wanted to make sure that I would not return. Well they got their fucking wish.

Oh well.

It’s over. I left early.

I do not care.

Not really. They are BORING writers. They are obviously not my audience. I do not merge or mix well with them.

The nice one is okay I guess.

It doesn’t matter and I know that not everything can be yippy skippy.

Tempted to put on Facebook how I am glad that I am not a boring writer. Like those others that just didn’t get my stuff tonight.

But then the nice one would see that and think that I am a snot. So won’t write that. Just won’t go back.

They will NOT be honored by my FUN writing any longer.

The Unemployment Office - a hideous dialogue? not compared to my mortgage company...

CLICK! CRACKLE! SPURTLE! vibrates my cell phone.

FINALLY!

"Hallo!" I spit into the receiver of my cell phone.

Yes, I have been ON HOLD for FORTY-FIVE FUCKING MINUTES with the Unemployment People Who Unfortunately Smirk Silently (UPWUSS) BUT I CAN HEAR IT OVER THE PHONE!

Yes, I CAN! I KNOW that they are silently smugly conspicuously laughing at me, an Unemployed Accountant At Large.

"Yes, Mrs. XXX, how may I help you?" A solidly bass voice erupts coyly. I feel him smirking, this supercilious UPWUSS.

It pisses me off, quite frankly.

"I'd like to talk to someone about getting my unemployment again..."

"YESH? How may I help you?" He says, grinning in that awful tone again.

"Can you help me please?" I say, loudly but nicely. I quell my pissyness tone as much as possible.

"Well, that depends, Mrs. XXX, 'Can' denotes am I able to. Did you mean to use the word 'May' instead? Of course I may help you, if that is -"

"YES, Puhleaze, MAY you help me?" AND CAN YOU SHOVE THIS FUCKING TELEPHONE RECEIVER UP YOUR TIDY-WHITE UPWUSS-Y ASS??? CAN YOU??? HUH, HUH, HUH???

Jesus. How much more of this CAN I take?

I just want my unemployment back after losing my shitty two week temp job, for crying out loud!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

More to come later regarding being on hold with my mortgage company and asking to speak to someone who has not swapped their soul to satan.

Erotique Veronique Magique

Vell vell vell my darlings, I have actually gotten a contract job in my field! So it appears that my career is not dead after all. Perhaps it is Undead? Perhaps it has Risen from its sordid Black-Death Crypt of the Universe, sucking the life out of its dastardly demise? At Midnight perhaps, when things go bump, when things change for the better, or is it worse?

HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Vell vell vell mah dahlingks!" Veronique lit her cigar and pushed up her Victoria Secret Platypus Push-Me-Pull-You Bra and smiled at me.

"Got Torque?" I said, mocking her suddenly famous (or is it infamous) commercial?

"Nooooo, no, nooooooo!" Veronique exotique and erotique put her lips together and blew out her cigar, the blue curls festering into feathers and then nothingness. Just like magique. Mystique, too.

In addition to finding gainful employment, albeit temporarily, I have also received my first rejection letter from a literary agent. I submitted a query letter via email to Nelson Agency. The story query I sent was the one on this blog about the Aliens and the girl bored-to-snot in CubicleLand. The one who has the Massive Intense Crush on a VIP hottie at work. There's a witch involved as well.

No worries. A rejection email only means that I am THIS MUCH CLOSER TO MY DREAM OF BECOMING PUBLISHED. Hurrah! I am still researching erotica and whether I should attempt to write it or not. I think I should definitely write comedy. I made the writing group two Wednesdays ago laugh their heinies off. Okay I KNOW I am NOT supposed to end a sentence with a preposition:

I made the writing group two Wednesdays ago laught their heinies off, Bitch! Ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Of Whimsical Distress and Erotica Blunders

I am whimsically distressed and pining, wanderlust apparent, to write and become published. So I began reading erotica blunders on the 'net hoping to glean some insight in how to begin writing an erotica novel. There's some really shitty swill out there. It makes me whimsically distressed. This stuff is so bad, like bargain basement shopping at a five and dime store. It makes me think that I can write an erotica novel and get it published. I need to do something. I still haven't found a job yet in my field. But as I've stated earlier on this blog, my career is O-V-E-R. I just want a job so I can pay my bills and survive and exist. Has it really come to this, after all these years?

