My November Novel

I was totally supposed to write a novel this month, right? Because of NaNoMoFoGoRaToGaROFLMAO. Right? I'm not good with acronyms.

Do I have to spell it out?

Well, in my time zone, there is less than one hour left in November. So if I'm going to write a freaking novel, it's now or never.

Oh, it's now.

This. Yes.

Here is my 50-minute novel. For free. Yeah, try to get a free book out of the Bloggess or Hyperbole and  Half. They'll say fuck you, my crazy ain't free. But mine is.

Always Drunk, The Novel

Chapter 1

She woke filled with regret, without truly understanding why. Then she rolled over. Oh God, why? Why the head of marketing, of all people to sleep with in a drunken haze?

Chapter 2

"Even though you're but a low-level employee, we're putting you on this important project. You'll be working directly under the head of marketing." Don't look him in the eye, don't look him in the eye.

Chapter 3

He was beautiful, stylish, and vapid. He had no idea how to make this campaign a success. She did...but did she dare to upstage him?

Chapter 4

Her gay best friend clucked his tongue over a glass of wine. "Girl, you have got to get your priorities straight. He can't make you OR break you without your permission. Let's listen to Erasure."

Chapter 5

Her mother sounded sad, desperate, resigned on the phone. "I know you haven't had the best relationship, dearie, but your father is really ill. He'd understand if your work kept you from coming home, I'm sure."

Chapter 6

He had been such an attentive lover. How could he now be so cold and cruel when she needed a friend?

Chapter 7

Her straight girlfriend was aghast at the advice she'd received from her gay best friend. "Really? Oh my god, this is your one big chance. Grab it. Don't get stuck in a loveless marriage before you're ready to settle down like I did."

Chapter 8

He acts as if he's embarrassed by her at the big advertiser cocktail party. She gets courage from a number of cocktails and in a humorous way makes an impression on the bigwigs completely separate from him.

Chapter 9

She's thrilled to have made the gossip columns, but he treats it as a personal insult. "If you want to be on this team, be a team player," he threatens, then seduces her.

Chapter 10

This deadline is her only chance to prove her dedication to the project. Then Mom calls with bad news: Dad is worse, and asking for her.

Chapter 11

"Thank you for coming, love. I wasn't sure you would." While she's at her dad's side, the head of marketing assembles a disastrous presentation for the client. When they protest, he throws her under the bus, and she returns to work as a pariah with a damaged reputation. Yet he still wants to have sex.

Chapter 12

The gay friend can't help because his partner has AIDS. The straight friend can't help because she just found out she's pregnant and so is now totally selfish. Such alone, much feels.

Chapter 13

She saves the campaign with a late-night burst of creativity. The head of marketing is so grateful he fucks her. By the way, he's engaged to a high-society lady who thinks journalism is a cheap, slutty profession.

Chapter 14

She comes up with a brilliant idea out of the blue which saves the entire project. She's feted by the industry, so has to miss the funeral of her gay friend's partner, who has died of AIDS, and the birth of her straight friend's child.

Chapter 15

"We hope you're very happy with your newfound success," say all of her friends who have been emotionally abandoned while she climbs the corporate ladder and sleeps with her boss.

Chapter 16

"Your father is dead. But I suppose you're too successful to come to his funeral." She is expected to completely revise the marketing campaign in two days and doesn't know what to say.

Chapter 17

Her boss/lover says, "If you miss this deadline because you feel like you have to go home and say goodbye to a corpse that never really appreciated you, then your career is over." She is aghast, but is seen cancelling her flight.

Chapter 18

Sun rises over her father's grave. She is there, fighting back tears. "I'm sorry I was never the success you wanted," she whispers. As she gets up, the head of marketing is there. "Thank you for not listening to me," he says. They kiss.

Chapter 19

The new campaign - based on love of family - is a huge hit with the client. She is showered with adulation, which the head of marketing graciously lets her bask in. Also, the gay friend finds new love and the straight friend loves her baby.

Chapter 20

She fucks the head of marketing one more time before deciding she really wants to travel. Everyone says they will miss her, except the head of marketing, who says she's doing the right thing by leaving him.

