FAIL and FTF FTW

Over the holiday, the manuscript turned into a rewrite which was not all right because I wanted to be done, but then yesterday the answer about my main character appeared out of the steam as I ironed Nate’s white button down.

Good thing I remembered to put the iron down. That’s his only white oxford shirt. I gripped the side of the ironing board in something close to ecstasy. Gross, I know. But listen, you take your shots where you can get them. I’m just sorry Nate’s shirt had to bear witness to the moaning and thrashing about.

Now I’m going to finish this fucker. I’ve got the bracelet and I’m wearing it. By wearing it, I am accountable to Amy, Teri (who came up with the bracelet idea), Sherry, Lyra, Averil, Deb, MacDougal Street Baby, Erika, Bobbi, Laura, Cat, Suzy, and the rest of the creative people who make up this ad hoc writers’ group that found each other making smart remarks here.

And it’s because of you guys, the reader of this blog, who’ve urged me on and provided all kinds of creative support.

And a special thanks to the beta readers. I handed you a fairly unfinished mess and you gave me the kind of feedback that has not only made the story more time and location authentic, but it also gave me some ideas for plot lines. And? You were all so incredibly kind about it. Not a one of you sent me back a pile of ashes or hate mail. I love you for that.

Now on to the reason I’ve called this meeting. It seems I’ve gained a new blogging niche. How I’m to parlay this into mega advertising dollars or finesse it onto my moldering resume is anyone’s guess, but it’s something to be able to say that my blog is huge in Canada, Europe and Asia among those seeking FAIL photos. Or fotos as one googler put it.

Click the image to see the gory details.

People from Luxembourg, Belgium, Ottawa, France, Switzerland, Romania, Quebec, Tunisia (Africa, represent!), The Czech Republic, Sweden, Slovenia, Holland, Italy, Denmark, Thailand, Slovakia, Turkey, Montreal, Poland, Germany, even Mexico, they’re all searching for FAIL and finding me.

I’m not sure I like how that sounds. Let try again. They’re landing on this post, but really they’re looking for the photos on it. And they’re particularly interested in the hairy guy.

I wonder if he knows how sought after he is. Then again, maybe this gets filed under blissful ignorance.

Tell me about your holiday. Good? Indifferent? Bad? Fistfights? Did you eat too much, drink too much, tell your Uncle Jeb to get stuffed? Pumpkin pie or pecan? What did you do with the sweet potatoes?

The neigbors complain about the noises above

You know you’ve become a bilious cynic when you catch yourself grumbling about the ubiquitous displays of public gratitude this time of year. That’s when you say to your execrable self, sugar, it is time to take your pulse, smooth your creases, and pull the stinger from your tail.

It’s not the gratitude so much that rankles as it is the ubiquitous nature of this world we live in. It’s the metaphoric blowing of floofloobers, the social media banging of tartinkers. It’s the tooting of whoohoovers, the slangs of slooslonkers.

Cause and effect. Take a note. Did you catch that diagnosis? What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

The doctor tells me that although my cholesterol is a little high and he would like for me to take the one pill to make my happiness big and another pill to make me small, I am in rude health and have plenty more years ahead of me as long as I don’t step in front of any overloaded sleighs pulled by tiny dogs with antlers tied clumsily to their heads. He also counseled me to stay home on Black Friday.

“No worries,” I sneered, the white paper crinkling under me. “I plan to sleep in, have some roast beast for a late lunch, watch my heart grow two, maybe three sizes that day.”

He chucked a brochure at me and said something about gratitude having its own healing properties.

You don’t have to be a doctor to know that.

I love all y’all.

Thank you for being here. I’m grateful for you.

The neighbors complain about the noises above

You know you’ve become a bilious cynic when you catch yourself grumbling about the ubiquitous displays of public gratitude this time of year. That’s when you say to your execrable self, sugar, it is time to take your pulse, smooth your creases, and pull the stinger from your tail.

It’s not the gratitude so much that rankles as it is the ubiquitous nature of this world we live in. It’s the metaphoric blowing of floofloobers, the social media banging of tartinkers. It’s the tooting of whoohoovers, the slangs of slooslonkers.

Cause and effect. Take a note. Did you catch that diagnosis? What’s the frequency, Kenneth?