Last week I was thinking of becoming a PSO. For those of you who do not call 1-900 numbers, this is the vernacular and acronym for Phone Sex Operators. After careful and copious research, I found that I would have to plunk down some moolah for a land line and that PSO's make an average of - get this - $9 - $10 per hour! I could not believe this. The best way to research a new field/career zone is to go on the internet, by the way, and read forums and blogs about people already in their job/career. Several PSO's also work about 60 hours a week and some don't get paid more than $200 - $300 a week, some have been scammed, others dealt with rude/crude, socially unacceptable customers/clients, etc. I get more from unemployment, so I won't be pursuing this type of job. The advantages for a lot of PSO's seem to be that they could work from home. That part seemed nice.

So my new plan is to write erotica. Even though I do not read erotica. I have asked some of my erudite bookworm friends for help. I have two or three who read Vampire pseudo-erotica novels. I treasure their advice, opinion, and friendship. I think I can do this. I hope that I can crank out some above average erotica. I might even merge some genres to do this: comedy, thriller, etc. I do not think I will try a Vampire erotica novel though. I do not think I am good enough.

The Fucking Princess Handbook.

Here's a new story I just started today. If you are brave, then read it. Beware. I am in a fucking weird mood.

Chapter One: The Fucking Princess Handbook

Today.

“You are a Princess.” I read out loud in my handbook, The Princess Handbook by Farthaquandra Cessaline III.

They might as well have titled it “The Pristine Prickly Pear of a Princess Hellatious Handbook.”

Or “Hell Hath No Fury Like a Virgin Princess.”

Or how about “Of Frustration Station.”

Or I would have titled it perhaps “Pantyhose Suck.” I had heard of those who did not have to be required to wear pantyhose. I wanted to live in this so-called Non-Pantyhose Land. Where the fuck was that anyway?

“And because of this you are supposed to always act like a Princess.” I continued to read, sitting on my bed, legs crossed.

I laughed.

“This means you never cross your legs and sit like a commoner, i.e. a NOP.” I read and then looked at my non-princesslike position and reflection in the mirror.

I snarled.

Princesses don’t snarl, my aunt Agathanine would have said. I heard her gnarly dragon-ladled raspy voice in my head.

Then I sneered.

And they don’t sneer, either, Gloria! Agathanine said again in my head. Same raspy-ass nasty voice, except louder this time.

“Fuck that!” I said. And real princesses don’t curse, either! So maybe I really wasn’t meant to be a princess.

Every day I broke a rule. But I’d recently been betrayed by my betrothed. So I had a great excuse now.

Did the fucking Princess Handbook even have a chapter about when your betrothed betrays you?

No!

This was not fair. And now the entire kingdom knew about it and everyone would be talking about it at the Ball tonight, just like they had last night.

Jerks! I was surrounded by stupid fucking jerks so why should I follow the stupid fucking rules?

It’s not like I was bending or breaking or snipping or snapping the rules in two on purpose, it just was not my true nature to follow the rules. But. It was also not in my nature to lead. Lead, follow, or get out of the way.

I looked out the window at my kingdom. It was a beautiful land. Just gorgeous. Pink rivers swooshed happily below and magic grapes grew on the tree nearby, so I reached out my hand and a grape appeared in my hand, fresh and nubile and sweet.

You see I liked grapes and I liked the color pink, so my pink grapevine castle was surrounded by such. I also liked any alcoholic beverages that were pink colored, and red wine from the grapes. I was actually still half drunk this morning from the after-party last night, post-Ball bliss.