Chapter 21

Five years later, she is the assistant editor of the hottest fashion magazine in Europe. Her mom has found love with the straight friend of her gay best friend. Her former boss has married a widow with seven kids and has never been happier.

THE END.

That wasn't so hard. See you next year, November.

Haiku

Tabitha declined to post tonight. She didn't want to kick me when I'm down. But she did text me this haiku. So here.

Really, you dumb bitch?
Love is for starry-eyed fools.
Don't be one of them.

And for once I agree with her.

The Annual Thanksgiving Post

Every Thanksgiving for several years now I've published a variation of this post, because I sincerely love and appreciate my Drunkards, old and new. Also because I'm in full-on Thanksgiving Eve panic mode, so writing something original is beyond me at this point.

I hope my American readers have a Thanksgiving of joy and abundance. International readers, feel free to gorge on your favorite local foods in homage to the U.S. of A. And to my Jewish readers, sorry for all the lame Thanksgivukkah stuff.

***

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Maybe you're one of those perfect people who has had all their side dishes prepared for three days, along with charming little placard holders shaped like baby turkeys, and now you're just waiting to fire up the chainsaw to create the ice sculpture of Miles Standish that will adorn your perfect dining room table.

Well, fuck you.

SORRY. That is not in the spirit of abundance and gratitude, is it?

OK, to make up for it, I have a gift for you. This is my secret weapon, the reason I have no fear about creating a successful Thanksgiving dinner. I give it to you because it's one of my favorite things in the whole world besides monkey art.

This is my grandmother's recipe for Sweetheart Balls.

I always think of Gran this time of year. Her birthday was on November 25, just one day after Precocious Daughter's. In fact she missed PDaughter's birth by just a few months, passing away literally a week before I found out I was expecting. I remember her best in the kitchen, making holiday meals with a charming apron tied around her waist. I especially remember Sweetheart Balls. They're the best thing ever.

This recipe not complicated, it's not fancy. It's simply not Thanksgiving without it. My grandmother's Sweetheart Balls always graced our holiday tables as far back as I can remember, and in recent years I've happily won converts among the next generation and many friends. And to honor Gran, I'm going to share her recipe with you. Because it's so yummy, and so easy.

Let me emphasize: You can make this recipe. I don't care if you're a complete culinary idiot, if you can't melt butter, if "peel back film to vent" constitutes extensive preparation in your vocabulary. You can make Sweetheart Balls. You can serve them as an appetizer, a side dish, or a dessert, and they will make you look good. This is my gift to you. Even if you don't make them on Thanksgiving, make them sometime. You'll love them, and I'll love that people are enjoying my grandma's special treat.

So Happy Thanksgiving. Count your blessings, appreciate your riches (especially the ones that aren't actually monetary), and if you are so fortunate, eat 'til you burst.

Sweetheart Balls

8 oz. cream cheese
1 small can crushed pineapple
10-12 maraschino cherries (more or less)
1 sleeve (give or take) of graham crackers

Let the cream cheese sit out for 30 minutes or so to soften but not get too gooey. Drain the pineapple (save the juice*). Cut each cherry into about a dozen small bits - don't worry if they're sitting in a small pool of cherry juice. Put the graham crackers into a plastic zipper bag and use a rolling pin or tall can to crush them into coarse, not quite powdery, crumbs.

Combine the cream cheese, pineapple, and cherries with a spoon or your hands to make a lumpy, pasty mess. Hands are way more fun, but make sure they're clean, people. The cherry juice should turn the mixture a very pale pink, or add more juice to taste. Pinch off enough of the mixture to form into a 1-inch ball, then roll in the graham cracker crumbs. Place on a plate and repeat until you have used up all of the cream cheese (this recipe should make about three dozen balls and of course can be doubled or tripled or whateverpled). Crush additional graham crackers if you run out of crumbs before you run out of cream cheese.

Cover with plastic wrap and chill for a couple of hours or overnight. To serve, set the plate out and encourage indiscriminate indulgence.