The doctor tells me that although my cholesterol is a little high and he would like for me to take the one pill to make my happiness big and another pill to make me small, I am in rude health and have plenty more years ahead of me as long as I don’t step in front of any overloaded sleighs pulled by tiny dogs with antlers tied clumsily to their heads. He also counseled me to stay home on Black Friday. 

“No worries,” I sneered, the white paper crinkling under me. “I plan to sleep in, have some roast beast for a late lunch, watch my heart grow two, maybe three sizes that day.”

He chucked a brochure at me and said something about gratitude having its own healing properties.

You don’t have to be a doctor to know that.

I love all y’all.

Thank you for being here. I’m grateful for you.

Don’t ask me how the foo dog got into the dream

I lay in bed willing the next new scene of the work in progress to present itself. Between sleep and awake, cozy under the blankets, glad it was Sunday and I could sleep in.

Instead I was rewarded with a dream. We lived in a highrise city apartment. I was in the lobby in a hoodie, sweatpants, no bra and having gone two days without a shower. It suddenly occurred to me that I was enrolled in some seminar that morning but I couldn’t remember a single detail or whether or not I’d received a registration confirmation.

MathMan arrived in the lobby, Sophia in tow. He was putting her in a cab to go somewhere unexplained. Nathan and some of his friends sat at a concrete table on the sidewalk. I peered through the window of the building next to me and realized that was where the seminar was happening. I’d dash upstairs, have a quick shower and get back maybe ten minutes late. Not a lost cause.

I yanked open the glass door and bee-lined for the elevator bank. It was only after I stood for a moment in the immobile elevator that I realized I’d gone into the wrong building. I’d have to go back to the lobby and into my own building.

I punched a button and nothing happened. I pushed another. Still nothing. Fine. I hit the open door button. As the doors opened, the elevator lurched. First up, then down. The doors partially opened, I could see the innards of the working system.

The elevator expanded, growing to at least three times its initial size. It was a large, moving room. The doors continued to open and closed but now they looked like a mouth with a crazy grin, sharp teeth.

There were windows in the walls and up on one window ledge sat a large Foo dog with two legs instead of four. More like a garden gnome with a Foo dog head.

The elevator reached the first floor where the seminar was beginning. The attendees were seated on sofas all facing the speaker. In the audience were my childhood friend Tanya and Raj from The Big Bang Theory. Everyone turned and looked at me. I was acutely aware of my lack of hygiene and proper breastwear.

MathMan stood outside on the sidewalk talking to Nate and his friends. I opened the door and joined them.

“I thought you were going to the seminar,” MathMan said.

“Not until I’ve had a shower,” I replied.

“Okay.” MathMan was looking at me funny.

“I’m going to take the stairs…..”

I don’t remember many of my dreams, especially not with this level of detail. Do you?

Don’t ask me how the foo dog got into the dream

I lay in bed willing the next new scene of the work in progress to present itself. Between sleep and awake, cozy under the blankets, glad it was Sunday and I could sleep in.

Instead I was rewarded with a dream. We lived in a highrise city apartment. I was in the lobby in a hoodie, sweatpants, no bra and having gone two days without a shower. It suddenly occurred to me that I was enrolled in some seminar that morning but I couldn’t remember a single detail or whether or not I’d received a registration confirmation.

MathMan arrived in the lobby, Sophia in tow. He was putting her in a cab to go somewhere unexplained. Nathan and some of his friends sat at a concrete table on the sidewalk. I peered through the window of the building next to me and realized that was where the seminar was happening. I’d dash upstairs, have a quick shower and get back maybe ten minutes late. Not a lost cause.

I yanked open the glass door and bee-lined for the elevator bank. It was only after I stood for a moment in the immobile elevator that I realized I’d gone into the wrong building. I’d have to go back to the lobby and into my own building.

I punched a button and nothing happened. I pushed another. Still nothing. Fine. I hit the open door button. As the doors opened, the elevator lurched. First up, then down. The doors partially opened, I could see the innards of the working system.

The elevator expanded, growing to at least three times its initial size. It was a large, moving room. The doors continued to open and closed but now they looked like a mouth with a crazy grin, sharp teeth.

There were windows in the walls and up on one window ledge sat a large Foo dog with two legs instead of four. More like a garden gnome with a Foo dog head.