For instance, Dominique, a princess who lived next door in her castle, liked chocolate-covered cherries and rustic nearly-naked knights in some form of shining armor (somewhere on their body) so she had a pack of boy-toys who served her breakfast in bed and they always wore some rustic armor somewhere on their scantily clad bodies. Every day at 2 pm after she got out of bed, she invited the princesses over to watch her rustic armored boy-toys going at it with their nearly-naked knight-fight. She served everyone’s favorite cocktail, too. Mine was Cape Cod. I’m sure today I would get piss-ass drunk on Cape Cods because I was still smarting by being betrayed AND dumped by my betrothed.

And also my best friend, Pandora, a rather wild and tempestuous and passionate princess who lived across the street in her castle, liked steak, medium rare and all things meaty, which included beefcake men who were really muscle men, so she'd sit on her throne and have a strip show where the beefcake men would strip for her and strut around naked, sometimes while they lifted weights.

Pandora's daily strip show was totally not my scene (I'd sometimes hear the loud disco music from my tower bedroom), but it sure turned her on. I'd rather my boy-toy men be nearly naked, like Dominique's knight show. A little mystery, not weiners banging about everywhere while they danced and lifted weights. Uck.

Pandora had recently broken up with her betrothed because she was having wild tawdry sex with four of her beefcake men, wild orgies and the like. Which is why I had not seen her in a few weeks.

Every time I went over to her castle her maid told me that Pandora was indisposed. I did fear for Pandora though. She was on the verge of turning 30 and the Princess Handbook had rules about if you were not married or engaged by the time you were 30. If you weren't showing signs of getting married soon to a prince, then you would be banished. It was the rule, not meant to be broken.

If Pandora got banished from the kingdom, she would no longer be a princess and she would be stripped of her identity AND ALL OF HER MEMORIES. They would be stolen from her. She would know that she was banished but she would also not know it at the same time. She would be turned into a NOP, which was NOt a Princess. She would become a commoner. And she would not live here anymore.

So yes I was happy with my simple grapes and pink river. I did not need any naked or half-naked men to get my groove going. I had other things that I liked. I had a new toy to play with.

Princesses had help with magicians to create their image and pick their fashion and write their script of what they wanted. They hired script writers and magicians and fashion coordinators and people to help with their Coming Out Balls. Gown designers, too.

Tonight, Erlandamera was Coming Out and the theme was Mardi Gras. I had my mask and my ball gown ready. But I was not really that excited. Another party, another splurge and splatter of smack-stupid princes to sort through. Another gossip session of who would be queen next. It was rumored that it would be one of my seven sisters, Elvira, the mean, slimy one. And of course gossip swirling about my recent breakup and the recent hookup of my ex.

It just hurt.

I sneered and dropped my hand down and watched the lone grape fall slowly into the pink lagoon that was the moat around my tower of my castle.

“It’s FREE,” I said clearly, to nobody in particular but myself.

Freedom!

“I like the sound of that,” I said.

What the Princess Handbook neglected to talk about or discuss, was freedom and independence.

All of a sudden a giant ridgeback tail swooshed up near my tower window and a heady blast of air from it made me fall backwards.

I stood quickly and laughed. “You jarred me - but I am getting used to it!”

“Sorry, Princess Gloria,” Armadonna, my new pet female dragon peered into my window, her giant head and mouth curving into a smile. “You feeling better today? Still got your period?!!!”

"Hey, what the fuck do you think?" I yelled back at her, laughing.

"Well, honey, you sure got some fire in you, that's for sure!" She said, gurgling and chortling with laughter, making fire snort and erupt out her nose. "See, that's my new trick, like it?"

“Yeah, very cool. Is it time for our ride already?” I smiled and nuzzled her head. Armadonna was the new dragon in my life and much better than a prince! We rode around the kingdom every morning after my grape treat.

I just hoped I could take her with me when I escaped from this place – a recent new thought on my brain horizon. Maybe Pandora had it figured out after all and maybe she was hoping to get banished. It was just losing the memories that scared me.

Armadonna was fucking cool! Totally unpredictable. I bet she could help me escape!

Yesterday we’d done a drive-by on my ex, Prince Paul, who had been cheating on me with Princess Tatiana, a real princess slut. I’d recently been dumped by him through her! And I was still pissed about it.