Enjoy!

*Bonus recipe: When you drain the pineapple, reserve the juice. Add a little bit of maraschino cherry juice and a few drops of vanilla extract. Pour into a glass of any size you wish. Fill with vodka. Drink.

Back to the Future

The other night, whilst deep in a funk, I wrote a post wondering about the future.

I may or not have been wallowing in self-pity.
I'm not saying.

I want to thank you, my lovely Drunkards, for the nice things you said to me in comments, Facebook posts, and e-mails. You made my self-indulgent rhetorical ramblings seem less like a pathetic plea for sympathy and more like half a caring and funny conversation about what life holds.

And especially Christopher Waldrop and Simoree, whose comments on the original post made me smile so big.

Almost just that big.

Well, as often happens, the day before yesterday's tomorrow is now today's yesterday. And I can tell you the answers to the questions I posed as they actually happened.

They're not all that fascinating, really. But enough of you cared that I figured I'd share them.

The Questions I Posed and the Answers I Found

So if you live in any time zone east of me, it's already Precocious Daughter's 14th birthday. Tell me...does it go well? Does she like the new clarinet I just spent my life's savings to buy her?

I'm happy to report that PDaughter's birthday was most excellent. She loves her new clarinet. Although she had sussed out that she was getting a clarinet, she thought she was getting a used, slightly scratch-and-dent model. But she got a brand-spanking-new one, and she loves it. Frankly, it would have been wiser for me to get the second-hand instrument and keep the extra cash for the rainy days I know lie ahead. But did I mention she loves it?

Do the Giants beat the Cowboys?

Holy shit, the Cowboys beat the Giants. Which only goes to show that you should never, ever give up, because the craziest things can happen.

Also...suck it, Eli.

Are the three members of Willie Nelson's band who were injured in a bus crash just hours after I saw them give a great show doing OK?

Yes, thank goodness. Paul and Billy English and Tom Hawkins are going to be fine. I feel as if they're family now, and I'm sending them mad love.

Do I get over having my heart broken?

Turns out it wasn't broken. It's tough like that.

So I'll see you guys later. You know, in the future. It's pretty bright, I think we'll all be able to find it.

The Future

So if you live in any time zone east of me, it's already Precocious Daughter's 14th birthday.

Tell me...does it go well? Does she like the new clarinet I just spent my life's savings to buy her?

Do the Giants beat the Cowboys?

Are the three members of Willie Nelson's band who were injured in a bus crash just hours after I saw them give a great show doing OK?

Do I get over having my heart broken?

I know I'll find out all of these things for myself tomorrow...if I bother to get out of bed.

I just thought maybe someone out there could tell me and save me the trouble.

I'm Failing November

When did November turn into such a bitch?

Yeah, I said it.

November is supposed to be a cool month. Cool temperatures, cool new sweaters and boots, and a big fat old turkey dinner on the fourth Thursday.

I used to look forward to November. But now it's just 30 days of stressing over things the Internet tells me I'm supposed to be doing. But of course I'm not.

I haven't grown a mustache.

I haven't stopped shaving.

I haven't posted something I'm thankful for every damn day on Facebook. (Can I just be thankful that I don't have to post something I'm thankful for 30 times?)

I haven't blogged every day.

I haven't written 21/30 of a novel.

I didn't remember the transgender people yesterday.

I didn't stop smoking today. I mean, I didn't smoke at all today, but I was supposed to stop, and I didn't.

I didn't get pneumonia. I'm not sure that's the purpose of World Pneumonia Day, but still.

OMG, I didn't celebrate Pirates Week!

My apologies to Willie Stargell.

Today was World Television Day, and I haven't watched any television. Or even listened to a single song by Tom Verlaine.

And on the 15th of this month, I utterly failed to commemorate the Day of the German-Speaking Community of Belgium. It's a thing, really, and I simply blew it off. Because I a dirty rotten November-failer.

The month is not a complete loss. I actually voted on Election Day. And on Sunday I will totally celebrate Precocious Daughter Turns 14 Day. Of course, I will pig out like a...um...pig on Thanksgiving.