The elevator reached the first floor where the seminar was beginning. The attendees were seated on sofas all facing the speaker. In the audience were my childhood friend Tanya and Raj from The Big Bang Theory. Everyone turned and looked at me. I was acutely aware of my lack of hygiene and proper breastwear.

MathMan stood outside on the sidewalk talking to Nate and his friends. I opened the door and joined them.

“I thought you were going to the seminar,” MathMan said.

“Not until I’ve had a shower,” I replied.

“Okay.” MathMan was looking at me funny.

“I’m going to take the stairs…..”

I don’t remember many of my dreams, especially not with this level of detail. Do you?

It’s time to smash things up

Now I’ve gone and done it. I’ve written my main character into a corner. While I try to get her out, I’m doing all the usual things to distract myself  to that I can clear enough noggin space where the solution will land neat and tidy all in one piece.

Ironing, grocery shopping, vacuuming, reading something not even remotely related, looking up British idioms, joylessly eating brownies, contemplating raking leaves, rejecting the idea of raking leaves, watching copious amounts of The Secrets of World War II and watching bits and pieces of my favorite movie.

Which is kind of like a busman’s holiday, but some movies are like comfort food and this one is it for me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen this film. So many times that even Sophie can and does quote lines from it. She absorbed them by osmosis, I swear.

And then there’s the moment when I realize that Dish left us with The Cooking Channel and I watch hour after hour of people making vegetable dishes that appeal to me. And then I think I’ve go that one last Vidalia onion and those potatoes that really must be used before they turn and the left over chicken stock from yesterday so now we have Pommes de terres a la boulangere. Talk about comfort food.

What do you return to over and over again?

It’s time to smash things up

Now I’ve gone and done it. I’ve written my main character into a corner. While I try to get her out, I’m doing all the usual things to distract myself  to that I can clear enough noggin space where the solution will land neat and tidy all in one piece.

Ironing, grocery shopping, vacuuming, reading something not even remotely related, looking up British idioms, joylessly eating brownies, contemplating raking leaves, rejecting the idea of raking leaves, watching copious amounts of The Secrets of World War II and watching bits and pieces of my favorite movie.

.

Which is kind of like a busman’s holiday, but some movies are like comfort food and this one is it for me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen this film. So many times that even Sophie can and does quote lines from it. She absorbed them by osmosis, I swear.

And then there’s the moment when I realize that Dish left us with The Cooking Channel and I watch hour after hour of people making vegetable dishes that appeal to me. And then I think I’ve go that one last Vidalia onion and those potatoes that really must be used before they turn and the left over chicken stock from yesterday so now we have Pommes de terres a la boulangere. Talk about comfort food.

What do you return to over and over again?

We’ll always have Gosford Park

I’m sure I underestimate the amount of time I spend with the television, especially when I’m half watching while I do other things. There’s no denying it. As I go through my day, the TV provides background noise more often then not. Even if I’m only using it for the music channels and not actually watching programs.

When I become acutely aware the television is when it goes away.

Yesterday smack in the middle of Morning Joe, Dishnetwork diminished our service. If you’ve never experienced an outage due to the an unpaid bill, here’s how it works, for Dish, at least:  First they call sixty times a day. Then they start putting a message on your screen every couple of hours reminding you that your bill is late. Next they decrease your number of channels until finally they cut you off altogether and you’re stuck watching the instructions on how to use your remote, whatever’s on your DVR and that mess of DVDs you’ve recorded. Thank goodness for all those old Poirots you recorded on A&E. And how historically quaint are those Countrywide Mortgage commercials with the guy who looked like John Kerry?

Then they send you a box and tell you to send your fucking receiver back stat or they’re going to send Fred over to yank it out and he won’t be putting down the floor mats to keep from tracking mud into your house either!

Not that we’ve ever gotten to that stage.

Anyway, now we’re in the diminished state. When this happens, it’s a surprise. You never know exactly when it will happen or which channels they’ll leave you with. It’s different every time.

This time, we’ve got the Science Channel, NASA channel, a handful of Christian channels, Current to balance those out, I suppose; ESPN RedZone Preview, Tasty channel so I can learn of all the things I can do with Country Crock, a Spanish movie channel, American Movie Classics, The Military Channel, every shopping channel you can think of, Japanese news and two – count ’em TWO! – holiday music channels. The modern and the traditional. In case you don’t want to hear G Love without his Special Sauce, you can listen to Bing croon about A White Christmas.