I really hated this place sometimes. But Armadonna had great ideas for me. It had been her idea to do the drive-by yesterday and cause a stir and small cyclone at Prince Paul’s castle.

It surely had pissed him off since he was in the middle of making love to Princess Tatiana!

Ha!

The Interview

"So why do you want this job?" The CFO asks, steely gray eyes, gnarled demeanor, hair pinned up to the snore-bore core of her six foot seven height, making it six foot nine.

I gulp.

WTF.

You see I don't actually WANT this job if it means working with HER.

I panic.

I think about my life. Why was I always picked last for dodge ball, and all the other sports? Why had the entire sixth grade class decided to laugh hysterically at my knobby, wobbly knees? Why was I such a dark horse? Why was I the black sheep in my family, a family of athetes, graceful ballerinas? Why was I here?

I actually hate marketing and this would be a marketing analyst position masquerading as a pseudo-customer service rep with shitty-swill-of-the-universe hours (4 am until noon), and very little pay.

But it was still better than nothing, and a had a heap of nasty bills to pay.

I need this.

I look at her with my most conservative, anal look.

But I blow it.

I just know it.

I just do.

That's my life. Blowing a lot of things. Competing with others and losing.

A loser. That's what I am.

And it just sucks ass.

It really does.

interview

I hope my unemployment stint is over soon, coming to a close, FINITO, Exit Stage Left, Oh-So-Over, Bombardedly Leaving The Earth, DONE, Poke-Me-I'm-Done, Far Outta Here, Audi 500, Lost In Space, Breaker-Breaker Over And Out, etc.

Because I have a job interview today.

HURRAH!

I write Chick Lit and NO NOT Chiclet, like the gum

So over the holidays at countless parties and so forth I talked about writing Chick Lit and what it entails.

And NO, that’s not Chiclet as in the gum!

Monday finds me now diligently writing about Chick Lit and what it is. I scour my brain trying to think of way to explain this easily to others, especially those who do not read.

Thus, I relate Chick Lit to movies.

I ask two questions:

1. Have they ever seen the movie When Harry Met Sally? i.e. Meg Ryan. If they are aware of who she is and what she's played in, then we're good.

2. Have they ever seen the movie, Bridget Jones's Diary? i.e. Renee' Zellwegger. If they are aware of this Chick Lit Phenomenon that set a full-charged blast of Chick Littedness into the Publishing World, then we're good.

If they have neither seen nor heard of either movie, or of Meg Ryan, then their eyes usually glaze over as I continue to grapple like withering apples (explain) my writing genre to them.

Since not many are reading this Chick Lit blog O’ Mine and it’s STILL lost loquaciously and sadly in the Blogosphere, I clamour to gleefully and hopefully tell them about it.

By then, this victim O' Mine at the said Holiday Party have eyes that are darting about trying to escape from me and my uber-long explanation of Chick Lit and what it is. This victim is morose and has a tendency to froth and foam at the mouth by now, saying they are parched and might they get me a drink? I usually shake my head NOPE I am not done explaining yet.

Normally by now, another person has joined us in the convo at this Holiday Party and if this new person does not know who Meg Ryan is, or has not heard of the two aforementioned movies, I now have TWO sets of withering glazed-over eyes.

Luckily most partygoers have heard of Meg Ryan. Luckily most people at parties who deign to talk to me are women and most women have heard of Chick Lit, and most of my friends who are women who are partygoers who talk to me at parties know that I write Chick Lit merged with other genres such as murder mystery, thriller, and the like.

Only one person told me not to merge my genres of mostly Chick Lit with Paranormal.

Chick Lit is literature for women, including romantic comedies. It can encompass several subgenres within the realm of Chick Lit. Mom Lit and Supersingle girl lit and many others. I just happen to merge mine with thriller and murder mystery and whatever other genre I want at the moment.

After all, I’m just a Jobless Wonder and QUIM (Quirky Uncontrollable Middle-aged Woman) who has read more than her fair share of everthing that counts and even more of whatever doesn't count to know enough about Chick Lit to write a novel or two.

Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for more stories!