I just feel as if I could have done so much more.

There's always next year.

Wait! Wait! Apparently November 21 is also World Hello Day!

HELLO!

Nailed it.

Tabitha Takes On Random Facts

Note: My Facebook page admin, Tabitha, has been making my life miserable lately. She's jealous that she doesn't have her own FB page, and she's been taking it out on me. She wants to do that "Random Facts" thing that everyone has been doing recently, so I'm letting her do it here in hopes that it will chill her the hell out a little. I'm frankly not too hopeful.

**********

hi, it's tabby. can i just say something?

chuck baudelaire is a complete bitch.

Tabitha Brown,
professional and whatnot.

OK. if you do the facebook, you probably know that everybody is clogging up everybody's fb wall with random facts. it's stupid and pointless and narcissistic and annoying, and i want in.

chuck said i could post my random facts here in exchange for being nice. which is a lie. so what, ha-ha. she'll believe in anything. i hear she believes in god.

but i digress.

so my number is 11. why? because i said so omg you're such a slut shut up.

11 random facts about tabitha

1. most people don't know that it doesn't matter how sexy and adorable you are, no one wants to have sex with a fictional character.

2. i got my piercing green eyes from my grandmother. i had no idea she would lose so much blood when i got them. sorry, nana.

3. i belong to the tea party. i love ted cruz. i want to ride him like a dolphin at seaworld.

4. i've taken out a $500,000 life insurance policy on chuck by pretending to be her lesbian wife. when i kill her i will have half a million dollars.

5. i'm a vegetarian, except for gerbils. i love gerbil meat.

6. i have an extra nipple on my right boob. i'll show it to you for the right price.

7. when chuck is asleep, i message her boyfriend and tell him the most awful things. pretty soon i'll have broken them the hell up. i have no reason to do this other than spite.

8. more than anyone in the world, i'd like to meet morgan freeman in person. i'd punch him in the jaw and tell him to shut the fuck up. because no one else has ever done that.

9. my favorite muppet is the kind of light blue one with the pointy head who says "cat" in that one episode.

10. i know nothing about computers or the internet. the reason i'm chuck's page admin is that i'm blackmailing her. make me an offer, and i'll tell you what i know.

11. remember that guy who shot those people? i told him to do that.

ok, "like" this post and i'll send you a number between 35 and 52 billion. i won't read your random facts because they'll be boring. and i'll post rude comments under chuck's name.

if you'll excuse me, i have to go pleasure myself. because no one wants to do the fictional chick.

ciao,
tabby

Think Before You Ink

So you might know that I'm thinking about getting a tattoo.

All the cool guys like a lady with ink.

Naturally, I'm going about my deliberations in a logical and practical manner.

So I went to Toys R Us and bought a package of temporary tattoos of little baby animals.

How. I. Roll.

I chose a sleek, classy, and realistic image of a Siamese cat to apply to my arm.

In honor of my fat, dumb, silly Siamese kitten.

Except that my Toys R Us temporary tattoo looks nothing like that.

I'm told it looks like a vaccination scar surrounded by flowers.

I think it's gangsta, but apparently I'm in the minority.

It's there until it wears off. Personally I like it. I think others of my acquaintance are glad the weather has turned cool so that I'm wearing long sleeves.

Still, it's a serious contender for my final, permanent tattoo.

Mostly because Precocious Daughter already vetoed the baby orangutan.

She's not down with my swag. I think that's a thing.

I Can't Even Think About This

Drunkards! Do you know what I'm doing next Friday?

My friend BekS and I are going to see Willie Nelson in concert.

OMFG.

OMFG.

I admit, I was a bit tipsy when I agreed to go to this show a few months back. Because...Willie Nelson! Why the hell do I get the privilege to see this living legend perform live? The prospect is so dizzying that I've been mentally trying to talk myself out of going for several days now.

Also because it will involve a road trip, and socializing, and being in a room full of people.

Basically, the entire business is nightmare fuel. Except that it's WILLIE NELSON.

Who has earned every goddamned line and crease.