Because, you know, there’s no chance I won’t be hating Christmas music by Thanksgiving. I’ve already heard enough Burl Ives to make me want to build a snowman so I can kick him in his frosty balls and enough Mel Torme to make me demand a martini with a candy cane swizzle stick. The cats are working on the recipe right now. At least, based on the clinking of glasses and hiccuping, I think that’s what they’re doing.

Not to mention the fact that I find the whip crack sound in the Boston Pops’ version of Sleigh Ride oddly arousing.

And what is the idea of keeping the shopping channels? I can’t pay my bill, do they really want me buying that set of faux pearl handled vibrators?

But back to the TV. Naturally, none of those channels are my favorite. Even the one movie channel they gave us isn’t my favorite. I prefer Turner Movie classics. No commercials.

Do you go through TV phases? Like in the days when my time was spent with young children, I watched PBS from morning til night. I would sing the Celery Bunch and the I Like Fudge songs and close out the day with Nature or Frontline.

Then we were getting ready to move to Georgia and I entered the HGTV days which dovetailed nicely with The Food Network era.

That came after the period when I watched a lot of VH1, catching up with the I Love series. I had no idea my youth was so interesting! Then the kids and I got into watching The N for the Degrassi series and I fell in love with Daria and wanted to be Jane. That coincided with when A&E and The Biography Channel had the wisdom to show the Poirots, Midsomer Murders and Sherlock Holmes with Jeremy Brett on Sundays.

And then there was the complete and utter devotion to BBC America. Sigh.

Some of you will remember the C-SPAN mornings that dragged on all day. Election time, you know.

So for now I’m stuck with the whirring sounds in my own noggin, Christmas music or The Military Channel which I can at least pretend is research for my novel. Thankfully, there’s a DVR full of murders committed by people with charming accents. The kids have Netflix. And MathMan has Calculus.

My mother appears at my shoulder like one of those Angel/Devil apparitions and suggests I read a damn book. Yes, but I can’t do that and be on the computer……(looks at the stack of books waiting to be read)….. oh.

What’s your favorite channel? What’s on your DVR or Tivo that you never delete?

We’ve always got Gosford Park

I’m sure I underestimate the amount of time I spend with the television, especially when I’m half watching while I do other things. There’s no denying it. As I go through my day, the TV provides background noise more often then not. Even if I’m only using it for the music channels and not actually watching programs.

When I become acutely aware the television is when it goes away.

Yesterday smack in the middle of Morning Joe, Dishnetwork diminished our service. If you’ve never experienced an outage due to the an unpaid bill, here’s how it works, for Dish, at least:  First they call sixty times a day. Then they start putting a message on your screen every couple of hours reminding you that your bill is late. Next they decrease your number of channels until finally they cut you off altogether and you’re stuck watching the instructions on how to use your remote, whatever’s on your DVR and that mess of DVDs you’ve recorded. Thank goodness for all those old Poirots you recorded on A&E. And how historically quaint are those Countrywide Mortgage commercials with the guy who looked like John Kerry?

Then they send you a box and tell you to send your fucking receiver back stat or they’re going to send Fred over to yank it out and he won’t be putting down the floor mats to keep from tracking mud into your house either!

Not that we’ve ever gotten to that stage.

Anyway, now we’re in the diminished state. When this happens, it’s a surprise. You never know exactly when it will happen or which channels they’ll leave you with. It’s different every time.

This time, we’ve got the Science Channel, NASA channel, a handful of Christian channels, Current to balance those out, I suppose; ESPN RedZone Preview, Tasty channel so I can learn of all the things I can do with Country Crock, a Spanish movie channel, American Movie Classics, The Military Channel, every shopping channel you can think of, Japanese news and two – count ’em TWO! – holiday music channels. The modern and the traditional. In case you don’t want to hear G Love without his Special Sauce, you can listen to Bing croon about A White Christmas.

Because, you know, there’s no chance I won’t be hating Christmas music by Thanksgiving. I’ve already heard enough Burl Ives to make me want to build a snowman so I can kick him in his frosty balls and enough Mel Torme to make me demand a martini with a candy cane swizzle stick. The cats are working on the recipe right now. At least, based on the clinking of glasses and hiccuping, I think that’s what they’re doing.