I resisted being a fan of Willie's for many years. Country music? Not my thing. But Willie wrote "Crazy" and "Whispering Hope" and "Uncloudy Day" and "Hello Walls" and "Bloody Mary Morning." Great, great, magnificent songs. And Willie is an American hero, no lie.

And Bek asked me to go. And we previously saw William Shatner's one man show, and saw Peter Tork in an amazing performance. And she gets me. So if Bek says, "Let's go see Willie," I'm going.

Also, he's 80 years old, and if I don't see him next Friday he maybe drops dead and I never get to say I saw this legend perform live.

How sad would that be?

So next Friday, unless I have a complete meltdown, I'm going to see Willie Nelson in concert.

Please encourage me so I don't do something stupid like pretend I have an attack of gout or suddenly got Jesus or something.

And please pray Willie is alive and healthy and ready to kick ass on November 22.

Because this will be one of those experiences I will be so glad someone forced me to have.

You know?

Story Time with Precocious Daughter

Spoiler alert: If you've never read Ray Bradbury's "The Veldt," this post will give away the ending. I'll give you a hint: It doesn't end well for George and Lydia.

*****

Precocious Daughter's homework assignment for tonight was to read the classic Ray Bradbury story "The Veldt." Because her class is studying the idea of dystopia. Which is not a stomach bug caused by drinking the water in paradise, although it really should be. Stupid English language.

So much for the promised land.

If you're a Ray Bradbury fan, you know the plot of "The Veldt." It's about what happens when you give your children the technology to make their dreams come true, without remembering to not be an asshole. Because kids know the difference between virtual reality and having asshole parents.

You were saying about my bedtime...?

So PDaughter finished reading the story and closed her book. "I'm done," she announced.

"What did you think?" I asked casually.

In a thoughtful tone, she said, "The kids fed their parents to the lions."

Pause.

"Don't worry," she added. "I wouldn't feed you to the lions."

Don't worry, Mother...

...I would never feed you...

...to the lions.

Where's the kid who wishes you into the cornfield when you need him?

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to shower my child with adulation now. Not for any particular reason.

Let me know if you see any lions.

Tabitha Takes on Other Moms

Note: My page admin Tabitha wants to write another post. And since she gave me an Indian rope burn (ow!), I decided OK. Disclaimer: I'm not responsible for what she writes, OK? OK.

hi. tabitha roxanne renee louise brown here. the chuckster has given me free rein to post again. i think she's watching old movies and crying. whatever. welcome to my blog.

your guest blogger. hi.

so earlier this week, chuck got an email that accused her of being a bad mother. or something.

Stop making me look bad, you spawn.

a fellow mom from her precocious daughter's class emailed everyone on the fucking planet to let them know that a) there were two rookie teachers in the districts's gifted program and b) they weren't ABSOLUTELY PERFECT GIFTS TO EDUCATING OUR PRECIOUS BABIES OMG OMG OMG.

I pay taxes so I that I don't have to think about my children,
and someone is violating that sacred trust. DIE.

i guess chuck is a really nice person and/or a total wimp (i favor the second theory duh). because the biological mothering unit who emailed the fucking planet said this (possibly i am paraphrasing, but so what i don't have kids):

"my precious darling child isn't being crushed under the weight of unrealistic academic expectations, which of course makes me think someone's head should be severed and placed on a platter because i'm only paying taxes so that my priceless children can be made miserable in preparation for ruling the world in the future; therefore, i demand that my diamond-encrusted baby's peers also be forced to submit to preposterous demands set by uncaring tyrannical teachers with no goal other than cowtowing to ridiculous parents who browbeat normal parents to believe that they're no fucking good unless they're forcing their will on public servants who thought they were trying to prepare the next generation for happy, productive lives but actually are only supposed to be unthinking automatons who urge children to be brainless conservative one-percenters just like their loser parents."

that's what i got from the email anyway.

now, chuck made me slightly proud by responding with a non-confrontational message that said, in part:

"I've just written personal emails to Ms. X and Ms. Y without cc'ing half the school district. I thanked them for their service and encouraged them to let me know if they had any concerns and promised that I would do the same. I've also spoken to PDaughter, who recognized the issues BitchParent raised but gave me no indication that her education is suffering from being exposed to two unseasoned teachers this year. If I get the sense that the [advanced] program is having problems, I'll be the first to offer support and encouragement to change. But I won't complain to the administration unless I see a specific red flag. I think PDaughter is getting an outstanding education. Of course, any parent who has a different opinion should definitely address it on an individual basis."

i, however, would have added:

i love how some parents have nothing better to do than complain about hard-working educators. before i say another word, i would suggest: get a fucking hobby. really, you have the nerve to criticize how taxpayer-funded teachers are doing their jobs based on nothing but hearsay that maybe, just maybe, they're not the best teachers ever ever ever? i had so many fucking mediocre teachers in my day; they made me appreciate the exceptional educators i did have, and taught me that my education was mostly dependent upon me seeking out the knowledge i wanted to acquire. my mom never wasted her time complaining that her precious spawn was somehow being slighted by a cruel universe, and i turned out fine. you're a sad person and i pity you. enjoy your goddamn pampered chef parties; some of us have more to worry about than whether life is handing us everything we thinking we fucking deserve.

chuck would never say these things, for some reason. so i am because i don't have kids and don't give a shit what other parents think.

i hope she appreciates my forthrightness.

i'm going to drink vodka and watch sports now. i have no desire to do whatever it is that suburban moms do on a saturday night. also, i may get laid later. how about you?

Random Things That Are Pissing Me Off

Rant mode on.

"Marriage Isn't For You." That damn viral blog post by Seth Adam Smith tops my list of aggravations this week. Haven't read it yet? Here it is.

Go ahead, I'll wait.

Now that you've read it, let me give you a word of advice: Run away as fast as your little drumsticks will let you from anyone who believes this nonsense about marriage, or for that matter, any relationship. Take it from someone who had a very happy marriage before it crashed and burned: Marriage is not about making your spouse happy. That's an arrogant, self-centered, and ultimately suffocating attitude to take toward another adult. Most people who aren't stalkers grow out of the "I'll do anything you want if you'll like me back" relationship paradigm circa eighth grade. Besides, expecting your partner to devote him/herself to your happiness in return is a waaaaay unrealistic burden to put on another person.  The best thing you can do for your significant other is to be an independent, functioning, self-sufficient individual. Spoiler alert: It's a lot harder, and much more rewarding.

Abortion laws. Here are some words and phrases I do not want to hear in any debate about passing laws to restrict abortion: "Clump of cells." "Slut." "Adoption." "Culture of life." "God." "Responsibility." "Love." "Medical necessity." "Welfare." "Choice." Let's talk about all of these things in the broader social context, of course. But when it comes to legislation, the only issue is this: Does the state have the right to force a pregnant woman to give birth? That's the only issue. No, that's the only issue.

This. This is on CNN.com's home page today

Why the fucking fuck is this on CNN.com's home page?

This is not news.

This is not news.

THIS IS NOT NEWS.

I hate this culture sometimes.

Rant mode off.

Can You Squeeze In a Massage?

Having a tough day?

Mean guys knocking you down and trying
to take your football?

Need to relax?

You're killing me. You are literally killing me.

Looking for something new in your life?

Dig deeper, grasshopper.

Maybe you should try python massage.

Weren't expecting that, were you?

Python massage is a thing.

Hi, I'm Sven. I'll be your massssssseur today.

These highly trained therapeutic serpents are ready to slither your cares away.

So, you a Cowboys fan? Uh-huh, that's nice.

I realize this may be a polarizing idea. Some people think the idea of having warm, heavy reptiles draped across their body is awesome.

Mmmm...musky.

Others, not so much.

Everyone has their own take on things, I guess.

Myself, I would totally go for it.

So...many...snakes.

Except, you know, I have an unfortunate sensitivity to snakeskin. Yeah. Makes me break out. So, darn.

Oh, OK. :(

Still...python massage, theoretically great.

Love you, snakey.

Your mileage may vary.