Not to mention the fact that I find the whip crack sound in the Boston Pops’ version of Sleigh Ride oddly arousing.

And what is the idea of keeping the shopping channels? I can’t pay my bill, do they really want me buying that set of faux pearl handled vibrators?

But back to the TV. Naturally, none of those channels are my favorite. Even the one movie channel they gave us isn’t my favorite. I prefer Turner Movie classics. No commercials.

Do you go through TV phases? Like in the days when my time was spent with young children, I watched PBS from morning til night. I would sing the Celery Bunch and the I Like Fudge songs and close out the day with Nature or Frontline.

Then we were getting ready to move to Georgia and I entered the HGTV days which dovetailed nicely with The Food Network era.

That came after the period when I watched a lot of VH1, catching up with the I Love series. I had no idea my youth was so interesting! Then the kids and I got into watching The N for the Degrassi series and I fell in love with Daria and wanted to be Jane. That coincided with when A&E and The Biography Channel had the wisdom to show the Poirots, Midsomer Murders and Sherlock Holmes with Jeremy Brett on Sundays.

And then there was the complete and utter devotion to BBC America. Sigh.

Some of you will remember the C-SPAN mornings that dragged on all day. Election time, you know.

So for now I’m stuck with the whirring sounds in my own noggin, Christmas music or The Military Channel which I can at least pretend is research for my novel. Thankfully, there’s a DVR full of murders committed by people with charming accents. The kids have Netflix. And MathMan has Calculus.

My mother appears at my shoulder like one of those Angel/Devil apparitions and suggests I read a damn book. Yes, but I can’t do that and be on the computer……(looks at the stack of books waiting to be read)….. oh.

What’s your favorite channel? What’s on your DVR or Tivo that you never delete?

The Fundamental Attribution Error

Source

The Fundamental Attribution Error. Sounds like a Big Bang Theory episode title, doesn’t it?

It’s actually a psychological term describing how we use internal factors to explain what happens to someone else while we apply external factors to explain the things that happen to us.

Ari Melber covers it in this video. (Here’s hoping that the ad preceding the video won’t be for a financial institution.)

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/32545640

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

This is a different world, a whole new ballgame. Let’s rein in our assumptions. The last thing we need is to support policies based on judgments that aren’t founded in reality and facts.

Take the unemployment thing. I didn’t lose my job because I didn’t do it well. I lost my job because the organization was tied to construction and we suffered serious revenue losses and my job was eliminated and outsourced. The guy sitting next to me at the Department of Labor the other day didn’t lose his job because he didn’t do it well. He lost it because the place where he worked doesn’t have enough demand to keep four techs employed and he was the last one hired so……

If you lose your job, it’s not going to be because you woke up one day and said “Fuck this steady paycheck shit. I want to struggle and live with financial insecurity. I’m going to stop doing my job well.” If you lose your job, it’s going to be because this economy is getting meaner and leaner and someone has figured out how to keep their business running without you. Should that unfortunate thing happen to you, may anyone you encounter understand that your lack of a job is not your fault. And if they can’t then may they have the decency to keep their mouths shut. Or better yet – to help you find your next job.

As Melber says at the end of the video, it’s time we call out this lack of compassion and understanding. We need to ask the people who still want to believe that large numbers of Americans don’t want to work – would rather struggle to survive than get up each day and go to work – that question: Really? That’s your argument?

I dick around with Fundamental Attribution Errors all day long. Sometimes they keep me warmer than the cats curled around my feet. Seriously, the sanctimony I can pull together when presented with something like an episode of 16 and Pregnant or those people with forty-two children. Mind you, I’m not advocating we limit the number of babies a woman can have or the age at which she can have them, but it still doesn’t make it right when I indulge in that kind of judgmental thinking.

There’s a lot of ignorance (that Put Me in Charge screed, for example) perpetrated on social media, but there’s plenty of clever thought, too. One of my favorites is this:

The Fundamental Attribution Error says that if you’re not wealthy, it’s because you don’t work hard enough, didn’t choose the right career path, didn’t plan well and aren’t smart enough. If I’m not wealthy, it’s because the government takes all my money in taxes and gives it to lazy, poor people.

What are your fundamental attribution errors?